49 (Sept 21)
Write about being wrong. Is it easy for you to say "I am sorry, I was wrong"? Is it something you do or try to avoid doing? Write about someone else being wrong, or about your character being wrong. For the link to Rise and Write click Here.
I was so wrong and I knew it. The minutes the word's came out of my mouth, I knew it was mean and cruel. "Stay out of my life!" These were the last words I said to him, as he walked away. I could not take them back, and went on about my night and the next day. Weeks passed, and I never made that phone call, never asked about him at all. Months passed, and then it was over a year. I had moved on, met someone else. Years later and I saw him at the same New Year's eve party. I was now newly married, happy starting a life with someone else. He had a date, with though, I learned nothing serious. We exchanged polite hello's, nothing more. My husband looked at him a little suspiciously, out only for a second, confident in our own relationship. A decade went by, and we were at a reunion. Both of us were without our spouses. Both of us, me more than him, had more than our share of the beer included with our reunion ticket. We talked.
Suddenly, it all came out. I finally apologized. I didn't apologize for us breaking up. I didn't apologize that I met and married someone else, I apologized for cutting him out in such a cruel an immature way, more than just that final blowup. It was so evident that we were not in the same place mentally and emotionally. It was evident that we wanted other things in life at that time. My way of handling it had been passive aggressive for months on end, until finally, I cut the cord with those five words. He laughed at me a bit, but also said he understood. He too knew we were not the right long term fit, and that he was just prolonging the inevitable, but showing up in the middle of the night that last time was a last effort to see if things could be salvaged. We both wish we could turn back the clock thirteen years and have the heart to heart we should have had at the time. While we can't do that, we can move forward. Our wounds have heeled, and we can see each other, our spouses, our children, and not feel that pain of the past lingering over our heads.
Sunday, September 20, 2015
Laugh Lines
48 (Sept 20)
Write about wrinkles - yours or on someone's face, or maybe your character's. What stories wrinkles can tell?
OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share. Out of the Writers Closet Rise and Write is an on line writing community hosted by the talented Natalia Lialina. Visit to learn ore and join in It has been incredibly fun and a great learning experience. I''m continuing to work on my short story, or potentially building it out to a book. Here was the last excerpt:
Kara studied her face in the mirror in the hospital bathroom. Not to be for her age. Even with the years she spent in the summer sun, she was adamant about sunscreen well before anyone was preaching the gospel of it. She also liked to read outside, so found that a shaded reading spot, thanks to the benefits of a beach umbrella, didn't give her headaches lie the sunshine, so she could experience the best of all summer worlds. heat, sun, and endless days for reading.The only signs of wrinkles were a single crease when she looked sternly at her face, furrowing her brows, and a touch as she smiled-laugh lines. Her own mother looked older than her years all the while Kara was growing up, though she never thought so herself. She held onto her youth, wearing swimming suits in the summer meant for younger women, and .was more apt to buy her clothes at the Gap than at Chico's. Kara laughed in her head at that, as it wasn't entirely true, but her mother was always quick to jump on the clothing trend, even now as the grandmother of grown and near grown grand children. Even this morning, as Kara was frantically trying to help get her mother dressed, her mother insisted on wearing one of her new long maxi skirts, very impractical for a woman with balance issues and prone to tripping.
Kara didn't try to argue. Her mom being insistent on what she would wear was a sign that her mom was still her mom inside. She was stubborn, and inappropriately dressed, as Kara had always thought of her mother, and in that she was comforted. There had been many times in the week that Kara was shocked at how quickly the memory loss and the personality changes were coming on.One day she was insisting on waiting for their father to join them for lunch, even though her had been dead for nearly a year. When Allison came with groceries, her mother through a fit about the strange lady in the kitchen stealing food from her cupboard. She hadn't recognized her daughter in law, and thought she was taking groceries out, not putting groceries away.
There had been rough nights as well with the heart disease. Fluid was continuing to build up, and the discomfort her mother felt was painful and confusing. In her moments of clarity, she talked with both Kara and her brother about her wishes for when she passed. When she was struggling with memories, she cried for her own mother to help make the pain go away. It was heart wrenching to watch, and Kara though particularly cruel to have her mothers body and mind being attacked so viciously at the same time. Kara didn't know if it was wrong or not, but she prayed for relief, prayed for her mother's suffering to end.
When Kara went back to her mother's room,she was now in a hospital gown, her skirt and top folded and placed in a plastic patients bag.. Kara went over to her mother and squeezed her had. "alright mom?" she said, with a small smile."You look pretty comfy in that fancy gown." Her mother laughed a little bit, through a grimace of pain. "I don't understand why they can't make these things look a little better I feel like an old woman." She laughed then, and KAra could see her mom's laugh lines, and suddenly, she looked younger, more vulnerable than Kara had remembered her.
Write about wrinkles - yours or on someone's face, or maybe your character's. What stories wrinkles can tell?
OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share. Out of the Writers Closet Rise and Write is an on line writing community hosted by the talented Natalia Lialina. Visit to learn ore and join in It has been incredibly fun and a great learning experience. I''m continuing to work on my short story, or potentially building it out to a book. Here was the last excerpt:
Kara studied her face in the mirror in the hospital bathroom. Not to be for her age. Even with the years she spent in the summer sun, she was adamant about sunscreen well before anyone was preaching the gospel of it. She also liked to read outside, so found that a shaded reading spot, thanks to the benefits of a beach umbrella, didn't give her headaches lie the sunshine, so she could experience the best of all summer worlds. heat, sun, and endless days for reading.The only signs of wrinkles were a single crease when she looked sternly at her face, furrowing her brows, and a touch as she smiled-laugh lines. Her own mother looked older than her years all the while Kara was growing up, though she never thought so herself. She held onto her youth, wearing swimming suits in the summer meant for younger women, and .was more apt to buy her clothes at the Gap than at Chico's. Kara laughed in her head at that, as it wasn't entirely true, but her mother was always quick to jump on the clothing trend, even now as the grandmother of grown and near grown grand children. Even this morning, as Kara was frantically trying to help get her mother dressed, her mother insisted on wearing one of her new long maxi skirts, very impractical for a woman with balance issues and prone to tripping.
Kara didn't try to argue. Her mom being insistent on what she would wear was a sign that her mom was still her mom inside. She was stubborn, and inappropriately dressed, as Kara had always thought of her mother, and in that she was comforted. There had been many times in the week that Kara was shocked at how quickly the memory loss and the personality changes were coming on.One day she was insisting on waiting for their father to join them for lunch, even though her had been dead for nearly a year. When Allison came with groceries, her mother through a fit about the strange lady in the kitchen stealing food from her cupboard. She hadn't recognized her daughter in law, and thought she was taking groceries out, not putting groceries away.
There had been rough nights as well with the heart disease. Fluid was continuing to build up, and the discomfort her mother felt was painful and confusing. In her moments of clarity, she talked with both Kara and her brother about her wishes for when she passed. When she was struggling with memories, she cried for her own mother to help make the pain go away. It was heart wrenching to watch, and Kara though particularly cruel to have her mothers body and mind being attacked so viciously at the same time. Kara didn't know if it was wrong or not, but she prayed for relief, prayed for her mother's suffering to end.
When Kara went back to her mother's room,she was now in a hospital gown, her skirt and top folded and placed in a plastic patients bag.. Kara went over to her mother and squeezed her had. "alright mom?" she said, with a small smile."You look pretty comfy in that fancy gown." Her mother laughed a little bit, through a grimace of pain. "I don't understand why they can't make these things look a little better I feel like an old woman." She laughed then, and KAra could see her mom's laugh lines, and suddenly, she looked younger, more vulnerable than Kara had remembered her.
Friday, September 18, 2015
Cinderella-NOT!
I had a much needed break from writing daily prompts, or much of any blogging. My last two blog posts on my other site were a bit naggy then preachy. I knew the change in fall and school routine was catching up. I am back now, and hope to have a good bubble or to of thought. Rather than catch up with the prompts I missed, I'll pick up with today, day 46 (Sept 18) prompt. For more, visit Out of the Writers Closet Rise and Link page.,Write about housework chores, such as vacuum cleaning or mowing the grass. Who did it in your childhood home? When you were introduced to this work first? Is it something you enjoyed doing or tried to avoid at any coast?
I am not a fan of housework of any kind. In fact, the main thing I like about staying in hotels is that someone else does the housework. It is not that I a lazy, it is that it just seems to be a never ending chore, and no matter how much we say we are going to stay neat and tidy after a major house overhaul, within two weeks, (despite doing the daily maintenance) the housework piles up. To be honest, this is probably rooted form childhood. I don't ever remember not being part of the house cleaning crew. My own bedroom might have remained a mess, but the "public places" were always cleaned weekly, top to bottom, by my sisters and I. Granted, my mom worked a full time job, and did a lot o car hauling us around, so doing our share should not have been a burden. I remember it hen though as well. The house would be clean, and then the next moment, not.
The single most chore I hate more than any other has to be scrubbing the floors. Scrubbing the floor screams Cinderella to me. I hate the smell of the cleaning fluid in the water. I hate the tip toeing around the wet floor afterwards until it dries. I really hate when it is clean, and then that first sticky mess gets made, and it is as if it had not been cleaned at all. I never hear any chirping birds or cute little rodents singing me songs of motivation. I just seem to find dirt in the crevices between floor and baseboard, so inevitably, I am on my hands and knees as the mop won't really reach those spots.
I like a nice clean home, but I so rarely have one. I cam home yesterday for work, and the first rooms you walk into had bin spiffed up. I have my husband to thank for that. When I walked around the corner to the kitchen, unfortunately, The floor was as I had left it when I left for work. I will not be able to put it off any longer, so scrubbing the kitchen floor just rose to the top of my weekend plan.
I am not a fan of housework of any kind. In fact, the main thing I like about staying in hotels is that someone else does the housework. It is not that I a lazy, it is that it just seems to be a never ending chore, and no matter how much we say we are going to stay neat and tidy after a major house overhaul, within two weeks, (despite doing the daily maintenance) the housework piles up. To be honest, this is probably rooted form childhood. I don't ever remember not being part of the house cleaning crew. My own bedroom might have remained a mess, but the "public places" were always cleaned weekly, top to bottom, by my sisters and I. Granted, my mom worked a full time job, and did a lot o car hauling us around, so doing our share should not have been a burden. I remember it hen though as well. The house would be clean, and then the next moment, not.
The single most chore I hate more than any other has to be scrubbing the floors. Scrubbing the floor screams Cinderella to me. I hate the smell of the cleaning fluid in the water. I hate the tip toeing around the wet floor afterwards until it dries. I really hate when it is clean, and then that first sticky mess gets made, and it is as if it had not been cleaned at all. I never hear any chirping birds or cute little rodents singing me songs of motivation. I just seem to find dirt in the crevices between floor and baseboard, so inevitably, I am on my hands and knees as the mop won't really reach those spots.
