Blog Anniversary Q&A Answers

    

   Well, it's been just over a week, so I'll go ahead and answer the questions from the Q&A. Some of these are really fun! Some are similar, too, so I'll combine them.

What made you/inspired you to start a blog?

Well, it sounded fun, for one. Also, I was reading some other blogs at that point and thought, "Why not me?" Plus it's a fun way to get my thoughts/reviews out there.

What's your favorite thing about having a blog?

Probably being in the blogosphere. It has enabled me to make friends, meet famous(ish) authors, and participate in blog events (like book releases and Christmas blog parties). 

What is your favorite blog post/series of related posts that you've done?

Oooh. That would probably be the Ten Days of Christmas series I did. Such fun, and a privilege to do it with other bloggers, including the host of Five Fall Favorites (Rebekah Morris)! My favorite out of that series was definitely the one about Scripture. It was probably the longest post I've ever written on this blog. 

What is the biggest thing having a blog has taught you?

Hmm. Well, I would have to say that it has taught me that sometimes God can use little things (like my posts) to bless/encourage others. And that knowledge in and of itself is a real encouragement!

How many siblings do you have?

Ten, besides myself. Eleven kids total. And guess who's the middle child? *raises my hand*

Have you finished writing Going Ballistic yet?

Sadly, I have not. I hit the dreaded writer's slump a while back, and lost a lot of my enthusiasm for it. But never fear! These slumps are only temporary, and I plan to finish it someday. In fact, I went back and worked on it a bit more a little while ago. And I'm pleased with how it's turning out so far. So rest assured, I haven't abandoned it! The progress is just limping right now. It shouldn't be too long before it recovers and is up and running again (I hope)!

Can you listen to music when you write? Do you like to?

Okay. I do like to listen to music when I write. But I usually don't. Simply because I tend to just get to writing before I even get my music. However, sometimes I will remember, and when I do, I usually listen to instrumental. I like songs with words, but they distract me when I'm writing. Then my brain is trying to focus on the song's words and the story's words at the same time. So I usually go with instrumental (*ahem* often Piano Guys).

Favorite TV show?

Oh goodness. I'll have to go with two of my favorite BBC period dramas: Little Women and North and South. Yes. Yes, I'm a period drama person.

What's one meal you could eat every day for a straight week and not grow tired of it?

Honestly? Salad. I know because some years ago, I ate salad for lunch practically every day during the summer. Plus, you can switch around the toppings and dressings for variety, but it'd still be the same meal.

When/how did you discover you liked to write?

I honestly have no idea when. I've been making up stories for forever, I guess. Although when I was really young, they were too horribly written to be called stories. Mostly just these embarrassing little tales of giant blue worms and getting lost in the woods and families with 15+ biological kids & multiple sets of twins and triplets. Not that the huge families were bad in my stories, but they were extremely unrealistic. Oh, and that one story I wrote a long time ago that I was so proud of. *shudders* In it, this guy proposes to a girl without dating her/talking to her/courting her first . . . also the girl's dad had just died. Oh, and her mom already died earlier in the story. Yeah. I think I might take the liberty of saying I have improved some in my writing since then!

Favorite Bible verse?

Okay, right off the top of my head, there's one verse I've loved and have had memorized for literally as long as I can remember: John 3:16. And Isaiah 53. If you haven't read Isaiah 53 yet, go read it.

I also like Jeremiah 29:11: "For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord. "Plans for prosperity and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope." (NASB) 

Also Isaiah 55:7: Let the wicked abandon his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts; and let him return to the Lord, and He will have compassion on him, and to our God, for He will abundantly pardon. (NASB)

Favorite color?

Basically any shade of blue, purple, and petal pink specifically. I am very particular about this. I'm not much of a "pinky" person. But I love petal pink. And peach.

Favorite book of all time?

You did not just ask this question.

Okay, I guess you did. 

I'm thinking.

So many options.

Help!

*

*

*

Okay, off the top of my head, I'd say The Raider's Promise by Lois Walfrid Johnson. Go here to see my review of it. I absolutely love this book. And yes, I will admit to skipping to the end and reading and re-reading the ending sometimes.

Paper or computer?

Computer. Then I don't have to worry about my handwriting, or using up my eraser, or my fingers cramping (which they do). Also, I tend to type faster than I write. It's more efficient.

Least favorite food of all-time?

Okay, out of the foods I've never tasted and am merely prejudiced against, I despise caviar and chicken feet. Out of the foods I have tasted and still don't like, I would have to say that braunschweiger is one of the worst. Though I will concede it does smell worse than it tastes.

