Originally Posted September 2008
Trigger # 10 : How to Wash a Jungle Man
Title: How to Wash a Jungle Man
Author: Black-Haired Girl
Fandom: Tarzan? I suppose...
Warnings: This is pretty retarded.
Word Count: 529
Summary: Does "Bathtub" translate into Gorilla?
How to Wash a Jungle Man
Jane slipped through the narrow doorway into the spacious bathroom and pointed down at the blue-painted bathtub.
“Bathtub…” She said quietly to the jungle man who hesitantly poked his head through the doorway. She watched as he sniffed the air and shifted his weight from one foot to the next, apparently displeased with the cold tile against his calloused, bare feet.
“Ba-“ He began before raising both eyebrows high on his forehead, obviously confused by the strange new word. She smiled kindly and pointed down at the tub again.
“Bathtub.” She repeated patiently. He listened intently as she spoke the word before once again trying to speak it with an unaccustomed tongue.
“Bath… tub.” He murmured curiously. Jane smiled brightly and nodded.
“Yes-yes. Bathtub. You wash here. Wash. Your body?” Her words fell upon deaf ears. She had been working with Tarzan for a little more than a month and though he knew the basics he still didn’t seem to have the grasp of the English language that she had hoped for.
He stared at her for a long moment before nodding his head vigorously. “Bathtub. Bath… tub. Wash.”
“Precisely!” Jane exclaimed, very pleased that he had absorbed at least a few of her words. Now she had to test whether the concept had translated. She was not sure if the jungle man had a gorilla word equivalent for bathing. Did gorillas even bathe? Perhaps not.
“Tarzan… you wash here.” She said slowly, pointing into the tub. “Wash…” She lifted her hands to her torso and began rubbing across her chest, trying to illustrate the act of scrubbing to him. He watched her do this. A smile crossed his rugged, yet surprisingly handsome features.
“Wash…” he grumbled. Then, to Jane’s surprise, he approached her and began rubbing his hands across her chest in large, clumsy circular motions. The sudden groping caused her to squeal in surprise. Frantically she began to bat his hands away, a bright red blush creeping across her cheeks.
“No-no-nonono!” She wailed as she fended off the offending hands. “Oh dear, this isn’t working…” With a dismayed sigh she slumped to a sit on the edge of the bathtub. “There has to be some other way to get you clean…”
Tarzan frowned and stood beside her awkwardly, staring at the top of her head, waiting for further instruction.
“Ah ha! I have an idea!” Jane suddenly exclaimed as she leapt to a stand beside the grungy jungle man. “Come, follow me!”
<3 ~~~~~~~~~
“Tarzan no like!” Tarzan yelled in horror as a cold spray of water pelted the back of his matted hair. Jane laughed heartily as she watched the loincloth-clad man crouch low to the ground in attempt to get away.
“Now hold still, you ninny, it will be over in a few minutes!” Jane yelled with a large grin as she pointed the hose at Tarzan’s exposed back. The jungle man howled in protest as he was hosed off. A few neighborhood children had gathered along the white picket fence that surrounded Jane’s father’s yard to watch.
“Now, that is how you wash a jungle man!” Jane exclaimed triumphantly.
Showing posts with label prompt to write. Show all posts
Showing posts with label prompt to write. Show all posts
Friday, April 22, 2011
[Prompt] Writing Digest: 20 Line Poem on Annoyance
Originally Published: September 2009
"Write a 20-line rhyming poem about something that really annoys you."
Title: Annoyance
by, Black-Haired Girl
Don't interrupt me, you little prat
you're acting like a spoiled brat.
I don't enjoy scolding you
so listen up and think this through.
You ask for advice but you never take it
then things go wrong and you throw a fit
I told you so, but you just don't listen.
All that advice you've just been missing.
She "broke your heart" or so you said
and I sat quietly and pat your head
and told you exactly what to do
but you did the opposite, didn't you?
The truth is I don't feel bad.
You don't have my pity, I'm not sad.
I vow to never waste another moment
helping you with personal torment.
You are still my friend despite your mistakes
and every time your heart shall break
I will be there to hold your hand
in silence. There I shall stand.
"Write a 20-line rhyming poem about something that really annoys you."
Title: Annoyance
by, Black-Haired Girl
Don't interrupt me, you little prat
you're acting like a spoiled brat.
I don't enjoy scolding you
so listen up and think this through.
You ask for advice but you never take it
then things go wrong and you throw a fit
I told you so, but you just don't listen.
All that advice you've just been missing.
She "broke your heart" or so you said
and I sat quietly and pat your head
and told you exactly what to do
but you did the opposite, didn't you?
The truth is I don't feel bad.
You don't have my pity, I'm not sad.
I vow to never waste another moment
helping you with personal torment.
