The Final Draft

The Normal People

Monique Munro



The hallway of the hotel narrows at the west corner of the lobby, guiding guests into a spacious sitting room. Carefully arranged wax flowers surrounded by various women’s magazines lay upon wood tables centered between two large sofa couches that line the peach pink walls. The design mirrors itself on both sides and rounds into a dimly lit washroom just outside the tiled room of mahogany stalls.
The pasty tile filing darkens into a thick red that traces back into the pool of blood that surrounds the saturated dirty blond hair. Her body, draped in black and expensive pearls, lies sprawled beneath the crystal counter and glass sink bowls. Her face stares into the stark white ceiling as the blood continues to run down her face.

* * *

The Family Man

My son plays basketball; the CYO sponsors no cut A and B teams through his middle school. He isn’t very good and rarely sees playing time. I sit and read the Sunday news paper during most of his games, let my mind wander.
Fourth quarter is when his ass-hole coach trades him in. My nine-year-old daughter cheers from the bleachers next to me. “Yay Carter. Go Carter!” They won’t pass him the ball though.
Cyclones win 37 to 13, a complete shut out at the sixth grade level. My son babbles on about the highlights as I hand him a jacket he refuses to put on. “Can we go get pizza?” Carter pleads, even though he knows every Sunday his mother makes fish for dinner.
I don’t respond.
The car ride home was eventfully mind numbing. Carter played his Game Boy on full volume while Kaylee enjoyed the 17th replay of her favorite Recess episode, both ignoring each other. However, I could not ignore the hammer bludgeoning the back of my skull brought on by the excessive noise.
My very first objective once I reached home was to pop as many painkillers as the warning label would allow. I chased the little blue pills with a glass of milk from the table as we sat down to dinner.
The kitchen was warm from the oven. The counter tops were spotless, the sink was cleared and the dishwasher had been emptied despite the mess dinner preparations caused.
The table easily sat six though there were only four present. With heads bowed surrounding their beautifully arranged food it was a picture perfect moment straight from a “Christian Home” magazine.
“Dear God, thank you for our food …”
“The win against St. Pius”, Carter chimed in.
“And please bless this day and all to come.”
Directly across from me sat my wife, her sapphire eyes sparkled in the dull light. “Church this afternoon was eventful”, Annabel suggested, between mouthfuls of rice.
“The breaded halibut is excellent”, I complimented.
“You three left in such a hurry to make the game”, she continued. “You missed her miraculous recovery. Turns out it was just an anxiety attack; now the real question is, from what? She did put on quite the performance for those of us who stayed”
“Mrs. Banster will do anything for attention.”
“That may be so, but Mrs. Keptspher swears she saw Mr. Banster’s ghostly figure pass through into the light as the anxiety attack began”, Annabel insisted.
“I’m sure she did.”
“What time is your flight tomorrow, by the way?”
“Plane takes off at nine-forty.”
“Have you considered what we talked about? Acquiring a permanent job here in Tucson. I know the money is good but I think it’s better for the family if you didn’t have to commute every couple weeks back to Oregon.”
I wish she would stop pestering me about this. There was no way I would be able to transfer permanently without her discovering the truth. It would break her heart. A heart I accidently grew too fond of, so I lied.
“You know I can’t just ask them to place me in the state of my preference. I could lose my position for good. There are plenty of people who would love to have my job.”
“Yes I know, but if the subject ever come up…”
“I’ll be sure to mention it.”
“Good. Have you finished packing?”
“Of course dear. And the cab will be here in ‘bout an hour.”
“Cab? I can drive you. We will drive you.”
“Don’t worry yourself honey, the cab is already booked. And you have all these dishes to do. No use in sending the children to bed on account of me.” I hated to argue. Anne nodded her head in agreement.
The cab arrived on time, and we said our family good-byes.
Sometimes I wished I had been friendly to the neighbors. At times like these, commuting back and forth like this, I could use an extra pair of eyes. Someone who keeps an eye on the Weston’s while I was away. But I gave up that chance when I snubbed all the neighborly folks along the first three streets surrounding our patch of suburbia. It’s probably better this way.
“To the airport then?” asked the cab driver in a fading British accent as I climbed into the molded back seat.
“Yes, thank you”.

