What procrastination looks like

Binge watching Agent Carter, reading all my old posts and fixing all the labels on my blog, watching you tube videos with James. Then the universe kicks me in the butt:

#38 in A Year of Writing Dangerously by Barbara Abercrombie:  Ideal Conditions.  The jist is you may only have thirty minutes in your very full and busy day in which to write or the converse, too much time, too much quiet and you still only fit in thirty minutes of writing in your day.  Doesn't matter which, you're output will still be the same.  So "Either way -- with no time or too much time -- decide how long you'll write. Decide and then do it."

#46 Frou Frou: "It's all frou frou - the dreams, the fantasies of writing, of publishing poems or books or essays; it's all just a lot of wishing--unless you write something down.  Remember this: There is nothing until there is something on the page."

This week's writing prompt:  Write about the time you were in a jam.  Could be me or could be my main character in my latest WIP.   Hmm!  Being stuck on a bridge comes to mind. Symbolically or physical?  Off I go to see what I'm going to do with it.  

Essays: Life - Past and Present

When you have a child with Asperger's, your life is really not your own. It becomes an open book. Therapist and doctors, even family members who think they know better than you, tell you  how to raise your child. You’ve always been a private person. An introvert. Along comes this little baby who from the very moment of his birth, goes from zero to sixty in a heartbeat. Your life is no longer private but open for all. He’s grown to be a quite gregarious, lively, young man with no censor button. He remembers everything you say and you never know what inadvertent comment said in the heat of the moment may come back to haunt you.

The house is finally quiet and your boy is in his room writing. Your ginger tabby is curled up next to you. sleeping. Hubby’s out doing his ten thousand steps. The clock ticks the minutes off as the washing machine hums in the background. You recall a conversation with a woman who overheard your son reading somewhere. “Wow, your son reads so well. Did you teach him?” It was one of those how are you, I’m fine questions and expecting a simple answer, she got the history of golf. You watch her eyes start to glaze as you explain teaching him to write the alphabet, all about phonics, and watching Leap Frog videos.  You take pity on her and smile, let her off the hook and cut it short and say “Thank you for asking. Yes I did. He’s doing great, isn’t he?”

You hate labels. Some people define their lives by them. You fought ‘labeling’ your boy as autistic for a very long time. You didn’t want him to define his actions, his life by a label. You read all the books and, in the process, learned quite a bit, not only about your son, but yourself and your husband. Dreamers and dynamos, spatial-visual learners, spirited kids, highly sensitive, introverted, extroverted, gifted, etc. Are we all autistic or just human with quirky traits? Smart quirky kids now have labels and people work to fix them, trying to make a square peg fit into the round hole. You decide you can’t change temperament. He can’t be defined because he is his own person.

Books, hard bound and soft bound, thick and thin, every color of the rainbow were arrayed on the shelves in an orderly fashion. The high school library, quiet except for the swish of pages being turned. Pre cell phone and pre computer era, the tables were always full with students reading and writing. You practically lived in the library, volunteering as an aid and hanging out when not in class. You had the dewey decimal numbers memorized and knew where to find almost any book.

Puberty proved to be beyond you and you gave in and surprisingly found out that the medical community had caught up, offering all kinds of services to help kids who are different. You finally accept the label, opening your life to criticism as well as support, some useless and some beneficial.

You now have two sets of world book encyclopedias. Hubby’s old set from the 60’s and a newer version bought in 2003. You have fun comparing the entries and what’s changed over the years. You and your son visit the library a couple times and come to the conclusion you like owning your books.  We both like to reread our books over and over again, so our shelves are overflowing with both fiction and nonfiction. Want to find something out, pick up a book. Although some days it’s easier to go online and look it up, you point your son in the direction of the encyclopedias and tell him to look it up.

One of your siblings, the one who always felt so misunderstood, decided to earn her master degree in psychology. You hope she recognized herself in some of the things she learned. She did her thesis on autism and couldn’t comprehend that you’d already read all the books, the studies and theories. She was only too happy to share everything she learned in hopes of making your life better. She went in wanting to help fix your son  and came out realizing he didn't need to be fixed, just loved. Your oldest sister, the one with six kids, didn’t understand why you didn’t go to her for advice on how to raise or discipline your son. She’s been there, done that and knew better.  Your boy rewrote the rule book and taught her a few new things.

Books shape your life and fill your world with information, hope, joy, and imagination. Anything we can think of, we can find it in a book. Don’t understand something, look it up. Love shapes our lives in much the same way. You accepted the label and  shared the books, and now your family understands how our son shaped and changed our life. Why we do things a bit differently.

You know the saying – it takes a village?

For us, it’s a village with a library and unconditional love.

Nonfiction Friday: Silenced

Have you ever been silenced?   

They don't want to hear what you think.  They only want to express what they believe. What they feel. What they know.  They don't want to be questioned or have to explain.  They don't want to hear opposing views or even the truth.