I like a nice clean home, but I so rarely have one. I cam home yesterday for work, and the first rooms you walk into had bin spiffed up. I have my husband to thank for that. When I walked around the corner to the kitchen, unfortunately, The floor was as I had left it when I left for work. I will not be able to put it off any longer, so scrubbing the kitchen floor just rose to the top of my weekend plan.
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
Just a Note-On a Little Writing Break
The start of the school year, a research project and launch of a new competitive grant at work, and the absolutely wonderful second summer weather has kept me off the computer and to in a mind set for anything creative. I will revisit Natalia's prompts shortly, once I get caught up with the new routines in my house and develop a normal sleep patter. In the meantime, check out Rise and Write at Out of the Writers Closet for those that are still going strong!
Friday, September 11, 2015
We're talking Baseball
37
Write about a stadium – either a real one from your
childhood, or the one next to your home now, or a grand one you once visited,
or write how you’ve never even been to a stadium. We'll give poetry a try. I don't technically use a stadium, but rather a major league ball park, but I hope you can picture a wonderful stadium/ball park on a perfect summer night. Rise and Write
The starting line-up
boys of summer take the field
pumping fists in gloves.
Batter one to the plate'
catcher signals his pitcher.
The pitcher nods yes.
Batter licks his lips
he clenches the bat tighter
the ball sails, strike one
Batter is ready;
he knows the ball his bat wants.
He waits patiently.
The ball is released
It looks like a perfect pitch
he swings the bat hard
Crack! The ball takes flight
sailing over the infielders heads
Past third base it goes
Little boy with arms out
oversize glove on his hand
the ball lands softly
Memories for life
he falls asleep with his ball
on the long drive home.
Age is Just a Number
38 Write about the age you are now. How does it feel?
Better or worse than you expected? Rise and Link
I will turn 50 by the end of the year. Where did these years go? Both my parents and my in-laws were grandparents well before they turned 50, but I can't imagine that experience happening for many years. While I am reaching that milestone year, I am not bothered about it all in terms of age. I am dealing with chronic arthritis pain, but most days I just push forward and function the same way every elses does. I have more blessings that bothers in the big sense, and genuinely believe I have a good life. Over the last decades, as I have developed friendships with people both older and younger than me, I have learned not to have expectations about what life should or will be like at certain ages. For instance, my friend K, a confirmed bachelor for most of her life. She never met anyone in her younger years, though she had several proposals, that she wanted to build a life with. Then, about ten years ago she met J, a single parent of two grown children, and grandfather of three. K and J just celebrated their 7 anniversary, and K's 60th birthday. Life just is.
I don't aspire to be rich, but I realize that to do all the things I want to accomplish, all the things I want to experience with regularity, money is a necessity. To those ends, I get overwhelmed at times in prioritizing where to spend my money and where to spend my time. Fifty as an age is fine by me. Fifty as a marker that my life is probably more than half over, is a bit daunting. Yet, the saying Every Day is a Gift, is so true.
My Grandma
39
Write about your grandma. Was she a good cook? Did she
tell you stories of her life? Did she yell at you or spoil you rotten? Rise and Link
My Grandma
I am number nine of ten children in my family, my dad already 40 when I was born. He was also one of the younger children in his family. My mom only had one older sister, how had two children, decades older than me. This made me and my sisters on both sides of us, the youngest cousins on both sides. We actually grew up more with the children of our cousins. This is not unsimilar to how my youngest is, with thirty years between my oldest niece (just five years younger than me). My mom lost her mother before I was born, and my maternal grandfather died when I was just three, as did my paternal grandfather. I give this as background to share I only knew one grandparent, my dad's mom.
I am not sure when she moved, or probably was moved, from her rural home into an apartment in the town near where I grew up in the country. The apartment was a mother-in-law style apartment made form the attic of a two story house. That alone made this a fun pace to visit as you went up two flights of stairs to reach her cute little apartment. In hindsight, having a 70+ year old woman moving into a living space that required her to lug groceries, suitcases, or any other things up two flights was probably ridiculous, but she lived there at least past 80. Eventually she was moved into first an assisted living apartment, and then a nursing home before she passed away at 87.
My sisters and I would often spend Saturdays or school days off with our grandma, once we were old enough for school. She lived in walking distance of a park with full playground and ice rink in the winter, a large grocery store, and just two blocks away, a tiny little store that carried milk, bread, and a few other staples, but mostly snacks and soda pop, and most impressively, bins of penny candy. This is my strongest memory of spending time with my grandmas is walking to the little store with a hand full of pennies and maybe a nickle or dime, and coming back to her apartment with a full plastic bag of candies. My grandma kept a margarine or Cool whip tub with her odd change, and form that, we were gifted our treasure to exchange for an even sweeter treasure. Grandma kept toys for us, as well as paper dolls, and coloring books and crayons, really, all kids would need to keep busy, chewing on our candy or sucking on our lolly's. Those were lovely days. Most pictures we have of her were either black and white, or if in color, were of her a bit older, so I don't remember this, but I was told she had red hair, and with her very fair Welsh-Irish skin, she was stunning. I remember that her eyes smiled.
