Ten Rules if you Want to Date my Daughter AND you don't want to commit PLAGIARISM


Plagiarism - from Merriam-Webster.com OnLine - transitive senses : to steal and pass off (the ideas or words of another) as one's own : use (another's production) without crediting the source
intransitive senses : to commit literary theft : present as new and original an idea or product derived from an existing source
- pla·gia·riz·er noun

My personal bailiwick - I abhor when someone does a copy and paste bit on some funny spinning around on the Internet and then posts it somewhere and doesn't say - hey, I didn't write this, don't know who did, but if you want to think *I* did, I won't correct you until I am called on it.

This happened recently. One of the Sycophants - as in Poison Ivey and the Sycophants (oooooh! I have ALL their HIT!) In fact, the lead Sycophant frequently posts such drivel. Now, this is a 'man' (forgive me while I flash hash) who is a self-proclaimed 'Author'. In fact, he has claimed to have found an agent for his 'novel'. We wait....... but I digress.


Our lead Sycophant recently posted Ten Rules IF you Want to Date My Daughter. He didn't say it was his writing, but he didn't say - hey, got this in email, thought it was cute, thought you'd like to read it... NOPE.

Now, I have read excerpts from 'the NOVEL' (key in Darth Vadar voiceover) and suffice it to say, my poodle has written better dialogue on the Ligustrum. With a 5 alarm hangover, both halves of my brain tied behind my back, in short, if I were in a coma, I would be able to recognize that there is simply no way this green toothed bottom feeder could have written this piece. To tie a bow on it, the piece was good.

So, 12 nanoseconds later, I had the author's website where his wife wrote about how he had written the 10 rules etc. I emailed . Then, I checked another link.

There, after The Ten Rules If you Want to date my daughter were the words...

Copyright 1998 W. Bruce Cameron http://www.wbrucecameron.com/

I checked back to the first site today when I got an email from him. He'd changed the attribution accordingly and apologized.

Imagine that. Now, chestthumper claims to be a computer savvy kind of guy, so I would have guessed that he would have been able to find a search engine quicker than he could find his ass with both hands. Oh - there's the rub. There I go assuming again.

Here's the kicker! He writes - Okay Selah. That's enough. The email that I received had no copyright notice.

Also, I have never claimed that any of these peices posted here are my own work. If they were my own work, I'd post them on THAT Writesight my wife and I just scammed.

Bringing Us Up to Speed

I'm reading a stellar author, previously recommended by another stellar author. This new guy, Wes Guptil, is scary good. Enjoying his writing immensely.

On other fronts, the revision of Snakehead is underway. The Snakehead Revision Journal has sections for notes about what characteristics the characters have and where to insert actions to show those characteristics.

There is a spot for timeline stuff so I am reminded that I need to develop the relationship between Julie and Claudia to the point that Julie trusts Claudia enough to give her the PC. There is also much more involvement in Claudia's thought process as she tries to figure out what made Larry the pedophile tick and where his fundamental weakness was.

I am also reviewing like a mad woman. It is my experience that the writesite has cleaved into two factions after the 'competition' ended and a 'real winner' was 'crowned'.

Those two factions are at cross purposes. One, headed up by the Empress in her new (albeit drafty) new clothes, and the other, which is significantly closer to a Democracy with no clear cut figurehead at the helm. Let's call that group 'the Better Tennis Partners'.

The Better Tennis Partners, it seems, have continued plugging along, writing and reviewing each others' manuscripts in spite of the nearly constant onslaught of distractions of the manipulations foisted by others. I am grooving on it. Oh, and I have a diabolical plan in the works. Just so you know.

On the personal front, I am motivated to write some horror screenplay about mucuous. What does THAT tell you.

Crashing... crashing to a halt



It's been lovely. Feeling like I could post anything, anywhere. I suspect by Monday that lovely feeling will be gone. They'll be Baaaaaackkkkk.

Missed you! I'm LYING!!!


I imagine my vacation from them what think they run the show return from DizzyWorld, the Tragic Kingdom. Solomon's Poodle is clearly parked in Goofy.

It has been so pleasant lately. That will likely end soon, though the Voodoo dolls should arrive at any minute.

