trying to write

Moments in time...

2011-10-27T12:37:00.000-05:00

standing on a chair looking down at all the children playing out in the yard
I think I was 5

walking up and down those steep hills to get home from school
I was 7 there were no hills but they seemed like hills to me

walking along a busy street with two friends headed to school, sand and palm trees along the way
I was 9

Playing baseball in the street after the street lights came on
I was 11

scoring 7 straight points off our rival volleyball team and making the paper
I was 13

playing in an orchestra at blossom music festival
I was 15

so long ago but all I have to do is close my eyes and I can see it, I can hear it, I can feel it.

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from a random prompt - something wrapped

2011-10-24T13:30:00.002-05:00

Something wrapped sits on my doorstep. Where it has come from I’m not quite sure. I didn’t hear a delivery truck pull in. Surely if it had the dogs would have started their barking and yapping, but no not a peep. And it certainly wasn’t there this morning when Devon had left for the office and the girls had dashed for the bus. I peeked again through the side window. Still there, 2 feet square wrapped in red and white polka dot paper with a black and white bow affixed to the top.
Silly really, I should just go and open the door and pick up the box. Perhaps it’s not for me at all but mistakenly delivered to the wrong address. Or maybe it is for me, something special to celebrate this Monday. There is a bit of anxious wrapped all around it and just a smidge of fear and yes some excitement. I start to walk to the door but the phone rings and I run to answer it.
I’ve been so distracted these days. You would think the box would have kept my attention but no. There was the phone and then emails, and it was only when I was making some lunch that I remembered and went again to the door.
Pausing for a moment, “this could change everything,” some little voice whispered in my head. But practicality pushed the thought aside. What could possibly be in a box that size that could really have much of an affect on anything?
I bent down to pick it up surprised at the weight and carried it to the table. My name was written in calligraphy on the tag. Open me, printed in box letters on the other side. Feeling a bit like Alice through the looking glass I begin to open the box slowly and suddenly a door in the floor of my life opens and I found myself falling, falling, falling down the white rabbit’s hole.

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Come Near, Come Now

2011-07-26T19:12:00.000-05:00

Come near, come now
Come here somehow
In the lonely hours
In our desperate days
We call out and we say,
Oh Lord,
Come near come now,
Come here, somehow.

In the dark and alone
I find You are there
I am loved and assured
I know that you care

On I go through my days
The time soon slips away
When I lay down in bed
I hear this song in my head

Come near, come now,
Come here some how
Through the nights
And the days
You call my heart and You say,
Oh love,
Come near, Come now
Come here somehow.

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Requiem for a princess

2011-06-29T17:11:00.000-05:00

Where have you gone to my darling, my princess?
I hear your laughter further down the path as I sit amongst the tiny teacups.
Come back, come home. It is too soon for you to be gone.
But there is no reply as I stare mournfully up the garden walk.
The swing set sits still, no pumping legs, no pointing toes.
I recall the picnics under the willow tree of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches cut in the shapes of butterflies.
Where have you gone to my lovely, my princess?
With a flurry and a fuss you come running through the door, breathless and excited and bigger than I recall, like Alice after she drank something.
“Can’t stop! Can’t chat! Headed to the masquerade!“ She is followed by her young friends already hidden behind masks of their own.
Stop! Wait! I want to say, No need to hide yourself behind that mask to fit in. But she is gone again, golden tresses flying behind.
I sit with the bear and rock in our chair and miss you.
Where have you gone to my dearest, my princess?
Grown to fast, gone too soon!
Will you remember that you are the prettiest girl I know and my very favorite, pinky swear, girl I love?
Come home, don't go! It cannot be time for you to leave already.
Do not let the princess in you disappear!

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I wish I had a dragon

2011-06-22T15:48:00.002-05:00

I wrote this over a year ago but its one of my favorites

I wish I had a dragon
I wish I had a dragon to ride across the skies,
To fly above the mountains to the place the sunset lies.

I wish I had a dragon, I'd never need to fear.
'Fore when mounted on this mighty beast no danger would draw near.

I wish I had a dragon to fly far and fast and free,
Beyond the bonds of duty, of who I ought to be.

We'd fly below the sunrise.
We'd skim across the seas.
We'd soar up with the eagles,
Or just drift upon the breeze.

I'd stop and stare in wonder at all the places I could go.
Places that are magical that others do not know.

I'd find a shining castle hidden high up in the clouds,
And stay a day, a week or more; until we tired of the crowds.

Then I would mount my dragon, and she and I would soar,
To some other wondrous place, upon a distant shore.

June 8 - 300 words

2011-06-08T16:53:00.001-05:00

My mother was a beautiful, Jewess. My earliest memories were of sitting beside her staring into the mirror trying to see something in me that looked like her. I had inherited my father’s fair skin, his blue eyes, even his dimples.
“That’s Jack Callahan’s daughter” they would say, as we would walk past on the way to the market. “She’s the spittin’ image of Jack.”
I loved my father with every part of my being. He was a bear of a man; He was 6’ 3” tall and weighed 230. He could lift my mother high above his shoulders with just one hand. He loved us both so deeply, so dearly.
“My two beauties,” he called us. When we laughed he would say it sounded like the tinkling bells. The one thing I did share with my mother was her beautiful laugh. My dad made us laugh long and often.
Our home was safe, fun and so different from that all of my friends. We had Hanukah and Christmas, Passover and Easter. Our house was a place of celebration we had holidays twice as often as anyone I knew. Friends would gather to celebrate everything, anything or nothing at all.
Life was so good.
We didn’t even know how good it was until the Main Street fire. I was eight. It was two weeks before Christmas. When that fire took my dad nothing was ever the same. It seemed that “it was always winter and never Christmas” after that. I can’t imagine that it was cold and dark for the next several years but it seemed to be that way to me. Even now looking back I can not recall anything but winter until I was almost 15. No more laughter, no more fun, the sound of the bells silenced.

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June 6th - A piece called 300 words (it actually has 378 words)

2011-06-06T09:26:00.000-05:00

300 Words

300 words how hard can that be? That’s all I need to write today. Just before I slip off to dreamland whole reams of words come flowing out. There is character development, plot, and subplot. Every bit of the story flows so easily. It’s real, tangible and oh so good. There never was a better story written, wonderful, touching, grand, emotional, impacting! The critics will say striking, deeply felt, poignant. My novels will be bestsellers for weeks, even months on end. My poetry will be deep, or amusing or fresh. My children’s stories, every one of them a Caldecott winner. My screenplays will be Golden Globe and Oscar winners!
I know what to say and how to say it so that it will strike an emotional chord with the reader. My mysteries will be, well, mysterious. My love stories will be no less than lovely. I can see them. I can hear them. I can feel them.
The one thing I can’t seem to do is write them. The words come easily as I lay prone upon my bed or when I’m standing in the shower. They just flow when I’m driving in the car. The characters are brilliant. They are wonderful, engaging and multifaceted. They are people you want to know.
I head off to my office to write the words down and suddenly find myself playing games or checking emails, or picking up the laundry or making a PB&J for my little girl. I finally settle in and focus but the words won’t come. The brilliant thoughts and ideas disappear as quick as an ice cube in the Texas sun. My sentences are stilted, my thoughts convoluted, my ideas unclear, murky muddled.
What was I thinking? I don’t know how to write. I can’t do this thing. There is not a creative bone in my body. I have been kidding myself. I don’t have anything to say, It is foolishness I tell you!
I flounce off to the other room and lay on the couch and a story begins to unfold of a lovely writer held captive by an evil wizard named Life that steals her words and holds them trapped in a bottle until nightfall when they escape and visit her while the wizard sleeps.

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June 4 - 300 words

2011-06-04T13:04:00.002-05:00

Hot. It was hot. The energy sucking, breath stealing kind of hot that made it nearly impossible to get anything done, getting up out of the chair to get another glass of lemonade was an event of extreme human effort. The sun beat down on the asphalt causing a mirage and for the 100th time that week Alison wondered what in the world had possessed her to move from her lovely beach house in Malibu to this west Texas town.
Ordinarily she would not be this miserable. Ordinarily the air conditioner would be working and she would not be suffocating in this heat. But these were not ordinary times, for a solid week Abilene had been hammered by storm after storm. Not one but four tornadoes had caused damage in various parts of the town during the past week. Thankfully no one had been killed. Although the sky was clear now, as it had been almost every morning, the weatherman again was predicting another round of “hail producing thunderstorms with the possibility of tornadoes and flash floods” for later that afternoon and well into in the evening.
The storm Tuesday night had knocked out the power temporarily but Wednesday’s storm had literally destroyed several transformers and felled lines affecting all areas on the east end of Abilene. It was Saturday and she was seriously considering booking a flight back LA to escape it all. Her only concern was her horses. The last two nights there had been flooding along the stream that ran across the further end of her property. If the waters rose higher it would put the barn in jeopardy. AmberLee, her favorite horse was getting ready to foal in a couple of weeks and Alison did not want to leave the horse until the foal had arrived.

June 2 300

2011-06-02T09:39:00.003-05:00

She sleeps, her tattered sheep loved hard and long beside her, her bear blanket pinched between her fingers satin side up so she can rub it against her skin as she turns or moves from one dream to the next. Her hair lies softly about her face, a golden brown frame. Her skin is soft as chenille, with a glow that emanates from within her in the pale moonlit room. Her breathing is easy through her full, pale, pink lips, her breath faintly reminiscent of the scent of an angel.
Through the night, in the monitor, I hear her talking in her sleep of flying ponies, laughing, or singing part of some happy song. There is the occasional nightmare where she cries because the ladybug has flown away or someone has taken her doll. Her tears rolling, large upon her sun kissed cheeks. Then I take her to our bed where she tosses and turns and pushes and pulls until she has taken up the most room she can and has all the covers to herself.
Finally after one too many groans from her papa as she again flops her arm on his head, I take her back to her bed. She doesn’t want to go, but I insist. So I sit beside the bed rubbing her back gently until she makes her way back to dream land. She tries to prolong the time by tossing and turning and attempting to ask one more question.
“Go to sleep baby,” I whisper. Finally she does and I stumble back to my own bed smiling at her sweetness. My dreams far less wonderful, my nightmares far more dangerous, my wish that her dreams remain forever sweet and innocent and her nightmares no more scary then her ice cream falling on the ground

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June 2 - 300 words

2011-06-02T09:34:00.002-05:00

The first 300 of thirty

2011-06-01T16:22:00.000-05:00

Dearest Iris,

Have you had heard about Wayne’s illness? I wanted to bring you up to speed since my last letter. Spring had been in full bloom here. The trees were a riot of flower blossoms. All the greens were vibrant and the birds were chirping. There was hope in the air but inside our home it had become darker and darker.
Wayne had been having pains in his arms and there was no understanding it. He would become tired easily and his breathing was oftentimes labored. He has always been very active so sitting and resting was not something he wished to do. All of the symptoms had begun shortly after a hunting trip he’d been on so we assumed he was recovering from that.
When the doctor found the lump there wasn’t fear just a “let’s take care of this” attitude, but after the biopsy the fear came. The doctor directed us to visit his colleague in Nebraska. We set an appointment and flew out two days later. Two agonizing days while the birds chirped and the flowers bloomed and I googled lumps and cancer and men in their 50’s.
Omaha was gloomy and grey and 36 degrees The cold rain did nothing to lift our spirits. Little did we know that we would be spending seven weeks there. Those were some of the darkest days I have ever lived through. We battled against death, cancer and even Wayne’s body. He used drugs, chemotherapy and natural supplements. Spring came to Nebraska late but we were happy to see it as it brought renewed hope to our spirits
We arrived at home yesterday. Summer had arrived while we were. gone and I smiled as I looked around the place. It was time to get on with living.

Love,
Dolly

April National Poetry Month

2011-04-20T16:04:00.000-05:00

I haven't been here for a while but I did post three poems on my other blog so I thought I should put them up here as well:

Dreaming
There was something in his eyes
That caught me suddenly by surprise.
"Eat one of these and then drink that"
I watched him turn into a cat.
An elephant then appeared,
You might have thought it would seem wierd.
But no,
We hardly thought it strange at all
To see a mouse more than 10 feet tall.
Our lunch was purple mango leaves
On plates made from golden sheaves.
"I'll leave you now," he said to me
Beneath the blooming apple tree.
I watched him as he stole away.
The butler came and cleared the tray.
And now I sit beneath the moon,
waiting for the fiddler's tune
To call the rocking boat to shore
And take me past forevermore.

Fairies
If you had thought to look
Just beyond the silver brook,
You may have met a chatty jay
Who would have led you down the way
To the meadow, green and gold
Where, I'd often heard it told -
By those who seem to know it well -
Is the place the where the fairies dwell.
If you take the time to gaze
Through the early evening haze.
You will see them flit and fly
Until they've fairly filled the sky.
Some scoffers will say not true,
But trust me dear, I'm telling you.
It's not birds or bees
That flit and fly around those trees.
I have heard the fairies tinkling laughs,
And felt the swish as they've flown passed.
One afternoon I fell asleep
Beneath the giant alder tree.
I woke just as the moon began to rise.
Right there before my very eyes
The fairy princess took her place
Upon her throne of Queen Annes lace.
The other fairies also came.
To my surprise they knew my name.
They wished me well and on my way,
And so I left though I would've liked to stay.
But often you will find me here
So if you'd like we can both draw near,
To see if there are fairies again to see,
In the haze near the alder trees.

Time
Come with me when nights are dark
And we will sing with the meadowlark.
Come with me down to the shore
And we will laugh and sing some more.
I want our time to last and last
But you are growing far to fast
So tonight we will catch fireflies.
Tomorrow, we'll chase flutterbyes.
We'll spend our summers at the lake
I will teach you how bake.
We'll make our wishes on the stars,
Catch tadpoles and keep them in a jar,
Together we will watch the clouds change shape
You will wear magic cape.
Time will pass ... until too soon.
I will miss you beneath a harvest moon.
But when the night is very dark
My heart will hear you sing with the meadowlark.

I will declare these truths!

2011-01-24T16:34:00.001-06:00

Here I stand at break of day,
Ready for what may come my way.
But there is one who dwells in dark
who is set for battle - weapons out.
My enemy desires a fight.
He's planned and strategized all night,
and so he taunts me with past sin,
but I've no need to enter in.
He may be strong, but truth's stronger still.
Though he knows past weaknesses, all his truths are lies.
I am not now who I once was, I will not partner when he tries,
To come to me with words accusing,
tormenting or abusing.
I will stand, no matter what is said
And declare truths meant to crush his head
Of who I am as God's dear one.
Truths of strength against all sin.
Rruths that stand amidst the self condemning din.
I am the head and not the tail.
My God is good and never fails.
He take good care of me, he's always near.
He keeps me from defeat and fear.
I have no need to fear of lack.
He brings me joy, He's got my back.

So with head up I'll walk today,
And send Satan on his way.
I declre these truths and say,
My soul will prosper and not fall away.
Whats more I'll bring these truths to those
who haven't heard or havent known
that God has made a way for them
a rescue from the pain of sin.
How to enter his gentle peace
and make the condemntaion cease,
to bring his healing and his love
Not from me but from above.
The truth is what will win the day
No might of mine will do.
So as I go on along my way I will declare these truths!

I wonder

2011-01-09T06:58:00.005-06:00

I wonder how this could be.
How one so young and strong could so quickly lie in sweet repose.
The battle lost against a cell that would not die and now has brought him low.
And now I ache and question why?
Were our prayers not strong
or long enough to defeat the death that should have no sting?
Was my love too weak, distracted by much lesser things?
I know that You are able to defeat the one that stole this son
And so I wonder...
How amidst our pain you would not step in and wage the battle that would raise him from his bed?
My questions midst my grief, double edged,
for I believed against what was seen that the victory would be won
not on the otherside but here
In full view of all
that You would raise him up,
straight and tall
before
not
after.