You try to speak and noise fills the air, wails of censorship zooms through the square. No, you cannot. No you should not. You should be ashamed.  They can't bear to hear and stick their fingers in their ears.  Let's not confuse the issue with facts.  They will not listen. They do not care. Emotion rules the day.  They slice and dice and tear you to pieces.   They interpret your words, change and mold them to their point of view and lead their sheep to think that what they think you said is true.

You choose silence. You choose not to explain.  You think those who know the truth will remain.  Your words, your thoughts, your ideas shred and cease to exist. Assumptions are made, seeds are planted deep in your glade. Roots spread and weeds bloom, tall and sharp, casting shadows and leaving you in the gloom. You no longer speak and they think it is fair. The only voices they hear are their own.

Shadows, shadows everywhere, steal your light without a care as weeds grow in the dark.  Such insidious things, seeds planted due to their need,  grow more toxic by the day with their speed.  Banishing the shadows is easier said than done, especially when you have let it go on too long. 

You claim your garden and discover that those you thought had been true had been false all along. Do you feel sorrow or more like a fool for not recognizing how toxic things had become?  You dig deep into the soil as you tug and pull and tear out the roots.  The shadows scatter and weeds rot like bad fruit.  

You step out of the shadows into the truth. Heat warms your face, the sun reveals the soil to grow on. No need to explain.  No need to deny.  No more silence. No more lies. You choose respect.   You choose truth.  You are entitled to have your say without being dismissed by those who don't feel the same way.   You raise your voice in praise, no longer constrained.  

Happy 20th Anniversary to Us

The stained glass windows of the little red brick church glistened in the morning sun.  Rain clouds started to gather in the sky and cast shadows across the fields surrounding the building.  I was hidden in the church hall, dressed in my wedding gown, surrounded by my sisters.  The photographer put us through our poses and disappeared back into the church.  

Everyone had arrived, except for John’s grandmother and his great aunts.  Evidently his uncle had gotten lost with the matriarch of the family.  We had to wait, didn’t we?  I paced, as more clouds bloomed.  Five minutes turned to fifteen, then twenty. This was before we all carried cellphones. John’s older brother finally came out and said I didn’t have to wait anymore as his poor brother was getting more nervous by the minute.  Let’s get the show on the road.

 Just as I exited the hall, it started to sprinkle.  My sisters gathered up my train and we dashed for the church foyer.  Fortunately I’d worn flats.  I took a couple minutes to settle, then placed my hand in the crook of dad’s arm and nodded at my brother in laws.  They reached out and pulled open the double doors.  My heart flip flopped as I took in the pews full of friends and family.  

I hadn’t thought I known enough people to fill up a church, even a small one.   One of those horrible fantasies you get during the stress filled days of planning.  What if no one shows up?  Dad walked me up the aisle, kissed me and guided me to my hubby to be.  I gave John a quick kiss and in his nervousness, he asked “are you supposed to do that yet?”  I giggled, relaxed and stepped up to begin our new life as husband and wife. 

John’s cousin, a catholic priest and Father Dan, the very Irish pastor of our church performed the mass and the ceremony.  Old friends, the two riffed off each other telling jokes, putting us all at ease.   John’s relatives arrived midway, much to everyone’s delight and their embarrassment.    My sister forgot to hand me John’s ring during the blessings of the rings.   

Once I realized what had happened, I said ‘wait you forgot John’s ring.’  

Father Dan waved his hand with a smile and said “Oh, it’ll take.”   And it did! 

Flash Friday: Jacob and Abby

Abby glanced at the sleek, burgundy Spider Ferrari and tried not to drool.  “Honey, why don’t you ever buy me anything like that?”

“Come on Abby. Seriously?”  

“Don’t you love me?”

Jacob took her hand and pressed it to his heart. “Every day, babe and then some.  For what it’s worth, if I could afford it, I’d buy you a dozen.  But you know, it’s a good thing I don’t have to show how much I love you by buying expensive things.”

“How about little things?” Abby kissed him softly on the lips.

“That goes without saying. Why just this morning I bought you this.” Jacob pulled a small box out of his pocket. “Last night at Parker’s, I came across this small trinket I thought you’d like.”

“Maniac. No doubt it’s something for you to enjoy as well.  Only a guy would buy his woman a trinket from the hardware store.”

“Parker’s happens to have some very fine items.  Stop your complaining and open it.”

On the verge of whining for no good reason, she shut up, opened the lid and laughed.

“See I knew you’d like it.”

“Oh thank you darling.  Just what I always wanted. A drill bit.”  Abby pulled it out to find a note and a little red square with a silver button on top.  She unfolded the note which read ‘very clever and very dear, the answer is oh so near.”

“What does it mean, near?” She looked around, then back at the note. X’s and O’s lined the edges of the paper along with a compass rose in the middle of the page, pointing north.  “You and your puzzles.”

“You’ve missed zero so far and the answer is right in front of you.” Jacob grinned and planted his hands in his pockets.