Favorite font to use?

Anything flowing and beautiful but still easy to read. For my favorite common-use one, that would be Verdana, which is the font I am using right now. It's my blog font.

Thank you so much for the fun questions! 

There Goes the Rain/ Going Ballistic Update

    Good afternoon, friends! I am pleased to report that sunshine still exists and that behind the clouds, the sun is shining; believe me even though you can't quite make it out. (Yes, that's from the song "Behind the Clouds.") While I do like rain, I enjoy the sight of sun peeking tentatively around the cloud's fluffy shoulder to reassure me it's still there. And guess what else? The sky's still blue! Eeks! The "nice" weather (top three pictures) can turn into "summer weather" (bottom three) very quickly indeed!

   Before

   and after.

And now about Going Ballistic. I've gotten people-- *ahem ahem* you know who you are --asking me to put up more of Going Ballistic. I'd been thinking I could quietly stop putting up more snippets, but when you faithful readers ask for more, I hate to refuse. So I will be putting up at least one more chapter . . . and maybe two . . . and maybe three, but no promises. I love it when you all love my stories. It's such an encouragement. So . . . keep your eyes open, and hopefully I'll have some snippets on here soon.

How's your weather? Does it look like autumn yet, or is summer being stubborn and hanging on as long as possible where you are?

Story Snippet #6

 So sorry it's taken so long for the second half of Chapter 3 to materialize on this blog. I'll probably have to stop putting up snippets of Going Ballistic sometime . . . or else, if and when I finish it, buying it won't be necessary cause you could read it for free off my blog. *grins and then winces* But it hasn't come to that yet. I can't very well stop in the middle of a chapter and not provide the ending. So . . . here's the rest, at long last. 

Previously:

Not that I could go anywhere, anyway. She’d given me the explicit order to remain in bed unless I needed to use the bathroom. That was fine with me. With how I felt, there was no way I was going to move around more than necessary. 

To be continued:

While Mom cleaned up the lightbulb’s remains, I stared up at the ceiling and wondered what would be the next victim of Ballistic’s destructive rampage. Whoever or whatever it was, I hoped it wouldn’t be me. I didn’t think I could bear waking up like that again and having to run down a dark hallway to--

   “Hey, Mom?”

   “Mmm-hmm?” She glanced up.

   I watched as she carefully picked up the largest shard and dropped it into a plastic bag. “Why was the hall so dark?”

   An unexpected smile curved Mom’s lips. “Because the light was off, Jimmy. Why?”

   I burrowed down into my sheet, suddenly feeling very embarrassed, now that I’d had a chance to think about my dramatic actions. “Uh, nothing,” I mumbled into my pillow. “It’s just that I couldn’t really see when I was going down the hallway.”

   I heard Mom’s light chuckle and felt her pat my back comfortingly. “It’s okay, honey. I turned it off because I hoped it would make it easier for you to sleep, without light shining through your door vent.”

   “Oh. Thanks.”

   It was getting way too hot under the sheets, so I pushed my covers off my head and peeked over the bed just in time to see Mom rise from her kneel and brush off her pants. 

   “I’m going to have to use the vacuum cleaner on the rest of this,” she told me, heading for the door. “I’ll be back.”

   I watched to make sure Mom closed the door before I relaxed into my memory foam mattress and let out a sigh of relief. If I saw Ballistic in my room again after what just happened, it would be too soon. Actually, if he ever went near me again, it would be too soon.

   By the time Mom came back, my head was pounding again and my face felt flushed. It didn’t help that the vacuum cleaner was not the quietest, and within a few minutes of listening to the constant rattling buzz, my headache had returned with a vengeance. 

   “Hey, Mom?” I asked, pushing my sheets down to my waist.

   She turned to me, lampshade in hand. “Yes, honey?”

   I twisted my neck around so that I was facing her. “My headache’s back.”

   “I’m sure it is,” Mom agreed, turning off the vacuum and coming over to me. She gently placed her hand on my neck. “Do you still feel hot, too?” When I nodded, she rose from the bed and began rearranging my sheets. “Make sure you drink enough water,” she reminded me, tilting her head in the direction of my nightstand.

   “Okay.” When she turned to leave, I suddenly felt an impulse to ask her the question that had been bothering ever since I’d poured out my complaints about Ballistic. “Mom?”

   She turned back to me. “Yes?”