Airports, Gossip, and Too Much Makeup

Check in was not as eventful as the last trip. There was screaming last time, words were exchanged, and both the honeymooner husband and the baggage scale girl, I have no idea what the correct terminology would be, looked as if they were about to get it on, old school, WWF style. However, late evening flights usually fail to produce any entertaining wrangles.
Three and half-hours later, I spotted the bright runway lights of PDX glow through my passenger window. The plane will land with plenty of turbulence, and those who were not paying attention will begin to faintly panic, and in even more of a hurry to get off the plane once it lands, people have no mercy.
Carla and Liza are waiting for me at the gate when I finally emerge. If it wasn’t for the moving walkways it might have taken longer to fight my way through the masses.
“Honey, oh my, don’t you look like a mess. We should get you cleaned up, and just as a side note, we have brunch tomorrow at ten. You probably want your rest, so you should shower tonight. I have laid out some clothes for you…”
Carla always wore too much makeup. She wasn’t clownish, it was just too much. her sixteen year old daughter, from her first marriage, lagged behind, texting. She only spent breaks and a few weeks during the summer with us now.
In comparison to her mother there wasn’t much of a difference, though, Liza preferred the natural look Which meant the same amount of makeup, but it took more work to make it look like she wasn’t wearing any, this is why she always spent so much time in the bathroom. So the late night infomercials have displayed in detail.
“Do you remember the Jacksons dear? Well you should, they ask about you at the club. Carla rambled on. “I do hate that you have to split your time between the companies. It always makes for awkward conversations. ‘Where’s your Mr. Webb Carla? Where has Sam run off too?’ Always the same questions and I always have to give the same answers. I do wish…..”
I do wish she would stop wishing. I wish she would just stop talking. What I wouldn’t give to shut her up.
Grab hold of her hair, yank her head back and watch the blood gurgle down her dress as I slit her throat.
“Sam? Sam why are you looking at me like that?”
We were in the elevator heading towards baggage claim. My head was tilted to the side and I must have had the most peculiar look on my face as I was staring at her mother’s pearls. She was staring back at me in disgust.
“Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve been saying?”
“Of course dear. What did you have layed out for me? I thought I might play some gulf with the guys after brunch.”
“That would be wonderful, as I was saying the Jacksons, Tim, has been asking after you. I suppose the clothes I’ve laid out wouldn’t be appropriate. I’ll find something else.”
I hate golf, I don’t really understand it. But my co-workers enjoy games every other Sunday. And normal is whatever the majority decides.

Monday Mornings

Life was simple during the week. I spent all day at a desk pushing papers around, only doing the minimum, but trying to look busy. They have been downsizing the company. I wouldn’t want to seem as if I had too much time on my hands.
It was while I was actually getting some work done when I was summoned to the chambers of the company’s higher power. I proceeded to the elevator and up to the 22nd floor.
Office hierarchy is a beautiful thing. A system fueled by fear; fear of losing everything because of one little professional or personal mistake. The system lords, (The Board), and their minion, (CEO), playing god; deciding the fate of their kingdom and its people.
The ride up seemed longer in my haste. As the doors clunked open, I noticed the hallway was an exceptional length. I wasn’t expecting such a large drawn out entryway for just one person. The nameplate next to the door read, Carlyle O’Flanagin.
“Do you have an appointment?” Asked the small hazel-eyed women sitting at the previously invisible desk.
“Yes, I was, uh, sent for.”
“Ah yes, Samuel J. Webber. Please go in, he’s expecting you.”
I pushed through the heavy gates that separated us from our ruler. He was sitting at his desk, several of his guards, (lawyers), at either side of him. Their stuffy suits slowly strangling away the sanity, as their beady eyes stared me down.
“Please have seat. I want to talk to you about your position with us. As you know we are downsizing a bit here at the branch in Oregon.” There was a slight pause.
I was reasonably calm for someone who was about to be fired.
“You have been a valuable asset to us, Though we know you enjoy traveling…”
That was a lie.
“We thought, maybe we could save you the commute. Maybe, Arizona could be a permanent place for you.”
“You’re not going to fire me?” That I could handel, Carla would leave me on her own, no hassle. Liza had no permanent attachment to me. And I could go back to Anne; no harm done.
“Of course not, we can’t afford to lose someone like you, at a time like this. It is much warmer there. I’m sure your lovely wife and daughter wouldn’t mind the move.”
It’s not the move they would mind.
“We’re trying to actually fire as little of our staff as possible. Why don’t you take time to think it over during the next few weeks.”
While shaking his hand I managed a shaky, “Yes, sir. Thank you sir.”
But all the while I was in a daze. Panic began to rise in the pit of my stomach. My heart began to beat uncontrollably. What was I going to do about this. I had had no choice before. My sweaty palms could barley grasp the knob as I tried to escape the suffocation. My mouth slowly filled with vomit as I sped down the hall into the elevator and hurled as the doors closed just in time.
Uneventful Existence
Mr. Carlyle O’Flanagin is awaiting my acceptance to his offer. Of course, he knows I will accept. I don’t really have a choice in the matter, that is, if I want to maintain my steady income.
The last two weeks were a blur. The most enjoyable things in life eluded me. I was unable to turn the corner in the office without fearing the appearance from Carlyle. The news was mocking me. I could not enjoy my coffee, the best part of my day. My food turned to slop, and all the while Carla paraded herself around like a prize sheep.
I grew more and more bitter towards her existence as the days passed. It seems the question was easy to the answer, the choice not hard to make. However, Carla would be difficult to dispose of. Divorce was not an option; Annabel can never know. Simply asking her to go away would result in a lawsuit, she would never settle. A way out just didn’t seem realistic.
Eventually, I accepted the transfer. It would take several months to pack up and get everything in order. But there would be no packing. The Carla problem still needed to be dealt with.

