Pesca-what-now?

My wife says to me, "What do you think about pescatarians?" 

I shrug and say, "Hmmm. Kinda indifferent, really. Aren't those the guys on 'Star Trek' with the ridged foreheads?"

She responds with an award-winning eyeroll.

Next I offer, "Wait... They're the scary cult of Joe Pesci fanatics, right?"

"Don't be dense, dear."

"Okay, okay. I know it's the fish-like people of Pescaria. But are they ruled by Aquaman or Submariner?"

Alright, the above is malarkey. I actually knew what a pescatarian was, but wasn't quite sure I was ready to take the full plunge. You see, my wife and I are constantly on the lookout for diets that work for us. For a long while, the low-carb deal worked wonders. But the older we get, the harder it is to take off those well-earned pounds.

So. Pescatarian it is! (For those few who don't know, pescatarians incorporate fish into an otherwise vegetarian diet. We're vegetarians who cheat.)

Of course there're pros and cons to this diet plan. On the con side, no more meat. Boooooooo! But to be honest, lately I'd been giving that some thought. Not too long ago, I remember gnawing at a chicken breast and began to think about the ramifications of this poor, brave chicken who valiantly gave its life so I could chow down on its meat. Except...it didn't really give its life. It had no say in the matter. It'd been raised in a pen only to be slaughtered and sold as food. Gross! And I don't see President Biden "pardoning" chickens every day. 

As an animal lover, the whole meat-eating thing's been kinda bugging me recently. (And, natch, as a meat lover of nearly sixty years, I was also torn, struggling to leave my slavering, carnivore instincts behind.) But I took the splash and dove in (hello, fishies!).

Now I hear some of you saying, "Stuart, don't feed us that liberal, granola b.s. about meat is murder. Get a grip, man! Go hug a tree, feel good about yourself, then follow that up with a slab of A-1 cow ribs!"

To that I say, "Leave me alone, dammit!" (I was always a great debater.)

Others may say, "Pffft. Animals are dumb. They're here to supply us food. Besides...everyone knows animals don't have souls."

And I would respond, "We don't know that. There's no possible way to scientifically discern that. For that matter, we don't even know if we have souls. A soul is not a scientific construct!"

Now before you bible-thumping, meat-eating guys come after me with a pitchfork, I'll grant you this little bit of hypocrisy: If based solely on moral reasoning, I think it's a bit insincere for pescatarians to eat fish and not meat. Science has proven that fish can feel pain. So there's that. Also, they have a central nervous system. (Now I'm thinking about all of those hooks into their mouths. Yikes.) 

Why are pescatarians allowed to eat fish and not meat? Beats me. Maybe it's because we try not to think of fish in the same way as we do, say, cows. I mean, fish don't walk, right? And let's face it...fish are kinda gross. Far from cute. At least the edible kind. 

Perhaps it's because fish aren't as visibly prevalent as chickens, hiding out in the ocean doing God knows what. You know...outta sight, outta mind, fair game to eat, let's dine! Bam!

But based upon an intensely in-depth scientific study I conducted (I made it up), the real reason pescatarians allow themselves to devour fish? So they can eat sushi. Everyone knows humankind can't exist without sushi.

(I kinda think the real reason, though, is that fish provides a great deal of nutrients and vitamins, and on a straight-up vegetarian diet, you could become anemic. But THAT'S hardly fun to yak about.)

So, how is the pescatarian diet going for me? Well, I've only been on it for a couple weeks, having it been kickstarted by a freak storm knocking out our electricity for days, thus forcing us to toss out all of our meat. A sign!

But the results so far have varied. When I'm eating a celery, peppers, and other junk wrap, I can't help but think about a juicy hamburger.

Speaking of which, my wife picked up some plant-based "burger" patties called "Beyond Meat." It's beyond meat alright...beyond and all the way into the trash can. When I cooked a couple in a skillet, I made the mistake of cooking them as long as meat. Needless to say, the rank odor of burnt plants still fills the house. (I bet Moses could relate, burning bush and all.) I also made the mistake of thinking it'd taste just like a meat burger. Instead, it sorta tasted like cardboard. Only worse.