Friday Flash Fiction: The Piano

Ten years.  It had been ten years since you’ve  come back to your hometown. You finish breakfast and glance at your watch.  You still have a couple hours before you need to be at the train station. You’ve been here a whole week and managed to avoid thinking about your old home.  It doesn't hold a lot of good memories, but the pull is there all the same. Why not drive by?  You’ve heard stories about the area. It’s become a blight on the town and is about to be demolished for a new housing development.

Now that would be something; to see it all crash down and bulldozers scoop it all away until nothing is left. God, when had you become so maudlin? You leave a tip on the table, head out and drive across town.  The place has grown with dozens of mini malls and business parks, manufacturing plant and is almost unrecognizable.  

You find the right street and there it looms, the huge tenement building with crumbled bricks and broken windows.  Memories wash through your mind, good and bad.  Grandma’s cooking, the beating from your dad in the basement, your aunt soothing your hurts, cradling you when dad died, the rage when your wife left you, grandpa teaching you how to fish, parties with the whole lot and all the laughter and tears.  You thread your way through the old building, over fallen crossbeams, around bricks and glass.  

A smile breaks through the grimness when you see your initials carved in one of the old timbers. Your first kiss.  You had a lot of firsts here too; first job, first car, first baby. You skirt several piles of salvaged bricks and iron work, step through the hole where the back door used to be and stop in shock.  Amidst the rubble, in the middle of the yard, is your grandpa’s old upright piano. You pick your way through the debris to where it’s been discarded with the rest of the junk.  

Yep, it ‘s grandpa’s. You recognize it even though the top is missing, the maple wood is all scratched and pitted, and the keys are covered in grass and dust.   You brush off the keys and run your fingers over the ivory; the black and white scarred from age and use. You plunk one of the keys and of course, it’s stuck. What’d you expect out here exposed to all the elements.  Your happiest time had been standing round the stupid piano, singing show tunes with your grandparents.  You never would admit it back then, but now with no one to share it with; yeah, it’d been fun.  

You left, after the divorce and never looked back.  Your grandparents passed, your aunt and uncle moved to Italy and all your cousins dispersed around the U.S.  You’ve lost touch with all of them.  Out of anger, spite, ignorance; who knows.  Why have you held on to the anger for so long, let that love slip through your fingers?  The words to Moon River echo through your head as you stare at the old piano.  Life had revolved, evolved, devolved, shattered, left in ruins and  discarded,  just like this old thing.  You shake your head and turn to go, then stop. You walk around to the back of the upright and crouch. Brushing off the dry, baked mud, you find it. Your name, alongside dad and grandpa’s.

You'd made a pact one night when grandma was out, something about brotherhood and manliness. Then etched your names on the back of the old piano. You pull out your pocket knife and pry off the wood.  You pat the old girl, then walk back to your car.   You turn and take one long, last look. 

You have survived, made something of yourself.  You look at the wood and trace all the letters with a fingertip.  It’s time.  Time to put the ghosts to rest, track down your cousins, forgive and make new memories.  Heck, maybe even buy a new piano.  You climb into the car and don’t look back as you drive away, leaving the sorrows of the past behind. 

Monday Meanders - A little bit of glue, a little bit of hope

Willow Tree Angel of Hope

I broke Hope the other day.  I was dusting my bookshelves and while moving all the angels around, she fell, hit the fan and her hands broke off.  I tried using tacky glue, but it didn't work.  She kind of mirrored how I was feeling for a few days.  I get a bit melancholy around James birthday and all the more so since my mom passed away four years ago. Her birthday is the day after James.   The grief comes rolling in and there isn't a whole lot you can do except ride it out.  And usually when I'm riding that wave, I don't want to write. I avoid it, and read or browse the internet instead.  Yesterday I almost talked myself in taking another break from blogging. I was thinking - take a week or two off and maybe get back into it near the end of August. You have so much to do with planning 12th grade and the new building and family is coming to visit and...     

Excuses. Right!  I do that. I avoid writing when I'm stressed or sad.  Instead of working and writing through it, I avoid. It's what I do. Bury my head in the sand until I'm happy again. Don't talk, don't think, just glide.  However, I knew if I stopped this time, it would be a mistake. A misstep. A failure to acknowledge what I'm going through in life.  Writer's write. They work through the happy, sad, glad, loss, life, bad weather...whatever.  Isn't it time for me to own that, instead of disowning my writing every time I'm feeling a bit off?  Yes, I think so.   

I bought some super glue the other day and today I decided to glue Hope back together.  I almost glued  my fingers together and yes, I almost managed to glue myself to the figurine and the napkin and the table.  But today I glued Hope back together again.  And in the process, reaffirmed my decision to keep on writing and posting every single day. Through thick and thin, happiness and sorrow, joy and tears. 

A little bit of glue, a little bit of hope, goes a long way. 

Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. ~Anne Lamott

Nonfiction Friday: The mockingbird

I peer at the human, my heart thunders in my chest.  I grip the round logs at the end of its branch.  It saved me.  The monster had captured me with its fangs, held me against the earth.  The human twittered, quick and loud, at the thing holding me.  She, I think, it has long hair, made my enemy let go. She picks me up and cuddles me to her breast.  I feel the pounding of her heart next to mine.  She chirps, nonsensical sounds, and runs a talon over my head and back.  She is nice. She is warm. She is safe.  The other human makes the monster return to its nest.

**

I gaze through the glass at my human.  She spoiled our play.  The chirper started it, dive bombing and yelling at me.  I’d been sleeping, the sun warming my back, the dirt cool against my belly.  My brother joins me and licks my ear.  I’m not in the mood to play and swat him across the nose.  I scratch at the glass. That always gets their attention…usually.  My human ignores me.

**

While John grabs his camera, I run my fingers over the mockingbird.  It sits in my hand. Quiet, stunned, but uninjured.  Thank goodness.  I’ve saved various birds, dragon flies, praying mantis and butterflies, over the years and discovered they are aware I am trying to protect them from my four cats.  They cling or huddle in my hands, quite trusting.  The mockingbird relaxes and chirps.  It sits in the palm of my hand and stares at me, then poses as John snaps several pictures.  We chat as it chirps and ruffles it feathers.  The bird’s talons grip my fingers tightly.  Time to let it go. It chips one last time and I raised my hand, pushing it into the air.  She or maybe a he, takes off across the yard and swoops over the laurel bushes – gone.

**

Yesterday I was sitting out on the patio.  A bird flits down to sit on the back of the wooden glider.  It chirps hello and a few other things, then preens a bit before taking off again.  You’re welcome!

Flash Friday: Sorrow is born

Spotless in dust, waiting from free by Zhongwen Yu

The man held the newborn girl and tears streamed down his cheeks as he said 'you are my Sorrow, you are my Joy.  She's gone. My darling, my heart, my life. What shall we do?  You and I, we shall survive.  She would have demanded nothing less.  We won't let her death destroy the most beautiful, precious gift I hold in my arms.  My sorry and and my joy.  Together, we'll prevail.

My name is Sorrow Joy Andreas.  My friends call me Ro.  My dad named me right after my mother died during childbirth. My birth.  He used to say 'you are my sorrow, my joy.'  How can one be both sorrow and joy at the same time?  I don't know how he managed it. He raised me to follow in his path. A successful lawyer, an entrepreneur, a killer. My father, you see, was an assassin.  Not of lives, but of ambitions.  He took great joy in ruining people.  Those who deserved it, he would say. Those who took advantage.  Those who gave no thought to who they stepped on.  "Sorrow, my love," he'd say. "You must be strong, you must be wise, but most of all, you must beware.  You look innocent, but I will raise you up as a barracuda who looks like a trout."

We lived in the islands, my father and I, along with a half dozen servants.  He filled my head with words and images from Aristotle to Eva Peron,  Hitler to Christ, all the way from Mr. Rogers to Mao Tse Tung.  Quite a diverse group of men and women from the classics to the present.  He taught me to argue, to defend, to criticize and to trip without being trapped.  A lawyer, a defender, a prosecutor.  A knight in sheep's clothing.  Then he left me.  Not voluntarily, mind you.  Alone on the island, surrounded by paid friends.  

Monday Memories - Lost things

It’s kind of apropos that you are currently reading a story about lost things right now.  Totally fiction in which the lead character can see and feel the losses of everyone around her.  Awesome book and so you think about your losses, from little to big – keys, mom, fur babies, friends, and even directions.  Yes, losing your way easily because you have no sense of direction isn’t always fun.  You end up taking long detours that aren’t always an adventure.  You resist going down the pathway to talking about death.  Maybe because it used to be so foggy. And now that you’ve stepped out of the fog into the light, that sense of loss has dwindled.  Although grief hits at the oddest moments.  A smell, a texture. Even a TV show reminds you of that person.  And you wallow, let yourself sink, then rise back up to go on.

You remember James first birthday and the family came to celebrate.  You were anxious and angry and had no idea why.  Maybe because you hadn’t really processed the idea you couldn’t have any more kids.    You could, but the risks would be too great and you didn’t want to leave hubby with two children and without his wife.  You experienced congestive heart failure during labor and your husband was given a choice – You or the child.

Fortunately, you both survived, a bit battered and battled scarred, now healthy and strong.   It was a bonding experience for your husband who hadn’t anticipated being in charge of this tiny little human being, responsible for feeding him and changing diapers. Pressed into duty by the NICU nurses, he was thrown into fatherhood without you.   You didn’t get to see your son for a couple days until hubby  talked the nurses into bringing him up to the ICU.  Those first few months after James was born are pretty foggy as we lived moment to moment; healing, living and loving our son.  

So you fret and fume, unsure of why you are melancholy.  James is your miracle child after all.  When hubby was seventeen, he’d gotten shocked while working on an amplifier,  and thrown across the room. You went into the marriage with the thought there was a very real probability, he would be sterile.  Happily, you were wrong.