The Vision

Carla scraped at the blurry blob, her legs flailing as she stared into the eyes of the man who once again tightened phone cord around her neck. Her oxygen-deprived body gave up and her chest gave one last gilt before her eyes rolled back into her skull.
The room was quiet, except for the rain, as he hog-tied the body and wrapped her and a ten-pound weight in a clear tarp. She didn’t slide easily off the bed, he thought, as her heard a crack from inside the tarp. Sam began to rethink his decision to add the weight before he got to the drop site as he dragged her out the door and watched as she and the weight left heavy impression in the muddy grass.
Sam hauled her into the truck and locked both the bed and the cab door, then took off on the highway toward the countryside. Eventually he came to a small town, the truck bounced down a dirt road to a small lake surrounded by several summer homes and few year round folk. Early morning rain still pouring, Sam smashed the lock off the Park and Rec. pool shed and dragged the green canoe from its resting place and loaded his cargo. Reaching the middle of the giant pond Sam slowly lowers the body into the water and watched it sink into the darkness.

Murder 101

I began taking notes immediately. Female murders became an instant favorite along with additional crime dramas and cold case series. I studied long and I studied hard, I had always been a good student.
Views from the killer’s perspective became just as important as views from those on the outside. I needed to know my prey, my nosy bystanders, as well as my hunters. Carla’s death could not lead back to me.
I drew true inspiration from women who freed themselves from abusive, cheating husbands, ‘till death do them part’. Carla had been running to motels, hotels, the back of Timothy Jackson’s Mercedes, for almost a year now. One of their outings would be perfect for staging a “hit”. Timothy had a jealous wife. Who would probably be plotting something of her own, everyone knew by now. However, normal people only plot; they never act out their desires.
Carla’s death would need to look like an act of passion, her murder would be blamed on Mrs. Jackson, and it will all just be an unfortunate coincidence.
Answered Prayers
I was watching a woman who had slaughtered her children for no plausible reason be sentenced to death in the state of Texas when I received the unfortunate news. The pounding at the door was almost alarming. You would think officers bearing news of a departed spouse would be a little more polite and gentle.
My eyes were damp with tears as my tormented soul struggled to conceal its joy. The fear of Anne discovering the truth, the fear that had been eating away at my sanity was now a distant nightmare.
I could tell they suspected me, their non-sympathetic expression judging my every movement and response to their probing questions. Brief as our conversation may have been, I did learn that the Portland Police Department currently had no suspects.

Snow Globe

Scarlett found the gift, wrapped in purple tissue paper, hidden in the garage next to his toolbox. She had suspected infidelity, but never this, not affection. Sex is one thing, its just sex.
Nevertheless, there it was, plain as day, with a sticker reading: From Your Love. A single tear fell around her cheek and to the edge of her chin as she slowly untied the white ribbon.
The glass dome held two figurines balancing themselves on ice as snowflakes fell. It was the Park Avenue Princess leaning in for a kiss from her Park Avenue Prince.
What tormented her most was the fact that everyone knew it was Carla Webb who collected the snow globes. He wasn’t trying to hide it anymore.

