In the end, it wasn’t the act of introducing his fiancée to his parents that was difficult. It wasn’t her answering honestly his mother’s innocent question, “What do you do for a living?” with “I’m an actress in adult films,” although that was a little tricky.

It was when his dad looked at her, slapped his knee and said, “I thought I knew you from somewhere! How do you ram those dildoes so far up your butt?”

Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

Again with the writing while I’m tired. Hopefully the results are good… xo, Amy

Maurice answered the door, only to find two zombies standing there.

“Oh, what a relief,” he replied, “I thought you might be Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

“Braaaains,” replied the male zombie. “May we come in?”

“Where are my manners? Certainly, please do come in.” Maurice stepped aside and closed the door behind them. “Can I get you anything? Cup of tea, perhaps?”

“Braaaains,” answered the male. “Tea would be lovely, thanks.”

“Braaaains!” added the female zombie.

Maurice smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid I don’t keep any brains in the house. Would you like something else?”

“A glass of water, then. I’m on Atkins,” she explained.

“One tea, one water. Have a seat, I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

Maurice’s wife Edith was sitting at the kitchen table, doing a crossword. “Who is it, dear?”

“Nobody. Couple of zombies. Kettle clean, darling? One of them wants tea.”

Edith set down her pencil. “Tea? But we have a can of brains in the pantry.”

“I don’t want to waste perfectly good brains on people we don’t know.”

His wife shrugged. “Suit yourself. What’s an eleven-letter word meaning werewolf?”

Maurice set the water on to boil. “Hmm. Oh—lycanthrope!”

“Brilliant. Thanks, love.”

He returned to the sitting room with a cup of tea and a glass of ice water. Another zombie was walking down the street past the front window. “A friend of yours?”

The female scoffed. “Braaaains. As if!”

The male zombie shook his head. “That’s Simon. Bloody poseur.”

“One in every crowd, I suppose,” Maurice sympathized.

“But that’s not why we came here today,” said the male.

The female nodded. “Braaaains. Now, of course, being from the neighborhood, we realize you just recently lost your aunt Marie.”

“Quite often, the loss of a loved one turns a soul to pondering the afterlife. Consideration of an afterlife can bring hope to the surviving family. Braaaains.”

The female offered a slim black volume from her bag. “We’ve brought you a complimentary copy of the Book of Zombie. We believe it may bring you great comfort. Braaaains.”

Maurice smiled politely. “Of course my wife and I are pleased to accept your gift, but I must inform you that we have already reached an understanding of the afterlife.”

The male appeared curious. “So you’re familiar with zombieism?”

“Slightly, yes, but actually, we are vampires. For quite a long time, really.”

The female was the first to speak. “Praise Braaaains. There are many paths to enlightenment. I’m glad you’ve found the one that’s right for you.”

“Braaaains. Of course, if you change your mind, our phone number is written on the book’sflyleaf. Do take a look—perhaps you’ll find something of interest.”

When the zombies left, Maurice returned to the kitchen. “Gone, Edith.”

His wife finished her crossword and looked up. “What did they say? Let me guess—braaaains!”

Aunt Marie cackled from her coffin in the corner.

Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

The Mayor swiveled around to find three raccoons in front of the desk in his study. Instinctively, he reached for the call button on his phone, but the head raccoons spoke, silencing him:

“I’m Rocco. These are my colleagues, Ricky and Ryan. We want our territory back.”

The Mayor cocked an eyebrow. “You want what?”

“We’re tired of being road kill and rooting around in garbage cans. We want our own territory. Just a small patch. A Raccoon Sanctuary.”

“That’s ridiculous. Why, this city was founded over 300 years ago! Haven’t you figured it out yet? We have no place for you here. You’re not tax-payers.”

“Well, you might change your mind, Mayor.”

The Mayor scoffed. “There’s nothing to argue. This is where humans live. You raccoons can go find yourselves someplace else to go.”

