Bleach House Dream

White walls. White ceilings, floors, white everything. This house is milk and bleach and lilies. A stain on my memory in the shape of a man comes around the corner, arrests his movement as he lays eyes on mine. I startle, and the room gets darker. Butterflies the color of tears seep out of my white on white dress. I can't stop shaking, and he carefully, so carefully cups my face in his hands. His eyes, so intense, devour me. He says something that I can't understand, comes a step closer, threatens me with his closeness, the ending of a solitude I didn't know I felt. So I run. I run through rooms, around corners, down twisted staircases that weren't there before. I run and he follows, barely three steps behind. I can't find a door so I break through a window and hit the hard pavement with bare feet and a stitch in my side, and I ask myself, what happens if he catches me? What will running accomplish? He's a step behind me now and I know somehow that he can't go past the end of the sidewalk, which is barely a stride away. My body slows as if I'm pushing through gelatin, but I'm desperate to keep going, just one more step, just one. I launch myself into the air... and I keep going up. I've become a bird, and with an aching sense of loss I realize somehow that he's no longer behind me. I turn around and he's gone. I wake up and the feeling of loss is still weighing me down.

The End, And A New Beginning

I haven't posted anything in a while, but that's about to change. If I do something new to my house, I'll post it. If I create a new recipe, I'll share it. But for the most part, this blog will be dedicated to short stories based on my fucked up dreams from now on. If I collect enough short stories, or if I turn one into a longer story, and if people like them... there are a lot of 'ifs'. I may want to get published, but I have no inspiration for the book that I'm already working on. So if I can start the creative juices flowing by starting with my dreams, I may be on my way to finishing my book, and I may have material for a book of short stories that may or may not already have readers. Who can say what will happen? I don't really think this will get popular, but that could just be my inner Eeyore talking. I don't count on the readers I already have to stick around since the genre of this blog is changing so drastically, but I'll count myself blessed if any of you do keep reading. For now, I'm going to bed. I'll have new material by tomorrow afternoon. I have very vivid and memorable dreams most of the time. Goodnight.

New Ideas

Pinterest has many amazing ideas that are almost always easy and fun to put into practice, which is probably why I spend more and more time on that site as the weeks go by. Recently I've honed in on two particular ideas brought to me by this magical search engine, and I feel like sharing them here. Lucky you.

I've been wanting to paint my house for flipping ever. It's predominantly beige and white, except for in the few places (the master bed and bath, and one wall in the living room) that I've been brave enough to add color. I've since been looking for the perfect color scheme to paint most of the rest of my house. Logging onto Pinterest yesterday, I found this:

The second color from the left is just about perfect for my hallway and entryway, and the cranberry color is already in my living room. I'm going to avoid painting any surfaces in my house orange, though; the husband hates orange. I have been wanting to do this painting technique for some time:

This is just a flat paint base with a pattern in a high gloss version of the same color. I'm going to do exactly that, and it will look fantastic because my house is full of natural light ALL THE TIME. We never turn our lights on during the day, since we have this ginormous atrium between the entryway and the living room, and large windows everywhere else. Have I ever mentioned how much I love my house? It was truly love at first sight. I'll be doing all this magical painting when I get my paycheck, which should be soon. Then I will upload pictures here!

Delicious Cookies That Could Possibly Kill You

For my first September post, I thought I'd share a recipe I recently created out of thin air with ingredients I had in my pantry and fridge. I just really wanted to do something with my Nutella that didn't involve a spoon and guilt. Thus, my Nutella and Cream Cheese Cookies were invented. They're amazing, but amazingly bad for you. I'll just post the recipe here and see how many complaints I get about how it's all my fault you need new pants.

Ingredients:

1 cup Nutella

4 oz cream cheese

4 cups flour

1 cup granulated sugar

1 cup powdered sugar

1/2 cup brown sugar

2 eggs

1/2 tablespoon baking soda

1 tablespoon vanilla

2 sticks butter, melted

dash of salt

Directions:

In a large bowl, combine Nutella, cream cheese, eggs, vanilla, and butter. In another large bowl, combine everything else. Slowly blend the second (dry) mixture into the first (gooey) mixture. Form dough into rounds and bake at 325 to 350, depending on your oven, for 6 to 8 minutes. I'd start low; these cookies are better gooey than crispy. You can easily remove them from the cookie tray immediately, which is recommended. Serve with lots of milk and enjoy!