And what of lesser things that fill my prayers everyday…
What does this mean in regard to those?
Is there hope on this side that You will hear and answer while the day is still light
for things not nearly so consuming as the hope for life?
I know your nature is true and good and that he is well within your grasp
But I am here amidst the pain
As I ache and mourn, and try to comprehend
Stung by this,
Can I trust you still for bread, and health
Hope, for winning battles small?
I wonder how this could be.

such a ridiculous story

2010-11-24T16:42:00.000-06:00

She was of that age of irrelevance in her society, not yet married but soon to be where only men held esteem and were valued. What she had to say was of little value to those around her and when her “situation” became more apparent it seemed almost everyone had something to say about it. Her neighbors couldn’t believe she was “that kind of girl” and her parents were so horrified they would barely look at her. Her mother’s eyes conveyed the message “how could you do this to us?” in shrill tones. The young men eyed her in a way that made her want to cover herself and even the Roman soldiers seemed to know something. Her friends judged and misjudged her in whispered and not so whispered tones.
She had tried to tell them but they would not listen or believe. So she held her head up and looked them in the eye. They thought it was rebellion and defiance. They didn’t know that she carried God very God within her, the Uncontainable one contained within her young womb. That she would soon give birth to the one who would bring healing to the nations, life to those who were dead. That power and presence and love unimaginable was about to be born on a stable floor, as a baby. They did not believe, how could anyone believe such a ridiculous story?

drowning

2010-11-16T09:36:00.003-06:00

"Can you walk on water?" I shook my head. "You're sure?" I rolled my eyes. We had been over this how many times? Besides there was nothing that looked even remotely close to water. I was standing knee deep in a quagmire of quicksand, and sinking further with every passing moment. My only obvious way of escape was a rope, tied to a tree, well beyond my reach.
"Well how do you propose to get yourself out this time?" The voice in my head was getting more than a little annoying at this point.
"I've no idea, as far as I can tell this is about to be my demise." I stated flatly and outloud if only to drown out the voice in my head.
"I think you may be being a bit overdramatic at this point don't you? We've been in much worse situations then this in the past." I knew the voice was right but at this point in time it didn't really seem to matter. This felt worse only because it was at the moment, bad - really, really bad. "Are you willing to let me handle it?" The voice asked surprisingly quietly at the point.
"Sure, go ahead, I've no answers so I leave it in your good hands." I said sounding a bit more sarcastic then necessary.
"Thank you." the voice replied. I felt two strong hands reach under my armpits and yank me out with one swift pull.
"Thank you," I reponded gratefully.
"You could have done that sooner." I said abit acusingly. As usual there was no reposnse from the voice.

John 8:1-11 my version

2010-09-12T08:34:00.002-05:00

When they had first come to see her they had spoken as if they had known and understood her, but their words and supposed well intentions had all been lies. She had known that she was guilty, but that was just the beginning of the torment. She and had tried to hide from the whispers and the mockery and the threats. The masks and isolation had worked for awhile but even that became unbearable. When they had finally come for her, she was almost relieved to know that the pain would finally come to an end, even it meant her death. She had attempted to resist them at first, but eventually they had worn her down. Her heart and her spirit broken, she was too worn out and weak to fight any further.
They knew her well, who she was and what she had done and though she tried to keep herself hidden from the stares of the people, her accusers had made her a public spectacle. Dragging her through the streets, she had on occasion looked for compassion and even reached out for help more than once, but the people either stared at her or turned away. Finally, coming into the temple they threw her down in the dirt, her clothes dirty and torn, her body bruised and bleeding. Then they moved to separate themselves from her, picking up stones as they went and finally they turned to Jesus. The leader among them began to speak.
“This woman,” he began, his disgust and disdain wrapped around every word. “This woman was caught in sin. Not just one, mind you, but so many of them and she did them willfully and repeatedly, oftentimes without any apparent remorse or regret.” The speech had been well rehearsed. He had purposed to show the proper air of superiority and righteousness as he gave it. Although his words were spoken loudly so everyone in the crowd could hear and give their approval, he looked directly at the teacher as he put great emphasis on his final statements. “Your law demands such persons should be stoned for their sin. What do you say?”
The sneer of his lips just barely hidden as he waited for the death sentence to be handed down. He had picked up the largest, roughest stone, just waiting for the honor of being able to throw it first.
Jesus bent down and began to write in the sand. He wrote the same words over and over like a schoolboy at lessons. There was a murmuring through the crowd and the chief accuser demanded an answer. Jesus stood and looked at the crowd. He knew them well, behind every face were the same fears and guilt of the broken woman before him. He gestured to the words written at his feet and then bent down to begin to write again.
She held her breath, she heard the stones falling on the ground but none of them seemed to come near. It was so quiet and then he spoke to her gently.
“Here, let me help you up.” He reached for her hand. “Where are they? Does no one condemn you?”
“No one,” she answered, her voice shaking, her hand clenched at her side.
“No one?” he asked again gently, reaching toward her hetook her clenched hand. She looked up into his face and opened her hand. The jagged rock already covered with some of her blood. He took it from her and dropped it. She looked down at her feet and read the words written there: This one is mine and I love her, her debt is paid, her sin is covered, she is free. “Go then with nothing lacking, and nothing broken live the life I have meant for you to live.”

and another

2010-08-13T09:38:00.001-05:00

here

Off to Swaziland

2010-08-13T09:09:00.000-05:00

“You can’t be serious,” he’d said. But of course she was.
“Come with me. We could do this together.” She had said. Hoping he would agree but certain he would not.
“I have a job, responsibilities. I can’t go rushing off to save the world.” He tried to make it seem logical. She had smiled and kissed him and continued packing her bag. “How will you live? Its not like you have a job waiting for you there. And what about your job here?”
“I quit this afternoon and on the paycheck I received today I could live for almost 4 years there. They are dying there. I need to go.” She smiled at him. “My plane leaves at 6 tomorrow morning. Let’s go get something delicious for dinner.”
Dinner was a quiet affair. He lookedshell shocked. She was giddy like a school girl headed for a grand adventure. He did not want to hear any of things she had wanted to tell him and finally she had given up.
The ride home she spent on her cell calling her friends and then finally her mother, who had also tried to talk her out of it. He had tried one last time before he’d gone to bed- alone.
“Please, if you go you could get killed.” He had said trying to cause her to think for just a moment.
“If I miss this, play it safe, don’t do something I may as well be dead or a ghost or I don’t know.” She had said finally.
In the morning there was a note for him. Off to Swaziland, if you change your mind I’ll be there.

Flight of fancy

2010-06-16T08:06:00.004-05:00

The ballerina fairy took a flight of fancy down the midsummer’s moonbeam. Releasing pixie dust and baby’s laughter, as she slid down the light in tiny toe shoe clad feet. Dressed in an iridescent tutu, her hair pinned softly back, she felt honored to be given such an important task. Her jete’s perfect as she flitted back and forth and forth and back over the sleeping princess, of course even the teeniest ballerina would have perfect jetes if she had wings.
All night long she danced and flew until it was finally done. The mimsy, that flimy misery, which had held the heart of the princess by the slimmest of chains, hurt wrapped in thorns, was removed. The gentle smile that crossed her face as she slept proof was proof enough that she was now free.
In the morning the little girl awakened her mother. Their giggles could be heard down the hall. Later as she washed her face and looked in the mirror she smiled at herself for the first time in a long time. The sadness somehow had been lifted in the night and she caught herself humming an unfamiliar melody that made her think of dancing, and she did her own jete as she made her way up the hall. She headed to the kitchen to make butterfly pancakes and laugh again with her baby girl. The ballerina fairy looked on from behind the bedroom mirror. Tired but happy, her work here, for now, was done.

the bitter cup

2010-06-15T23:23:00.002-05:00

“Don’t drink it!” Whispers my heart. But I do, I swallow deeply, great gulps of it as if the drinking of this bitter cup will hurt anyone but myself. Then comes the heart sickness and the weariness in my bones.
In desperation I cry out to Papa who saves me. He holds me close. He heals me and for a little while I am at rest. I find that peace that I so desperately am longing for. I relish the freedom. I laugh in the sun. Dance in the wind,
“This freedom is what I have for your life,” He promises.
But it doesn’t last very long. Like an addict who cannot resist the draw of the drug, I revisit the place where the poison is. I pick up the pain. Holding it in my hand, studying it from every side. Vaguely wishing to release it while grasping it tightly at the very same time. It looks relatively harmless. So I draw it closer. Trying to make sense of it, justifying myself, adding more and more ugliness until the cup is filled to the brim with what could kill me.
“Don’t, don’t drink it!” Oh that I would learn to just put it down and walk away,leaving all the damaging lies and acid remarks, the vengenance and lonliness there to be dealt with by Someone more merciful and grace giving then I, but like a stubborn child, I return again and again demanding that I be granted relief from this bitterness. So I drink again just one sip and then another, bringing wretchedness and brokenness to my heart. Begging for deliverance from myself and my self inflicted torment.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Hush baby I am here. I love you, just rest,” He speaks to my heart and heals me again. He is a gracious father who will rescue me no matter how many times I find myself sick in this gutter. He is faithful, so faithful.

Denial

2010-06-13T09:16:00.006-05:00

Denial,
A lid stuffed in the top of a round bottomed bottle
Filled with all the pain and emotion of hurts too deep and dark to expose.
The bottle sits quietly on the shelf
for a moment or even longer,
Sometimes almost forgotten
until something starts the rocking,
Some small nothing, barely perceptible,
That causes the bottle to begin to rock and sway
Until it falls,
contents spilled everywhere
Leaving me lying on a tear stained pillow,
with books
and pills
and crumbs all around me,
I hemorrhage black blood and anguish until I am completely spent.
Then, as evening approaches, I pick it all up and shove it back down,
Stuffing the lid in the top of the round bottomed bottle
Placing it back on the shelf
I walk away.
Later I begin doing what must be done,
hoping the bottle will not fall again,
But knowing it will,
more likely sooner
then later.
“What’s wrong honey?” he asks at dinner.
“Nothing, nothing at all,” I answer.
Closing my eyes, trying not to look at the bottle.
Denial.

Exotic

2010-06-10T09:33:00.001-05:00

Exotic, they all had said. Dark hair, dark eyes, pouty lips, mysterious was how they described her. She wanted to be like them.. She wanted to be blonde with long straight hair. Hers was wild and out of control. She wanted their fair skin, blue eyes, to be an all American girl. She was olive skinned, her eyes were deep and dark as the night and for years she had no idea that she had been more beautiful than all the girls that she had wanted to be just like.
One night, one moonless night she slipped into the woods and found there a small band of traveling gypsies. The women looked like her, but they were dressed in beautifully colored skirts that flowed and moved as they did. The men were swarthy and reminded her of pirate tales she had heard as a child. She came upon them quietly and as she watched them dancing in the fire light she knew this was where she belonged. She came closer to the fire, its light dancing in her eyes.
For the first time she felt as though she belonged. Exotic was beautiful. Dark and mysterious were exqiuisite. They welcomed her and she laughed with them and danced with them until late into the night. She fell asleep listening to their stories.
The next morning she awoke in her own bed. Was it just a dream, she wondered? But then she looked in the mirror and saw the firelight dancing in her eyes. It revealed to her secrets she didn’t know before and when she arrived at work that morning no one could deny that she was something so much more than what she had always thought she wanted to be.

goodbye aunt estelle

2010-06-03T23:32:00.002-05:00

She had become more and more unaware of her surroundings as the days progressed. The cancer was taking its toll. Her breathing labored, her temperature rising. The soft murmuring of the family around her, but somewhere just beyond was the sound of the sweetest music she had ever heard. She closed her eyes and just rested as she listened to it. She felt transported to a place of gentle breezes. She could feel the touch of a light mist on her skin. Although she couldn’t see clearly, she could hear laughter and the most familiar of sounds.
“Mama? Mama can you hear me? I’m here.”
She opened her eyes, the beige-green of the hospital room all around her. The beeping of the monitors tracking every rise and fall of her heartbeat. Her breathing more difficult then before, she looked into her daughter’s worried eyes. She moved her hand with difficulty and rested it on her daughter’s.
“Honey it’s going to be ok,” she tried to whisper but no one in the room could make out the words. She closed her eyes again. The music a little louder now, she thought she heard the sound of a familiar footfall. Could it be? She tried to see but her vision was still cloudy. She heard the sound of the gentle beating of wings. It was easier to breathe here. If only she could stay, she thought to herself.
She heard a soft cry and opened her eyes. There they were, her children, grown now with children and grandchildren of their own but still her babies, weeping softly. She took a ragged breath and shuddered. Vaguely she heard the sound of a monitor going off, and sensed a sudden flurry of activity in the room but she was so tired and her eyes so heavy she could not keep them open.
“Are you comin’?” the voice so familiar, she awoke and went to sleep to the sound of that voice for 47 years. She murmured something. “Its time, come on.” He said gently.
“I can’t,” she said. “They still need me. I saw them, the kids crying. They still need me.”
“Baby come on, they will be okay. I promise. I’ve waited for you a long time. Come on home now.” He said again, his voice so tender. She opened her eyes and saw him standing there. He held his hand out to her.
“I,” she started and looked over her shoulder. “I don’t know.”
“Its ok, come on now.” She reached for his hand. She took a deep breath and suddenly felt lighter, yet stronger. She reached up to touch his face gently and realized that this place was more real than any place she had ever been before.

Rescue Me

2010-06-03T08:24:00.002-05:00

Can you hear me calling? I need your help, I can not get to the river without you. You know the way, I know you do. Won’t you help me to get there? You know the way. I know you do. Don’t turn away; don’t leave me here, please. Rescue me!

I hear the river flowing but I am trapped in this cave and can not get out. It is dark and damp in here and I am so alone. Somewhere in here comes the sound of rustling and I sense danger is near. I am scared and lonely. Rescue me!

I wander the paths in this forest finding myself more and more lost. The river is near but every way I turn seems to lead me further away. I fall again and over rocks and roots, the smallest things tripping me up. The bugs tormenting me. I am bruised and dirty. Rescue me!

I climbed the side of this cliff to get a better view of where the river was but there seems to be no where to put my hands and feet. I’m halfway up and halfway down and although I can see the flowing waters, I am barely hanging on. Rescue me!

I am so close I can almost taste the fresh water here. The river is in plain sight, just beyond my reach, but I am stuck thigh deep in the mud and the muck. The things I’ve carried this far weighing me down further. Rescue me!

We are trapped. We are alone. We are afraid. We are bruised. We are dirty. We are barely hanging on. We are mired in the mud and the muck, weighed down by all our burdens, longing for the life giving, life sustaining, life cleansing, and life healing waters that flow in the river. Rescue us!

It's today!

2010-06-02T08:24:00.001-05:00

The birds chattering back and forth one to another.
The sun trying to creep in around the edges of the blinds reveal one thing,
Its today!

I realize that I am fully awake.
No more wishing for,
hoping for,
waiting for
some other something.
Fully present in this present
and happy to be here.

What today brings is
hope
joy
laughter
all the delight that comes from an open heaven.

Don’t wait
for another day.
Join me here.
Don’t you know?
You
Are
The
Treasure.

What today can bring
hope
joy
laughter
an open heaven for you.

The mystery revealed
He loves you more than you can even imagine.
He’s not angry, dismayed or discouraged with you.
Come closer, have no fear.
You
Are
His
Treasure!

Hurry, it’s today!

The River

2010-05-27T07:57:00.003-05:00

today's writing prompts from here. Thanks Susan!

The River

The morning sky,
purple with just a hint of azure blue,
beckons me towards a very near future.

I pause at the door.
All my senses impacted by the
cool in the air,
song of the birds,
smell of the jasmine,
Dew on the grass,

There’s a sound in the wind
step over,
go now,
leave that which is holding you back.
Treasure awaits!

I hesitate for way too long
wondering if what could be,
can be,
would be,
is
in fact, better than the less than I’ve held on to
for far too long.

Suddenly, just beyond what is right in front of me,
I hear the sound of laughter
Flowing.
I look up to see
The sky lightening on the horizon.
The sun not yet up
But somehow reflected
In the river.
My healing is there.
My destiny there.
My impressionable soul no longer able to contain itself.
I leave behind what is no longer precious
and run,
run.
For the deep that calls to me.

Falling more than once along the way,
I get up.
Press through.
Scramble over.
Until I dive headlong into
Wholeness.
Joy unspeakable.
The river wilder than I could’ve imagined,
Untamed
Yet life giving
to those who flow within
And even those thirsty ones touched by it.
The sun begins to rise
“Quickly,” it calls “Come quickly
The day is almost here.”

The place my heart knows is home

2010-05-26T15:00:00.000-05:00

I find myself lost in time and space,
neither of which make much sense
The time in fits and starts
Drags at one moment
And then the next I find threehoursgone
How can it be?
Space is it where I am or where I’ve been
The apartment feeling so big or small
Not based on any reasonable circumstance and yet
It can be my haven, my rest, comfortable and cozy
And then suddenly suffocatingly small, too hot, too near to others.

I’m wondering how to find the place that I belong.
Is it here and now?
I don’t really think so.
Somewhere I’ve yet to discover then?
Will this be the way to there or am I just stumbling along
Trampling the very flowers I’ve been looking for.
I need a light at the end of my tunnel, a candle in the window,
a whisper in the wind saying “this is the place” and a knowing in my heart.
A map with a large red arrow saying “You are here.”
Here being not a random someplace on the way to somewhere else
but the here that I am called to,
that knows my shape like the dip in my pillow,
the soft crease in my bed.
The here that my heart knows is home.

Hurray its Today!

2010-05-25T09:32:00.000-05:00

Standing on the edge of a broken past and a hopeful tomorrow I watch as the flames of the fire dance in the night air. They leap higher and higher and then settle down only to flame again. The next morning I walk to the edge of Lake Mary and watch the ripples expanding from a spot somewhere off to my left. The morning sky turning a grey purple, pink and blue and then suddenly alive for one brief moment, bursting with light. Its then I realize I’ve been holding my breath. Wishing for tomorrows that will no longer hold me tied to the small silver chain at my ankle that when yanked throws me to the ground, held captive by meaningless regret I long for freedom again. Freedom to dance and run into expanded joy.
No more wasted tears on mistakes and missed opportunities. I chose this day to walk into the adventure that’s before me, enjoying every bit of the now that’s been presented to me by a good God in a good mood who has good planned for me. There is treasure to be found. No more holding my breath, I need to take great gulps of it. Breath in, breathe out so that I will be able to do some water walking, art creating, worshipful living. Hurray its today with wonderful tomorrows ahead!