I am ashamed to say that once she was in the nursing home, visiting her became a chore, or rather going to the home, became a chore. The home was not in our nearby town, but 30 minutes away, and depressing. My grandmas's eyes didn't smile when she was in the home, though she still laughed and liked to talk with us. One thing I will always be grateful for is that both of my parents lived in their own home until they passed away.
When she passed away, this was the first time I remember ever seeing my dad cry. I didn't see his tears again until my mother died. Even when he lost two of his sisters and his younger brother, he was stoic, but losing the two most important women in his life made even the toughest of men shed tears.
Last Day of Summer
The prompt for today is to imagine that today is the last day of a long hot
summer. How you would like to spend it? Is there anything you wanted to do this
summer, but haven’t had a chance? Is there anything you’d like to repeat? Write
about your ideal summer day, or about how exhausting long summers are, whatever
comes to mind. I am going to pick up with my character from my short story, Calm in a Storm, as this prompt seems to fit. Eventually I think I will string these together, get a great editor, aka my daughter, and see if I might actually have a complete novel. For the rest of the prompts and other entries, visit Rise and Write.
Last Day of Summer
It was a week since Kara and the twins took three days to drive home from a summer trip back to her home state, and the family lake cabin. Now, while the calendar said September 7th, and summer technically didn't end until September 21st, this last day before sending her youngest kids back to school marked the true last day of summer for her. The college Paul worked at would start classes later in the week, but he was spending long hours already prepping his teaching assistants, and working with graduate and PhD candidates. Brent, was a week into classes on the other side of the state at his university. Kyle and Courtney would be juniors, two years before they were out of mandatory school, and on to their next adventure. Kara hope it meant college as well, but the parenting principle she tried to live by was not pushing her personal agenda onto her kids plans. Of course, she would heavily make all the arguments of why college would be the best choice, but ultimately would support them, as they did Brent when he originally was going to take a year off, and keep working for the Parks department. Good fortune intervened, when Brent was offered a part time job doing similar work near the university he was accepted into. Paul had worked a few connections to arrange an interview, but Brent's passion for the work, even as a high school student, must have shown in his interview. though he was only going to start with generals, he declared a major in Natural Resources and Conservation mid year.
Kara sat at her kitchen table and had a long think. She had bulked up on her vacation, as well as took a few manuscripts along on the trip and working remotely. This was how she was able to be out of the office for four weeks, but she too would be back to work the next day. She did have a very flexible schedule, and could work form anywhere really, but a certain amount of face time with authors, with the Editor in Chief, and her colleagues made a few office days a month necessary. She knew tough with the bombshell news she received the last night at the cabin, that she was going to need every ounce of flexibility Pearson Publishing would allow. "Early on-set Alzheimer's couple with a dose of congestive heart disease," her mother said out of the blue when she came into the bedroom where Kara was packing up their clothes. Her mother was sick and would be getting sicker. There had been many signs of her mother's illness, but Kara had brushed them off by interpreting them as her mother's grief, experiencing the first summer after the loss of her husband, Kara's dad. don't we all, Kara had though, walk into rooms and forget why we came in, or start a conversation, and sometimes forget what our point is? Don't nay of us get winded if we over exert ourselves, are thirsty or if it is very humid? As Kara thought more though, she realized there were entire gaps in clarity with her mom. A conversation they were having about Kara's aunt Jane and her spouse, Charlie, quickly shifted by her mother. "I don't know about that." her mother had said, when just minutes before, she was sharing the same information. She also repeatedly told the same story's from decades earlier, but struggled with remembering how old the grand kids were.
In another week, Kara was going to need to do a quick two day trip accompanying her mother to doctors appointments and her attorney. Jim, her brother, would attend these appointments as well. Her mother wanted to be sure her children knew her wishes and would understand the details of both her medical needs as well as her financial picture. The earlier bombshell regarding her brothers bankruptcy, reared its head again. Was there eougth left, after the large investment her father had made, to ensure her mothers care and comfort? while her borhter was full of talk, she believed he would never do anything that would jeopardize his mothers future, or that her dad would have been so secure in her brothers financial skills that he invested in a level that impacted his and her mothers own safety net, but Kara was still nervous. This is how Kara spent her last morning of summer, with fret ans worry, two behaviors that were not normally part of her being. She wanted to be thinking about having friends over for a labor day barbecue, but hadn't plan anything. She wanted to be thinking about fall college fairs and SAT and ACT tests for her juniors. She wanted to think about laundry, anything but having to be thinking about her mothers quick decline in health. Her last day of summer was now marking a new stage of life.
Last Day of Summer
It was a week since Kara and the twins took three days to drive home from a summer trip back to her home state, and the family lake cabin. Now, while the calendar said September 7th, and summer technically didn't end until September 21st, this last day before sending her youngest kids back to school marked the true last day of summer for her. The college Paul worked at would start classes later in the week, but he was spending long hours already prepping his teaching assistants, and working with graduate and PhD candidates. Brent, was a week into classes on the other side of the state at his university. Kyle and Courtney would be juniors, two years before they were out of mandatory school, and on to their next adventure. Kara hope it meant college as well, but the parenting principle she tried to live by was not pushing her personal agenda onto her kids plans. Of course, she would heavily make all the arguments of why college would be the best choice, but ultimately would support them, as they did Brent when he originally was going to take a year off, and keep working for the Parks department. Good fortune intervened, when Brent was offered a part time job doing similar work near the university he was accepted into. Paul had worked a few connections to arrange an interview, but Brent's passion for the work, even as a high school student, must have shown in his interview. though he was only going to start with generals, he declared a major in Natural Resources and Conservation mid year.