Dizzy World, The Tragic Kingdom

I've long suspected in the house of Snow Everyone, 'I wanna win' that the pity card was plied with little to no regard for authenticity. My suspicion-o-meter red lined with the revelation to near strangers of the 'cardiac situation', the impending doom if a motorized Scoot-Your-Ass-About did not magically appear - for FREE!, and the top prize of So You Think You Can Write wasn't delivered forthwith, there might be no more - oh Sandspur! You MUST play 'Baby Blue Balls'. Yeah, that's the ticket!


I have been suspicious in the last few days, albeit delighted with the conspicuous by their absence, of the deliciously deviously dubious duo. Seems they've possibly absconded with the 'winnings' to Dizzy World, The Tragic Kingdom for a maybe needed, mostly coveted vacation with the little spawns of cross dressing, raised by wolves, clearly accidently conceived gutter snipes. So- in the absence I am revelling in the gloriousness that is the absence.

May they return with mouse ear hats, having frittered away the winnings so clearly "won - fair and square" (there may be some copyright on THAT cliche' ) to find that we all, amazing as it may seem, survived without them.

Bon Chance

The Revision Journal

The wonderful advice available on WWW.HollyLisle.com regarding keeping a Revision Journal is coming in very handy. My Revision Journal is a wirebound black thing similar to a Moleskine (but purchased at the clearance table of Borders for a couple bucks).

Step ONE - the big one - many of my contemporaries pointed out I had too many plot lines. I have excised a whole lawsuit, trial, and murder for hire. It was difficult because I really liked writing that murder. I thought the whole 'murder-for-hire' thing was quite clever. Who knows, it may resurface in another novel.

So the excision reduced the word count by about 30K, bringing it in at about 70K total. Lesley C. Weston says that's a fine word count for a first novel. Besides, I have to go back through and fill in some blanks. I am sticking to my theory of about 85K is good. Right there in the middle of the road.

Now, back to the revisions.

Free Ride

You are a taxi driver. A person hails you and when you look in the rearview mirror, you think: 1. they are incredibly attractive and you want to get to know them better, or 2. They are incredibly unattractive and your pity runs deep and wide.

In 100 words tell us which number and whether you charged them the fare or gave them a free ride.

The Familiar

I was watering the garden, getting the potted plants that the sprinkler didn’t reach and had just turned on the spigot when behind me came a voice as cold as death.

“That geranium has Scale. You better spray it with copper or it will migrate to the Pittosporum.”

“I know. Is that why you are here?” I knew it was not. Not by a long shot.

It had only been a few hours before when I had finally made my escape from Gypsy- hysterical screeching Gypsy with her over-the-top dramatic display; all over a dog, a small black dog. Well, maybe a little more than that. A small black dog

“Is that why you named her ‘Tripod’?” I had asked. “Because she only has three legs?” I had asked. “I’d like to buy her. She’s cute.”

“Why – who do you think you are coming in here all young and beautiful and trying to take my Familiars from me!” She had this look in her eyes, like my grandmother Alice, the one with the crazy rat eyes. The one who had caused me to constantly, it seemed, suffer from ‘Foot-In-Mouth Disease. Not just mildly pissing off people whose powers were scary, but significantly pissing them off to the point where I could only imagine spending all eternity with my head on backwards, literally.

“No! You don’t understand! I want to buy her!” I cried out, falling to my knees. Then, as usual, my Crazy Rat Eyed Grandma Alice ‘problem’ surfaced, “Did you fuck up a potion? Use the wrong spell? Is that what caused her leg to fall off? Did you try some fancy-schmancy new age Wiccan business? Some untested, unapproved by the FDPS? The Federal Department of Potions and Spells? Huh? Didja? Is that why your little dog is running around lacking a leg?” The whole time I circled her with my arms out to the sides, as if I could stop her from leaving, escaping my tirade. While internally, my little inner voice was desperately trying to drown out the words that were – apparently- spewing as a result of Crazy Rat Eyed Grandma Alice’s permanent, horrible and un-retractable spell.

The tall one with eyes of amber and that ubiquitous wart on her nose snorted. “You know my position here is to be certain that any witch who resides here is obedient to the Rules and Regulations as handed down through the ages by those whose wisdom gave us magic.” She shoved back her uniform cape and brought out a small book, which, when opened, expanded to nearly envelope the wrought iron table upon which she dropped it.

I waited patiently for her to continue. She ran a finger down a few pages, slowly. Apparently, she’d never taken the Evelyn Wood Speed Reading course. I would have been halfway through the thing by now, using the old fashioned method, not even resorting to a spell.

