Linda L. Zern's Blog, page 10
March 16, 2018
SHORT STORIES - BEFORE THE STORY
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NEW * DOWNLOAD today * Another puzzle piece in the Strandline Series to help answer the who, the what, and the why . . . 
SHORT STORIES - BEFORE THE STORYF
FREE today through next Tuesday * Download a copy today * amazon.com/author/lindazern amazon.com/author/lindazern
NEW * DOWNLOAD today * Another puzzle piece in the Strandline Series to help answer the who, the what, and the why . . . March 14, 2018
STINGER GOAT - A REMIX
In the weak sunshine of a Florida winter, it is customary for some Floridians to sit on their septic tanks, their faces tipped up to the sky, their sinuses exposed to the gentle medicinal comfort of the sun’s warmth, their hope as raw as their throats that God and nature will heal them of their Ebola-Rhino-Flu-Plague. Okay, sometimes I pull a lawn chair over to the septic tank and sit in the sun and hope that it will make me feel better when I’m sick. Sometimes, Phillip, my son-in-law, brings the grandkids over and sits on the septic tank with me. What can I say; it’s Saint Cloud. Once upon a time, we (Philip and I) sat in the sun on the septic tank. I was feeling as weak as two kittens in a sinking sack from Ebola-Rhino-Flu-Plague, while Conner and Zoe (the grand-kidlets) cavorted merrily under a Japanese Plum tree.
Zoe sang, “Fruit-fruit-fruit, I want two fruits.” Conner pooped in his pants.
The world spun gently, right up to the point when Conner, poop in drawers, stumbled in the direction of a strange, horned, white goat that had mysteriously appeared in our yard, having journeyed from somewhere beyond next door.
“Phillip, grab that boy before Billy Goat Gruff knocks your kid down.”
The goat flipped his scraggly beard in the direction of my voice. Phillip ran and scooped Conner up, setting him next to me in my pool of medicinal sunshine on the septic tank. The goat, a smallish—no higher than my knee variety—with dirty blond hair and “come hither” yellow devil eyes, started a slow determined trot in our direction.
Phillip, never a lover of goats or farm creatures in general, said, “What does it want with us?” He sounded nervous—also squeamish.
“Oh, he’s probably just seeing what’s what.” I tried to sound confident.
The goat kept trotting.
I closed my eyes in exhaustion brought on by the Ebola-Rhino-Flu-Plague. The odor of goat, BOY goat, engulfed me, and wow, did he smell close! When I opened my eyes, it was to the sight of this stinker of a goat trying to French kiss the sleeve of my shirt and the sound of obscene noises of goat love. I bolted out of my lawn chair.
I yelled, “Or he could be looking for a date.”
The goat made a lunge at my leg. I dodged.
“Grab the kids before it’s too late—this stinky goat is in full on goat whoopee love mode.”
Phillip scooped up Conner but Zoe, misunderstanding what I had said, began running wildly around waving and yelling, “Go away stinger goat. Go away.”
Confused, but hopeful, the goat surveyed the scene and then lunged at the closest leg—Phillip’s leg.
Zoe waved and yelled, “Leave my daddy’s leg alone.”
“It’s having its’ way with your leg,” I screamed, as I ripped the garden house from the side of the house.
“Run!” I ordered.
Expecting a torrent of water, I turned the spigot on full blast, but lying advertising and crap marketing had given me a false sense of security in my new never-kink hose. A weak drip of water taunted me, and I cringed to see more crimps and kinks than hose.
Phillip shrieked.
Zoe shrieked. “Bad Stinger Goat!!”
I whipped the hose from side to side to un-kink the kinks and to defend whatever honor Phillip had left in his right leg. The goat continued to lust.
Finally, the hose kinks came free and I fire-hosed that nasty, stinker of a goat. The goat loved it. The distraction gave Phillip enough of a head start that he, Conner, and Zoe made it to the screened porch. I brought up the rear, not two steps ahead of the now wet and super rank horn-dog of a goat.
What I saw in my son-in-law’s eyes still brings a shudder to my soul. What he said next, I cannot forget.
“I showed fear,” he said. “I showed fear.” He hung his head.
Conner tried to pet the goat through the porch screen. I tipped over a lawn table and shoved it against the screen door.
“You smell like a bad stinger goat,” I said, avoiding Phillip’s eyes. “I hope you have a change of clothes.”
