ReRun Monday ~ Topic: Pets (Sorta)

Photo Credit:  Stephanie Karfelt

Once Zeus had a pet snake named Houdini. At least that was the name he eventually earned, being as he escaped and roamed the house at will. In an effort to keep the snake confined, Zeus duct taped the lid on Houdini’s cage. Returning home afterwards, Zeus discovered his snake wrapped in duct tape and dangling dejectedly from the roof of his cage. Since I tend to brake for butterflies, Zeus considers me an animal lover. So he brought me his duct taped snake, as though I’d know what to do about it. Though the man is a big, tough giant and all, I could tell he was attached to this two foot reptile and resisted the urge to put it in an airtight bag and toss it into the trash while I could. I called the vet. The Vet laughed really hard, and repeated the story several times to coworkers. I kept the phone tight against my ear, so Zeus wouldn’t hear them laughing. It isn’t a good idea to laugh at a giant over his pet snake. And that is how I ended up wedged in a tiny bathroom with a giant, soaking a duct taped snake in a sink full of warm water. As the Vet predicted, Houdini was more than a little ill-tempered about having duct tape peeled off his body. He lost quite a few scales in the process, but Zeus kept a firm grip on his head as I worked. Perhaps you’re apathetic about Houdini’s fate, or perhaps you’ll be happy to know he lived – though he was forevermore a few scales short.

Photo Credit:  Arthur's Free Snake ClipArt



People are odd about their pets, aren’t they?  I’d like to think it bodes well for our species that we can love even the sorriest, most unlovable creatures so fiercely. Surely you know someone who has a cat or dog that is anything but worthy – but that is pampered and loved inexplicably. My BFF had a cat once, I forget its name. Let’s call it Humper, because that is what that cat did. It specifically liked to have at it with anything that belonged to BFF. Her hats, slippers, pillow, etc. It was a big, fat, white thing that pretty much shed and made love to BFF’s belongings. Oh, it slept in her dresser drawer and ate on her kitchen table too. When Humper went to the great dresser drawer in the sky, he was in the process of jumping off the kitchen table after eating. He ate – alive – and landed – well, dead. BFF told me about this over the phone. Though I clamped my hand over my mouth as fast as I could, she heard the inappropriate laugh that escaped. Let me just take this opportunity to apologize to my BFF again for my demented sense of humor. (Normally she appreciates it, but everyone has their limits.)  It wasn’t funny that the cat died – it was just the visual that got to me.

Clyde T. Brown is an East Texas cowboy, chaws tobacco, drives enormous gas guzzling vehicles, and in all the time that I’ve known him I have understood about 10% of anything he said due to the plug in his mouth and his accent. Clyde also has a pile of teeny dogs that look like mops. Am not sure how many there are, they move a lot and are hard to count. When Clyde goes anywhere, he takes the horde with him. I ran into him in a parking lot once, and he put an arm out the window to gesture towards something. I gasped in horror. It looked as though he’d almost lost the appendage to a shark attack. Since there are hardly any sharks in Texas, I asked what happened. Couldn’t really understand much of the answer, but apparently the horde had turned on him when he was feeding them. For me that is a deal breaker, but I’ve never had a pet horde.

Photo Credit: Stephanie Karfelt

Unless you count the butterflies, (but they were more of a scientific study to my way of thinking) wherever I’ve lived in North America I raised Monarch Butterflies. Thousands of them. It started as a Kindergarten project, and eventually morphed into a migration tagging project through The University of Kansas ( http://www.monarchwatch.org/ ). I won’t give you the dissertation on what can be learned studying the insects, but I will tell you that my family cringes when they see milkweed, and my daughter has never recovered from the summer of exploding chrysalis’s. A few gross of butterflies can endear you to your neighbors, they tend to hang around once you release them – so there were usually butterflies around our house. But a few gross of caterpillars can have quite the opposite effect, especially if your neighbors stop by during litter box cleaning hours.

Photo Credit:  Stephanie Karfelt



Have you or someone you know ever loved an unlovable pet?  Your Mother’s Doberman that once ate an entire Thanksgiving turkey?  The Rat-Terrier that once ate your Easter basket?  A pet mouse that escaped and ate a curtain?  How about those guppies that teach young children that some parents do eat their young?  What is the best or worst pet story you have?  

