So I met Ted Harrison last night. Yes, the Ted Harrison, who did you think I meant? I was at this party for work, a charity thing we all had to show up for, and he was there. He’s taller than he looks in the movies. Hmm? No, I don’t know how old he is. He must be around fifty, at least. He was in movies even when I was a kid. Just shut up and let me tell you about it, all right? Thank you.

Anyway. I didn’t know he was there, I actually had just got a drink when I turn around and he knocks into me and spills my wine all over my chest. We were both embarrassed. I didn’t recognize him at first—I knew he was familiar but I didn’t know why yet—so I said, “could you get me another drink while I clean up?” And so I went in to dry myself off and I come back and he’s standing there with another glass. White wine spritzer. That’s not what’s important, Sheila! Zip it so I can explain, all right?

Okay, so he hands me the drink and then I recognize him. And he’s a famous movie star, but he introduces himself anyway. It was so cute, he was like, “Hi, I’m Ted,” and I’m all like, “Oh, hi, Ted, I’m Lucy,” like I meet Oscar winners every day, you know? Ha ha. And he asks what I do, what brought me there, you know, and I tell him I’m with the company, and he acts like my job is just fascinating! I mean, we both knew it was total bullshit, but it was fun, because it was totally surreal. This guy I’ve had a crush on my entire life is at this party, and he’s flirting with me. I couldn’t believe it.

Yes, he looks good. Tall, graceful—ever see Mission at Dawn? Okay, you know the character he played? He looks like that guy’s father now. Just as handsome, a little more experienced, a little classier. Yeah.

Well, that was part of what was so surreal. I mean, he’s the guy I always had a crush on, but he wasn’t. He’s older now, probably twice my age. And he’s charming, but really, he’s just a guy. No, he isn’t losing his hair. Got a lot of silver, though.

Anyway, he talked with me all evening, even when people came up to get his autograph and stuff. And then at the end of the night, he gave me his cell phone number. Yes, I’m serious. He said he wanted to take care of the cleaning bill for my dress, and when he gave it to me, he held onto my hand.

Amazing as it was, it was creepy. The guy’s probably got kids older than me. Going after a twenty-five-year-old, you know the guy’s a letch. It was awkward.

What? Well, of course I fucked him. He’s Ted Harrison.

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

Tonight’s story is half-written, but I took some Robitussin on an empty stomach, and now *yawn* I think I’ll have to finish it tomorrow morning. The story, not the Robitussin.

xo, Amy

You might want to ignore this one. Really. xo, Amy

Saul held a finger to his lips. “Ssh, David, here he comes.”

A goofy-looking schlub with long hair walked over and raised a hand in greeting. “Hey, guys. What’s up?”

Saul cleared his throat. “Nothing much. Dave’s having a party Saturday night, we were wondering if you could make it.”

David nodded. “Maybe you could show up around eight?”

“Why, sure! What kind of party?”

David shrugged. “Just a—”

“It’s a costume party!” interrupted Saul. “Everyone’s dressing up. Make sure you wear something really outrageous.”

“That sounds great! I know just the costume I’m going to wear. This is swell, guys! Thanks! Thanks for inviting me!”

David coughed politely. “You’ll, uh, you’ll do that thing, right?”

“What, turn water into wine? Sure, if you guys want.” The little guy beamed. “I’ve never been invited to a costume party before! Catch you later—I want to start working on my outfit right away!” And he was off in a cloud of flying sandals.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” David scolded. “He’s really pretty nice, under all the geekiness.”

Saul shrugged. “I’ll tell him before the party. Say…think he’s a virgin? Maybe we could hook him up with that hooker from Magdalene. What’s her name again?”

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

Frail fingers slap at you. It hurts, but that’s not what’s important right now.

The wizened little man is back and forth—cowering one moment, lashing out the next with his ragged fingernails. “It’s not Wednesday!” he cries. “No Wednesday! Get out, get out, get out!”

You advance calmly, gently, firmly. “Please sit down, Mr. Hensford. There’s no reason to—”

He grabs a potted plant and lobs it at you. “You’re evil! Get out, don’t touch! Where’s Sarah? It’s not Wednesday!”

You sidestep the mess and move slowly forward. “I’m not evil, Mr. Hensford. You’re right that it’s not Wednesday. Do you know what day today is?”

His eyes are suspicious. “I know you. You’re a robot, aren’t you?”

