The "Man-Rules"

Pay Attention, Ladies ... (ha ha ha, hee hee)

[Contributed by my friend, Vietnam veteran, Allan Bopp, who posted it on Facebook]

We men always hear 'The Rules' from the female point of view. 

Now finally, here are The Rules from the male point of view. 

These are our rules. They are all numbered #1 on purpose and for a good reason. 

Do your best to remember them, please.

#1. Men are NOT mind readers.

#1. Learn to work the toilet seat. You're a big girl. If it's up, put it down. We need it up, you need it down. You don't hear us complaining when you leave it down.

#1. Crying is blackmail.

#1. Ask for what you want. Allow us to be clear on this one:

Subtle hints do not work
Strong hints do not work
Obvious hints do not work
Just say it!

#1. Yes and No are perfectly acceptable answers to almost every question a male has.

#1. Come to us with a problem, but only if you want help solving it. That's what we do. Sympathy is what your girlfriends are for.

#1. Anything we said six months ago is inadmissible in an argument. In fact, all comments become null and void after seven days.

#1. If you think you're fat, you probably are. Don't ask us whether you are fat.

#1. If something we said can be interpreted two ways and one of the ways makes you sad, or angry, we meant the other one

#1. You can either ask us to do something, or tell us how you want it done. Not both. If you already know the best way to do it, then just do it yourself.

#1. Whenever possible, please say whatever you have to say during commercials.

#1. Christopher Columbus did NOT need directions and neither do we.

#1. ALL men see in only sixteen colors, just like Windows default settings. Peach, for example, is a fruit, not a color. Pumpkin is also a fruit. We have no idea what mauve is.

#1. If we ask what is wrong and you say 'nothing,' we will act like nothing's wrong. We know you are not telling the truth, but it's just not worth the hassle.

#1. If you ask a question you don't want an answer to, expect an answer you don't want to hear.

#1. When we have to go somewhere together, absolutely anything you want to wear is fine. Really.

#1. Don't ask us what we're thinking about, unless you are prepared to discuss such topics as baseball, football, or motor sports.

#1. You have enough clothes.

#1. You have too many shoes.

#1. I AM in shape. Round IS definitely a shape.

#1. Thank you for reading this. Yes, I know, I have to sleep on the couch tonight. But did you know men really don't mind that? It's like camping to us.



***This is cute!  Thank you for sharing, Allan!


“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Why Do Writers ... Write?

A Writer ... Writing

No one is asking, let alone demanding, that you write. The world is not waiting with bated breath for your article. 

Whether or not you get a single word on paper, the sun will rise, the earth will spin, the universe will expand. Writing is forever and always a choice - your choice. ~Beth Mende Conny


That is an interesting quote by Ms. Conny, and it's so true.  Nothing in the world will change if I write, or don't write. Writing is a choice, but it's a most interesting choice.

I decided to ask a group of writers why they write.  What I found was that their reasons for writing were as varied as the number of writers I asked:

Some write because it's their job. That's what they're paid to do. 

Some write because it's a hobby and something they enjoy doing. 

Some write because it's a challenge, maybe through a writing community, or a teacher in school. 

Some write because they're in love and they want to express their innermost feelings. 

Some write because it's a driving compulsion, a mental lava flow, if you will.  [I'm assuming this is the category the prolific Steven King falls into]. 

And some write because they're uncomfortable with the words banging and clanging aimlessly inside. They have to write and get the words out. 

The one response that was universal was, the serious 'writers' write for the sheer love of writing.

It's a given that all writers want to be good.  But the dedicated writers, the real writers, want to be so unique, as to be able to write one thought, one idea, one poem, one story -- at least one thing -- in such a new and wonderful way that they'll be remembered for it, long after they're gone.

Like Anais Nin once said, (and I love it):

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say."

As for me, I write because I love writing. It doesn't matter whether I'm writing poetry for adults, children, short stories, essays, one of my blogs, or a love letter to Robert. I write because it's an addiction and a hobby.  I write to leave something of me behind; something that I hope is good; something so new, so unique and so different that my children's children's children will read it some day, smile, and then say,

"That was my grandmother -- she wrote that.  She sure was a character.  How I wish I could have known her ..."

