torn

welcome, readers & writers! thank you for stopping by - and a good monday to you. i hope (for all of us!) that this week is filled with good things like productivity, peace, rest & play. 

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writers, care to join me in a writing warm up on today's photo prompt? see below for my spin on it. if you'd like to share your short story, poem or creative non-fiction response, click on comments below. readers, comments are open to you as well!

Patrick wondered whether, if he made a personal donation, the construction company would fix this blasted fence. It disturbed him deeply to see these holes, so jagged, so unsanitary looking, as if the fence had been chewed through by a rodent; though he supposed that logically a rodent wouldn't be able to make such a big hole while hanging off the mesh with its scritchy little claws. These hole-y eye-sores threw his whole darn day off. If he didn't want to see them, he had to go a block out of his way to get to work. That meant leaving the house four and a half minutes early. That meant waking up at 5:56 instead of 6:00 a.m. And who could put in a productive work day knowing they'd been required to wake up in the five o'clock hour? So usually he'd go ahead and take the direct route, passing the fence while trying very hard to avert his eyes.

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When he'd phoned the borough office to ask how long construction on the sidewalk would last, they'd promised him it would only be another week or two. That was the day before Thanksgiving. Now his New Year was tarnished, the whole of January 2011 would forever, in his mind, be wobbly, or maybe warbled, or was it warped?

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This morning he couldn't help himself again. He looked. And then he looked again. The biggest gash, the upper one, had become a frame for the most beautiful woman he'd ever, ever seen. She was standing near the door, talking on her cell phone. He paused, secure behind the veil of green plastic mesh; thinking how, if she could see him, she might dismiss him as uninteresting. If she were to look at all, though, thanks to the fence, she'd only see his eye. Looking. Blinking. Thinking. Wondering. How long had he been standing here, anyway? Would he be late for work? And asking himself... would he look again tomorrow?

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opened

welcome readers & writers! i'm so glad you're sticking with me through an erratic posting schedule. i'm back in school now, and working part time. but i love to write and i love to read your work - so i'm committed to posting three times a week. and speaking of writing, i'd love to see more of it on this blog. please consider writing with me. no pressure for it to be perfect - just for us to share together in a creative endeavor we all love...

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so here is today's photo writing prompt, taken by me on a chilly, sunny day in san antonio in the first few days of the new year. see below for my non-fiction spin on the photo. writers, if you'd like to share your poetic, creative non-fiction or short story response to the photo, just click on comments below. readers, you are welcome to comment too :)

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In a few short months I'll turn forty years old. Surprisingly, it's not a usually a crisis for me. Mostly I find myself glad to be alive, in awe of what my life has been so far, thankful for for all I've learned and kinda proud of myself for the ways I've grown - emotionally and intellectually - over the years. I am deeply grateful for the abundance of gifts around me. 

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Sometimes, though, I do feel sadness over how quickly it's all going, and that (as far as I know) you only get to go around once. I look at students just entering college, or couples joyfully, hopefully, tossing their hat in the marriage ring, or young moms (this one gets me the most) just absolutely enamored with their first babies - and I feel a little jolt of regret that I've already taken my turn on those rides. I've passed those landmarks in my life and will not travel that way again. Obviously I know that learning never ends, relationships and new relationships are always to be found, and that I'll always be a mama to the wonderful boys in my life and - hopefully one day a long time from now! - grandmother to their children. 

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Just every once in awhile - even though I believe that old age is a state of mind, that people can have a positive, youthful outlook on life until the day they die - sometimes I feel a little bit wilted. Read o-l-d. Apologies to my friends over forty! I do know that forty isn't old at all. And I know that with age comes wisdom, strength, openness and a kind of beautiful depth that can only be achieved through experience and perseverance. I know that the gorgeous, older, open flower in the photo above is just as beautiful as the buds behind it. It's just that I can't seem to forget now that the older flower is much closer to the dropping petals, ashes to ashes phase of life...  

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Depressed much?  

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Rather than get lost in sadness or overwhelmed with regret, in these moments I try to focus on the gratitude, to stay present in the gifts each day has to bring, and to revel in the joy of LIFE and - this is key for me - "the afterlife."  In my faith tradition, what comes next will be even better than this; it is more awesome than a person can even begin to imagine...  Though many folks claim to understand exactly what heaven looks like and precisely how to make it happen, I confess that I don't really know. But I'm okay with that. I love a good mystery. And I love the one who, mysteriously, gave me this life to live. 

