a moment at the beach

His mouth stood agape as he ogled the bountiful blonde beach beauties.

His wife elbowed him in the ribs and said under her breath, “Don’t be crude.”

He quickly snapped his mouth shut.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
Word Count: 33
This is my silly (and slightly alliterative) contribution to this week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge:

CRUDE
1: existing in a natural state and unaltered by cooking or processing <crude oil>
2 archaic : unripe, immature
3: marked by the primitive, gross, or elemental or by uncultivated simplicity or vulgarity <a crude stereotype>
4: rough or inexpert in plan or execution <a crude shelter>
5: lacking a covering, glossing, or concealing element :obvious <crude facts>
6: tabulated without being broken down into classes <thecrude death rate>

Remember:
  • Your response must be between 33 and 333 words.
  • You must use the 3rd definition of the given word in your post.
  • The word itself needs to be included in your response.
  • You may not use a variation of the word; it needs to be exactly as stated above.
  • Only one entry per writer.
  • If your post doesn’t meet our requirements, please leave your link in the comments section, not in the linkz.
  • Trifecta is open to everyone. Please join us.

– See more at: http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/#sthash.9pYKFOrr.dpuf

Guest Post: The Scribbler on a quest

The Scribbler  journeyed through the kingdom today, on a quest in unfamiliar territory.  No, she wasn’t searching for the holy grail, but for answers, for silliness, for truth – or as close as we can get to any of those things here:

The streets look different here. I can’t find the usual doodles. I can’t hear any melodious indie music being played out. And the books — where are all the books? Where are all the what if stories, the scripture paraphrases, the whimsical rants and raves?
Something tells me we’re not in Scribbleland any more, Toto.
I look around, trying to find any clue that would establish my current location. Poetry. Pictures of cats. Oh, a picture of a dog, too. Wit, humour, blogging awards — a western comedy that I have yet to look into. Hmmm.
Finally, I see the sign. Ah! “The Matticus Kingdom”.
Toto wags his tail and we start skipping down the bluish brick road. The court jester must be here somewhere. I am told he’s the one who keeps this place running. I am told he’s the one who makes the whole kingdom come to life.
I must find him.
I have some questions, you see. Why does a red cow give white milk when it only eats green grass? If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, where’s the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked? And why couldn’t all the kings horses and all the kings men put poor Humpty together again?
They say the jester can answer questions such as these. They say the jester is good at responding to riddles and prompts. So he must have answers for the questions I’ve asked above.
If he can answer them, then he must know how I can get myself transported back to Scribbleland again.
I prance through the unfamiliar road with Toto cradled in my arms, heading towards the great city where the court jester is said to make his rounds.
The Scribbler
I hope I don’t meet any scarecrows, tin men, or lions along the way.
……….

We do so enjoy visitors here in the kingdom, and we always strive to make them feel welcome and answer any questions they may have.  That’s just how we roll.  So, the scribbler had questions, and I as the jester have the answers:

Why does a red cow give white milk when it only eats green grass?

As we all know, white is what you get when you have the full spectrum of colors at play.  So, the red cow eats the green grass, and its blue intestines process the food, yellow and brown by products are produced, and voila, we are left with the delicious white milky goodness.  Why are you laughing?  That’s totally how it happens!  Fine, you want the truth: magic.

If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, where’s the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked?

Silly Sally saw the pickled pepper soaking up salt down by the sea shore.  Surely, she thought, those picked peppers should sustain her since she skipped something sumptuous and savory after sun salutations that same morning.  Silly sally pondered the pickled peppers too long and sadly saw them wash out to sea.  Okay, okay, that’s not really what happened.  The truth: Peter Piper ate them.

And why couldn’t all the kings horses and all the kings men put poor Humpty together again?

An excellent question, a very excellent question.  The king’s horses and the king’s men were willing and able to put Humpty back together, but, unfortunately Humpty didn’t want to pieced whole again.  They couldn’t help him until he was ready to admit he had a problem.  I was there, it was brutal, he had completely cracked up, but despite all the offers of help he just wasn’t in the right frame of mind yet.  It was all very sad.  No?  Really?  You don’t believe that answer either?  Fine, here, once again, is the truth: Humpty was kind of jerk, and while the horses did their best, the men didn’t really give it there all.  It wasn’t that they couldn’t, they just didn’t want to.

He must know how I can get myself transported back to Scribbleland again.

Of course my dear Scribbler, of course.  Though, why are you in such a hurry to leave?  Alas, that is a question for another time perhaps.  To get back to Scribbleland we need some help from the rest of the residents of the kingdom, all they have to do is click on the links below and you will be swept up and sent home:
http://mariscribbles.com/2009/09/10/semi-random-scribble/
http://mariscribbles.com/2013/02/27/to-those-who-love/
http://mariscribbles.com/2013/03/02/what-if-saturday-heartbreak/

what day is it?

Questions, questions, questions… and then just when you think there couldn’t possibly be any more, they came up with another one.  How are they always doing that?

Do large groups of people, full of commotion, camaraderie, and a cacophony of sound (I love alliteration), energize me or do they send me reeling away in search of a quiet corner?

Simply put, yes.

When I’m in the mood, I can feed off the energy of a crowd, it can get me going, pump me up and keep me up, moving, interacting, dancing, all through the night and past the wee hours of the morning.  I’m a dj.  I know how to feed of the energy of a crowd.  I know how to take that energy and spin it right back out so that others can feed off my energy.  Let’s get this parted started!  Let’s keep it moving!

However, I’m not the 18 year old kid I was when I first stepped behind the decks and started spinning those black circles round and round.  There are definitely days when I’m just worn out to the core already and having that wall of sound all around me, having those people with their questions and their movement and their need for attention, is just more than I can handle.  The sound is like lightning, in a bad way, flashing across my brain.  (Yes, I meant lightning there, not thunder.  Sheesh!  Who is telling this story?  May I continue?  Okay, here we go…)

So, sometimes I love the crowd and sometimes I hide from the crowd.  In general, I’d say that’s probably pretty normal.  Hmm, but since I’m the jester I shouldn’t do “normal” right?  So, never mind, scrap the rest of the post, and here’s the answer:

I’m an entertainer!  Bring on the people!  Bring on the noise!

Are you not entertained?