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#1 of 17 Old 06-11-2006, 11:28 AM - Thread Starter
 
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OK,

Each member should write 3 short tales about herself (or himself); 2 of these must be true, one must be untrue. Include specific scenes or details. After everyone has had the chance to read, everyone guesses which one is not true. The storyteller reveals which one is untrue.

You have a week (no pressure )

I will start another thread in a week for your guesses...have fun with this one (your writing doesn't have to be perfect, just convincing)

Try to convince us of something that is not true. This exercise illustrates that truth may be stranger than fiction Reality doesn't always work for fiction if the situation is not believable.

Have fun (above all)

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#2 of 17 Old 06-12-2006, 01:54 PM
 
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1. A WITNESS REPORT

Church was over. My dh and I went to the gun store and shooting range. I had just gotten a Ruger P90 automatic pistol. We were looking for a handgun for him.

Because I am very particular about gun safety, and wasn’t feeling well, I vetoed shooting practice for that Sunday. I didn’t want to be handling an unfamiliar firearm if illness was dampening my alertness.

So we shopped. We looked at and handled Kimbers and Glocks and Springfields. We talked over merits and prices with the owner. Someone was in the range, punctuating our conversation with muffled gunfire.

Dh was interrupted mid-sentence by a piercing scream- the kind that makes your blood run cold.

“I shot myself!”

I turned around, and saw a woman and blood- lots of blood. The owner and workers ran to her aid with towels, ice, and bandages. As soon as she had opened the door and called out, she collapsed.

Because I’m a licensed professional rescuer, I’m legally obligated to help with emergency situations if it is needed. By the time I got to the area, the bleeding was contained and the woman was curled up on the floor, propped up on one of the managers. Her face was drained of color, as she rocked back and forth and mumbled, “Oh my God. Omigod omigod omigod. Oh, God.”

Within a few minutes, a small ambulance came, followed by a news truck. They checked the first aid that had already been done, bundled her up and took her to the vehicle.

The owner came back to the counter, put the show pistols away with shaking hands, and said he needed to close early.

So we left.

We found out what had happened the next week when we returned to practice. She had a low-cut blouse on. When she fired and the gun automatically ejected the hot cartridge, it flew straight into her bra. She reflexively grabbed at it to stop the burning, clasping both hands to her breast, but her gun was still in her hand and in the grabbing motion, she pulled the trigger. The bullet went into her arm above the wrist, and left past the elbow, traveling up the bone. Thankfully, she didn’t hurt herself too badly.

Although I was shaken, I didn’t change my mind about carrying a weapon. Nor have my views changed on citizen’s responsibility to own firearms and use them safely and appropriately. But I have become a more ardent supporter of gun safety than I was before the incident.




2. The Doll (an interesting past job)

The Office gets a call from the local school. Seems there is a child in class who is displaying traits totally unlike his usual behavior; he is withdrawn, agitated, sleepy during class, won't talk about any problems at home.

Suspecting child abuse, there is an investigator heading for the child's house, and it is felt that an officer should be at hand, just in case.

Out goes I. The investigator and I talk to the child, and it gradually comes out that sometime previously, the parents had been watching one of the horrid movies about homicidal dolls that come to life, not knowing that their child has snuck out of bed and is watching the movie from the bedroom doorway.

This has led to the child deciding that one of his stuffed toys is going to come to life and slaughter the family.

Mama and Daddy freak. I go with the child and dig the toy out from under the pile of stuff in the workshop where the child has placed it for safety. Mama comforts the child, Daddy swears the toy is going into the garbage first thing, and the social worker is pontificating about the damage violent movies do to young psyches.

Nobody notices me going out to the Super Scooter and getting on the radio.

Just like no one notices the city truck pulling up in front of the big bay window of the house.

The two city workers talking to the me and firing up the machinery being towed behind the city truck raise only mild curiosity.

*HOWEVER*, the sight of me marching out to the truck, with the toy held at arms length with a secure grip about it's throat gets everybodys attention.

Of course, the fact that I has the muzzle of my pistol rammed firmly between the toys beady little eyes might have accounted for a bit of that fascination ...

And when I solemnly, and with the greatest of care not to allow the demonic toy the slightest chance to overpower him, slam-dunked the malevolent beastie into the chipper/shredder merrily grinding away on the back of the truck, one might say that I had everyone's undivided attention.