Meanwhile I tried to focus on anything but the wise tall one. Internally I was doing la-la-la-la’s, hoping against hope she wouldn’t think I was ignoring her. It wouldn’t do to have Crazy Rat-eyed Grandma Alice’s curse rearing it’s horrific head. I’d be tossed out of the coven summarily. They’d probably not let me have time to pack, not that it took so long. I only had a few personal items, my dop kit containing my collection of potions, among which was the one I had developed all by myself. It had gone spinning through approvals by the Federal Department of Potions and Spells in time as thick as an eyelash. I called it ‘The Hare of the Dog What Bitya’, a play on words. I love words. My THoDWB was useful for any number of ailments, but most effectively used as a Morning After potion if you thought you might be carrying a ‘little bun in the coven’. Oh, I slay me, I really do! Sales had been brisk. I had been socking away the proceeds like a miserly old witch…. Much like my Crazy Rat-eyed Grandma Alice. Anyway, I was saving to get myself a fine Familiar. I wasn’t particular about looks, more interested in power, I was.

“Have I been disobedient? I didn’t mean to be,” I said meekly.

“It is customary, when one wishes to obtain a Familiar, to ensure that the Familiar is indeed for sale.”

The thought that Tripod wasn’t for sale never crossed my mind.” I bent to scratch at a mosquito bite. “I made an offer, at a fair price….”

“Please. Don’t try to dodge the issue. It’s not that simple. Tripod is the best Familiar Gypsy ever bred. She comes from a long line of Familiars who have been certified as Better Familiars by the FBA.”

“The FBA?”

“The Federal Breeding Association. They oversee all the Familiars. Not just the dogs, but the cats – and that is no small feat, what with everyone coming to believe all Familiars owned by witches are cats.”

I interrupted, “But everyone knows a witch can have anything from a spider to a horse as a Familiar.”

“Yes, I know. That is not the point and I would appreciate you not interrupting me.”
I struggled to think of pleasant things, puppies, kitties, the last time I got lucky… anything to prevent me from opening my mouth and spewing, well, you know….

“Now she’s in such a state… I don’t know how to get her to stop flittering around the balcony on her broom. That is where she was when I left her, and I tell you, Tallulah, it is no easy feat to speak to her when she is swishing around my head, ten feet off the ground.”

“How do I fix this?”

The tall wise one ranted on, arms waving, wart vibrating with every word, “She doesn’t go around willy-nilly allowing her breeding stock to go to just anyone, you know. She screen…” The tall woman stopped speaking abruptly. A man filled the doorway, with a diminutive female figure dressed all in black peering out from behind him.

“Gypsy would like you to have another Familiar. In the hopes that this ‘incident’ can be put behind us.” He pulled his black cloak back and crossed powerfully built arms across his broad chest.

Gypsy came out, smiling shyly. In her hand she held a leash. There, at her feet was a darling little Familiar, black with white spots, perfectly spaced white spots and a lovely expression.

I knelt down. The little dog came forward and sat before me. She licked my hand. I patted her soft little head. She winked at me, a knowing wink.

“Thank you. That’s very nice of you, Gypsy. I’m so sorry I upset you…”

At that moment, I felt it beginning to slip up from deep in my belly, rising into my throat and groaned out loud. “Listen, whatever you do, don’t listen to me. My Crazy Rat-Eyed Grandma Alice cast this awful spell…” I clapped my left hand over my mouth. My right hand scratched, clawed, pulled as hard as it could to get the words trapped inside my mouth into the atmosphere. Left hand had nothing to hang onto.

“Oh go fuck yourself, you impotent bastard! You green toothed bottom feeder! Better yet, why don’t you all go fuck yourselves!”

The Familiar – 1245 words (minimum 1200) using the following list of words. Customary X
Obedient X
Familiar X
Screen X
Migrate X
Gypsy X
Broom X
Spigot X
Balcony X
Scale X
Dodge X
Price X
Simple X
State X
Tripod X

Selah at Six


I'm the one on the right. The boy in the middle? My big brother. My hero. Forever young. See the space between the two of us and the little fat girl with the Tee strap shoes and kneesox? It would always be that way.

The Yeggman

Lieutenant Claudia McCann’s career with the Major Crime Unit was a result of overcompensating for her father’s moral compass, which spun wildly, as if it were placed directly on a magnet. John Teixara, now long dead, had been a safecracker, a robber, a two-bit thief.

