Ganymeder

Minimeder’s loyal fiction fans should be happy to learn that he now has his own fiction blog. While his previously posted stories will remain here, from now on all his fiction and poetry will appear on the new ‘Monsterbat’s Lair‘ blog.

Please check it out and let him know what you think! Monsterbat (formerly Minimeder) welcomes and appreciates feedback on his work. His newest story, appropriately titled ‘Story,‘ is already posted. Read and Enjoy!

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Kung Fu

“This place really is a mess!” said John, seeing the red splatted everywhere. He looked at the knife. He slowly picked up the knife and went to the kitchen.

He put the knife in the drawer and straightened the kung fu poster. “Much neater.” He then turned and bowed.

He cut the carrot. “I can’t believe that I spilled that Ketchup!” He said. Life as a chef can be hard. He was sure of it.

THE END.

*Again, my son wrote this completely on his own. He typed it out on our desktop computer and received payment in the form of 5 ‘rocks’ (which is our household currency for 30 minutes videogame time). My son- the writer!

Minimeder loves feedback, so please leave comments on this story. Thanks!

Unwelcome Harvest

An old woman sat hunched over in front of the hearth, a worn quilt pulled over her lap and a steaming mug of tea clutched between her gnarled hands. Her daughter watched her with concern.

“How’s the tea, mom?” she asked.

The old woman adjusted her ragged green quilt, the color of dying grass. She sighed. “I’ve been better,” she said. Noticing her daughter pull cigarettes from the pocket of her denim jacket, she added, “I’d be a lot better though if you didn’t do that here.”

Persephone looked guilty a moment but put the pack away. Seeing her mother’s expression, she added, “It’s not like it could kill me or anything.”

“No, you managed to get to the Underworld all on your own; now didn’t you?” There was a rueful smile on the old woman’s lips.

“Oh mother,” Persephone sighed. “I know you can’t be all that ill, or you wouldn’t be starting in on THAT again.”

“To think, you could have had your pick of any…” her mother said.

The redhead help up a hand. “No, we’re not going into that again. We’re perfectly happy. True, it’s a bit gloomy down there, but we own prime real estate. It’s waterfront property.”

“It’s the Styx!” protested Demeter.

“It’s still waterfront property. Now drink your tea. You look terrible.”

“Not very goddess-like now; am I?” Demeter said.

“I just don’t understand it. You’re immortal, but you look like death,” said her daughter. She raised a finger to stifle her mother’s protest. “And no, I don’t mean Thanatos. But you have to admit, I’m qualified to judge when someone looks like death.”

Demeter snorted and took another sip of tea.

“So, I see Hestia came to visit. Nice of her to check on you,” said Persephone.

“Oh,” said Demeter, reviving slightly to gaze into the fire. The glow reflected off her lovebeads. “Yes, she did. Sweet girl, really. But all this fuss… it’s nothing. Don’t worry about me.”

“Don’t worry about you!” retorted her daughter. “Are you kidding? Have you seen yourself?”

Demeter laughed bitterly. “No, and I strongly suspect I don’t want to. But that’s not the point; is it? I’m immortal. I can’t die.”

“But mother, look at…”

“Oh yes, I know I look like Hell – no jokes- but this is just temporary.”

“You aren’t eating your special brownies again; are you?” asked Persephone, sniffing the air suspiciously.

“No,” said her mother. “Not since 1967, but that’s not the point.” Demeter sighed again. “Do I really need to spell this out for you?”

Persephone’s blank look shouted affirmative.

“Alright, apparently I do. You know the drill. I’m goddess of the harvest, presiding over the the natural order of the Earth, yada yada yada.”

“Well, duh,” said Persephone. She flicked her hair over the collar of her denim jacket.

“Oh good, I see you’ve found your tongue again,” said Demeter. “Where was I? Oh yes, well just as my… well lets call it my ‘state of being,’” said Demeter, putting her tea down and shuffling her quilt aside to make scare quotes in the air. “Just as it affects the growth of things on Earth, so do the living things of Earth affect me- the plants, the soil, all that jazz.”

