Flash 500 by Nicole Pyles, Carrie K Sorensen (children's books read aloud .txt) 📕

Scott William Taylor lives and writes in Utah. He grew up living on the side of a mountain and lives on that same mountain today, with his family and a dog that loves cheese. Scott is married, with four children. He received his undergraduate degree in Communications from the University of Utah and a Masters in English from Weber State University. Scott's story Little Boiler Girl was part of the steampunk anthology Mechanized Masterpieces published by Xchyler Publishing in April 2013. Scott is the creator and producer of A Page or Two Podcast. He also wrote the award-winning short film, Wrinkles. When not writing and working, Scott enjoys participating in community theater productions with his children. Follow Scott on Twitter @Hyggeman or at his author site: www.scottwilliamtaylor.com.

Week of 11/7/2012

Photo courtesy of Carrie K. Sorensen

Words Required

Tar

Lollipop

Courage

Figure

Parasite

A Mother's Musing by Leanne Sype

*sigh*

Off to swimming lessons, followed by gymnastics, and then the grocery store. Please, for the love of everything that is good in the world, let there be some sort of lollipop selection for Jordan. Susan wasn't normally a big fan of bribery, but the promise of a sweet treat was the only way to coax Jordan off the play structure at the park without a scene so they could get his big sister to swimming on time. They had already been late twice this week. After both kids were buckled and satisfied with a snack in one hand and a juice box in the other, she put her keys in the ignition. Just as she turned the engine, a whimpering voice came from the back seat, "Mommy, I have to go potty."

*sigh* Of course you do.

"Okay, sweetie. Everybody out. Let's hit the bathroom before we go."

Susan hated park bathrooms. She'd seen too many scary movies about serial killers hiding out in in the maintenance closets. In fact after she'd seen Rest Stop, it took many months and a lot of courage to step foot in an outdoor public restroom again. The thought of it gave her the heebie jeebies.

"Jordan? Kate? You about done? Need any help?" Susan called out.

"I'm done!"

"Me too!"

Both kids came scampering towards her with the creaky, metal bathroom doors slamming shut behind them.

"Alright. Back in the car. If there's no traffic, I figure we'll make swim lessons with five minutes to spare," Susan said, delighted at the prospect of actually being early.

As the blue SUV cruised down the interstate, Susan reflected on her days before children--the days when on a whim she could book herself a luxurious deep tissue massage and a pedicure. Oh yes. Thoughts of the peaceful ambience in a dark room filled with the scent of minty eucalyptus and the soothing sounds of Enya lured Susan into a dreamy state. She imagined the comforting, firm hands working the tired knots out of her neck and shoulders; the warmth of a rose-perfumed foot soak easing the tension from her feet.

"—OH YEAH? I could beat the tar out of you AND your stupid transformer!!" challenged Kate to her brother, breaking Susan out of her trance.

"Kate-"

"Whatever! You're nothing but a parasite. I could take you easy," scoffed Jordan in response.

At this rate, thought Susan, I'd be happy with 10 minutes of silence in the locker room restroom at swimming lessons.

About Leanne Sype

Leanne is a coffee-addicted freelance writer and editor who believes happiness is found in large slices of chocolate cake. Her favorite color is orange, and she loves connecting in community with other writers. Leanne is the founder of Pen to Paper Communications where she indulges her passion in helping individuals and businesses find their story and tell it well. She lives in Portland, OR with her three elderly cats, her husband, and her two adorable kids, all of whom constantly give her good writing material. You can connect with Leanne through leannesype.wordpress.com or on Twitter @pentopapercom.

Good Bye by Melissa Gardiner

It took the doctors 6 months to realise there was something wrong with you, but I knew it from the moment they placed you, wet and sticky and screaming into my arms. The relief my body felt at having squeezed you out of me after 44 hours of pulsing, aching agony dissolved almost instantly into cold resentment, and a sick feeling that shook the very core of me. I didn't see you as my daughter, my first born, the proverbial apple of my eye. Instantly, you were a parasite – something alien. From my body, but not of my body. You weren't mine. You belonged to a memory, a momentary explosion of evil thrust uninvited into me 9 months earlier. And I hated you.

They said it was just the 'Baby Blues' and that I would 'snap out of it', but they didn't know me. The depth of my loathing, and the thick tar-weight of your constant screeches smothered anything maternal that may have been hiding in the crevices of my DNA. For 6 months I watched you scream until I knew the hole of your mouth and the shape of your tonsils better than I knew myself. The midwife they sent round once a week, a rotund woman named Bertha with a despicable habit of sucking lollipops, showed me a trick of gently drawing a figure-of-8 on your forehead to make you stop crying.