Before he finished slinking off to wash himself, I said, “We will never speak of this.” His chin collapsed onto his chest. He continued slinking. Somewhere in the yard a goat bawled his loneliness.
This is the story that I started my website with several years ago. To catch up on all my tales of hose kinks, goat attacks, and family shame check out www.zippityzerns.com
February 17, 2018
GAME
Friday was a beautiful day in our neighborhood. The weather sang. The day sparkled. The grandchildren ran wild. I called off science club in light of the beauty of the great outdoors and said, “Run free, little birds, run free.” And off they went to do what children do.
And what did they do?
They engineered a new game. They dug a hole in the sand hill. They propped up a piece of plywood with hunks of scrap lumber. They aimed and angled the plywood at the hole. They located a bowling ball. They took turns sitting in the hole. They lugged the bowling ball to the apex of the inclined plane and let it fly at the guy sitting in the hole, legs spread wide.
The object of the game?
To jump out of the hole before the bowling ball smashed into your genitalia.
The name of the game?
Bust Your Balls.
I gave them homeschool credit for the proper use of an inclined plane, engineering a free-standing structure, a scientific demonstration of gravity, a sound understanding of anatomy, and cooperative gameplay.
My hairdresser once expressed concern about her son when he refused to come inside to make a reindeer ornament out of a paper plate because he and his buddy were too busy outside chopping something with an ax. She wanted to know if I thought he’d become an ax murderer. I said only if you make him come inside to make a reindeer ornament out of a paper plate.
Boys. They need bowling balls and plywood and dirt and outside and the vague possibility of crushed nuts.
Linda (Don’t Come Crying to Me) Zern
February 15, 2018
IN REVIEW
Book reviews are tricky creatures. Authors want them. Writers need them. Artists hunt high and low for the wily beasts through patches of tangled feedback trees.
I am an Indie author of eight books (plus or minus, depending on how you count the short story collections). I write across genre lines. I write for love, for dreams, for kicks, for readers. I write for reviews.
Good reviews are the sticks we use to build our rickety storage units of approval.
The bad ones are sticks we use to beat our confidence over the head.
We send words out and hope for some to come back. Reviews.
I’m hoping to review more this year, but I’m looking at the mother of all writing dilemmas: telling the truth, keeping the faith, guarding the gate without sending people into fractured confidence comas.
And I think I’ve figured it out.
I'm going to review books under cover of anonymity. No titles. No authors. Just the words and what works and what does not work. But not stars. Not a star rating. Three stars. Five Stars. Nope.
Snacks. I want a snack rating. One snack bag of Fritos if I can make it through the first five pages. Five snack bags when I hit fifty pages, and I haven't run into one of the big three: telling not showing, obnoxious grammatical roadblocks, or characters made of cardboard. Halfway and I salute you with a full-size bag of Fritos. And if I get to the end of all the lines, all the way to the great big resolution at the end, I'm making a toast, with lemonade, my favorite.
1 snack bag = five pages
5 snack bags = fifty pages (this is my elementary school teacher's standard if I'm not in love with it by fifty . . .)
Halfway = full-size bag of Fritos
If it goes off the rails before the end = party sized bag
The big finish = lemonade toast
Disclaimer: Please be advised that I have never picked up a book and not wanted to adore it. NEVER. EVER. I want to be transported. I want to be swept up and away and farther than that. I want the author to step quietly to the back of the room to watch me being transported. I want to love every book I read. ALWAYS.
Linda (The Unknown Reviewer) Zern
February 12, 2018
Marshmallow Smuggling (A Classic ZippityZern's)
The way a family spends its weekend is a real indicator of just how nuts a family is, no matter how not nuts they want people to believe they are.
My family is an excellent example of this working theory. We would like you to believe that we are sophisticated intellectual sorts who spend our leisure hours having deep philosophical discussions, frequenting places of stimulating cultural interest, and engaging in recreational activities. Here’s how the weekend really shakes out.
THE DEEP PHILOSOPHICAL DISCUSSION:
After watching The Lord of the Rings—again—we begin our post-movie, round table discussion by answering the following question, “What would you do if you had a ring that made you invisible?” Answers include . . .
Phillip (the son-in-law) - “I’d go around doing good for all mankind.”
Sherwood (my husband of forever) - “I’d sneak into women’s locker rooms.”