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met

hello, readers & writers!  it's monday again, the start of another week on write away every day; hope we can spend some of it writing and reading together : )

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today's photo writing prompt is another in the, ahem, san antonio series. (gee that sounds so important and official.) enjoy! writers, i'd love to read your short story, poem or creative non-fiction response to the picture; click on comments below to share it with us. readers, comments are open to you as well. see below for my poetic spin on the photo...

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was that you on christmas eve?
a blink and a double take
and you
- or maybe not you - 
were gone
lost to me in a crowd three deep,
brushed past on the path
in your wool coat 
going the other way 
again.
are we perpetually bound
to pass each other 
going opposite directions?

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indeed we are -
bound.
or don't you recall?
one to the other,
though of course we would 
never make it;
james bond be damned.
not the way we intended to,
longed and hoped and planned and prayed to be.
but a person doesn't make vows like that
with all her might
only to walk away scot-free.
those bonds are cast 
in heat, 
and when taps sounds at the end of a very long day,
in the cool they turn to steel.
they become chains
and, together or not,
we two are bound.

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our lives - if not intertwined -
intersect
at times.
and always in a crowd
on all saints day or
the end of may
or new year's eve 
we are bound
to blinking and staring
and double takes.

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and then, well... so what?
so what if that was you
in your wool coat
brushing past me
on the path
going the other way again?
just, so what.

found

readers & writers, welcome! hope your week is unfolding gracefully (or at least quickly -- the weekend is on its way)! 

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some of our best stories on write away every day have come from mundane photos of found objects like this one. come write with me! share your short story, poem or creative non-fiction by clicking on comments below. i'd love to read your take on the photo. here's my fiction spin on it:

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"Already? You're flipping kidding me," Sarah thought as she watched the styrofoam cup leave her hand and land in the garden outside her office. It was always like this on the down side. The simplest task - like brushing her teeth or reaching over to turn out her lamp at night - became overwhelming and complicated. Even throwing away a stupid paper cup felt too hard, and her body was prone to acting without her brain's permission. That's always how she knew it was time to be extra vigilant about taking her meds, seeing her counselor, not taking on extra projects at work. It felt like she'd just come out of a depressive cycle, and yet here she was again. That's how it was. 

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The highs never lasted long enough, but they were awesome. She could stay up half the night cleaning house or writing letters and still bounce out of bed in the morning. Granted, it was hard to sit still or focus on reading or relax and watch a TV show. On an upswing, she wouldn't have bought the cruddy vending machine coffee anyway. She'd have ground the beans fresh and brewed her own, adding a splash of soy milk and a dash of cinnamon to her favorite to go cup.

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She sighed, bending over to pick up the cup. "And here we go again..."

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drenched

a good monday to you, readers & writers. and, for those of you who live in the united states, happy Martin Luther King, Jr. day! may his legacy live on and inspire us to goodness, peace, justice, and equality. many thanks to all for your kind words about my first published story... saturday was one happy day for me :) 

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today's photo prompt is another from my trip to san antonio. writers, please join me in writing about it! i'd love to read your poem, short story or creative non-fiction reflection on the photo; just click on comments below to share it. readers, comments are open to you as well. Here's my creative non-fiction spin on the photo:

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In the time it takes a penny to tumble through the air and belly flop onto the water, sinking to its new home, a thousand wishes leave me and telegraph themselves to the heavens. The wishes I wish are between me and the fountain; if I wrote them here they might not come true. And, let's face it. They might not come true anyway, but that I still believe in "making a wish" means I have faith in something.  Someone shrouded in mystery and love is listening, and it's okay, good even, to want something - to have words of hope leave me and join the uneven melody of water meeting water, meeting ceramic. 

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I always cheat when I toss those pennies - loading way more than one wish onto the tiny copper surface of a coin that doesn't buy anything anymore. And when I do, the same thing happens time and again. In the time it takes the penny to tumble through the air and belly flop onto the water, sinking to its new home, one wish rises above the rest and telegraphs itself to the heavens. And in that moment I know myself better than the moment before.