   I hesitated. Now that I really thought about it, it seemed like a really silly question. One that I never would’ve doubted before Ballistic came. But I had to know. So I licked my lips and blurted out, “Mom, are you glad I’m your son?”

   She instantly walked over, sat down on my bed, and gave me a searching look. The why-would-you-ask-such-a-thing mom look. “Of course. Why would you think otherwise?”

   I squirmed under my sheets. It had been eating away at me ever since I saw the slight look of exasperation on her face when I came tearing down the hall this morning. “Well,” I murmured, heat rising in my cheeks, “I just thought-- I mean, I’m so-- silly. I know everyone else thinks I overreact about everything. I don’t know; I just wondered if . . . if you were glad to have me, instead of someone else who’s not, well, worried about everything.” 

   Mom drew a deep breath. “It is true that I don’t understand you all the time, to be honest. But honey, don’t you ever think that I don’t love you because you’re different. I love you because you are different. You are my little boy. While you do have some things you need to work on, I don’t expect you to be perfect. No one is.”

   I dropped my gaze to my bed covers. “Sure, but I feel like I’m a nuisance to you. Tell me the truth. Do you think I’m a nuisance?”

   Mom smiled at that. “Even if you are, just remember this: you’re my little nuisance. And I love you.” She leaned forward and gently pressed her lips to my burning forehead. “Now get some sleep, okay? We’ll talk more later.”

   I couldn’t stop the smile that curved my lips. “Okay. I love you, Mom.” 

   

Signed,

Martha

Story Snippet #5

   Going Ballistic is back! I've been working on it some more and enjoying it immensely. This is so fun to write! And my goodness, I did not expect it to be getting so dramatic. But it is, and I must say, it's been giving me plenty of laughable material. Hope you like it as much as I do!

To refresh your memory of what happened last, go to Story Snippet #4!

And now: 

Chapter Three

 I’ve never run as fast as I did in the next five seconds. I tore the monkey away from my neck, threw him onto the ground, and raced for the door, another desperate plea on my lips. “Help! Mom, Mom, Mom!” Flinging open the door, I stumbled blindly down the dark hallway. The shadows leapt out from their corners and seemed to smother me. I slowed my pace for just a second, wrinkling my brow in perplexity. Why on earth was it so dark?

    Hearing another monkey squeak from behind gave wings to my feet. Forgetting all about the fact that I could hardly see, I tore down the hall and into the kitchen, wailing. “Mo-om!” 

   Mom leapt up from where she sat lounging on the couch. “Good gracious, Jimmy! What on earth is wrong now?”

   “Balli-llistic,” I babbled, tumbling onto the couch next to her. “He’s after me!”

   Mom’s faint look of amusement was replaced by mild irritation when the monkey popped out of the hall, screeching. Emm had a firm hold on his tail and was trying to get him to calm down.

   “Emm, what are you doing?”

   Emm shot Mom a frustrated look. “Ballistic got away from me! I was trying to peek in at Jimmy to see if he was okay. I didn’t know Ballistic snuck in!”

   I curled up into a tight ball and glared at the horrible creature that had ruined my life. He was still squirming to get out of my little sister’s grasp. If looks could kill, Ballistic would have been dead within a millisecond. 

   Mom reached down and grabbed the monkey by the arm. Ignoring his vehement protests, she snatched him up and started down the hall with Emm trailing her.

   My muscles slowly began to relax, now that the imminent danger was past. I scooted up against the arm rest and laid my head against it. It was then that I realized how badly I’d been shaking. My whole body was quaking, and I felt as if someone had taken a hammer to my head. Tears sprang to my ears, but I stubbornly swiped them away. Don’t go crying like a baby.

    Within a minute, Mom was back. She settled herself on the cushion next to me and began to massage my back. “You okay?”

   “No,” I mumbled, turning my face away. I wanted to throw my arms around her neck and cry like I used to, but doing so would make me feel even worse. It would make me feel like I couldn’t handle my own emotions. 

   You can’t handle your own emotions, a small voice nagged me. I gritted my teeth and squeezed my eyelids shut. I felt the warm pressure of my mother’s hand on my arm.

   “Jimmy?”

   Finally I couldn’t take it anymore. I jerked upright and faced Mom. “I can’t do it.”

   “What, honey?”

   “I can’t get along with Ballistic. I’d rather die before welcoming such a horrid creature into our house. Not that I won’t die anyway, with how I’m feeling right now.” I half-expected Mom to scold me for having such a negative attitude, but she just smiled and wrapped an arm around my shoulders.