Please tell me, why do YOU write?

Hugs from me to you,
CJ


“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Men and Phenomenal Woman: by Maya Angelou

Maya Angelou  1928 - 2014

MEN
by Maya Angelou

When I was young, I used to
Watch behind the curtains
As men walked up and down the street. Wino men, old men.
Young men sharp as mustard.
See them. Men are always
Going somewhere.
They knew I was there. Fifteen
Years old and starving for them.
Under my window, they would pauses,
Their shoulders high like the
Breasts of a young girl,
Jacket tails slapping over
Those behinds,
Men.

One day they hold you in the
Palms of their hands, gentle, as if you
Were the last raw egg in the world. Then
They tighten up. Just a little. The
First squeeze is nice. A quick hug.
Soft into your defenselessness. A little
More. The hurt begins. Wrench out a
Smile that slides around the fear. When the
Air disappears,
Your mind pops, exploding fiercely, briefly,
Like the head of a kitchen match. Shattered.
It is your juice
That runs down their legs. Staining their shoes.
When the earth rights itself again,
And taste tries to return to the tongue,
Your body has slammed shut. Forever.
No keys exist.

Then the window draws full upon
Your mind. There, just beyond
The sway of curtains, men walk.
Knowing something.
Going someplace.
But this time, I will simply
Stand and watch.

Maybe.

PHENOMENAL WOMAN

by Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms,
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It’s the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can’t touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them,
They say they still can’t see.
I say,
It’s in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Now you understand
Just why my head’s not bowed.
I don’t shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing,
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It’s in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need for my care.
’Cause I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.



“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Flash Fiction Horror: Terror on Hilltop Drive

by CJ Heck

Home alone, the sound of breaking glass wrenched Maggie from sleep. 

Waiting, listening, afraid to breathe, her heartbeats mingled with a wooden creak as someone climbed the stairs in the hallway.

Her door was open, she thought.  Oh my God!  The door was open!

Icy tendrils of fear prickled the nape of her neck, yanking the wisps of hair and standing them on end. 

Perspiration beaded her forehead and neck, the little runnels slipping down between her breasts, soaking the front of her nightgown. 

Suddenly a shot rang out in the darkness.  The bold flash was all at once blinding. Her ears were stunned to silence and a scream tore from her throat. 

She waited in the hushed gloom, her eyes again adjusting to the night. 

The smell of burnt gunpowder and blood filled the air and it was nauseating.

Afraid of the dark, but more afraid of turning on a light, she picked up the phone and dialed. 

“Nine-One-One. What is your emergency?”

“1010 Hilltop Drive. Help me!  I’ve just shot an intruder. Hurry!  Please hurry!”

Smoke clung to her like a shroud, its gray wisps still rising from the trembling .38 as Maggie crept through the doorway and into the hall to wait ...


[From the Book, "Bits and Pieces", by CJ Heck] 


“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Short Story: Billy and the Calf, by John A. Roof

Star the Calf

It was an unusually warm spring in Texas in the year of 1955. The pecan trees were blooming early and so were the spiderwarts and other wild flowers.

Our Father, Russell Roof, was busy in his shop building furniture for one of his customers. My brother, Bill, was with his friend, Troy, riding his new bicycle he had gotten for his birthday.

We lived in a small village called Staples, not far from San Marcos. The boys headed down the road towards the San Marcos River on FM1977. Here is where the story begins about my brother’s big adventure.

As Bill and Troy rode past the Swift Ranch, they looked at all the new calves in the pasture with their mothers. Bill spotted one small calf looking at him. He watched as it followed them closely with her eyes, and then out of the blue, the calf tore off from her mother at a full run right towards them.

As they continued down the road on their bikes, the calf followed them til she had to stop at the fence line. Bill and Troy rode on up to Mr. Swift’s barn to ask Rancher Swift about the calf.