The head raccoon took a long, slow look around the handsomely-appointed study. “Well, we just might have a secret weapon. Show him, Ricky.”

The raccoon who had been standing in the corner tossed a bundle of muddy sticks onto the desk blotter. “Thank you, Ricky. Now, Mayor, what do you think of that?”

“Get that off my desk.”

“Well, how about this? Ryan, go ahead.” Ryan heaved some old tin cans onto the desk. Rocco placed a dead fish on the blotter. “As you see, we mean business.”

The Mayor picked up the fish gingerly between his fingers and placed it in his wastebasket. “I think you’d better leave,” he replied darkly.

“That doesn’t convince you? Well, maybe the sound from overhead will.”

The Mayor looked up at the ceiling. Faintly, he could hear claws making their way across the hardwood floor above. “Wait, that’s my daughter’s room.”

“Six years old, right?”

The Mayor’s face was ashen. “What are you doing to her?”

Ricky and Ryan blocked the door.

Rocco shrugged. “Relax, she’s perfectly safe. At least, I think she’s safe. Crazy Fanny’s keeping an eye on her.”

“C-crazy Fanny?”

“Yeah. She used to be just Fanny, but since she started foaming from the mouth, we call her Crazy Fanny. But don’t you worry, she’s great with kids.”

The Municipal Raccoon Sanctuary was pushed through City Council with astonishing speed.

Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

The bartender hesitates. “I think you’ve had enough, sport.”

The man in the baseball cap shakes his head. “Last one, I promise.”

“Sorry, rules are rules. You’ve had six, and you came in on your own steam. Nobody leaves this place drunk and gets behind the wheel.”

Baseball Cap fishes out his keys, slaps them onto the counter. “I’ll take a cab. Hit me, okay?”

Reluctantly, the barkeep tilts the bottle into the shot-glass. “Last one. Don’t want you leaving here and falling down or getting hurt because we sold you the whiskey. Deal?”

Baseball cap shrugs. “What’s it matter?”

“Matters to the bar’s attorney.”

“Fuckin’ lawyers.”

Except for a couple necking in a booth, the bar is empty. The bartender yawns. “Anything on your mind?”

“A lot on my mind, actually. Dad’s got cancer, wife left me, lost my job.” Baseball Cap knocks it back and coughs. “Everything’s falling apart, you know?”

Barkeep whistles. “Lot to happen at once.”

“Yeah.”

“But I can see you’re going to rise above it. I mean, look at you, you’re obviously doing okay with money, you’re wearing a quality shirt and you’ve got manicured nails and a good haircut. You take care of yourself. Why? ‘Cause you’re worth it. Don’t lose your self-worth over everything that’s happening. Don’t let the situation control you, dude. You’re better than that.”

Baseball Cap leans back on his stool and regards the bartender through a drunken haze. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying don’t use alcohol to escape reality. It never works.”

Low chuckle. “I don’t use alcohol to escape reality.”

“Well, it sure seems like it.”

Cap’s eyes are clear. “To blot out reality is to admit it exists.”

Barkeep looks confused, then a smile emerges. “That’s fucked up. I like that.”

“Now pour me another drink and shut up.”

Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

Sally looked up from the check she was writing. “What’s today’s date?”

“The fifteenth.”

“Already?” She scribbled the date emphatically. “I’m going to be married in three weeks!”

Jay nodded while the cashier processed the check. “Time flies, huh?”

She beamed up at him. “Not fast enough!”

“Here’s your receipt. Thank you for shopping at A&P,” interjected the cashier.

Jay took the grocery bags and followed her out to the parking lot. Sally used the remote to open the trunk. “I get the chills every time I think about it. Good chills,” she added.

“Good for you.” Jay placed the groceries in the trunk and straightened up.

“Being widowed is the best thing that ever happened to me!”

He stared in disbelief. “What?”