Today's prompt: Always a response to mood and circumstance.

2010-05-24T08:29:00.002-05:00

Today's prompt comes from an article by Robert McCrum at guardian.co.uk

I live my life as always a response to mood and circumstance, of course don’t we all. Yes I know I’m supposed to go with the flow or grant grace, esteem others and be joyful in all circumstance but the truth is my life is merely a response. Some days, weeks, months, even years the circumstance overshadows every bit of my being; my mood melancholy my response dark, sad, miserable and overshadowed. As I look back even the joy of the time is shrouded in the memory of a gray malaise that circumstance had cast upon every aspect of my being. I look at pictures of that time and see no record of it but my memories are haunted by it. Every thought or peception of encounter held captive by the screen that overlayed the time frame. All days seem dark and overcast or rainy despite photographs of sunshine and flowers and butterflies and laughter.
By the same token if the circumstance were poor but love was in fresh bloom, the children young, the pleasures good than my memories hold no record of dark days. No rain, no misery despite little finances and too small houses, broken cars or family strife. And if there was rain than it was accompanied by glorious feasts, or happy times under the covers or on the couch watching God only knows what while eating cake and hot chocolate. I know that somehow in those early years of marriage there was crying but I remember laughter. Misery seemed to last only a moment in retrospect during those times. I don’t know that I was more grace giving then, probably less so then now but it seemed a gentler time.
Here’s to hopes of happy moods and joyful circumstances and if not then the memory that these times were good so in retrospect I will recall the singing of the birds, the bright flowers and fun and not the gray days, the dark nights. I do not wish misery to be the screen that these Christmases will be remembered through. Nor the memories recalled through a sudden darkened knowledge casting a sadness and heartache to the moments that become the record of my life.

Twitter lit prompt

2010-05-23T23:36:00.001-05:00

“We lived on the shore of Mirror Lake, and for many years our lives were as calm and transparent as its waters." He said. The real truth was that their lives like the lake appeared calm and transparent but below the surface in the dark places was trouble and turmoil.
Upon arriving at the white cape cod cottage you felt like you had just arrived home. You would come to the door and were greeted by Dad in his funny fishing cap and waders or Mom and her apron. It didn’take too long though until you could feel the undercurrent threatening to throw you off balance. The later in the day the stronger the current and if you attempted to take on the waters late into the evening you could easily be sucked under only to have your bruised and battered body found lying along the shore further south the next morning.
No one believed that of course. We were the perfect little Brady family. Or so you thought. Now some 15 years later life had taken its toll on all of us. The undercurrent and hidden secret places left us scarred and weary, carriers of masks and secrets and sorrows just barely hidden. The invitations and casuals gatherings, fun times and easy laughter gone, in their place the continuous blare of the television and heavy silence. How this could have happened no one really knew. But it started with one secret that slowly ate away at the fabric of the family until we were reduced to hollowed out logs laying below the surface covered in seagrass.
In the end we had all run in different direction instead of running too each other and now we were left to fend for ourselves as the darkness over took our lives. The ripples on the water later in the night indicating where something had broken the surface for a moment and then silence again.

You are my daughter, the one that I love

2010-05-22T09:28:00.000-05:00

Pretty princesses all in a row dancing in the garden, the youngest spies a butterfly and follows it down a path through daisies and dahlias, past a pretty pond and underneath a dogwood tree. She comes to a little gate and knows full well that she should stop here but the butterfly continues its dance just on the other side and so glancing around she slips through the gate and follows. She glances back nervously but she then continues on her way. With no intention of going too far, after all the sweet smell of the lilacs is here so how far can she be from the king’s garden really.
The butterfly stops, seemingly to wait for her just at the edge of a small stand of trees and as she draws near to it, the butterfly dances around her making her laugh. It alights for just a moment on her sleeve and then makes its way into the trees and she follows. The sunlight shines through the leaves here and there and the butterfly makes its way from one patch of light to the next, as she follows the little dress catches on one branch and then another tearing small holes in her dress unnoticed by the little princess. The butterfly leads her deep her into the woods as it flies further she tries running faster and faster to catch it and trips over a rock and cuts her knee. Falling down a small embankment into a pile of wet leaves, dirty and damp she arises realizing that she has lost her way and the light is beginning to fade.
Panic stricken, she runs as fast and as hard as she can back towards where she thinks her home may be but all the trees look the same. She begins to cry and wishes she had not chosen to follow the butterfly but its too late. Her dress in tatters, dirty and hungry she comes upon some children in the forest. They offer to share some of their food with her. She eats and drinks with them and in the dark and the cold they let her lay with them and they keep her warm.
Morning comes and all the children are discovered out in the wood and led by those who do not care of their innocents or their needs and lead the children to dark places where they are hurt and harried. The little girl insists that she is a princess but they mock her. The call her princess but treat her in ways that leave her broken and bleeding. She still has choices but she does what she must to get what she needs, a bit of comfort, a crust of bread, warmth on a cold night.
“If you are a princess why would you be here?” they ask. “A true princess would never leave the palace, a place of safety and wealth. You are not a princess.” She believes them after awhile. Wondering if she ever really was a princess, they mock her further, “They would never take you back even if you had been a princess, look at you!” She sees the tattered dress, her dirty bruised body and she believes them.
She wanders the streets in search of bits of food, holding out her hand in hopes of compassion from the passers by but they are too busy with their lives to be concerned about yet another beggar. Knowing that her own choices have brought her too this place she does not know how to return to the palace. What if she did would they welcome her back or close the door leaving her rejected on the street? If she went back in this broken state where unspeakable things have occurred would she be accepted again as a princess? No, the little princess does not believe so. She continues to wander along in a state of despair for far too long.
One day as the little princess wanders down a dirty path she comes to a high wall, she hears laughter on the other side and smells the lilacs. Could this be home? She follows the wall around and down and comes to a stand of trees and then a small gate. Fearfully, quietly she opens the gate and slips inside. She makes her way up a familiar path beneath the dogwood tree, she stops and looks around but sees no one although the laughter of other princesses can be heard. She comes to the pretty pond, but her reflection makes her stop. She cannot go in. She tries to wash away the dirt but her own efforts to clean herself up are useless. In despair she turns slipping away back out into the streets.
“You’ve chosen to come back to us instead of going to your palace.” They laugh at her. She made the choices how can she ever return? Too many bad choices and time slips away. But the streets are not kind, and one night when the hunger is too great and the despair too deep she makes her way back to the palace. Knocking on the door and waiting, wondering, worrying about the rejection she almost slips away again. Finally the door opens and she walks in. When she tells them who she is it takes only a moment for the King to pick her up and hold her close. She weeps with joy at the welcome and hugs him back.
She is given a bath and new clothes. Delicious food is brought to her and there is music and dancing and laughter. She is home. But she was followed here and those who know her secrets begin to torment her.
“You chose to walk away. You chose to do those things. If they knew they would send you away.” The whispers come unbidden, in the night, during the day, in the quiet moments, she can even hear them when she is singing and dancing before the king and she believes them. Her joy of returning now shrouded in fear that her secrets would be revealed. Would they send her away? Would they mock her? Would they hate her? Would they know that she really was not a princess? The king takes note of her sadness and draws her close.
“Why so sad pretty one?” He asks but she cannot even begin to whisper the truth. So she shakes her head and tries to smile. He holds her close but after awhile she slips away. Miserable in the palace, unwilling to return to the streets she tries to be good enough. But good enough never seems to make up for bad choices and so her sorrow continues.
One night the king comes to her room. He sits on the side of her bed as he has done many times before. She is not asleep this time though, and she hears him start to sing over her. The words just a whisper but the comfort in them complete.
“Your are my daughter, the one that I love. Lost for a while, in places not far where you have bee battered and broken and bruised. You wandered away, bad choices you made and others have taken your heart and control. But you are my daughter, the one that I love, bad choices won’t change that at all. I longed for your presence. Dwell here close to me. Find comfort and peace, sustenance and joy. You are my daughter, the one that I love know it is true. Dwell richly with me here set apart. Don’t believe whispers, or rumors or lies, no longer chained but set free, no matter what comes I will hold you near I have you right here in my heart. You are my daughter, the one that I love dwell here close to me.”

Masks of Civility

2010-05-21T12:40:00.005-05:00

Who we are hidden behind masks of civility
Holding close what we wish to never reveal
until the day
when the pressure of overarching pain brings to the surface the suffering of secrets long cloaked in darkness finally revealed.
Passions ignited,
enflaming us to scream,
shaking and aching and broken
smoldering in the aftermath
And then utterly burned out leaving us shattered and silent
wishing for death in the stillness.

When comes a grey rain that cries for us tears that are long overdue.
Finally we get up and go on,
no other option available to us,
too weak or too wise to end it all
too fearful of losing what we now value to bring to light what is hidden.

Stuffing the pain
Trying to make sense of what we have learned
Wishing that the past could be undone
Hurts healed,
Rescues made when they were most needed
Secrets revealed long ago
so something,
anything
could have been done to stop the damage and the ruin that lead us to this place.

Blaming ourselves
blaming others,
finding no one to blame but time and circumstance and blindness and a lack of understanding.

Longing for the day when we will know and be known
Without fear of rejection
In a place where there is no suffering
And we are not found less beautiful because of secrets long hidden.

Until then

The greater secrets revealed held close,
Aching to reach through to help those who are hurting but desperate
to protect ourselves and others.
So we eat chocolate and carry on casual conversations
Who we are, hidden behind masks of civility.

Off the Page

2010-05-18T19:44:00.000-05:00

I had been spending quite a bit of time at the computer. I was way behind on a deadline and so I was pounding out word after word, line after line and then not. I was supposed to be getting lots of writing done but of course it wasn’t coming as easily or as quickly as I had hoped. So, instead of writing, I was spending an inordinate amount of time reading the junk that passes as email in my inbox or playing games or searching. Then, well every now and then, I would get a great bit of what I hoped passed as brilliance and I would type furiously for several minutes.
After I had finished writing one of these sections I decided to get up and make myself some coffee. I pushed my chair back, stood up and started towards the door. Then something made me turn back, I couldn’t even tell you what it was exactly, but that’s when I saw, well you wouldn’t believe it, I didn’t believe it myself really. Stepping right out of my computer and onto the desk was a cat. Not any cat, mind you, but a beautiful black and gold Persian cat. One very small paw stretched out of the monitor and was placed gingerly upon the keyboard and then, thinking better of it she reached over past the keyboard to the desk. In a moment the whole of her was out of the computer and she jumped from the desk to the chair and then down to the floor. Digging her claws into the carpet she began to stretch. I watched as she began to get bigger, and then bigger still and then with a flick of her tail she was full sized. She had made her way out of my story and into my office.
It was at this point that I chose to turn around and head back out to the kitchen. I was quite certain that I had lost my mind, or was hallucinating and I thought perhaps a cup of coffee might be helpful. I poured the coffee into the mug and then proceeded to piddle about the kitchen. I started to empty the dishwasher and clean the counters. I went into the living room and straightened the afghan on the sofa. I was wasting time and I knew it but I was not sure of what I would find when I returned to the office. I was also trying to sort out my emotions in all of this. If I went back into the office and there was no cat would I be disappointed, or relieved? Was it a ghost cat or an actual living breathing cat? If it was a ghost cat would I be the only one who could see it? The questions just went on and on. My journalism training kept forcing more and more questions into my head.
Finally curiosity and a desire to end the barrage of questions got the best of me and I walked back into my office. Not too surprisingly the cat was not at my desk and a quick look around gave no indication that it was there at all. I gave a small sigh of relief when out of the corner of my eye I saw something move. I turned and there was a bit of a tail twitching from behind a pile of books on the window seat. The tail clearly belonging to the phantom cat, as I had now started to referring to her in my mind.
I placed the mug on the desk and walked over to the window seat to find her reclining in a small patch of sunlight, her eyes half opened. I removed the books and studied her for a moment. She looked extremely solid with absolutely no qualities you might find in a phantom. I sat down on the worn cushion on the window seat, reached over and began to scratch her between her ears. Her golden eyes opened wide as she studied me and then she began to purr. She was most definitely real. Although how that could possibly be considering that I saw her walk out of the monitor and into the room left me completely incapable of finishing any sort of thought. So I would scratch her then in somewhat of a daze cease. Then she would bat at my hand softly until I scratched her some more.
Finally I got up and walked back across the room to my desk and sat down. My coffee was cold and I wasn’t in any mind to write so I saved my work and shut off the computer. I had been writing for years and during all that time nothing had taken substance before. Well, nothing beyond the written word itself. How could this have happened? Why did this happen? Would it happen again? I picked up my coffee mug and started out of the office. The cat jumped down from the window seat. Stretching, and I wondered for a moment if she would get bigger again. But no she remained the same size. She followed me out as I headed towards the kitchen but she stopped at the front door. She looked up expectantly. I had continued on to the kitchen so she began to scratch at the door and meow, rather insistently I might add. I walked back to the door and opened it for her. She ran under the bushes and then dashed off behind the house.
I walked to the edge of the house but there was no sign of her and I wondered if she had in fact disappeared entirely or if she was off doing whatever cats do when they disappear. I looked up to see my neighbor Mrs. Michaels waving at me. She had lived in that old house for 50 years. Her gardens were amazing, the flowers attracted all sorts of butterflies. If you went into her house you would find at least 100 butterflies mounted with hat pins, framed and hanging in every room. It kind of creeped me out and I really was not into chatting so I waved quickly and then ducked back around the corner and into the house shutting the door behind me.
I walked back into the kitchen and dumped out my coffee. Then I went back to the door and opened it just a tiny bit to see if the cat was back. She was not. I did this several times, finally recognizing the insanity of it I shut and locked the door and decided to go take a shower. It was well best noon and I was still in the yoga pants and t-shirt I had slept in the night before.
My phone rang and I walked over to see who was calling. It was my mother. I let the call go to voicemail. I already knew what she was going to yet again voice her concern about my spending so much time alone and her desire to see me out of the house and into the real world before I lost my mind. I smiled at that. It was probably too late, seems I had already slipped over the proverbial edge.
I took a quick shower and got dressed. Walked over and opened the door, no cat. I shut it and went back to my room to put on some makeup and dry my hair. I walked back to the door and then stopped myself from opening it. I slipped on my shoes, picked up the library books that had been sitting on the hall table for over a week, grabbed my purse and my keys and headed out the door. No cat. I wondered as I got in my car if I had imagined it all. It seemed real although it was very bizarre.
I headed towards town, dropped off the library books, picked up my dry cleaning and stopped at the market to pick up something for dinner, some milk, some eggs. I even picked up a couple of cans of cat food.
“Do you have a cat?” The checker asked. She had seen me in here a thousand times and I had never bought cat food before.
“Umm, maybe,” I said.
“Oh a stray, just coming to visit? Yea I’ve got one of those too.” She said laughing. I thought you probably don’t have one like this.
It was a beautiful day. I put the top down on my convertible and enjoyed the wind in my hair. It was so gorgeous out that I decided to stop and have a sandwich at a little place down by the river. I decided it would be relaxing and maybe I could just write a little bit while I was there. I grabbed a notebook and pen from the floorboards on the passenger side. I had to dig through several old Starbuck cups, empty Sonic bags and some mail that had never quite made it into the house. I called my mother before I went in and luckily got her voicemail. I told her not to worry, that I was out in the real world running errands and having some lunch. I left the phone in the car. I really didn’t want to talk to anyone I just wanted to relax and enjoy myself. I ordered a sandwich, chips and a soda and took them out to the back patio. It was a deck that overlooked a small waterfall and the river. There were a couple of other people eating there lunch so I grabbed a table as close to the water but still separated from them.
I ate about half my sandwich and began to write. Just random thoughts, nothing at all really, I had recently read that you should write three pages a day of nothing. You know, whatever pops into your head. It’s supposed to help with the whole creativity process, so that’s what I was doing. I found myself describing a banquet hall, with the tables set for a royal dinner. I was careful to put as much detail as possible, I wrote about everything from the dinnerware to the beautiful bouquets of pink peonies and white roses in short leaded crystal vases that adorned the tables. I described the flatware and the glassware.
It was at this point that I realized that my cup was empty and so I put my pen down and went inside to get a refill. When I returned to the table there was a fork on the table near my notebook, I took very little notice of it really. I assumed that it had been there before or perhaps someone had seen it on the ground and had picked it up assuming it was mine. I started to review what I had written and as I reached for the other half of my sandwich my arm came in contact with the knife. I glanced at it and then stopped. Every detail of the fork from the sterling silver to the gold filigree of hearts and flowers was exactly as I had described it in my writing. I put my sandwich down and picked up the fork. I felt the weight of it in my hand. It was very real, but how it could possibly be there and why it had appeared in the first place could not be comprehended.
Then I had a very strange thought. Stranger even then the appearance of the thing itself was why this particular object? Why not the vases and the flowers, which I would have much preferred over a fork? I slipped the fork into my purse and then looked around as if I was doing something criminal. It was after all, my fork, since I had made it up. That thought gave me pause. I had made it up.
I picked up my purse and went back to my car and headed home. I was so distracted I ran a red light and nearly got myself killed. I tried to refocus long enough to get home safely. As I pulled into the driveway I saw the cat sitting by the door, waiting expectantly. I had a feeling things were going to get a great deal stranger from now on. There were so many variables and so few answers except a beautiful filigreed fork and a black and gold long haired cat.