There was that blank stare again. Demeter sighed.

Persephone snapped back, “What are you saying? You’re ill because the Earth is ill?”

“Bingo,” said the old woman.

Persephone rolled her eyes. “Oh, pulllease. I thought you’d gotten over this hippy crap. Not concocting herbal remedies and lobbying for recycling!”

“You have to admit though,” said the goddess, coughing slightly, “that Haepheastus has done some pretty cool things with the cans we’ve started collecting- just on Olympus alone.”

“Well, the soda can robots are pretty cool, but then again he always did have a knack for automatons.”

“I was thinking he could make some recyled jewelry too. Just imagine how…”

“Mother!”

“Oh, yes, sorry. I get carried away in my old age; don’t I?”

“That’s just the thing. How can you be showing your age if you’re immortal? That’s what’s got everyone so worried.”

“Okay, listen, the Earth is sick. I look like I’m dying because the Earth looks like it’s dying. Get it?”

Another blank stare. Really, Demeter loved her daughter, but Persephone wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. Who with half a brain would marry Hades? She spoke again, this time more slowly.

“We aren’t dying. Nothing and no one can kill us. Humanity can try, but all they can do is make us ill. Once the infection is gone, we’ll be better and more beautiful than ever.”

Comprehension slowly dawned. “Once the infection’s gone?… Are you suggesting Zeus wipe out humanity to cure you?”

Demeter looked shocked. Really, Hades was having a terrible influence on her daughter. “Oh Olympus, whatever would give you that idea? They’ll make the Earth uninhabitable and kill themselves off.”

“Then you’ll recover,” filled in her daughter. “Like getting over a cold!”

“More like pneumonia,” answered Demeter, momentarily racked with hacking coughs.

But Persephone was thrilled. “That’s wonderful,” she said. “Just think of all the new subjects hubby will get!” She was almost giddy. “I can’t wait to tell him. Business will be booming…” Persephone walked out the door, muttering to herself without even a glance back.

Demeter smiled. Maybe her daughter had some special brownies of her own.

THE END.

*Just a minor trip into one of my favorite subjects.  Greek mythology never gets old. Well, except for Demeter. Sort of.

He dived for cover behind a storage box. “This may not be as easy as I thought,” he muttered. He dashed through a group of people who were eying the sights that were set out before them. He found his target and went to it as quickly as possible.

He opened the metal lid and beheld the sight before him. “Wow,” he thought. He grabbed the green that was inside the box and made a run for it.

He sat down in a seat and showed the men in black what he had done. “You’ve done well,” one of them said, setting down a fork beside him. “Now, lets eat.”

Parts of Speech – The Untold Story

Housework could be a dangerous thing, especially in this house. That thought crossed her mind more than once as she performed her daily duties. She picked up another carelessly thrown interjection, cutting herself sharply on the word. It wasn’t unusual. Perhaps she should wear protective gloves.

Cleaning her husband’s office was especially dangerous. He’d often, in fits of rage, hurl expletives at the computer. The screen hadn’t broken yet – most of the obscenities bounced harmlessly off to lay in wait for Sally on cleaning day. More than once she’d felt them lodge in her bare feet.

She made the best of it, extracting the sharp edges from her flesh to keep for later. She wrapped an especially descriptive epitaph in some tissue paper before placing it in her pocket along with other colorful phrases. She knew just what to do with them.

Her chores completed, she sat at the table and carefully spread her treasures before her. She enjoyed the feel of the sun on her neck as she worked, pulling her hair aside to catch more the warmth that seeped through the window. The light spilled over her shoulders, shining on a rainbow of words.

She sighed. Way too many obscenities in the last batch. Not that she was a prude, but when overused they lost their punch. She sorted her harvest into the correct boxes – organized by catagory, sharpness, or turn of phrase. The commas and dashes were kept in a drawer with her paperclips.

She didn’t know why her hands were shaking.