Kara sat at her kitchen table and had a long think. She had bulked up on her vacation, as well as took a few manuscripts along on the trip and working remotely. This was how she was able to be out of the office for four weeks, but she too would be back to work the next day. She did have a very flexible schedule, and could work form anywhere really, but a certain amount of face time with authors, with the Editor in Chief, and her colleagues made a few office days a month necessary. She knew tough with the bombshell news she received the last night at the cabin, that she was going to need every ounce of flexibility Pearson Publishing would allow. "Early on-set Alzheimer's couple with a dose of congestive heart disease," her mother said out of the blue when she came into the bedroom where Kara was packing up their clothes. Her mother was sick and would be getting sicker. There had been many signs of her mother's illness, but Kara had brushed them off by interpreting them as her mother's grief, experiencing the first summer after the loss of her husband, Kara's dad. don't we all, Kara had though, walk into rooms and forget why we came in, or start a conversation, and sometimes forget what our point is? Don't nay of us get winded if we over exert ourselves, are thirsty or if it is very humid? As Kara thought more though, she realized there were entire gaps in clarity with her mom. A conversation they were having about Kara's aunt Jane and her spouse, Charlie, quickly shifted by her mother. "I don't know about that." her mother had said, when just minutes before, she was sharing the same information. She also repeatedly told the same story's from decades earlier, but struggled with remembering how old the grand kids were.
In another week, Kara was going to need to do a quick two day trip accompanying her mother to doctors appointments and her attorney. Jim, her brother, would attend these appointments as well. Her mother wanted to be sure her children knew her wishes and would understand the details of both her medical needs as well as her financial picture. The earlier bombshell regarding her brothers bankruptcy, reared its head again. Was there eougth left, after the large investment her father had made, to ensure her mothers care and comfort? while her borhter was full of talk, she believed he would never do anything that would jeopardize his mothers future, or that her dad would have been so secure in her brothers financial skills that he invested in a level that impacted his and her mothers own safety net, but Kara was still nervous. This is how Kara spent her last morning of summer, with fret ans worry, two behaviors that were not normally part of her being. She wanted to be thinking about having friends over for a labor day barbecue, but hadn't plan anything. She wanted to be thinking about fall college fairs and SAT and ACT tests for her juniors. She wanted to think about laundry, anything but having to be thinking about her mothers quick decline in health. Her last day of summer was now marking a new stage of life.
Monday, September 7, 2015
Peace
35
Write about feeling peace. What brings peace to your inner state? Is it being in nature, or being alone at home? Describe a particular situation when you are (or your character is) feeling at peace with yourself and with life. Rise and Write
I've been doing a bit more poetry. I haven't made up my mind if I like it or not. I used the haiku 5-7-5, but in multiple verses, and I tried with the Anger post, to just write, breaking the "story" up in four line sections. I've never studies poetry, so don't know much about style, but I know words and phrases that I like, and though the topic of peace would lend itself well to a poem.
Peace
Families celebrating new additions,
Friends laughing in a pub,
Neighbors helping each other,
Children playing in the park,
Teachers sharing their love of learning,
Athletes shaking their opponents hands,
Artists creating their vision
Churches feeding the poor,
Leaders using power for humanity,
there can be peace.
Snakes are Cool-From a Distance
34
Write about reptiles. Most people have very strong feelings towards them – either love or hate them. Which are you? (Or your character?) Rise and Write
"Snakes. It had to be snakes." I can relate to Indiana Jones' feelings when he first lit that torch and saw the hundreds, if not thousands of snakes in the pit in the movie Raiders of the Lost Ark. Don't get me wrong, I think snakes are incredible creatures. The way they slither and move to get to their destination, heat and cool their bodies in rhythm to the earths sun, come in all sizes and colors, are remarkable traits. I want to appreciate them from a distance however. I've never understood the fascination of snakes as pet. Keeping live or frozen versions of whole prey for their meals is an image that makes me sick to my stomach. while the slithering motion and coiling is cool in a picture, or behind a glass barrier in a zoo, having either behaviors on my arm, or worse, my neck, the thought alone make me shudder.
Another fascinating, yet terrifying snake fact is the massive variety that are poisonous. Unless you are a snake expert, and even then I wouldn't trust their judgement completely, how do you know which are venomous and which are passive? Here you are , Mr. Green Belly slithering up next to you while you're out reading on your front lawn, when suddenly, out comes his teeth into your leg, and you lay there in a state of anaphylactic shock. It was just a little garter snake, but something similar happened to me once reading on a blanket outside. He slithered right over my blanket, touching my bare foot, and just stopped for a moment, me, in a state of disbelief, until my reflex kicked in and I jumped up shivering from the thought of it touching me.
I love to travel, and I love nature. However, there are few places I can't see myself ever traveling to, no matter the opportunity. I've perhaps been brainwashed with too many Annaconda movies to ever venture into the Amazon rain forest. Like wise, any rain forest or setting that has the massive pythons or varieties of boa constrictors will not be on my travel itinerary. Snakes are welcome to their parts of the world, and I am saddened that species have gone extinct due to over development. I have a healthy respect for nature, and part of that respect is keeping myself away from their space whenever possible.
Adventure
33 Write about a happy day from your childhood. Where are you? With whom? What’s going on? What made this day so memorable?