Twitterlit prompt: Noone noticed the Rock

2010-05-14T15:33:00.001-05:00

It sat there, literally, for centuries. The landscape changed winter to spring, spring to summer, summer to fall. There were trees that grew and died. Bushes that came and then disappeared, even the occasional flower would bloom and then shrivel up and die. There was, of course, the damage down by the elements. But as time passed and the use of the land changed it remained. No one noticed the rock. Cracked in places, grey on the outside but within, oh if they only knew, deep within were crystals of red and green and purple and yellow. It was all right that but no one noticed. A treasure just waiting to be found, and nobody knew.
It was the sixteenth summer of Irene Wilson’s life. She was grateful for it, more so than one might expect just looking at her. If you knew the history of Irene Wilson you would be apprised of the three battles with leukemia that she had fought, and won. So she knew the joy of being alive, so much more than someone who never had to fight to live. It was with this quietly joyful attitude that brought her to her grandparents farm in Iowa. She chose to spend that summer walking along the river that ran across the back of the property that bordered a wildlife preserve. She made bread with her grandma and rode the tractor with her grandpa. When she went to town it was to go to the feed store, or the general store.
She had kept a journal since she was a little girl and she had found the perfect place to sit and think, imagining so many wonderful things. Under a great oak there was the rock. She would lean against it and write or rest and relax. Little did she know that as she wrote of secret things and hidden things, there was a treasure of those things right there with her.

In View

2010-05-13T12:07:00.003-05:00

What if we could live life backwards, like Merlin did? We could see the beauty before the ashes, the joy before the pain, the sweet that came from the bitter. All the brokenness of our lives lived after the glory. Would we experience it differently having seen the tapestry complete and not just loose threads in a jumble beside the loom? I hold in my hand a brown paper shell, inside sleeps what once was a caterpillar. I know that in time, a wet ugly creature will struggle to force its way out. I have seen that as life begins to flow into its flat limbs they will arise into wings of such amazing beauty only an amazing Creator God could have made it. Ex nihilo He created it all and I wonder if He created it backwards, seeing the beauty first. I wonder as He created the bush in the desert amid the dust and the wind, did He see it full of His glory, ablaze with His presence? Do you suppose He sees every bush that way, ablaze with His presence? Is there a moment in time when each one, in its time, becomes so? Distraught and distressed we cry out, our anxious days and sleepless night already seen complete in what will become ablaze with His presence. Is it any wonder then that He whispers to us, “Do not fear”? He has seen the amazing beauty never before imagined that will arise from the broken and the wounded. It was in plain sight when He created you.

What sort of man was this?

2010-05-12T11:58:00.002-05:00

What sort of man was this? Zipporah wondered as she studied him across the fire, the flames leaping up to hide one feature, then another . He had seemed a welcome hero at the well when he chased the other shepherds away from tormenting her sisters and herself. But who was he really? Was he just a drifter with torn clothes and furtive eyes, or maybe a conman, one noble act to get him a good meal and a place to lay his head? He had been with them now for several weeks. When he had first arrived his hands were like those of a small child, soft with no calluses, clearly not a man used to hard work. But he had taken to the work willingly, and once trained worked harder and longer than any of the other men. He was often silent and when he did talk he stammered. Where did he come from? He seemed to know little about the day to day habits of common people? He seemed to have the bearing of someone of higher birth and yet he was penniless. He showed great respect for her father and took a great interest in everything Reull had to say. He knew little about the one true God but his curiosity was insatiable. Together they would sit by the fire until late into the night talking quietly.
He was kind to her sisters and held her mother in high esteem. No chore was too small or too great. He did everything that was asked and more. There was more here, she was certain. Whenever strangers came to their tent, she could see him become tense and wary. One night three Egyptians joined the family for dinner but try as they might no one could find him. When questioned later, he said that he had gotten lost and was just late getting back, but Zipporah knew better. She had seen him enter the camp and then leave again after observing the Egyptians. He knew she had seen him but offered her no explanation, although he had been kinder to her than usual when she kept his secret. Who was he?
She had heard her parents talking last night and she knew they were thinking of a marriage between her and the stranger. He had been with them for a while now and people were beginning to talk. As a priest, Reull could not have anything that might give room for an appearance of evil. There had been few suitors for her, her skin black as ebony made her different. In any culture different is rarely good and less often desired.. Her mother was from Ethiopia and although her sisters looked much like the other people in Midian, she looked like her mother, tall and dark with eyes the color of warm honey.
She wondered what it would be like to be married to such a man as this. Would he share his heart with her? Would she learn things about him that she would not wish to know? Would they be happy together like her parents? Or would there be silence? So much of the future was uncertain, so many questions unanswered. She could only trust that God held her future in his hands and she hoped it was a good future. She could not know what this man would become long before the burning bush.

torment

2010-05-11T10:53:00.002-05:00

The whispering was all around her, or was it only in her head? On the gray days like today it was so hard to tell. Too old, too short, too fat, too something whatever it was, it just wasn’t right. It was the whispers of not good enough. She tried to drown them out with louder music, or reading, or tv but they kept on, through out the day. One pill and then another, trying to make them stop but they would not.
No happy ending here, just the torment started so long ago. The adolescent whispers, the teenage angst, and then as time went by secrecy, those things that nobody could know, should know, if they only knew, then they would see how awful she really was so the secrets stayed buried. Buried, until the demons pulled them out one by one to torment her throughout the day while the rain kept falling. As the lightening flashed and the thunder cracked and the grayness turned to night she knew there would be no rainbow at the end of this storm. Take one pill and then another to try to stop it but it only made everything else blurry and the sound of the whispers rattled louder and louder in her head. To bed to sleep, ah sleep, sweet sleep would be a rescue but instead it was tossing and turning and nightmares and then finally silence. She prayed for new mercies in the morning and with the dawning of the new day an end to the demon's whispering.

Suddenly Free

2010-05-07T07:57:00.006-05:00

Suddenly free to be free, suddenly. Like a small metal ball in a maze game, the box has been tipped and I am barreling down twists and turns: then completely out of the box, across the floor, past the cat and through the front door. It seems I didn’t know what was waiting for me and so now, when the veil has been ripped off I can see, perhaps a bit blinded by the light, but I can see. I had not known or rather had forgotten, that this happiness was waiting for me. Like a hostage victim, held too long, becoming so used to her captors she no longer chooses to be free. I had stayed trapped, unaware that the door truly had been unlocked the entire time and all I needed to do was turn the knob and step through. With one push I am out; breathing deeply of air scented with jasmine and orange blossoms, dancing barefoot in the cool, soft grass, twirling and laughing with little girl abandon. So happy to have found that the rumors of my pitiable state were just lies spoken in the dark. The truth that I am loved and found beautiful a mystery revealed. I find that what I held onto had held me; confined in a space too small, in half light, with little air and only stale bread and water to feed on. But now released from that darkness, I am feasting at a banquet. The hall high ceilinged, flooded with light and festooned with purple linens, glass goblets clinking, merry making abounding. Ladies in waiting come one after another to whisper in my ear, He loves you, He finds you beautiful and He has been waiting for you to come and dance with Him. So joyful, so happy, so suddenly free.

#200 - The Escape

2010-05-05T11:59:00.003-05:00

That's right this is my 200th post. Can you believe it? I can't and I want to just say even before I post today's writing a big BIG thank you to those who have encouraged me in my writing! All my friends and family who've said keep going when I wondered if I was even writing anything anyone might want to read! A special big thanks to Sarah Salway, her blog has been a huge source of encouragement and prompts and through it she has given me many tools to keep me going. The "Your Messages" project which is what really kickstarted this blog and through which I was published!!! and made a fabulous trip to London and I've met writer friends who encourage me as well with their comments and their blogs. And all of you whom I never have met but apparently come to visit thank you thank you thank you.

This is #200 and to be honest I haven't even read it so hopefully its readable. It just has flowed out of my fingers and onto the keyboard this morning. I will try to come back and do some editing later today but I really have to go and I wanted to post this now.

Thanks for reading!!!

The Escape

One little step down the wrong path had set her on a course that would lead to the den of the dragon. The sadness had hung heavy in her life. She had been walking under a dark and dismal cloud for months. Unable to think or barely even to breath, she had been walking down a path that she had taken many times before but when she came to the crossroads Familiar was there leaning against the tree. He smiled at her and said something that made her smile and beckoned her to walk down another path, just a step or two. For a moment the gray had lifted and she had even laughed a little, it was then that she realized it was the wrong path and took the two steps back. He walked back with her but that’s where it had begun.
Familiar had always been a good friend and now he had become an attentive companion. Encouraging, funny, lifting her spirits, she occasionally wondered at his presence but the fact that the gray skies had begun to clear dispelled any real worry. What harm could come from such pleasant interludes.
“Come walk with me,” Familiar would say and they would wander through the valley. Talking and laughing, eating and drinking it all had seemed so harmless but for some reason they kept ending up at the cross roads. There were times they never walked the wrong path but there were days when they took three or four steps. She would turn back and he would come back with her easily never resisting. Perhaps the danger was just imagined, or overblown by those who weren’t interested in having any fun.
She found herself thinking about the path more and more often. She was certain she had caught a glimpse of some flowers blooming just a little further down the path. The more she thought of those flowers the more she wanted to see them and so the next time she came across Familiar she led him to the path herself.
“Come on,” she said, as she flitted down the path like a butterfly. Further then they had gone before, he watched her almost casually but there was something else there that she hadn’t quite seen before.
“Are you sure you want to walk this way?” He had asked and she wasn’t certain if he was trying to warn her or tease her.
“Just a bit further,” She called over her shoulder and there it was. A meadow of the flowers she knew were there. The smell was intoxicating and she breathed deep. Looking up she realized that the right path had disappeared from view and she quickly retreated back to where she knew she should be. A little breathless, a little windblown, a little scared but the thrill and the glow and the heady smell of the flowers remained. Familiar had come back with her carrying one of the flowers in his hand.
“For you,” He had whispered in her ear. She looked around fearful that someone might see. These flowers did not grow in the valley where they lived. If anyone suspected… She sniffed the flower and again felt as she had in the meadow. She hid the flower in her pocket and ran back home.
She would take the flower out again and again to smell it and relive that moment of freedom in the meadow. Unlike other flowers that would whither and die quickly, this one seemed to remain alive, ever more vibrant. Day after day, reminding herself that she should not go back there, she continued to revisit the meadow in her mind, smelling that flower. But she was careful to stay far away from the path that led to the crossroads and even to stay away from Familiar.
One day, a couple of weeks later she had to walk the path that led past the crossroads and so she did. Quickly, not even glancing down the wrong path, she kept her head up and her eyes averted. The scent of the flowers was in the wind, why had she not smelled it here before? That’s when she saw one, growing right there next to a tall tree along the right path. She let out a long breath. It was ok, there was nothing wrong with these flowers, and she sighed in relief. As she bent to pick the little flower she noticed another and then another right there not to far off this path. What a lovely bouquet they would make, she thought to herself, and she picked them. A few more here, a few more there and when she looked she found herself again in the meadow and walking toward her was Familiar. How did she get here?
It seemed day after day, no matter which path she took, no matter which way she walked she found herself back in the meadow. Familiar was always there waiting for her. At first she struggled to get back to where she knew she should be but the heady smell of the flowers and the good feelings there caused her to resist less and less. She began to walk the meadow with Familiar. As time went by she found herself rushing to the meadow to meet him. After a while, however, she began to find herself in the meadow alone. Where was Familiar?
She became bolder then, she would drop hints to him of when she planned to be in the meadow. He began to meet her there at her invitation. One afternoon he came to meet her and that’s when she noticed that he hadn’t come from the usual path. He came from further in the wood beyond the meadow. He was happy and laughing and munching on a fruit.
“What is that?” She asked.
“Just a fruit, would you like a taste?” He asked, offering it to her. It didn’t look like anything she had seen before, juicy and red like a plum.
“What is it?” she asked again. She could feel her mouth watering, it looked very delicious.
“I don’t really know the name of it,” he answered. “There’s a whole orchard of them just down the path so I thought I’d try one. It’s really good. Here, take a bite.” Warning bells began to go off inside her head but she was a little hungry and thirsty and it looked so good. So, she did. The taste was magnificent, indescribable, juicy and delicious. She ate the rest of it. Familiar had laughed at her enthusiasm. “Want so more?” He had asked then. She shook her head already feeling a little guilty. She looked down to see her hands and her dressed stained from the fruit.
“I’ve got to go,” She whispered and ran from the meadow. Guiltily she washed her hands again and again. The stain could not be seen but she saw it still. That night she tossed and turned in her bed racked with guilt. How could she have eaten the fruit? The next day and the day after that she avoided everyone, she could not believe she had eaten the forbidden fruit. She knew that was what she had done. How could she have done it? But it had tasted so delicious, how could she have done it?
She threw away the flowers and the fruit stained dress. She threw herself into her work. She read and worked and cleaned and tried to sleep. After a few days Familiar began to call but she would not answer. Soon his calls became more frequent, then he began to go to the places she would be at. He would just stand at the back of the room and look at her. She would force herself not to see him but she could feel him there.
One day walking down an aisle in the grocery store she smelled the flowers. She turned and there stood Familiar.
“Please go away,” she said softly.
“Don’t be sad,’ He said. “I’ve missed you.” He said gently.
“Please, please go away,” she said again. Looking into his eyes, they looked back at her sadly.
“Are sure that’s what you want?” Familiar asked. “If you’re sure that’s what you want I will go and never come back.”
“No wait,” she touched his sleeve. “I don’t want you to leave forever, I just want to go back to the way things used to be.”
“Ok,” Familiar answered, looking much happier.
She had meant what she had said. She did want to go back to the way things were but it wasn’t long before she was back in the meadow with Familiar. It wasn’t long before she began to enjoy the fruit that he would bring her. Soon she was wandering down to the orchard to get the fruit with Familiar and then one day she found herself face to face with the dragon.
The dragon had grabbed her then and brought her back to his lair. It was dank and dark there. A pit of despair surrounded the cave of the dragon. Beautiful, broken women sat in the pit of despair weeping and the water from their tears was taken by Familiar and other men to water the flowers in the meadow. Their broken hearts were planted in the orchard and it was from their hearts that the fruit trees grew.
She could not bear it, she could not live here. Everyday when the dragon was asleep she would try to find a way of escape. She looked high and low but she could feel herself sinking further and further into the pit of despair. She would not remain here, she would not. Every night the dragon would leave the lair and he would return in the morning. During the night she would climb up to where he slept and look for a way of escape.
One night she had stayed too long. The first shafts of light from the sunrise could be seen in the sky and she heard the dragon returning. She tried to make herself small in the bedding where he lay. He landed and quickly fell asleep.
That’s when a plan began to in her mind. She lay there for a long time. The smell of the dragon sulfurous and disgusting but she did not move. When the dragon began to snore she crept softly towards it and touched it. The dragon did not move. A good sign. She made her way against the dragon and climbed under its wing. The sharp skin of the dragon cut her and caused her to bleed. Her body ached from lack of sleep and proper nourishment. The smell made her sick but she would not move away. If she would die trying she would not remain here any longer. As night approached she tucked her self closer and tighter against the dragon. She could see puddles of her blood on the floor beside the dragon. She felt him begin to stir and then awaken. The dragon sniffed around him sensing her there. He turned around and around. He found the puddles of her blood.
She wished he would just fly away. Finally after what seemed forever the dragon made his way to the opening of the cave. He sniffed the air again. He knew she was near but apparently could not feel her there against his body. She tightened her grip against his wing. He took off then but was off balance. Not really knowing why the beast tried to compensate but he kept leaning in her direction. He flew low over the tops of the trees. She could feel her grip beginning to slip and fear began to overtake her. She watched for a place that looked familiar. The dragon flew past the orchard and over the meadow and towards the village.
As he neared her house she did not know if she would make it. Her knuckles white, her fingers aching she was just barely hanging on and she sensed that the dragon was about to fly higher, as they crossed the fields her hands slipped and she was falling. She wanted to scream but she feared that she would draw the attention of the dragon so she plummeted towards the ground in silence. She feared that she would be crushed but it would be better than dieing in the lair of the dragon. She landed with a thud and lay there with the wind knocked out of her not knowing if she would survive. After what seemed like forever she was able to breathe again. She stood, nothing seemed to be broken though she was badly bruised. She made her way towards the house and saw the candle in the window shining for her. She was home.

Happy Sunday

2010-05-02T08:22:00.004-05:00

Another favorite .... but come back soon .... my next post is number 200

A Psalm of Returning

Into the night
With no place to stay
I was on the right path
But I wandered away.
Into a desert filled with despair
Then I set up my camp and chose to live there.
In a place that would leave me so tired and worn,
Eyes red from weeping, heart that was torn.

