The Last Waltz

  • The Last Waltz

    The Last Waltz

    By Kathy Guthormsen

    There’s nothing quite like waltzing through the kitchen with a refrigerator and a mop, sweeping and gliding through pooling water to get your heart pumping in the morning.

    The refrigerator had been sick. First came a fever that caused all the food – and it was full of food because the kids were visiting – to thaw and warm. Then it exhaled and released the freon from its pipes. That was last week, before the fridge doctor came to try to revive it. This morning, it gasped its last breath, lost control of its plumbing and poured water onto the floor. Hence the waltz.

    I summoned my inner Wonder Woman and wrestled the thing out of its cubby. It did not want to move from its bed, but I wasn’t going to take NO for an answer. I managed to turn off the water before grabbing an armful of towels and the mop and asking the fridge to dance. We sloshed and twirled and I mopped and wiped. Now, the forlorn and lifeless fridge is sitting in the middle of the kitchen waiting for the appliance morgue van to take it away.

    I hadn’t even had my second cup of coffee yet.

    A new fridge is coming this afternoon.

    Growing up in Skagit Valley, Washington with its verdant farmland gave Kathy Guthormsen an appreciation for the promise and beauty of nature’s bounty. The Cascade and Olympic mountain ranges and old growth forests offered the magic of things unseen and fostered her fertile imagination.

    Kathy’s writing has been published several times on The Write Spot Blog and in four The Write Spot anthologies.

    Her Halloween story, “Come, Calls the Demon” won first place in the Petaluma Argus Courier’s Halloween Story Contest in October2020.

    Her book, The Story of Jazz and Vihar, is available from your local bookseller.

    When she isn’t writing, Kathy volunteers at the Bird Rescue Center in Santa Rosa, California, working with and presenting resident raptors as part of their education and outreach program. Walking around with a hawk or an owl on her fist is one of her favorite pastimes.

    Kathy lives in northern California with her husband, one psychotic cat, a small flock of demanding chickens, and a pond full of peaceful koi. She maintains a blog, Kathy G. Space, where she occasionally posts essays, short stories, and fairy tales.

    Marlene C

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  • Time . . .

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Waste Not

    By Desiree Cooper

    “Time stretching languid in the humid afternoon tastes like caramel cake. It smells like pine needles in the rain.” —excerpted from “Waste Not,” by Desiree Cooper, River Teeth, Beautiful Things, September 29, 2025

    Desiree Cooper is the author of the award-winning collection of flash fiction, Know the Mother. Her fiction, poetry and essays have appeared in The Best Small Fictions 2018, Callaloo, Michigan Quarterly Review, The Rumpus, and Best African American Fiction 2010. Her essay, “We Have Lost Too Many Wigs,” was a notable essay in The Best American Essays 2019.

    “Using truth and wit, Desiree Cooper was the perfect conduit for university presses to have larger conversations about diversity and representation through books starting with their covers.

    Cooper, an electric speaker, is a master at navigating the tricky waters of difficult conversations by never excluding failures, but instead owning and learning from them and encouraging others to grow from these lessons.” —Annie Martin, Editor-in-Chief, Wayne State University Press

    Marlene C

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  • It’s a Jungle

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    It’s a Jungle

    By Marlene Cullen

    It’s a jungle out there. I’d like to peg Bumbling Unreliable Gardener, aka Bug, on a hook and let him hang until cured.

    Except, I wonder, is he at fault for my jungle of a yard? Should I have been more forceful in not allowing him to install a plethora of plants in my pursuit of a peaceful place?   

    I discovered Bug on social media. He answered my gardening questions as if he was a landscaping guru. So, I hired him. Big mistake. Huge.

    He handed me an extensive questionnaire to compose my heart’s desire in a garden. Winding paths. Check. Whimsical. Check. Calm, serene. Check, check. I envisioned a landscape of pleasant plants flowing in meandering paths. No white plants.