Each year is bittersweet, perhaps because in the back of your mind, all those dreams for your family had died.   You’d always thought you would have five or six. A gaggle, a troop, a party of five.   Maybe you had been grieving and not aware of it.  Grief, you learned after your mother died, ebbed and flowed with the tides.  Some days are foggy, others bright and clear.  You can’t imagine having more children now. Your little family unit, the three of you living your  lives to the fullest and blessed with your miracle child, who is almost 18 now and surprises you every day with his wit and insights.

Flash Fiction Friday: Don't sit with your sorrow

My mother said something prophetic the other day. I didn't know it at the time, but as the words sank into my soul and warmed my cold heart, I began to live again. My wife wouldn't have wanted me to give up. She had such courage. Obviously more than me.

"Don't sit with your sorrow, but next to it."

I hadn't the foggiest idea what mom meant.  With or next, what difference did it make?  Did she mean it literally or figuratively?  Did she mean don't sit too long on your ass, moping and dwelling, crying in your beer?  Or did she mean I should remove myself from the equation?   And just why the hell do I feel the need to analyze it.  Because it bothers me.

"Don't sit with your sorrow, but next to it."

Are we acquaintances, sitting together in a room, keeping each other at arms length. Or have we become friends sitting together, bonding over who knows what. Holding hands, gathering strength, being a part of each other's lives rather than viewing each other across the coffee table.  

"Don't sit with your sorrow, but next to it." 

Sorrow.  Can you personalize it, him, her?  Does it become a person, a physical entity.  You can either be that person or next to that person.  Sit with me, Sorrow says, and I'll tell you a tale of woe.  Sit next to me, Sorrow says, I'll give you a rake to hoe.  I'll give you a shoulder to lean on, since you still have far to go.  Sit next to me, but don't lean on me. I have things to do, said Sorrow. Don't count on me, said Sorrow, I won't always be around. I won't be there tomorrow.  

Damn. Sorrow isn't a very trust worthy person is she?  I think she just gave me my walking papers.



Greg - Eyes in the Ashes

Flash Friday: Leap of Faith

Courtesy of Tassels

You wander through an old-growth forest with trees reaching into the sky  on a narrow, leaf covered trail. Wind whistles through the trees.   Branches rustle and sing as leaves scatter, captured by wild wind eddies, and fly around your head. You hear the roar of the waterfall, before the bridge comes into view.  The breeze pushes and pulls you and leaves crunch and crackle underneath your bare feet. Crack!

You jump and race forward as a huge tree crashes to the ground with a bone jarring thud. Once the dust clears,  you realize its blocked the path and you'll have to take the long way home. The wind whips up and pulls at you, until you sprint down the trail, almost flying. You've heard about the bridge but not seen it yet.  The view takes your breath away.  Two huge oaks trees stretch across the water toward one another, and the roots form a natural walkway. The wood is warm and bumpy underneath your feet as you walk to the middle of the bridge and stare down at the water.

The river roars underneath and empties into a crystal clear lake surrounded by ferns and wild lilies of white, yellow, gold and orange. Sunlight sparkles off the water and fish swim in aimless circles. You look across the tree tops to the edge of the village where a church steeple rises high into the sky. The tolling of the bells drifts by on the wind. A soft breeze caresses your face and whispers ‘I will catch you when you fall.’  The breeze plucks at your clothes, once again pulling you towards the edge. The kids all call it the leap of faith. You can do this.  You close your eyes, take a deep breath and jump.

Flash Friday: There's Something You Should Know

The last few nights she had a recurring dream about her brother, Tommy.  They were lost in Oz and didn't have any idea how to get home.  He lay in the cornfield at the feet of a scarecrow, hands on his head and laughing. He shouldn't be laughing, she thought. He should be scared or angry.  Why wasn't he angry? 

She pushed her way through the cornstalks, leaving a path out to the road.  The empty road. No yellow bricks, no Toto, no Tinman, no witch.  Just an empty Nebraska cornfield and a very blue and purple sky. 

Puffy yellow clouds raced each other to the horizon.  Birds sang, stalks whispered, and Tommy laughed.  He hooted and howled.  She waited for him to wind down, to catch his breath, to look at her. Acknowledge her.  

"You know," he said and startled her with his cheerful voice, "I do believe this is the craziest scarecrow I've ever seen."

She gazed at the figure nailed to two pieces of wood, like Jesus on the cross.  Polk a dot pants, striped pink skirt, white clown shoes and a black big brimmed hat, all stuffed full of corn husks.  It smelled of grass and red wine and dust.  Faceless and hand less, it flopped with the wind. 

"Does it remind you of anyone?" her brother asked.

She shook her head and waited for him to enlighten her.  Didn't they have more important things to do, to talk about? 

"He looks like I feel."  Tommy pushed to his feet and slung an arm over her shoulder.

"Like a bad fashion statement." She kept her tone light and cheerful to match his.

He chuckled.  "Stuffed with useless bits."