I miss pizza. But, hey! I always forget I can have a 52 cheese pizza (hold the veggies, please, just this once) and pretend there's sausage on it. 

There are other cheats, too, lots of substitutes. And of course, all the gross fish I care to eat. It's a much better diet than straight-up vegetarianism. At least I get sushi!

While on the topic of what seemed like a good idea at the time, meet my protagonist "Tex" McKenna, regular guy who just wants to survive the travails of high school, such as bullying. Problem is he keeps making bad decisions, teenage style. Also, he's found out he's a witch. Compound that with the mysterious repeat killer who's targeted him and his few, but loyal friends. It's all in Tex, the Witch Boy, the first in a series of books.

My great (maybe not so "great") grandparents owned slaves!

I come from a long line of racists. Most in denial, yet oddly proud of it.

First of all...apologies for my ancestors' past transgressions.

My dad stuck by his convictions. I didn't agree, didn't like it, but at least he was honest about where he stood.

"I'm racist, son," he'd say, "and I don't mean maybe."

I'm not really sure what prompted his racism. He'd hinted at his past, some bathroom incident when he was in the army. I never pushed too far. Didn't want to. Some things are better off buried.

But as an impressionable young child, I couldn't understand why my parents disliked everyone un-WASPy.

"Why do you hate black people, Mom?" I'd asked.

"Me?" she said. "I don't hate colored people. There's some good dark boys out there."

"What about Jewish people? Wasn't Jesus Jewish?"

"Jews! Jews killed Jesus!"

"Hm. What about Catholics? What's wrong with Catholics?"

"Mercy sakes. They worship Mary!"

End of discussion. No insight gained.

With age (and I hope enlightenment), I discovered how ludicrous all of that nonsense was.

I spent years and years fighting my parents on this, trying to change their minds, to look at things differently, more accurately and humanely. Pointless as battling a tornado with a fly-swatter. Best I could hope for is not to get sucked into the crazy.

My mom's still a hard-charging, practicing bigot. Not too long ago, she dropped a shocking racist slur.

"Mom," I screamed, oh so righteously (probably more than was merited, but such is the cross to bear when you're a white, guilt-stricken liberal), "that's racist and ugly!"

"Me?" Her eyes batted, vacant, innocent. "I'm not racist. Just as long as the darkies know their place."

Yow. Spoken like a slave-owner.

Speaking of which, I found out my great grandparents owned slaves, for Gawd's sake. (Sorry, sorry, sorry...)

My dad once told me, "Son, you come from good stock." Regardless of Dad's simile to cattle, there's nothing really tasty about racism.

Recently, I couldn't help myself. Fun where you can get it.

"Mom," I said, "you know a lot of historians say Jesus was black, right?"

Silence. A long, interminable silence. Zillions of crickets. Finally, "Bah. What do historians know?"

Ladies and gentlemen, my mom! She'll be here all weekend!

One of my parents is still on earth, one passed. They taught me many great things. But my disagreement with them over racial issues is set in stone. Weird thing, though, is my love for my folks is oddly, humanly intact. Ugly warts and all.

Mortality sucks!

Mortality's something I don't like to think about, something I keep back-burning like cleaning out the gutters.

"Ah," I figure, "the gutters will wait for a while."

Problem is, mortality doesn't like to wait.

Last week, my daughter hits me up with a text: "Hey. My mom had a heart attack. Can you watch my dog?"

Whaaa?

First: Bad way of communicating, daughter, bad! 

My heart pounded, not a good sign. I naively thought, well, clearly my daughter meant her grandmother had a heart attack. But that didn't track; one's out-of-town, the other grandmother (my mom) would let me know about it louder than a three-alarm fire-bell. 

I re-read the text.

Yup, clear as day, my daughter's mother had a heart attack.