“It’s Saturday. Saturday means Sarah. But first, you have to take the pink pill.”

“You are, you’re an evil robot. I know you.”

You produce the pill and a cup of water. “I’m not an evil robot, Mr. Hensford, I promise. Please take your medication.”

Suddenly apprehensive: “Where’s Sarah? What have you done with her?”

“Sarah will be here in an hour or so. She won’t come unless you take your pink pill.”

“No. You’re lying.”

“Mr. Hensford, this is the same pill you take every day. It’s perfectly safe.”

“I need to see Sarah!”

“Yes, and that is why you must take this pill. So that you can see Sarah.”

The man sets his jaw grimly. “All right. I resolute the robots. Hand me the pill.”

You extend the medication and the water. Within minutes, the little man is relaxed, breathing normally, lucid. “Thank you. It’s worse lately, you know.”

“I’ve noticed.”

He presses his fingers to his temples. “I suppose we should start the medication earlier in the day, or up the dosage. Could you call the doctor?”

“I’ll schedule an appointment for this afternoon.”

“Thank you.” His eyes linger. “I could never live on my own without you. You’re such a help—so much more than I expected. Not to embarrass you, of course.”

“That’s why you created me, Mr. Hensford.”

His fingers, the same hands that slapped you a few minutes ago, pat your head. “I’m sorry I called you a robot. You’re perfectly intelligent and resourceful and…” His voice trails off. “I can never thank you enough.”

“You’ve thanked me more than you’ll ever know,” you reply fondly. Indicating the remains of the potted plant. “I’ll clean up this mess. No need for Sarah to find it.”

“Thank you.”

An hour later, your creator answers the door himself and greets his daughter with a warm embrace. You will never receive that sort of embrace. No matter how many times Mr. Hensford says thank you, you will never get the same kind of attention his own flesh and blood—something else he’s created—receives. Artificial intelligence or not, you will always be a robot to him.

And that is why you’ve accessed his legal files and changed his will. Resolute the robots, indeed…

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

He took one look at all the shopping bags and rolled his eyes. “No wonder you took so long in there. You must have bought half the store. Need some help with them?”

“Nope, I’m good.” His wife tossed a few bags into the back and settled comfortably in the passenger seat with the two remaining bags. “The drug store’s going out of business! Everything’s on sale.”

“Everything except my prescription, I bet.”

She grinned. “That goes without saying. How do you feel, anyway?”

He shifted in the seat. “Like I’ve been kicked. Hand over the medicine.” She offered the prescription bag and he took a little white pill from the bottle. “I hope this works fast. So what else did you get?”

Her eyes gleamed. “A thing of five hundred aspirin! Only two bucks!”

“That’s nice. Anything else good?”

“Sure. Expensive shampoo on sale really cheap, twelve-pack of soap, big box of Band-Aids…”

“That’s great, we’ll be all stocked up on that stuff for months.”

“Yeah!” She pushed her hair back behind her ears and smiled up at her husband. “Normally, I feel a little guilty when I go out and buy a ton of stuff, but this is all stuff we need, and it’s all so inexpensive, you know? I actually feel virtuous right now.”

He nodded. “Sure, it’s an investment. What’s in that big blue box?”

“A vaporizer! For in case one of us gets a cold in the winter.”

“People really use those things?”

She shrugged. “They must, they make them, don’t they? Oh, and look at this!”

He raised an eyebrow. “A box of a hundred condoms? Is this a joke?”

“Of course not! This is like a year’s supply!”

He turned the box over in his hands. “Well, what are we going to do with them?”

“Why, use them, of course.”

His eyes fell to the prescription bag. Cradling her face in his hands, he whispered, “Remember why we were at the hospital just now?”

She reddened, giggling. “Oh! Sorry! I guess I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s okay. Takes time to get used to it.” He put the car in gear and started driving. Honestly, who needs a condom when they’ve just had a vasectomy?

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

I got an email last night that I’m going to keep forever. Normally, I’ve got an itchy “delete” finger, but this one meant a lot. It was from my stepmom, who just wrote to say that she reads SPASMS and she likes it. She didn’t write to say anything else, didn’t want to comment on a specific story, didn’t want to do anything but say that the stories hit home for her and that she’s proud of me for my writing.

What an awesome e-mail.

It’s different from an LJ comment, because she took the time to think about it and write a note just for me, to encourage me and do a little bit of cheerleading for SPASMS. It felt so good to open that e-mail, I can’t even tell you.

