Blogging Friends, In Real Life

Ever since I realized people existed behind these things called ‘blogs,’ I’ve dreamt of meeting one.

I mean, why limit exchanges to pun-filled banter, terrible poetry, or sharing story prompts? Why not, say, share lunch?

Yesterday, I finally had that privilege.

While on a whirlwind family vacation to Oregon, I thought, Hey; I know someone who lives in Oregon. Maybe -just maaaybe- she’d be willing to meet.

I’m talking about the intelligent, effervescent, engaging, classy, kind, accommodating D. Wallace Peach.

©D. Wallace Peach

(I’m also honorably-mentioning my favorite aunt and uncle, a former neighbor, and an online friend of Kevin’s. All were treated to a ‘could we stop by?’ out of the blue. Sorry, guys.)

We barely made it work. When we came down to ‘we ought to just bag it and try for next time,’ I recalled the lessons I’ve learned from COVID-19’s quarantines and infections. Sometimes, there may not be a ‘next time.’

Thank you, Diana, for helping me seize the day. Thank you for not running in panic from my persistent attempts to connect.

I figured she must be old hat at this lunch-with-a-fan thing.

Ironically, I learned I was her first blogger meet-up as well.

©Chel Owens. Oregon is SO GREEN.

Now that we’ve broken the ice, we want to know: who else? The UK group hosted an annual Blogger’s Bash; why can’t we? Diana says Colorado is lovely… What say you?

—–

Week in review:
Wednesday, September 14: “The Meaning of Life. I Think.

Thursday, September 15: “Three, Two, One: Bumper Balloons,” in response to Carrot Ranch‘s prompt: balloons on a bumper.

Friday, September 16: Friday Photo.

Sunday, September 18: Internet Quote.

Thursday, September 22: Today.

©2022 Chel Owens

I Actually Won Something

Great news! I won second place for the poem I submitted to the Annual Bloggers Bash!

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…I’m a bit miffed that “Silent but Tardy” wasn’t a contender, but totally stoked that I actually won something! I’ve included the winning entry below, which I submitted from my motherhood site.

 

Five More Minutes

Five more minutes to sleep alone,
To dress in peace,
To check a phone.

Five more minutes to eat my food,
To eat it warm,
To eat it chewed.

Five more minutes to sit right here,
To read a book,
To disappear.

Five more minutes is not that long,
To feel the guilt,
To feel the wrong;

When

Five more minutes is what I seek

Five more minutes is all I need

Five more minutes, or maybe three,

Is all I long for, to just be me.

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Photo Credit:
Jordan Whitt

 

©2019 Chelsea Owens

Silent but Tardy

Stan heard his door’s assailant before the knocking; a shush-shush against the cement leading to his flat. He rose; walked; opened; stared. There, upon his stoop, was Death himself.

“Er,” Stan managed. What does one say to Death?

In what should have been an anticipated reaction, Stan’s guest only stared.

Stan scuffed a foot against his carpet. He bit his lip. Swung his arms.

Death still stared.

“So….” Stan tried. “May I help you?”

A nod. Silence.

Stan hadn’t thought Death would be so awkward. *Ahem* “How so?”

Impossible as it seemed; Stan knew, somehow, that his somber companion frowned in thought. Death reached a skeletal hand from draping cloak-sleeve to internal robe and withdrew a scrap of parchment. Hand and paper extended toward Stan.

Stan received the paper; declined the hand. Stan Dubrough, 17:00, he read. His palms felt chill and his body followed right after. Both jumped at Death’s bony finger, tapping to point at the name. His name: Stan Dubrough.

“That’s-” Stan squeaked. “That’s me.”

His guest’s other hand appeared from near the door-post. It gripped an awful, glinting scythe.

“The time’s not right, though,” Stan said, as though observing the weather.

The scythe paused. Stan sensed confusion. He also, inexplicably, recalled his mother’s exasperated reprimand, “Always a stickler for accuracy, aren’t you, Stan?”

Death stared. Asking.

“It says ’17:00,’ right?”

A slow nod.

“And, that’s 5 p.m.; yes?”

Nod.

“Well,” Stan concluded in a cheery tone, “It’s now going on 6.” He chuckled a bit till he recalled who his visitor was, and then wisely swallowed. “Hm; yes. Thing is: you’re a bit late.”

If a dark-cloaked being without voice could look gobsmacked, Death did. Without a word, he extended his non-scythe hand. Stan returned the paper and watched it disappear within the cloak folds. Then, just as silently, Death and his scythe turned and left.

Stan listened to the shush-shush of departure turn the corner before shutting his door. Returning to his couch seat, another of his mother’s oft-spoken sayings came to mind: “Stan, you’re so bent on being right you’d tell Death himself if he were late.”

“Well, mum,” he said, looking to the urn atop his mantel, “Looks like you were right after all.”

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Submitted, at the last, for The 2019 Bloggers Bash Competition.

 

Photo Credit:
Image by PublicDomainPictures from Pixabay

Mud to Tyrants

“Ready. Aim. Fire!” Thomas yelled exuberantly. He released three carefully-crafted mud balls skyward. They flew from his shovel toward the cardboard clubhouse, landing in wet splat, splunk, splats on the ground.

Daniel popped open a window to survey the results. “Some attack, Thomas!” He jeered.

Another smiling head joined Daniel’s through the jagged cut-out. “Yeah,” James teased. “Wanna move closer, baby?”

They laughed in good sport, then yelled and ducked inside as Thomas dropped his shovel and ran at them. Their door was pushed against its hinge with the force of the nine-year-old boy.

Daniel wriggled out the opening. He rose and watched Thomas and James roll about, trying to pin each other. Their errant wrestling crashed against a wall; the whole house threatened to collapse.

“Hello, boys,” a regal voice cooed.

Distracted mid-warning, Daniel turned. There stood Candy Barnes, in all her glory. He recognized her pink outfit from yesterday’s tea party; one they had been stopped from invading by a watchful mother.

“Go away, Candy,” he answered. Turning, he yelled, “Knock it off. It’s breaking!” A howl sounded from inside. A triumphant Thomas soon sauntered out. James followed, pretending a limp. They both stopped, staring.

James recovered first. “Whadda you want, Candy cane?”

She pouted. Flipping her feather boa over a puffy shoulder, she answered, “I merely came to survey my kingdom.”

All three boys began arguing. “Your kingdom?” “It’s our land.” “No one wants girls.” She ignored them, adjusted her crown, and raised her chin.

Inspiration struck Daniel. “Hey Thomas,” he said, “How are you at moving targets?”

Thomas retrieved his shovel and a leftover mud ball. Turning to Candy, he replied, “Let’s find out.”

A few seconds later, the commoners had the undeniable pleasure of watching a shrieking monarch hurriedly exiting their forest.