The *piece de resistance* was when I walked back into the house, tipped my hat to the child and stated: "You have anymore problems, you just give me a call."




3. Solid Fluid (homeschoolish adventure)


“I need corn starch.”

“I thought you were working on tomorrow’s lecture.”

“I am- that’s why I need corn starch.”

My husband teaches Fluid Dynamics at the University of Arkansas Fort Smith. For some reason, he needed my starch for his class.

He raids my kitchen, using my ingredients to demonstrate laws of science. I understand using vinegar and baking soda- that is a child’s experiment. Using the gasses released from that combination to humanely kill some snake food (read: rats) surprised me somewhat. But corn starch?

I know it works great for thickening gravies. That’s it. But He never seems to use food in a normal way. He uses the stuff to amaze me.

He started out the way I always do- mixing the starch in with water in a bowl. But he kept putting more and more and more starch into the mixture. It started to look like lumpy, and quite watery, plaster of paris. He stirred it slowly, as it became a thick, gooey mess. Then he was done, and I learned how this liquid was different from others.

This slimy mess was completely different from what I expected. John told me, “put your finger in.”

Eeeew!

The thick, slippery slime closed in over my finger.

“Now, pull it out- nice and slow.”

The starch-water drooled off my finger.

“Try again, only this time, pull your finger out fast.”

I pulled; it didn’t budge.

I tugged; it stayed firm.

I yanked; my finger was stuck.

Then I slowed down and slowly eased it out- and it came out, oozing goop.

He took the bowl, and poured some into my hand- the ivory gunk slipped between my fingers and splattered in gooey puddles on the counter.

“I’ll clean it all up, don’t worry. Just try and make it squirt.”

I clenched my hand into a fist- it got HARD. As hard as a rock.

I opened my hand to look, and it melted into a fluid again.

Once more. In my tight grasp, it stiffened and resisted me. This time, I opened it up fast because I knew it would melt. I grabbed the sides before it could soften up, and twisted.

It snapped- and looked like baby powder until it liquefied again.

Why does it behave so strangely?

This strange concoction is a rarity known as a non-Newtonian fluid. Most fluids, like water, oil, syrup, varnish, and mud, are Newtonian. This means that if you put pressure on them, they squirt away, if you try to squeeze them, they will just run through your fingers faster than if you relaxed, and if you drop something into them, they splash. When you think of the words fluid or liquid, this is most likely the image that springs to mind.

The way that fluids behave is described with words like viscosity and shear force. We can say that viscosity is the resistance a material has to change in form. Tar and molasses, for example, would have high viscosity, while oil and water would have low. The former resists movement and shaping, while ease of movement and changing shape characterize the latter. The importance of viscosity is in its relation to shear force.

When you hear the term shear force- think scissors. One object stays solid, while another moves against it. You experience shear force when you rub your hands together. Squeezing can also be shear force.

Let’s use the hand example. If there is a fluid between your hands, say hand soap, it spreads out. If there is enough of it, it drips off of your hands. It has low viscosity, and the shear force of your hands makes it slide away, decreasing the viscosity even more. It is Newtonian. Say you drop something into it, creating that shear force between the substance and the object dropped, it will splash.

Most fluids react the same way, some more quickly than others. But some don’t.

The fluids that behave differently are non-Newtonian. We’ll use the same hand-rubbing example, but change the fluid. This time, what you have between your hands is that strange corn-starch mixture. Now, you rub your hands together, but instead of squashing and running out, the stuff rallies itself and makes a hard ball or cylinder. It started out with mediocre viscosity, but when it encountered force, the viscosity (resistance to movement) sharply increases. If you drop something into it, it won’t splash. It resists the shear force, hardening at that point until the force stops.

I don’t completely understand why it works that way. Neither does he, who is teaching Fluid Dynamics. As far as I can tell, no one really does. Which is why there is an Institute of Non-Newtonian Fluid Mechanics and a Non-Newtonian Fluid Dynamics Research Group at MIT – to find out.

What sort of things might this truly unique substance be used for? My husband said that to his knowledge no uses have been found yet. It is just unusual and fascinating.

So fascinating, in fact, that a pupil played a trick with it. He took a bowl of the gooey fluid to work- and was handling it slowly, so it looked like just a thick liquid. Then he left it on the table, by the coworker who had been watching. He then punched into it with his fist. The coworker jumped back, expecting it to splash.

It didn’t.