In full-on, near heart-attack mode myself, I'm texting (damn, it takes a long time on ancient flip-phones: tap, tap, tap, wait, tap, tap...), calling ("Sarah, answer your phone, what the hell you mean your mother had a heart attack? Good Gawd, tell me...BEEEP.), you know, generally having a melt-down. Which helps no one.

"Okay, okay," I tell myself, "my daughter's not freaking out, so why should I?"

GAH! Tap, tap, tap, wait, tap, tap... "Talk to me, dammit, why's the world spinning out of control?"

No answer. My daughter had an hour drive into town. Good on her for not texting while driving. Bad on her for not utilizing a more immediate, stone-age form of communication : telephone! Hello, psychedelic freak-out!

Later, I find out my ex-wife did have the Big One. The "widow-maker," as the jokers in science refer to it.

I called my ex while she was still in the hospital.

She says, "Hey, we better take better care of ourselves, now that we're getting up there in age."

What?

Fifty-five is the new beginning of middle-age, as I constantly remind my wife. My wife laughs. 

Sure, I have a tendency to ignore my squelchy knees, my sore back, hair where it shouldn't be and hair that's fallen from where it's supposed to stay put. In many ways, I'm reverting back to my baby stage. 

But I can remember being young. Gotta' count for something, right?

Shameful, but I had to pull up a calculator to figure out my age. No lie. Guess it's something I've been trying hard not to think about. But, c'mon! Some dude from Game of Thrones just died at the age of 93! I'm only 49 (alright, alright, 54)!

Whatever.

New health regimen. Exercise 'til I vomit. Nothing but food that's good for me (and tastes like crap, because those two requirements go hand in hand; yum, kale!). Less alcohol. Regular sleep hygiene. Don't stress out over my family.

Starting in 2017, of course. After I clean out those damn gutters, once the weather turns friendly. Gotta' fortify myself first.

Rome wasn't built in a day, as they say. (And trying not to think about the short period it took for the Roman empire to fall).

Vacuum Wars

Little did I know how my life would change when I took the vacuum cleaner in to be fixed. A tale of woe and caution...

The store was a little one, a neighborhood joint. I always like to give business to "Mom & Pop shops." 

For you see my vacuum sucked, just not the right way. So in I went.

"Hmm, looks like you have 'The Boss.' Someone likes Springsteen," said the vacuum guy.

"Yeah, but this baby's not born to run."

I slayed. The vacuum guy laughed and laughed and laughed. Off to a killer start. But horrors awaited.

After a month of not hearing from them, I visited the store. Problem is they're never open. Weird hours. Only open Monday, Wednesday and Friday, 10-4. And even during those times, the guy still wouldn't open the door for me. I visited, lurked, waited. Closed. Always.

I called. Got "Dave" in the warehouse. Speaking in an indecipherable foreign accent straight out of creaky Frankenstein movies.

"Hello! Yes! Yes! This is Dave!"

"Um, hi, Dave, I have a vacuum with you guys, been there for a month. It's 'The Boss,' and I..."

"Yes, yes, $89 dollars! But I'll sell you a new one, better than Walmarts!"

"Well, thanks anyway, but let's just fix the old one."

"Yes, yes!"

Another month passes. No word. I call again and get Ygor in the warehouse cavern again.

"Yes, yes, yes, I'm glad you called. We lost the ticket. Runs like new!"

Two days later, I pick it up. Then notice, after the fact, all of the arm extension and accessories are missing.

"Dave (which is a weird name for a clearly European mad doctor), I'm not happy," I tell him. "All of the accessories are missing."

"Yes, yes, yes! I knew I should've never taken on this job! I knew it! You should've bought a new vacuum! I told you so!"

Huh. So much for the customer is always right.  I let him know this.

"You're crazy! I spent too much time fixing this! You should've bought the new vacuum! I told you this! I told you to buy the new vacuum. Cheaper than Walmarts!  Yes! Yes! I don't want to argue, but..."