Immortal Secrets

Photo by Author S. R. Karfelt

Kahtar glanced at the little clock on the monitor, ten minutes had passed, and he sighed. The monotony of the police station seemed to invite the unpleasantness of shades to descend. All the men complained about it. Determined to avoid them, and keep his mind occupied, for some twisted reason he got on Wikipedia and searched 'Longinus.'

For two thousands years the shade had followed him. He knew a legend had sprung up from that day, knew that somehow those there had learned his true name that day, but over the ensuing centuries he'd ignored it. Yet today, on a whim, alone with a computer and no witnesses, he impulsively reached into the past.

He found it. Some of the stories were expectedly convoluted. Still the details of that day survived surprisingly accurate, especially considering the amount of time that had passed. Leaning close to the machine he started to fish around in cyberspace, wondering if there were paintings of Longinus that might even be similar. He felt certain those at the foot of the tree had gotten an eyeful of him that day, and despite his odd repeating existence, he always looked exactly the same.

Gazing down at his big hands on the keyboard he flexed them, had anyone ever been as familiar with a pair of hands as he was? A memory stirred and Kahtar no longer saw the keyboard.

A boy's hand, pink and small appeared engulfed in the black hand of his warrior father.

"Baba, why is my hand the wrong color?" the little boy's voice quavered. His father, wearing the vivid colors of clan leader, knelt in the dust, looking into his eyes. Strong ebony fingers combed through his son's long hair, it slid through his fingers the color and texture of dry savannah grass.

"ilu has his reasons."

The memory came sharp. It had been seconds later when he'd remembered. His past had dropped like it always did, the realization of his endless history roaring through him, like a tornado, a hurricane in his head. When he stopped screaming, when he opened his eyes to gaze into the dark worried faces of his clan, he knew why his hand was the wrong color. I am, again.

***

Excerpt from Warrior of the Ages by S. R. Karfelt - All rights reserved - Available wherever books are sold! Including here: CLICK ME 

It’s Fun Being a Grown-Up

• This week’s healthy eating menu is garlic roasted broccoli and caramel apples. Every day. My choice, my budget, #LifeisGood 
• The new blue jeans budget morphed into the triple wick candle/clearance sale flip-flops haul, and I won’t even yell at or berate myself for it. #ExcellentChoice #OldJeansAreBetterAnyway 
• Instead of packing for my trip or churning out a few thousand words, I got dressed up, put in my contact lenses, and spent six hours lying on the floor watching old movies on my laptop today. 
• Didn’t answer the phone either. I’m busy. 
• What’s that sucking sound? My math ability. It sounds like a hungry drain. Being a grown-up has not corrected my math deficit. On the bright side this means time – which is definitely math-related — has no power over me. Like a color blind dog I can race forward completely unaware what that flashing red light means. I can dart through passing years vaguely amused by passing fashion and philosophy. This means my blue jeans from 1989 are still too cool.
• Honestly I feel stronger than I was a decade ago, faster. Of course I’ve never remembered where the heck I put stuff, have always had eyesight borderline white cane, and been unsure enough on my feet that one good sneeze could make me topple over. Is that what people meant when they said I was an old soul? 
• Dance like no one is watching? Forget that. Watch me dance. You should put these moves on YouTube. I call this one the “Bite Me”. My kids call it the “Kill Me”.
• Bed time? That would involve math now wouldn’t it? I employ the toddler philosophy of go-go-go-drop-nap. 

Author: S. R. Karfelt

Are you enjoying your life as a grown-up? Since you’re in charge of it, I hope you manage to steal some moments to just bask in it. You can shove quarters into the gumball machine now, if you want, and rot your teeth out chewing it for a minute. No one will ever know. Not even if you blow a bubble so big it pops and gets all in your hair. It’s your life. Claim it. If only for a second. Are you with me grown-up?

Secrets of a Long Marriage

Photo Credit: S. R. Karfelt
Whoever wins this gets to be boss

·       Never leave.

·       Okay, leave, but always come back.

·       Sit beside your honey on the couch, even if he’s watching a sucky hunting show. It’s the only way you can sneak the remote off him.

·       Your spouse will be incredibly annoying at times, but so will you. Endure.

·       If you can’t endure, leave, but always come back.