OPTIONAL: Work on your own fiction, without the connection to the topic. Share what you are working on. I'm taking Natalia's suggestion and linking this to my first short story I wrote s part of Write and Link.Katie is the daughter of the protagonist from Laugh Until We Cry.
Katie knew the move to Florida was not just for mom's new job. She new mom was trying to get away, far away, from her dad. Adults try to keep things from their kids all the time, thinking they are protecting them. Really all the hushed conversations, the hanging up the phone when a child come into the room, the watery eyes and excuses to leave the room, these all just make kids feel more anxious. Kids perceive when something is wrong.
Katie's dad would get very angry for no apparent reason. Just a while back, the family was enjoying a wonderful day at the beach. Katie had seen a friend from school and as happily splashing around in the water, when she heard arguing from where her om and dad were with the cooler and beach towels. Dad left with a man. Katie later overhearing dad had spent the night in jail, and that man was a police officer. Katie knew they were moving to Florida to be away form dad. Mom said it would be a bright new life. Katie was only twelve, but she knew leaving her friends and family, and even her dad, was hard for her mom. She put on a sunny face for her mom, playing along with the big adventure talk. .
The day after they arrived, mom had planned a trip to a theme park. Katie only knew about Disney World, so when they walked through the gate at Universal Studios, a whole different set of amusement parks, she started to really think Florida was going to be like this everywhere, one big adventure. She and her mom rode on everything they could, but by far the best was going on the river ride for Jurassic Park. Mom had read her many dinosaur books as she grew up and she knew the names to all the common and many of the not so common species.She grew up watching the Jurassic Park movies. Katie saw how happy the ride made her mom. She held her moms hand as they climbed up the steep incline, past the raptors, and squeezed tighter as they dropped through the Tyrannosaurus mouth.
After they had splashed on the bottom, and made their arrival back at the loading area, Katie looked up at her mom. She hadn't seen her mom this happy in a long time. They rode it again and again. Seeing her mom genuinely happy made Katie believe things were going to be good. She would have a life of adventure with her mom. It was the happiest day of her life.
Friday, September 4, 2015
4
Prompt 32 is to write about a number that is significant in your life.
Maybe it’s your lucky number, or the opposite. Maybe you feel connected to a
certain number and see definite patterns in your life (or your character’s
life). Here is the Rise and Link web site.
The number 4 is my lucky number. I just know it is, but I don't have any proof to give as evidence that it is lucky. I just feel it is. Number four was my favorite basketball player Kyle Macy's number. He wore it as a Kentucky Wildcat and as a Phoenix Sun. I never got to wear number four, as in junior and senior high school, the small numbers were also the small uniforms. While I wasn't heavy, I wasn't tiny, so 4 was off the option list. That bothered me for a long time, so when ever I am able to pick my own number, I always will go for four.
I like things in life to be divisible by four, and things seem wonky if they are not. I often will rationalize how something becomes divisible by four using my own rules, though. For example, I grew up in a family of ten kids, and two parents, for a family of 12. Twelve is divisible by 4 of course. So in my own family, I have three children, and one husband-four others in my family. For this math, I conveniently leave me out of the count. If I truly can't find a divisible, even with modifying my rules, then that wonkiness kicks in.
Most of us have been in small groups where the person leading the groups wants yet smaller groups so asks the a larger group to count off. I feel unglued sometimes if I end up with a three or a five. They just don't work for me. I can handle even numbers, because if you divide, you still will get equal decimal points, buy with odd numbers, the quotient becomes an irrational number. That is just wrong. I need my rules to have rationality.
If I get a fortune cookie that lists four as one of the lucky numbers, I tend to keep it a few days, tucked in myth wallet, or perhaps even taped on my computer screen for luck. I'm not much of a gambler, but the times I've been to the race track, I have placed bets on the fourth horse. I have no evidence that four is lucky, but it is a system, my system of four.
The number 4 is my lucky number. I just know it is, but I don't have any proof to give as evidence that it is lucky. I just feel it is. Number four was my favorite basketball player Kyle Macy's number. He wore it as a Kentucky Wildcat and as a Phoenix Sun. I never got to wear number four, as in junior and senior high school, the small numbers were also the small uniforms. While I wasn't heavy, I wasn't tiny, so 4 was off the option list. That bothered me for a long time, so when ever I am able to pick my own number, I always will go for four.
I like things in life to be divisible by four, and things seem wonky if they are not. I often will rationalize how something becomes divisible by four using my own rules, though. For example, I grew up in a family of ten kids, and two parents, for a family of 12. Twelve is divisible by 4 of course. So in my own family, I have three children, and one husband-four others in my family. For this math, I conveniently leave me out of the count. If I truly can't find a divisible, even with modifying my rules, then that wonkiness kicks in.
Most of us have been in small groups where the person leading the groups wants yet smaller groups so asks the a larger group to count off. I feel unglued sometimes if I end up with a three or a five. They just don't work for me. I can handle even numbers, because if you divide, you still will get equal decimal points, buy with odd numbers, the quotient becomes an irrational number. That is just wrong. I need my rules to have rationality.
If I get a fortune cookie that lists four as one of the lucky numbers, I tend to keep it a few days, tucked in myth wallet, or perhaps even taped on my computer screen for luck. I'm not much of a gambler, but the times I've been to the race track, I have placed bets on the fourth horse. I have no evidence that four is lucky, but it is a system, my system of four.
