Failed Pad Thai and a chilling winter tale

Pad Thai.

Really easy to make, but you gotta measure your ingredients!

That's all.

Here's to the new me who won't dump vinegar in carelessly, and will live to eat dinner again.

On the bright side, my intestines just feel cleaner.

This one deserves a re-do with some legit peanut sauce.

And here begins the fashion portion of the blog.

I love Liv's pants right here. I'm always meeting people with bright red jeans and I don't think I can pull them off. This maroon though I want to try.

In general, I love Liv's layered outfits. The sweatshirt under a jacket is very Seattle and totally my style. I just need to afford jackets...

Until then... I want to write a New Year's Story, but in my own weird way.

Hey guys, I've been screenwriting for 5+ years so I'm really good at run-on sentences and not staying in past tense. Enjoy.

---

He squinted at the dawn sunlight that quietly invaded the trees. The bitter cold air bit at his cheeks and he let out a breath that hung warm in the air. Somewhere a bird chirped. Other than that, it was deathly quiet. He took a seat in his deck chair. A better spot to sit in the summer, sure, but right now, he wanted to admire the sparkle of the sunlight spread across the snow.

The trees spread out for miles, as far out as the sun lifted over the horizon, there wasn't a sign of life in sight. Except for that damned bird. It didn't get the memo.

The wind shook the snow in the trees, and he had the distinct thought that if there were an avalanche, or even a snow-in for that matter, no one would find him. The lake was a mile out. In summer, this was hardly prime property, in winter it was like some hidden godforsaken land. And that was exactly where he wanted to be right now, in peace.

Then she snapped him out of his reverie.

Banging on the wall. Muffled shouting through the decrepit wall of the shed. He sighed.

He walked down the steps and trudged through snow towards the shed. Propped up against the weather-worn lay a shovel. He picked it up, held it to his shoulder. The banging came again, he studied the rhythm. A break. When the banging started up again, he swung. Smashing into the wood as soon as the most forceful thud came from her fist, followed by a small cry.

He savored it.

Inside his cabin, candles line the table he sits at. He carves into the steak at his plate, spraying red juices across it. Splattering the table, his shirt. He chews like a carnivore. When he's done, he rinses his knife in the sink. The water turning red, then circling the drain. He wipes it dry on his sleeve, then tests the tip on his lip, drawing a tiny bead of blood.

He trudged to the shed, no parka this time. Just a vest and no gloves. He held the knife. The latch on the shed was close to broken now. The screws almost yanked from the wood. One more push might have done it. He undid the padlock.

Opened the shed to silence. Where was she?

He took one step into the shed and WHACK! The head of a drain spade crashed down on the edge of his shoulder. She missed! And furthermore, the drain spade had broken. The head collapsing to the floor by his feet. She stood, now that he could see her, with an old wooden rod, in a T-shirt and underwear. Skin streaked with dirt, her feet blue, toes black from cold. Her zip ties had been broken, her wrists now red and raw. She charged him with the rod now, disadvantage be damned. He grabbed the end before it hit him, twisted it out of her arms. He saw now that her shoulder was badly bruised, likely from the door.

She spit at him and he lunged towards her, jabbing the rod and still holding the knife. She ducked and the rod crashed above her, rattling the wall and the tools on it. Some fell. She lobbed a wrench at his knee, the pain searing. She grabbed at something in the dark. He wasn't taking any more chances. He raised the knife, eyes examining, predicting her next move. She wavered, he lunged. He grabbed her throat with his bare hand, raised her body upwards. She squirmed and he brought the blade to her cheek. She kicked him in the balls.

He squeezed her throat tight. She grabbed on to his arms. She held him tighter as he squeezed tighter and-----she hoisted herself up, thrusting her cheek into the knife as she did so. But her feet found his face. She forced his head to the side, cracking his neck. He couldn't see and momentarily lost focus. He dropped the knife. She thrashed against his arms. He struggled to tighten his grip, but she broke it. He dropped her to the floor. He lifted a boot above her head, but she dodged, rolled over. He felt the wall for another tool, his knife somewhere on the floor in the darkness. He wouldn't let his franticness show.

He found a rake, but she had disappeared to the darkness of the corner. Wasn't that cute? She had backed herself into a corner.

He dropped the rake. Crept towards her. She sat, pressed against the wall, small and tired. He leaned down, knelt onto her legs, pinning her to the floor. He grinned. Noticed his breath yet again fell visibly into the air. Hung in front of her face like a fog. He put a hand to her face and sunk his fingernails into the wound on her cheek. Then he noticed her arms. They were stretched above her head, as if she were tied up. As if she were hanging. Then he saw. He watched as she lifted the fire poker in her hands above her head in a parabola as she brought the tip down. The tip growing bigger and bigger in his line of sight until he dropped her. Tried to scramble away, but the tip followed him, bigger and bigger until it was right in his eye, in his skull, in his brain and out again.

He fell to the floor. She got up and walked away.

Ummm...Happy New Year?