* * *

She watched them for several minutes from behind the lobby pillar, clutching her stolen gift towards her heart as they laughed and shared glances from across the restaurant table. Holding back tears Scarlett pushed past several guests and into the restrooms locking herself in the stall.
After 20 minutes of masked sobs scarlet slugged out from behind the stall, she would confront them tonight she insisted to herself as she rounded the corner. She would march straight up to their table and…
Carla was applying a new coat of lipstick in front of the panel lit mirror. Her elegant black dress revealed a little too much cleavage draped in pearls, which she was obviously trying to draw attention too. Carla did not notice her at first.
Scarlett continued to stare, baffled at the calm in Carla’s movements. She was clearly standing in plain sight. Carla had seen her, she thought, and taken no notice, no pity. They had been friends for a while now, and this is how she is treated.
Carla recognized the reflection, as Scarlett stood motionless behind her. There was no emotion in her expression, a blank canvas. She had stopped viewing the world in its reality, and started seeing it, seeing Carla, for what she was. A dream she could not wake up from, a roadblock keeping her from her husband, an incident she needed to erase.
“Scarlett!” Carla breathed in surprise as she quickly turned. But, she was too late.
The dome of the snow globe beat into her head with incredible force. Carla grabbed the counter for support, clutching her throbbing skull. She could feel the indent in her temple, her vision strained to see the blood the stained her fingers. Carla staggered forward as Scarlett struck her once again. The glass dome shattered to pieces as Carla fell to the ground and rolled under the counter.

Dear Love:

The way I love you makes my heart ache. Morning always smells delicious when you’re around. I cannot live without you, I ache when you’re gone, when you’re not around. My head feels heavy and I mourn your absence. I would do anything for you. I love you, I love the way you taste, the way you kick start my day.
But I can’t take the abuse any longer. I can’t take the physical pain. I can’t do this anymore, the addiction is getting to me. The expensive demands and the headaches that come when I can no longer afford you are too much. I think we need to see other people. I’m sorry to do this to you, I really am, but I think I would be better off with orange juice. I love you coffee, I always will, but orange juice treats me better. There are other caffeine addicts out there, younger even, you’ll be fine.
Love M

Worst day at Work

The store was a mess. People kept coming into the store but no one bought anything. Shoes were scattered, shoved into boxes they where they clearly did not belong. I was pushing the ladder, rounding the corner to size seven and a half when I heard her cries for help.
“Help me. Help me…. Heelllp meee.” I was confused at first. They weren’t cries for help really, more a whiney act of desperation; or more likely, laziness.
As I peaked my head around the corner, I noticed that no one seemed to be looking for help. Just a few people pulling the shoes from their boxes and then putting them back improperly. As I returned to my work I heard it again.
“Help meeeeeee”, this time in a slightly annoyed tone. I shuffled around the corner once more and stared at this women browsing the size tens.
“Heeellllppp, meeeeee.” I stared in horror as she casually yelled for “help”, for me, while happily looking for the right heals. All she had to do was walk to steps around to the next isle to ask me politely. Not only that but, I had been in her isle not 2 seconds before her cries.
I approached with caution. “Are you finding everything alright today?”
“There you are!” she exclaimed. I’ve been searching this store for you everywhere.”
“What can I help you with?”
“See this shoe”, she shoves it in my face. “it’s been worn, I need a shoe that hasn’t been worn.”
“I’m afraid that is the only one left in a size 10. They sold out quickly this year. I can assure that the residue on the bottom of the shoe is just lint from the rug. That’s what happens people try the shoes on.”
She took a step back, the baffled look her face slowly phased into a glare. “Oh my Lord”, she cackles, “what kind of shoe store is this?”
The words for a reply eluded me. Thank goodness, she never gave me enough time to come up with one. She set the shoes down on the counter and headed for the exit, violently tearing through the isle.

However, even though she was so disgusted with the shoe. I still see her in the browsing the isle ever three weeks. Every now and then, she still yells for help without even looking up.