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published

welcome, welcome readers & writers. today's photo was taken by my oldest son. it goes well with my story - which is not here - but in an online journal, The Rose & Thorn!!  Yes, my friends, as of today i am a published author. i submitted a short story, Song of First Light, to the R&T and they accepted it for their winter issue. i'd love for you to read it. click here to go to their site. (when you get to the site, click on the cover artwork to get to the index of stories and poems).  

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writers, please feel free to use the photo for a writing exercise; submit your poem, short story or creative non-fiction piece by clicking on comments below. i love to read your work! readers, comments are always open to you as well.

cooled

hello, readers & writers, happy wednesday eve (or thursday morning)! i'd like to see what you writers make of the photo. poem, short story or creative non-fiction, click on comments below to share. here's my fiction spin on it.

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Work in the candle shop was hell in the summers. The crowds. The overwhelming smell of the perfume we add to the hot wax. The heat. The friggin' heat. Try taking July heat in Texas and adding six stoves firing at 400 degree heat to it. But you learn to drink your waters and take your breaks, and the boss moved our shifts to start in the early morning hours. But winters, they were nice. When the air was thin with chill and the few customers in the square were so happy to come in and get warm, and maybe buy a holiday gift or two. I liked it. No matter that my hands were calloused from the heat that soaked through my gloves; the warmth of the stoves filled up the back kitchen and spilled out the open windows and doors. Passers by smiled when they walked by, and sometimes poked their heads in to see what we were doing. Yep, you couldn't beat winter at the candle shop. 

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jammed

welcome readers & writers!  i'd almost given up the hope of writing today - SO much going on. but, monday guaranteed, right?  at least it's still monday for most of you. to others eastward of here, hope you'll enjoy this tuesday post :)

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writers, join me in writing about today's photo prompt? post your short story, poem or creative non-fiction piece by clicking on comments below. thank you for writing with me. readers, comments are open to you as well.

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Samuel wasn't sure if he was the only person in town who tried studiously to catch rush hour, but he was sure he was the most committed. That's right. Catch it. Even if he finished his work on time, or, drats, early, he'd piddle around at his desk until 5:02 exactly. Until traffic was so thick that he was sure to sit through one or two, sometimes three cycles at every stoplight. Until the highway was as clogged as great Uncle Albert's old arteries. 

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It wasn't that he loved his car; it was ten years old - or was it eleven now? It didn't have a stellar sound system. In fact, it was the cheapest he could find. No sense buying something nice when the car got broken into every couple of years. (He worked in a rough part of town.) The stereo worked just fine, however.  The comforting voices of public radio personalities rose and fell over the hum of the heater with great regularity, soothing whatever bumps has arisen in his otherwise quiet work day. 

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The truth of the matter was that he owed right much to rush hour because it delayed his return home by a good forty-five minutes, even an hour. One less hour he had to spend looking at her sad eyes and disappointed face. He'd figured out that it didn't matter what time he arrived home. An hour early, or an hour late, it seemed it was all the same to her. Nothing he did was ever enough. Nothing at all.

mingled

welcome, readers & writers! writers, please join me in writing about my photo above, a covered patio along the riverwalk in san antonio. just click on comments below to share your poem, short story or creative non-fiction response to the prompt. i love to read your work. readers, thank you for time and interest; comments are open to you, as well. happy weekend to all ;-)

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5.7.5.

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shade and bright divvy

space in me. dancing, shifting,

complimentary 

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warmed

welcome readers & writers - a winning wednesday to you ; ) today's prompt is a photo i took last weekend in san antonio. the structure on the left was a small freestanding building that appeared to be an oven or stove of some kind. writers, come write with me! submit your short story, poem, or creative non-fiction piece by clicking on comments below. i love to read your work!  see below for my fiction spin on the photo.

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"Haht. Haht. Haht," my littlest one says, bouncing his chubby palm up and down in the direction of the miniature brick building. I turn to look.  "Yes," I say, impressed that he's made the connection between our tiny gas log unit and this freestanding stove.  "Hot. It's a big fireplace." He nods solemnly.  "Out?" he says, with a tilt of his head, pulling on the buckle of his umbrella stroller. "Okay. Let's get you out." I lean down and unbuckle him, dropping two kisses on his chubby cheeks, each slightly sticky from our room service pancakes. 