Recalling her friend, Michelle, Sally reflected on the similarity of their hobbies. Michelle scrapbooked with her friends, laying out their collected photos and decorations to assemble stunning family chronicles. Sally created a collage of words.

She picked up the glue, grabbed a conjunction, and started on a page.

*

LOCKET

My locket’s glued shut
I know it sounds crazy
but it keeps opening
when it’s not supposed to
and then
exposed to the world
are my family photos
except for
the empty compartment
saved for my lost friend

I don’t even have a decent photo of her
I remember her fur
her warmth
her little grunts of happiness
or discontent
that she would make on my lap
but not the color of her eyes
I only remember
how beautiful she was
and how much I loved her
and now
there is an empty space in my heart
dedicated to her memory

The other spaces are filled
with my husband
my child
and another departed soul
I have many of memories of him
but now he sits upon my mantelpiece
Every so often I dust off the canister
that contains him.

I glue my locket shut
so that the precious prints are not exposed
to the elements
to the stares of anyone walking by
“Close your locket” they say
so I close it
so the tarnished bits of silver don’t show
but no matter how much I try
my heart opens again
even against my will

*Taken from freewriting notes from 2010-02-28, written 2010-03-01.

Minimeder Monday

My son, Minimeder, would like to post some of his writing. He’s always been an avid reader – voraciously consuming tons of Goosebumps and Percy Jackson books- and he’s written 2 Nanowrimo (Young Writers Program) novels. He hopes one day to see his name on books in the bookstore. Since we’ve started schooling at home, he’s become much more interested in writing short stories and poetry too.

As a proud mommy, I’m only too happy to oblige his request to post his very hard work. So, as a general rule, Mondays on my blog will highlight my son’s writing- especially short stories and poetry. Welcome to the first ‘Minimeder Monday.’

The following is a short story he wrote a few days ago. He did all the typing and editing himself.

DREAM

She awoke with a start to the noise of someone knocking at her door. She opened the door. At the door, Shelie saw her friend. “Come on!”

She went with him. They saw the black car. She pushed the car on to the hill, got into it and they sped down the hill.

As they went down the hill she noticed that she could see through him. Her last thought, when the steering wheel turned, was that it was only a dream.

But it wasn’t.

**

*Brrrrr!* Scary!

Also, I plan to post much earlier on Mondays (morning or early afternoon), so keep looking for more kid-friendly writings from Minimeder. I know he’s very excited about posting his stories and poems!

Have a happy!

Revenge of the Snow Ogre

Time was short. The sun was out in full force, and that boy was out making snowballs again.

The snow ogre knew all snowmen were evil. The warmth of a beneficent heart would melt them from the inside out, even before the sun and Spring eventually ended their all too short lives.

The circumstances of his creation hardened his heart beyond the norm.

Born in the last few weeks of Winter, his life was unusually short- even for someone destined never to survive a Spring. It knew its destiny. The roadside snow that made up its body had absorbed so many toxins that its heart froze into a bitter, biting ball of ice, filled with hatred for all warm blooded creatures that would survive the thaw. Not content to make a mere snowman, the creator child had fashioned him in the image of his favorite monster.

That stupid boy was still making snowballs, these ones bigger than himself. He couldn’t lift the second ball on top of the first one, so he climbed the first instead, raising his arms out from his sides as if to say, “Look at what I’ve done!” The ogre remembered how the boy had made a similar declaration to his mother only the week before- the day of the snow ogre’s birth.

The child, noticing the frozen monstrosity once more, jumped down and approached the snow ogre. He tilted his blond head to the side, marking how the sun had thawed the ogre. The wooden spoon and fork still stuck out from its sides, but its frame was obviously thinner. Little beads of water trickled down its face. The boy and his creation contemplated each other.

Without warning, but not completely unexpected, the boy kicked the bottom ball – the ogre’s most stable element. Great chunks of slushy snow fell to the ground when the boy left a large bootprint in the ogre’s side. Impressed with his destructive prowess, the boy kicked again and again. Each kick diminished the snow ogre’s frame from the bottom while its upper torso remained intact. The ogre glared at him, contemplating revenge.