·       Learn your spouse’s language. Speak it sometimes. Mine speaks engineer. Here is an example: Dear Hubby’s comment, “Crying over a book/movie/news story is illogical. It serves no purpose.” Proper response: “Actually, Mr. Spock, tears serve the purpose of releasing empathetic sorrow that human’s sometimes feel.” This works both ways, remember that part, i.e., when I shake Dear Hubby awake at 3:00 a.m. and say, “My left arm is numb. I think I’m having a stroke.” “Did you use the elliptical machine for an hour today?” “Yes.” “Did you sit hunched at your computer writing for twelve hours after?” “Yes.” “Were you just sleeping on your left arm?” “Yes.” “There is a 98.99% chance it is a pinched nerve and you won’t die of a stroke tonight. Unless you wake me again. In that case I’ll swear to the coroner that you had a stroke and fell out the bedroom window.”

·       Sneak and kiss your spouse when no one is looking. All the time. Even if your teenagers threaten to carry barf bags, do it anyway.

·       Tell each other the truth, except for agreed upon exemptions*. Our personal exemptions are:

§  The cost of hunting/writing supplies:

·       How much did that cost?

·       Negotiated answer: $50 – This is our own get out of jail free card. Our personal don’t ask don’t tell policy.

§  How many hunting/fishing trips are you taking this year?

§  How long will your family be staying?

§  Is there any ice-cream?

§  Please note: *Personal exemptions will vary in each marriage.

·       If you really want to do something, and your spouse doesn’t, negotiate to do it without them. This can/may include: Movies, vacations, hobbies, time with friends/family, etc. I don’t care what Hollywood/Pop-Culture says, you can have separate interests at times.

·       If your spouse’s hobbies are inane, like hunting and fishing for example, feign respect. If you can’t feign respect, set yourself to endure. Get good at it. Love your spouse’s happiness more than what your BFF thinks about your Dear Hubby wandering around in camo with his duck call.

·       The above can be used to defend your own penchant for wandering cemeteries to collect names off headstones.

·       Care more what your spouse thinks than what other people think. This is difficult if your spouse has loud or obnoxious hobbies or inexplicable hobbies. Once I had a boss who kindly called me into his office to insist that I open my eyes to the possibility that Dear Hubby had a girlfriend he was meeting deep in the woods during hunting season, he just didn’t understand that Dear Hubby couldn’t possibly love any woman who would stand between him and a ten point buck, or that he really could spend ten days in a forest with a bow and arrow.

·       Your guy will never, ever, get his dirty clothes that extra six inches into the hamper – nor will he get his dirty plate that extra 18” from the sink into the dishwasher. Ever. Deal. Just like you’ll never, ever, purchase store brand goods because you’re on a budget – nor will you ever EVER remember to check pockets for fishing hooks and bullets, when the job of laundry eventually falls permanently into your domain (and you’ll live with this gladly when taxes fall into his).

·       Look into your spouse’s eyes. Hold his/her hand. Throw a water balloon at him and run like helk. Listen when he talks, or pretend if it is about hunting/fishing.

·       Don’t threaten to leave – unless you’re being abused, in which case quit reading this and don’t threaten, do it – figure out, together, how to make whatever is bothering you bearable, because you just don’t want to have to do all that paperwork, and besides, you’ll have them whipped into shape any day now. 

Dear Hubby & Boss

Would you like to add any tips? What are your secrets to a long happy relationship? 

Feel free to hypothesize, I'm a fiction writer for pity's sake!

Every Day Things

Author, S. R. Karfelt's McFail List

Unless you’re a character in a novel or film, ya gotta do everyday things, and I for one suck at them. The organization and implementation of everyday things doesn’t look very impressive on my life resume.

·         Getting up on time. McFail.

·         Breakfast. I eat the same thing every single morning (oatmeal) because I simply can’t make these sorts of decisions in the morning. Problem: It takes me an hour to cook and eat it. After years of breakfast oatmeal, I kinda have to force feed it to myself, and who’s feeling cooperative in the morning? McFail.

·         Working out. I do this everyday because I basically sit for a living. I turned my dining room into an exercise room thanks to Dear Hubby’s prowess on eBay. I usually finish up about noon despite that convenience. Workout good, noon? McFail.

·         Time for the day to begin. What’s for lunch? (Kidding, mostly.) 

·         Shower or write first? Since I pass my office on the way to the shower, guess which one usually wins? I am so glam.

·         When forced to leave the house, shower always wins. (You’re welcome.)

·         Leaving the house for any reason usually consumes the entire day. Because it is then that I realize:

o   Car needs gas.

o   Gas needs money.

o   Bank.

o   Haven’t checked the P.O. Box for book related stuff in…awhile and I need to mail books to people.

o   Staples for office supplies. You need big envelopes to mail books to people.

o   Ooh, there’s Barnes & Noble nearby, I need books too.

o   B&N is next to TJMaxx and I still need a new purse. Mission Accomplished, and then some, one hour later.

o   Target is across the street, wouldn’t paper towels be nice! Once inside I stock up hoping I never have to return.