   “Jimmy, I’m not expecting you to love him right away. I’ll admit I am not too comfortable with the idea of having a monkey in the house, either. But your father thinks it’s all right, and just look how happy Emm is. Ballistic hasn’t ruined anything yet--”

   Except for my precious sleep . . oh, and that lamp that was on my nightstand, I remembered in dismay.

   “--and there is a chance he won’t. While this is certainly very strange, I don’t think it will be too terrible for us. Just try to get along with him for Emm’s sake, okay?”

   When I nodded, she gave me a one-armed hug. “Good. Now, let’s take a look at you. Running around like the house is on fire isn’t recommended for a person with a fever.”

   Mom was definitely right about that. My whole body ached, and a dull pain suddenly emerged from the depths of my brain and decided it was a great time to grace me with its presence. I hadn’t felt this terrible since the day I tried out a friend’s skateboard and had ended up nose diving into a cement slab. 

   Mom pressed the back of her hand against my forehead and clucked her tongue. “Well, you aren’t any better. Did you sleep at all?”

   “I had been.”

   She blew out a low sigh and rose from her seat. “Alright, back to bed with you. And this time, I’ll personally see to it that you aren’t disturbed.”

  

 A few minutes later, I found myself falling gratefully back into my jumbled mass of sheets. 

   Mom began to set the room to rights, fixing my sheets, adjusting the air conditioning, and making sure I had a tall glass of cool water within arm’s reach. She heaved a disappointed sigh when she saw my poor lamp. Crouching down, she examined it for any real damage. “So much for Ballistic not having ruined anything yet.”

   “Broken?” I asked.

   Mom nodded. “Just the light bulb, though. The lampshade is still fine. You stay right there; I’m going to clean up the shards.”

   Not that I could go anywhere, anyway. She’d given me the explicit order to remain in bed unless I needed to use the bathroom. That was fine with me. With how I felt, there was no way I was going to move around more than necessary. 

Signed,

Martha

Story Snippet #4

   And now the time has come for the last part of the last full chapter in Going Ballistic to be revealed. Alas, I have no other full chapters written as of yet, so this is the last I'll be sharing of this story for a bit. Don't worry, though, I'll find something else to post about. (Hmmm. How does a book series recommendation sound? Well, I'll think on it. Sounds like fun, and trust me, I've got plenty of good books to recommend!) Anyway, please enjoy this last Going Ballistic snippet.

Previously:

She returned holding a small red container. She pulled out a thin glass stick. “You need to take your temperature.” She handed the thermometer to me.

  I took it gingerly. Well, here goes.

To be continued:

   A few minutes later, the thermometer was back in Mom’s hands. Holding it up to the light, she examined it. Her eyebrow rose an inch and she turned to me with a slightly worried expression. “One hundred point nine degrees.” She looked at me searchingly. “Were you around anyone sick at school?”

   “I try not to be,” I said. “If they were, I didn’t know.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “Is one hundred point nine bad?”

   “Well, it’s enough for me to send you back to bed,” she replied, giving me a gentle push. “Go on then. I’ll be there in a bit.”

   I might feel lousy, but I don’t want to be cooped up in bed on a Saturday! I opened my mouth to protest, but then I heard Ballistic making noise in Emm’s bedroom doorway. Suddenly bed sounded like a wonderful safe haven. “Okay,” I agreed quickly, hurrying down the hall. 

   I passed Emm, who was standing in her doorway with Ballistic sitting on one shoulder. She took one look at me and asked, “What’s wrong, Jimmy?”

   I didn’t say anything. I just pressed myself up against the wall and squeezed past the two of them, avoiding the monkey in particular. When I reached my door, I swung it open and slipped inside. Not bothering to change my clothes, I fell into my bed. My head raged in protest when it smacked into the pillow. I winced and shifted so that I was lying on my side. The closet door loomed up in front of me. What if Emm came through the closet? I did not want some crazy animal screeching in my face when I woke up next. I felt terrible enough. 

   I eased myself out of bed and crept to the closet door. I moved my padded chair in front of it and returned to bed. The pounding in my head lessened a bit when it touched the pillow, and I instantly relaxed. Closing my eyes, I willed sleep to come and take me away . . . and hearing the far-away monkey sounds, I wished it would take Ballistic away too.

                 

                                     * * *

   A small clicking sound roused me from a deep and troubled sleep. I cracked an open and rolled onto my back. The noise ceased. 