He told them that she had been born during the night under a shooting star and she had a perfect white star on her face, so he named her Star. Rancher Swift told the boys that Star was different from the other calves. He had never seen a newborn calf stand so fast and she was so eager to run.

Every day after school, Bill and Troy rode their bikes by the pasture and Star would run to the fence and follow them. No matter how fast they rode their bikes, Star stayed right alongside them till the end of the pasture. Then Bill would come home and tell us about the strange calf named Star, and how she seemed to wait for them every day and come running.

One day, Bill and Troy approached the fence and gave Star a rub on her nose. She looked at them with her big brown eyes, turned herself in circles, then ran down the fence line and then back up again. She repeated this until Bill and Troy got on their bikes and rode on down the road towards home.

“Troy, don’t you think that was strange, how Star would run down the fence line, return, and then run down the fence line again?” Bill asked.

“Yeah, I know. I've never seen a calf do anything like that before.” answered Troy.

“I wonder if Star is trying to tell us something.” Bill said.

“I don’t know, Bill. Maybe."

The following day, they returned to the pasture. As they walked to the fence, Star again welcomed them. Then she repeated everything just like she had done the day before. That night at home, my brother was especially silent. At the dinner table, mom asked him if he was feeling okay.

“Yes I'm fine. I'm just thinking about Star and wondering why she's acting so funny.” he said.

Bill told us all about how Star would run to them, turn in circles, and then run down the fence line and how she repeated it over and over. He said she wouldn't stop till he and Troy got on their bikes and rode on down the road beside the fence.

“Dad, do you think Star is okay? Do you think something is wrong with her?” Asked Bill.

“I don’t know, son, but I do know this. We're all put here for a reason, man or animal, and I'm sure the Lord has a reason for Star to do what she does. You just need to find out what that is. That's your job.” His Dad answered.

The next day was Saturday and Bill and Troy spent the whole day sitting across from Star’s pasture and watching her. She would look at them, come over to the fence, turn in circles, and run and then come back. Time passed and after a while, Troy said, “Let's go I'm bored and hungry.”

As they walked over to their bikes, Bill noticed something. Star's ears perked up and she became very excited. As Bill approached her and leaned his bike against the fence, Star seemed very interested in it. She came right over, poked her head between the fence boards to nose and lick the bike.

“That’s it!” Bill yelled. “She wants to ride our bikes!”

“What?" Troy yelled back.

“I'm telling ya, she wants to ride our bikes! She wants to go faster than any cow has ever gone.” Bill explained.

“Okay, let’s say that's what she wants to do -- ride our bikes -- how do you get a calf on a bicycle?” asked Troy.

“I don’t know yet, but I do know that's what Star wants. We have to think of a way.” Said Bill.

For a few days after, Bill and Troy tried to think of a way to put Star on their bikes, when finally it came to them. Let’s make a trailer! We can pull it behind our bikes, just like you would behind a truck. Bill went to his father and asked if there was any old lumber he could have.

“What do you need wood for?” asked his Father.

“Troy and I are going to build a tree house in the woods by the river for the summer.” Bill fibbed.

“There's some old lumber in the back shed you can use.” said his father.

The next day, Troy and Bill began to build the trailer. They found a couple of old wheels in a shed on the Lowman’s popcorn farm and they asked if they could buy them. Mr. Lowman told the boys the wheels were from an old wagon his son had and they could just have them.

The plan was to be finished on Friday and take Star for a ride early Saturday morning. Friday night, Bill couldn't sit still. He kept asking if it was time to go to bed yet. He told his father to make sure he was up early so he and Troy could go work on the tree house.

Saturday morning, they went to the pasture and opened the gate. They found Star and put a halter on her and led her out of the pasture. Star’s mother was not too pleased and she raised quite a ruckus. The boys took Star to their bikes where the trailer was already attached and checked the ropes one more time. When star saw the bikes and the trailer, she immediately walked to the back and climbed into the trailer.

“Are you ready, Troy? Are you ready, Star?” asked Bill.

With that, they were off. Knowing Star was far heavier than what they were used to, they put their bikes on a little hill near the pasture. In the background, Star’s mother was still raising a ruckus and here was Star, mooing for joy as Bill and Troy were peddling.

