Ordinary Life

The toy store looked like a cuckoo clock from the outside and from the narrow doorway, as we entered single-file, it appeared we had found Gepetto’s workshop.  Brightly colored wooden letters, puppets on strings and puppets on springs gave the impression that the tiny cottage overflowed with hand crafted novelties, but we saw soon enough that all manner of fun diversions made up the walls of the place. There were toys from other countries, wind up toys, trendy toys and toys from days gone by.  I have always been in love with toys.  I visited each bustling room and lingered over all of the toys left out to try.  I was trying to remember how to start Jacob’s Ladder when  I heard an exclamation and saw that I was being stabbed in the heart with a knife.  It didn’t hurt, it was just  a plastic, blade-retracting toy knife.  And my husband was just playing, after all.  Wasn’t he? 

You cannot bring yourself to say “My imagination took off when that guy complemented your eyes.” Instead you say “You’d have to have his brain injury to be interested in you.”  “I’m sorry, I was wrong” is just something you can’t do. In my early childcare days, my favorite little boy to teach would toddle up and bite the back of my leg to let me know he wanted to be picked up.   And it worked.  I swooped him up every time.   He loved to be high in my arms, zoom around like an airplane and just be held close.    Should I find, some twenty years later, that Christopher is still biting people to get their attention, it would no doubt be as a news feature or column in the police blotter.  Christopher is not a cat, he should have outgrown biting and there are at least three of four better ways to initiate conversation that I am aware of.  Perhaps it is the way you learned to be picked up, held close, but it is time to stop biting me now. You are not a ...

My mom doesn’t like you. My dad doesn’t like you.  My brother doesn’t like you. I’m trying to think of anyone who likes you.  Nobody likes you. 

I didn’t know then, I guess seldom ever do It would be the last kiss between me and you Fate or irony, a twist in the stars In twenty years time, your best by far Walking in to dinner, under a cloud of stars We made a deal as we left the car A kiss from me whose depth you choose In exchange for wearing my too-tall shoes First man in heels I’ve kissed, quite probably my last Thanks for the laugh. But I didn’t consent just to make you my fool or save sore feet Rather to create a space where pain and grace meet Then: Beseeching prayer from your lips, “End this drought.” Like Moses seeing the Promised Land, before God took him out One step toward you, forgiveness... again The next several hours: what might have been Let’s stay the night, let’s stay together Under our old palm tree, reclaim forever We drove back home instead No reason but cheaper beds In the morning, call me fake And the biggest mistake You Ever Did Make All Hell breaks loose from those praying lips, angry lies you wish me ...

I  believe I can succeed in this course...as long as I get to make my own rules. 

WHEW!  I had several story ideas based on articles  (which I may continue to develop) but I ran with this one that came from a homework session at my local MIDTOWN DELI. Each section of the day's paper was at a different table and being read by a vast array of characters. Yet we were all under one roof, reading about what was happening in our little town...  Initially I had 700 some odd words. I let it cool and fought dismay as my word count initially went up, not down.  Two painful character cuts later, I made the 300 mark.  I am submitting that version and then returning to my drafts to invite those two characters back into my diner while I shine the tables up a bit. ::ASSIGNMENT POSTED BELOW:: THE MILLCREEK MALLARD: SATURDAY EDITION   Sports & Weather  lay abandoned on the table nearest the window. Grant had placed the paper over his laptop like some kind of theft deterrent when he left to reckon with the coffee he’d been drinking all morni...

Assignment : “Think of your Censor as a cartoon serpent, slithering around your creative Eden, hissing vile things to keep you off guard. If a serpent doesn’t appeal to you, you might want to find a good cartoon image of your Censor, maybe the shark from Jaws, and put an X through it. Post it where you tend to write or on the inside cover of your notebook. Just making the Censor into the nasty, clever little character that it is begins to pry loose some of its power over you and your creativity.” I chose to sketch (and paint) my inner censor, then use its description as a writing prompt .  My rough draft (because I’m working on getting okay with sharing them):  I imagined my Censor as a many armed thing. It wears my wedding ring on one tentacle, a watch on another. In the grip of one flange is a bottle of bubbles and in that bottle the mom I’m supposed...the mom I want to be.Perhaps there is a mop in one tentacle and a set of car keys in another. Two weigh the difference betwe...

