Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts

Thursday, December 17, 2015

Fiction and Parody: The Legend of the Foba Noodle



*not my photo



I was skimming through the net on food groups that are good for my blood type because age I feel is knocking on my doorstep somewhat and I chanced upon this list of carbohydrates which I could consume without adverse effects for people like me

1. potato
2. rice
3. white pasta
and (wait for it)
4. “Foba” Noodles.

“Foba” Noodles. I pondered for a moment and wondered what the origin of the Foba Noodle might have been. Wondered a bit more, and I conjured in my mind on how it may have come to be...

Cue in whirling sound effects of a flashback...

During the mid 1930's, Soba Noodle Sr., a well established noodle in the Far East had a brief dalliance with an Italian restaurant staple named Farfalle. Nine months thereafter, Soba Sr. sired an offspring but this was unexpected. By all accounts though, this youngling was a noodle through and through. However, this placed the entire realm of cuisine from Europe to Asia in an unwieldy state because up to this point, clear demarcations between noodle and pasta were in place in the 2 continents. Not to mention, Soba Sr. was a very married man who had a robust young son, Soba Jr., who was the heir apparent of the Soba Dynasty and who is in fact, what we know today as THE Soba Noodle.

Foba's mother Farfalle, named him thus, and was never the sort to dwell on the uncomfortable tidings that life brings. She did her best to raise the young one not to be bitter or angry on the account of his circumstance. Foba, for his part, learned and accepted this very well. Veritably, to help balance this most awkward position, he even considered taking up another vocation like farming or soap-making so as to permit his half brother  Soba Jr. to be make the imprint as the one and the only, preeminent Soba Noodle. On the other hand though, Foba could not deny that buckwheat and semolina ran through his veins and it would be against his very nature and existence if he didn't serve or be served as a noodle.

For this, Foba, made a promise to maintain honor between him and his family, making a pact that as a noodle, he would only materialize in the country or island side, the highways, byways and the hedges, not draw attention to himself and to travel further on to even more recessed towns if he was beginning to obtain some sort of following.

Foba then grew and lived to do as he said, with his hood and his effects upon his skinny frame, sojourning in places, being of good use, being true to his word to his family but not at the expense of his nature, part noodle, part pasta, Japanese, Italian, sometimes rigid, other times malleable, he prevailed good and edible.

And so the legend of the Foba Noodle lived on albeit only mostly in mysterious villages and hamlets. We do hear about him from time to time, and with the arrival of internet, whispers about him became more audible. But is the Foba noodle real? or is it just a myth? A mispronunciation? a misspelling? You decide for yourself. As for me, apparently, The Foba noodle is one of the carbs people with my blood type can glutton-ize without deleterious consequences.

Friday, November 20, 2015

Clark Kent and the Blue Police Box

In Reddit, there is a writing prompt for any one who is willing to take a gander at making up stories. I responded to one where the scenario begins with the Earth being attacked by aliens and Clark Kent who needs to change to Superman finds a blue box in the middle of the street. Most Sci-Fi dabblers know what the blue box is and who it's inhabitant is and certainly, everybody knows who Superman is, the rest however goes like this:


Clark Kent entered the Blue Police Box and met a man dressed as a magician with very particular eyebrows. He noticed a round panel with a column at the center and though it was bigger on the inside, he was not confounded by it as he figured, what ever he entered into was not terrestrial. The old man was friendly and didn’t seem surprised when he saw Clark. His eyes fixed on the “S” at the center of Clark’s chest and said.

“Peace.” The old man said with a notable Scottish accent. “You come in peace! so do I, I’m the Doctor.”

Clark looked at him quizzically and while he wondered how the “Doctor” was able to figure out the meaning of the S in his own planet Krypton, he also sensed that the old man was not hostile.

“Quickly, I need to change.” Clark said.

“Upstairs to the right and 2 lefts.” The Doctor said.

As Clark ascended with acceleration, he noticed he was somewhat slower than his usual speed of light, but given the urgency, he brushed it aside and changed to his super hero outfit with only one thing in mind. When he got out of the box he would battle the aliens fast before it was all too late. He did notice however a slight hesitation within himself and felt as though someone was watching, as he turned around, he saw a stone statue of an angel looking serene. He blinked once and noticed this thing came closer though he wasn’t sure. As he blinked one more time it was indeed right at this face and showed it’s fangs ready to attack but with quick reflexes he obliterates the creature with the lasers in his eyes. As the smoke settled around the rubble of a Weeping Angel ,The Doctor entered the room yelling, “Don’t bli!! Oh," he said, "so much for that heap of stone."

“What is this place, what was that and who are you?” Asked Clark.

“I’m The Doctor and you are in my home/space craft/ hobby room/concert stage/time machine, that was a Weeping Angel, etc. etc. Why are you in a funny outfit?” The Doctor asked.