It broke the table.
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#3 of 17 Old 06-12-2006, 09:41 PM - Thread Starter
 
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So, for the last one, are we supposed to guess whether or not the facts are true, or the story??

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#4 of 17 Old 06-13-2006, 03:16 PM
 
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Gypsy Bloodline

When I was in the 8th grade I had only been in town for a year. Being a small town in the south, I was very much an outsider. I was mostly left alone, being a shy wall flower as well as being poor and ashamed. The only time I ever got attention from anyone was during English class when the cute boys would flirt with me hoping I'd give them answers to quzzes. There was one boy, though, who was mean and relentless in picking me out and teasing me about my thrift store pants.

Tom's family had been in town for generations. He was also picked on himself, so it empowered him to bully someone else for a change. One day he asked me what kind of freaky family moved constantly the way mine did, and, having had enough of him, I told him a gypsy family. And if he didn't lay off and leave me alone I was going to put a hex on him. Of course he didin't believe me, and he wanted me to prove it. As the bell for 6th period rang, I told him to meet me at lunch in the counselor's office the next day and I'd read his palm. Once I was in class I got a pass to go to Mr. Casey's office and I asked him to help me decieve Tom by giving me some personal information about his past. With a devilish gleam he agreed.

He called me out of 4th period 15 minutes before the lunch bell rang and supplied me with the intelligence I needed. Shortly after the bell, a cowboy hatted six foot tall Tom sauntered in. He sat down heavily on the couch and said "Let's do this". I placed myself on a chair in front of him, sighed deeply, took his sweaty hand in mine, rolled my eyes back and spoke to him of his past. I told him that I saw him sneaking a smoke behind a church, that I saw him, dressed in a messy white apron, scraping food into a garbage can in the alley, and when he thought nobody was looking, he took a breadstick from the top and ate it. I told him of the heavy feel of smoke in a dark house whlie his father had a grey look from the reflection of the tv. I then did a fast forward to the futrue. I told him the worst thing I could think of for him...That he'd be married to and broken by a woman who didn't love him. That he would have to work 3 jobs to support her and his 4 daughters, and that he would never have the football star son he would so desire.

Having been scared by my sight into his private past, I didn't have to say much about his fictional future. He scrambled to his feet, planted his black hat on his head and stumbled out of the office, shouting "Stay away from me, Devil!" without looking back. He never bothered me again.

Private Life

What nobody knows is that I have a very private life. One that would shock my grandparents and make my mother proud.

I live in a decent neighborhood filled with decent people. Our lawn is green and the Cosmos grow tall and purple in the front garden. Every Christmas I bake cookies and deliver them to our neighbors. They know me as a nice woman. A good mom. A quiet and considerate neighbor. They don't know who I am. Nobody does.

And who am I, really? Am I the sum total of what other see, or am I that person inside myself? That person who, after my husband has gone to work and my son is at Mom's Day Out, sits on the computer and looks at images of other women. Images of other men. Which person am I? The one who won't let her husband see her touch herself, or the one who chats online about being touched? Sometimes, as I'm talking to strangers I wonder if any of them are my neighbors. I wonder if any of them are ignoring their wives in favor of carrying on with me. But the thing is, the awful, humiliating, heartbreaking thing is, that I'm not aroused by these thoughts or conversations. I'm shamed by them. And as I live out my personal, very private life, I hope to god that this isn't who I am.

My Secret
I am a dog person, but I have three cats. Well my husband has 3 cats. I've been asking him for a dog for years, but he won't let me. He says we have too many pets as it is. He's right. He says they stink and he hates them. I tell him I know, but I hate cats. "Our house is too small for a dog" he argues, but I persist. I tell him how much safer I'd feel, I tell him how happy it would make me, and I told him it'll be my turn for a dog once the cats are dead. They are old and sick and most likely, only have a couple of years left. But here's the thing. As much as I say I hate the cats; as much as I grumble about the cost of shots, food and litter; as much as I say that I wish they'd hurry up and die already, I love them. And if I ever win this argument and get a dog, I suspect I'll have a secret yearning for cats.

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#5 of 17 Old 06-13-2006, 07:57 PM
 
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I've never been a fiction writer so this has been quite a challenge!