When young, John was an exquisitely handsome man with a thick head of silky black hair, blue eyes, and high cheekbones. He was tall, slender, elegant, perhaps even regal. He was, like many of the residents of Fall River, of Portuguese descent. His parents and grandparents had been born and died in Terceira Island, the original spelling of their surname.

“You have to find the fundamental weakness, Claudia. Everybody and everything has one,” he said, the last time she saw him.

“What’s yours, Dad? Safes?”

“No.” He flipped open a Zippo lighter and shook a Camel from the pack he kept rolled up in the sleeve of his BVD brand undershirt. “My fundamental weakness, Smartass, was your mother, of blessed memory.” He crossed himself.

“What was her fundamental weakness?”

“Jewelry. She was nuts about it, especially Sapphires, her birthstone. Your mother, of blessed memory,” he said as he again, formed the sign of the cross, “could tell real from cultured pearls from clear across the infield at the Foxboro Harness Track.”

“So you’re telling me you did what you did for Mom.”

“I did what I did, Sweetheart, because I loved your mother more than I can ever express, to you or to her,” he said and blew smoke rings up above the ringlet that hung down his forehead. “I did what I did because I could. Once you understand, regardless of your chosen vocation, that everyone and everything has a fundamental weakness… the sooner you get that straight, the sooner you’ll realize how simple everything really is.”

“Dad,” Claudia said with a touch of tenderness and a smidgen of impatience revealing that she had heard this speech too many times before, “Dad, what has that got to do solving the murder of Jane Doe Number Twelve?”

“Everything. Ask yourself this, Claudia. Ask yourself how it is that I was able to open that safe with both the husband and wife sleeping in a bed not fifteen feet away. How, Claudia, how’d I do it?”

“Because you’re the best Yeggman on the planet.”

“Well, that’s likely true, too. But that’s not how. What is the fundamental weakness of every safe?”

“Fire or burglar?”

“Burglar. Fire don’t count. They are the Yegg’s equivalent to the lock on a teenage girl’s diary.”

“I don’t know Dad. That they can be moved where you have the time to crack them unless they are bolted down?”

“That could happen. The real thing, the real fundamental weakness is that every safe, always has to have, must have accessibility to a locksmith in case the person screws up and forgets the combination.”

Claudia leaned forward. “This is news. You never told me this, Dad. So how do you expose that weakness?”

“A good ear helps. Patience is key. Knowing the combination is best.”

“Did you find the combination on that last job written down somewhere?” Claudia’s voice held a touch of chiding.

“No. I did not.” He sounded righteously indignant. “The fool never changed the Try-Out.”

“What’s that?”

“The factory settings. The factory sets up certain combinations and then the owner is supposed to change the combination. Most of them don’t. All I had to do was figure out what brand of safe he bought, which was no hard trick. He was so busy bragging about it to his son-in-law while I was hanging wallpaper in the master bedroom that I could have been in the kitchen and still would have known.”

“So you managed to get in around his security system, pitter pat into his bedroom and crack his safe while he snored away next to his wife. I’m amazed she didn’t wake up.”

“You know why?”

“Why?”

“You’re right. He snored like a… , never mind. He snored. First time I saw him at the racetrack, I knew he would be a snorer. He’s a big fat guy. Smokes cigars like a chimney.”

“You should talk. That’s about the fourth in an hour.”

“Hey, I’m seventy-five. Been smoking since I was nine. Smoking’s not going to kill me. Having my daughter treat me with such disrespect, now that’s what’ll take me out.”

“Dad.”

“Don’t ‘Dad’ me. Anyway, I knew this A-hole would snore, just by lookin’ at him. So I also figured she’d wear earplugs. Takin’ a look at his decanters of Scotch in the living room and findin’ a couple of bottles of Vodka hidden where you know someone’s secretly sipping clued me in that this couple’s fundamental weakness was booze and a basic hatred they had for each other,” he said. “Hey, you got some more ice tea? Good stuff. Almost as good as your mother, of blessed memory, made.” He crossed himself.

“Sure Dad. I’ll be right back.” Claudia picked up both empty glasses and went to refill them.

“So I’m kind of embarrassed to reveal, after all these years, how easy it was.”

“What? I can’t hear you. Wait a second!” Claudia returned with two glasses of iced tea, lemon slices slipped onto the rim, dripping with condensation and placed one on the dinette table.