§  Lifetime supply of paper products.

§  Toiletries.

§  Chocolate.

§  Lightbulbs, most are burned out.

§  New lamp. Some assembly required. Rut roh, Scooby.

§  Baggies. Do I need these? I don’t know, but I won’t again this year.

o   Speaking of Christmas, the mall is nearby. I have coupons for candles from three different stores. So I go there.

§  Bath & Bodyworks – candles.

§  Yankee Candle – candles.

§  Hallmark – candles.

§  Stagger back to my car with fifty pounds of candles.

§  Guess wot’s for Christmas? (Don’t tell.)

§  Yes I’m thinking about Christmas. There shall be two novels written, NaNoWriMo, and conferences between here and there. It’s candles, folks, and maybe a box of baggies.

o   Lunch time. Stop at my favorite café. Visit with people.

o   Post office fifteen minutes before it closes. Oops, realize these books aren’t all getting mailed domestic. In fifteen minutes I fill out five customs forms AND help a senior citizen with her parcels. *Feeling Amazing*

o   Dang, forgot to check the P.O. Box…again.

·         Back at home Dear Hubby is waiting, politely wondering what is for dinner. Why, oh why does anyone ever ask me this question? Go out? Um, okay.

·         And that is how an entire day to write begins at 9:00 p.m. McFail.

S. R. Karfelt
Camera McFail

This blog is dedicated to my clone, who asked me today which everyday things I’m awful at. So I will repeat her question to you. What everyday things are you awful, terrible, no good at? Yes, I know I ended that sentence with a preposition. I’m actually fairly good at that stuff, sometimes, though, I just McFail there too.

Diner Music

Warrior of the Ages by S. R. Karfelt

Scenes from an immortal life.

Kahtar barely fit inside the booth at Cliff’s diner. Barefoot he stood 6' 10 ½ inches tall. All his police uniforms had to be custom made, and a shoemaker from his world sneaked and made his shoes for this one, including a pair of khaki colored sneakers that he’d never actually worn. He shifted, trying to turn towards the waitress, but wedged against the laminate tabletop made that impossible. “No menu,” he said without meeting her eyes, a kindness he gave most inhabitants of her world. “A slice of strawberry pie, no whipped cream, and a cup of coffee.” The waitress smiled, but busied herself writing it down. “Glass of water?” “Please,” at least he could drink that. He could manage to choke down a slice of the pie every week. It seemed something a normal cop might do, but coffee he just couldn’t manage much of.

The waitress hurried behind the counter, and Kahtar’s mouth automatically slid into the almost smile he’d spent millennia perfecting. An elderly couple rose from the booth in front of his, and shuffled towards the door, buttoning coats and wrapping scarves. The man paused by his table. “Plow keeps blocking my drive! Right after I shovel, they just shove a foot of snow across the whole dang thing. I called the station, but nobody even came out to check.” Kahtar focused his eyes on the spot between the man’s grey brows, but before he could comment, the man’s wife poked him. “What’s he gonna do, Howard? Shoot the snowplow?” Grumbling, the man moved away and the smile that briefly lit Kahtar’s face was genuine. Bad timing, the waitress returned with his order. A huge scoop of ice cream sat on the side, melting into his pie. From his peripheral vision he saw a huge smile light her face in return for his.

“My treat for the ice-cream, Chief. I’m Brenda, I just moved to Willowyth.” Kahtar nodded at her and dropped his gaze to glare at the offending ice-cream. He detested processed food. A pile of slop off the snowplow’s tires would be more palatable. “Um, enjoy,” she managed and scurried away. He realized a beat too late that he’d been rude. With his fork he picked up the entire clump of the treat and shoved it into his mouth. He’d leave a big tip, money made up for a multitude of sins in this world. Of course the poor thing needed it too.

Kahtar knew the woman’s name was Brenda Blake. He knew everything that went on in this town. She had two daughters, and she’d taken a place over on Second Street. She cleaned houses on the side, worked at the diner forty hours a week, and sold some kind of make-up that she wore entirely too much of. Without looking at her, he scanned her as she poured coffee into the cups of construction workers lining the counter. Five feet eight inches, one hundred-seven pounds, the evidence of a heavy smoker invaded every cell of her body. The poor thing would not live to be an old woman. He forced a gulp of coffee, fighting a grimace.