1. Bag Lady

We were already well and truly drunk on cheap tequila but at least it numbed us from sensing the December flurry. These after work drinking sessions are nothing unusual in the Tokyo working-lifestyle. It was after midnight when we stepped onto the last express train home from Yotsuya ,where we worked, to Ogikubo, where our bicycles were parked. Rain, or heat or driving snow, we rode our bicycles to and from the further station because it was an express stop. Even with the twenty minute ride, it was faster than taking the slow train to our nearest station.

We certainly weren't the only inebriated passengers on that Tuesday night but we were the only gaijin (the Japanese word for foreigner or more accurately, outsider). No doubt, we stood out from the crowd more than our condition permitted us insight. Few Japanese would initiate conversation with a gaijin at that hour of night, much less a woman. Yet, I found myself involved in conversation with the woman next to me. It went something like:

“Cold night tonight isn't it!”
“Yes, we must be crazy to be out on a night like this.” I hoped she could understand my slurred Japanese.
“You're going to Ogikubo? Me too!” It did not even occur to me to ask how she knew. I replied,
“Oh really! What a coincidence. Do you live there?”
“No, I'm going to meet my brother.”
“Is he expecting you at this hour?” I asked with surprise, glancing at my watch.
“Not likely! He hates me! I've come all the way from Kyoto to see him though. He has a drinking problem.”

It took me a few moments to compute the meaning of all this. I looked out the window at the flurry becoming a full-on snow storm.

“What if he doesn't let you in? What will you do?”
“Oh ...” she paused for effect, “I'll just sleep in his doorway I suppose.”

No computation took place this time. Not at the conscious level anyway. But she looked well-presented enough: clean, sober, middle aged but a hard working type. Without pausing I turned, and looked her in the eye and stammered in my most polite Japanese,
“It's too cold to consider such a thing! Please do me the honor of coming home with us. We have a spare bed you can have. Get a warm night's sleep and see him in the morning.” SUCKERED!

“Oh no! I couldn't impose...”
“No argument! You will come home with us.”

She smiled broadly and thanked us profusely, bowing repeatedly until we were embarrassed. We forgot to tell her how far we actually lived from the station and how we were to get home....

She was not impressed to see our bicycles and even less impressed when we told her it would be a twenty minute snow ride home. She reluctantly gave over her plastic bags to the basket on my handlebars and perched herself on the back of my husband's bike for the white-knuckle ride. No discussion about drink-riding was entered into. It is a fact of life in a city like Tokyo.

I woke the next morning to discover a stranger in our home. My memory was foggy about the details of the previous night's events. I offered her some oatmeal for breakfast but she politely declined, asking for bus money instead, which I gave. My husband showed her to the bus stop and she cleverly asked him for bus money as well! We later realised we had probably been her target from the moment we stepped onto that train. She had had trailed us through train changes and eavesdropped on our conversation. We doubted she even had a brother at Ogikubo. But, given the circumstances, we don't regret a thing. We were safe and so were our possessions. And besides, a large part of me admired her ingenuous method for gaining a warm bed on an icy cold night.



2. With the greatest of ease...

It was how we met; our passion for motorbikes. Or more specifically, our passion for speed and for life in the fast lane. Once we had connected over our street machines, our carnal passions collided head-on and we became inseparable as a couple and something of a parody of each other with a motorcycle each, riding side by side down the highway. Of course, it was inevitable we would have a biker wedding. We honeymooned in spring time on the northern New South Wales coast of Australia where mountains meet the ocean and you can ride every kind of road imaginable and be ever-surrounded by nature's glory.

Many months later, still newlyweds by anyone's definition, we decided to take a tour with our motorcycle club. I left my bike at home and rode pillion this time. I don't have any memory of that day though every detail from the morning we left until the weeks that followed has been explained to me in technicolor.

It was a hot day close to Christmas – summertime in Australia – but I had thankfully decided to wear my full kit of leathers instead of denim. Apparently the doctors were amazed that there was barely a mark on my skin. We were on the return leg of the tour. Dusk was falling and we rode at that time of night when the sky is light but the ground is dark and illumination provides no advantage besides your own visibility to others. There had been a red kangaroo at the side of the road; the kind we Aussies call 'Big Red”. We were going too fast to see it. It had bounded out without warning and our front forks made contact squarely across the animal's hindquarters, tagging the bike faring with “roo-blood up one side and roo-shit up t'other”. It had become a running joke by the time I returned to the club to demonstrate my recovery. How ironic that that poor kangaroo would have suffered a spinal injury so similar to mine. At least I wasn't left to die on the side of the road like that poor beast – though there were days and weeks when I wished I was. My husband had been flung forward at impact, his years of judo training served him well as he tumbled over the handlebars and then walked away. I, however, became a human canonball as the impact catapulted me through the air like a trapeze artist minus her safety net.