When finally I pulled up the tent pegs to find a new place
There was only remorse but no hope for grace.
But even out there You kept me in sight
Though it seemed all was dark You led by Your light.
I walked on in the desert still sad and alone
Its funny how desert paths still can lead home.
To a place where Your love remains and abounds
Even when I refused to turn ‘round.

Each day I walked on in the dark and the dust.
My dreams all were broken with no one to trust.
I wandered midst thorn bushes deep in the night
Down further to places that felt far from Your sight.
Still no returning, there was no way back
So further I trudged in this place of lack.

But now I hear sounds of rivers that flow
Though I stand on the edge there is lushness below
So I call for Your mercy to lead me to You.
This worn weary traveler wants nothing to do
With far sides of deserts and long lonely places
I need to dwell in the rich of Your graces
I need restoration of mind, heart and soul
It’s only Your mercy that can make me whole.

So send down the flames that will burn away chaff
Remove all my mourning and cause me to laugh
In the joy of Your presence, Your Mercy, Your Grace
Let me know You again, let us talk face to face.
Heal the broken, remove the stone.
Give me a heart that wants to stay home.
A heart that will love You, even not knowing
Why you lead me to places I don’t want to be going.
Help me walk close to You, show me Your path
I want to walk with You in fullness or lack.
I need more of Your presence I can’t stand alone,
I want to live with Your heart as my home

working hard

2010-04-30T07:41:00.011-05:00

I've been working hard on my "secret project" so I thought I'd share another one of my favorites - well its the bones of one of my favorites I've tweaked it a bit.

=D
All the signs point north, so we steadfastly trod south. We step off the path that is clearly marked, tear through the brambles and trip over fallen logs. TURN BACK! NO TRAIL! Wondering why we can’t find our way in the desert, over the mountain and through the forests. The lights are all flashing red but we proceed without caution and are surprised when we end up broken and damaged. CAUTION! NO CROSSING! We fight our way into caves and doors barred from our entry, sneaking through broken windows, making our way into other dark places knowing that it will surely lead to our own demise, wanting what we want, choosing what is certain to bring hurt and pain. ONE WAY! DO NOT ENTER! Yet we press on crossing where we shouldn’t, entering where we mustn’t, always going the wrong way. Running faster and faster towards the very thing we should be running from. DANGER! BRIDGE OUT! We go crashing over cliffs and wonder why all these bad things are happening to us. Sirens blaring all around us, warning us to turn back. DEAD END! NO OUTLET! STOP! We go careening down blind alleyways, slamming through barriers set there only to protect us. It's amazing that we find any place to rest at all, as we continue to go completely in the wrong direction.

I wonder if it is because of His grace and mercy that God has made the world round. So that perhaps, eventually, stumbling along blindly, or out of rebellion, or sheer stubbornness, going in the completely opposite way that was planned for us to go, we will finally end up where we should have been, where we could have been, where we need to be. Seeing in the distance that place we have been longing for all along, where the candle is still burning in the window waiting for our return... Home.

Trying to catch her death

2010-04-23T09:34:00.002-05:00

Marybeth stood in yard. Her little pink toes peeking out from the bottom of her nightgown: arms out, head back and her little pink tongue sticking out to try and catch the snow. The snow was wet and heavy and fell from the night sky in large clumps. Marybeth had slipped out of the kitchen door but had left it ajar,
“Good heavens child, get in here. You’ll catch your death,” said Mama. She whisked her in and grabbed the kitchen towel to wipe a way the little bits of snow on her head and nightgown and then to dry her off a bit.
“I couldn’t stop myself from going out there,” Marybeth said excitedly. “It was so beautiful.”
“It is beautiful,” Mama replied. “But now it’s off to bed with you, or you’ll be sick in the morning.” And then muttering under her breath “Child doesn’t have the sense God gave a goose” as the little girl skipped down the hall to her room.
Marybeth smiled as she walked home from high school. The rain was pouring down, great big buckets of it. She laughed as she walked. Not at all sorry that she had missed the bus and she hoped Mama wouldn’t be too cross. She tried to slip in the back door without her mother hearing but of course Mama was standing right there in the kitchen.
Her mother turned as she came in and then stood there dripping wet.
“Good heavens child, don’t just stand there. Get your coat and boots off. You’ll catch your death,” and she ran to get a towel for her. Marybeth laughed while Mama tried to dry her off as if she were a little girl. She kissed her on her cheek. “Now quick run and get changed or you’ll be sick in the morning.”
10 years later she was sitting in the den typing furiously on the computer. She was married now and everything had seemed perfectly wonderful and then Tom started to get the headaches. Although he often fought with her about going to the doctor, as all men do, he had finally agreed to go. That’s when they had found the tumor. It was cancer, and they had started the usual rounds of chemotherapy and radiation. Day after day and night after night, when she wasn’t attending to him she was on the computer.
“What are you doing?” He asked coming into the room in the middle of the night.
“I’m trying to catch your death,” she replied. He looked at her quizzically. “I’m looking for something to stop this thing that’s trying to take you from me.” He pulled her to him then. "It will be okay he whispered softly to her.
He held her close to him trying to ease the fear and tension out of her. “Come to bed or you’ll be sick in the morning.”
For six years they were able to keep the cancer at bay but finally, after they had tried so many different sorts of things, he slipped away.” After the funeral she had gone home to Mama’s house. Broken and sad, she didn’t know how to survive this. She didn’t want to go on. That night the sky turned dark and the wind grew cold. Rain and sleet and snow blew hard against the house. Mama came into the kitchen about half past three and noticed the kitchen door slightly ajar. She opened the door and saw Marybeth shivering and crying in the storm.
“Good heavens, what are you doing child?” And Marybeth came in. Sobbing and shaking she looked at Mama.
“I was trying to catch my death” she whispered.

just a note 2

2010-04-22T09:59:00.002-05:00

Its crazy I know I usually reserve this blog for just my writing and this is my second not writing note in a row, but I'm working on a new project ...shhhh.... and it will be alot of work so I may not be here as often as before. I feel foolish even trying - its writing and I always worry about not being good enough. So keep your fingers crossed, wish me luck and although I will be trying to post a writing from time to time ... I'll be back regularly after May 31st

just a note

2010-04-21T05:48:00.002-05:00

This is just a personal note. I usually reserve this blog for just my writing but I read this in Debi Alper's blog:

"It's almost as though people need permission to write by being told they're not wasting their time. As if creating worlds of our own and peopling them with a cast formed from our own imaginations could ever be a waste ..."

I live right there. I feel like I need permission to write and reassurance that its not just a waste of time. I don't know how to get from here to published. With the exception of a poem published in a magazine 16 years ago and a submission that was published in "Your Messages" I wonder often if there is purpose to my writing besides the babble.

It is reassuring to know that I'm not the only one who struggles with this and I appreciate those who have encouraged me to continue with it. You've no idea how often I've thought about walking away from it - and have for periods of time. Fortunately it always draws me back.

xoxo
g

I wish I had a dragon

2010-04-18T15:32:00.005-05:00

I wish I had a dragon to ride across the skies,
To fly above the mountains to the place the sunset lies.

I wish I had a dragon, I'd never need to fear.
'Fore when mounted on this mighty beast no danger would draw near.

I wish I had a dragon to fly far and fast and free,
Beyond the bonds of duty, of who I ought to be.

We'd fly below the sunrise.
We'd skim across the seas.
We'd soar up with the eagles,
Or just drift upon the breeze.

I'd stop and stare in wonder at all the places I could go.
Places that are magical that others do not know.

I'd find a shining castle hidden high up in the clouds,
And stay a day, a week or more; until we tired of the crowds.

Then I would mount my dragon, and she and I would soar,
To some other wondrous place, upon a distant shore.

A prompt from Neil Gaiman's reading of Instructions:"And then go home"

2010-04-17T23:57:00.004-05:00

Today's prompt was from here. I love to hear Neil Gaiman read. It always makes me want to write, although I always write with an English accent going on in my head after I've listened to him read.

And then go home,” The words rattled around in her head. She had been given very specific instructions. Bring the box to Dr. Whiteman’s office and leave it with the nurse. Go down to the bank on the corner of Elm and Sycamore and give the man at the new accounts desk the envelope. Stop at the grocers and pick up a cabbage and some sausages and then go home.
But Adelaide did not go home. She meant to, of course she meant to, but then she saw something shiny in Baxter’s field and so she’d climbed through the fence to see what it was. She ran up to where she had seen something sparkling in the sun and found a half dollar. She couldn’t believe her luck. She bent low to pick it up and then suddenly sensed that she was being watched. She whirled around only to find herself standing no more than 20 feet from a very large brown bull. She knew that it was about to run her down and turned around again as quickly as she had before and headed for the lone tree. The bull was gaining on her she could feel the ground shaking beneath her and smell his breath. Just at the last moment she raced around the tree and was up and out of its reach.
The bull had been eyeing the tree warily as it chewed on the grass around it for nearly an hour now, just biding its time until she would try to make her way down. She sat on the branch watching the little road that ran along Baxter’s field hoping someone, anyone would be wandering by so they could help her.
“And then go home,” She sighed heavily, just once, just one time perhaps it would be a good idea to follow the instructions given to her.

unceasing repeating

2010-04-16T09:56:00.001-05:00

Its 1:52 a.m. and the same thoughts go round and round and round in my head like a broken record. Try as I might I cannot make them cease and it all sounds very much like headlines from a CNN report and I just want it to stop.
He insists that we talk about the finances and work again and again and again as if any of these matter to any point of significance, if he only knew and I wonder again how we all ended up lost in this place without anchor or map as we drift so close to disaster.
“The sun will come out tomorrow” as Annie sings and it does while my nightmares reveal themselves in reality and my head is pounding with the same three or four or six sentences over and over and over again.
“Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile, smile, smile” I take a pill that hopefully will break the cycle of words in my head, read to distract and try to pray although none of it seems to be very effective.
The words on the back of the magazine read “Welcome to an even quieter world.” And I wonder if that would be better or worse because the noise in my brain becomes ever louder in the stillness but if there was a way to shut the noise in my head off. Now that might work. Fill the void, fill the void, fill the void.
Time to get up and do what needs to be done, and done and done.

a shadow

2010-04-13T15:06:00.000-05:00

Bits and pieces of yourself gone missing. Where they are can only be discovered by working backwards. There is the deepest part of your heart, the glimmer in your eye, the blush of your cheeks, all gone. Given and then given again until all that is left is the barest shadow of who you once were. How can it be that all that is left is the stoop of your shoulders, the crease of your forehead, the weariness of your soul?
You have spent your life giving to those you love and with every place where the love has grown cold a bit of you was lost or stolen some would say. Indeed it seems the saddest of discoveries was when you had finally given every hidden bit of yourself to that someone they had taken it, leaving you only the tears of yours eyes and the ache where your heart had once lived.
The little one beside you whispers into your ear and something flickers across the darkness of your eyes. Perhaps all hope is not lost and the missing pieces can be restored but it will take more then a moment or two. More than the monumental effort and energy to restore and then the willingness to give it all back. And what of a reassurance that it will be worth the risk yet again? There are none only an understanding that it is better to risk what is already only hurt and emptiness for something more for a little while.

rest

2010-04-10T20:00:00.000-05:00

She climbs the long flight of stairs worn weary from the day of smiling and nodding and acting as if it’s all ok. She shuts the door softly as to not indicate that she has finally come to the end of herself feeling like a porcupine with all her quills sticking the wrong way in.
Her bones ache, the hair on her head feeling like it is pulling out from every end. Is there no end to it? No peace, no calm, she sighs as if expelling a bit of the raggedness from her soul. Her shoulders are stooped and her feet aching and swollen. She wonders how she can keep on this way and finally lays her head to rest.
She slips into sleep as if into a canoe floating its way down a stream and the unending demands slip as petals on the water. One then another, and then several all at once. She breathes deep and feels the mist rising off the water, hears the whippoorwill
off in the distance. The sound of the water against the bottom and the gentle rocking of the boat bring her to a quietness in her soul.
She awakens to the sound of the baby in the other room her gaze calm, her demeanor peaceful and if you look closely you can almost see the dampness of the mist in her hair.

on my birthday

2010-04-09T16:00:00.002-05:00

when to start -
yesterday, tomorrow seemed beyond my control
but starting too late or starting too soon,
one never knew which could bring disaster.
but not starting at all,
leaving a life well spent on the
day in and day out of doing the responsible things
the good things even,
the required things
incomprehensible.
so the choice is that there really is no choice,
starting here and now was the only time to start
and then watching and waiting
or
leaping without looking
really wouldn't matter.
after all this path would lead to greater adventures
either alone or in concert with others
but
the waiting for whatever it was that I had been waiting for was over
and starting is what I have done.

From Twitterlit "There was a knock at the door, so hesitant as to be almost inaudible."

2010-04-07T17:52:00.001-05:00

"There was a knock at the door, so hesitant as to be almost inaudible." She would never have heard it all except that she had been sweeping the floor in the hall. She opened it and found herself staring at a waif of a girl. Her eyes a blue as deep as the Adriatic sea.
“Can I help you?” She asked perhaps a bit too abruptly.
The young girl began to speak slowly but the language was unintelligible to Maureen, which was saying something since she spoke no less than six languages fluently.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand you. Do you speak English?” The young girl shook her head. “Greek? Serbian? Russian?” Again a shake of the girl’s head. Then she began to cry softly and started to turn to the door.
“No its ok. Please, stay.” Trying to speak reassuringly knowing that the girl had no idea what she was saying but hoping that she would understand her willingness to be of assistance to her. The girl was crying softly when she stopped and then silently collapsed onto the tile floor.

one of my favorites ...

2010-03-18T14:52:00.001-05:00

I'm busy packing for a trip to California so I don't really have time to write but I thought I'd put up one of my favorites:

The Hurricane
The sky grew dark with the approaching storm and the wind whistled through the windows, the sound eerie and mournful. They had told her to leave. The weather that was headed her way would certainly destroy the little house. The creek that ran along the back of the property had already begun to rise as night began to fall. Her neighbors had stopped as they headed for higher ground. Every one of them, asking, pleading really with her to come with them. But they had left alone.
She watched the sky darken, as she fixed herself a cup of tea. She wasn’t frightened, although others thought she should be. The cat came in winding his way around her ankles. She took her cup over to the chair in the living room and turned on the television. Fifteen minutes later the lights went out. She reached over to the end table and turned on the flash light.
She shuffled her way back into the kitchen and washed the cup; drying it and putting it back up into the cupboard. She brought the kitchen lighter into the bedroom and lit the candles on her nightstand. She smiled softly as the candlelight flickered in the picture of a young soldier taken 52 years ago.
“Oh Henry, I’ve missed you so much these past two months. I can’t wait to see you again, my darling.” She finished getting ready for bed. The room was filled with the scent of the tea rose lotion he had bought her for her birthday last year, and every year before it for so long. She sat at the end of the bed and undid her braid, her long silver hair falling well past her waist. As she began her 100 strokes she could hear the rain banging angrily against the tin roof, pounding against it in waves.
She looked over at his pillow while she brushed her hair. Stopping for a moment, she softly reached for it, closed her eyes and sighed. Two months she had slept alone, after 47 years. She went back to brushing her hair, the cat purring at her feet.
Finished she placed the brush down on the bedside table. She blew out the candle and lay down in her bed. One more night alone and then she would see her Henry again.
As the rain continued to batter the little house, the wind knocking down trees, and the water rising all around, she slept peacefully until he came for her. She felt him before she saw him. The shadow becoming clearer and his little impish grin shining down on her.
“Come along Lucille its time to go.” Then he bent down and kissed her. He took her hand and they wandered off to a place where they could be together again, the cat coming a little ways behind them.