    What I got was spiky plants here, there, everywhere. Festucas are so overgrown they barricade the path from the sidewalk to the storage shed. I need a machete to get to the innocent outbuilding. It stands sentinel, even though the fescue threatens to obliterate it.

    The sweet-sounding lamb’s ears look like aliens landed in my yard and vomited.

    Guara, taller than skyscrapers, threaten to overtake the clothesline with white flowers. White! Didn’t I say I did not want white flowers?

    Pause. Take a breath.

    I transplanted seven Guaras. They are majestic in their new location, waving their glorious flowers like a princess atop a float in a parade.

    I successfully transplanted three festucas. I was as excited as a rabbit in a field of carrot tops. But then, the green stalks turned yellow. When I pulled on them, they came right up, as easy as pinching a wad of cotton candy from its paper cone holder. I stared at the clump in my hand. It looked like something a scarecrow could use to stuff himself or herself with. The roots had disappeared from the universe like a black hole.   

    The irrigation system has misbehaved since Bug installed it. There were leaks in several places that spurted water like they were errant fire hydrants.

    One zone completely stopped squirting water, as if we hadn’t paid our water bill.

    The sad but not neglected yard is a gardener’s nightmare. To repair the leaky irrigation tubing my husband and I had to disturb the calm bark mulch, forming it into mounds, so we could access the misbehaving parts. We plugged them and prepared to move on to the next laborious step: Removing 27 plants that are overcrowding, overproducing, and just not wanted. Sorry, not sorry, plants.

    Step One. Sharpen the machete.

    Step Two. It’s hot in the jungle. Go inside. Get a cool drink. Check email. Check Facebook because, you never know, there might be something important there.

    Step Three. It’s the middle of the afternoon. Nap time.

    Step Four. Dinner Time.

    Step Five. Plan to tame the jungle another day.

    Epilogue: Twenty plants have been re-homed. The lamb’s ears became mulch to help other plants live long and prosper.

    Freewrite inspired by the writing prompt, Metaphors and Hyberbole on The Write Spot Blog.

    Marlene Cullen grew up in the Mission District of San Francisco where she visited the library weekly, carrying home as many books as she could carry. She has always been fascinated with words and language.

    Marlene Cullen is a writing workshop facilitator and founder of Writers Forum of Petaluma. Her Jumpstart Writing Workshops provide essential elements for successful writing.  She hosts The Write Spot Blog, where memorable writing is featured on the Sparks page.

    Marlene C

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  • My Heart

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    My Heart

    By Karen Handyside Ely

    My heart is a newly uncluttered closet. Organized and cleared of discarded outfits that smothered the floor, made movement impossible, allowed no forward progress.

    The air, once static and heavy with body-image accusations, is now peaceful and fresh. Eerily quiet with a hanging row of color-coded dresses that don’t hurl recrimination and neatly stacked t-shirts, crisply folded and segregated. Controlled. Smelling faintly of the lavender sachet I’ve finally replenished on the bottom shelf… now that I can reach it.

    Favorite sweaters, unworn for ages, have been lovingly salvaged, gently removed from their hangers, and boxed for consignment shops and resale. Traitorous pants and blouses, once thought to be friends, are stuffed haphazardly into hefty bags to sit out on the sidewalk for donated pick-up.

    My heart is a freshly weeded garden, no longer raucous with errant fruit and thorny, overgrown blackberry vines.

    The vines must be cut back. They have overrun the garden. Sweet berries have been harvested, the memory of their syrupy tang still coating the back of my tongue. It is hard, punishing work, leaving bruised and bleeding hands inside scruffy gardening gloves. I love my berry bushes, but they put up a fight when I try to tame them. They take up precious space. They have run their course.

    I’m sad but content in this season of my life – rethinking, regrouping, reprioritizing. A process that is painful but cleansing. A surgical and focused attempt to remove what doesn’t serve. Saying good-by to illusions of “what was” that have piled up on the closet floor. Illusions that are now choking new growth in the garden.