You are still my friend despite your mistakes
and every time your heart shall break
I will be there to hold your hand
in silence. There I shall stand.
[Prompt] Writing Digest: Monster Under the Bed
Originally Published: September 24, 2009
Title: Monster Under The Bed
By, Black-Haired Girl
"When you were little, you could swear there was a monster under your bed--but no one believed you. On the eve of your 30th birthday, you hear noises coming from under your bed once again. The monster is back and has an important message to deliver to you."
+
Sleep has never come easy for me. Ever since I was a little girl I could never fall asleep. There was always something to think about or worry over. What was I going to wear to school tomorrow? Would my teacher tell me to read out loud in class again? What about Richard Paul? He was the cutest boy in the school. Would he finally notice me? What would my report card be this semester? Where are my missing socks? Did Mister Whiskers really run away or was Mom lying to me?
Everything worried me. The distance our planet was from the sun, whether God existed, or did rolliepollie bugs actually hide in your shoe to bite you...
Despite these worrying questions there was always one pressing issue in my childhood.
Was Barry real?
Of course I thought he was but my mother and father were convinced he was a figment of my imagination. It was a great source of frustration. When they would kiss me goodnight I would insist they put their heads under my bed to kiss Barry too. Then would only laugh and say, "darling Barry isn't real. There is no monster under your bed."
Of course the moment they would turn out the light and shut the door I could feel a rough kick to the underside of my mattress, which I knew was a warning for me to quit trying to out him.
There was a monster under my bed. Some nights he was there, and others he was not. Or maybe he was but he was sure quiet about it. Either way, Barry - which I named him for the low baritone grumble he would make on occasion - was real to me.
Real until my 16th birthday, when he stopped existing altogether. On that particular birthday my parents had given me a brand new bed and mattress, an Asian style one that sat on the floor with no space between the floor and frame. Barry had nowhere to live, and so he must have found another place to dwell.
Or so I thought.
The night before my 30th birthday was just like any other. I had gone to work, come home, pet my cat while watching the latest reality TV trash while eating a bowl of the blandest rice mixture I could conjure before lugging myself into the shower and then to bed. I still had trouble sleeping, even now. However my worries were quite different. I had bills to pay, and promotions to seek, and workplace stress that sat atop my head nagging me in and out of my dreams. I was just about to drift into a fitful dream about going to work in my pajamas when something bumped the end of my bed. Assuming it was the cat just leaping onto my feet I merely repositioned, hugged my pillow against my face and sighed.
Another bump jostled my mattress, this one much more forceful than the last.
I pushed myself to a sit and stared dumbly into the darkness at the foot of my bed. There was no cat, and soon I could hear Miss Kitty pawing feebly at my bedroom door. If she was out there, then what was in ... here?
I tugged my legs against my body and stared into the wall of shadow at the foot of my bed. I could see nothing, and just as I began to rationalize that my mind was definitely playing tricks on me I saw something move in the darkness. A darker shadow against the blank black canvas of darkness at the end of my bed. It was small, about the size of a small dog. It shifted to the right, then slowly inched up to the foot of the bed. I grabbed my pillow and heaved it over my head, preparing to beat back the animal that had broken into my room. I was about to strike when an odd, and somewhat familiar sound rose through the quiet.
"Look how big you are now, turtle head."
Title: Monster Under The Bed
By, Black-Haired Girl
"When you were little, you could swear there was a monster under your bed--but no one believed you. On the eve of your 30th birthday, you hear noises coming from under your bed once again. The monster is back and has an important message to deliver to you."
+
Sleep has never come easy for me. Ever since I was a little girl I could never fall asleep. There was always something to think about or worry over. What was I going to wear to school tomorrow? Would my teacher tell me to read out loud in class again? What about Richard Paul? He was the cutest boy in the school. Would he finally notice me? What would my report card be this semester? Where are my missing socks? Did Mister Whiskers really run away or was Mom lying to me?
Everything worried me. The distance our planet was from the sun, whether God existed, or did rolliepollie bugs actually hide in your shoe to bite you...
Despite these worrying questions there was always one pressing issue in my childhood.
Was Barry real?
Of course I thought he was but my mother and father were convinced he was a figment of my imagination. It was a great source of frustration. When they would kiss me goodnight I would insist they put their heads under my bed to kiss Barry too. Then would only laugh and say, "darling Barry isn't real. There is no monster under your bed."
Of course the moment they would turn out the light and shut the door I could feel a rough kick to the underside of my mattress, which I knew was a warning for me to quit trying to out him.
There was a monster under my bed. Some nights he was there, and others he was not. Or maybe he was but he was sure quiet about it. Either way, Barry - which I named him for the low baritone grumble he would make on occasion - was real to me.