The two bikes hauling the trailer began to move down the road. Rancher Swift heard all the noise and came running and what he saw was something that took his breath away. Before him were two boys on their bikes peddling as fast and as hard as they could down the road with a calf riding in a trailer behind them.

To this day, Rancher Swift tells everyone that Star, the calf, was yelling "Yipppppppeee!" all the way down the road.

When the ride was over, they saw a small crowd had gathered, including the boys' fathers. The boys saw that Star was returned to her mother, who calmed down immediately. Both Bill and Troy knew there was going to be heck to pay. They saw Rancher Swift and their fathers talking. They had taken a calf out of the pasture without permission.

Rancher Swift came over to the boys. He looked at them with a frown on his face -- but there was a smile in his eyes. Rancher Swift and their fathers had already decided that Bill and Troy were going to have to be punished. They would have to work for Rancher Swift all summer helping keep his barn clean -- and they would have to take Star for a ride every day.

That summer, people from miles around came every afternoon to watch the bike-riding calf. Rancher Swift never sold Star. She stayed in Staples TX and watched my brother and Troy ride up and down the road for many years.


About the Author

John and Betsy Roof

John Roof graduated from Texas Tech in December, 1973, with a BFA in studio painting.

Bill the Calf and the Ride Down the Road

The Walk: Short Stories of a Teenage Boy in the 60's

Visit John's Website

John and his wife, Betsy, live in their home amid  the wildflowers and fruit trees in Staples, Texas, where they are accomplished artists and photographers.  They also love to build and restore antique furniture together.

He's one of the nicest and most regular guys you'll ever want to meet.

John is fond of saying, he has found his garden ...


**Thanks, John!  Hugs to you both ~CJ

“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Flash Fiction Horror: "Half Past Five"

Peck's Corner

by CJ Heck

There’s a sewer drain in town on Peck's Corner.  At half past five every evening, the street lamp flickers on, near where gentlemen routinely take a leak after leaving the Raven's Wing Pub, after closing. 

It's been done for years.  No one even seems to notice, except for the smell of piss that assaults the nostrils when you step out onto the sidewalk. 

The smell immediately informs the brain, but only the vermin care -- and there were plenty of them out there, near the sewer drain in town on Peck's Corner.  I know.  I've been there.  That's where I saw the body.  

It was at half past five on Monday.  The chimes from the clock in the tower told me it was so, and when I called, that’s what I told the authorities. 

The body was posed, sitting.  The head was in his lap, resting between the legs which were all askew and bent at impossible angles.  

The arms hung down, elbows facing out. The hands were placed on top of the head, fingers entwined in the flaming red hair of the head -- the head that was in his lap. 

The body was sitting in a pool of its own blood, the mouth frozen in a scream that no one will ever hear.  But the eyes, the eyes ... I will never forget the eyes. The vermin had eaten both eyes. 

Will anyone ever know the horror they saw on Peck's Corner, just before half past five ...  


[From the Book, "Bits and Pieces", by CJ Heck]

“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

R.I.P. Common Sense

Common Sense

Obituary:

Today we mourn the passing of a beloved friend, Common Sense, who has been with us for many years.

No one knows for sure how old he was, since his birth records were long ago lost in bureaucratic red tape.

He will long be remembered for having cultivated such valuable lessons as:

Knowing when to come in out of the rain;
Why the early bird gets the worm;
Life isn't always fair;
And, maybe it was my fault.

Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policy, "Don't Spend More Than You Earn", and other reliable strategies, such as, "Adults, Not Children, Are In Charge".

His health began to deteriorate rapidly when well-intentioned, but overbearing, regulations were recently set in place:

• Reports of a 6-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate 
• Teens suspended from school for using mouthwash after lunch 
• A teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student

These, and others like them, only hastened to worsen his condition.

Common Sense lost ground when parents attacked teachers for doing the job that they, themselves, had failed to do in disciplining their unruly children.

Common Sense declined when schools were required to get parental consent to administer suntan lotion, or an aspirin, to a student.