That's all Dave did was argue. Finally, he said he'd give me new extensions. But I'm kinda afraid to go pick them up.

CLICK HERE TO PURCHASE!

A new milestone: my first bee sting(s)!

Last weekend, I was doing yard work. Just finished mowing the yard, sweating and panting like a gorilla, and I thought why finish there? How about trimming (a chore I tend to only do twice a year; yeah, I'm one of those kinda neighbors)?

Proud of my chutzpah, I trimmed around the garden in front. Suddenly, my thigh was on fire. Huh, I thought, that's odd. I scratched like mad, tamped my thigh many times just in case somehow a spark from the trimmer had crawled up my shorts. That's when I noticed the ground cover hazy like heat off hot tarmac. I'd stumbled into a horror movie's worth of bees swarming around me.

I shrieked (a manly shriek, mind you) more out of panic than terror. Then a bee landed on my wrist. Couldn't shake it off, blow it off, thwack it off.

Okay, I've never been stung before. And at age 54, I truly thought I was gonna live the rest of my life without suffering through this heinous rite of passage. Whatever.

Be that as it may, I'd like to clear up some untrue myths about bee stings. Pay attention class...

First, it's not the sharp bite you hear about. Rather it's a burning sensation, acid eating your skin. And it won't go away. Think I'd rather have the instant BLAMMO and be done with it.

Second, whoever said that if you don't show fear in front of a bee, it won't sting you. What a load of crap! I didn't even know they were in my vicinity until they started burning my skin off. The fear came later. (But it seems I'm now on the bee's radar; lately when I've walked the dog, they chase me. I suppose the sight of a big man and large dog running from a bee may look amusing to some people, but it's no laughing matter when you're running for your life).

Third, once a bee stings you, it dies. Not these buggers! They kept attacking like the Energizer Bunny, stinging me time and again. My hand swelled up into a bowling ball. My thigh contains a map of the world in bruises. I didn't even get to take satisfaction that my enemies would die afterward.

Fourth, to become immune to bee stings, eat five worker bees. Yeah, be my guest. I understand the Golden Poison Arrow Frog tastes great over a grill, too.

Fifth, if you dig the stinger out with a knife and quickly suck the venom out, you won't suffer any consequences. Except for going to the ER with a carved up hand and poison in your belly.

Perhaps I need to invest in a full-on hazard suit for future yard work. Or pay the neighborhood kid to take his chances.

For more sheer terror, check out Secret Society (the book formerly known as {just like Prince!} The Secret Society of Like-Minded Individuals) from Books We Love Publishing: Extremely friendly purchase linky. 

 

Lightning Struck

Not too long ago, I told my mom I took the dog out for a walk between our frequent Midwest storms.
She said, "You shouldn't do that. You're gonna get hit by lightning."

Huh. "Mom, are you really worried I'll get hit by lightning?"

"Why, yes!" She punched it hard, emphasizing my naivete.

Just this week, I had a bout of nausea. Since the well eventually runs dry on things to talk to my mom about, I shared it with her. We love to share ailment stories.

She said, "I hope you're not having a heart attack."

Wha? After I pooh-poohed that idea, telling her I walk many miles four times a week, she replied, "Maybe you're walking too much."

Sigh. Still on the case, she followed up with, "Maybe you should take a suppository."

Gah! No thanks. As a child, suppositories had been one of my mother's favorite forms of torture hiding under the guise of "medicine." All the abominable "pills" ever did was make my stomach more upset and cause me a year's worth of humiliation. Never again. 

Of course my mom knows no better. After all, her parents fed her spoonfuls of kerosene (KEROSENE!) when she was sick.

Anyway. I come from a long line of worriers and negativity. If there's nothing currently wrong, my family will work hard to find something to worry about.

My grandmother was the same way. While I was in junior high, she lived with us. Every day I'd rush home, amped up that I'd survived another school day.

"Hi, Grandma," I'd say, "how was your day?"

