Milton: Fifteen Minutes Of Fiction

Embassy Christmas Party

For me, one Christmas party runs right into the next in my mind and none of them are really memorable. There was one party, however, that I will never forget. I was dating a girl named Holly that winter, and her dad worked at the French embassy. He got invited to the embassy Christmas party, which meant Holly got invited, which means - you guessed it - I got invited.

Yes, I wore a tuxedo to that Christmas party. The one and only time in my life I plan to do that; Christmas parties should be relaxed and informal, as far as I'm concerned.

Holly was coming down with a cold so she probably shouldn't have gone to the party, but she was determined. She told me it was because she couldn't wait to see me in a "monkey suit." Ha ha.

So she tucked two fistfuls of cough drops into her dress, and we headed for the party, which was held on board the ambassador's yacht. Ritzy, I tell you.

The evening went well, although the party guests were a bit out of my league, class-wise. Holly and I mostly stayed to ourselves. The real disaster hit when Holly's dad decided to introduce us to the French ambassador.

I bowed politely, and poor Holly, who had never learned the niceties of a curtsy, also tried to bow. Unfortunately, between the rocking of the yacht in the water, and Holly's slight indisposition, she lost her balance, and stumbled against the ambassador.

That wasn't the worst of it.

In the process, two fistfuls of cough drops burst forth and scattered all over the deck of the yacht. Those crazy embassy guards - they're just itching for an opportunity to spring into action. Later they insisted they thought Holly was trying to assassinate the ambassador, and the cough drops were some sort of miniature hand grenades or something.

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Freedom

I thought I had it. I thought for sure I'd finally achieved my goal of freedom. I turned eighteen, I graduated from high school, and I moved out of the house.

At last! I can stay up as late as I want! Watch whatever television shows I want, when I want! I can live on Hostess Twinkees and Ramen Noodles! And if I don't want to make my bed...I don't have to!

Ah, freedom!

But no matter how free I think I am, Monday morning still comes every week...

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Too Much Exposition

"So the movie starts with a big space battle. Lots of exploding space ships, lots of asteroid collisions. And hand to hand combat on board the ships."

"Light sabers?"

"Something like that. Only better than Star Wars."

"The audiences will eat it up!"

"Yes. They will. Then when the battle is over, we'll have a scene in the Senate."

"Another battle?"

"No. Just exposition."

"Exposition?"

"Yes. When you give background information that helps explain what is going on. It can be done with two characters talking to each other. Or a voice-over narrator explaining."

"I know what it is. It's just that we don't do exposition any more."

"What?"

"Yeah. It bores everybody. They sleep through it. And if they're going to sleep through it, it's a waste to film it."

"But the history and the politics behind the battle. It's very complex. We need to explain it!"

"Nonsense. Do you think the audience cares about background?"

"Well, I..."

"Who cares who is governor of this planet, or tetrarch of that planet? Why does it matter who is angry at who, or how they got the weapons to do something about it? The bombs explode just the same, and people bleed the same no matter what the politics are!"

"Yes, but..."

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Blueberry Pancakes

Blueberry pancakes are wonderfully sweet
For breakfast or lunch they are always a treat
I use them as bread for a sandwich complete
With pickles and onions and sliced luncheon meat
They're sweeter than rye, and more tasty than wheat,
And even the leftovers, they can't be beat,
Just munch them right down - you can't wait to reheat,
For blueberry pancakes are a most special treat!

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Jane and Juno Converse

"Hey Juno!"

"Whadya want?"

"What's Milton doing?"

Juno peeked over my shoulder. "He's typing."

"Well duh, I can see that. Just 'cause I'm a cat doesn't mean I'm stupid."

"Then whydja ask?"

"I wanted to know WHAT he's typing."

"It looks like he's doing the FIfteenMinutesOfFiction writing prompt."

"What is it this week?"

"Something about animals and...holy smokes!"

"What? What is it?"

Juno backed away in fear. "Milton understands what we're saying!"

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Tuesday's Child Is Full Of Grace

Tuesday's child, they say, is full of grace, but I know better. Tuesday is my day. Tuesday's child is angry, violent and destructive. Tuesday's child is the child of cavalry charges, hand grenades, bayonets, and atomic weapons. Tuesday's child is cruel and unforgiving, and loves death.

The Spanish had it right when they said, "Don't get married or begin a long journey on Tuesday."

For those who love peace, Tuesday is not their day. Tuesday is my day.

But don't take my word for it. Just look at the name itself. Tuesday. Tyr's Day. In Nepali it is Mangalwar, the Day of Mangala, and in French Mardi, the Day of Mars.

I am the god of war, and this is my day.

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My Third Fantasy Novel

Last month I sat down to write my third fantasy novel.

My first fantasy novel was about a creature called a wimplewooflewog. It was going to be awesome, but then we had a snowstorm and I had to go out and shovel snow all day, so I never got around to writing it.

My second fantasy novel was about a mind reading fairy warthog wizard, and it would have been a best seller, except that the circus came to town and my friends and I had tickets to go see that, and it seemed a lot more fun than writing a fantasy novel.

So then it was time for my third fantasy novel, but I really just didn't have any interest in writing anything. Unfortunately, there wasn't any snow and no circus was in town, and I couldn't find anything to distract myself from writing. So there I sat.

Then I had a brilliant idea. The rich and famous don't even write their own books; they have ghost writers to write for them. I need a ghost writer.

As I was thinking about this, I saw a ladybug crawling across my desk, and I squished it under my thumb, thinking that maybe it would come back and haunt me, and it could be my ghost writer.

That turned out to be not such a great idea, because it wasn't just a ghost writing ladybug, it was a mindreading brainsucking ideastealing ghostwriting ladybug, and it took every last good story idea I ever had, and wrote a best selling novel which it made millions of dollars from.

And I'm stuck writing dumb stuff about ladybugs.

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Alone On The Street Corner

I hate Christmas. Nope, my name isn't Ebenezer Scrooge. But I still hate Christmas.

Maybe you don't understand that. I bet you don't. You're one of the people I see every day, running past doing one errand after another. You're one of the ones singing Christmas carols and smiling to yourself. Or maybe you aren't smiling; maybe you're one of the ones with a permanant scowl attached to your face because you can't stand dealing with all the Christmas crowds. But at least you've got somewhere warm and quiet to go when you're done shopping.

I don't.

I stand here all by myself on the corner, and to you I'm invisible. You never see me when you walk past, you never smile or nod your head. You never even wish me a Merry Christmas, though you'll exchange holiday greetings with just about everyone else.

What is it about me? One by one all my friends (not that I had many to begin with) have left me, until I'm all alone on the street corner. Just me and that grimy old man who's trying to make a buck off everyone's last minute Christmas feeding frenzy.

And I certainly don't want to spend my Christmas with him.

Oh well, maybe Charlie Brown will come along and buy me. At least he recognizes a good tree when he sees one.

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Mahem After The Christmas Party

"I just don't understand why you hate Christmas so much, Milton," Alice said.

"No? Well, it's kind of a long story," I said.

"I've got time."

I shrugged. "Well, it started three years ago on Christmas Eve, when my brother Bill..."

"You have a brother?"

I guess it was no wonder that she'd be surprised; I hardly ever talk about Bill. "Yeah. He's five years older than me. Anyway, it all started three years ago on Christmas Eve, when my brother Bill was coming home from a Christmas party. It was icy and cold that night, and when Bill saw a man staggering down the street, he hit the brakes, which caused him to slip and slide and spin across the street and into the ditch, where he got stuck in a three foot snow drift."

"But the really bad news was that he clipped the staggering man as he spun past, and when he got out of the car, there was the man lying in a heap by the side of the road. Dressed in a red fur coat and cap, and carrying a sack of toys..."

"Your brother killed Santa Claus?" Alice said, awed.

"No stupid. First of all, he wasn't dead. And second, it wasn't really Santa Claus. It was one of those shopping mall Santas, and he'd got drunk on the way home..."

"Which is why he was staggering," Alice finished.

"Yes. Well, Bill wanted to get Saint Nick to the hospital, but he couldn't get his car out of the ditch, so he had to flag down another car. The man driving the car he flagged didn't seem happy about helping out, but when he saw Santa in the ditch, he agreed. Bill, Santa, and the grumpy man drove like maniacs to the hospital. They were halfway there when blue lights started flashing, and they had to pull over for a cop."

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Lord Of The Rings Filmmaking Secrets

Last night I was munching popcorn and watching "The Lord Of The Rings" with my sisters. They got into this big argument about how they could make Gandalf and Legolas one height, while Gimli was a bit smaller, and the hobbits were smallest of all.

April said that they actually searched all over the world for actors who were different heights, and had chosen some midgets to play the parts of Gimli and the Hobbits.

May just laughed at her and said, "No, that's not true. Peter Jackson has the latest version of Photoshop, and he just stretches out and shrinks the actors after they've filmed it."

June said they were both crazy, and pointed out that if Mr. Jackson had done that, all the trees and mountains would be stretched out too. She said that Gandalf, the elves and the humans were on stilts, while all the other actors had to crouch down. She said it was most obvious with the orcs; it was easy to see that they were hunched over.

By this time they were so engrossed in their argument that they'd forgotten all about the movie and the popcorn.

I listened to them for awhile, and then said that I disagreed with all of them, because I've done some studying on the art of filmmaking. I explained: "They have a machine that they put the actors into, that shrinks or expands them to the right height. While they're filming it, Elijah Wood really is shorter than the others, and when they're done for the day, they put him back in the machine and stretch him back out to normal size."

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