    This is not a personal rebuke of friends and family, who have disappointed my idealistic expectations. Just a reshuffle of who and where and how I spend my time. I’m saying good-bye to my own hurt feelings and the painful disconnection that is muddying my water, over-running my closet, dominating my garden. I am losing my fear of letting go of what has already changed to make space and sanctity for what is to come.

    “My Heart” was inspired by the writing prompt, Metaphors and Hyberbole.

    There are some who say that Karen Handyside Ely was born with her nose firmly planted in a book. She is a life-long lover of unusual words, lilting phrases, and absurd stories.

    After a brief stint as a credit analyst in San Francisco and New York City, and a 30+year career as a mom and “professional” volunteer in Scottsdale, AZ, Karen retired to her beloved hometown of Petaluma, CA.

    She delights in difficult crossword puzzles, singing with the Petaluma Choir, and anything baked by her husband James.

    Karen has been published in “The Write Spot to Jumpstart Your Writing: Discoveries,” “The Write Spot: Reflections,” “The Write Spot: Possibilities,” “The Write Spot: Writing as a Path to Healing,” and “The Write Spot: Musings and Ravings From a Pandemic Year.”
    The Write Spot books are available from your local bookseller and on Amazon (both print and as e-readers)

    Marlene C

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  • Customer Service

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Customer Service

    By Su Shafer

    Mr. Wright came hobbling in today

    Leaning heavily on a cane

    He needed to pay his bill.

    His good knee has gone out

    His bad knee has been watching from the sidelines

    Still wondering about the replacement

    Promised a few years ago.

    But he had to have bi-pass surgery

    On a heart which has been hobbling along too.

    He had come straight from the dentist

    But was smiling anyway

    The droopy smile of a weary man

    “Getting old is so hard,” he said,

    Stroking the sparse fuzz on his head.

     “Is it really worth it?”

    “It is today,” I said smiling back.

    In the way someone

    Who is really glad to see you smiles.

    He nodded,

    his mouth drooping a little less.

    Su Shafer is a creative crafter, fabricating bits of writing in poetry and short stories, and other bits into characters that appear in paintings or sit on various bookshelves and coffee tables. She lives in a cottage on the Olympic Peninsula of Washington, where the tea kettle is always whistling and the biscuits freshly baked. One never knows who might stop by to share a rainy afternoon. And all are welcome!

    Marlene C

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  • Relinquishing the Wagon

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Relinquish the Wagon

    By CM Riddle

    Many of us go through life dragging a wagon behind us. Gripping the handle, we continue to pull it along while we try grasping at things ahead of us with the other hand. Imagine how much more we could attain if only we could bring ourselves to release that dang wagon.

    What could possibly be so important in that wagon, you may ask. Well, there’s a lot of history in it, I will tell you that.

    It is packed with cherished memories and painful experiences. It gets heavier every year. The grudges weigh a lot, and the guilt slows your pace. But with every step, tugging your wrist, pulling your elbow, and making those broad shoulders, which carry the weight of the world, so weary your, grip begins to slip.

    You wonder where your breaking point will be. Will it be the next uphill battle or will you reach the top of the mountain with elation just to push it over the edge?

    Will you watch the wagon roll slowly at first, then pick up speed, to finally crash and splinter into a zillion pieces?

    Is that where you will find relief? A shattered wagon at the bottom of the mountain, there, bleeding where the colors of your life run together and you no longer recognize what is what?

    Or, what if you do this? What if you take a risk? What if you take a chance and unpack one thing to leave behind. If you do, what will it be? A bad memory, hurt feelings, or a lie you told. Might it be your distaste for Swiss chard? Are you willing to sacrifice a friendship that’s run long past its expiration, or throw out that old ratty quilt that a distant relative gave you which was in bad shape when you got it?

    Is there a piece of you that you will let fall away? Your stubbornness, or maybe your inclination to argue over every little trigger? Might you exchange those traits for peace, and if you do, will the wagon weigh less? Perhaps.