Phillip (when he heard Sherwood’s answer) - “I’d sneak into women’s locker rooms with Sherwood.”
Me (the voice of reason and sanity) - “I’d sneak up behind Sherwood and Phillip sneaking around women’s locker rooms and bop them on the head.” But then I added, “Invisibility ring! I’m already invisible. What I need is a VISISBILITY ring.”
Adam (Please see my essay, Only A Nimrod Would Think that he could Tip Over a Whole Cow) – “I’d sneak up behind cows and tip them over.”
Maren (nineteen at the time) – “Men are dogs.”
Heather (after twenty minutes of deep thought) – “Pants People?”
THE FEATURED CULTURAL ACTIVITY:
Before Disney, before Universal, before civilization there was Gatorland. Gatorland is a semi-tropical ode to tacky tourist traps. We love it.
Murky pools of fetid water swirl as Florida alligators and the occasional crocodile glide by. Reptiles, roughly the size of sofas, bask in the shimmering heat. We throw marshmallows at them. Visitors can buy hotdogs to toss to the gators, which bring them to a boiling frenzy, but why? For ninety-nine cents and the thrill of watching Adam smuggle a bag of Jet-puffed marshmallows in his pants you can bring these pre-historic handbags to the point of hysteria.
(Please note: It is wrong to do this and you should never, ever smuggle foodstuffs in your pants when visiting Gatorland—ever. I’ll tell.)
And before anyone complains that we’re probably causing cavities in the alligators with our contraband marshmallows, let me remind you that alligators use their teeth for grabbing you, not chewing you. Alligators eat you—after they death roll you, drown up, stuff you under a submerged log, and tenderize you. Then they snack on you. Believe me, those marshmallows never touched their teeth.
Culture is 150 alligators lined up and waiting—breathless—for the next Jet-puffed marshmallow. Our working theory is that they’re sick of eating hot-dogs, biting chunks out of each other, or jumping for dangling chickens. (Note: Yes they do jump, no matter what Sherwood and Philip say. They don’t jump great, but they jump.)
RECREATIONAL ACTIVITY:
Once a month, we indulge in Sunday dinner with the Chevrier family. Note: Sometimes the Chevrier’s temporarily adopt one or more of our children and raise them, like in the Middle Ages when you sent your kids to other people’s castles to check out the alligators in their moats.
So we have dinner. We eat. We talk. We discuss deep philosophical issues like, “Will marshmallows give alligators high blood pressure?” And if we’re really in a wild and crazy mood we take our own temperatures with Carol’s way cool ear thermometer. Aren’t you glad I didn’t say rectal thermometer?
There’s crazy and then there’s weird.
There you have it, philosophy, culture, and recreation. One of the things I like best about our family is that we can really laugh at ourselves. I can’t think of people I’d rather be invisible with or get busted with while smuggling marshmallows in my pants.
Linda (Puffy Pants) Zern
My family is an excellent example of this working theory. We would like you to believe that we are sophisticated intellectual sorts who spend our leisure hours having deep philosophical discussions, frequenting places of stimulating cultural interest, and engaging in recreational activities. Here’s how the weekend really shakes out.
THE DEEP PHILOSOPHICAL DISCUSSION:
After watching The Lord of the Rings—again—we begin our post-movie, round table discussion by answering the following question, “What would you do if you had a ring that made you invisible?” Answers include . . .
Phillip (the son-in-law) - “I’d go around doing good for all mankind.”
Sherwood (my husband of forever) - “I’d sneak into women’s locker rooms.”
Phillip (when he heard Sherwood’s answer) - “I’d sneak into women’s locker rooms with Sherwood.”
Me (the voice of reason and sanity) - “I’d sneak up behind Sherwood and Phillip sneaking around women’s locker rooms and bop them on the head.” But then I added, “Invisibility ring! I’m already invisible. What I need is a VISISBILITY ring.”
Adam (Please see my essay, Only A Nimrod Would Think that he could Tip Over a Whole Cow) – “I’d sneak up behind cows and tip them over.”
Maren (nineteen at the time) – “Men are dogs.”
Heather (after twenty minutes of deep thought) – “Pants People?”
THE FEATURED CULTURAL ACTIVITY:
Before Disney, before Universal, before civilization there was Gatorland. Gatorland is a semi-tropical ode to tacky tourist traps. We love it.
