If You Want Word Sprints, You Got It!

(What's better than a five-minute word sprint?)

An interview I had prepped for is actually in another hour because I don't understand time zones, so I have some time to tear into a five-minute word sprint like a honey badger eating Pop Tarts.

Start that timer.

---

The Penguin stared at the clock, anger making his face even more a caricature than normal. The contact was supposed to be here by now. Oswald Cobblepot was many things. Rich. Successful. Short. But tolerant of tardiness was nowhere on that particular list.

He had discovered a street hood who could finally bring Batman to his armored knees. Armor. Penguin remembered when Batman was just some guy prowling rooftops, beating up muggers. The Gotham cops would use him to solve some cases because he worked for free and they were (are) too stupid to do the jobs themselves.

He took on the wacky costumed criminals that seemed to appear weekly, of which, Cobblepott was more than a little ashamed to say, he was one. The great thing about rising through the ranks of the criminal underworld to its apex is that anyone who remembered him in that ridiculous top hat and tails are either too smart or too dead to mention it in Penguin's presence.

Nowadays, though, Batman was like some armored comic book super hero with any and every device he could think of not only there, but instantly available for use.

---

Decided to go with a comic book motif, as I've been reading a bungload of them lately. There you have it. Five minutes of a Penguin story that didn't exist until now. You're welcome.

Apparently, Five Minutes is a Boy Band As Well as a Writing Sprint

(I got nuthin'.)

The analogy of using my word sprints the way a musicians plays around on their instruments continues to resonate with me. I'm enjoying these little writing bursts. I'm also liking putting them instantly into the world instead of hiding them away. One, it's not THAT brave; only a couple people visit here & I have to beg for those hits, and two, maybe someone sees them and gets something from them. Not necessarily the content itself, but the idea that not every writing sesh has to result in something permanent. Or even good. Even crawling is forward progress.

Start the clock.

---

The band was loading their gear into the back of their "vintage" '87 Ford AeroStar when they saw it. It was behind a dumpster, beneath a homeless man who literally smelled like the living personification of a sour egg fart.

Johnny, the guitarist, was the first to recognize what it was. Given his upbringing in the food industry (his mom worked at Hardee's in the 80s), he quickly understood what was happening and moved to coerce Farty McChristthatstinks to move over a couple feet.

Bassists get a bad rap, but Bill sussed out what was happening within seconds of Johnny. He'd seen it and recognized, thanks to his patience and lack of ego, what it could mean for the band's future. Problem was, it apparently belonged to the homeless man.

Which, how exactly do you define ownership? Don't you have to be an actual person? Look, it can't be overstated just how bad this guy smelled. Someone who smells like that can't have a solid grasp on their sanity, much less their humanity and the concept of ownership. Fact is, it belongs where it belongs and we are the best capable to get it there.

A Heavenly Five Minute Word Sprint

(You ARE my heaven, Liam.)

In the midst of crippling (but not the suicidal/self-harm type so, win?) depression & various familial whatnot, I found my instrument again. Maybe not the Gibson Les Paul (lefty, obvs) of my dreams, but the little novelty ukulele I can plink a passable "Imperial March" on. Instead of the pressure of having to write Harry Potter every time I sit down, I'm just playing around, setting the timer, and seeing what springs forth. I never come into these with a specific idea. Or any idea. I set the timer and as soon as I hit start, I start writing whatever pops into my head. It's like sketching the tree stump in the front yard or noodling with your clarinet from high school. Nothing big, nothing scary; just a careful, consequence-free stretching of the artistic muscle (can you not?).

Headin' for Heaven.

---

Her head was killing her.

Had been all morning, for no discernible reason. She wasn't prone to headaches. Sure, everyone got them from time to time because reasons, mostly, but this didn't feel like an ordinary, everyday headache.

There were a couple things she could point to as the cause of this headache, but she had to admit, the large, green, scaly face retching from the right side of her face could be the one.

She hadn't noticed the new face until she was halfway to work. While she only then noticed it, she realized, looking back, it had probably been there all morning. For example, she now understood why, when trying to put her right earring in, she kept feeling a biting sensation. She pulled her hand back after each of the three attempts to find chunks of flesh removed, enabling her to see the tendons and bones usually hidden from view.

Hand bandaged and sans earrings (she hadn't worn just the one since college when she was dabbling and didn't think the one earring look even was a look anymore), she had headed to work.

I Live at the End of a Five and a Half Minute Word Sprint

(#swoon)

In honor of the incredible musician that is Poe & one of my favorite songs of said musician, I'm finna hit a five and a half minute word sprint. The ground is white, the blood is green, and I'm a writin' machine.

Kick it.

---

The bear had no feet, which was unfortunate. More unfortunate was his son's choice of a Father's Day present: vintage 1987 Nike Air Jordans. There are several levels as to how this borders literally on a horrific idea for a gift. The first, obviously, is how did a small bear obtain these kicks? Seriously, the more you dig into this story, the more levels it has. It's like a ridiculous onion.

So, not only does this bear manage to get a hold of shoes that human beings have murdered each other for, he provides them to a father, who not only has no feet, but harbors a deep hatred of all sports due to, again, the fact he has no feet.

Possibly the most troubling aspect of all this is, how did the small bear get the money to pay for the shoes? He had no money, no job. All the money his dad had in the world, other than his stock in Dover Motorsports, was the $12.53 he thought was hidden outside under a rock. Fact is, that money was stolen years ago by a kid who gave it to the local wino for two bottles of grape Mad Dog 20/20 and a quick tug job behind the gas station.