Jacks Version of the story

Sitting her stuck at a foreign countries naval base is not a good way to spend a vacation. Its gonna take at least 3 days for the money to reach us, and that’s if they ever let us use the phone. Jill glares at me from the other side of the deck. Acting like it was all my fault.
“I would have never agreed to that race if I were the one in control.” She had rambled on and on in a tantrum like manor all the way from the ship. She didn’t care that they were all laughing at me, at her, at us for being stupid enough to get caught. She didn’t even notice when one of the guys pulled out a camera phone and started taken pictures, or filming the thing, or whatever he was doing.
The fine for jet skiing to close to the cruise ship is about 500 dollars. Not to mention the additional payment of repairs to the flooded jet ski. I keep asking them if or when I’ll be able to call someone, or we’ll be able to leave. But they keep speaking to me in Spanish, thinking I’m able to understand them. Every time I tell them I have no idea what they’re saying they look at each other, dramatically throw back their heads and laugh.
Another flash goes off followed by an uproar of howls. The one holding the camera hunches over in snorting in between gasps and giggles.
After about 6 hours I was finally given the go ahead to call my sister and have her express air male me about one thousand dollars.
“I told you, no questions. It’s not like I’m asking you to give me one thousand dollars. I’m just giving you permission to withdraw from my account and send it to me.
It’s not illegal. Can you just send me the money?
I got picked up the Mexican Navy Jill and I were Jet Skiing. And there was this other couple. They kept running circles around us, they wanted to race. So I we raced from one booie to the other. And I would have had him too, if it weren’t for that god damn Banana Boat.
The little yellow floaters shaped like bananas attached an over sized Jet Ski. They created an artificial wave and I hit it too fast and nosedived straight down.”
I could hear her snickering on the other line, followed by muffled snorts and a deranged giggle, almost an exact imitation of woody the woody the woodpecker.
“After the Jet ski flipped over it filled with water and we floated over towards the cruise ship, where we were thrown a life preserver by a Mexican navel ship. I told Jill not to grab for it, that someone else from the rental tent would come out to get us. But she didn’t listen. And now we are stuck here until we can pay them.”
Like I had predicted it would take three days to get the money. Untill then we were given the tile floor to sleep on with throw pillows from the couch. Jill and I haven’t spoken to each other since then.

Where I am from

I am from the rain,
the wet sand and the sound of the ocean.
I am from cream with essence of coffee,
butter croissants and bacon.
All nighters and football games.
I am from green plants and camp fires,
wandering walks and Peggy sue.
I am from the smell of morning and long runs,
chocolate chip cookies and laughter.
I am from daydreamers and fallen leaves,
and the comforts of imagination.

Scary psycho Valentine

“Honey!” Jane yells from the so-called bedroom of their studio. “Can you turn that down, turn it off. Just make it stop!” The music and human voices, human sounds travel through Jane’s pillow as she tries to suffocate her eardrums. What seems like five minutes passes, it has only been 45 seconds.
“Alex? Honey?” No response. She crawls out of bed and sluggishly shuffles her feet across the span of the apartment to where the dreadful, whatever, is perched in front of the laptop. “can’t you use head phones or…” her voice changes pitch as it trails off when she realizes what her eyes are watching.
“PORN, You’re watching porn?
“uhhhh…” Her messy haired scruffy chinned Husband, now officially demoted boyfriend, managed to gurgle out right before he hit the escape button. “It’s not what you think.”
“Really, then what is it?”
“Ok, so it is what you think. But what do you expect, it Valentine’s Day and I got all hyped up and your too tired.”
“You are unbelievable. You can’t even use heard phones. I have a career making presentation with a substantial client in 6 hours and all you can think of is the loudest way to get rid of your boner.”
“If you weren’t so selfish, always on your terms, where you want it, only if you’re too stressed and don’t have time to work out.”
“Oh, so your gonna start with that crap again. Little mister, I can’t get it up with all this pressure.”
“So you’re looking to go down that road, miss cum fountain.”
“NO, I just want you to shut up so I can get some sleep. Maybe if you didn’t have to leech of me we could afford a larger apartment, one with ROOMS!”
“You asked me to move in with you! You knew I was in-between jobs at the time you…”
“That was almost a year ago! And here you are, still sitting on your ass in front of your computer.” Gasps, “is what you do all day watch porn? That’s it... either you find a job or move out, end of story.” Jane proceeds to stomp back to her bed in anger but Alex violently gabs her arm pulls her back towards him.
“Don’t you walk away”, he spits, his faces inches from hers.
“Don’t touch me you ungrateful mooch, go back to the pitiful life I found in. “
“Look her doll this is the last time I am going to put up with you treating me like this, you spoiled daddy’s girl. You would have never gotten to where you are today if it wasn’t for his death, even the board members know that. He just died before he could take you out of his will. If you think for second I am gonna let you…” A cracking thud interrupts his rant. His body slumps to floor as the blood oozes in a round pool around the circumference of his head that stretches out towards Jane’s feet. In her right had she holds the neck of the grey study lamp that used to sit mouse side of his Toshiba. Her dark green eyes glazed over in fear, changing to disgust, and morphing into delightful acceptance.
“No one has seen him in months, no close friends. His family only sees him during the holidays, if he shows. Dump the body, report a missing person, collect the insurance money. A little messy and unplanned compared to my father’s undoing, but satisfactory in the long run.” She gazing down at the lifeless body and coos, “Oh my love, why did you have to go and ruin everything?”