Now, I know that a lot of you who read this are writers or artists of some fashion — creative types, anyway. And it’s a safe bet some of your friends are, too. Why don’t you take a few minutes today to write one of your friends a note like the one I got last night? It doesn’t have to be about any one specific thing the friend has done, just a quick e-mail or postcard to let them know that you pay attention to what they’re doing and that you like it. Be sincere about it. If the friend’s art is kind of amateurish, or undeveloped, try to only focus on the positives. The point of the note isn’t to provide constructive criticism, it’s just to send a message that what they’re doing isn’t in vain, and to encourage them to keep working at it.

Everybody could use a note like this once in a while. Heck, I get positive feedback every day through LJ and a boss who loves my writing, and that e-mail last night still floored me. I’m still floating from it. =) Imagine the effect that kind of note will have on somebody who doesn’t get that much feedback.

At the risk of going off on a tangent, I’d like to thank my stepmom again for that e-mail, and to thank my mom, dad and stepfather, too. A few years ago, my mom gave me an envelope filled with little books and poetry I’d written from ages four to about eight. It’s one of the best gifts I’ve ever received. She also let me have her manual Smith Corona and tons of mimeograph paper to type on when I was seven and I couldn’t write by hand fast enough to accommodate the words coming out of my head. My dad keeps a “file” on me where he’s got every article or interview or review I’ve published (that he’s found or that I’ve sent to him) and tons of my stories from when I was in college. I’m always embarrassed when he mentions he wants something else to update the file, but it shows he has faith in my writing and that means a lot. My stepdad still has one of my old typewriters socked away in the attic, and mentions it every once in a while. Just the fact that he’s not willing to throw away a part of my writing past (that doesn’t work and that as far as I know they don’t make ribbons for anymore) gives me a smile whenever I think of it.

I’m naturally creative. It’s just my personality, and I’d find a way of expressing it no matter who my parents were. Fortunately for me, I’ve got four parents who let me do my own thing. I can’t thank them enough.

If you’re a parent reading this, be willing to indulge your child’s creativity. Praise them honestly, sincerely, and with all your love. It’s one of the best things you can do for your children. And I bet they could use a note, too.

xo, Amy

“I’ve always felt that if I didn’t know what phase the moon was in on any given day, there was something wrong with my life,” she confided.

He gestured up at the sky. “It’s full now.”

“A little past full, actually. See how a little slice is missing on the left-hand edge? That’s a gibbous moon, and it’s waning.”

They sat there on the warm hood of the car for a while, considering the satellite hanging swollen and orange over the autumn treetops. “I’ve heard a lot of names for a moon that looks like that,” he said. “Harvest moon, painted moon. But I always liked what my grandfather called it—a blood moon.”

She hugged her knees against the cold. “Why’d he call it that?”

“I don’t know. I’ve thought about it a lot. It could mean death, I suppose.”

“Or werewolves.”

“Sure. But I think it means—well, what I’d like it to mean is just blood.” He smiled at her. “You know. Life. Passion. Humanity and all that goes with it.”

“Animals have blood, too.”

He laughed, snorting a cloud of steam into the chill night. “I guess they do. But it’s not the same, is it? I mean, do you know of any animals that look up at the sky and wonder about the universe?”

She shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

“I look up at the moon, and I think of all the other people who’ve looked up at this same moon. All the people who counted the days until it was full again, for generations and thousands of years. All the poetry it’s inspired. All the lovers. All the wars it’s seen. The moon can mean so many different things to other people and other cultures, other times. And yet we barely know it. I guess we’ve taken some rock samples and we’ve studied its surface, even walked on it, but somehow I feel like we’ll never truly know the moon. Not like we know the earth. The moon is our eternal companion, circling us through the ages as we tumble through the void.”

She was silent for a moment. “I think you know the moon better than I do,” she replied, slipping a hand over his arm. He squeezed hers with his own.

Together, they shared a kiss in the blood moonlight.

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

SPASMS is pleased to present another edition of Amy Explains the Alphabet…

This is complicated, because to tell you about the tenth letter of the modern English alphabet, I have to give you the entire history of the ninth, with a little bit of twenty-five for good measure, because until a few hundred years ago, they were the same letter (making spelling bees a mite tricky).