Hard Lesson
Rise and Write day 31 is to write about feeling angry. What are the sensations in
the body? What’s happening with the thoughts? Write a scene when your character
feels angry. Do they want to punch someone? Will they?
Hard Lesson
The resentment boiled in her head.
Nothing could cool the heat building,
rising like steam
ready to escape like a bubbling tea kettle.
She said she wouldn't ever get this angry again.
Yet, when saw her words, written verbatim,
but credited to another,
her fists and mouth clenched.
Once again her work was stolen,
the rewards bypassing her skills.
Her talent it appears,
is to propel anothers career.
"She will be a mentor,"
she was told when rejected for promotion.
"Learn from her."
She was learning alright.
She had learned that rules don't apply,
to the person at the top.
Stealing intellectual property,
considered eminent domain.
When asked about the behavior before,
was told she would see her just rewards.
"You have knowledge and talent,
but I have the power and influence."
"Together we can do great things."
was her bosses canned response.
But the great things to one,
meant long hours to the other.
Great things meant
all the authority to one,
all the accountability,
all the fall out to the other.
Not this time.
She had reached her end.
Next time, she would not be there,
to solve the problem, create the solution.
"I have no regrets in informing you,"
her resignation letter began.
"that effective this minute,
my mind is my own property again."
She placed the letter in her bosses hand,
and turned silently on her heal.
Her bag on her arm,
she boldly left the building.
Once in her car,
she felt the tea pot dull to a simmer.
The feeling of vindication,
suppressed the fear of unemployment.
Anger makes people do the irrational,
but she never felt more sane.
After all, she had skill and talent,
and would find her own power and influence.
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
This Little Mug of Mine
Day 30 for Rise and Write. I've been a sleepy crank the last few mornings, so this is Crash at Day's End and Write. Today I'll be writing about a cup or a mug.
I wondered what all the giggles on that Friday had been about in my class of four year olds. Helping my kids shape letters, or manage a tiny button in the doll corner, or leading a group game, all day little tiny hands cupped their mouths giggling. It was my last day teaching as a single woman. When I came back ten days later, I wouldn't be Miss any more. It was clear there was some surprise coming. Before the first of the kids left, my co- teacher rounded up the group, plus the younger kids, all to my classroom. There, I was presnted a beautiful handmade card with lots of hand prints, and valiant attempts at writing their names. Most of my kids had mastered this, only a year out form kindergarten and were so proud. "That's not all miss, but you'll have to wait."
Now the Sunday after the wedding, opening gifts with my new husband, I found out what the other surprise was. It was a pretty, simple, clay coffee mug, with slightly raised blue flowers on the side, with a bouquet of short flowers in the mug itself. It came with a card, which my husband opened, wondering if it was a joke from his friends. Of course he didn't yet speak four, not being a parent yet himself, so he couldn't decipher the messages and names my kids had written in the card. When the flowers had wilted, I cleaned the mug out and it became my daily coffee mug at school. The kids loved seeing me drink from it."We gave that to you," someone said at lest once a week.
That mug came with me when I switched schools. It became my link to the classroom when I moved from teaching to doing family education and counseling in an office setting. It moved with me to my office days when I went on to work in program management. It survived a move to a new building when most of the other sentimental trinkets did not. In the fall of 2011, I sipped out of it the afternoon before later going to a high school football game. My son was long out of high school, but it was the 10th anniversary of the year the high school had won the Class 5 A Minnesota State Football tournament. My nephew had been on the team, along with half a dozen boys that had been in my preschool class twenty four years earlier. Many of them young fathers now, I could still picture their little faces, including one little boy, who was not there. He had tragically passed away a few years out of high school.
I don't remember when exactly, but one day the mug went missing and never turned up again. Often people had favorite mugs that would be left by mistake in the kitchen, and occasionally an all points bulletin was put out. I did as well, but to no avail. I was hoping someone was playing a joke and I would receive a ransom note or something, but no dice. It was gone. I'm sure it fell on the floor, broke, and was swept away. There was nothing special about it that would make anyone think anything of it. For me, that mug held a lot more than coffee. It held the future of twenty four year olds. I still miss it.
I wondered what all the giggles on that Friday had been about in my class of four year olds. Helping my kids shape letters, or manage a tiny button in the doll corner, or leading a group game, all day little tiny hands cupped their mouths giggling. It was my last day teaching as a single woman. When I came back ten days later, I wouldn't be Miss any more. It was clear there was some surprise coming. Before the first of the kids left, my co- teacher rounded up the group, plus the younger kids, all to my classroom. There, I was presnted a beautiful handmade card with lots of hand prints, and valiant attempts at writing their names. Most of my kids had mastered this, only a year out form kindergarten and were so proud. "That's not all miss, but you'll have to wait."
Now the Sunday after the wedding, opening gifts with my new husband, I found out what the other surprise was. It was a pretty, simple, clay coffee mug, with slightly raised blue flowers on the side, with a bouquet of short flowers in the mug itself. It came with a card, which my husband opened, wondering if it was a joke from his friends. Of course he didn't yet speak four, not being a parent yet himself, so he couldn't decipher the messages and names my kids had written in the card. When the flowers had wilted, I cleaned the mug out and it became my daily coffee mug at school. The kids loved seeing me drink from it."We gave that to you," someone said at lest once a week.