Perfect Place

My perfect place is probably a home away from home for many. A cliché most would say. However, no matter how “original” it may be, a perfect day at the beach can be beat by nothing.
Early morning, a light breeze strengthens the sound of the ocean as the wave’s crash upon each other. Not a sole within spitting distance, nor am I able to hear their voices carry to where I lie. I enjoy the restrained rays from subtle cloud cover, giving my already sun kissed cheeks a break from direct contact. The beads of water from this morning’s swim slowly dry, while my soaked curls lighten to an auburn hue. Back ground music softly tugs at my imagination while I drift off to sleep sprawled in the sand.

Miss Lemon

Two am, it looks cold outside, probably is. She lay awake, her round blue eyes staring at the barley visible shadows on the ceiling. She could picture his soft hazel eyes and dirty blond hair. It has been nearly two years since she had spoken to her brother.
They were, are, inseparable, though continents apart. Irish twins are what they’re called, born one year apart, to the day.
She violently thrashes the bed covers to the side and slides to the edge of the mattress horror-stricken. Her toes dangle just above the hardwood and she realizes she cannot remember his face. She can imagine the indistinguishable curls and those familiar eyes, but not his face.
The hall mantelpiece to the left and down the stairs, right behind the front door, next to the kitchen contained what she needed. The bottom cabinets contained albums, some untouched since the day they were purchased.
Those that had split backbones, or were worn at the edges she handled with care. The rest she let fall from her arms and onto the table with a light thud. Carefully she opened the one closest to the kitchen chair she sat in. Delicately she flipped through the pages, stopping to gaze momentarily at the child like versions of herself and her siblings. Moving from album to album, she continued to browse through every album. Gazing upon former adaptations of her brother, struggling to visualize what he might look like now, how the war might have changed him.

A subtle knock at the front door, Mrs. Lemon answered. She had been awake for some time now. The sun streamed in through the kitchen window and bounced off the golden highlights draped over her daughter sleeping face.
Mrs. Lemon had no knowledge as to how long Stacey had been awake, nor, of what time she had finally laid her head to rest atop snap shots of childhood memories. It did not matter, she had watched her sleep while silently brewing coffee, mixing pancake batter and pre-heating the stove.
Mrs. Lemon spoke in a hushed tone to the government-suited man as she accepted the letter he handed over. Stepping back into the kitchen she unfolded the creased parchment and began to read.
Stacey did not understand the high-pitched gurgling shout, followed by weight meeting the tiled linoleum at an unexpected speed that woke her. She maneuvered her heavy head to see her mother collapsed on the floor in sobs. Crouching next to her mother, Stacey slide the letter from her fingertips and began to read.

Days had past, maybe longer. Stacey sat straight at her desk, stationary ready, pen in hand.
What was there to say, thank you? Thank you for being in that horrid place, for being there for him. There when he died, when I was unable, I wish I could have been there when… No, that would be a lie.
Thank you I know how you feel. No, I do not. I felt the same way about him… of course I did! That would be insulting.
He wrote to inform me that in his death, wherever he was, others loved him. When those who loved him could not, that he was not alone. He would not look me up, it would be too much of a reminder, and he was just being polite. I would have done the same.

Comment Post

http://maggiesmarvelousmayhem.blogspot.com/2009/01/letter-to-my-friends.html

I responded to Maggie's letter because she mentioned she used to be theatre kid. I too was a theatre child for a long time so I choose to look at her letter. She mentioned that it was a little intimidating working around all these people who seem to have been writing all their lives, and I agree. I don't write often for myself and rarely feel I would be able to to put out a whole novel like I plan on attempting to someday. I also thought I might want to try journalism, but decided maybe writing for a magazine would be fun.