"Long and boring. Can't see nothin', can't do nothin'. May as well be dead."

Buzz-kill, Grandma.

It's a can't win situation. At times, I find myself falling into the same hole. Quickly, I try to dig out. I know all too well how unpleasant it can be to hang around negative people. Daily, I struggle to look at the positive so as not to punish my loved ones.

So, the next time my mom hammers me with her usual diatribe, "The world's terrible, everything's going to pot, everyone's out to rip you off."

I'll respond with, "Yes, but at least we have twerking." Maybe I'll even demonstrate a little.

For something even more terrifying than suppositories, check out my newest book,  Ghosts of Gannaway. 

The Judas Ant

I don't care how many CGI kiddy movies are made about ants, they're not cute. All wiggly limbs and creepy-crawly.

Especially since we have a weird infestation in our bathroom. It's not like we eat in there. But, suddenly, they're crawling the walls. It's like a crappy Syfy movie, "Antacula Vs. Toiletsaurus."

So I went to our local hardware megastore. It's an extremely overwhelming gigantic place, especially for a mechanical dolt like myself. My idea of being handy around the house is operating the TV remote (and that can be quiet taxing since we have about six remotes for one set-up).

I wandered the aisles until someone finally took pity on me and then redirected me toward the "pesticide expert." Which is kind of mind-boggling. Just how many "experts" do they have running around in that store? 

When I told the guy my problem, he offered me a malicious grin. Said, "Got just the thing for ya. Kill 'em good and dead." (Like there's any other way to kill them. "Dead," I mean, not "good.") Then he dragged his finger across his throat, accompanied by a "Kkkkkkkk." Sort of an insect sound in itself. No wonder he's the bug expert.

"Ant Bait's" what I brought home. Now, get this...the box claims the drones will take the poison back to the queen ant. Harsh.

I started wondering about the ant who brings back the poison to his queen.  He'll watch as the queen takes a bite, expecting a cookie. Instead, she'll gag, look at the carrier, say, "Et tu, Brute?" The rest of the crowd will die, pointing judgmental ant limbs toward the poor lil' guy. And all the while, he's probably all "What?"

Assuming he survives, he's gonna have some heavy-duty ant therapy to wrestle through.

This innocent ant will have a terrible legacy, too. Henceforth, he'll be referred to as "the one who killed the queen." I pity him, I truly do. In ant history books, he'll go down as the biggest mass murderer ever. In tiny ant colleges, in little ant philosophy courses, the professor will ask the class, "If you could go back in time and kill the Queen Slayer while he's in his pupae stage, would you?" 

And all he ever set out to do was please his queen. An unfair world, especially if you're an ant. Guy can't catch a break. So sad.

I'm rethinking my "antageddon." I'd like to trash the ant-bait, let them live. Are they really hurting anything? Besides just kinda, you know, being gross?

For another frightening tale, check out Ghosts of Gannaway. Spookier than ants crawling down your bathroom wall, guaranteed.

Xenophobic Hollywood

Our world has come a long way regarding certain hot topics. Women's rights (just not in the work force), racism (kinda' depends on what state you live in), homophobia (Ireland, of all countries, is leading the pack).

But, there's still a fear, a deep hatred, toward aliens from worlds beyond. No one trespasses worse than Hollywood.

Scoff if you will, but if it pleases the court, let me present the evidence. The truth is out there, just not presented accurately by movie and TV moguls.

Hollywood presents aliens in two--count 'em, two--different ways:

1) The alien who wants to eat human's faces;

2) The alien who starts out wanting to eat human faces, but due to the nobility of the human species changes its' mind.

Yow. Not a wide spectrum of range there.

Actually, I'm more down with the face-eating alien stereotype. At least the alien knows what it wants. What kind of wishy-washy alien truly examines humans under a microscope and decides they're worthy? To the point of derailing their impending earth invasion to the detriment of their own kind?