“Well—I mean—I’ve finally met the love of my life. You know?”

Jay lowered his eyes and closed the trunk. “Get in the car, Mom.”

Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

We now return you to SPASMS Explains the Alphabet. xo, Amy

So I was recently asked when I’m going to continue explaining the alphabet. Now’s as good a time as any. Let’s get back on track with N, the fourteenth letter of the modern English alphabet.

Three thousand and five years ago, give or take a century, the Phoenicians—did you ever wonder about the Phoenicians? Not surprisingly, they lived in Phoenicia, which was an ancient maritime country that had something to do with Syria and was located on the Mediterranean Sea. And it must have been a heck of a boring place, seeing as how all the Phoenicians ever seemed to do was make up letters of the alphabet.

And that’s really the only explanation I can come up with for N. It started out as a squiggle, sort of shaped like the “S” in the “KISS” logo, and it was called nūn, meaning—and please remember that I’m not making any of this up—“fish.” Yeah, I can’t figure it out, either. Your guess is as good as mine.

Anyway, the Greeks came along and messed around with the letter’s orientation as well as its name. Apparently nūn wasn’t silly enough, they had to go and make it nū. I don’t know what “nū” means, but it rhymes with “new” and “gnu,” and that’s certainly worth something.

By the time the Romans got their hands on it, N looked pretty much the same as it does today. I don’t know if they were responsible for calling it “en,” but that’s how it’s generally pronounced nowadays, in case you were wondering.

But I digress. N is at the forefront of such words as “nectarine,” “narcotic” and “nephelometer.” You can’t be nervous without N being somewhere in the picture, but the same goes for nice.

When paired up with U, N gets wild and daring. Together, they turn everything topsy-turvy. Sometimes when coupled with M, N goes strangely silent. Here’s an interesting now-you-hear-it, now-you-don’t dichotomy: “damn” and “damnation.” See?

Of course, there’s another reason the ancient Phoenicians might have invented a letter that looks like a squiggle and is named “fish:”

They had to spell “Phoenicia.”

Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

Very loosely based on this.

Gretchen greeted them with a squeal at the door. “It’s so good to see you, Pam! Ron, it’s been ages! Come on in, dinner’s almost ready!”

Her husband stood up from his recliner, greeting her friend with a peck on the cheek and the other husband with a firm handshake. “Nice to see you, Ron.”

“Same here. Been a while, eh?”

“Yeah! Say, I’m watching the game. Want a beer?”

“Sure.”

Once they were comfortably ensconced with their Heinekens in front of the TV and the ladies were in the kitchen, Al looked up at Ron. “Eagles fan?”

“Last season was something else, wasn’t it?”

“Think they have a chance this year?”

Ron shrugged. “I’d like to see the Steelers win, but the Eagles are a better bet, specially now that Roethlisberger’s out.”

“He was their ace in the hole, wasn’t he?”

“Sure was. Say, this is a nice recliner. Suede?”

Al shook his head. “Some sort of microfiber, I don’t know. You know, Gretchen’s got the have the latest thing.”

“My wife’s the same way.”

“Go figure.”

“Say, Pam says you’re an accountant. That so?”

Al nodded wearily. “Certified Public.”

“Getting ready for your busy season?”

“I suppose. It’s always busy at quarter’s end, and come February. How about you?”

“Hmm?”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a ghost,” Ron stretched in his chair.

Al looked at him with interest. “Oh, a ghost, huh? Union?”

“Local 82.”

“I hear they have good pension plans.”

“We do. Good benefits across the board, knock on wood.”

Al set his beer on a coaster. “How’s it work, getting into the union? You go to school?”

“No, work for a union shop thirty days, and you’re an apprentice. Six months you make journeyman, and within a year, you’re at scale pay with benefits.”

“Interesting. What level are you, Ron?”

“Ghostmaster, but I’ve been at it fifteen years. You thinking of going into the trade?”