Murky pools of fetid water swirl as Florida alligators and the occasional crocodile glide by. Reptiles, roughly the size of sofas, bask in the shimmering heat. We throw marshmallows at them. Visitors can buy hotdogs to toss to the gators, which bring them to a boiling frenzy, but why? For ninety-nine cents and the thrill of watching Adam smuggle a bag of Jet-puffed marshmallows in his pants you can bring these pre-historic handbags to the point of hysteria.
(Please note: It is wrong to do this and you should never, ever smuggle foodstuffs in your pants when visiting Gatorland—ever. I’ll tell.)
And before anyone complains that we’re probably causing cavities in the alligators with our contraband marshmallows, let me remind you that alligators use their teeth for grabbing you, not chewing you. Alligators eat you—after they death roll you, drown up, stuff you under a submerged log, and tenderize you. Then they snack on you. Believe me, those marshmallows never touched their teeth.
Culture is 150 alligators lined up and waiting—breathless—for the next Jet-puffed marshmallow. Our working theory is that they’re sick of eating hot-dogs, biting chunks out of each other, or jumping for dangling chickens. (Note: Yes they do jump, no matter what Sherwood and Philip say. They don’t jump great, but they jump.)
RECREATIONAL ACTIVITY:
Once a month, we indulge in Sunday dinner with the Chevrier family. Note: Sometimes the Chevrier’s temporarily adopt one or more of our children and raise them, like in the Middle Ages when you sent your kids to other people’s castles to check out the alligators in their moats.
So we have dinner. We eat. We talk. We discuss deep philosophical issues like, “Will marshmallows give alligators high blood pressure?” And if we’re really in a wild and crazy mood we take our own temperatures with Carol’s way cool ear thermometer. Aren’t you glad I didn’t say rectal thermometer?
There’s crazy and then there’s weird.
There you have it, philosophy, culture, and recreation. One of the things I like best about our family is that we can really laugh at ourselves. I can’t think of people I’d rather be invisible with or get busted with while smuggling marshmallows in my pants.
Linda (Puffy Pants) Zern
January 28, 2018
THE MOST IMPORTANT FURNITURE IN YOUR HOUSE
I loved them all.It’s the bookcase, of course. The most important furniture in a house is the bookcase. Some people don’t trust folks who don’t have a dog. I don’t trust people who don’t have a place for their books. People without shelves stuffed to the brim with actual, physical books are quite possibly soulless droids. Oh, they'll comment on the dust that books gather or the space they take up, but in the end, the clicking of their circuitry gives them away.
I grew up in a house with bookcases crammed with actual, physical books. It was the age of book of the month clubs, Reader's Digest Condensed Books, and the golden age of the public libraries. There were three television channels . . . And books. I loved those books.
My youngest son wants to read a thousand books in his lifetime. I already have. He doesn’t believe me, but then he didn’t grow up when I did, or how I did.
At Oviedo High School, I wandered into the library and didn't leave. I discovered the Salem Witchcraft trials through Miller's The Crucible and then read all the non-fiction versions of the same event. I disappeared into the inspiring, horrific accounts of war written by Leon Uris, the mysteries and histories, and romances of Victoria Holt, the horrors of Edger Allen Poe, the absolute mastery of Shirley Jackson’s writing. And I devoured all the science fiction I could put my hands on. Ray Bradbury made me believe in Martians and rockets and dandelion wine. Pearl S. Buck made me believe in faraway places on the library globe.
I read and read and read. I read books I can't remember the titles of, but their characters still live in my head. There was a funny book about a girl who worked in a bridal shop, a sad book about a girl who worked at the carnival as the snake woman, the story of a housewife who claimed to remember her past life as an Irish woman named Bridey Murphy, and so many more.
In college, I knew things the other students did not because I had read hundreds of books. For a lonely girl born in the fifties to a family with its overly fair share of dysfunction and growing up in the tumultuous sixties, books in bookcases were better than friends. They were lifesavers.
Today, I’m boxing up hundreds of books to make room for more books—some of which I wrote myself.
Linda (Dust Jacket) Zern
January 24, 2018
January 7, 2018
2018 - The World As It is
Color me done.
I’m done with non-judgment, co-existence, and moral grayness. Done. If I wanted to live on a typical American college campus, I’d go live in a dorm and buy a gas mask. Why a gas mask? Come on. Take a guess.