Really? I mean, if I were a B.E.M., I'd probably lean toward the eating option. You don't hear about racial strife on the planet Galortica, a well-adjusted and hungry lot.

Yet Hollywood keeps perpetuating the ugly myths. I hate to think that somewhere Droolax and Septeen-17 are sitting on a sofa, checking out Earth's sci-fi shows.

"Droolax, pass the popcorn."

"Yo, check it out! On this entertainment program, the Earthlings are calling us aliens. Us! Gah! We've been around for billions of quadlaxitives longer."

"No kidding. These puny earthlings are so disgusting with their gangly four limbs and cow-like two eyes. I'd eat them, but it'd just be too gross. Buncha' bottom dwellers."

Don't get me going on the "characterization" of aliens on TV. Of course, they're always humanoid. I dare you, Hollywood, to try and create a true character of a gaseous or blobby nature (outside of the hungry kind, of course).

Aliens on TV are always void of emotion. Hollywood's idea of alien characterization, since Earth has a universal monopoly on emotion.

"Captain, what are these strange droplets of moisture welling in the corners of my visual orbs?"

And that's usually a break-through moment for the alien character. Then, commercial break! Back to emotion ground zero. While the humans smirk knowingly like smug parents around toddlers. Sometimes aliens say the silliest things, don't ya' know?

C'mon, Hollywood. Let's give aliens a chance.

(Of course I reserve the right to change my mind if an invading alien decides to eat my face.)

For a frighteningly different sorta tale, check out Ghosts of Gannaway. (No aliens, but ghosts. Lots and lots of scary ghosts). And since my publisher, Books We Love, has temporarily gone insane, the book's on sale for .99!

A Zillion Socks

Here at Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley, there's no such thing as a stupid topic. No, that's a bald-faced lie. But it hasn't stopped me yet. Hence, the saga of a zillion socks (a cautionary tale of math, greed, footwear and humanity's place in the universe).

The other day I was grousing about not finding any of my favorite socks (What? Don't judge me!). My wife says, "Well, what'd you do with them?"

"I've been wearing them," I said. "You bought, like, a zillion pair!"

"Hardly. A zillion pair of socks wouldn't even fit in this house."

I had to stop and think for a minute. A zillion pair of socks. Wow. Sorta' made me feel small in the bigger picture of things. Not only regarding bountiful footwear, but in the cosmos itself. I was but a microscopic creature when compared to a mighty kingdom of socks. It was mind-boggling, awe-inspiring; my little brain couldn't even begin to conceive so many socks crammed into one place.  Sometimes I think God, the fates, or whatever you choose to believe in, maintains the balance of the universe, and hence our sanity, by dropping extraneous socks into a black hole at the back of our dryers. Some things man just isn't meant to see. I brought the number down before my head exploded.

"Okay," I said, "how about a billion socks? Would a billion pair of socks fit into our house?"

"Doubtful."

"Well, surely a million socks would work. Could we squeeze in a million pair of socks?"

"Maybe."

"Let's get shopping!"

That idea, of course, was shot down. But I got excited when we started trying to figure out the equation. Cubic square feet of house divided by a tightly compressed pair of socks. Or something. Once we realized how much math was involved, the shiny luster sorta tarnished. And we got back to business. As you can tell, a very busy Saturday.

But there are moments, sometimes late at night, when I'll wistfully look about the house and just imagine the wonders of having a zillion socks crammed from floor to ceiling. Awesome!

For other flights of imagination and suspense, check out my Amazon author's page.

While you're there explore the wonders and mysteries of Gannaway, Kansas, in my new historical ghost story, Ghosts of Gannaway.

 

A mall is no place for a middle-aged, out-of-shape guy

When my daughter and two nieces conspired to go the the mall, they asked if I wanted to go.

Did I want to go? Absolutely not. The mall, to me, is a place to be avoided. Full of women's clothing stores and various lotions, ointment and holy-hell-priced tea boutiques.