Real until my 16th birthday, when he stopped existing altogether. On that particular birthday my parents had given me a brand new bed and mattress, an Asian style one that sat on the floor with no space between the floor and frame. Barry had nowhere to live, and so he must have found another place to dwell.
Or so I thought.
The night before my 30th birthday was just like any other. I had gone to work, come home, pet my cat while watching the latest reality TV trash while eating a bowl of the blandest rice mixture I could conjure before lugging myself into the shower and then to bed. I still had trouble sleeping, even now. However my worries were quite different. I had bills to pay, and promotions to seek, and workplace stress that sat atop my head nagging me in and out of my dreams. I was just about to drift into a fitful dream about going to work in my pajamas when something bumped the end of my bed. Assuming it was the cat just leaping onto my feet I merely repositioned, hugged my pillow against my face and sighed.
Another bump jostled my mattress, this one much more forceful than the last.
I pushed myself to a sit and stared dumbly into the darkness at the foot of my bed. There was no cat, and soon I could hear Miss Kitty pawing feebly at my bedroom door. If she was out there, then what was in ... here?
I tugged my legs against my body and stared into the wall of shadow at the foot of my bed. I could see nothing, and just as I began to rationalize that my mind was definitely playing tricks on me I saw something move in the darkness. A darker shadow against the blank black canvas of darkness at the end of my bed. It was small, about the size of a small dog. It shifted to the right, then slowly inched up to the foot of the bed. I grabbed my pillow and heaved it over my head, preparing to beat back the animal that had broken into my room. I was about to strike when an odd, and somewhat familiar sound rose through the quiet.
"Look how big you are now, turtle head."
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
[April Prompt] Prompt Blog: The Ruse
Title: The Ruse
Written For April's Prompt on Prompt to Write
Geneva didn’t like the look of any of the men in the room. It was as if they could all see right through her. Every eye tracked her as she walked through the crowded smoking parlor and up to the bar where, with trembling fingers, she poured herself a drink of brandy.
How did she ever get caught up in a ruse such as this?
Carefully she took a swig. Instantly she regretted it. She tried her best to fight the urge to spit out the foul, burning liquid. Why on earth would men force such a torture upon themselves? If it took swallowing this poison to be a man then she had no desire to keep this up!
Sure, there were benefits to dressing this way. For one thing, she received no catcalls as she walked down the dark alleys to this establishment. If she had been dressed in her usual bonnet and bustle she would have been teased and taunted by the dredges coming home from the docks. This time nobody seemed to notice her. She had slid through the market easily with only minimal pestering by the merchants who normally would have been fervently trying to sell her ribbons and lace. Hardly anyone had tried to bother her at all, except for the occasional young girl who may have bought into her disguise a little too easily.
She had made it here undiscovered. It had been a piece of cake getting into the smoking parlor, an establishment explicitly reserved for only gentlemen. She had never before had seen the inside of such a place. It was completely different from the sunrooms and gardens kept for women to visit company. It was dark and oppressive. Everything was grand and expensive, plush and gilded. The air was musty and heavy with smoke. There were no windows, only large ornate oil lamps and fireplaces scattered throughout the enormous space, giving the dark room a sickly orange glow. Everyone had a drink or a cigar in hand, and all were partaking in gambling or billiards.
Geneva wasn’t impressed and she decided she would rather take the sunny arboretums and clean, fresh linen of a woman’s sitting room any day.
With a tight purse of her lips she forced the liquor and her tension down into the pit of her stomach. She had to focus. She had to remember everything that Thomas had taught her. She slouched her posture, stuck out her flat stomach, widened her stance and pretended to take another swig from her glass. The smell of the brandy made her cringe. As she lifted her glass to her lips she peered over its rim and searched the darkened room, scanning the faces for any sign of Aldon. She knew he had to be here; it was only a matter of time before he showed up.
Aldon MacMeyer. What a nasty pig. Geneva had never approved of him, but when her younger sister Melissa had come home so happy that he had finally proposed she couldn’t bring herself to adamantly protest. Melissa had looked so happy on her wedding day. Little did she knew that Aldon was a cad, and it was no surprise to Geneva that three weeks after their honeymoon he had been seen out on the town with another woman. Her sister had denied it, despite the many accounts given to her of his guilt. She loved him and couldn’t see a single fault in the slob.
It was up to Geneva to prove it to her. She and her friend Sir Walter Thomas had come up with the brilliant idea of this disguise. It would be easy, Thomas had told her. She would just have to go to the parlor, sit in the corner and listen. Aldon was notorious for being loud and outright about his affairs. He wore them like badges of honor. She would get proof from him somehow, whether it be a name of the mistress or the location of their secret meeting spot… whatever it was, she would get it and prove it to Melissa once and for all.
