Eight Little Things…

My friend Max tagged me-  I was suppose to come up with eight little random facts …. and being that this is MY blog I decided to go ahead and do eight random facts about memememememememe!

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1. When I was a mortician’s apprentice I got seriously addicted to PEZ candy.

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2. I have a morbid fear of electricity

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3.  I  think Reality TV is Satan’s Vomit.

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4.  I’ve written stories about ghosts that I’ve seen and  about weird places that I’ve been too and really odd people I’ve met and then I make it sound like fiction.

 I’m such a coward.

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5. I think it’s great when my husband does political work because all of the sudden the same ISP from our area shows up and SOMEONE crawls through my entire blog page by page and my stats go through the roof.

 My own Mother won’t take the time to do that- Hell I don’t even do that!

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6. My favorite color is red but I tell people it’s pink. It’s so sweet when their faces scrunch up and they say, ” Pink? Really? “

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7. When my Sister was 5 and I was 8 she had a dream that her Baby Alive Doll came to life and tried to kill her. So she put Baby Alive in her closet and buried her under a bunch of clothes. Every night I’d go into her closet and take Baby Alive out and sit her on the foot of my Sister’s bed. I’m so grateful that after years of ME my Sister will admitt to people we’re actually related.

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8.

I think Jack The Ripper was a woman.

Actually….I just like to say that because it stresses people out.

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Home Is Where The Heart Is

My Very Own Story about a house, a man and

a dream nightmare….

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Back along on Deception Road is a little farmhouse that no one lives in.

After the house was built and then put up for sale the orchard out back died, the little vegetable garden died and all of the pumpkins and squashes and tomatoes rotted right on their vines.

Even the flowers in the window boxes shriveled up and turned to dust within a day or so after they were set out and all the little farmhouse could do was slam its doors open and shut and make the clock in its kitchen strike twelve over and over again.

The man who built the farmhouse, Travis Janosik, use to stand out at the road and wonder what the hell was going on in there, why was it that nothing could live near that place without giving up the ghost.

There was nothing about Travis that would make you say, ‘you know that killer house? The one on Deception Road? It was built by Travis Janosik” and the person you would be talking to wouldn’t reply, “ Well of course it was a strange house. Look who built it.”

No, the house turned bad all by itself and this bothered no one more then Travis. What bothered him most of all  happened when the house was two years old.

That’s when someone actually bought it and moved in.

The ‘someones’ who bought the farmhouse were the Korbar Family.

Travis use to drive out to Deception Road and park across the way from the Farmhouse and watch it. He’d see Darius Korbar working the vegetable garden or see him sitting on the porch with one of the many children he and Mrs. Korbar had and they acted like any other family living in those hills.

Unless of course you really watched them the way Travis did.

At first he had no interest in the Korbar family. His interest was in that house and what it was up to now. It didn’t have to settle for killing plants and the odd field animal that got to close to its walls. Now it had the Korbar children who scuttled around the property in their ill-fitting clothes.

At least that’s how it looked but then Travis realized it wasn’t the clothes that didn’t fit right, it was the bodies inside the clothes that weren’t right.

The children’s heads were to large for their small bodies and their hands and feet didn’t seem to be the same size and when they talked Travis felt the hair rising up on his arms and the back of his neck and that’s when he’d cut his daily vigil off.

Once Travis saw Mrs. Korbar come down the front steps with a tall glass in her hand and make her way to the garden to where Mr Korbar was working. She handed him the glass and he kissed her cheek and then she made her way back up the steps and Travis watched her but didn’t notice that as she climbed the steps her head was tilted slightly backwards and her back was straight as a pole and she never bent her knees.

It was like she was gliding up the steps and not walking up them at all.
Towards the end of the summer the gardens were dead and rotten and Mr Korbar was out there working it like it as if it were alive and thriving. The ground was water logged and moldy with green slime. The vegtables were rotting and decayed and you could actually smell it when the wind shifted.

On top of the fact that Travis was watching a man harvest from a garden full of rotten vegetables he was also sure that some of that smell was coming from Mr Korbar too.

Travis promised himself after that visit he wouldn’t go near the Farmhouse on Deception Road. Something was wrong with it, something was wrong with the people living inside of it and Travis was certain if he didn’t stop going over there something would be wrong with him too.

Of course, it was too late because that something had already happened to Travis and he found himself standing at the end of the drive leading right up to the Farmhouse the next day.

He was in plain view and Mrs. Korbar must have seen him from one of her windows because he wasn’t there for long before she came down the steps and met him with a basket of rotting carrots and maggot filled tomatoes on her arm.

“ We never got the chance to thank you for building this wonderful house Mr Janosik. Its perfect and we love it so.”