“I was sayin’ I’m embarrassed to tell you how easy it was.”

“How easy?”

“Yeah. The lock opened on the first try,” he said as his eyes welled with tears and a strange sound, like a choke, erupted from him.

“Dad, why are you crying?”

“Cause it was so stupid! All those years I got away with tougher jobs and this is the one that screwed me up.”

“How’d you get caught?”

“I let your mother wear this big honkin’ sapphire necklace to the racetrack.”

“And they were there.”

“I told you. Everyone and everything has a fundamental weakness. Mine was” he said as, again, he formed the sign of the cross, “your mother, of blessed memory.”

© SelahWrites 2006

Set Limits and Build A History

Today’s writing prompt brought to you by Naomi Epel, creator of The Observation Deck http://www.writersstore.com//product.php?products_id=322

I use the Observation Deck too irregularly. THAT is about to change.

So for today, I am going to set limits (in this case time – 30 minutes, although the limit might be word count or some other form of limitation) and build a history of a character in my novel Snakehead. In my case, Lieutenant Claudia McCann will get a history even though it will not, in all likelihood, ever appear in the novel.

Naomi explains it in the book that comes with the set (and I strongly recommend the kit) that the author of Sarah, Plain and Tall used this method to build depth to the character of Jacob, the widower. It added layers to a character who may have come off flat and one-dimensional.

I think it’s worth a half hour to explore why Lieutenant McCann chose her career, don’t you?

Ready? Set! Go!

Saving Face for Hung

The endless struggle to keep an adequate supply of clean diapers was wearing on me. I went back into his room where he sat in bed. The bedside table was a mass of Sudoko books, medications he refused to take, (especially the stool softeners which would have made my life infinitely easier, but I digress), that stupid spaghetti poodle lamp, the one with the shade that used to be Champagne colored but now was nicotine stained. One of the poodle's ears had broken off long ago and needed to be repaired, but who did that sort of work anymore? There was also the overflowing lead crystal ashtray, the contents of which caused me to be nauseous but he seemed not to notice.

“I’m going to have to leave you alone again. I don’t like to. I’m afraid you’ll fall, or need something.”

“Where you going?” He asked, in that singsong Cantonese accent.

“To the Laundromat.” I answered. “I’ve got to wash your ‘pants’.”

He smiled and patted my hand. “Sit with me.”

I sat on the edge of the bed. “Hung, you know I love you.”

“Yes, Little Flower. I love you too.”

“Then why won’t you let me buy disposables?”

“We must not reveal my secret. No one should know. If they saw you buying them….”

“Who cares?”

“Please, Little Flower. I care. I must save face. You understand? Even though you and I are from different cultures…” He drifted off, his rheumy eyes clouded with cataracts until the black nearly turned blue around the edges.

“I know. We are more alike than one would guess.”

This piece was written at the prompt of Lesley who instructed me to use any of the following words (at least five)

Diaper X

Secret X

Lead X

Accent X

Struggle X

Champagne X

Laundromat X

Lamp X

Repair X

Alike X

THENextBookWritten ……

Seems as if there has been a hostile overthrow of what used to be my favorite place in the universe. Yes indeedy! We now watch with bated breath (unlike one of Ivory Snowbanks’ reviewers who anxiously awaits each chapter of theNeverEndingStory with

BAITED breath (I am not making this up,) as the ‘author’ of the ‘best’ novel writes the sequel and it, like its predecessor, moves up the ranks (rank being the operative) steadily, stealthily, and nauseatingly.

Our dear Ivory Snowbanks held nothing back in the previous competition. She pulled no punches, hesitated not for one second to play the pity card, nope not for one second. The end result is, as predicted, that no one was willing to tell the Empress her new stretch pants were transparent. While other reviewers reviewed with such lofty ideals in mind such as plot, character development, pacing, and oh, say plot (It IS worthy of repeating here,) Empress Ivory’s reviewers, who proclaimed they neither knew nor cared much for spelling, grammar or punctiashun, and would leave that for the profeshunals, focused on how much they simply loved loved loved Empress Ivory’s work of ‘Literary Fiction’.

As if that were not enough, she ‘supplemented’ the reviewer pool with members of her own genetic pool. It is interesting to read the reviews of the other novels in the top ten. One quickly realizes that the rest of the contenders apparently found the idea of coercing family members to vote, (errrrr review, yeah, that’s the ticket, review) was sort of, (well, exactly like) fishing in a barrel.