“I’m Superman. Did you bring the aliens here? Is this why Earth is under attack?”

“Firstly, the TARDIS may be a space ship with infinite dimensions inside and yes, the artifacts chamber or museum may harbor monsters and such but I assure you, they are dead and stuffed, a taxidermist from Newcastle had a hand in that. Secondly, no, I did not bring the aliens here. Thirdly, Earth is always under attack anyway, if not by aliens from other planets, just amongst themselves, and fourthly, how super?”

Superman found himself sitting on the stairs of the TARDIS and felt a slight drain of energy and began to have doubts about The Doctor.

“Then why did the statue try to attack me?” He asked.

“That is a mystery to me too,” the Doctor approached the center and pushed some buttons on the console. “According to my calculations, a disturbance is arising from the 3rd level chamber below with a type of an unidentified radiation. Wait a minute, it’s the Artifact Chamber,” it’s seems..”

Both The Doctor and Superman look to the left and four silver metallic robots walking in military cadence mechanically vocalizing “Delete! Delete!” repeatedly, came charging towards them.

“Cybermen!” shouted The Doctor. As the Cybermen take aim at both of them, Superman lets out a massive breath and forms a dense layer of ice which buffers the laser fire. While the lasers missed them narrowly, fireworks and explosions erupt inside the TARDIS, beams topple over and crashing all around. At the sight of the second wave of lasers from the organic robots, Superman turned to a solar flare of energy and zoomed into the Cybermen like a meteor. A loud sound and boom fills the TARDIS and the Cybermen fall on the floor mangled in a heap of metal mess.

Under the pile of metal, Superman emerges looking weak and discomfited. Though the Cybermen were destroyed, it appears Superman felt depleted.

“Somehow, the creatures from the Artifact Chamber are coming to life in your presence.” The Doctor spoke as he read the calculations on the console. “Where are you from? because clearly, you aren’t human. Are you alright? it’s as if..”

The Doctor catches Superman as he falls from his attempt to stand. Superman was very weak, out of breath and even his garment was torn. He has spent a great amount of energy with the solar flare and though he has healed because of this many times before, it would take a long amount of time and he continued to feel drained

“Yes, but I also feel as though I am losing my powers.” Superman mutters with a feeble voice. “What is in this ship? where are you from?” As he remembered his beloved humans being attacked by formidable alien beings, a pang of sadness comes over because for the first time he felt he might not be able to do anything to help them.

“Well, let me see, I had a distress signal around the southern constellation of Corvus, about 26.7 light years from Earth to a planet that orbits around a red dwarf star, ah..ah.. the LHS 2520, yes, that’s right. It was a band of Daleks which assimilated to the element of the planet, the planet Krypton, I believe it was.” The Doctor’s eyes grew larger and fearful as he looked at Superman. "Of course, you, you are a Kryptonian; that’s why everything that’s lifeless in this ship is reacting to you, somehow the TARDIS and elements on board must have accumulated a minute form of energy from Krypton and with your presence, they are regenerating, in a sense! but you, the energy is being taken away from you because you are a.. so, you are dying...”

Just as the Doctor finished speaking, a sinister presence emerged from the corner south end of the TARDIS and entered the upper dome with a familiar mortiferous electronic voice, “Exterminate!, Exterminate!” it was a Dalek, with the exoskeleton made of Krypton, glowing in bright green! The Dalek fires lasers indiscriminately destroying what’s left of the TARDIS. Superman feels the radiation coming from the Kryptonite Dalek and lays down with increased shallow respiration, his arms reaching across as if to make a stand but to no use, as the lasers continue to fire, more damage is incurred in the ship, a beam descends toward the Doctor and hits him mightily. As he falls down he reaches for the time rotor on the control bridge, and pulls the lever down, hoping that the TARDIS will understand what he is trying to do just as it did a few times before. And then blackness…

Moments later or ago, the sound of the TARDIS appearing is heard. Inside the blue box The Doctor stands straight facing the door unscathed and whole with the TARDIS intact. As it swings open, he sees a bespectacled tall man with the letter “S” on his chest about to enter.

“Stop!” he yells in that thick Scottish accent. "What ever you do, don’t come in here. Go somewhere else to change and deal with the the aliens yourself, you can handle it obviously, with your laser eyes and your solar body, it’s just the Sontarons, knock them at the back of their head or, appeal to them on their “military" side and they’ll love you. But just please, don’t come in here, go and find another box in which to change.”

Saturday, October 3, 2015

Even in days when you don't feel like it, write...


a 1908 Sears Catalog, photo by Mia

Why not just blog, write, feature, extend, express, be honest, leap, and so on and so forth? Why not indeed? 
My name is Mia, I worked in the medical field for a long time in the US but have always wanted to write. My aim here is to do just that. Topics will vary from people, places, things, and matters. I will do my best to post my own photographs and to keep the articles pithy, or not.