    Are you carrying around a decision that has yet to be made, or did you make the wrong choice and you ruminate over it? No matter. Each day presents the opportunity to begin anew.

    A wise man once said, “Make the choice, if it’s not right, another avenue will present itself. Then choose again. Time is what’s valuable, don’t waste it with indecision.”

    Those words of wisdom keep my wagon mobile, but there are days I still find stuff to lug around. 

    I hope you will take this advice from me; there is always another wagon filled with crap. They are all over the place. Many people have abandoned their wagons, and you can too.

    The method is to let go with the hand holding the past and to reach out with both hands to grab the future. Your future, the fresh clean page of opportunity, gifts, optimism, growth, light, and empowerment are before you. Don’t be afraid to extend both hands, to fill them up. You will be amazed at what you can do once you relinquish your wagon. And, if for some reason you need to get anything from it, it will be there along the path, right where you left it.

    Now go. Grasp life with both hands.

    Tina Riddle Deason writes under the name CM Riddle. An author and creator, Tina has published several articles and books, including those about rituals and ceremonies. She is a High Priestess who leads a variety of Women’s Circles. A mother and grandmother who lives with her husband and “fur-babies” in Rohnert Park, CA.

    Marlene C

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  • Any Haircut Is Better With a Smile

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Any Haircut Is Better With a Smile

    By DSBriggs

    My hair is what? Old, graying and instead of wiry, fine. Since I have been retired my hair style is whatever takes no work and usually in need of a trim or cut. 

    Haircuts, however, are so darned expensive that to save money I used cut-rate clip-joints. I decided to let my hair grow out. It eventually came down to my shoulders. I tried to wear it back with a French braid or bun or even a pony tail. This dream came crashing down when I no longer had the hand strength or coordination to use rubber bands designed for fine hair. Too klutzy to use hair accessories like combs or claws or barrettes, I resorted to clips. My friends were too kind to tell me that really wasn’t working either.

    So, I decided to splurge. Go to a real salon that shampoos and styles. 

    I met the hairdresser. She seemed really nice.  When she offered me coffee or tea. I thought, why not? Part of the splurge.  She sat me in front of a full-length mirror and left. 

    Off she went to get my coffee. She was gone so long I thought maybe she had gone to Starbucks. But she re-emerged with a cup. I apologized to her for the hassle of having to brew a fresh pot. (What else could take so long?) She said that the coffee was already made but she had been so busy she hadn’t had time to pee. I could understand that scenario perfectly. She also admitted that her mom had called with an update about her sister who was hospitalized the night before.

    We finally settled in for the haircut. We looked at pictures of haircuts because she wanted to make sure we were on the same page. I wanted a long pixie with feathered bangs and some height on top. Several of the styles we looked at were what I had in mind. The only style I did not like was an angular, very short cut with long bangs swept to the side. I specifically said I did not want that type of cut. Hair in my face drives me nuts. She said that she understood and went to work.  

    I noticed my hair kept getting shorter and shorter as she talked about her sister. Since it was in the back I wasn’t too concerned as inches came off and hair piled up around the chair.

    It wasn’t until the sides started disappearing that I commented that it was a bit short.  After the fact was a stupid time to point that out. I was still hopeful my bangs would be okay. No. She cut my hair exactly like the picture I did not like. Heavy glop of hair over one eye. 

    The dastardly deed was done.  I paid and over-tipped because while I was disappointed, I didn’t want to make her feel worse since her family was in melt-down.

    As I write, I’m wondering if my lack of communication with the hairdresser and my doctor the day before was my fault? I used to pride myself on explaining so clearly that people understood. When had I lost that ability? Have I lost it or is the world so crazy now that people do not listen carefully? I certainly can’t listen to the news at all. If I listened carefully, I would just want to get on an iceberg and float away.