Now the competition has ended. The Empress can laugh all the way to the bank. The rest of the novel writers can proudly display their merit badge….. assuming they are not mortally embarrassed to have outsiders think that Empress Ivory’s winning ‘novel’ is the best there is to offer.

Call me 'Irresponsible'! - How do YOU define party? In the latest chapter of my favorite (where is that sarcasm font when I need it) work of literary greatness, the 'author' has a person who is HIV+ deep kissing another. Now, we all know HIV is not spread through casual contact but I looked and lo and behold, deep tongue kissing is not recommended for those who don't wish to spread HIV.

Plan for the day: edit like a hamster in a wheel. Revise my novel taking out the whole plot line of the court case.

Random thoughts: It's been more than a week since I sent an email to a person who had posted pretty insulting stuff on a private site suggesting that perhaps I should give up writing and take up cleaning her horse stalls. Then she publicly proclaimed herself to be an extremely nice person who didn't have a mean bone in her body. So why should I be surprised that she has not bothered to respond to my email?

Lesley C. Weston Rewriting the World
So now I have done it. I have caused one of the greats to launch into a new space. The final frontier. Lesley C. Weston has been known to write entire novels on tiny devices using a toothpick to choose individual letters. She is a-freakin'-mazing.

But that I could write half as well ever.

Please make Lesley welcome.

The Fictioneer

It began innocently enough, over a number of gin and tonics. Well, I was drinking gin and tonics. Nora, my next-door neighbor, was drinking gin martinis poured from a stainless steel shaker. As was her habit, she stopped by daily to mooch my booze and complain about her life in general. I had yet to figure out a way to turn her away. I had gone to such lengths as putting my car in the garage so she couldn’t tell if I was home. That didn’t work for long. She tricked me, called me on my cell phone and when I lied, said I was at Target looking for a waffle maker, she informed me she was standing outside my garage eyeballing my car.

“I figured out a way to pay for a gastric bypass.” Nora said.

She was splayed over my couch, wearing that stupid Christmas sweatshirt with the candy canes and gingerbread men grinning from the stretched out fabric.

“Doesn’t that thing make you itch?” I asked. I mean, cheese and mice, it was August! In Florida!

“It’s about the only thing left that fits.

“Won’t your insurance cover the surgery?”

“It’s going to be somewhere around 50K. The deductible is five grand. That’s where the Star Author comes in.”

“Star Author?”

“Yeah, Star Author. It’s like Star Search for writers. I write a book and then get lots of people to vote for me and win enough to get my stomach stapled.”

“Nora,” I said, “How can you be so sure you’ll win?”

“It’ll take a single telephone call to my sister Nadine. She’s secretary over at the church and she heads up the prayer committee. If Nadine tells all those fine church-going folks who are praying for me that they should vote for my book, then it is a sure thing.”

I didn’t know how to get around to it, but my curiosity got the best of me. “But Nora, do you know how to write a novel?”

Nora drained the last of her third martini and placed the empty glass on my verdigris marble coffee table, immediately to the left of the coaster I had provided. I winced.

“I’ve already got one nearly finished. It’s a rough draft, but I can polish it up as I go.”

“What’s it about?” I stood up, picked up her glass, looked her straight in her beady little rat-like eyes that reminded me of my grandmother; the crazy grandmother whose decomposing corpse was secreted away beneath the concrete garage floor. “Tell me about your book, Nora.”

I walked into the kitchen and deposited the glass on the countertop.

“It’s about a group of women who have way too many pheromones and hormones running around deliberately spreading sexually transmitted diseases in this wild competition to see who can get the most people sick.”

“Not exactly the great American novel, eh?”

“Does it matter? I need my belly stapled. Nadine can throw her weight - no pun intended - around the church ladies and I get what I need. End of story.”

“Quite the philistine, aren’t you Nora?”

“If I knew what a philistine was, I might agree.”

The previous bit of flash fiction was written at the prompting of a pal who suggested I write a piece using the following words. Which I did. Please note - It IS fiction. My grandmother is totally dead, and will remain so for a very long time. She is not, however, under my garage. She is planted in a cemetary.

verdigris X
candy cane X
philistine X
pheromones X
telephone X
tonic X
stainless X
waffle X
itch X
rough X

© Selah 2006