Geneva shuffled away from the bar just as two men approached it to retrieve drinks of their own. She slid quietly to the darkest corner of the room just behind a blackjack table and leaned her back against the wall. She wasn’t sure how long she would have to wait for Aldon to show up, but it wasn’t a problem. She had told her father she would be at the London Philharmonic with Thomas for their performance of the Greatest Works of Mendelssohn, which would certainly last all night.
She had nothing but time. With a satisfied smirk she reached into her pocket and pulled out a cigarette. She fished around in her coat pocket and found a match, striking it carelessly on the doorframe behind her. She lit the tip and gently drew a breath through the cigarette, watching an ember come to life on the tip. With a wave of her hand the match was out and discarded in a nearby ashtray. She took a leisurely puff and smiled brightly. It was the first time she had a smoke inside, let alone in front of anyone. How thrilling it was to practice her most guarded vice out in the open.
Ah, to be a man.
Written For April's Prompt on Prompt to Write
Geneva didn’t like the look of any of the men in the room. It was as if they could all see right through her. Every eye tracked her as she walked through the crowded smoking parlor and up to the bar where, with trembling fingers, she poured herself a drink of brandy.
How did she ever get caught up in a ruse such as this?
Carefully she took a swig. Instantly she regretted it. She tried her best to fight the urge to spit out the foul, burning liquid. Why on earth would men force such a torture upon themselves? If it took swallowing this poison to be a man then she had no desire to keep this up!
Sure, there were benefits to dressing this way. For one thing, she received no catcalls as she walked down the dark alleys to this establishment. If she had been dressed in her usual bonnet and bustle she would have been teased and taunted by the dredges coming home from the docks. This time nobody seemed to notice her. She had slid through the market easily with only minimal pestering by the merchants who normally would have been fervently trying to sell her ribbons and lace. Hardly anyone had tried to bother her at all, except for the occasional young girl who may have bought into her disguise a little too easily.
She had made it here undiscovered. It had been a piece of cake getting into the smoking parlor, an establishment explicitly reserved for only gentlemen. She had never before had seen the inside of such a place. It was completely different from the sunrooms and gardens kept for women to visit company. It was dark and oppressive. Everything was grand and expensive, plush and gilded. The air was musty and heavy with smoke. There were no windows, only large ornate oil lamps and fireplaces scattered throughout the enormous space, giving the dark room a sickly orange glow. Everyone had a drink or a cigar in hand, and all were partaking in gambling or billiards.
Geneva wasn’t impressed and she decided she would rather take the sunny arboretums and clean, fresh linen of a woman’s sitting room any day.
With a tight purse of her lips she forced the liquor and her tension down into the pit of her stomach. She had to focus. She had to remember everything that Thomas had taught her. She slouched her posture, stuck out her flat stomach, widened her stance and pretended to take another swig from her glass. The smell of the brandy made her cringe. As she lifted her glass to her lips she peered over its rim and searched the darkened room, scanning the faces for any sign of Aldon. She knew he had to be here; it was only a matter of time before he showed up.
Aldon MacMeyer. What a nasty pig. Geneva had never approved of him, but when her younger sister Melissa had come home so happy that he had finally proposed she couldn’t bring herself to adamantly protest. Melissa had looked so happy on her wedding day. Little did she knew that Aldon was a cad, and it was no surprise to Geneva that three weeks after their honeymoon he had been seen out on the town with another woman. Her sister had denied it, despite the many accounts given to her of his guilt. She loved him and couldn’t see a single fault in the slob.
It was up to Geneva to prove it to her. She and her friend Sir Walter Thomas had come up with the brilliant idea of this disguise. It would be easy, Thomas had told her. She would just have to go to the parlor, sit in the corner and listen. Aldon was notorious for being loud and outright about his affairs. He wore them like badges of honor. She would get proof from him somehow, whether it be a name of the mistress or the location of their secret meeting spot… whatever it was, she would get it and prove it to Melissa once and for all.
Geneva shuffled away from the bar just as two men approached it to retrieve drinks of their own. She slid quietly to the darkest corner of the room just behind a blackjack table and leaned her back against the wall. She wasn’t sure how long she would have to wait for Aldon to show up, but it wasn’t a problem. She had told her father she would be at the London Philharmonic with Thomas for their performance of the Greatest Works of Mendelssohn, which would certainly last all night.
She had nothing but time. With a satisfied smirk she reached into her pocket and pulled out a cigarette. She fished around in her coat pocket and found a match, striking it carelessly on the doorframe behind her. She lit the tip and gently drew a breath through the cigarette, watching an ember come to life on the tip. With a wave of her hand the match was out and discarded in a nearby ashtray. She took a leisurely puff and smiled brightly. It was the first time she had a smoke inside, let alone in front of anyone. How thrilling it was to practice her most guarded vice out in the open.
Ah, to be a man.
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