"How can we fix it?" She leaned her head against his chest and listened to his failing heart.

"We can't. But we can do this." He reached into the sky and snagged one of the yellow clouds.  It pulled them into the sky and they landed on the feather soft back of a horse. Clouds shaped like cars, trucks, feet, bicycles, and more swept along on an airy racetrack. She blinked and focused on people riding the clouds.  Nana, uncle John, Jollie her cat, all long gone. 

"You can't stay, babe."  Her brother said as they zoomed across the sky.

"You can't either; not yet."  She held on to him and closed her eyes, blocked out the sight of those she'd known and hadn't known, as they passed by.  

"Did you notice anything about these clouds?"  He nudged her and she opened her eyes.  He grabbed a handful of the horse's cloudy mane.  A yellow footprint formed in his palm.  "What's at the end of the yellow brick road?"

"Life. Peace. Happiness."  She ventured and wanted it to be the truth.

"Nope. The castle. The next step."

"No."

"Be brave," he said with a smile.

"Why? Why do I have to brave?"  Her grip slipped as he became more insubstantial, a part of the cloud.

"There's something you should know..."  His voice trailed off, echoed in her head as she woke in her bed, in her apartment. The sun shone through the window and left trails of light in the dust, like the tears on her cheeks.  

"There's something you should know," he said, minutes before he passed away. His eyes slipped from her to Roland, their best friend, and back again.  "I found my courage." 

Flash Friday: Do you trust me?

“Do you trust me?” Sylvester’s voice reverberates through her mind. She wakes, curled on the ground, in the crook of the tree’s roots. Chirps and whistles, crackles and odd smells she can’t identify fill her ears and nose.  She opens her eyes. The light is dim, trees and bushes reach tall into the sky. Is it dusk or dawn?  She sits up and clamps her palms against her temples, dizzy. She’s sore  and covered in dust and leaves. She leans against the tree trunk and waits for her eyes to focus.  She grasps a handful of leaves and they disintegrate, dusting the forest floor.

“Do you?” She thinks the voice is near, almost.  His voice sounds real.  She climbs to her feet; one hand holds onto the knobby tree.  She doesn’t remember any forest near her house, her town.  An urbanite to the core, she prefers the stone forest of the city.  How’d she get here?  She picks leaves out of her short cap of brunette hair and brushes dirt from her slacks. Pink sneakers?  She doesn’t like pink.  No watch, no ring, no cell phone, no briefcase.  She scuffs through the leaves around the tree trunk.  Nothing.

“Do you trust me?” His voice again.  “I wouldn’t have married you if I didn’t” Her voice croaks and startles the birds into silence. “Now however, I’m not so sure.”  She circles the tree once more, huffs out a breath and begins to walk.  She racks her brain as she meanders through the maze of greens, browns, and yellows. 

“I’ll find you no matter what.” It’s night and her husband is by her side.  A pinch, a yank. His hand outstretched.  Anger and fear on his face, yet his eyes lie.  She finds a trail and follows a sound. Water gurgles and her throat hurts.  The trees thin and light brightens the path.  She’s hot and thirsty. More gurgles and splashes tease her.  She stumbles weary out into the sun and a clearing.  A small waterfall drops into a pond, water streams down the hillside.  She drops to her knees and drinks, splashes her face.  She lays by the pond for a while, then follows it downstream.  She navigates trees and bushes, roots and branches. 

“I love you. Remember that?”  Her last glimpse of his face through the car window. Laughter.  Voices echo through the trees.  She hides behind a bush, wary.  Two men, thick and tall, trudge past with backpacks, talking about football. They aren’t sweating.   She waits until they are out of sight, then runs down the trail.  She stays inside the tree line, observes a parking lot, cars, a small building. She watches and waits.  A familiar blue van pulls in, driven by an unfamiliar blond woman.  Three men, including Sylvester, climb out and pull on backpacks.  Her husband kisses the woman goodbye and  laughs, then  walks into the forest.  The blonde waits a few minutes, then jumps out of the vehicle and disappears into the building.

“Don't you trust me?”  She races across the lot and climbs into the van, plucks the extra key out of the glove compartment.  She still doesn’t know where she is.  Two cell phones sit in the console. Sylvester’s and probably the blonde’s.  She drives until she sees a sign and a rest stop.  Two hundred miles to Asheville, North Carolina.  She's far, far, far from her stone forest city.  She thumbs on her husband’s cell phone, reads through the texts and email messages.  

“Honey, you know you can trust me.”  His voice runs through her mind. A forgotten conversation spins through and she throws the phone out the window.   She heads north and away.  

Don't fence me in....

What are fences for?  What kind of fence do you have?  Aluminum, wood, iron or chain link?  Is it there to keep you in or others out? Do you keep your gate locked or trust that etiquette alone will keep others out? A boundary or a barrier.  Does your horse balk at the fence refusing to jump over or does it bound over effortlessly?  Does your dog dig under or jump over or sniff along the bottom, curious but cautious?  Forget the cat. We all know they'll slink through and under and over without any problem.  

