Enough of this poor me bullshit. I like a happy blog and a happy blog I will have. So, first things first: The contest was a flop. Bad for you. Why? Because I win the prize, not you. I’m going to Chapters tomorrow and I’m buying myself a new book. Yes, I’m sticking my tongue out at you and all of that immature stuff.

Instead of a rant, I’m going to share my gift of humor. Didn’t you know I was a funny girl? No? Well, you’re in for a treat. I am hysterical. Mad skills, this girl.

Anyway, here’s a short I wrote for Thinking Ten (really fun site, go try it out). The prompt was “I couldn’t get the image out of my mind.” and then I had ten minutes to write. Of course, I’ve edited. You don’t want to read what I vomit in just ten minutes.

Note: Some of you have read this. So, um…just occupy yourselves for a minute, and I’ll find something to entertain you later.

Try Not to Look Too Closely
By Renee Miller

I couldn’t get the image out of my mind. I’ve tried everything I can think of. For three days I watched horror movies. Not those classy, intelligent, Stephen King ones, but the really gory, in-your-face ones that bombard you with blood and screams and spilling innards. That didn’t work.

I read, meditated, and even bashed my head against the wall. All I ended up with was a concussion and the image still lodged firmly into my subconscious. How would I continue? My mind wouldn’t let it go and as a writer I really need my imagination to be free and uncluttered. I can’t focus, can’t scribble one damn sentence without the visual of what I’d seen flooding my thoughts and ruining my inspiration.

This morning I tried using it in a story, thinking maybe I could exorcise it from my head. You know, ‘better out than in’. Just like vomit. Sadly, writing what I saw only embedded it further, expanding the image and blowing it up so I could look at it as though through a microscope. Now, I’m contemplating bleach. Not drinking it. That’s insane.

No, I’ve thought it through and I think I’ve figured it out. If I can just reach my brain with the bleach, it will scour out all the dirt. And this was dirt. Filthy stinking, disease infested, scummy dirt. I have the brush, a long brush my husband uses to clean something in the garage. It’s skinny, so it will fit into my nose. Yes, I said my nose. That’s the only route I know of to the brain short of sawing my skull open. I don’t want to die. I just want to forget what I saw.

I stand over the sink in case my nose bleeds, which is entirely possible when you consider that a good booger hunt can make a nose bleed quite profusely. I can only imagine what the brush might do.

Dipping the brush into the bottle I take deep breaths, bracing myself for what I’m certain will be very uncomfortable, painful even, and I hear the door close. Shit. He’s going to try to talk me out of it. But he didn’t see it, so he can’t understand.

“What are you doing?” he tosses his keys on the counter and peeks over my shoulder.

“Nothing.”

“You look pale. Still having nightmares?”

“Yeah. I can’t get it out of my head.”

He smiles. Patronizing prick. Like he wouldn’t be as desperate. “Come on. How bad can it be? It’s not like a million people don’t experience the same thing every single day.”

“Have you?”

“No. But honey, don’t you think you’re being a bit ridiculous? You’ve been lucky to reach thirty without seeing it.”

“How can you say that?” Tears burn my eyes and I look away. Why did I ever marry such an insensitive jerk?

“Please, it’s one grey hair. Jesus, I’m glad I pulled the others while you were sleeping, or you’d be having a fucking breakdown by now.”

My chest aches, I can barely breathe. Trembling, I set the brush down and brace myself on the counter. Then I look at him, realizing that he does care, he does understand. Wait…

“The others?”

Laughing? No? Well how about this one?

Ain’t Love Grand?
By Renee Miller

“Leah, you take out the trash?”

Rolling her eyes, Leah sat up, folded the page she’d been pretending to read and stood. “Are you crippled?”

“No, but I’m busy here. The garbage truck comes in like ten minutes.”

Busy? Leah knew exactly what busy meant. It mean that Mr. Video-Game-Freak was almost done level three of a stupid game that he’d play until he managed to beat it. Mr. Thirty-four-year-old-jobless-loser who plays online with ten year olds all day long while she went to work, twice, to support his sorry ass.

Leah walked to the kitchen, stepping over the pizza box left in the middle of the living room floor on her way. Flipping on the light, she blinked, groaning at the mess she’d have to clean before she went to bed. The red formica countertop dripped at the far end, a jar of mayo tipped over and in the humid July evening, it had turned to a whitish liquid nightmare. Next to it, the loaf of bread she’d brought home that afternoon lay open, a couple of slices peeking out of the torn plastic bag, slowly going stale so that she’d have to toss it and buy another, wasting more money.

What the hell did he do all day? She opened the door under the sink to grab the overflowing little bag that he’d never change not even if his life depended on it, and cringed. “Ugh.”

The smell made her eyes water and her stomach revolted, pushing a gag up to her throat. Leah slammed the door closed and turned around. Enough was enough. She went to work in the morning, and again after dinner. Twice, two jobs. Every day. What did he do? Nothing. He couldn’t even put the damn trash in the damn bag.

Leah reached down, yanking open a goopy mayo-covered drawer, and picked out a large black bag. She’d take the trash out all right.

Stomping through the kitchen to the living room, Leah rounded the corner to the bedroom, where the jackass played his stupid game, oblivious to the world around him. She pushed the door open, and stood for a moment, adjusting her eyes to the semi-darkness.

“Hey, baby.” He looked up from the computer, his brown hair stood on end and he scratched his boxer clad ass.

Leah didn’t speak. She walked across the room to the corner where her husband’s world plugged into a rectangular powerbar. Bending, she tugged each plug from the bar and tossed it.

“Hey! What are you–?”

Leah held up the trash bag and pointed at him. “Not a goddamn word. Hear me? I don’t mind making more than one trip.”

She picked up the keyboard and stuffed it into the bag. He said nothing. Leah picked up the modem and shoved it in as well, and still he remained silent. She couldn’t fit the monitor in so she left it, grabbing every cord, wire, and attachment she could find, breathing heavily as she stood to glare at him.

His eyes widened, but he sat in his chair, not attempting to take anything from the bag. He smiled then and shrugged. “So, your laptop is in the spare room?”

Leah swung the bag twice. Later she carried out several bags of trash.