Travis was looking into the basket of dead and decaying vegetables and he said, “ How could you love it so? Nothing can live inside of that thing…”

And Mrs. Korbar said, “ Well, Mr Janosik nothing does…”

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He Has The Right To Your Life

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So this guy who has a dangerous strain of TB flies around the world spreading his little microbes o’ death like screwed up wedding confetti and  the CDC  gets out ahead of this thing and tells people not to worry – which on it’s face is pretty weird considering they don’t exactly release feel good stories on a regular basis.

And then we find out maybe that’s because:

(from Yahoo news )….

The honeymooner quarantined with a dangerous strain of tuberculosis was identified Thursday as a 31-year-old Atlanta personal injury lawyer whose new father-in-law is a CDC microbiologist specializing in the spread of TB and other bacteria. 

Okay, I’m officially stunned. 

But I’m getting away from the point I wanted to make. 

What I wanted to say is that I wish I HAD been on the plane next to this guy and that at some point he had coughed into my face.

Why?

My Goodness, to have sat next to the man whose life is more important then anyone else’s life on the entire planet?

I’d have been honored.

Original Story Here

It Got Under My Skin

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When I was about 9 this little girl named Carla used to follow me around school and  chant, ” Anita is a black cat sitting on a Cadillac…Anita is a black cat sitting on a Cadillac. ”

She would stand there in front of me at recess or in front of my desk in class and put her hands on her hips and shake her butt from side to side and chant that damn  car slogan over and over again.

Once I asked why she was doing this and she told me it was ” because you’re a black girl ” ( actually I was an Asian Girl but Carla was on her way to being an equal opportunity bigot so brown was brown to her ).

Finally I get sick of this ( mostly because Carla was turning this concert she treated me too into a full blown musical and had her friends joining in ) and I go to my teacher and tell on Carla and what  she said and had been doing

What my teacher said will stick with me forever.

She said, ” Anita you are different,  you’re going to have to learn to have a sense of humor about certain things.”

I have a sense of humor…and I still don’t think this was funny.

What happened to Carla and my teacher?

I don’t know…so many people wearing hoods over their heads so little time to look under them all.

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The Light Goes On

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I’ve spent the afternoon drafting short stories for my blog

Anita’s Owl Creek Bridge.

At one point

I realized I had spent the day thinking about

ghosts and devils and curses

witches and cannibals

and clever ways

to bump people off.

I looked around to make sure

no one was watching

and then I laughed.

 

 

Art Is So Funny

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I had this picture above my desk at work and people used to like to stop and take a look at it ( it’s a seemingly refreshing change from the pictures of devils and tombstones that I’ve tacked to my ” wall of weird ” over the years ).

Then one day a co-worker stopped by and  gushed about the lovely old photo- the composition, the art, the meaning behind the picture.

” She’s dead ” I said.

” Well, ” my co-worker snapped ” of course she’s probably dead by now- that’s a really old picture ”

” Listen, ” I said ” SHE IS DEAD. She was dead when they took the picture, she was dead when they developed the picture,  she was dead when they framed the picture. That is a picture of a DEAD WOMAN.

” No she isn’t

” Yeah- I’m pretty sure sure she is ” I said.

Now days I could hang a dead moose from my wall  and I can promise you not one single person is going to stop by my desk to ask me about it.

They’d ignore it- even if it attracted flies and it smelled really, really bad. I’m pretty sure people would be very happy to  pretend like it wasn’t there hanging from paper clips and staples ( which is  all I have at my desk ) decomposing away.

Art is SO funny.

The Whip Cracketh For Thee

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So I promised myself I’d post something once a day here and I drop the ball on day two because I had some Political Obligations to meet.

I don’t mind doing these things- being involved in Politics prepared me for the world of writing in one very unexpected way-

In politics if you say you’re going to do something people may call you a flake or a nut or they’ll  pray  ( like the old saying goes there are no atheists in the foxholes ) like crazy you will drop dead but for the most part you get taken seriously- in other words they have no doubt if you say you’re going to go for a goal you’re going to do exactly that.

So when I decided to start writing it didn’t occur to me to say to myself…’gee what if I’m not good enough?’ or ‘what if no one cares’ or ‘ who do I need to get approval from? ‘

In my Universe if you announce  you have a plan some people  will  make it their mission in life to ‘take you down’ some will even support you.

Some will just send you nasty e-mails or send their friends after you…but I digress-

I don’t  hear this much if ever at all ” oh gee that’s a sweet dream Anita but lots of people try to do that…and the chances that you’ll pull it off are next to nothing.”

Politics taught me there are no sweet dreams- just hard reality and that there really are monsters, there really are good people and if you don’t have a sense of humor you’ll lose your sense of hope.

So here’s to hope.