    So while I sort of have forgiven the hair cutter, I have not forgiven myself for allowing her to ignore my wishes. 

    Ironically, I have received many compliments. I have also been reminded that:

    Hair grows back and any haircut is better with a smile.

    DSBriggs and her hair live in Northern California. She has been writing with timed prompts for over ten years. Her writing has been published  in  Marlene Cullen’s The Write Spot  Anthologies.  The books are available through Amazon and your local bookseller.

    When not writing, Donna enjoys reading, thinking about quilting, and walks with Moose, her 12 and a half year old hound. She also enjoys travel and time with good friends. 

    Marlene C

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  • Grandma Carrie

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Grandma Carrie

    By Robin Mills

    I remember the scent of my grandma Carrie, slightly sour mixed with ivory soap. I remember the click of her heels, the kidney shaped metal cleat meant to prolong the life of shoe soles tapping on the cold hard tile floor of their Palm Springs apartment. I remember seeing the white hoop cheese she used to stuff her home-made blintzes, nestled between her front teeth when she leaned in to whisper something in my ear, and her thick toenails covered in shiny red polish.

    Grandma Carrie came across the ocean as a child with her mother, from Kiev, fleeing pogroms and leaving behind some of her ten siblings who would never follow, only to be lost to concentration camps. They settled, living in a New York walk-up, likely shared with more people than there were bedrooms. As a young woman she took secretarial courses and was a member of the American Socialist Party.  She married Morris in 1924, and they moved out west where the weather was friendlier.

    My parents often dropped my brother and me at their home and went off to have kid- free time around an oval shaped pool full of shimmery blue water, under the hot desert sun.  My mother, in her black and white zebra bikini and dark cat-eye glasses, lounged poolside in the quiet.

    Carrie toted us around the desert in her blue Buick, to air-conditioned malls, miniature golf and parks full of cool grass where we laid down under shade trees until the moisture soaked through our clothes.

    At night we slept on the fold out couch in Carrie’s living room, sleeping sideways to avoid the cold hard metal bar that otherwise poked our backs. In the morning, the earthy scent of cracked wheat hot cereal wafted from the kitchen. We sat at the round table covered in a sticky plastic tablecloth rimmed with roses. My grandfather Morris ate soft boiled eggs and read the newspaper, folding it longways in thirds, flipping from section to section. His days were spent hunched next to the radio listening to KCBS news and weather on the hour, wringing his hands or staring off into space. He suffered from “undiagnosed pain in the bones” and lived Palm Springs summers in a wool cardigan and hat.

    My father in passing once mentioned Carrie was married, before Morris. He had a name, Meyer Lesowitz, even pictures of this man. Pictures of them, hiking with friends, posing with her stylish short hair, head band and knicker hiking pants. They were often arm in arm, or close enough to be, atop a boulder or mountain peak.

    We were told it was a short marriage. A year. And that he had died in 1924, a young man.

    In going through boxes of photos and memorabilia I found an autograph book dated the year of this man’s supposed death where he was mentioned as a good friend and wished best of luck. And a College of the City of New York yearbook. And a letter in the New York Times, April 25, 1944 signed by Meyer Lesowitz Teacher of the Blind, 20 years after his “death”.

    My grandmother had all this in her box of memorabilia that was passed from her to my father to me.

    That autograph book still sits on my desk, waiting for me to find more mentions of him online, or a family member to surface and tell us everything of his life. So far, nothing.

    Robin Mills lives in Petaluma California. By day she is an American Sign Language interpreter. Her non-work hours are spent writing, swimming, hiking, photographing the world around her, traveling, playing in various art forms and swing dancing. She has work published in Underbelly Press, The 200 Word Short Story and The Write Spot and was a finalist for publication in Big Brick Review.

    Marlene C

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  • Getting By

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Getting By

    By Ken Delpit

    Success used to mean acing a calculus exam. Success now means increasing a recipe’s called-for two tablespoons by one-third.