Today's prompt comes from Oprah's Book Club

2010-03-12T14:49:00.002-06:00

“Daydreaming again my pretty girl?” Father asked. Anne did not answer. It was a rhetorical question after all. To know anything at all about Anne was to know that she was always daydreaming. No matter where she was or what she was doing she was wondering what it might be like if, or when and so she often missed what was going on right under her nose.
Mother had determined long ago that Anne simply had the temperament of an artist and so she included sketching and painting classes, amongst the list of weekly activities that cluttered up the calendar on the refrigerator. Aunt Bette thought Anne would make a wonderful actress since she so often seemed to enjoy living other sorts of lives. The girls at school thought she was just silly. What kind of girl doesn’t stare and giggle at the boys?
Surprisingly she did remarkably well in school, considering the amount of time she spent not working on her homework or even her class work. Once out in the world she held a fairly decent job as the assistant manager at Barnes and Noble; which of course would be the ideal place for her to work since it fed her imagination to be surrounded by so very many books.
Of course her friends thought her daydreams were much like theirs, a husband and home, travel, money. How could they know that her daydreams were often set in places like ancient Carthage and featured fantastic parades of elephants?

from Twitterlit: The little man on the park bench turned up his collar against the cold

2010-03-11T21:30:00.001-06:00

The little man on the park bench turned up his collar against the cold and then checked his pocket watch for the third time. It was ten past four. She would be late for her piano lesson if she didn’t hurry. He waited looking disinterested to anyone who may be watching. He heard her familiar footfall coming up the path and then there she was. A ray of sunshine on this cloudy day, yellow ribbons tied on the ends of her long brown braids. She ran quickly up the path her little backpack bouncing behind her.
He smiled as he got up from the bench and stretched his legs. He tossed the crumbs from his napkin to the birds and tightened the lid on his little coffee thermos.
It was surprising to him how big she was getting already, almost nine now and looking so very much like her mother. He had watched her every day almost every day for three years. Every afternoon on the way to piano lessons or ballet class, some days he would see her leaving school there had been a few times that he had sat near her in a restaurant or coffee shop and listened to her laughing and talking. Those had been the very best times, and the saddest. He would have so loved to have been a part of her life.
She didn’t know. She never saw him and even if she had seen him she wouldn’t know him. Perhaps she would one day, but not today and probably not anytime soon.

spring

2010-03-09T19:18:00.003-06:00

The ornamental pear trees are blooming! Each tree and bush looking like it’s filled with snow. Natures own way of playing hide and seek. Like the groundhog and its shadow but this one designed to trick winter into believing things are still in her control. You would have thought this was something dreamed up by C.S. Lewis in Chronicles of Narnia.- a device by children to trick the White Witch.
I notice hints of spring everywhere. Some of the branchs are turning a bright shade of green as the leaves get ready to burst forth, we passed a peach tree who’s buds where starting to come out with a bit of pink. Today at the park Elli even found some purple and yellow wildflowers. It will soon be here, hurray!! and not one moment too soon.

freedom

2010-03-06T08:58:00.001-06:00

She runs fast, and then faster. Her little arms punching back and forth as she sprints from one place to another and then back again. Moving wildly, joyfully and yet somewhat resembling a Tasmanian devil as she goes, leaving swings flying and sand and twigs blowing about as she dashes past and through. Free as a bird to climb and run and then a quick stop to give a kiss or maybe even tattle on some boy who is throwing things to get her attention. Ah to be four again where there is no making sense of things or battling the daily grind but to just live fully, joyfully, boundlessly in the sun and the wind certain that there is order in creation and that the One who brought me here is close enough for a kiss and if necessary to tattle to.

another of my favorites ....

2010-03-05T00:02:00.003-06:00

can't even think enough to put three sentences together so I'll post another favorite ... this was one of my first postings to this blog...

as overheard in the garden

"I'm certain it must be true," the squirrel told the caterpillar. "I heard the frog telling the grasshopper and I've never known the frog to lie."
"But where did the frog hear it?" The caterpillar asked.
"Well," said the squirrel, lowering his voice so as not to be heard by anyone else around. "If I'm not mistaken the frog heard it from the ladybug."
"Hmmmm. the ladybug, I suppose I'll just have to check this out for myself," the caterpillar replied and scurried off on her stubby little legs.
"Is it true?" the caterpillar asked breathlessly as she rounded the corner of the azaeleas and practically ran over the ladybug. "Did you tell frog ..."
"Hush," said the ladybug looking around to see if anyone was close enough to hear. "No one is supposed to know. I only told the frog because he swore he wouldn't tell anyone else. Where did you hear it?""Squirrel told me. But I haven't told anyone else if that's what you're worried about. Is it true?"
"Well," said the ladybug opening and closing her wings nervously. "The mocking bird told me. She always seems to be in the know about everything. She insisted it was true and that she'd heard it almost firsthand as she heard the lizard behind the wall telling the rabbit. And the lizard said that he had heard it from the ant who'd heard it from the bumble bee."
"The bumble bee?" asked the caterpillar incredulously. "And how, pray tell did the bumble bee find out."
"I'm not certain," answered the ladybug. "You'll have to ask the bumble bee yourself. Last time I saw her she was in the daffodils"
"Well I want to know if its true so I guess that's what I'll have to do. Thanks for your help." But the ladybug had already flown off.The caterpillar scurried across the garden. As she did she heard bits and pieces of conversations amongst all the creatures in the garden. Clearly this was no secret as everyone - EVERYONE - seemed to be talking about it.
Finally she did indeed find the bumblebee in the daffodil's and it took a moment to get his attention. "Helllllooooo! Hellllooooo! I say can you hear me bumble bee?"The bumblebee stopped what he was doing and buzzed over to the caterpillar.
"Hello caterpillar. What can I do for you?" Bumblebee asked.
"Is it true? Its all over the garden you know? I just want to know. Is it true?" The caterpillar asked.
"It is true indeed. I heard it straight from the butterfly."
"The butterfly?" now caterpillar was more than a little exasperated. Butterfly was not usually known for getting her facts straight as she was always flitting from one thing to the next.
"Oh yes!" said the bumblebee excitedly which just made it harder to hear because when he got excited the buzzing got so much louder. "The butterfly told me herself that she was minding her own business over by the honeysuckle, when the boy came to her and whispered that she must go to the girl and give her a kiss and tell the girl that the boy was truly in love with her."
"Oh my goodness." Caterpillar said hopping from one foot to another foot to another foot to another foot. "So it is really true, you're quite certain?"
"Yes. But the very best part," whispered the bumblebee, which of course could barely be heard over the buzzing and the caterpillar had to strain very hard to hear it. "The very best part, is that the girl loves the boy truly too."

some of my favorites ....

2010-02-17T11:14:00.002-06:00

i've been so busy getting ready to move .... but I thought I'd try to repost a few of my favorites .... perhaps with just a bit of reworking ...

Prompt from Twitterlit: "The price of wishes had officially gone up."

“Well how much then?” I asked.
The old man just shook his head. “Its this economy you know. Seems there is so little hope out there right now, everything is wishful thinking. We've never had such a high demand and of course without hope or dreams wishes are hard to come by. So because of the shortage and all, well you know, the price has practically tripled in the last two months alone.”
I sat down heavily in the wooden chair next to him. I was desperate, I needed this so badly, so much more than so many silly wishes people seemed to have these days like bigger houses and fancy cars. Adding up what I thought I had in my purse. I was fearful I wouldn’t have enough. It had been almost 14 years since I’d been to see him the last time and although I thought I had accounted for the increase in the economy I wasn’t sure I would come close to what I needed.
He looked down at me for a moment and then his face brightened. “I remember you. It’s been forever since you were here the last time. You were the one with the odd request.”
“Odd request?” I asked somewhat taken aback.
“Well you have to admit not everyone comes in here to buy one shining star.” He said. I laughed inspite of myself. He apparently did remember. He smiled at me again. “So, how did that work out for you anyway?”
“Well, worked out well, quite well.” I replied looking down at the shiny diamond wedding band. “But really I do need another wish and I was wondering if you took credit?”
"Oh no," He replied shaking his head, "I can’t take credit. People are always coming in here saying that want this or that or the other thing and as soon as they get it their changing their minds. Then they don’t want to pay because it wasn't what they were really wanting in the first place. So you can certainly understand we’re a cash only business, deary.” He pulled out his writing pad. “So what’ll it be this time?”
“Well, I know it sounds silly but I’d like another please.” I said rather quietly, the lump in my throat making it impossible to speak any louder.
“Another? Another what?”
“I’d like another shining star. I need it very desperately for the third of June.”He rubbed his chin, flipped the calendar open. “I don’t know, it will certainly cost you. Let me see,” He opened a cabinet behind him and took out an old grey binder. He made some notations with his pencil and ran the calculator, a few muttered comments and then a bit more figuring on the calculator. “It looks like it should be about $22,000 for it.”
“What?" I gasped. "But tt was only $120 last time.”
“Yes, well it was a long time ago, wasn’t it?” He looked deeply into my eyes, I knew he saw the desperation there. "what do you want this one for?”
The tears came rushing down now. “I need to remind him of the last time. I think he’s found another and I need to remind him of what we meant to each other. I need it to be that one shining star.”
“How much do you have deary?"
Wiping my hand across my cheek, “$820,” I said feeling foolish even mentioning it.
“Ok we’ll do it, $820, and a kiss on the old man’s cheek.” I handed him my cash and leaned over to give him the required peck on the cheek, I hugged his neck and then pulled back embarrassed at all the emotion.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“Good luck my dear,” He said as I slipped out the door.

The Other Gina

2010-02-04T09:17:00.001-06:00

I remember the incident quite well actually. I was fifteen and I was sitting down to breakfast with my parents and my little sister. It was 1975, this was before cell phones or even cordless phones in the house. To say it was an entirely different sort of era would be understating the disparity between now and then.
The phone rang and my dad answered it. He told the caller to wait and looking somewhat perplexed handed me the phone. Of course you must understand the phone did not ring before 9:00 in the morning, ever, unless there was a death or some sort of major calamity in the family. That truth stood for 9:00 in the evening as well. One more important fact, I was not in the least popular and so the phone rarely if ever was for me. I did have a few close friends but most of them lived on the block and if they wanted to chat they’d just come over. I was only allowed to talk on the phone for 10 minutes at a time anyway.
I answered the phone and on the other end was a voice I did not recognize.
“You are alive.” Umm I was that fact being firmly established even before I was handed the phone.
“Yes I am,” my parents were looking at me and I’m certain the confused look on my face while we sat at the breakfast table with our pancakes in front of us didn’t help.
“I’d heard you were dead. That you swallowed a whole packet of,” and then she said something unintelligible and she started to cry. “Tony’s in the hospital I’m sure you you know! Brian and Steve have been arrested! I can’t even believe this is happening! I knew the police would bust us but I had no idea so many people would get caught! My parents are threatening to send me to boarding school and Terri’s parents are sending her to live with her grandparents.”
“I’m sorry, who is this?” I said. None of it was making any sense whatsoever. Names of people who could be other people or could be people I know and who was this girl on the phone.
It turned out to be a complete misunderstanding. I wasn’t the Gina she thought I was, turned out that Gina had overdosed on who knows what but managed to survive. Her boyfriend Tony was in the hospital, recovered and got probation. The druggies and the smokers, the kids who used to hang out across the street from the school in the mornings and afternoons, had been dispersed momentarily. Constant police presence in the front of the school after the raid forced them to move half a block up to the steps of the library, perhaps not quite as effective as the police had hoped to be in deterring them.
The strangest part of it all, for a moment I wanted to be that Gina. The one who was an important part of a group; the one with the boyfriend; the one who had enough excitement going on her life that people who didn’t know her well enough would call the wrong Gina to get the scoop; I wanted to be the Gina who didn’t live the staid, quiet, peaceful sort of life that included Saturday morning breakfast at the table with her family. Strangely enough I wanted to be the overdosed Gina who people thought might be dead.

they'd been found out

2010-02-03T06:59:00.002-06:00

She’d found him out, down by the large oak tree that had been there since before his grandfather had been born, picking up acorns and humming. She’d slipped from trees to tree trying not to make much noise in the autumn leaves. She thought she’d managed to sneak up on him unawares but he had seen her walk out the back door and the sly smile she had seen playing across his lips was the amusement he had found in watching her make her way to him.
He’d found her out, planting row upon row of sweet peas, which they had both mistakenly assumed were some kind of vegetable but certainly brightened up the garden considerably. It had been all frilly leaves from the carrots, and soft greens from the butter lettuce and of course the sweet peas.
She’d found him out behind the barn, tears streaming down his face after she’d lost the baby. No words that could comfort either of them It would be very unlikely that she would be able to conceive againor so they had been told, and so through the bitterness and anger he had tried to be strong for her when, in all sincerity what she had needed all along was for him to be weak with her.
He’d found them out near the back pasture chasing butterflies and making daisy chains and he knew that there would be many more of these fun filled days because the doctors had been wrong. They'd found out one damp chilly morning when after three days of throwing up he'd taken her in to the hospital worried that there was something seriously wrong and the nurse had had a good laugh at the drama wrapped around a little morning sickness.

millwood

2010-02-02T07:50:00.000-06:00

We drove down the country road, beneath the trees, past the old and graying buildings on one side and the local livestock watching us on the other. The road wound down and around and past the cemetery and ended in a dead end in a pasture beneath some high electrical wires. The old bull stood near the fence snorting. It was a bizarre jumble of technology and old headstones and cows. Some plastic flowers had been placed in the ground next to what appeared to be a grave across from a Texas historical marker.
We got out in the misty rain and ran across the road laughing. There was a padlock on the gate to the cemetery but there was a section of fence that was missing and we simply walked through. The historical marker told of a place called Millwood. A farming town that had sprung up and prospered in the little valley and now was gone. Dead as the inhabitants of the cemetery with no one to remember them, well perhaps someone remembered. The plastic flowers had been placed in the center of the broken millstone. According to the marker the mill had stood within 40 yards of the marker but looking around there was no indication that it had ever been thee.
It began to rain a bit harder. We ran back to the car and talked for the next 40 miles imagining the people who had lived there and whether the town had died first or the millstone had broken and that had been the end of the town. Of course there was no telling now.

home

2010-01-28T22:57:00.003-06:00

He slipped in the backdoor. She hadn’t heard him come in. He could see her reflection in the mirror in the hall as she made her way around the kitchen wiping the counters. She was humming softly, nothing he could make out but he knew she was happy. The smell of the pie baking in the oven filled the house. Cinnamon, vanilla and fresh apples, their fragrance filling every room, and of course the aroma of the coffee, he imagined that the pie must be almost done if she had the coffee on already.
He hung his scarf and jacket on the hook, and slipped his boots off. He knew she would fuss later about the wet and the mud by the entry. He picked up the flowers and walked down the hall in his stocking feet. The cat looked up from his grooming, gave Henry a slightly perplexed look and then returned to lick his front foreleg.
She still hadn’t heard him. The water was running in the sink as she finished cleaning the last of the dishes. Something caught her eye and she turned just as he entered the kitchen.
“For me? Oh Henry they’re beautiful” and she kissed him. It had been so long since he had brought her flowers, or come home early. She didn’t even ask him why he was there. There would be time to tell her, later, that he’d lost his job but for now he reveled in her kiss and the sweet smell of home.

strangely written

2010-01-27T09:35:00.000-06:00

Real life is so strangely written, she paused, sometimes. There was no ending the bizarre juxtaposition of life and fate and destiny. It had only been this morning when she had decided she was never, ever going back to that dim, dark place of yesteryear and now she stood holding the package. It had come in the post. Barely big enough to be called a package, just slightly larger then a packet of letters. It lay in the bottom of the mailbox under this week’s food circular, a car magazine, 3 envelopes from creditors, two fundraising letters with address stickers enclosed and a note from the neighbor inviting her to yet again another one of those insipid selling parties for Tupperware or candles or some such stuff.
She had scooped up the whole pile of things and tossed them on to the table while the puppy danced circles around her feet. She hadn’t really noticed it but when she stood up again from all the petting and licking and flurry about her ankles everything else had slid away. It was wrapped in brown paper and she picked it up to examine it. The address sent a chill up her spine, 322 Main, Charleston, SC and she glanced around to see if Henry was there. She contemplated just tossing it out. Nothing good could come of opening it. She did not wish to be drawn back into all the mess. It had taken 14 years and a million miles to extricate herself from the hold of it. But she knew herself and if she tossed it out she would be out there at two in the morning, dressed in her house robe and slippers, digging through the trash bin to find the package.
She took the package to the bedroom, into her closet. Reaching to the farthest corner of the shelf she dropped the little package into one of the winter boots she hadn’t worn since they’d moved to Destin in 1999. She felt better. If she just had to know she could pull it out and open it but it wasn’t going to keep a hold of her this time.
A 322 Main the old wizard smiled. He knew he still held her. Time, it was just a matter of time before fate and destiny would bring her back to him.

Twitterlit prompt: A perfect;y nice place to live

2010-01-21T00:26:00.000-06:00

It would have been a perfectly nice place to live, if of course it hadn’t been for the rumors of the ghosts on the third floor. The house itself was Victorian with just enough gingerbread to make you believe it was from another time and place. The windows, leaded every single one of them. Most of them plain except for the little diamond just to give credence to the fact that they were in face lead. The breakfast nook window however was a stained glass of wisteria so beautiful that you just knew whomever had made it loved what they were doing.
The yard was beautiful with a cottage garden that ran all around with old fashioned flowers that bloomed each in its season and a little rose garden path with the old fashioned sort of roses whose scent you could smell from half a block away.
Yes it would have been a perfectly nice place to live but no one lived there because of the rumors of the ghosts that lived on the third floor and so, sadly, they had to live there alone.

A Psalm of Returning

2010-01-18T08:31:00.003-06:00

Into the night
With no place to stay
I was on the right path
But I wandered away.
Into a desert filled with despair
Then I set up my camp and chose to live there.
In a place that would leave me so tired and worn,
Eyes red from weeping, heart that was torn.

When finally I pulled up the tent pegs to find a new place
There was only remorse but no hope for grace.
But even out there You kept me in sight
Though it seemed I was alone You led by Your light.
I walked on in the desert still sad and alone
Its funny how desert paths still can lead home.
To a place where Your love remains and abounds
Even when I refused to turn ‘round.