But, I could barely touch you. Running my finger across your baby-soft skin filled me with repulsion and you might as well have been covered in scales. I couldn't stand to be near you. I would rather listen to you cry yourself to sleep than touch you.

When the doctors finally diagnosed the problem, it was the perfect exit strategy. My way to erase you. I told them I was not equipped to deal with the repercussions of your disorder. I was 16 years old with no family, and barely a roof over my head. It was for the best, I told the social workers, if you were put into care. It took time to convince them this was the best thing for you and eventually they agreed to take you away. The nurses hugged me and complimented me on my bravery. They thought me courageous, a selfless heroine sacrificing my own happiness to give my child the best chance at a near-normal life.

But, putting my keys in the ignition of my old VW Beetle that day took no courage at all. It took no bravery. You were gone and I could almost taste the delicious silence as I drove away.

About Melissa Gardiner

Melissa Gardiner was born on December 11, 1985. She grew up in Port Elizabeth, South Africa and attended Collegiate Girls' School. Melissa began writing at an early age, typing short stories on her grandfather's rusted typewriter at her family's dining room table, and continued to write throughout her school years, winning various academic awards for her written work. Melissa describes herself as an "observer with a love for detail" and it was this quality together with her love for the writing that led Melissa to study towards a degree in Journalism and Media studies at Rhodes University, where she graduated at the end of 2007. Melissa is currently living in London and writing her first novel. She blogs about life as a 'wannabe writer' over at My Unpublished Life (http://unpublishedworksofme.blogspot.co.uk/)

11/14/2012

Photo Courtesy of Tawny Campbell - www.operationangel.org

Words Required

Peaked

Geothermal

Livestock

Mutual

Hydroelectric

The Story Behind the Photograph

For the week of Veteran’s Day, one of our blog prompt hosts, Tena, found a beautiful photograph to inspire our writers. When Carrie and I were putting together the anthology, we searched out the owner of the photograph and reached out to her for permission of use. She agreed and also agreed to share the story behind the photograph. The following was printed with permission by Tawny Campbell.

I took that photo back in 2007. The soldier in the photo is a Latvian Soldier who lost his leg in Iraq a day or so after Christmas. The girl in the photo is my 3 year old daughter, Ceilidha. I started a Charity called "Project TLC: Serving Those Who Serve" and it has three sub charities, Operation Angel, Project Rudolph and Project Portrait.

For Operation Angel, my daughters and I have visited nearly 20,000 soldiers, sailors, airmen and marines at Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany. We hand them "Angel Bags" 2-3 times a week to help keep up morale and show our love for them.

Project Rudolph started in Dec 2006, and we give Christmas Bags to deployed, wounded and deploying servicemen and women. We started wanting to do about 50 bags the first year, and ended up creating and handing out more than 3,000. Last year, our 7th year running, we handed out nearly 15,000 bags to our deployed servicemen and women.

The third part of the charity is "Project Portrait" - for this charity I take free photographs of families prior to deployments as well as photograph babies that are born while the dad is deployed.

It costs nearly $10,000 p/year in shipping and operating costs, no one is paid and all monies either are donated or are paid by myself and my husband (He is an E-5 Flight Medic in the US Army) or my parents, who are retired and living in the most humble of means.

Helping support our wounded and deploying veterans means so much to us. My husband has spent 27 months in Iraq and Afghanistan helping evacuate the wounded, so these charities are very personal to us.

The website is www.operationangel.org, www.projectrudolph.org or www.projecttlcserves.org

Angel's Kisses by Tena Carr

"Daddy you're looking awfully peaked." Little Angelica said to her father, Lt. Jack Ramone, her little face wrinkling with obvious concern as they made their way down the hospital corridor. "You need to go back to your bed and rest." Angelica insisted. For only being four years old, Angelica was extremely bright and perceptive.

"Peaked? Where did you learn such a big word?" Jack asked.

For a four year old, Angelica was extremely bright.

"My Aunt Cindy." Angelica replied. "She was always saying that I looked 'peaked', so I asked her what it meant and she told me it means that I look sickly and tired. But I don't look like that anymore, do I Daddy?"

"No Sweetheart, you don't."

Jack was thankful that his sister had agreed to take Angelica after his wife Bethany (Angelica's mother) had died in a