I spent close to two months in hospital and I lost count of surgeries performed on my ankle, pelvis and spine over the past thirteen years. I now have permanent pins in the two former and some fused vertebrae in my lumbar spine. Really, I'm very lucky to have sustained only these injuries. I have since met paraplegics and amputees who were less lucky than me. And while I still love motorbikes, and my husband rides to work daily, I have hung up my shredded leathers for when my children are grown and I can ride again without fear of my life and what losing it might mean. And while I still live with pain every day, I can honestly say this experience has changed my outlook on life such that, really and truly, I have no regrets at all.




3. The Dare

It was the kind of mischief borne from work avoidance and too much caffeine and junk food. We were supposed to be swotting for college exams but the deserted campus presented a temptation; augmented a procrastination; that was much more appealing than library stalls, and notebooks and photocopied journals. It was a bad, bad thing – which made it too good to refuse. To this day, I still don't know exactly whose idea it was.

There was a new lecture theater; an auditorium with all the latest bells and whistles in audio visual technology. We resented that auditorium. It stood as a monument to the controversial hike in student fees the year before. So we were gonna prank them. Nothing too extreme. No vandalism or willful damage. We wanted it to be subtle and political; something that might go unnoticed for a while. It seemed an obvious choice that one of the closed circuit TV monitors should 'mysteriously' disappear.

Perhaps it reflects my age that this was a time before security cameras, burglar alarms and laser ID. A plan was laid, a lock was picked and in the dead of night the deed was achieved with a meager spanner and a pair of snippers. Easy as pie! And perhaps as a reflection of the effortlessness of the crime, I still feel guilty about it to this day. We stashed the monitor in a back room for many secretive months but no one ever came looking for it. Interestingly enough, a few weeks later, security around campus was stepped up and it became no longer possible to walk around campus in the middle of the night without being molested by security. Probably a good thing really.

Because it was a monitor and it required a closed circuit system to activate it, the damned appliance served us no convenient purpose at all for the years that we lugged it from share house to share house. If we collectively had the right combination of AV appliances – a video player with internal antenna and a stereo amplifier – we were able to enjoy a picture clearer than anything we ever achieved on the 'antique' TV at our place by the train lines. As our friends all grew up and went their separate ways, we lost track of the monitor. Good riddance to it! I realised from this escapade that I do not have a criminal's temperament and that I could happily have turned myself in to the police to relive my guilt and paranoia over the whole affair. I still often reflect on whether this is something I would wish my children to know about. So far, the jury is out.
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#6 of 17 Old 06-18-2006, 06:37 PM - Thread Starter
 
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                                Whatever will be, already is...
 
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#7 of 17 Old 06-19-2006, 10:03 AM
 
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Quote:
Originally Posted by autumn_faune
1. A WITNESS REPORT

2. The Doll (an interesting past job)

3. Solid Fluid (homeschoolish adventure)
i am guessing the doll story
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#8 of 17 Old 06-19-2006, 01:22 PM
 
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I hope you don't mind but I'm going to post my response here instead of the other thread so I can refer to the previous posts as I respond.

Autumn Faune - I really enjoyed your stories and they all seem so incredible to me but I'm with the pp who said The Doll.

Rigama - I really admired your economy of story telling. While I think it was unethical for your school counsellor to share Tom's secrets I can see how it might happen in a small town so I'm guessing you really don't have a penchant for internet porn?

As for mine - should I share which one was fiction yet or should I just tell you that Beloved got it wrong? Hang my head in shame but very word of The Dare was true!
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#9 of 17 Old 06-23-2006, 03:23 PM
 
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Jodi, You are so right. Much to my dh's disappointment, I don't sit around and look at porn all day:

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#10 of 17 Old 06-23-2006, 03:42 PM - Thread Starter
 
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Rigama, I don't think you look at porn all day I thought you were somehow trying to trick us...I'm so suspicious:

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#11 of 17 Old 06-23-2006, 03:49 PM
 
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I WAS trying to fool you. And I was successful too!

addicted, homeschooling, freelancing mama to DS 8. Pet mama to Harvey the Wonder Mutt :, Pnut: and Autumn : Oh, yeah, and
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#12 of 17 Old 06-23-2006, 03:50 PM - Thread Starter
 
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You got me then :

                                Whatever will be, already is...
 