But I was still lost in the dark and the dust.
My dreams all were broken with no one to trust.
I wandered amidst thorn bushes deep in the night
Down further to places that were far from the right.
Still no returning, there was no way back
So further I wandered in this place of lack.

But now I hear sounds of rivers that flow
Though I stand on the edge there is lushness below
So I call for Your mercy to lead me to You.
This worn weary traveler wants nothing to do
With far sides of deserts and long lonely places
I need to dwell in the rich of Your graces
I need restoration of mind, heart and soul
It’s only Your mercy that can make me whole.

So send down the flames that will burn away chaff
Take away my mourning and cause me to laugh
In the joy of Your presence, Your Mercy, Your Grace
Let me know You again, let us talk face to face.
Heal the broken, remove the stone.
Give me a heart that wants to stay home.
A heart that will love You, even not knowing
Why you lead me to places I don’t want to be going.
Help me walk close to You, show me Your path
I want to walk with You in fullness or lack.
I need more of Your presence I can’t stand alone,
I want to live with Your heart as my home.

twitterlit prompt : It only takes one thing to kill you

2010-01-16T20:49:00.000-06:00

She’d lived a very isolated, insulated sort of life. There was never a time she was allowed out without a hat. If it was cold she always had a scarf and a jacket. Her mother insisted she always use an umbrella. In winter the covers were always three thick on the bed and even on the warmest summer evenings Mother came in and shut the window so there would not be a draft.
It was the time and she understood, with so many children dying from polio one couldn’t be too careful. There was never dirt under her fingers. Of course that would require actually having played with something dirty and that never ever happened.
The house always had a very antiseptic smell to it. It was always quiet but not exactly peaceful, though Margaret made her own little world with her dolls and her books and her colors. They rarely had visitors. It was such a chore to scrub everything afterward to make certain that all the germs were dead.
Mother was very careful to prepare all the food so that there were no germs, or dirt or anything that could make them sick. Margaret wondered if food tasted different if you didn’t boil it.
She was homeschooled and so never really ventured out of the house much at all. Those few experiences piqued an interest in her but she sensed the panic just below the surface with her mother. So, she thought it best not to ask too many questions.Finally one night, at sixteen, she slipped out of the back door and headed up the railroad tracks. She had decided that it was time to really live or die but a half grey life was more than she could endure.

earthquake

2010-01-14T10:33:00.003-06:00

Please give to the earthquake efforts in Haiti! There are many reputable organizations in many countries trying to provide aid if you can give a little or you can give a lot please help!

One moment its business as usual and the ordinary, irritating things of everyday seem to cause such angst and pain. Molehills are mountains and every little adversity is a major travesty. And then the ground begins to shake and the walls begin to quake. The sound of what seems a huge locomotive is heard all along the countryside. There’s rattling and slamming and breaking of glass. Wrenching and tearing of wall board and plaster. The land tosses back and forth like the sea. There’s no place firm to stand and its pitch dark. Walls are jumping out in front of you as fear and panic sieze you. Trying to get your babies you run barefoot through broken glass and use superhuman strength to push open doors jammed shut by every piece of furniture in the room.
Finally you are holding them close, and in the eerie silence that follows you are grateful to find that you have all survived. The pain from cuts and bruising barely registering in your conscious as you quiet the tears and fears of your little ones. But after just a few minutes have passed the rocking begins again. The children shriek and grab tightly to your neck and you, yourself can barely keep it together. What you have never heard is that the aftershocks, some small and barely perceptible and others so much larger they will feel like the first one, will continue for days, weeks, even months lessening in frequency with the passing of time, but every single one bringing the fear and the panic of that very first time. Business as usual will never be the same once the solid ground under your feet is no longer something you can rely on.

believe the rumors

2010-01-12T12:00:00.001-06:00

My butterfly mind loves to wander from flower to flower to flower. When that gets boring I’m ready for skimming along, just above, the water in the stream tempting the fates and the large fish that lay just below the surface glassy eyed and gloomy. They perk up a bit as I skim past but ha ha I’m too fast for them. I laugh all the way as I flutter by the bramble bushes. The buzzing of the bees there always makes me smile. Then I’ll twist and twirl like a fairy princess in and among the leaves of the big lilac tree.
The spring is my favorite time with every other tree having blossoms of pink, red, yellow or white, the air thick with the smell of lemon blossoms and jasmine. The breezes cool but the sun warm as I stretch my wings slowly just to show off the iridescence of my own mosaic of color.
I am exceedingly thankful for having been rescued from the drudgery of walking day after day after day; only able to see directly in front of me and only dreaming about a totally different life that I was destined for. Of course then it was only a rumor and at that an utterly ridiculous one. How could a short sighted, blue green, ever widening caterpillar become a winged butterfly, light as the breeze, joyful in the sun with hardly a care but to enjoy all that had been created for me to dance in? At yet it is worth it believe in what might be rumored to be true if it is more glorious than you can imagine.

Don't wait

2010-01-10T21:48:00.001-06:00

Don’t miss the morning.
Don’t miss the day.
Don’t miss the evening that will soon be on the way.
There’s sunshine and rainbows and starlight to see.
Don’t miss it.
Don’t miss it,
For there you’ll find me.
Hidden beneath and beyond and behind,
Waiting to see if you’ll try to find,
The good things just waiting for you.
Its hard to believe it but its really true,
There are wonderful thing there just look and you’ll see.
And if you look even further then there you’ll find me.
The giver of good things, the one you adore,
The one who’s planned a future of so very much more.
So don’t lay abed,
Don’t close your eyes,
Don’t stay behind doors that would shut you inside.
Be blessed by the so much, the wonderous great,
That’s waiting for you,
So hurry, don’t wait.

New Year New Goals!

2010-01-07T13:04:00.002-06:00

I've got big plans for the new year but of course haven't gotten very far with them so I thought I'd tak inkygirl's challenge of 250 words a day starting now:

The Truth

“The truth, I just want the truth.” She said emphatically looking into his eyes begging him to share a safe truth, a good truth, the right truth. After all the truth shall set you free or so she’d heard. Facts are facts her father used to say. There are no good or bad facts there are just facts. The truth is just facts so it wouldn’t, couldn’t, shouldn’t hurt her.
“You can’t handle the truth?” she heard Jack Nicholson say in her head. And who was it, oh yeah Pontious Pilate, who asked Jesus “What is truth?”
“I just want the truth,” she said again, calmly, quietly. Of course she thought she knew the truth and she was certain that the truth, simple facts could not hurt her.
“You just think you want the truth. Do we really need to do this? You say you trust me. Trust me then and let’s just go on from here and never look back knowing that there are fresh starts. This can be our do over, our delete and rewrite. Please let’s not go there with this.”
“Just the truth, I need to know. Then we will go on.”
He looked out the window and saw the grey cat half hidden in the bushes near the bird feeder. Watching, waiting, expressionless except for a certain something in around the eyes but when the bird came and landed a bit to close. It was lunch.
Then he told her the truth and of course, laying in and amongst the facts was the betrayal.

freedom

2009-10-18T21:33:00.003-05:00

Freedom! The breeze whispered of it. Freedom! The air hummed with it. Freedom! The large butterfly tugged longing for it. As I held tight to the end of yards upon yards of the light white filament that held the kite tethered to this place. With the wind tousling my hair, I looked around at the neighborhood children racing up and down, up and down the little street on scooters and bicycles and rollerskates. I breathed deep and then let the end of the string come loose the kite taking off for locales unknown.

“Mama! Oh no Mama, catch it, catch it!” Her eyes wide.

“I’m sorry baby it’s gone.”

“But where did is it going?”

“Its going to find something. We’ll get you another one no worries. Now go play.” Sigh. Freedom.

snoring

2009-09-05T20:38:00.002-05:00

She stood in the dark hallway clutching her little lamb. Her eyes wide open, nightgown falling just below her little knees. She wanted to go on down the hall and in to find her mama but she could not. She stood frozen to the spot hoping that it would not see her. She fingered the little silk blanket close to her chest and wondered if she should go back to her room. She stared down the hall. She wanted to call for her mama but she was so very afraid. What if it heard her and came running to eat her? She just didn’t know what to do so she stood there, crying softly and hoping the rumbling lion would quit making all that noise down the hall where Mama and Papa slept so she could get into bed with them.

betrayed

2009-03-10T22:44:00.004-05:00

Just for one moment, late in the night I hear it.
A silent whisper
louder than any sound in the room or outside my window,
pulling at my heart strings,
tearing down the gossamer walls of self control that I think will stop this yearning.
It comes again unbidden
and though I attempt to ignore it
My whole being strains for this one thing
that speaks to my heart
aching to hear it calling me again.
Bound tight to convention and responsibility I close my eyes tight.
Betrayed by the one tear that escapes and slips silently down my cheek.

I told you

2008-12-03T18:28:00.001-06:00

“Where’ve you been? I told you,” she said. “I needed you here.”
“I’m sorry I don’t remember you telling me.”
She sighed.
“You’re late you were supposed to have been here hours ago.” she said. “I told you.”
“Sorry, I got busy and didn’t realize how late it was.”
She shakes her head.
“Hello? Are you coming home soon? I told you I needed you here.” She said.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
She sighed as she hung up the phone..
“Don’t you understand? You’re missing everything. I need you here.” She looked at him hoping for something in his eyes, or face but there was only resignation.
“I’m sorry. What do you want from me? I’m doing the best I can.”
Days passed, then weeks, and months, the silence grew higher and the walls got thicker, the air colder.
He awoke one morning alone, the reality settling in and then, finally, he understood.

i know its been a while .... but i couldn't resist this prompt

2008-11-25T09:39:00.001-06:00

Ever since the Giant Pike Accident, he keeps his mouth shut when swimming. Alone in the night, lips twitching, he can still feel the fish flap deep inside. Searching.

He’d heard the stories about changelings. He was certain that the man next door was one. How else could you explain the wolf tracks that could be seen in wet mud or snow leading up to the yard? As a little boy the thought bred fear in him. If he had to walk past the house he would often cross the street and then cross back. Or he would run like all the banshees of hell were chasing him past the house and then out of breath he would slow down to a fast walk glancing back over his shoulder nervously
As he got older the fear turned into a tingly kind of intrigue. He would watch from his window late at night trying to get a glimpse of the man/wolf emerging from the house. The large tree outside his window, and the bushes in front of the back door blocked his view. He thought he almost saw something several times but he couldn’t be sure.
Finally, one fateful moonless night he decided to sit near the trees and watch. He waited for hours, the night cold as it was late November. Silently the door opened and for a moment Mr. O’Malley could be seen. In an instant he was gone and a large grey wolf slipped out of the door. Denny gasped to see it. The wolf’s head shot up at the sound and headed in Denny’s direction. He ran through the wood. He could hear the wolf coming quickly behind him. His foot slipped and he began to fall at first into nothingness and then with a splash he fell into Jackolear Lake. His mouth wide open in a scream. Denny gasped and water filled his throat and lungs. Suddenly he found himself turned into a giant pike.

from today's prompt

2008-11-18T09:40:00.001-06:00

I had been persuaded and dissuaded so many times I was starting to feel like a yoyo. Should I go? Should I stay? It hadn’t seemed like such a big deal at the time. Quietly I had gone to the post office and filled out the forms, had my picture taken and spent the next three weeks rushing to the mailbox to see if it had arrived. After the arrival of the little blue book that practically screamed “Portal to Adventure” it was simply a matter of choosing where and when.
I spent the next three weeks investigating this place and that, spinning the globe and sticking my finger on it. Often I would land on some island in the south Pacific – although not totally random. The trouble started when I began to tell people of my plans to travel. Suddenly every horror story, every fear and so many what ifs that the whole process came to an alarming halt. What about disease, or terrorists, or those sorts of men who prey on women who travel alone?
There’s a part of me that longs for excitement and adventure. There’s a part of me that is scared to death of the whole thing. I’ve thought about shelving my plans but there’s part of me that fears a boring life where you slip and die in the bathtub and never get to enjoy anything anywhere because of being afraid of the what ifs.
My bag is packed. My passport is in my purse. The taxi is outside. I’m ready to go. Where, I don’t know. The plan is to go to the airport, walk up to an international ticket counter and find the next available flight to somewhere.
“Are you sure this is what you really want to do?” My mother asks.

sometimes 300 words is just not enough

2008-11-13T22:50:00.001-06:00

This direction or that, I could not decide. The main road looked promising with its wide open spaces and winding ways. I can see for quite a distance and there seemed to be little danger of being waylaid by mishaps, or robbers or wild beasts. The Kingsway, you can almost see the castle from here. I was certain we would arrive by midafternoon
But, as I turn in the other direction I can just barely hear the sound of a lute playing somewhere in the shadows of the tall trees. As I look further down the wooded path I can see a deer step out onto the path. Surely if there was danger lurking there she would not be wandering so openly. There is a river further down this way I’m told, amidst tall ferns, and there is a tale of a shallow place with a golden beach where the waters are warm and healing.
That is the great draw for me. As a small child I had fallen from the parapet of my uncle’s manor and had been badly injured. The trip from my home to this place was long and painful. It had taken more than two days to get here. I would have never come had it not been a summons from her majesty. But now I debated whether to go straight to the palace or take this short detour. It would surely take no more than an extra hour or two and I could perhaps be healed from this pain forever but the letter commanded that I come to the palace as quickly as possible.
“Mistress, shall we continue to the palace.” The driver was hot and dusty from the journey. I knew that he would benefit from a little rest in the shade as well.

not as consistent as I'd like to be but here's one for today

2008-11-12T09:03:00.001-06:00

She could smell a hint of cinnamon in the air as she stood gazing up at the sky. The wind rustling through the trees made the silk move softly against her skin. Oh to live in a place like this forever, where possibility was everywhere. Where today was not confined by the mistakes of yesterday, or held captive by the demands of tomorrow. To just be, to just remain in a place of complete peace and contentment, but she let those thoughts go so they would not spoil this moment.
She moved softly along the path. Barefooted she could feel the warmth of the ground. In the distance she heard the calling of peacocks, and various other birds. Coming to the garden she could smell the jasmine and the honeysuckle and the fragrance of the traditional roses. There were dahlias and lilies as well. The air was alive with butterflies. She made her way through to the furthest part of the garden where she came upon a fork in the road. Looking east she saw that the path would lead to a lovely gazebo overlooking the well manicured lawns. Looking west was the more inviting way. She could see the arbor and beyond shade of the tall trees.
She made her decision and walked onwards toward the trees that seemed to be urging her forward. The path widened as she went and in the distance she could her the low roar of the river. She glanced behind her to see if anyone was following her but they were unaware of her escape. Could this be really happening or was it only a dream?
“Lovely, isn’t it?” He smiled at her. Coming closer, softly, gently he said, “Come with me. Hop on this elephant and we can go away from here.”

and yet another

2008-11-10T20:22:00.001-06:00

He arrived, unaware of the lipstick on his collar. She saw. Her green eyes flashed. Her icy stare giving him a hint of the jealous silence he was to endure.

day 10

2008-11-10T07:06:00.001-06:00

the best layed plans ... been out of the loop just a bit - but hopefully i'm back in the message game

day 10

She hadn’t expected these sorts of memories to come flooding in but she shouldn’t have been surprised. As the rain fell she remembered the spring that they had planted so many radishes. They grew in 3 weeks almost too long for the patience of a 4 year old. Mother had made radishes a hundred different ways that year. That had been the year that Elsa had first fallen in love with gardening.
As the low hanging clouds made her think of the autumn of her 18th year when she had first fallen in love. The smell of the earth in the apple orchard, laying under the trees, on a wool blanket and looking up at the harvest moon hoping that the winter would never come.
She remembered another fall as well. The year her dad came down with cancer. She had planted 300 daffodils in the yard. Believing that just the expectation of them blooming in the spring just might keep him alive longer than the doctor’s had predicted. She had been right too, they had said he wouldn’t last the winter but it wasn’t until the middle of April he had passed. The last daffodil had died and two days later he had gone.
The smell of jasmine floated in the breeze. The singing was almost over. People had stood waiting in the rain and she knew it was her turn. She stepped forward and then she bent down, reaching into the pocket of her long raincoat. She pulled out a small trowel and scooped up a small amount of dirt. This should have been the spring of radishes. She placed the dirt on the tiny coffin. Tears falling down her face, she would never have imagined that she would be planting her four year old in the ground.

day 5

2008-11-05T07:09:00.001-06:00

go here for today's prompt

“We need to talk,” he said.
“’kay,” she answered, never looking up, tapping her pencil.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m trying to finish this.”
“Me too,” he sighed.

day four

2008-11-04T07:01:00.001-06:00

follow this link for today's prompt and other writings ...

Things that matter, so different than what she had imagined. Mourning the time lost on things of little consequence. She dials a wrong number looking for right answers, yet again.

day three

2008-11-03T21:10:00.001-06:00

follow this link to today's prompt and other writings for today!