   Puzzled, I rose up on one elbow and forced my other heavy eyelid open. Moving like that was a mistake, and I immediately began to pay for it with a twisting in my stomach and a throbbing between my eyes. Rubbing my forehead gently, I eased myself back down so that I was lying flat on my back once again. Letting out a sigh, I closed my eyes.

   The scratching sound that erupted a few seconds later was most definitely real. As sick as I was, I had assumed it was my imagination. But as I jerked upright and looked around frantically, I knew it was real. Someone was creeping around in my room.

   The noise stopped once again. This frightened me even more, as I swiveled my head in every direction, searching for the culprit. A feeling of dread rose in my throat and threatened to cut off my breath. I couldn’t see anyone!

   Finally I mustered up enough courage to speak. “Who’s there?” The question came out as a high, quivering squeak. When I received no response, I gingerly pushed myself up farther and began searching the ceiling. Maybe I was just hearing creaks from inside the attic. Maybe Dad was getting something from up there. That’s probably all it was. 

   It’s okay. You’re okay, I told myself, easing back under the covers. There’s no-

   Just then, my lamp flew off my nightstand and landed on the floor with a crash. Heart thumping, I tore off my covers and leapt from my bed. I winced as my bare feet touched the ground off balance, sending me tumbling to the ground. My whole body ached. It was as if someone had strapped me down to the road and had people step all over me. Groaning, I pushed myself up into a sitting position. Just above the spot where I had been laying only moments before, I could see a small dark something lurking on my shelf above my headboard. Because I couldn’t think straight, it cued all images of my childhood fears. Monsters that crept through my window and stole my prized baseball. Strange creatures that were full of foreign diseases. 

   Stop it! I mentally hissed. I didn’t want to feel like an overreacting baby, but honestly, I wanted my mother. My mother had always told me that my fears were only scary because I thought of them that way. I was the one who made them frightening. So I stood up on my wobbly legs and faced the creature boldly. “What-”

   The next second, the thing launched itself off my shelf, revealing its true monkey colors. Letting out a happy screech, it reached out its arms toward me. 

   But Ballistic’s screech was drowned out by another sound. It only took me about two seconds to figure out what the louder, bone-chilling scream was coming from. And as the monkey reached me and threw his long, hairy arms around my neck, the horrifying sound rose to become one of the most high-pitched shrieks I’ve ever heard come from my own mouth. 

   “Mom!”

Signed,

Martha

Story Snippet #3

   Hello, hello, hello! I am back, with the third snippet I'll be sharing from Going Ballistic. This time, it is beginning at the second chapter. As usual, please don't copy any of it. Enjoy!!

Chapter Two

   I woke the following morning with a headache. At first, I figured it was because I’d just woken up and had a stuffy head from sleeping. But as I sat up, I realized it was much worse than that. The dull ache exploded into an all-out war inside my skull. I felt like someone had dropped a nuclear bomb on my head and somehow my brain absorbed all its energy. 

   Groaning, I rolled out of bed and hurried to my bathroom. Leaning into the mirror, I pressed a hand to my forehead. Not only did my face look warm and flushed, but I also felt hot. I quickly drew my palm away from my head and stared at the short, quivering brown-haired boy staring back at me. I just knew it. I’m allergic to monkeys.

   That must be it. I felt fine yesterday. But last night, I had started to feel a bit queasy whenever I was forced to be around Ballistic. I had brushed off my growing concern, telling myself I probably just had a mild case of food poisoning or maybe dehydration. But when I crept into bed last night, the queasiness had settled in my stomach and slowly morphed into a horrible gnawing on the inside of my belly. Never had it occurred to me that I just might be allergic to the very thing we --well, Mom, Dad, and Emm, that is, not me-- had welcomed into our home.

   Now I took one look into my mirror and began to panic. I was overheating due to an allergic reaction to Ballistic! Hurriedly switching my faucet on to its coldest, I cupped my hands under the stream of water and gulped it down, not caring that I wasn’t drinking filtered tap water from the kitchen. The only result I got was shortness of breath and a strange clogging in my throat. Gasping, I yanked my head back up and allowed the excess water to spew from my mouth into the bathroom sink. I examined my face in the mirror and found, to my horror, that the flush in my cheeks had not gone away. I slapped a dripping wet hand to my forehead. I planned to feel it to see if it was still hot and was rewarded instead with a heavenly coolness that radiated from my hand all the way down to my neck. Oh wait . . that was because the water was sliding down my face to my chest in little rivulets, soaking my nightshirt.

