Every time you blog, you run the risk of not being heard. But nobody’s going to make fun of you for it, though it may feel like a wasted opportunity.
That’s when the Second-Chance Dance comes in.
Starting on Thursday and ending on Wednesday, I will collect up to 30 posts that you want to be promoted and feature them on my Twitter and WordPress. Sound good?
Here’s the Inlinkz. Click it and follow the instructions.
Let’s all be kind and give each post a click, like, follow, and extra points for a comment. This is a good way to network, and to expose yourself to different blogs.
She was a map with no ocean, and I was at sea.
Maryellen Johnson wore her skirt too high for Mrs. Johnson’s liking, but Mrs. Johnson was just jealous of her legs. Every woman was. Smooth as they were tanned, and she was outside working on the farm more than her father’s workers were.
She had style. She was fit. She was gorgeous. And she broke my heart before she even knew it was hers.
I walked past her one day, watching her hips swing back and forth. Call me an ogler — I can’t deny it. She never noticed the trail of wagging tongues behind her, which was fine with us because she would probably sock us all right then and there. I ran straight into Mrs. Johnson, who was turning out of her fifth period English class.
Papers and bifocals flew, and I heard some popping sound.
“Mom,” Maryellen said, running back this way. I had hit the floor hard, and I deserved at least a glimpse of her for my troubles.
Yet she was chiefly concerned about her mom. Man. What a sweet girl. She would look good wrapped in my arms.
Rhythm, a sequence in time repeated, featured in dance: an early moving picture demonstrates the waltz. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
“Shall we dance?”
She speaks so coyly, as if she knows I’m putty in her hands.
She guides me to the center of the dance floor, amid a fluid mosaic of teens swaying with the rhythm. We’re just two people. But this feels so special, so unique.
“I…don’t dance much.”
“Neither do I.”
Tell her she’s pretty.
“You’re…the most beautiful girl in the room.”
Did I say too much?
We kiss, and sway the rhythm with the rest of the dance floor. The song plays on.
Hunger like a storm
How do I begin
A room within a room
A door behind a door
Touch, where do you lead?
While reading the latest news on cats’ rights on reddit, a deadline occurred to Craig. An 11:59 deadline for his term paper, which he had started in his head the instant he saw it was 9 o’clock sharp. Less than three hours to type thirty percent of his grade, with a required length of five pages. He whipped out his phone and called in sick for work.
After an earful and a rightful place on Jenny‘s “shit-list,” Craig got to work. 9:23. He could do this. Clicking on the calculator app on his phone, he calculated he would need to type at least ten words a minute nonstop to reach the deadline.
Hovering over Word, he realized he had no idea what the topic was. Something about Macbeth. His notes laid splayed out over his desk, suggesting there was no option but to wing it. And he wrote.
The next time he looked up, he had four pages and it was 11:23. Time was not on his side. He pulled every particle, noun phrase, idiom, and bullshit verbage from his mind and managed another page. After a quick spellcheck followed by an even quicker save, he submitted his paper with minutes to spare.
Only, something caught his eye. A time.
Deadline: 1/10/14 @ 11:59 PM
Craig sat back against his pillow and stared at the wall. He planned to suggest using military time to his professor, and turned back to his hasty draft.