Static from a speaker overhead caught his attention, “Who wants to live forever?” the singer intoned, the high notes producing even more static. The irony wasn’t lost on him. The young woman behind the counter probably wanted to live forever, and she likely wouldn’t have another decade. He on the other hand, had forever. Technically anyway. The singer was right, who did want to live forever? Only those who had absolutely no clue what a curse it was.

Kahtar shoveled the pie into his mouth in three bites, leaving the crust behind. People did that, even in his world. He fished for his wallet in the confined space, trying to ignore the lyrics that were – of course – a love song. He didn’t like music, not of this world and not of his. The last thing an immortal needed was another song to take root in his subconscious. Whatever part of his mind stored music had filled up ages ago, and he had no room left for more of it. As a matter of fact he wished he could have the bulk of it removed.

Back in WWI he’d consumed a hefty dose of mustard gas to the tune of Nora Baye’s Over There, making it the first time in his existence he’d been tortured to music. Literally anyway. Kahtar pulled out fifteen dollars and dropped it on the table. He squeezed out of the booth but the singer’s high notes followed him. He could tell that singer who waited forever. He did. And it sure wasn’t love he waited for, not that he’d mind it. He glanced back at the people in the diner, not a single one looked in his direction. When he looked at people, they looked anywhere but back at him. He was one scary being. That truth followed him in both worlds. Immortality was apparently a trait endured alone. 

***

S. R. Karfelt
Nicole Mason Photography

If you enjoyed this scene, check out my book about Kahtar. Chronologically this scene takes place the winter before Warrior of the Ages begins. I enjoy spending time inside Kahtar’s world and mind. Let me know if you do too, and I’ll share more.

My name is S. R. Karfelt, and Warrior of the Ages is my first baby to make it into print. It’s available at Amazon and wherever finebooks are sold. If you have any questions about this scene, or questions about Kahtar or the book series, this is a place to ask me! I’ll try to keep CAPTCHA off the blog as long as I can bear the spam. I hate CAPTCHA too, I always flunk. It makes me question my own humanity, if I can’t prove I’m not a computer, what does that make me? 

Consumer Confessions

Glass Blowing Vs. Editing
S. R. Karfelt

AKA Things to do Instead of Editing

·         Today I paid someone $35 to stick lit candles in my ears.

o   Not my proudest moment, but I still say unless you’ve lived with chronic vertigo since April 26, 2001, shut it.

o   Dear Hubby went on about the Laws of Physics and vacuums and blah blah blah, whatever, so not listening.

o   Might try acupuncture next. Will let you know if needles in the face trumps fire in the ears.

·         I hate coffee but love the way it smells. I adore little indie coffee shops, you can read there. Sometimes I stand at the counter and read the menu while debating what I can get that smells like coffee, but doesn’t taste like coffee. Sometimes I pay $4 for a cup of milk with a whiff of coffee in it.

·         Since my book is now out, people often ask me, “How many books have you sold?” Please, girlfriend, how would I know? That’s math.

·         My second novel is written. The next step is to rewrite one scene from another point of view, edit, and send it off to my beta readers. So far I’ve cleaned every room in my house. Organized closets. Caught up on my Victorian Literature reading. (Thomas Hardy, brilliant.) Balanced my checkbook. BALANCED MY CHECKBOOK. Did the ear candle thing. And went to the MALL. And it’s not even Christmas.

·         At the maul I used all my coupons for free stuff. I save them until I have a pile. Spent forty-five minutes in Bath and BodyWorks sniffing mini-candles before picking my freebie. That company employs marketing geniuses. They sent me a box of free brownies when I ordered face cream. Life can’t get any better than that. #FreeBrownies

·         The shoebox hidden in the attic was clearly marked in sharpie: PORN - DO NOT OPEN EVEN IF I’M DEAD. Apparently this is not what I should have written on the outside of a box I didn’t want anyone to look inside of. Who knew anything in the attic would be so popular? I still stand by the claim that it was my great-grandmother’s and I was keeping it for purely sentimental reasons.

·         Okay, fine, it wasn’t my great-grandmother’s, but sometimes there are perfectly logical explanations for things. There wasn’t room on the outside of the box for long explanations about gag gifts or the remnants of a Lorena Bobbit Halloween costume someone once wore to my house. It’s not like I could give that stuff to The Salvation Army, and the re-gifting opportunities were priceless.

