Ordinary Life

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...

Once upon a time, someone I know was having a very bad day. In fact, it had been a rotten week, and a rotten month, and come to think of it, when had anything ever really been a good at all?! He couldn’t remember. And so, because holidays can illuminate our prickly branches, and because the opportunity was sitting right there amongst the branches like a shiny wrapped present for the taking, my friend threw the Christmas tree, who for the record, was not being much help, down a flight of stairs. Throwing the tree, stubborn as it was, didn’t fix anything, in fact, it broke more things, including the fragile ornaments shaped like children’s hearts, but for all of three seconds, my friend was focused on something other than his terrible, horrible, no good, very bad life.  For the rest of the season however, he was secretly known as The Grinch.  What can one say?  CindyLoo Who calls it like she sees it.  She hasn’t learned nuance, yet.  But they are only alike to a p...

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 ...

When I first saw the bowl-with-a-hole-already-right-in-the-very-bottom, I made an agreement with myself that I would not offer to adopt it until  a.) I had first put my  broken vessel   to use and  b.) I had figured out how to accentuate the bowl's natural blemish. I only kept half of the deal with myself but figured inspiration would set in by the time the bowl arrived in the mail or I would simply use the bowl in its already beautiful natural state instead of trying to turn it into an object lesson for my classroom of one. I thought I might attempt to seal the hole- perhaps with a clear epoxy I've used in the past. I would prove its usefulness despite the natural handicap it had been created with. As the days ticked past, I occasionally found myself humming "There's a hole in the bottom of the sea." and one day last weekend, without any particular song in mind, I queued up my Paul Wright playlist. It was only a short trip from ' My Everything ' to '...

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...