Response to Prompt Number Nine

My mother used to tell me that God was in the air on days like these. Skies so wide and blue you'd want to cry; the wind so soft and sweet, laughing through our hair and skirts; the dewberry brambles clustered with late summer fruits. I always smiled and agreed, but then one day I stopped. Just like waking up, I realized that it was all just a metaphor that had gone too far. It hurt her so much when I stopped believing and fell from grace. The day my father left, though, she did some questioning of her own. He took everything of value; our jewelry, our car, our hearts and hopes. He took everything and vanished. No goodbye. Not a backward glance. Months, then years went by, and no one could figure out how he'd managed to disappear without a trace. But I knew. When you're still young enough to believe half the stuff people tell you, just a handful of sins in your back pocket, you see closer to the basic truth of things the way no skeptical adult can ever see again. That man had the devil on his side, and for a good long while he'd be living large. This I knew, but just as the day ends in the west I also knew that eventually, he'd come down hard. He'd finally fall, and he'd fall so hard there would be no getting up and leaving. No, this time he'd break, and in my childish mind I played it out that I'd be there to see it. And I'd ask him, before the light was snuffed out from behind his eyes, if such an end was worth the trail of pain he had left in his wake. If he would even try to justify it. If he would even recognize me. You don't have to believe in gods to believe in devils. The proof is everywhere, and they have all the luck. But such luck always has a price. I just want to be there when my father's bill comes due.

My Response to Writing Prompt Number Six

The Prompt: Three things you'd bring with you to a deserted island. Assume food and water are not an issue, and that you will be stuck on the island, Gilligan-style, for an unknown period of time. Defend your choices. I've actually thought of this scenario before, just to make my work day go by faster, but never with food and water not being an issue. Interesting twist.

The first thing I would bring would be my husband, but not just for the obvious reasons. Sure, it would be lonely without him, but he's also the strongest, handiest person I know. If anyone could build us a comfortable shelter, it would be him. He also has way more common sense than I do, which lessens the chances of accidental death by at least half.
The second thing would be my favorite multi-tool, the Crovel. It's a unique survival instrument that combines 13 tools into one realistically lightweight design. With this, any simpleton could survive on a deserted island. I'm not being paid to advertise, I'm just that jazzed about this tool. I'm getting one for my husband for Christmas.
The last thing would have to be an industrial sized tub of 100 SPF, waterproof, sweat-proof sunscreen (I'm not making this up, Neutrogena sells it). I'm so pale, I glow in the dark. There's nothing I hate more than being sunburned, and being outside for extended periods of time is one of the unfortunate side effects of being stranded on a deserted island. Rather than live with the pain and possibly get skin cancer, I'd rather come prepared and just hope that we're found before my tub of sunscreen runs out.

My Response to Writing Prompt Number Five

I knew it wasn't going to be a particularly good day when I opened the paper and noticed something a little off-kilter. There in the morning crossword, plain as anything, was the phrase "ROGER PETERSON HAS TWO WEEKS TO LIVE." Now, I'm not particularly good at adapting to abnormal situations, or even leaving my apartment and being a part of the rather terrifying outside world, but I knew my neighbor would want a look at this. Hell, it was probably given to me instead of her on accident. She works for the government, and I am an agoraphobic tech support specialist. I braced myself and opened my front door a crack to see if anyone was lurking in the hallway before scuttling to my neighbor's door and giving it a tentative knock. Nothing. I knocked a little more firmly. No answer. I began to panic. I took a marker out of my jacket pocket and wrote her a quick note to inform her that the crossword puzzle needed some attention, jammed the accursed paper under her door as well as I could, and quickly walked back into my safe haven and locked the door. My head swam. My breathing was too quick, too heavy. I needed my pills. I staggered to the medicine cabinet, opened the bottle, and shook out what should have been a mild relaxant but instead turned out to be a neatly folded note on crisp, lily-white paper. I opened it, and lo and behold, it was a ransom note for the same Roger Peterson from the crossword puzzle. Now things were getting ridiculous. I didn't even know a Roger Peterson! My mental state wasn't equipped for such drastic changes in routine! I desperately grasped for a bottle of sedatives, but again there was a note instead of a capsule of blessed relief. This time it was a map. I dropped it like it was going to bite me and backed into the familiar, spotless living room. I heard someone clearing his throat behind me. I spun around, panic rising, and squeaked, "How did you get in here? Who the hell are you? And how did you get in?"
The man calmly stood up, advanced on me in what I construed as a threatening manner, handed me a thick sheaf of paper, and said, "We have no time for pleasantries. You need to be briefed for the mission and I have a plane to catch. Sit down, Agent Mills."
My immediate response was to vomit on his pristine black shoes and pass out.
When I regained consciousness, my ears were ringing and I was tied to my office chair with what I assumed to be a sock in my mouth.