   Swiping at the water, I rushed back into my bedroom and began to dress. 

   I’d better tell Mom about my allergy to Ballistic as soon as possible. Maybe we can get him out of the house today . . . before I get so bad I can’t breathe or something, I told myself, pulling on the lightest T-shirt I owned. Then I meticulously combed my hair off to the side before dashing out of the bedroom and closing the door with a bang. By this time, I was breathing hard, and I felt hotter than ever. Plus, now I could feel my sweat mixing with the water still on my damp neck. 

   “Slow down,” I chided myself, remembering my tendency to hyperventilate. “You wouldn’t want to pass out before you have a chance to tell Mom about the issue.” But the thought of me fainting increased my pace, and also my heart rate.

   I hurried into the kitchen, where Mom was slapping the traditional Saturday morning pancakes onto the hot griddle. “Mom!” I croaked.

   She turned to see what was the matter, and as soon as she caught sight of her distraught, quivering son, her jaw dropped. Plunking the spatula onto the counter, she rushed over to me. “What on earth?”

   Grabbing my arm, she propelled me to the dining table and forced me to sit down in one of the chairs. “Jimmy, what in the world is wrong?” She raised her pleasantly cool hand to my burning forehead. “Do you have a fever?”

   “No!” I garbled, shaking my sweaty head. “I’m al-geric to Bastillic!”

   Mom looked like she’d swallowed a frog. “You’re what?”

   “I’m allergic to Ballistic!” I said, clearly this time. “I woke up with a headache and I was hot, and I’m sure it is from Ballistic. I should’ve known I was allergic to monkeys!”

   A smile crept across Mom’s face. She turned away, apparently trying to hide the fact that she wanted to laugh at me. Of course. Only Mom took me seriously, but occasionally, it seemed she would forget my sensitivity to . . . well, everything.

   “Mom, it’s not funny!” I exclaimed, slapping a hand onto the table. “Do you think I’m making it up?”

  Mom whirled back around, a grin playing on her lips. “Jimmy,” she said gently, sliding an arm around my back and making me stand up, “You are right. You might be sick. But I doubt it is from an allergy to Ballistic. Why would you be allergic to monkeys?”

   Her common sense helped me to calm down. I took a deep breath. “If it’s not Ballistic, then why have I suddenly gotten sick the day after he moved in?” 

   “I don’t know. You probably picked it up from school,” she replied, massaging my back with her knuckles. “If you really are that bad, you’d better go back to bed.” 

   Now that I was out of bed, I didn’t want to get back in! Maybe . . . maybe I wasn’t sick after all? 

“Actually,” I said, trying to forget the fact that a few seconds ago I was in hysterics, “maybe I’m okay. You’re right; it’s probably not the monkey.”

   “Oh no, you don’t,” Mom answered, serious again. “You’re not sick from the monkey, but you’ve caught something, nonetheless.” She pressed her hand to my forehead, cheeks, and then neck. Then she turned and scurried down the hall. “Watch the pancakes!” She called over her shoulder. 

   She returned holding a small red container. She pulled out a thin glass stick. “You need to take your temperature.” She handed the thermometer to me.

  I took it gingerly. Well, here goes.

Signed,

Martha

Story Snippet to be Continued

   Hello all! Well, today's post will be featuring the second part of the previous story snippet, as promised. This will be finishing Chapter One of Going Ballistic. Enjoy!

Previously. . . 

I cowered in my room while Emm got her new pet settled. Upon hearing his chattering in the room next to me, I crossed my arms over my chest and fervently hoped that monkeys can't break through walls.

To be continued. . .

When I next came out of my room, Ballistic was nowhere in sight and Emm was setting the table and talking at one hundred miles per hour. 

   “Ballistic is just wonderful, Mommy,” Emm was saying, “and I showed him my room, and he just loved it; he climbed up to my dresser, right on top of my dresser, and he grinned, Mommy, actually grinned, like a person, and I could tell he was so happy he couldn’t even-”

   I just rolled my eyes and gingerly took my seat at the table, keeping a wary eye out for any sign of monkey business. Then Mom called out, “Honey, supper’s on the table!” and Dad came sauntering down the hall.

   When we were all seated, Dad said the blessing and Mom reached for the food. 

   “Emm, sweetie, why don’t you tell Dad about how Ballistic is settling in?” Mom suggested, taking my outstretched plate and heaping it with noodles and alfredo sauce.