Bigfoot Lives

It is common knowledge to those that know her best that Monique Munro is an odd commodity of the people found in her inner circle. Her values and disposition have never been altered to suit a situation, but rather, she has had the same base group friends since 1997.
Born in the streets of suburbia, in Portland, Oregon, much of this young woman’s quirky behavior is the result of having suffered the transition from public education to a private high school. In which many skills and traits of her character were developed.
Standing at five feet five inches, she is nothing short of a clumsy giant fumbling through life’s everyday tasks. Do to the bulk of her, freakishly large, size eleven feet there has never been a single painted line of her paved neighborhood roads that has not caused her to stumble and fall to the ground.
Her curly, dark brown hair hangs just over the edge of her shoulders. However, these glossy ringlets are consistently abused, flat ironed, and strangled into a messy bun; despite the protests of horrified witnesses.
To the surprise of many of her Payless customers, Monique is unfamiliar with Spanish. And on a daily basis must fight with local strangers to prove she is not Hispanic. Unfortunately, the only defense she has is, “this is what I was told by my parents”, and most don’t buy it.
She is often described as a loyal and ambitious individual driven by chaos, whose abilities feed off pressure and procrastination. Her compassionate nature is shown not only towards others but expressed toward all creatures.
She is always hiking, enjoying the sights, sounds, and smells of nature. In her youth, she took it upon herself to band together local neighborhood kids dubbed the, “Bug Savers”. Saving poor innocent potato bugs from death by mud puddle in order to subject them to, death by hot water. However, not one insect was ever been harmed outside the comforts of her own home. She respects their environment as she expects them to respect hers, as insect free. Any violators are quickly put to death.
Never a tedious moment experienced in her presence; her infectious laughter, resembling that of a trembling hyena, is more than enough to send the room into an uproar. Her animated personality and enthusiastic need to share, the summarized truths of day to day situations continue to strengthen her exaggeration skills.
Her ritualistic routine is set into motion on a daily biases, but rarely followed. Her inconsistency is constant and can always be counted on. Never achieving what she planed, she has found that planning nothing is the best way to meet deadlines. Claiming, she adopted the “Just Do It”, attitude.
When misfortune beckons, she greets the cloaked figure with a sense of adventure. The evidence: with having murdered thirteen cell phones in the short period of four years; as well as the incident of sleep deprivation taking effect on the last bus of the day in an unknown town, only to wind up on the other side of the city, with no other option but to call a cab. She also has the unfortunate habit of needless gibber. Never experiencing a dull day, each escapade is an additional chapter in the chronicles of Monique.

Letter to My Friends

There are some things you should know about my writing abilities. First of all, I love to tell stories, about my day, or about inanimate objects and the reasons as to why they give me trouble. I create mini character analysis’s about things and people I see walking around me. I believe everything and everyone has a story, and since I don’t know theirs, or don’t have time to ask, I create one for them, almost subconsciously.
I love to read as well, I insert myself into books as back ground characters and add extra scenarios, behind the scenes situations that answer my questions until they are explained. I don’t want to say that I rewrite anything because I would never want to do that to the books I love, but I do make them my own. I used to read a lot of Roald Doll, and my favorite book when I was younger was The Phantom Tollbooth. Now I am more into Science Fiction and Fantasy, as well as Jane Austen and Stephen King. Unfortunately, I seldom am able to find the time read.
One very important aspect of my writing you should know is that I cannot spell. Though I have tried everything, my only hope is spell check. My teachers used to think I had a learning disability, but the evidence didn’t match up. Even though I was in an after school special ED. Spelling class in the fifth grade, I was considered to be at an eighth grade reading level as well. With this unfortunate defect, I will not be able to correct most of anyone’s spelling errors. However, with the help of spell check, my dream of being able to have career involving writing is still just as possible.
My curiosity towards writing came from my experience as a theatre child, always creating ways to bring a story to life. As well as my love for movies, especially the novel renditions. I first decided I was interested in writing after reading Shades Children, a Science Fiction novel by Garth Nix. I wanted to be able to tell a story that be as captivating to others, as Shades Children was for me. I also thought the novel had the potential to become a great movie. I then thought to myself, if I don’t write the screen play, who will. At last, my mission in life was born, and here I am.

Sincerly,

Monique Munro

List For Living

Babble
Contemplative
Enthralled
Matriculate
Inauguration
Infuse
Fermented
Gallant
Saunter
Impervious
Luminous
Eccentric
Fastidious
Communicable
Implacable
Frivolous
Impugned
Fermented
Infuse
Acquiescent