The assignment: Personify a color, make hefty use of a thesaurus. What I turned in: I chose to write about one of my favorite colors. You can only see it for about ten minutes in the morning and maybe five on certain evenings and then, only on days with proper conditions. It really doesn't have a name (that I am aware of) but if it were a crayon, perhaps they'd call it Herald.  I am a color, not yet named.  Though a body could be lain to rest never having seen me (if that body were given to much sleep or staying indoors) I assure you that I am.  I ride the rim of the rising sun and throw back the shades of last night's sky. With a blast of golden trumpet, I herald the coming of a newborn day. I bathe the infant in splashes of light and wrap her in blankets of pink and glowing orange. I have written her name in the clouds with lifting birds, she will be called Possibilty. I tip-toe from the room, leaving her to d...

The assignment was to choose one of the provided prompts and complete it- with as much of a twist as we could muster. I chose the prompt: "Looking at Paris in this light..."  Looking at Paris in this light , Adkins could almost forgive the rookie his dumb mistake. Almost.  Like the flashes of amber waxing and waning over them from atop the ambulance, Lieutenant Michael Adkins alternated between looking at the shape of his mangled partner on the stretcher and out into the fog-drenched darkness of Seabridge Avenue. Too terrible to look at and too terrible to ignore, Mike's reflexes kept snapping his attention to Jimmy's face and just as quickly away.  On the stretcher, Officer James 'Paris' Frenchy, lay unconcious and bleeding. His badge dangled from his uniform and his left eye socket was empty.   Adkins sighed heavily into the thick night air. Tonight's shift already felt a year and a half long and he hadn't even begun the paperwork. So much paper...

I woke up with a name clearly formed in my head: Whitney Oh, I think I remember... wasn't the girl who sat behind me in Pre-Algebra named Whitney? Whitney Bowles... Bolles? I am picturing her vaguely but perhaps she is an amalgamation of the many faces that never solidified into friendships throughout my ever-changing educational landscape. Perpetual new kid didn't lend itself to perpetual friendships, at least, not before social media came along to shrink the world a bit. "I will have to try to look her up when I get a second. I wonder how she's doing and if everything is okay. I wonder why she's in my head". Six hours and a lot of busy-ness passed by before the memory of the lodged name reoccurred to me. I had been busy packing suitcases for our short trip to lake country. 'Oh yeah, I was supposed to look her up. I'll get right on that...just as soon as I get the car loaded' Four hours of driving later, I had still not typed her name into a searc...

The book sat in front of me as I maneuvered between phone and computer screens. Seven spreadsheets were open in individual tabs and I moved information from sheet to sheet, trying to whittle the seven down to two coherent reports. One group would be accepted into a pilot program, the other would be politely informed that we'd had far more applicants than we planned to accommodate.  If irony exists, it may well be found in this remaining detail: the pilot program was for people who feel rejected. My job now was to reject the rejects as well as to reject all notions of rejection. .  Besides, last night had been the kind that turned into This Morning without warning- one or two quick tasks had turned into hours of fine tuning.  And so, I had made the coffee extra strong this morning I found a sliver of resolve in the bottom of my third cup of tar. I would finish these reports and re-start my day anew after a shower.  The phone rang as I scavenged the second floor for a ...

Julie tucks a stray curl the color of cinnamon and ginger, behind her ear as she finishes filling in the deposit slip.

Tom bikes to the Minute Clinic pulling an empty toddler trailer behind his faithful old Townie. His teal scrubs show no signs of exertion, even though the morning is hot and tropic. After his shift, he will pick the typhoon twins up from the day camp being held at the old school. It is the last day of  junior surf camp. All week, the added steps of putting surf gear away and removing as much sand as it takes to comfortably ride home has added an extra half hour to the boys' pick-up routine.  Just time enough to pull the clinic shades for a power nap and wake in time to stop by Julie's for his usual.  Julie closes at four, but she doesn't leave until Tom stops by, even if he's running late. She always has a smoothie on standby for him and a little something to eat. Tom is always appreciative, even when the smoothie has spinach.   Islanders know all about Tom's naps and we take special care not to disturb him when he's fortunate enough to grab one.  Between endles...

Our hands brushed as we tucked our daughter into bed between us.  He pulled away quickly as if burned, despite a lack of spark.   Exasperated sigh; me. Our bodies have touched, remember? They've been intertwined. Look at the child between us. How do you think those get here? These were only thoughts. We have been stuck fast in a No Speaking zone for weeks. No Touching Zone, too. Obviously. Down with sixty second hugs, We laughed at the couple who did not know how.  'Always kiss me goodnight' Pretty, plastic platitude. I understand not wanting to touch. I need those walls, too. Bites always forthcoming.   Please, do, just stay over there In your corner Pouting. Jimmy Wayne, baby. Stay gone. The touch was accidental This is all so typical. First it's loud bravado  and then a falling back, victimized by yourself, the blame is shifted to me. He makes a list of all the things I am not; tells me to just leave. I am not: a good mother a godly person genuine I think of ...