·         Oh, like your friends aren’t the kind of people who would dress the stone pig in your front yard in trashy lingerie?

·         Sometimes I drive really far to an upscale supermarket. I buy things like cheese with truffle in it, starfruit, and seriously debate what exactly I would do with a live eel if I were to purchase it. I mean I do have a key to Zeus’s apartment. Bathtub or toilet, bathtub or toilet?

You don’t need to notify PETA, I left the eels in the Seafood Department to be humanely eaten. You gotta admit that was an excellent visual. Tomorrow though, I will buckle down to editing. It’s that or cleaning off my desktop. Pretty sure that the edits will win that one. What do you do when you’re avoiding a job? Any consumer confessions of your own? 

Roofus

So far I find trying to put a new roof on a house akin to purchasing drugs in a foreign country. No, I’ve never purchased drugs in a foreign country, but I’ve seen it in movies so I feel qualified to make this comparison.

1.      You have to know somebody.

2.      If you don’t know somebody, you have to know somebody who knows somebody.

3.      If you don’t know somebody who knows somebody, you will have to google how to build a portable meth lab put it on yourself.

4.      If you can’t put it on yourself you will have to move. I’m okay with this option, only it turns out you can’t sell a house that needs a roof. So you are now trapped like a pod of whales between icebergs. As much cake as you ate at your book release party coupled with the current condition of your roof will make this whale analogy horrifyingly accurate come February.

Fact: You need a roof or a cave with wifi.

Being a reader/writer/bookworm person you might try the Yellow Pages. Yeah. Good luck with that. For starters you should stop throwing all the new phone books directly into the recycling bin, because someday you might need a new roof and want it. You can try using the one from the year you graduated high school. Like I said, good luck with that. On top of that if you actually get a person on the phone they’ll never come. Not if you live in a beautiful, yet Deliverance-looking place. Even your friends don’t come to your house.

Fact: Most of your friends are imaginary.

Yellow Pages Roofer Facts

• There are ones who drive their Corvettes past your house and shout a number at you from their rolled down window. It is either the figure for college tuition to their child’s Ivy League school or the cost of their yacht repair. Either way we both know there is no point in them stopping.
• Some of those roofers who have been in business since your yellow pages book was current don’t need your business. They say things like:

o   I could squeeze you in spring of 2017.

o   Price? Well…(insert head scratching here) That’s a lot of roof. I’d have to get back to you. What do you do for a living?

o   Do I have to tear off the old roof? (Are there people who do that themselves? Or is it really optional?) Do you want me to haul everything away? (Unless it fits into a 13 gallon kitchen bag.) Would I need to put in one…two…three…four…five…six nails on every shingle? (Um, I’ve never done this before, assumed you had. Go. Just go.)

o   You might be able to get another year out of this one. (Do you really think so? I say hopefully.) Well, I wouldn’t stake my reputation on it. You might not, especially if it snows. Are you planning on moving anytime soon? (Hey, I already tried that one.)

S. R. Karfelt
Nicole Mason Photography

So what I’m wondering is if anybody has actually ever SEEN somebody putting on a new roof. What proof do we have that this actually happens? My timing is way off. My plan was to move before the attic was full of shtuff or the house needed work done. Too late. Anyone know a roofer who would work for all the shtuff in the attic and autographed copies of my latest novel? Come on, somebody has to know somebody. 

A Real Wish List

• A hover suitcase
• Stargate/Portal/Tesseract  (Don’t really care how we do it, just wanna bypass the Philly airport.)
• The Jane Jetson Hair-Do System
• Camera with auto built-in photo shop
• The Hermione Granger Handbag
• Nike Air Comfort Stilettos
• The black hole trash can (“Never have to empty another one!”)
• The Food Replicator (Yes, it’s always on my list.)
• Liberated Enthusiastic House Elf (Ditto)
• A home use weather control system (Mounts on roof, lot size up to ¾ acre)
• Snow resistant driveway (No idea how it works either, I’m the idea guy.)
• Amusement park type public transportation (buses/coasters, elevator/parachute)
• Anti-Gravity Mondays

S. R. Karfelt
Nicole Mason Photography

   My name is S. R. Karfelt and when I'm not dreaming up ideas for

   someone else to invent I write Action Adventure with a twist. My new

   novel is now available, and instead of playing with my blog I ought to be

   editing the second one. If you have any brilliant ideas to add to the wish

   list, I'd love to hear them. 

   What should somebody else invent for you?