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He toddles over to the stove but stops short. "Haht?" he asks again, turning to me, palm out again, bouncing up and down. I'm certain it isn't hot, but I double check to be sure. "Not hot," I say. "Good boy for asking. You can touch it." But he doesn't. Even when I show him again that I can touch it, he won't. He edges an inch closer, then looks up at me again, eyebrows quirked in a dubious arch. 

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"It's okay," I say. "Mama says it's okay." I pick him up and set him on my hip, leaning out to touch the bricks and say, "Not hot." He puts his hand on a brick then, too. "Naht. Haht," he says with a teeny smile. His daddy arrives, smelling of aftershave, hair still damp from the shower, and gathers us both in an embrace. "Dada," says my boy, pointing at the stove, then shaking his palm back and forth. "Naht. Haht."

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renewed

readers & writers, happy new year! hope your holiday season, however you celebrated, brought with it moments of goodness and joy. our family enjoyed some time at home, a quick trip to san antonio (pictures coming soon) and a visit to family in atlanta. i'm thankful for plenty of rest & play.

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writers, so glad to be writing with you again. i'm rested, renewed, and ready to heat up this keyboard with some poetry, short stories and creative non-fiction. please join me in today's writing warm up by clicking on comments below to post your creative writing response to the photo above, of an antique table place card holder which belonged to my aunt ruth. the comments section is open to readers as well. here's my spin on the pic:

She eases into her chair, taking care not to bump the table, set with fine china and heavy crystal, with its countless glowing facets reflecting candlelight and the tiniest twinkling Christmas lights. Other guests are settling in as well, in pairs, with the exception of Aunt Gertrude, who takes her place at the head of the table. 
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Catherine, seated at the foot of the table, doesn't know anyone at all. She'd taken a nursing position at the children's hospital in D.C., summoned with just a weekend's notice to pack and report for duty. It was a dream job, so worth the rush. Not to mention the fact that she was still getting over her broken heart (and the broken arm that came with it after her boyfriend shoved her into a wall). Clocking some miles between herself and his endless voicemails, text messages and flower bouquets of apology was just what the doctor ordered. Literally.
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It just happened to be Christmas Eve now, on her third day in the city. She was sitting here, in this gorgeous, cluttery house because her best friend back home had a great Aunt Gert, who lived alone in Maryland and reportedly "just loves" having new people over on Christmas Eve. "It'll be kind of an open house," Ella had said, "tons of folks in and out all night long." At the time she'd accepted the invitation, Christmas with a house full of strangers seemed preferable to Christmas alone in her still empty apartment, a homemade meal much more appealing than the turkey pot pie chilling in her otherwise empty freezer.
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Now, doing her part to pass steaming dishes along - "Clockwise!" Gert had declared in her warbly, Hepburn voice - and listening to the chatter of the seven other people around the table, all of whom seem to be long time friends with Gert, Catherine feels silly and waif-ish. Gert had even spelled Catherine's name wrong, writing a spidery "Katherine" with a K instead of Catherine with a C for the place card. 
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After they fill their plates and bow their heads for grace, Gert raises her glass as far as she seems able, and says, "To Kat. Welcome, dear girl." Six faces turn Catherine's way.  Six more glasses lift, and six voices warmly reply, "To Kat." Catherine tries to smile as she raises her glass and glances around the room. It doesn't occur to her until she meets the glossy green gaze of the angel place card holder that she is starting over. This is a chance to be whoever, however she wants to be. "So," she thinks, "maybe I will be Katherine with a K - Kat.  Maybe a girl named Kat has courage." She lets this sink in a moment as she takes a sip of the rich red wine. "Maybe Kat will be strong and confident and joyful and independent. Maybe a Katherine with a K will deck any man who pushes her around; better yet, maybe Kat will know the difference between a violent jerk and a real man and choose differently next time. If there is a next time.
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Catherine studies Aunt Gertrude, a "spinster," Ella had affectionately called her. Never married. Gertrude was laughing, head tipped toward the ceiling, dentures gleaming. Surrounded by great friends and beautiful things, Catherine thinks how Gert looks nothing like a lonely old woman and everything like the woman Catherine - Kat - had always wanted to be.  Kat lifts her glass and clears her throat. "To Gert, our lovely hostess," she sings out. Everyone smiles and lifts their glasses, "To Gert!"
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