What about your metaphysical fence? Do you let yourself get fenced in, stuck in the ruts surrounding the fence?  Have you created a gigantic moat to keep others out which in turn keeps you in?  Or is the fence something fun to climb, to jump over, to scale, to rise above and see what is on the other side? Do you like to experiment with your fences, mixing them up every once in a while, exchanging short for tall, lots of openings to the wood so close together, a gnat couldn't sneak through?

Do you go for the plain wood or like to beautify your boundary with elegance or artful messes?  I think its time to take a look at our fences to make sure we haven't gotten in a rut.

Flash Friday: He haunted the night...

So far, I've managed to write every day and 4 days of morning pages this week.  Taking it day by day, week by week seems the better route to take, although in my mind, I've committed to the month of June to get back in the habit of morning pages, writing prompts and blogging.  Sitting my butt down and showing up at the page is the most important thing right now.  We've started setting the alarm for 8:30 so I have time to write and hubby has time to do his 10,000 steps before work.  Yes, we are night owls so getting up early is a bear, especially since the time change.  Hopefully after a week or so of rising earlier, it will stick with our body clocks.  Funny that now it's summer and no longer doing lessons, here we are getting up early. We are so backwards. 

Writing prompt:  He haunted the night.  

He haunted the night, the stygian darkness hiding the traces of his footprints through the wet streets.  By the time he arrived home, Oliver was soaked as usual. His insomnia driving him out into the wet, the cold, the dry and the humid most nights.  Thoughts piled upon thoughts, stories coming to him from the characters he encountered on the streets, the boulevards just as busy during the night as the day.  Different people, different in a way one wouldn't expect.  Shady and careful, friendly yet cautious.  Those who hid from the day, didn't want their secrets revealed. Yet they talked to him.  Maybe because he looked harmless.  You'd think that would set him up for trouble. But he looked like every man. He blended in, his bland features registering as a blank to the bad and the good. 

Oliver soaked in the tub, legs throbbing from climbing the high hills of the city. Tonight he'd encountered a woman, a lioness with sharp claws, blond mane flowing around her face, highlighting her ebony skin.  A saint or a sinner, he wouldn't, couldn't say.  She roamed the streets, snarling at any who came close. Yet she'd sank down on the bench next to him, handed him a Starbucks cup and proceeded to slurp from her own cup of steaming brew.

"You know?"  Her deep sultry voice reminded him of a singer he'd once heard at the opera. "Life didn't begin on this planet."

He hmmm'ed, sipped his drink and waited, knowing better than to speak, not wanting to risk the lash of her sharp claws.  

"Where do you think I come from?"  Her eyes flashed, teeth bared at another man who paused close by. 

"No idea." Oliver murmured when she didn't speak for several beats.

"Ah, my dear, but you do. I came out of the night, same as you but farther from the storm.  Life is a storm. Violent, clashing, hearty and hail. Beautiful, yet deadly.  Do you think I'm deadly?"  She all but purred the words.

"I think." Oliver began, then paused to sip the hot brew as a shiver chased up his spine. "That you are true."

She titled her head, a sly smile creased her face. Then she chuckled and slapped his knee. 

"I like you."  She stood with a shack of her long mane of hair. "Beyond the stars, lives a planet, a country, a town, a house. In it a babe who cries for her father.  Do you think you can find her?"

"Possibly." Oliver blinked.

"Good."  She dropped an envelope in his lap.  "Luck," and slunk off into the dark.

*******************

A mystery in the making? Possibly?  Who is Oliver? Who is she? Where is this town with high hills?  So many questions popping into my brain. All from one little ole writing prompt. I like Oliver's voice. I'm intrigued by her.   Do I let it end without resolution or do I pursue?   Hmmm!

Flash Friday - Z to A reverse alphabet story

Zanzibar 

Zanzibar hopped into the car and headed up the coast.  Yesterday he’d been fired, for nothing really, he told himself.  X’rays revealed a tumor so he used it as an excuse for his behavior.  Winding down the lonely road, he smiled and thought of Clover, the dunderheaded dog behind the factory.  Very stupid, but oh so brave.  Undoubtedly he should have taken the dog, but they kicked him out fast, only gave him time to clear his locker.  Trash talk, that was all.   Seriously, why had Blakely looked so appalled?  

Really, who takes jokes literately? Quite the moron and he hadn’t been the only one.  Proud of his little ditties and songs, Zan had made a poster and hung it in the break room.  Oops!  No way he could have known Blakely or Singleton had minorities in their families.  Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut, but he’d never been too good with that.  Lazy, his dad said, too lazy to think, to stop and think about other folks.  Kendall had torn down the poster, ripped it into tiny pieces and shoved it in his face.  Jackass! 

If they had only asked, he would have explained about the tumor and he wasn’t responsible.  He huffed  out a breath and  tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, thoughts all jumbled.  Granted, they were all a bunch of idiots and he’d hated the job, so why should he care.  Free now to roam, to drive and explore and be himself.  Even his dad was mad at him as well.  