That mug came with me when I switched schools. It became my link to the classroom when I moved from teaching to doing family education and counseling in an office setting. It moved with me to my office days when I went on to work in program management. It survived a move to a new building when most of the other sentimental trinkets did not. In the fall of 2011, I sipped out of it the afternoon before later going to a high school football game. My son was long out of high school, but it was the 10th anniversary of the year the high school had won the Class 5 A Minnesota State Football tournament. My nephew had been on the team, along with half a dozen boys that had been in my preschool class twenty four years earlier. Many of them young fathers now, I could still picture their little faces, including one little boy, who was not there. He had tragically passed away a few years out of high school.
I don't remember when exactly, but one day the mug went missing and never turned up again. Often people had favorite mugs that would be left by mistake in the kitchen, and occasionally an all points bulletin was put out. I did as well, but to no avail. I was hoping someone was playing a joke and I would receive a ransom note or something, but no dice. It was gone. I'm sure it fell on the floor, broke, and was swept away. There was nothing special about it that would make anyone think anything of it. For me, that mug held a lot more than coffee. It held the future of twenty four year olds. I still miss it.
Tuesday, September 1, 2015
My Hidden Love Affair with Vincent Van Gogh
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| http://www.vangoghgallery.com/printsandposters/van-gogh-top-20.html |
Day 29 of Rise and Write. Natalia, our fearless leader, gave a few days off and reiterated that there are no rules to using the prompts-just write! Today, is about writing about sunflowers – in the garden, in the fields, in the bouquet, in the wreath on the door. Write about the flowers or the seeds… I'm going to take her advise and write about sunflowers differently than I suspect others might, and thus I unveil my hidden love affair with Vincent Van Gogh.
I could see the great steps, the colossal pillars, the banner that marked the entrance. The crowds were thicker than Minnesota mosquito's on an August night the day after a rain. I took my daughters hand, even though she was thirteen, as much for my own security as hers, and followed my older daughter weaving through the crowd, my husband a step behind. We knew the Sunday before St Patrick's day was the London version of the celebration, and Trafalgar Square was host to a thousand Irishmen, if only Irish for the day. Still, nothing could have prepared me for the density of people. My daughter knew her way around a crowd. Six months in London and she had figured out how to move, sway, and ditch between people, clearing a fine path that filled in behind us as we walked. Up the steps we walked, pausing to get a picture before security shooed us to keep moving and not clog the stairs. Inside, the museum was nearly as crowded as out. We saw the sign pointing to the Van Gogh, Sunflowers only to learn there was a line queuing deep, down a hall, up a stair case, and then in a line in the more open space between gallery rooms. We decided to wait and go the next day, a week day, when the throngs hopefully would be home or at work nursing hangovers. My disappointment in being so close was visible. We doused the disappointment with a good catch-up with our daughter over fish and chips and beer.
Monday was already sketched out to do the London Eye, a Thames cruise, a double decker bus to anywhere, and a Hop on Hop off tour bus trip. It was fun day, and when we stopped in the Square, we decided to give it one more day before heading to the gallery again as the weather was unusually warm and sunny, as we were told, for a London day in March. Too nice to be in doors, so we continued to view and photograph the architecture and landmarks from the streets. That night after settling into our hotel room, me drinking my second cup of the in room Nespresso coffee, I read a bit more on the exhibit, and the life of Van Gogh. I really like to build the anticipation before I see an attraction. I'm the same way with vacation,s reunions, and other special events. Some people feel researching and planning creates an inevitable let down for when the real event takes place. I on the other hand feel it heightens the experience.
I never could put my finger on why Van Gogh has such a firm spot in my heart. The colors he used are vibrant, and the texture he captured with the brush fools my mind into thinking I am actually touching the subject matter. Many other artists of his time did that as well, but not in the soul seeing way Van Gogh does for me. Perhaps it is his story; his lack of fame and appreciation in life, when clearly there was brilliance touches a nerve with me. Sunflowers in particular is like a blow to the gut. Normally I think a sunflower must be the happiest plant on earth. I swear I can almost see a smiling face when I've see a single one sprouting from the side of the field. But Van Gogh's sunflowers almost weep. Yes, they have the same bright, sunny, golden yellow, but seeing them in the vase, almost reaching out to be touched, feels sad and lonely. They make me imagine the artist, reaching out his hands, just wanting to be touched, be affirmed, be valued, be appreciated.
Tuesday, I was not to be deterred. After the mandatory American tourist viewing of the changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace, which I found damn cool, despite the length, by the way, we made our way back to the National Portrait Gallery. There was small line, but after getting our tickets for the cue on the floor below and making our way back upstairs, there was only a couple families ahead of us. My older daughter had classes so was not with us, but the younger one teased me asking if I was going to faint when I saw it, "Probably." I remember replying. It was our turn. We walked in. There were a few other Van Gogh in this room, a few Monet, and at least one Gauguin. Then I saw it, lit from above and hanging on the central wall. Sunflowers,Vincent Van Gogh. I don't know how long I stood there. It felt like an hour. It felt like seconds. I felt the wet tear on my cheek, but I did not care. Let them fall, my brain told my eyes. Seeing that painting was overwhelming. I am sure I could feel every hurt, every ounce of pain he felt with each stroke. Then, suddenly, I felt peace. I found tissue in my back pack, wiped my eyes, and wandered around the room, taking another look at each of the other wonderful painting in this special exhibit room. Before leaving, I stood one more time in front of the Van Gogh. "Thank you. " I mouthed, and left the room. My wedding, the birth and graduations of my children. closing on our house; these are all experiences that are deep in my heart, moments in time captured forever. This viewing, is captured there as well.