    Success used to mean deking a defender and swishing a jumper as time ran out. Success now means changing direction on the living room carpet and not tripping over the cat toy.

    Success used to mean getting several Jeopardy! questions before the contestants did. Success now means remembering why it is I suddenly got up from the recliner and walked into the kitchen.

    Success used to mean handling a ten-digit long-distance telephone number that is to be called, a ten-digit telephone number that is to be charged, and a twelve-digit billing number, all from memory, while tapping into a pay phone and thinking ahead of what I intend to say. Success now means figuring out where I left my cell phone.

    Success used to mean measuring the time between, “Oh, I know that” and retrieving the answer from memory in split seconds. Success now measures that time in hours, sometimes days, and always long after it’s too late.

    Success used to mean deftly handling all those commonly misspelled English words. Success now means getting close enough that Siri can guess what I’m trying to say with four options or fewer.

    Success used to mean catching and righting myself after stepping in a depression on uneven terrain. Success now means choosing the softest possible landing spot before I hit.

    Success used to mean graduating all those TO-DOs on my list, one by one, into “Done” status. Success now means remembering where I put my TO-DO list.

    Success used to mean striving, achieving, accomplishing. Success now means getting by without further injury.

    Despite all evidence to the contrary, Ken Delpit often seems stuck in an earlier decade when it comes to aging. Faced with the truth, and in the spirit of better to laugh than to cry, Ken compares life now versus life then.

    Marlene C

  • A Place in the Sun

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    A Place in the Sun

    By CM Riddle

    I often find myself writing about the past. It’s easy to remember and type the facts. But today I am writing about the future.

    Instead of facts, I’ll define the future and bring it into reality. My vision of the future is inspired by a song from the past.

    Tuning to Spotify I hear Stevie Wonder belt, “There’s a place in the sun where there’s room for everyone, gonna find me a place in the sun.”

    The lyrical line weaves its way through my thoughts and soon I imagine the most amazing place. A place without pain or suffering. A place filled with hope and everyday joy. That’s where I want to be. 

    Suddenly an esoteric feeling hits deep within my bones. Not knowing if I will live long enough to experience what’s coming, I am somehow assured that there is a future that holds a place in the sun, and it will exist for everyone.

    Swept in confidence, I am aware my grandchildren and all future children of the world will build this place of security. They emerge from a new place, one that is ancient and innovative at the same time. They bring with them kindness and silliness. They offer help and reach out without expectations of return. They are fulfilled by giving more than taking and this place of beauty flourishes.

    I see a future where harmony takes place with every step and the earth is green and growing. I see health and wholeness beyond what we have. The world is cast in a beautiful, energizing, healing, vibrational saffron. A warmth that embraces humankind and melts greed. It is a vibrant color that restores instead of dismantles. The glow of the world is one of ecstasy.

    People and communities take on challenges and step-up, leaving no one to suffer. These tribes and families establish a new kind of wealth. One that does not involve money, banking, or stocks. They find prosperity in creativity and craft within each other. Bartering and trades for betterment are the new investment. And most importantly, no one is left hungry or homeless. There is no need to escape through drugs or other stimulants. 

    The air and the water return to perfect balance and if just one person tries to “own” what belongs to all, well, then they will have to go without for a long time. That seems a fair consequence. 

    This place is filled with more walking and cooking. More gatherings, more laughter. More wisdom and discovery. There is no such thing as insecurities of any kind… food, housing, trade goods. It’s all there for the giving and receiving.

    Support comes from all sources. Family, establishments, community. This is the dream I have. I may not be here on this plane, but it is coming. There will be an element of peace greater than anything ever imagined—and this time around it will be real.

    Tina Riddle Deason writes under the name CM Riddle. An author and creator, Tina has published several articles and books, including those about rituals and ceremonies. She is a High Priestess who leads a variety of Women’s Circles. A mother and grandmother who lives with her husband and “fur-babies” in Rohnert Park, CA.

    Marlene C

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