   Emm perked up immediately at Mom’s words and turned to Dad, setting her plate back down with a plunk. “Oh, yes, Dad. Ballistic is wonderful. I love him so much, and he’s like a baby doll, only more furry and alive.”

   And more terrifying, I added silently, scooping myself some cherries.

   “I kind of wish I could dress him up pretty and name him Princess, like I did to my last hamster, but I can’t because Ballistic is a boy and you don’t name boys Princess.” Emm sighed. “But then I thought maybe I could buy him britches, little boys’s britches, and put a little shirt and bow tie on him, and then he’d be a little gentleman instead of a little lady.” She turned to Mom pleadingly. “You do have old baby clothes from when Jimmy was a baby, right?” She sent me a concerned look, as if she was afraid she’d offended me by mentioning that I was once a baby.

   I gave a nonchalant shrug and turned back to my meal.

   Mom looked like she was trying not to laugh. “Yes, I still have Jimmy’s baby clothes, but you may not have them to put on your monkey. While Ballistic would probably look very smart in a bow tie, I don’t think it would be a good idea to dress up an animal like that.”

   Emm’s lower lip formed a pout. “Oh,” she murmured, disappointed, “But I don’t want a naked monkey.”

   I nearly choked on my glass of milk. Snatching up my napkin, I held it to my face and began to cough and sputter into it. A naked monkey?

   Dad’s face also registered his amusement. “He’s not naked, baby,” he assured Emm, his lip twitching, “Monkeys have fur, so they don’t need to wear clothes. He can, however, wear a halter.”

   “What’s that, Dad?” Emm asked.

   “It’s kind of like a collar that circles the animal’s chest and you can attach a leash to it,” Dad explained.

   “That’s a good idea,” Mom approved, holding out her hand to take Emm’s empty plate. “That way we won’t have Ballistic going wherever he wants with no way to catch him.”

   “And that way, we can drag him out of my bedroom if he comes into it and ruins it,” I added helpfully. 

   Emm turned to me with a frown. “He wouldn’t do such a thing. You’re such a pestimiss, Jimmy.”

   “It’s ‘pessimist’, Emm,” Mom corrected her, “and you don’t need to be rude to your brother. He’s making a valid point. If Ballistic goes somewhere he isn’t supposed to, we need a way to get him out.”

   “I guess,” Emm reluctantly agreed, taking her now-full plate from Mom. “But I’m sure he’d listen to me. I bet I could get him out easy enough . . . even without a halter.”

   “Still,” Dad said with finality, “I want that monkey to have a halter with a leash. I’ll pick up one tomorrow on the way home.”

   Thank goodness, I thought, finishing my lump of noodles. If we were going to have such a wild and unpredictable animal in the house, we would definitely need a way to control it . . . and most importantly, to keep it out of my bedroom!

I'm planning on posting about the Fourth, so stay around, and I'll put something up in a few days!

Signed,

Martha

Story Snippet

   Well, today I thought I'd put up a snippet of a story I'm working on. Since I will likely end up posting bits and pieces of multiple different stories during this blogging adventure, I'd better note that this is from a specific book-in-progress called Going Ballistic. As a warning, since I don't want to put up a whole chapter all at once, I'm going to cut it off short. So if you end up liking what you see and want to know the rest of the chapter, came back in a few days, and I'll probably post the rest up by then! 

   But as it says on the sidebar, these literary works of mine aren't here for the taking, so please don't copy any of it without my permission. Thanks, and I hope you enjoy it!

Chapter One

   To be fair, it was certainly not my idea. No matter how many times Emm tries to claim it was my fault, I had nothing to do with it. Well, not until I had to. But before that, it was all Emm’s plan. I merely went along with it because I couldn’t seem to stay out of it.

   With all that said, perhaps I’d better tell you what happened. 

   It all started with the fact that our next-door neighbor, Mr. Aminal, whom Emm and I call Mr. Animal, had a peculiar affection for all types of creatures. And when I say creatures, I’m talking about boa constrictors, tropical birds, Dungeness crab, and all types of squirrels. And believe it or not, he kept them all in his house. Either that, or they made their home in his basement. I have no idea how the city let him get away with it. Perhaps they didn’t care. Or maybe, like me, they just thought he was a crazy old bachelor and decided it would be best to leave him to his own business. Whatever the case, Mr. Aminal had about twenty or thirty exotic animals living with him. Sometimes when I stood at our kitchen window, I could see him waltzing through his house with a cockatoo on each shoulder and a flying squirrel nestled in his long gray hair. I secretly thought he was actually Doctor Dolittle gone mad. Whenever he caught me staring, he’d give me a huge grin and tilt his head to one side like an inquisitive parrot. Seeing him do that kind of gave me the willies, to be honest. Sometimes I wondered if he was in fact a human and not some type of jungle curiosity himself.