When about half its bottom ball had been destroyed, the snow ogre’s wooden fork arm plummeted to the frozen earth, narrowly missing the boy’s foot. Unheeding, the boy continued his rampage, until the snow ogre collapsed in a heap at his feet. Just before its face fell, the ogre’s smile widened as the heavy ice of its heart thumped against the little boy’s foot.

“Ow! Mommmm!” cried the boy, running to the front door. His mother put her arms around him as he cried. “I hurt my foot on that stupid snowman!”

“How could you possibly do that?” asked his mother, bending down to retrieve the kitchen utensils. She looked at the scattered piles of snow where the ogre used to be. “Come inside and have some hot chocolate.”

She didn’t notice the frozen smile melting into the ground.

*My son has a penchant for scary stories. This, while fiction, is mostly based on events that my son inflicted on the snow ogre he created last week. I embellished slightly. I’ll leave it to the reader to figure out which is fiction and which is fact.

Doctor How
*a parody-poem written 2010-03-05

Doctor How_ do you do
these wondrous works?
We have no clue.
You travel time,
yes, this is true,
in your mysterious
box of blue.

Doctor How_ can I write
about your exploits
without fright
of violating
Copyright
or Intellectual Property?
If I am sued
by BBC
I’ll want a time machine
just for me.

Please let me know what you think. I am a huge fan of an unnamed but extremely popular time traveling hero featured on British Television. And I’ll just leave it at that.

The Library

The thoughts and dreams of untold millions were embodied in the Library. For a millennium, a select few of Earth’s descendants amassed its vast collection from a thousand worlds and guarded it here on Mars. Ursula contemplated this irony while she watched the mob ascend the pure white steps to the platform.

She was accustomed to this world’s ignorance. As a product of human-neohuman genetics, she’d been exposed to more than her fair share. Despite this, she’d risen through the ranks to become High Priestess of the Library- Temple of Universal Knowledge.

She studied hard. A love of the written word had been bred into her, along with a body more suited to the red planet’s harsh atmosphere. However her mind was her own, and the more she learned the more she opposed Temple doctrine. Denying the intellectually inferior access to the Library’s voluminous database could not be justified. The logic was flawed, but even the High Priestess was bound by Temple rules.

Over the past decades the common man’s discontent with the status quo grew, his agitation boiled over into random acts of violence, and their neohuman rulers had fled to safer places. Ursula alone stayed behind. She should have left, but she meant to reason with the crowd- though she feared the time for reason had passed.

The steps were steep and long to the pyramid’s apex. As the colonists closed the gap between the priestess and themselves, their helmets shone brightly, illuminated from within- a glowing parade advancing toward the monument’s summit. They came to tear down the stronghold that had forced them into intellectual poverty. Neohumans were the enemy, and nothing she could say would convince them otherwise.

She still tried.

Her words were ready. She spoke of the vast wealth of the library, the collected works of the great minds of the past. She spoke of the written word’s power to uplift men and women, inspire even the most hardened, and preserve the thoughts and achievements of their predecessors.

Her words fell on deaf ears, as she knew they would. How else could it be when they’d never been permitted to see their value? The high priest caste had subjugated them for too long.

The suited colonists began their rampage, tearing down the columns at the Temple summit. With a heavy heart, she pressed the translucent jewel on her ring, activated the transport beam, and faded into the ether.

**
*

Okay, I’m looking for honest opinions here. Politeness is appreciated, but this felt a little wordy to me. I’ve edited this repeatedly, trimmed words, but the writing still doesn’t feel tight. I know I used some passive verbs; I was attempting a certain rhythm that I’m not sure I achieved.

The inspiration for this was from (I think) a Carl Sagan book I had read awhile ago. There was a story about the Library of Alexandria being destroyed and the death of one of the last librarians there. I tried to look it up, but I couldn’t find it. Lately, I’ve found myself thinking about it repeatedly; I couldn’t get it out of my head. So this story was born. Please tell me what you think, and constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. Thank you!