See, one morning about two thousand years ago last Wednesday, this Phoenician and this Palestinian were drinking and bullshitting. And it occurred to the Palestinian that of all the graphic representations of speech sounds the Phoenicians had created, they still hadn’t come up with one for the semi-consonant sound ỳ. (You can just imagine the ribbing he gave the Phoenician over that one.)

Anyway, the Phoenician, being something of a wiseass, says, “sure I’ve got an icon for that. I’d write it for you on a napkin, but napkins haven’t been invented yet. Maybe next time.”

So the Palestinian whips out a piece of cloth, folds it over twice and invents the napkin. Pushing it across the table to his friend, he says, “Show me the letter.”

Well, of course the Phoenician stalls and claims he can’t write out the letter on the napkin since the ballpoint pen hasn’t been invented yet (they used this type of excuse a lot back then), so the Palestinian’s like, “I don’t believe you ever came up with this letter. You’re such a freaking idiot, man, I don’t know why I even hang out with you anymore. Get a life!” So the Phoenician suddenly whips out a paintbrush and scribbles something that looks like a backwards eighth-note. “Happy?”

The Palestinian takes one look and says, “You just made it up, didn’t you?”

“No,” lies the Phoenician.

“Did too.”

“Did not.”

“Okay, then, what’s it called?”

“Um… ‘yodh.’” Which the Palestinian doesn’t believe for even a second, because it’s the Phoenician word for “hand.”

Not long after this, the Palestinian gave the Phoenician a wedgie for being so lame, but the symbol stuck, at least long enough for the Greeks to steal the idea and (as usual) change it into something completely different. They played around with cool lightning-bolt-looking graphs before turning the letter into a single line and re-christening it “iota,” which makes more sense than “hand.” The Greeks were also smart enough to give it a new sound, ī. Everybody thought this was a great idea, so they kept it up till late medieval times, when the dot above the lowercase was added so it wouldn’t be mistaken for lowercase L.

But…! The Romans used I for both ī and ỳ (cheap bastards). So eventually they had to differentiate between the two sounds (otherwise we’d still be calling a certain gentleman “Iesus”) and just before the Roman Empire expired, they added a little tail for the ỳ sound. By the end of the 17th century, the ỳ was more of a ĵ.

You’ll find J in jump, jiminy, jazz and jai-alai, which I find extremely amusing. Jubilant, even.

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

Nice goofy writer lady’s tummy is feeling worse tonight. And Stomach Ache brought its sister, Head Ache, just for laughs.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

Don’t hold your breath waiting for a SPASM tonight. Me go sleepy now.

xo, Amy

Once upon a time, there was this nice goofy writer lady who didn’t feel so well in the stomach department, and who decided to write a story anyway. Because this particular nice goofy writer lady was perversely compulsive about writing something every day. And she hadn’t been posting as much writing as she’d like lately, so even though whatever she wrote was going to be half-assed, it was going up on her LiveJournal anyway, just because.

And so the nice goofy writer lady sat down to write. No sooner had her fingers touched the keyboard than a Fairy Writing Mentor appeared, glitter-encrusted coffee mug in one hand, stardust cigarette in the other. “Wow,” said the Fairy Writing Mentor, “nice shoes.”

The nice goofy writer lady looked down at her feet. “Thanks. I got them at Target.”

“Cool. Hey, listen, about the story you’re writing tonight — you’re missing a key structural element. But don’t worry, because I’m here to provide you with–”

“No smoking in the house,” said the nice goofy writer lady.

“Hah?”

“Your cigarette. You’ll have to either put it out or finish it on the back patio,” the writer said, politely but firmly.

“This? Don’t worry, doll, it’s only stardust.”

“But I have asthma. Has there ever been a clinical study done on the effects of stardust on the lungs? I can’t take this risk.”

The Fairy Writing Mentor shrugged and went out to sit on the bench on the back patio, but while she was sitting there, she got distracted talking to the nice goofy writer lady’s next door neighbor, who had several interesting ideas for a historical romance but no clue how to creat dramatic tension, and before you knew it, Fairy Writing Mentor was over at the neighbor’s house bumming an unfiltered Marlboro off the neighbor and helping her brainstorm a denouement.

The nice goofy writer lady shook her head and went off in search of Pepto-Bismol. Who needed a Fairy Writing Mentor, anyway? Stomach problems somewhat alleviated, she sat back down at her computer. Now, to write a story…

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