Al shrugged. “Getting tired of what I’m doing.”

“Tell you what. Come on down to the shop Monday, I’ll fix you up with the steward.”

“You’d do that?”

“Sure. You’ve got sunken cheeks, hollow eyes, pale skin. I bet you’d do well.”

“Hey, you’re a real pal, Ron. You do this for me, I’ll do your taxes this year. Deal?”

“Deal. Thanks, Al.”

“Thank you.” They clinked their beers together and finished watching the game.

Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

Long, exhausting weekend, although not necessarily in a bad way. I think my SPASMS suffered for it. Okay, they definitely did: I write every day, but the result isn’t always good. Especially when life thwarts me.

Unlike the majority of LJ bloggers, I’m a parent. I’m in my mid-thirties, I have a job (two if you count my freelance gig), a long-term relationship, a house that requires cleaning and maintenance, social obligations and even non-SPASM writing projects. Writing is my escape from everything. It’s like a meditation in that I’m much happier and more content with my life when I’m being creative. Even when the result isn’t very good. The very act of writing is satisfying and expurgatory. It disconnects me from the world for an hour or so a day and permits me to do whatever I want, no matter how crazy. Some people smoke or drink. I write.

And this is something I tend to revisit every couple months or so, basically because I like to evangelize about things that turn me on: don’t be afraid to be creative. I just went back and looked at “Inchworm,” the SPASM I dashed off last night, and I’m thinking, “what the fuck is that?” It’s not very good. It’s not bad, it’s not good, not really anything but a joke, because I was tired. Am I embarrassed? Am I going to take it down or apologize for it or get upset over it? Hell, no.

Creativity carries with it a risk. As far as I’m concerned, nothing is art until it has an audience. That audience can be your mom or your co-workers or your best friend or a bunch of people on LJ. Whatever. And there is always the risk that people aren’t going to like what you’ve done. Even you might go back to it and say, “Wow, that story/song/painting/[other art] sucks! What was I thinking?” I write a lot of good stories, but there’ve been some real clunkers, too. It happens.

The trick isn’t just to express yourself, but also to get comfortable with exposing yourself to that risk. Learn to accept criticism. (And to ignore nastiness.) Some audiences are tougher than others. Your mother’s bound to be way less critical than a literary agent, but showing your mom or someone else supportive is a good start. Work your way up to people with high standards. Art takes a lot of hard work. It rarely comes out the way you’d have hoped; at least, not when you’re starting out, and often not when you’ve been doing it a long while.

SPASMS isn’t about the stories. Well, okay, mostly it is, but there’s another purpose behind it: to inspire others to try writing, too. Or whatever your chosen art(s) may be. Don’t be afraid. Don’t fear mistakes or criticism or nobody reading it. There’s an audience for everything. Don’t fear mediocrity, either. (Although I wouldn’t recommend aiming for it.)

Take the risk. If the story/song/whatever doesn’t turn out well, write another. Don’t kick yourself over it. There will be days you create something that’s lame, like “Inchworm.” (It’s cute, but still.) Whatever day that is, it will be yesterday soon enough and you can’t live in yesterday. I sure don’t.

The best advice I ever got from anybody, ever, was one word: “Persist.” It’s also the best advice I’ve ever given.

xo, Amy

Feeling cynical this morning, are we? Yes, we are… xo, Amy

Not knowing anything about a subject didn’t stop her from commenting on it. In fact, sometimes that was when she waxed most eloquently. Her opinions were sharp, well-defined, and eminently mutable. The subtleties of bullshit were her chosen field.

People were stunned by her accuracy. Even when on the face of it, it appeared she must have been wrong, she invariably turned the situation around so that she had been right all along. It was more than a skill, it was an art. Reality and truth meant nothing, so long as people believed the result. Believed in her.

Too bad she claimed to be a doctor.

But it didn’t matter, as long as the patients trusted her.

Right?

Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.