   My little sister Emm, however, thought Mr. Aminal was wonderful. Mom and Dad didn’t let us go to his house or anything, but some days Emm would sit on our front porch and talk to Mr. Aminal through one of his windows. He’d show her all his creepy crawlies and his furry creatures through the mesh screen, and she’d laugh at his birds’ antics until she was practically blue in the face. But what delighted her most of all was his monkey, Ballistic. 

   I naturally distrusted the creature, no matter how friendly it was. With a name like that, who knows what it’s capable of? Emm claims I’m just paranoid, and maybe I am, but it’s better to be safe than sorry where life and death is concerned. I mean, who knows what kinds of diseases Mr. Animal’s aminals --I mean, Mr. Aminal’s animals-- carry? I am the type of kid who is careful. I’m the eleven-year-old boy whom everyone has given this strange name called hypochondriac. I am usually the one who has to save Emm’s life when she forgets to read the label on food packages and almost eats sandwich meat that’s three weeks over the best-by date.

   Anyway, Emm eventually became such good friends with the old man and his creatures that when Mr. Aminal declared he could no longer keep Ballistic due to some reason like food costs or being cramped, Emm broke down and cried for two days. She was sure that Mr. Aminal was either going to kill the monkey or sell him to someone in a far-off land and she’d never see Ballistic again. But she was wrong. For lo and behold, on her eighth birthday, Mr. Aminal asked Mom and Dad permission to give Ballistic to her. I, of course, was entirely opposed to the idea. If we accepted his offer, Ballistic would probably stay in Emm’s bedroom. And Emm’s walk-through closet is connected to mine. I did not want to wake up in the morning to a furry creature staring down at my face from my headboard and contaminating my bed with its hair.

   I had fully expected my opinion to get brushed off with a “Oh, it’ll be fine, Jimmy.” That’s what people usually tell me whenever I express my completely rational concern about being sanitary. But for once, Mom did not reassure me like she usually did. Instead, she seemed to understand how I felt about the whole idea. 

  “I’m not sure I want a monkey under the same roof as me,” Mom told Dad when Mr. Aminal had given his proposal. 

   Well, when Mom said that, I wanted to leap for joy and throw my arms around her neck. But all that came crashing down when Dad replied that he wasn’t worried and that Mr. Aminal seemed to get along fine with the monkey without any problems.

   Without any problems! Yes, if you could call aiding in a man’s mental disorder not a problem. I know I may be going overboard with my fear for Mr. Aminal’s sanity, but really! Once I saw him letting his birds eat seed from his mouth!

   “But, Bill,” Mom had protested, “we’ve had many animals in this house. We’ve had dogs, cats, hamsters, parakeets, and about a thousand fish.” Here she looked at Emm pointedly before turning back to Dad. “But never a monkey, for goodness sake! What if it’s illegal?”

   “It’s not illegal,” Dad had responded patiently, “If it was, the authorities would have been to Mr. Aminal’s house about it long before now. He’s been living next door with his animals for over ten years with no issues. I’ll even look into it for you.”

   Mom wasn’t entirely happy with the idea, I could tell. But finally she gave in to Emm’s pleading and Dad and Mr. Aminal’s reassurances. “Oh well,” Mom sighed, “But I do not want to see that thing in my bedroom. And it absolutely, one hundred percent must stay out of the kitchen! I won’t be burglarized by our own pet!”

   “My pet, you mean,” Emm had corrected her, bouncing on the couch cushion. She couldn’t hide her elation at the prospect of having her very own monkey.

   So Mom and Dad graciously accepted Mr. Aminal’s offer. I just hung around and waited for Mr. Aminal to actually bring the monkey into the house. When the creature appeared at the door, he screeched his happiness and launched himself into Emm’s arms. My first instinct was to protect my little sister from Ballistic, but I couldn’t bring myself to approach the monkey to fend him off. So instead, I turned tail and disappeared down the hall and into my bedroom without so much as a how-do-you-do to Ballistic or a well-good-bye to Mr. Aminal.

   I cowered in my room while Emm got her new pet settled. Upon hearing his chattering in the room next to me, I crossed my arms over my chest and fervently hoped that monkeys can’t break through walls.

Signed,

Martha