But I relented, bowing down to the peer pressure of "#familybonding." Plus my nieces claimed (a mighty big stake) they wanted to try Sushi. Well. Mall Sushi isn't probably the best introduction, but I went with it anyway.

Thirty minutes in, sweat started rolling off my shaved head. I huffed and puffed like I wanted to blow the whole place down. I kinda' did, too.

I'd entered a new era, one that hadn't waited for me. I became a dinosaur, a relic of a past age. Teenage girls cruised the halls, bags of expensive clothing dangling from their wrists like charm bracelets. Clusters of energetic boys, wearing shorts far below the level of common sense, hooted and hollered like monkeys. When I saw the price for the three girls to ride the carousel, my wallet weighed down my shorts nearly as far as my teenage brethren. Security guards eyeballed me warily, a Sesame Street game of "one of these things doesn't belong here."

I followed the girls into high-priced and trendy clothing stores, feeling out-of-sorts whenever the young clerks (I wear underwear older than them) approached. I considered asking if they had XL sized men's skinny jeans, but it sorta defeated the whole purpose, I think.

The food court was a trap in waiting. Acoustically amplified voices reverbed off the high ceiling. A multitude of fried foods awaited the unwary traveler, all the kiosks lined up like gaudy shuckster tents at a carnival. And for some reason, the cart-driving janitor had it in for me, ramming his vehicle into the back of my legs, not once, but twice. I suppose I provided a target too good to ignore. He didn't offer an apology, just a dumb, blank look. The look I'd grown accustomed to. Message received. I didn't belong.

And the Sushi, oh, the Sushi. My nieces were predisposed to hate it, something I suspected. But after shelling out big bucks for a tiny tray, these were the results:

My mall adventure was a painful lesson. It had me questioning my "middle-aged" status.
When did I get old? Granted, even as a youngster, I've never enjoyed going to the mall. I've always thought of shopping as a necessary evil, not an event. Get in, grab, get out. Eyes straight ahead, know what you want. Don't turn around, lest you turn to stone.

But the hits kept on coming that day. Later, at the grocery store, the check-out girl tried to ring me up on a senior discount. I haven't yet hit that very unmagical age. So I fought, very vocally, to spend more money on my hemorrhoid creme.That'll show 'em.

For a different kind of horror, check out my new book: Ghosts of Gannaway.

"Huh."

Recently, my wife brought to my attention (and it takes a lot this side of a tire iron upside the head) that I've been responding by saying "huh" a lot. One little word. Not even a word, really, more like a caveman's grunt. Where'd I pick up this habit?

Lightning struck me, not the usual cartoon bulb of enlightenment either. My mother uses the word, wielding it like Thor's hammer.

Mom will ask me, "Are you going to church tomorrow?"

"No, Mom, sorry. Other plans."

"Huh."

Boom! There it is. Hauls more weight than a big ol' sixteen-wheeler careening down an ice-covered highway.

Joan Crawford: Founder of the Clever Mother Society

As a writer I'm ashamed to say I can't conjure up any wordsmith that could possibly match that one word's severity. It's a sound that makes me grind my teeth.

But the word works on me. Oh, yes, it works.

"Mom, we really need to look into your TV options. You can't get free cable forever."

"Huh."

I think Mom just lucked into this superpower. It's not intentional; she's a loving, kind person. But it's definitely my Kryptonite. Sure Mom uses other catch-phrases, all of them potent, such as "I think it would be nice if...." and "I think it'd be fun for you if...(and, of course, this leads into a suggestion that is usually anything but "fun")." But those I can deal with. Just not "huh."

It's the sound that destroys worlds, reverses face-lifts, causes dolphins to bark,  turns lima beans yummy, makes kangaroo pouches envelop their owners. The utterance that has won wars.

"Huh."

My mom's a better writer than I am with one simple word.

For something even scarier, check out the trailer (provided by author extraordinaire Meradeth Houston) for my new suspense thriller, Ghosts of Gannaway:

Get the book here:  Ghosts of Gannaway and others at my Amazon author's page.