One-Sentence Love Story: A Sweetened Pot

Well.
I was having so much fun with you-all's One-Sentence Love Stories that I said to myself, "Hey, Karen - what's it worth to you?"
And I replied, "Gosh. It's at least as valuable to me as what I spent on the last movie I saw." (Which was "Hangover," by the way.)

So I decided to reciprocate. To honey up the pot.
Now included in the prize for Best One-Minute Love Story is a $25 gift certificate to your favorite bookstore or (if you're an artist) the same denomination to your favorite art-junk shop. Of course, if your favorite bookstore happens to be a place that does a fantastic job of supporting local writers, so much the better. Or, if you like to buy your pens and paints and paper and stuff at one of my favorite haunts - well, cool.

And by the way, if you're one of those people who got your brain wheels grinding yesterday and now find yourself even more inspired, feel free to amend or replace your entry, or simply to send another.
Like I said, I'm having so much fun.

All right - Here are a few entries that came in by way of Facebook.

1. FROM J.O. "Stealing a glance in his direction as she feigned interest in the gnarly potatoes and spindly asparagus, making her way toward his spare little booth at the farmers market, Vanessa told herself this was the Saturday she would finally look deeply into those hypnotic green eyes, pick up a bottle of the amber liquid and say: “Honey.” "

2. FROM N.L. "Her heart was beating wildly as she picked up the phone, knowing she was taking a chance after 8 years that he would have found another life but the three beers she consumed beforehand made it possible to take the leap and give it a try."

3. FROM LWD:
They met over ice cream, at Friendly's, and he melted her heart.

4. FROM SL:
The manly man flexed his manly muscles while the smart lady inwardly winked, sighed and decided cougar love was hot.

5. THREE from MD:
a. Making love to you is like hitting an inside-the-park home run.

b. At nightfall I walked outside to look at the moon that I knew you were looking at too and stared into your eyes for hours....

c. Anytime I think of you my body hums with excitement and I can’t think of anything else at all.

The One-Sentence Love Story Contest

By way of this here post, I challenge you, Dear Reader, to write me the best One-Sentence Love Story you can muster. (Read mine more easily by clicking on the image.) Oh, hell, SURE you can. Really. Try it. It's fun. I swear. You, too, can be a writer.

Since it's only one sentence -- it can even be a reeeeally LONG sentence -- you should be able to fit it just fine on the comment section here or, should you choose, the comment section of my Facebook page. Or, if you really loathe the limelight, send me a private message at my AOL address, ksands7.

The best story wins (if you want it) a version of your story illustrated in pen/ink/watercolor by moi.
The only rules: Gotta be your original work, gotta be reasonably grammatically correct (borderline run-on is OK), and, yes, it relly HAS to be one sentence. No cheating on that rule, like the haiku people do with their syllable rules.
Note that brevity is elegant and has its advantages, but it's harder to be original and brief. Which is why I wrote long here.

"London is awful"

So I'm sitting at a local shopping area the other day, drawing these flowers, and I can't help but overhear the conversations of others as they drink coffee with their friends and enjoy the landscaping. The first conversation was between two smart young women in the medical profession. At first they were venting to each other about how their married-with-children friends want only to talk about their screaming spawn and who threw up on who today.
But then it got interesting.
It seems the one woman is in a position where she finds herself counseling pregnant women. So a woman comes in one day and can't figure out how she got in this position. She did everything right. She used her diaphragm every time. How could it happen?

So our medical professional - let's just call her a doctor, even though I'm not sure that she was -- is talking through it with her, very kind, very caring, from the way she's telling the story. And she starts investigating the details, like, "And did you use the spermicidal jelly?" The pregnant woman says she did. "Well, do you remember the brand?"

Then the other half of our conversational partner here anticipates the punchline. "Oh, no," she groans.
"Yep," says our doctor/storyteller. "Smucker's grape."

It sounds like an urban legend, I know, but the conversation went on from there about how in a way, the pregnant woman had used her best logical reasoning, because whoever had originally given her the diaphragm hadn't made much of a point about what exactly "jelly" means, other than to describe it as "a little sticky."
Ahem. Then the two young women continued on in their highly educated way, bemoaning the problems of poverty and the medical world. I was still stuck on the idea of the grape jelly.

After a while, they were replaced by a couple of older women, who were themselves joined by more friends. Talk turns to travel. One of them says with a kind of sunny wistfulness, "Oh, I'd love to go to London."

Another responds, "London is awful. I thought so before I went to Israel, and now I really think so."

Now. The closest I've ever been to London is Ireland, so who am I to say? And I know it's an expensive, crowded urban place. But ... "awful"? I mean, can the entire city, steeped in history and culture, really be reduced to "awful"? Even if we concede there might be an awful thing or two about London, isn't that a little like saying New York is dreadful or Paris is grotesque?

The oddest thing about the conversation is that this declaration went completely unchallenged, if you don't count the deflated little syllable -- "Ohh ..." -- uttered by the woman who had dared to wish she could visit London. It made me want to take her to the airport immediately.

The Decorative Arts

My six-year-old could do that!

Well, yes. But did he?

Actually, this little exercise in flat, decorative, unsophisticated color was my attempt to evoke, if not replicate, the cheer of the paper on the walls of my childhood bedroom. This motivation sent me to my sketchbook with my pens and excellent markers, and over the course of watching a movie ("Revenge," 1993, Kevin Coster/Anthony Quinn/Madeleine Stowe) I behaved like a six-year-old.

After all, there's something to be said for six-year-olds.

Michelle

I'll admit it. What I loved most about Michelle was that she asked to look at my sketchbook, and then virtually abandoned her work while she lingered over page after page. I'm just insecure enough to find that endearing.
:-)

On another note, I'm wild about a new-to-America graphic novel series by Kim Dong Hwa, as you can see if you read my review in yesterday's Plain Dealer. I do wish there was a plethora of more sophisticated, literary graphic novels to match the endless shelves of pure manga and superhero stuff. But I think I might have to wish for a plethora of likeminded GN readers first.

Sighting

A little something for the raptor center's fund-raising auction next week. Hope I don't have to bid on it myself to save face.

Hug your newspaper

"At 7:30 p.m., the trajectory of the distant, heavy weather over the lake took a hard and fast turn to the south. The giant cloud stacks, 60,000 feet high, suddenly began racing toward land. Wind speeds were building to more than 100 miles per hour."

That was the scene in Cleveland, Ohio on July 4, 1969.
I still remember it -- sort of. Fortunately, my former Plain Dealer colleague and friend Michael Heaton, has a wonderfully written story about it in today's newspaper to remind me of the day and tell me more than I never knew about it. It's a great storm story. Check it out.

Just one more loving reminder from the Newspaper Nag that professional newspaper journalism cannot be replaced.
So I hope you like Michael's story. And I hope you'll buy your local newspaper today, wherever you are, and give it a hug. And a read.

Nest

Before the trees leafed out in spring, I would occasionally find myself looking longingly at a nest perched in bare branches and fantasize about nicking it so I could draw it. Of course, I would never do this because it would be stealing someone's home. Or perhaps someone's future home.

But I found this on the ground during a dog-walk recently and figured it was fair game. No one was going to air-lift it back into its tree. From the size of it, I think young robins hatched here.

They're so beautiful, and such wonders of architecture. My sketch could never do it justice.