This is the traditional "Welcome-to-my-Blog-and-Thanks-for-Stopping-By" post that probably should have come first. Ah, well. This is all new to me.
I suppose I should explain the purpose of this thing I'm calling a blog.
I'm a writer. I want to get my writing out into the world. A blog seemed like a good place to start!
My writing is mostly ridiculous. I'm a big fan of absurdist fiction (Chuck Palahniuk is one of my all-time favorite authors), and I love to write stories that are a little different. The students who were fortunate (or maybe unfortunate) enough to be in my creative writing classes over the last few years know me as the girl who writes about talking squirrels, anti-toothbrush hippies, and teenagers who wear a little too much chain mail.
Needless to say, you never know what you're going to find here.
But I sincerely hope you like what you find here. I'm very friendly, and I'd really like to get to know more of my fellow writers, so feel free to drop me a line. If you're anything like me, you know how valuable having a few writer-friends in your back pocket can be. It's a team effort, after all.
Thanks for coming by!
Holly. Really.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Thursday, June 30, 2011
"Nuts"
So, it's not a big deal or anything, but I have a talking squirrel. Well, I don't have the talking squirrel. He lives with me, but only because he wants to. If anything, he has me. Most people don't even know he's here. My landlord wouldn't take kindly to the idea of guy living with a squirrel, in apartment 4C. We're not allowed to keep cats, much less any other kind of rodent. This squirrel is far from a rodent, though. He's toilet trained. And he takes longer in the shower than any girl I know. I think he would be a lot faster if he didn't insist on singing the entire set list from Phantom of the Opera while he's in there.
George - that's his name - doesn't have too many squirrel-like tendencies, save one. George's transition from squirrel to squirrel-esque is one of our favorite topics of conversation since, frankly, it still baffles me. "If I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times," George always says, in his surprisingly baritone little voice. "Your species is fascinating. I've always loved watching you. I had to learn how to communicate."
"And your family?" I ask for the hundred-and-fifteenth time.
"Squirrels don't stick together like humans. Hell, my mother ate three of my brothers right after they were born! Would you really want to stick around for that?"
"I suppose not," I concede. Then - "When are you going to clean up your nuts?"
George sighs and rolls his tiny squirrel eyes at me. "They are cleaned up."
"George, there are nuts all over this apartment."
"They're sorted based on when I plan to eat them."
"Come on, George. I can't bring any ladies home when your nuts are all over the place."
George laughs. "Henry, you can't bring any ladies home. Period. It has nothing to do with my nuts."
George and I glare at each other for a moment, and then I turn and go into the bathroom - the only nut-free zone left in the place - and fume for a few minutes. It's harder than you might think, living with a squirrel. The little guy is almost human now. Almost.
When I leave the bathroom, George is nowhere to be seen. The living room window is open, so I assume George has gone out for the night. There is a conveniently placed Oak tree near the window that allows him easy access in and out of the apartment.
I look around and feel my blood-pressure rising. "Nuts," I mutter. Then, I'm shouting, "Nuts! Nuts! Everywhere, nuts! I'm surrounded by fucking nuts!" I kick the nearest pile, sending them spilling across the kitchen. Another pile joins, and soon it becomes a chain reaction. All of George's carefully sorted nuts are rolling all over the apartment. Tidal waves of nuts crash at my feet, over and over.
After a minute, the sound of rolling nuts quiets and I stare around. The floor is almost entirely covered. George is going to be pissed.
I shift aside the nuts at my feet and sit down cross-legged on the floor. I grab a handful of nuts and try to see the difference between them. Maybe I can clean this up. Maybe George will never know.
I think about our argument - he was totally right. I never bring any ladies home, and it has absolutely nothing to do with George and his nuts. It has a lot to do with my personality. I mean, I spend my nights talking to a squirrel and surrounded by piles of nuts. Maybe I'm a little nuts.
George - that's his name - doesn't have too many squirrel-like tendencies, save one. George's transition from squirrel to squirrel-esque is one of our favorite topics of conversation since, frankly, it still baffles me. "If I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times," George always says, in his surprisingly baritone little voice. "Your species is fascinating. I've always loved watching you. I had to learn how to communicate."
"And your family?" I ask for the hundred-and-fifteenth time.
"Squirrels don't stick together like humans. Hell, my mother ate three of my brothers right after they were born! Would you really want to stick around for that?"
"I suppose not," I concede. Then - "When are you going to clean up your nuts?"
George sighs and rolls his tiny squirrel eyes at me. "They are cleaned up."
"George, there are nuts all over this apartment."
"They're sorted based on when I plan to eat them."
"Come on, George. I can't bring any ladies home when your nuts are all over the place."
George laughs. "Henry, you can't bring any ladies home. Period. It has nothing to do with my nuts."
George and I glare at each other for a moment, and then I turn and go into the bathroom - the only nut-free zone left in the place - and fume for a few minutes. It's harder than you might think, living with a squirrel. The little guy is almost human now. Almost.
When I leave the bathroom, George is nowhere to be seen. The living room window is open, so I assume George has gone out for the night. There is a conveniently placed Oak tree near the window that allows him easy access in and out of the apartment.
I look around and feel my blood-pressure rising. "Nuts," I mutter. Then, I'm shouting, "Nuts! Nuts! Everywhere, nuts! I'm surrounded by fucking nuts!" I kick the nearest pile, sending them spilling across the kitchen. Another pile joins, and soon it becomes a chain reaction. All of George's carefully sorted nuts are rolling all over the apartment. Tidal waves of nuts crash at my feet, over and over.
After a minute, the sound of rolling nuts quiets and I stare around. The floor is almost entirely covered. George is going to be pissed.
I shift aside the nuts at my feet and sit down cross-legged on the floor. I grab a handful of nuts and try to see the difference between them. Maybe I can clean this up. Maybe George will never know.
I think about our argument - he was totally right. I never bring any ladies home, and it has absolutely nothing to do with George and his nuts. It has a lot to do with my personality. I mean, I spend my nights talking to a squirrel and surrounded by piles of nuts. Maybe I'm a little nuts.
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