Hanging in her closet was the most amazingly beautiful red dress. She had shopped for weeks to find it. She had determined that she would wear only red to the wedding. It would show off the auburn lights in her hair.
She had hunted for the right jewelry. Diamond earrings hanging against the place on her neck that he had loved to kiss. A necklace that fell just between her breasts.
Finally the shoes, beautiful red stilettos, she loved those shoes. She knew that by the end of the evening she’d be suffering but it would all be worth it.
It would most certainly be worth it if he would look at her and see that she was completely put together. That she had gotten over him and had moved on with her life. She didn’t want there to be any doubt in his mind. She didn’t need him and she didn’t want him to think that she lay awake night after night missing his touch, longing for the sound of his voice in her ears. Surely he would see that she was completely recovered and didn’t spend every gray afternoon walking about the apartment in one of his old sweaters pretending he would appear at any moment.
She’d spent hours on her makeup and hair. The dress fit perfectly. The jewelry was perfect. All she needed was the shoes. She reached into the bag but there was only one. Where could the other one be? She frantically searched the apartment. Thinking back she vaguely recalled losing her balance on the train, she hadn’t been aware of the shoe falling out of her shopping bag. In the end she hung up the dress, put away the jewelry and spent the evening roaming the apartment in on of his old sweaters.

day two!

2008-11-02T10:53:00.003-06:00

follow this link for today's prompt and other writings at Your Messages!
Howling, haunting hissing sounds. How could this have happened to them? Whispering, weeping, wailing. What will finally bring an end to this misery? She checks his room again. Still gone.

Hurray its November!!! Time for Your Message!!

2008-11-01T20:44:00.003-05:00

I participated last year and had the most wonderful time (not to mention it all leading to my fabulous trip to london!!!)

To see today's prompt and read some of the others go here:

Here's mine:

The danger was there, real not imagined. She had been swimming since she was kneehigh to a tadpole. She’d heard tales about them but there was never any sign that the dangerous manfish lurked in these waters. Truth be told, as a young girl the manfish stories had seemed even less real than those of the mermaids, and sea monsters, but leaving childish things behind the story of the manfish grew more real.
She sat on the shore watching the waves rolling in. It was the summer of her 17th year. She had come almost every single day to play on the beach with her girlfriends. Together they would wander down the beach in a pack laughing a bit too loudly as they neared the boys playing beach volleyball. Pretending to be indifferent to the catcalls from the surfer dudes that they passed.
She believed she might still be resistant to the manfish, none of the other girls in her group had succumbed. Of course, not one of them had entered the water, not all summer. Oh sure, they had walked along the edge, even wandered in up to their knees but no further. Pretending they were disinterested in getting wet. But today was different. It was 102 in the shade, too hot to sit and bake on the sand.
Making her way down to the water, glancing up and down seeing nothing but the children playing on their boogie boards, older men and women bobbing up and down in the water and the surfers off in the distance, she felt she was safe enough and ran on in.
She dove below a rising wave and came up on the otherside. He was there of course, looking harmless but she knew he was about to drag her into dangerous waters.

finding our way...

2008-10-13T15:06:00.005-05:00

All the signs point north, so we steadfastly trod south. Wondering why we can’t find our way in the desert, over the mountain and through the forests. The lights are all red but we prcoeed with out caution and wonder why we end up damaged. Don’t cross here, one way only, do not enter and we press on crossing where we shouldn’t, entering where we mustn’t always going the wrong way. It amazing that we find a place to rest at all, as we continue to wander completely in the wrong direction.
I wonder, sometimes, if that is why God made the world round. So perhaps then, eventually, going in the wrong direction we end up where we should have been, where we could have been, where we need to be.

another time, another place

2008-10-11T22:26:00.003-05:00

White sands,
Whispering breeze,
Rolling surf,
Pale moon,
Shimmering water,
Hot night.

Starry sky
Blazing fire
Hot coffee,
Flowing stream
Windy night
Waving branches.

Candlelit room.
Ceiling fan,
Down comforter,
Deep pillows,
Brandy glasses,
Soft music.

A Romance

2008-10-08T17:11:00.000-05:00

Encountered
Interested
Introduced
Intrigued
Enchanted
Enamored
Coveted
Cuddled
Caressed
Loved
Engaged
Wed
Honeymooned
Held

I'm hoping so

2008-10-07T13:25:00.004-05:00

What is real?
Is it this place my body occupies?
That place I dream of?
My memories of what we have shared?
My nightmares of losing my way?
Is what we have real?
The whispers in the wind,
The wanderings in the fog,
The tears in the night?
Will it disappear with the dawn?
Fade in the light of day?
Overtaken by the pressures of life?
My daydreams of another time and place,
Are they just my imagination?
Or is there a place somewhere that is more real than here,
More real than now,
More real than all the realities of this time and space?
I’m hoping so.

The reunion

2008-10-02T11:15:00.000-05:00

“Hurry! Hurry! We’re going to be late! I told you this was going to happen. Hurry!” He’s got his coat on, looking at his watch. “Are you ready?”
“I’m coming as fast as I can.” She walks into the room, one shoe in her hand. “Do you think I look okay in this sweater or should I wear the red one?”
He shakes his head, “This one is just fine. We really don’t have time, hurry.”
“Just fine? That’s it just fine, I should probably wear the red one then. I don’t want to look just fine. I want to look beautiful, sexy, fabulous.” She walks back into the bedroom.
He tries to calm himself. He follows her into the bedroom. “You look beautiful, sexy, fabulous no matter what you are wearing or not wearing.” He notes the pile of clothes on the bed and on the floor. “I don’t know why you are making such a fuss about this.”
She comes out of the closet in her panties and her bra, no longer wearing either the sweater nor the skirt that she had on previously. “How about this one?” She holds up a pale blue sweater.
“That one would be fabulous dear.” He picks up a pair of black slacks from the floor, deliberately calming himself. “I think you should wear it with these pants.” He glances at his watch casually but she catches the look.
“Why are you rushing me? Don’t you want me to look beautiful? Are you in such a hurry to get to see all those girls again?” There is an edge of panic in her voice.
“They are not girls, they are grown women. After 20 years they are probably fat and ugly, but no matter, even if they looked like they did when I was in high school, you would outshine them all” He kisses her, slowly, softly, then a little more passionately. “We don’t have to go, we could stay here.” She laughs then.
“No, I’ll be right out. I would hate for you to miss the reunion.” She pushes him away.
He walks out of the room. A few minutes later he calls to her from the front door. “Are you ready? Can you please hurry! We’re going to be late!”

Hiding in plain sight

2008-10-02T10:22:00.002-05:00

“How are you?” he asks. Looking at her gently, knowing the answer even before she says it.
“I’m fine,” she replies. She looks right at him, trying to appear perfectly calm, her eyes dark, revealing nothing.
“You’re sure?” he asks.
“Of course I am,” she answers, laughing lightly as if to lend credence to the lie.
“Alright then, if you’re ok I’ll go. I’ll stay if you want me to,” but he’s already reaching for the door knob. Then he stops and looks back, uncertain whether to believe her.
She smiles and waves him away. As the door closes she begins to cry. She’s gotten so good at hiding in plain sight that he doesn’t see or hear. He doesn’t know. She looks out the window and watches him leave, already on his cell phone, already somewhere else, even before he’s completely gone.
She walks to the bedroom reaches into the closet for her suitcase. There is no point in staying. She’s become so well hidden that whether she stays or goes is inconsequential. She picks up her keys. Takes one more look around. Pulling out of the driveway and heading to the mountains she wonders if there is a place she can go to where she won’t need to hide anymore.

Sarah's prompt: White Rabbits

2008-10-01T22:25:00.002-05:00

Easter comes and with it all the baby chicks, ducklings and white baby bunnies. But of course Easter goes and the baby chicks turn into ugly scraggly not quite yet chickens, the ducklings become loud, smelly and annoying and the cute little bunnies turn into white rabbits that get into Mother’s garden and eat the early lettuce.
I remember chasing them about, my brother and sister laughing until their sides ached and they could no longer stand, so they would fall to the ground giggling. . All the while Mother was yelling “Catch it, Robert! Catch it!” But I couldn’t because the white rabbits were too quick. We would all go indoors then for some sandwiches, without lettuce, of course. Delicious sandwiches with hot, fresh bread, and thinly sliced luncheon meat, hefty pieces of cheese and tall glasses of milk. I miss those days.
I miss who we were then, young and innocent. Mother, always laughing and smiling with us. The little house at the edge of Collier Valley always warm and welcoming. We didn’t know than that life could be hard. We didn’t know that the days would be long.
We just lived and loved and laughed while chasing white rabbits.

The smallest of choices

2008-10-01T05:31:00.000-05:00

There is a sound off in the distance. A whistling, to be more precise, and he can’t tell if its coming from the wind or the teakettle. It stops abruptly and then a little more clearly the sound of the hot water being poured into a cup. Then he hears the sound of her bare feet on the tile floor in the kitchen. He hears her open the door to the refrigerator.
He wonders if this is what it will be like now for the rest of his life, listening to her moving about, living her life while he lies in this bed. God he hopes not. He has been like this forever, or has it really only been three days. Funny how the smallest of choices can affect the rest of your life.
“Darling, here’s your tea.” He sits up and she straightens the pillow trying to make him more comfortable. Then he feels her soft hands take his hand and put it around the warm mug. “The appointment is at 11:30.” She says calmly, too calmly.. He can hear the panic lying just below the surface, takes a sip of his tea so he doesn’t have to respond.. “Your dad is coming over to take us. They’ve arrested that man for driving under the influence.”
He says nothing. Too many thoughts and he knows that if he speaks all the emotions that he’s tried to keep pent up so she wouldn’t see them will come tumbling out. He feels the weight of her on the bed. The smell of her freshly washed hair, her gentle kiss on his cheek and she lays her head on his chest.
“Jimmy, its going to be alright, my love.” She whispers. “It will be. It just has to be.” Then she takes the cup from his hands and reaching across him places it on the bedside table. He barely moves and then she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him to her. Holding him against her, she begins to gently run her fingers through his hair. The tears begin to flow from both their eyes. “They’ll take the bandages off and you’ll be fine. You’ll be able to see just fine.”
He’d like to believe her, but fear grips him. He wants to reassure her. But all he can think about is that he should have crossed at 13th Street instead of cutting across at Grand. He’d only done it because he had smelled the fresh bagels as he had made his way up the street. The smallest of choices.

Escape

2008-09-30T08:20:00.002-05:00

Hidden beneath the rubble was a trap door. Where it would lead was anyone’s guess, but one thing was certain she couldn’t stay here. The air had become stale and smelling strongly of sulfur. She could hear off in the distance but coming ever nearer the sound of disaster. The ground shook again, harder this time and she knew that the dragon had made its way through the further corridors and would soon be upon her.
She pushed the chunks of stone from the ceiling and walls off the door. She tried to pull it up, using every bit of her strength. But it was stuck or locked from the other side. She stomped and kicked at it, the tears beginning to roll down her face in frustration. She laid her head down on the cool stone floor and began to weep in despair.
There came again the sound of the dragon, closer now. She looked up. She could not stay here. The only other way of escape was back into the corridors but that was not an option. She began to look in desperation around the room, looking for something, anything she could use to pry the door open.
As she turned around she saw him. She knew she shouldn’t even look at him. The gnome had lead her down so many paths before that had left her in danger. He put his finger to his lips. He pointed to the other wall and as she turned she saw a door that she was certain had not been there before. When she turned back to question him, he had disappeared.
She ran to the door and pulled on the handle, it began to open easily, too easily she thought, slamming it closed. No, the trapdoor was the way out and she had to find something to open it with. As she began to search through the rubble she came across a long piece of metal. She ran back to the trapdoor and jammed the metal along the edge of the door. Apply all her weight against it, she felt it give and then she was on the floor. A little sorer perhaps but the door had come open.
The ground had begun to shudder and she knew the dragon was running now. She looked down into the space where the trapdoor had been. It was pitch black, nothing was visible and for a moment she paused but there was no time to waste, she could hear a sound coming from just beyond the door and she knew that if it wasn’t the dragon it was certainly danger. She eased herself down into the hole, nothing to hold onto, nothing to support her weight. She knew there was no other option. She reached up and grabbed the trapdoor, slamming it closed behind her and then she was falling, falling deep into the darkness. Hoping, praying that this was the right way to go.

Chase Your Dreams Again

2008-09-27T10:02:00.003-05:00

Get up!
Can’t you hear it?
Far off in the distance, yet near to your heart
Rise up and rush to the mountain where the river flows!
The winter rains have begun but the sun still shines on the mountain.
Hurry!
He’s kept the light burning in the window,
Night after night
Hoping for your return
He keeps walking to the edge of the valley calling you home.
Come back to the place of endless possibilities.
Choose to come back!
There is a place for you here.
You have been sorely missed.
Come back to the place your heart has yearned for
Even in your wanderings,
Though there was pleasure in that far away place.
Your dreams are here.
What you were made for is here,
Go beyond the fence,
Past the forest,
Beyond the desert place
There are endless possibilities of what can be
Today and yes even for someday.
Arise and return.

The Silence

2008-09-16T07:53:00.003-05:00

She lays there, pretending to sleep, facing the wall. He gets up and moves quietly from the room. Closing her eyes she imagines herself somewhere else but it only lasts a moment. He’s back and opening and closing drawers. She hears him as he’s brushing his teeth. How did it get like this?
She gets up and makes coffee. He comes in and turns on the TV and watches the news as he puts on his shoes. She wipes the counter, takes the bag out of the trash can, leans it up against the wall in the hall. He lets the dog out, watches a bit more TV, and lets the dog in. How did it get like this?
He walks over and puts some trash in the bag, picks up his wallet and his papers, puts his pen in his pocket. She pours the coffee, goes to the refrigerator and gets the cream, adds some sugar. He walks over and gives her a quick kiss, murmurs goodbye, walks past the trash and out the front door. How did it get like this?
The spaces, the long empty spaces, that have taken over her life, their lives. No laughter, no sharing, no fun, any words are angry words, sullen words, and heavy sighs. How, how, how did it get like this?

The Hurricane

2008-09-13T08:49:00.001-05:00

The sky grew dark with the approaching storm and the wind whistled through the windows, the sound eerie and mournful. They had told her to leave. The weather that was headed her way would certainly destroy the little house. The creek that ran along the back of the property had already begun to rise as night began to fall. Her neighbors had stopped as they headed for higher ground. Every one of them, asking, pleading really with her to come with them. But they had left alone.
She watched the sky darken, as she fixed herself a cup of tea. She wasn’t frightened, although others thought she should be. The cat came in winding his way around her ankles. She took her cup over to the chair in the living room and turned on the television. Fifteen minutes later the lights went out. She reached over to the end table and turned on the flash light.
She shuffled her way back into the kitchen and washed the cup; drying it and putting it back up into the cupboard. She brought the kitchen lighter into the bedroom and lit the candles on her nightstand. She smiled softly as the candlelight flickered in the picture of a young soldier taken 52 years ago.
“Oh Henry, I’ve missed you so much these past two months. I can’t wait to see you again, my darling.” She finished getting ready for bed. The room was filled with the scent of the tea rose lotion he had bought her for her birthday last year, and every year before it for so long. She sat at the end of the bed and undid her braid, her long silver hair falling well past her waist. As she began her 100 strokes she could hear the rain banging angrily against the tin roof, pounding against it in waves.
She looked over at his pillow while she brushed her hair. Stopping for a moment, she softly reached for it, closed her eyes and sighed. Two months she had slept alone, after 47 years. She went back to brushing her hair, the cat purring at her feet.
Finished she placed the brush down on the bedside table. She blew out the candle and lay down in her bed. One more night alone and then she would see her Henry again.
As the rain continued to batter the little house, the wind knocking down trees, and the water rising all around, she slept peacefully until he came for her. She felt him before she saw him. The shadow becoming clearer and his little impish grin shining down on her.
“Come along Lucille its time to go.” Then he bent down and kissed her. He took her hand and they wandered off to a place where they could be together again, the cat coming a little ways behind them.

fall

2008-09-08T09:42:00.004-05:00

Autumn is near. I can sense it. Not quite but almost, though the days are still sunny and hot, its there. I am anticipating the morning that I will awaken to find the sharp crisp something in the air telling me that fall has arrived. There will be the scent of something almost magical that brings to mind high school football games, long nights in front of a bonfire and strolling through the fallen leaves hearing them crackle beneath my feet.
The trees will be ablaze with reds, yellows and oranges, of every shade and they will float gently down, dancing in the breeze, to land amidst their brothers making a patchwork carpet on the lawn. The ground will be covered with acorns and walnuts, the birds can be heard fighting over them in the backyard. The water in the streams will become cold and fresh and sparkle in the late afternoon sunlight .
Amidst it all are the memories of long ago romances, hands held, kisses under the trees and the promises of a future full of all things wonderful.
Soon it will all fade to winter, cold rains, bitter winds and greys, blacks and whites all around but for now there is hope and promise that the heart remembers and longs for once again.

anon

2008-08-25T09:01:00.002-05:00

Things left undone.
Like the winding of the clock, or
The latching of the gate, or
The sweeping of the cobwebs from the corners of the patio covering,
Like the changing of the bulbs, or
The words unspoken, or
The attention not paid,
Until finally,
When they had run out of time
She slipped out of the gate.
Leaving behind the silence, and
The sadness,
The dust, and
The darkness
And simply disappeared.