It costs four hundred and fifty dollars per month to keep your wife in storage. That's how much Aunt Muddy charges for rent at the old family house Grandma Jody left her. It's a bargain really, at more than a third your current rent. The hidden cost comes in the form of your wife being back in proximity to her family. She will be with them every waking minute, obviously. The last twenty years of running interference is almost immediately bankrupted when she calls to make the arrangements. No one says 'I told you so' or that they've been expecting this call for the last two decades, but you can feel the needle from three states away. Your wife seems oblivious to the prick as she packs her books.  Why does she need all those books? So many books. She wasted no time, did she? The first box may have even been packed before she called Aunt Muddy. She ought to be upset at what they've got to be thinking about her. She ought to have more pride than that. But she doesn...

The corridor smelled like burnt popcorn as I walked to the back of the children's wing to pick up my daughter. A memory was startled loose that slowed my steps. I had forgotten the burnt popcorn. I continued to smile and greet other parents passing by and took my place in line to claim my child. I fished to the bottom of my bag for the key ring I kept my child security fob on  and wondered to myself if there was anything else I had forgotten. The acrid smell followed us back down the hallway and out into the sunshine. It climbed into the car with us and buckled its seat belt. Only then did I realize Marlow had been given a coffee filter filled with just-slightly charred popcorn to take with her from an apparently failed snack break. "Nice of them to ask." I grumbled. I didn't really mind her having the snack. I just felt grumbly all of a sudden. After a few quick errands, we unloaded the car and got out of our scratchy Sunday best. How I longed for the days when Sunda...

I think of telling you about these little writing jaunts. I promised myself  that once I reached ten entries, I would mention it. Technically this is the tenth, but only the eighth if we don't count drafts.  I am mentally negotiating over whether I meant published entries or not. Either way, eventually, it is something I am compelled to do.  I am afraid, believing that the moment I do, time will slip away from me and I will be idle for another decade. Ten entries will sit, gathering dust and random spam comments until one by one I revert them to draft and blanch from shame. The things I write out loud taunt me, you know. I don't want to make an unintentional promise. Now-- I laugh at myself. As if you are sitting on your hands, eager to read me or disappointed that I haven't made any recent contributions.  I don't think that way about myself at all. If anything, I've been waiting on something worthy of sharing to strike me, to pour spontaneously from my hands. I wil...

You cannot just write yourself into the story as a hero,especially not your own story. You have to live as a hero first. You must be brave. You must do the things you'd like to read about yourself. You must do them at once. You only have today.  

I woke myself with a cry. Deep gasping breaths and tears pooled in my eyes; I was awake but kept my eyes closed. My pillow was damp but not in the usual,  only-one-side-from-deep-sleep-drooling way. Instead, either side of my face was met with cool wet spots where tears had streamed and cooled under the ceiling fan's Medium breeze. I lay motionless as thoughts and sensations rolled over me like fog mingling with tide at sunrise. Still groggy, I couldn't decide if I was underwater nor if the snatching of such deep and audible breaths was entirely necessary. Perhaps subconscious me was leaning into this thing a bit much. As a person who frequently denies myself freedom of expression, especially that of crying in front of others, I cannot deny I am disturbed by this subconscious self- mutiny. I wake to find you guys not only crying, but dramatically so? And you're going to give her permission to hyperventilate like that? C'mon Brain! This is not us. A tiny mental post-it n...

I'd been in the shower for three days, and still I wasn't clean. I looked through the fogged shower glass  to the alarm clock beside my bed. Okay, twenty-seven minutes to be exact. Still, twenty-seven minutes alone in my head can be an eternity... and I had yet to do anything but stand under the spray of hot water. I decided then to speed things up by taking a man's shower.  That is to say, I'd skip the loofah and hair conditioner and use the woodsy-smelling green bottle of 3-N-1, instead of the three lilac scented pastel bottles meant to be used successively.  The combination was meant to unlock a woman's secret beauty according to the happy spokeswoman on their paid advertising blocks during television's insomnia shift. Ha! (had that been aloud?) With no secrets and no beauty to unlock, I should be able to knock this shower out with a one-two punch: hair, body, out!  I had things to do, important, pressing things and I needed to finish them right a...