Common Sense deteriorated further as the churches became businesses and criminals received better treatment than their victims.

But Common Sense took a real beating when we couldn't defend ourselves from a burglar in our own home and the burglar was allowed to sue us for assault.

Regrettably, Common Sense finally gave up his will to live, after a woman failed to realize that a steaming cup of coffee was hot. She spilled a little in her lap, and was promptly awarded a huge settlement.

Common Sense was preceded in death, by his parents, Truth and Trust, his wife, Discretion, by his daughter, Responsibility, and by his two sons, Logic and Reason.

He is survived by his five stepbrothers:

I Know My Rights
I Want It Now
Someone Else Is To Blame
I'm A Victim Here
Pay Me For Doing Nothing.

Not many attended his funeral.  It is believed to be because so few realized he had expired.

Some people, like me, are demanding a Public Inquiry into his death. Did he simply die of despair, as the coroner announced yesterday, or, (as I personally suspect), was he murdered by General Apathy? The early arrest of any suspects by police is not anticipated.

It is times like this I wish I believed in reincarnation.

Sincerely,
John Q. Public

[Author Unknown]


“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Child-Speak: Made Up Words of Childhood

Bethany, Heather, Carrie

I miss the days when my three daughters were little.  Now they're grown and raising my eleven grandchildren.

One thing I used to love is how they made up words for things they didn't know the real name for. I always called it, "child-speak".

I remember once overhearing a conversation between Carrie, the oldest, and Heather, the youngest. They were watching TV together on the couch.

Carrie asked Heather if she would tickle her back for awhile. Heather said she would, IF she could borrow a clo from Carrie.

Carrie seemed all right with that. She knew just what Heather was asking, because she said, "Okay".

Whatever a "clo" was, they had made an equally beneficial barter and both girls were satisfied. The more I thought about it, the more curious I became, until finally, I had to ask, "Girls? What's a clo?"

Carrie matter of factly stated, "A clo is a clo, mom. You can have a lot of clothes, but just ONE of them is a clo."

(Hmmm ... how stupid of me).

Noo-Noo

Here's another example of child-speak. Sesame Street had an animated typewriter guy on the word segment of the show.

He had this cute little song-sound that he made when he wheeled to the left or right across the TV screen, "Noo-Nee Noo-Noo", or something similar to that.

But I digress … in the following scenario, I hadn't seen him yet.

We were all in the car headed to the library and a tiny foreign car pulled up beside us at a red light. One of the girls pointed to it and yelled out, "Hey look!  Look!  A Noo-Noo car!" 

The other two understood perfectly and they were excited. As I said, I had never seen the little typewriter guy on Sesame Street, so again I had to ask ...

What follows is yet one more child-speak word, an invention of three little girls who had to play inside on a rainy Saturday afternoon.  

I found them in the bathroom mixing a bowl of ... something kinda-sorta green.  When I asked what it was, they all proudly replied, "Hey Mommy, we invented Permagosh!" 

Inventing Permagosh

"Permagosh"

From "Barking Spiders 2" (the sequel)

Mommy's on the couch.
Daddy's in his chair.
I'm in a corner on a stool ...
yeah, they put me here

'cause I did somethin' naughty
that I'm not supposed to do.
I invented Permagosh
mixing things with their shampoo.

First a real long worm of toothpaste,
then a cloud of shaving cream,
then two glugs of mouthwash
('cause I love the color green).

I stirred it in a mixing bowl.
Boy it smelled real good!
It was even looking better
than I ever thought it would!

Could it be a cure for cancer?
Take the itch from skeeter bites?
Or maybe, heal a sunburn
when it hurts to sleep at night? 

Two shakes of baby powder
made it WAY too hard to stir,
so I added Mommy's perfume.
Permagosh smelled just like her!

Eww ... then the bowl tipped over.
Permagosh was on the floor
and when I turned around,
my mom was by the door.

Now mommy's on the couch.
Daddy's in his chair.
I'm in a corner on a stool ...
yeah, they put me here.


Enjoy your Sunday, my friends.
~Hugs, CJ


“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck