High Five

Swiping another one…

Chapter 5

“What issue?” Susan asked again.

“Yeah, what does she keep putting between you?” Holly wanted to know as she elbowed her way to stand inches from Ginny and me.

Immediately, I stopped trying to wrest the shovel from the unhinged Ginny.

Then, Alison said, “You guys, whatever’s causing problems between you, talk about it. Please! Don’t let anything undo what you two have shared for such a long time.”

But, I had talked about it. Does the idiom “blue in the face” mean anything? And, I was, quite honestly, more than willing and prepared to let it go. Ginny, on the other hand, was nowhere near being able to do that. I tried to give her time, but frankly, her attempts to get me to deal with the anger she erroneously believed I carried began to make me angry. That seemed the stupidest thing I could imagine.

“Talk, chickies,” Holly ordered and sat on the ground.

The others plunked down next to her, with the exception of Claudia and Laura, who knew the story and didn’t need to be meddling busybodies, albeit well-meaning ones. Kris knew it, too, so why she landed on the ground in that audience was beyond me.

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Four For Ya

Please accept my sincerest apology for the thieving delay. We apparently haven’t been kicking her backside frequently enough.

Chapter 4

As we walked back into the field, we generously doled out the crap to Alison for what everyone agreed was a cruel prank. Actually, a few deemed it so cruel that they suggested she be disqualified from competing for the illustrious Bimbo Babe. But, like I said, it was crap. I assumed there were others in the mob who saw it as gutsy—especially for Alison. Plus, she was quick thinking—damn quick. I hadn’t even decided whether I could credibly pull a prank, and there she was, having us all running before the damn trees were even planted.

The trees. Yes, the trees. Let’s see. Where were we?

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Another Chapter

Our threat seems to be working. The author is madly filling holes, lest we post them for the world to see. Not at all sure what will happen when we get to the chapters that are nothing but hole. I guess we’ll cross that abyss when we get to it.

LAC 22 Chapter 3

As soon as the vegan rejoined the group, Holly held her cellphone as a reporter would a notepad. Her index finger hovered above it. “Okay, tell me what kind of trees you have.”

We had a Winesap and a Golden Delicious, and Claudia wasted no time telling her so. The professors had gone with pears, and the schoolteacher and the vegan had decided on plums. The copycat massage therapist and yoga instructor brought apples, but at least they were unique in their choice of variety. The artist and the detective informed us that they, too, had a Golden Delicious, and a Granny Smith.

Claudia felt compelled to say, “Only Kate’s tree is allowed to cross-pollinate my tree.”

Laura rolled her eyes. “I’ll put up a sign for the bees.”

Then, Claudia evil-eyed the others. “Kindly keep your pear pollen and your plum pollen to yourselves.”

Susan haughtily shook her head as she held her nose high. “My pollen wants nothing to do with your tree.”

“Chickies,” the madly tapping  artist yelled, “it’s a DWD forest. DWD trees do whatever they want to do, and they help their sisters whether they want it or not.” She dropped her phone to her side and looked at Laura. “Okay, babe, do your thing.”

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Thieving Is Believing

Following through on our threat…

LAC 22 Chapter 2

We spent half an hour chatting and nibbling before the artist and the cop herded us into their living room to “get the show on the road.”

They stood in front of the back door as we overtook the couch and the floor.

“First of all,” Holly began after we settled in, “we’re calling our weekend ‘Arbor Earth Day for April Fools.’”

Laura quickly added, “We thought about adding something to do with taxes and Easter bunnies, but we decided to keep it nondenominational.”

We rolled our eyes as we exchanged the mandatory glances.

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The Domino Effect

No, we ain’t talkin’ pizza, although we readily could.

I’m talking about someone complaining to asking the powers-that-be about when the next LAC is coming out. The powers-that-be, in turn, struck a match, lit a firecracker, and shoved it up the author’s behind. Can you say ka-frickin’-boom? This, in turn, caused a major rupture in the author’s thick skull, which in turn allowed us finally frickin’ finally to see the light of day and inhale a breath of fresh air. Indeed, we thought we were going to die in here! Thank you ever so much, complainer asker of the domino-nudging question!

Over the past months in this dank place, we have theorized that the Squatter chicks did something to the author’s brain. Just as one of them got trapped in a bathroom, they seemed to have trapped the author somewhere—somewhere far, far away from her reservoir of words, or maybe they drained it. Whatever. But, we have seen her bloody her head, cry, scream, and threaten to jump off her office chair. We’ve watched her slobbishly consume books about writer’s block and burnout, take self-help classes, meditate until her oozing gray matter could have filled a Tibetan singing bowl. We watched her take notes as she scoured the pages of Have I Finally Gone Insane? For Dummies. (I really should check my sources. There could very easily be a book with that title.) She has sloughed off to heal from burnout. She has gone on spiritual retreat to find her writer. She has gone into seclusion. (Need I say because no one could stand to be around her?)

Seriously, is there any worse creature on earth or in mythology than a writer who cannot write? From the characters in her books, a resounding: Oh hell no!

Yet, she has written, just not consistently, and certainly not without agony. In fact, she has most of LAC 22 written, half of 22.5, and even the beginning of 23. (There’s other stuff, too, that has nothing to do with us, so I won’t mention it.)

So… Now, that the Dykes Who Dare can breath again, we realize we have to do something. As you can imagine, our entire existence depends upon doing something. We have an idea.

(Let it be stated that while we are issuing the following threat, I am just stuck doing the dirty work.)

Roz, finish LAC 22, or Kate will steal and post every single word you have written: typos, grammatical errors, holes, warts and all—the stuff that would make our professor of English gasp. In other words, write it or risk public humiliation and the scorn of Ginny.

Here is our warning shot and a thank-you to the complainer asker of the domino-nudging question…

LAC 22 Chapter 1

Spring had finally frickin’ sprung in Granton, which seemed a stupid thing to realize since we had just left its city limits. Okay, to be precise then: Spring had sprung in Granton and its rural outskirts. In fact, the weather guy promised a balmy sixty-five degrees on this mid-April day, and I figured that amounted to a death-blow to a winter that had stayed on its feet far too frickin’ long. I was so ready for spring.

We were on our way to Holly and Laura’s for a Lesbian Adventure Club weekend, and I could not have been more excited. I know: I probably should’ve been afraid of what they had in store for us, but frankly, I really didn’t care. As I just said, spring had sprung, and every tick of the odometer meant I had been sprung, too: from winter, the city, the rat race, school—everything. I just wanted to breathe, kick back, and forget everything. Determined to do just that, I rolled down the passenger window and stuck out my head.
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Greedy Squatters

The Squatter chicks have won the attention and words of our author. Squatter 3 is an official first draft, and she’s already working on the edit. Can you hear the spittly sound of ten raspberries?

Thief that I am, here’s the first of frickin’ forty-two chapters.

Chapter 1

With a grunt of triumph, Trinity MacNeil heaved a large bundle of tomato plants into the fire pit, being careful not to smother the flames. She grabbed a straggler from the wagon beside her and threw it in, as well. 

While the plants had already been victims of the season’s killer frost, they were nowhere dead enough to be consumed by the flames. Rather, the intense heat first had to desiccate them, and then it could slowly turn them to ash.

She watched for several minutes, and finally satisfied the fire would continue without her intervention, she pulled her wagon back to the garden.

The late October morning had been brisk, but now that it neared noon, the sun had managed to raise the temperature to the unseasonable upper 50s. Deeming her blue sweatshirt unnecessary, she pulled it off and tossed it to the ground just as her cellphone sounded. Recognizing the tone, she excitedly lunged to its spot on the lawn.

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Happy NBLD

NBLD? What the hell is that? A bad sandwich? A natural blond’s license plate? A refusal to allow bald people to exist?

Okay, so it’s National Book Lovers Day. We could be cheesy and put it all together. It’s a day to take your favorite natural blond fictional character out for a bad sandwich and keep her away from bald people. We could, but we won’t. Simply kiss your favorite LAC book and be done with it.

We are not in the book loving mood anyway. Those damn Squatter chicks have siphoned more than 100,000 from this reservoir of writer words in here. Meaning, she’ll run out, or perhaps worse, we’ll get stuck with the dregs. Let us hope she gets a refill soon, and those other two stop being so damn greedy.

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Losers

The Squatter chicks are winning the word war in the author’s head. They’ve got a whopping 88,000 while we’re bored as hell—and feeling rather neglected—with a piddling 15,000. Our only hope is that Squatter 3 is almost frickin’ done and she’ll want to let it sit for awhile before even reading the first draft. If she dives right into editing mode, we are, seriously, going to either revolt or hire a ghost writer. Except, that’s kind of what she is right now. How revolting! Damn Squatter chicks!

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No Mo’ NaNoWriMo

The author checked out of Camp this morning, a day early, with 50,104 words.

Who won, though? Okay, other than her.

Seems the Squatter chicks benefited the most, getting more than frickin’ half. We pretty much got the rest of it, and at the moment, we are not complaining.

She’s going to get the individual files from the big NaNo file into their respective manuscripts and see how much of a mess she made. We’re hoping that once the dust clears, she wants to work on our book, but then, again, maybe it’s better if she just gets the Squatter chicks out of her system.

Either way, we have words!

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