Directly around the next bend, the ocean came into view, vast, blue and gorgeous. Craving fish now, he checked gps for the nearest sea food restaurant.  Battered fried shrimp and maybe some lobsters rolls would be good.  All thoughts ceased when he drove off the cliff, distracted by a bodacious babe in a bikini.  

Flash Friday - Thoughts about X

Trickery with X 

for 

National Poetry Month

X-rays and xacto knives

No, let's not go there.

X-factor,

No, I don't watch that either.

Xenophobia

Nope, none of that. 

Xenogenesis

Nah, my son looks like both of us.

Although my three sisters and I all have different hair color.

No one believed we had the same mother and father.

Xenomorphic, 

Lots of odd rocks in our collection.

Xanth,

I did love Piers Anthony's imagery world 

When I was a teen.

Xavier Cugat,

He was married to the cuchi cuchi babe.

Charo for those too young to remember.

X 

Beware the big bold x of the railroad crossing.

Don't try to beat the train.

Xeroxes to Xylographs

modern to the past. 

Time for me to make my exit,

since I find that I'm quite perplexed. 

Sunday Salon: Dinty Moore's Field Guide to Writing Flash Non Fiction

I've been derailed by nonfiction. Would never have believed it.  Me, who only reads fiction and likes to escape into a book has embraced nonfiction.  I knew absolutely nothing about flash fiction or flash non fiction before I started taking courses at WVU.  First I read Dinty Moore's Rose Metal Press Field Guide to Flash Fiction which led me to the Field Guide for Writing Flash Non Fiction

I’m intrigued by Moore’s history of flash non fiction.  It’s renewed my interest for reading Montaigne’s Essays which has been languishing in my stacks. It occasionally yells ‘read me, read me’ and I say, ‘okay in a few.’   I’m fascinated by all the rabbit trails, authors and essays and magazines to read and absorb. 

“Bernard Cooper offers perhaps the first attempt to define the brief essay form...To paraphrase Cooper, then, the brief essay form is discrete, sharply focused, and must be held up, studied like a small tableau, to review the secrets of human nature contained therein.”

I’ll have to remember that: a tableau, a picture, a moment frozen in time.  What does it say? How does it say it?  How do you paint a word picture of an grand idea in as few words a possible while still retaining the emotion of the moment?

According to Moore, likening the reader to a smoke jumper, you start at the flash point, in the heat of the moment.  Kind of scary actually.  No build up, no lead in, just jump right in.  Will take a bit of practice, but that’s why we’re here.

Moore brings up the point “This tendency toward briefer prose in the digital domain stems partially from the eyestrain caused by staring too long into a conventional computer monitor and also from the perceived unwillingness of computer surfers to scroll too far or too often.”

Do we have shorter attention spans caused by internet surfing?  Probably.  It’s odd that when I read anything on the computer, I skim versus I absorb more when using my ipad. I have no idea what the difference is, except maybe I can curl up with my Ipad which makes it more like a book, versus having to sit upright and tense at my computer.  The computer is a tool to me, so yes, I skim to find the most information in the shortest amount of time and move on to something else.  Media has changed the way we view things.  Which I guess is a good thing for those who write flash fiction or flash nonfiction.

Which leads back to the field guide and what I hope to learn from the essays.  Moore says “literary writing is an art form, and no one definition can ever successfully pin down artistic production or product.”  Alrighty then!  I'm not going to worry about defining flash non fiction.   I’ll work on learning as much as I can, experimenting and see where it takes me.  Just keep it short, simple and exciting from the get go. And real, of course.   But how do you define real? 

Flash Friday - Night Road

Friday Flash 

Night Road 

Decided to revisit Oulipos today and share my experiment utilizing Robert Frost’s The Road Not Taken which turned out to be a big failure. I tried the N + 7 route which is replace the major nouns with another noun which is the 7^th one below it, in the dictionary.  However the first line ending up being 

Two robbers diverged in a women. 

After I stopped laughing and got over my hot flash, tried a few variations but it just wasn’t working.  Then I got the bright idea to take book titles and transform them into a story, but got as far as a weird poem.  Which is below for your viewing  pleasure. 

On the Night Road 

Death Comes

Brightly Burning

Across the Endless River

On the Night Road.

Dark Shadows 

In the Woods

Scream for Me,

On the Night Road.

Flashback

Phantom

Rainwater

Dark Harbor.

The Door Within

All Through The Night

Vanished

A World I Never Made.

Midnight

A Lethal Harvest

Watcher in the Woods

Shoot Him if He Runs.

Forgotten Garden

Born in Fire

Icebound

Thunder of Heaven

Blink

Shadow of Doubt

Rivers Edge

Never Go Back

Brilliance of the Moon

A Walk in the Woods

The Brink of Dawn

On the Night Road

Infinite Days

The Silent Gift

Everything Beautiful Began Again.

On the Night Road.