Rebecca Thompson, who runs a blog over at Sonshine Thoughts, has come up with the MOST INCREDIBLE BLOGFEST EVER.
Well, okay, it wasn’t totally her idea – but she’s the one who took a random Twitter chat and ran with it!
The Invasion of the Bloggy Snatchers Blogfest is one I’ve been looking forward to for a long time. The idea is to write a scene where some of your online writer friends invade and cause trouble.
Considering the level of mischief that goes on around here, I’d have to say this one’s gonna be easy. And probably all too realistic.
Also, I’ve chosen to write my scene in present tense because I’m kind of digging that particular tense over all the other tenses at the moment. Hope it doesn’t rock the boat too much!
* * *
Boy, it’s been a long day. I’ve just pulled into the driveway after work and all I can think about is lying down on the couch with a bowl of whipped cream mixed with pickles and maybe some canned chicken.
What? I’m pregnant. Don’t look at me like that.
I open the door and basically fall into the house, tossing my keys on the hook that hangs in the hallway. My purse joins the pile of unread mail on the table and I head for the fridge, visions of Cool Whip dancing in my head.
It’s not until I close the door that I realize something is amiss.
“GAH!” I scream.
“Oh, did I startle you?” Harley asks, her already enormous blue eyes growing rounder with feigned innocence.
I bend down to pick up the jar of pickles I dropped. “YES, you startled me. Where did you come from? Don’t you live in Florida? What are you doing in my house? And why are you lurking behind refrigerator doors?”
“Lurking is such an ugly word,” Harley says, shaking her head. She holds out a jar of something brown. “Nutella?”
“Ooh, yes please.”
It’s not until I’ve dug halfway through the jar with a spatula that I remember: Harley never answered my questions. “So, what did you say you were doing here?” I mumble through my chocolate-hazelnut covered teeth.
She scowls at me. “Why are you only interrogating me?”
There’s something about the way she says “me” that makes me drop my spatula in the sink and run to the living room.
“What is going on in here?” I cry.
“Oh,” says Carol with a flick of her dark hair. “Sara was just teaching me how to do a toe-touch. She used to be on Dance Team in college, you know.”
“Yeah, I know,” I reply absently as Sara leaps off the back of the couch, giving her toes a delicate tap in mid air and coming down on all fours. “She is very talented, but -“
“But you want to learn, too!” Sara finishes for me as she springs into the air again, performing a perfect herkie. “Of course I wasn’t going to leave you out. Come on up here and give it a try!”
“Oh, well, I don’t know. I’ve got this belly, see -“
“No excuses!” Sara says brightly, fists perched on her hips. This is when I notice she’s wearing a Spandex bodysuit. In fact, so is everyone else. How did I miss that one?
“Come on! Don’t be a party pooper,” Carol insists, offering me a bodysuit.
“It’s even your favorite color,” Harley points out.
I give the bodysuit, which is the color of spoiled meat, a dubious look. “Well…”
And that’s all the encouragement they need. Within five minutes, I’ve been pushed, pulled, and zipped into the bodysuit, my belly popping out in all its glory. The fabric is stretched so thin over my baby bump that you can see my skin tone coming through.
“How do you feel?” Sara asks while doing a handstand against the wall.
“You feel awesome, right?” Carol urges with a little sway of her hips.
“You’re gonna do the best toe-touch ever!” Harley exclaims with a manic gleam in her eye.
And you know what? I do feel pretty awesome. And I AM gonna do the best toe-touch ever. Maybe I’ll even try out for a dance team. Maybe I’ll become a professional toe-toucher.
This could be the start of a whole new life for me, I think as I examine my bulging, Spandex-covered midsection in the mirror. Anne Riley, toe-toucher extraordinaire.
Finally, I turn back to my friends, all anger and shock at their sudden appearances long gone. They’re staring back at me with eager smiles and I know I can’t disappoint them.
“Let’s do it!” I shout with a triumphant fist-pump.
“WHOOOOOOOOOO!” They call, slapping each other’s hands and leaping around in a somehow perfectly coordinated routine.
“We should make it quick, though,” Carol says. “These suits are starting to chafe.”