Drop Dead

"Write something to suit yourself and many people will like it; write something to suit everybody and scarcely anyone will care for it."

~Jesse Stuart~

And they said my hard work wouldn't pay off. Hmph! Check out my very first Blogger Bling! 14k gold pixels....someone (The Gumbo Writer) definitely splurged on The Paper Whisperer. I share this award with three other fellow writers who participated in an impromptu plot scenario gig. Here's the deal. We were shown a photo of a bus pulling out of a parking lot with the marquis reading "Cemetery" as its destination. (Above) It was the "dead of the night" and my writer's block had just risen from the grave...miraculously. I wasn't even frightened by the thought of digging my own grave, I just began to tap out my idea. My writing is hauntingly peculiar, as is my thought process on most occasions. It has absolutely nothing to do with the skeletons in my closet so don't even go there!

Anyhoo, I felt compelled to share my coveted award with you since the only thing I have ever won is the title of Turkey Bowl Queen during my stint as a cheerleader for the Terrytown Fighting Irish Little League Football Association. I just had the strongest urge to break out into a chorus of, "If they could see me now, those old (way old) friends of mine." Sadly, I am NOT eating fancy food OR drinking fancy wine, but what the "hey!" I'm still the Turkey Bowl Queen. Wow, that just stirred up a plethora of painful suppressed memories. How'd you like to go through life with that stigma attached? *Gobble, Gobble* (Oh shit, I think I am on to something here.)

It's been a long day, can you tell? I have been reduced to posting my own awards. Is that considered narcissistic? I didn't even get to dress up. I didn't even get to walk down the red carpet in a designer gown stopping only to twirl for Joan Rivers. I didn't get to walk through the theater after my name was announced while everyone stared at my evening gown stuffed into the back of my panties from a quick trip to the potty. I was robbed I tell ya! I've been saving my speech for years ever since I was voted "Most Likely to Succeed" in the eighth grade. Up until this proud day I succeeded alright, succeeded in doing absolutely nothing! So whadya think now student body? Huh, huh? *cold sweats* Um, uh, is there a statute of limitations on an eighth grade superlative honor? *GULP!* Does this thing expire? Oh give me a break! I will always be a "drop dead" success. (That is a blonde oxymoron just in case you were wondering.) Envelope please..............and the winners are:

Joanne said...It's the whole, abstract "life's a journey" theme.

Janna Qualman said...She knew the bus ride was significant, for it represented her transportation between two lives. The destination awaiting her, the cemetery, meant the end of one life, the beginning of another. She’d say goodbye to the woman she used to be, there, at the small headstone engraved with her given name. And there she’d take on her new name, embrace her new self, begin the new life she had no choice but to live...

Melissa Marsh said...It was a strange place to do a business deal, a bus on the way to a cemetery, but business deals like this weren't done in normal places. No outdoor cafes, no shopping malls, no parking lots. But a bus to the cemetery...that was the perfect place for this deal.

The Paper Whisperer said...Yes, it was true, the Nation's economy had hit an all time low forcing even the grim reaper into a moonlighting gig just to make ends meet. However, the strain of his second job was killing him. Being the savvy businessman that he was, he devised a plan that would allow him to kill two birds with one stone. He contacted the city's transportation department, where he presented his killer idea. "You are 'dead on' with that brilliant idea," exclaimed the Superintendent of Transportation. Mrs. Reaper, on the other hand, was not so happy. She was tired of Mr. Reaper working such long hours. At the end of his shift on the first night he grabbed a bouquet of flowers from a lonely grave. If nothing else, he knew he could always kill Mrs. Reaper with kindness.

Goodnight Guys and Ghouls,

The Paper Whisperer