In 2018, I plan to judge, exist, and live in the light of truth.
The Golden Globes are tonight. It’s a big party thrown by Hollywood’s most sparkly rapists and shiniest victims. You’ll know the victims because they’ll be wearing black.
PLEASE NOTE: I do not now nor have I ever believed all men are rapists, and I’ve known of quite a few predatory women in my day as well.
For forty years, Hollywood has been attempting to shape our attitudes and judgments about home, family, God, country, men, women, boys, girls, sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll. And we’ve lapped it up. The same Hollywood that stood silently by while big, fat, crusty, star-makers ejaculated into potted plants in public restaurants.
It isn’t just that Harvey Weinstein abuses people and plants. That’s a question for police and legions of lawyers, and I hope that they answer it by slamming the cage door shut on him. It’s that Harvey Weinstein has been “green lighting” some of the most watched, awarded, and popular movies in the industry. This is the nasty man that bought the rights to that guy’s book or passed on her story. Things that make you go . . . hmmm. What books didn’t this creepy old man decide to throw the weight of his power and money behind? Which stories will never get told? And how many stars will never get made? Because they were not morally gray.
And get this! Hollywood is one of the biggest champions of the notions of coexistence, diversity, and unconditional acceptance. I bet.
COEXIST? How? How does one coexist with rapists? Or those whose moral compass is so broken they would make excuses for rapists? A society without judgment is quite simply a dangerous place to live.
I grew up in the freewheeling, free-loving ‘60’s. If it feels good do it. That’s what society told the rising generation, and they did. And now the world doesn’t like the results when the feel-good hipsters became the scummy power brokers of the 21st century.
But it feels good, and they want to do it. And why shouldn’t they? “Because it hurts others,” we shout, “that’s why.” Careful. That smacks of old-fashioned morality and no one likes a prude.
There were those who tried to tell the world. They were mocked and insulted and ignored. It puts me in mind of that scripture in our sacred texts that says something along the lines of beware to those that mock for they shall mourn.
Linda (Hands Off) Zern
I’m done with non-judgment, co-existence, and moral grayness. Done. If I wanted to live on a typical American college campus, I’d go live in a dorm and buy a gas mask. Why a gas mask? Come on. Take a guess.
In 2018, I plan to judge, exist, and live in the light of truth.
The Golden Globes are tonight. It’s a big party thrown by Hollywood’s most sparkly rapists and shiniest victims. You’ll know the victims because they’ll be wearing black.
PLEASE NOTE: I do not now nor have I ever believed all men are rapists, and I’ve known of quite a few predatory women in my day as well.
For forty years, Hollywood has been attempting to shape our attitudes and judgments about home, family, God, country, men, women, boys, girls, sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll. And we’ve lapped it up. The same Hollywood that stood silently by while big, fat, crusty, star-makers ejaculated into potted plants in public restaurants.
It isn’t just that Harvey Weinstein abuses people and plants. That’s a question for police and legions of lawyers, and I hope that they answer it by slamming the cage door shut on him. It’s that Harvey Weinstein has been “green lighting” some of the most watched, awarded, and popular movies in the industry. This is the nasty man that bought the rights to that guy’s book or passed on her story. Things that make you go . . . hmmm. What books didn’t this creepy old man decide to throw the weight of his power and money behind? Which stories will never get told? And how many stars will never get made? Because they were not morally gray.
And get this! Hollywood is one of the biggest champions of the notions of coexistence, diversity, and unconditional acceptance. I bet.
COEXIST? How? How does one coexist with rapists? Or those whose moral compass is so broken they would make excuses for rapists? A society without judgment is quite simply a dangerous place to live.
I grew up in the freewheeling, free-loving ‘60’s. If it feels good do it. That’s what society told the rising generation, and they did. And now the world doesn’t like the results when the feel-good hipsters became the scummy power brokers of the 21st century.
But it feels good, and they want to do it. And why shouldn’t they? “Because it hurts others,” we shout, “that’s why.” Careful. That smacks of old-fashioned morality and no one likes a prude.
There were those who tried to tell the world. They were mocked and insulted and ignored. It puts me in mind of that scripture in our sacred texts that says something along the lines of beware to those that mock for they shall mourn.
Linda (Hands Off) Zern