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#13 of 17 Old 06-24-2006, 10:54 AM
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1.
My herbs are planted in a giant pentagram shaped bed. The points of the star each hold a few flower bulbs, so that there's almost always a flowr blooming on each tip.

That might not have been enough to get me in trouble by itself. But then I started my home business. First creams and lotions, then a few innocent potions. Dream pillows. Still ok.

But then those kids kept torturing my dog, throwing things at her. THey broke one of my garage windows, they put dog poo in my mailbox. They were teenagers, old enough to know better, but always causing trouble. I got frustrated.

Then one day I came home and found a dead cat in my driveway. Poor kitty. Not MY kitty, but a pretty little black cat, and it's neck was broken.

And my chickens were all loose! Two were missing, probably picked off by that hawk!

I lost it! Damn kids! The next day they were back, throwing rocks at my dog. I ran out to get her and they hit me with one.

So, I pointed my two rather crooked little pinky fingers at them and said, "Boil, boil, toil and trouble, punish these terrors on the double!"

THe kids laughed and wandered off.

The next day they were all involved in a car accident! Two of them were hospitalized, with broken bones and head injuries. One of them told their parents about my 'curse'. Now, I'm a witch, whether I am or not. Everyone in town thinks so, though my dog is left alone....and my mailbox only holds mail.




2.
I'm a pacifist. I don't believe in war. Still there was no war then. Just a few conflicts that the Army took care of. And the money sounded good.

Besides who else would teach me, a woman, to drive an 18 wheeler? So, I joined the National Guard.

We'd been married a month! Now we'd be thousands of miles away from each other. (the best part of the marriage!) For the next 5 months I sweated, ran, trained to use an M-16, and learned to drive. I loved it!


And I haven't been behind the wheel of a truck since the day I left. My armory was run by a bunch of chauvanists who thought women should be office workers and they say me behind a desk and thought I 'd type for them. I didn't. I read romance novels, crocheted, and kept my feet up on the desk!

Quite the soldier.

3.

I didn't want to go to the party. I was 'done with men' as they weren't worth the trouble, so I wasn't interested in meeting new people, and I won't drink and drive, so I would be sober all night.

Besides, the hosts were an ex-gun moll for a BAD motorcycle gang and a guy who'd spent most of this life in prison, the last time for murder. (and her did it, too!) Not the best idea for a party, if you asked me.

But my friend was insistent. AAnd she always could talk me into things. So, after much moaning and bitching, I went.

The place was filled (go figure)with ex-cons, scary bad guys and a handful of tattooed women. My firend and I sat in the corner. I started to drink, a few beers, but soon I was too drunk to drive. Some guy joined us in the corner where we were hiding. He spent the evening chatting with us, joking.

I had to stay FOREVER, to get sober. Before I left (5am!) the host aske dif he could give the guy my phone #. Hmmm, I thought, it depends! Where did they meet? Not that I dared to ask. I hesitated, demurred. Gave in.


And married the guy!


off to the guessing thread!
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#14 of 17 Old 06-24-2006, 12:29 PM
 
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Originally Posted by marsupial*mama
Autumn Faune - I really enjoyed your stories and they all seem so incredible to me but I'm with the pp who said The Doll.
Correct. It's a true story, but it's not me. Bonus points if you can guess who it was!
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#15 of 17 Old 06-30-2006, 04:05 PM
 
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Hey Autumn,

Ds4 is playing with cornstarch "glop" now. He's absolutely fascinated by it's solid/liquid properties...Oh, and for added fun, add food coloring to the water before you mix it with the cornstarch. Booger green is his favorite

addicted, homeschooling, freelancing mama to DS 8. Pet mama to Harvey the Wonder Mutt :, Pnut: and Autumn : Oh, yeah, and
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#16 of 17 Old 06-30-2006, 06:28 PM
 
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too funny! it's a great science project one of my sisters did it for a science fair and came up with some theories on how it could be used- and won.
booger green... guy thing.
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#17 of 17 Old 07-03-2006, 09:22 AM
 
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Autumn wrote:
Quote:
Bonus points if you can guess who it was!
I wouldn't know where to start!! Glad that I got it right though.

I think I got them all right! Do I get bonus points for that?
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