Category: Sparks

  • Reverberations

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

    Reverberations

    By Brenda Bellinger

    I suppose another title for this post could be “Echoes.” Some are gentle, quiet, reminiscent of the fading ring of a bell. Others are loud, persistent—drumbeats, almost—like the hourly news headlines of the brutal slaughters in Ukraine, occasionally punctuated by stories of defiance, strength and resilience.

    It’s Monday morning, the day before I’ll upload this post. I’m sitting at the dining room table in the family home that will soon be listed for sale, waiting for the painter and landscaper to arrive.

    Traffic noise is more noticeable now in the hollow silence of this near-empty space. All but a handful of the original furnishings are gone, replaced with artsy pieces and decor selected by our real estate agent to stage the home.

    Gone is the Tuscan-inspired color scheme that ran throughout the house, a carryover from my folks’ trip to Europe in 1993. It’s hidden under two coats of marketable cream with an occasional accent wall in a trendy shade of light sage.

    It’s odd, sitting here where I always sat during those evening card games with my father and his lady friend, a new modern light fixture above the table. Dad couldn’t stand silence and always had his television turned to the easy listening station on the music channel. “Elevator music,” my husband called it. Between hands, the music would be drowned out by the sound of the battery-operated card shuffler and the squeak of chairs on the hardwood floor as we got up to refill our coffee cups or pour a drink. Midway through the game we’d take a break for dessert.

    And then there was the clock that had been in our family for years. It hung on the dining room wall and chimed on the hour and the half, a sound that never bothered me but apparently drove my younger brothers crazy. All three of them adamantly refused to take the clock (one even threatened to burn it – he was just kidding. I think.) so it came home with me. Like the soundtrack to a favorite movie, the chimes play on, marking time and recreating memories.

    Originally posted as “Echoes” on Brenda’s Blog.

    Brenda Bellinger’s work has appeared in Small Farmer’s Journal, Mom Egg Review, Persimmon Tree, THEMA, the California Writers Club Literary Review and in various anthologies. Her first novel, “Taking Root,” a young adult story of betrayal and courage, is available through most local bookstores and on Amazon.

    Marlene C

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  • I am not That Girl

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

    When I heard “I am not That Girl” by Ariel LaChelle, I knew I wanted it on the Sparks page of my blog.

    It’s longer that what is usually posted here.
    It’s so amazing, I could not resist.
    You can read it and watch Ariel perform “I am not That Girl” in her own strong and melodic voice.

    I am not That Girl
    By Ariel LaChelle

    Even though the term “That Girl”
    Was created by black girls,
    I don’t fit the requirements
    Automatically,
    Because I am a Fat Girl.
    And ‘cause I have tight curls
    That become more angry
    If I dip my scalp in the water,
    Then let my hair air dry
    And don’t try
    To keep it in order.

    No styling,
    No stretching,
    No products,
    No dye,
    But I feel like I might
    If this guy
    Continues to undermine
    My sensitivity.

    My femininity
    Because of my size.
    He’ll generalize me
    Asking “how tall are you,”
    And “how much do you weigh?”
    Before he ever asks me
    “How do you feel?”
    Using my looks as the barometer
    To measure my worth.

    He calls me low value
    He regards me lower than dirt,
    Because at least you can get flowers from dirt.
    I’m not a rose,
    I’m not so easy to pluck.
    I’m no longer so simple so
    I’m less easy to ____

    I get that from my grandma

    Her birthday is Earth day
    And she died in so much pain
    If I’m here and I’m healthy
    How can I complain
    With groundwater in my veins?
    I’m a tree
    Rooted deeply
    I’m big and sturdy
    And whole ecosystems
    Thrive off of me.

    They took the healing power
    Of my fruit for granted
    Just because it’s sour.
    They took forever to
    Make tonic and lemonade with it,
    Then took the credit
    Without realizing that
    Was my intention.
    To show them creativity.
    In the face of adversity
    And provide them with cleansing.

    That’s the smell of clean
    I’m sorry everyone can’t be
    The Giving Tree
    Yes I’m inspired but baby
    This ain’t Shel Silverstein.

    I stay in the background
    Black bodies swayed from my limbs
    And I remember that sound
    Of wind, swooshing around.

    When the picnic was not a good thing,
    And the sudden smell of burning flesh
    Could not be washed out
    By the storm
    And the rainbow was not enough
    To take our mind off of it
    ‘Cause it was the norm.

    The picnic was not a good thing,
    So we made the cookout.
    And we made enough bread
    Finally
    To build a tree house instead
    We saying: “We Made It!”
    But we live in our pain.
    It’s bittersweet,
    Like a house made of gingerbread
    That would lure me in
    Just so the owner could
    Devour me.

    Fattened up
    Like a gullible kid
    Who loves cake.
    I love the way
    That sugar feels in my heart
    And how savory delicacies
    Stimulate my palette
    And my mind,
    Like a painting of flavor
    I savor
    It like the wine
    That I’ve been known to decline.
    I guess we all have a vice.
    We all get drunk on something.

    I used to smoke and have sex
    To clear my head.
    I used to cut myself
    And release tears
    In the form of blood
    From the gashes.
    I used to burn myself
    In ways that wouldn’t
    Turn me to ashes,
    Only hurt myself
    Until I could forget
    What had happened.

    But I am no longer THAT girl.

    Now I just eat my feelings sometimes
    So yeah, I am a fat girl.
    But I can lose a few pounds,
    That’s an easy weight to drop.
    The one that’s harder and heavier
    Is what you carry around in your soul

    That compels you to
    Rip others apart,
    In hopes of looking inside of them
    And seeing something you’re missing.

    I hope you see
    This vulnerability
    As an invitation to do the same
    And find some chivalry
    Or at least some civility
    I hope you see the love of God in me
    Because I go to lions’ dens
    Trying to do some good
    And I come back feeling like Job
    Y’all ganging up on me!

    Because I don’t wear your colors,
    I wear all of them.
    Because I don’t act like others
    I be appalling them.
    But I don’t try to shut anyone up
    I listen to you
    And all I hear is anger and wounds.
    Yeah, I do

    Need to lose weight, but honey…
    So do you.

    Ariel LaChelle is an independent singer, songwriter, poet, composer, and arranger with an Associate’s Degree in Music Production from The Los Angeles Recording School.
    As a child, she started to write poetry and displayed a natural affinity for storytelling. This came in handy during her teenage years, which were riddled with trials, trauma, and triggers caused by abuse, homelessness, toxic relationships, depressive episodes, and panic attacks. Writing, singing, and praying became her outlets as she recovered from self-harm scars–both external and internal.
    Her goal is to write divinely-inspired pieces that explore the beauty and poetry in the nuances of life, love, pain, and interconnectedness as we know it today. She sees her poetry and music as a small contribution to the story and the soundtrack of life.

    Note from Marlene: I think Ariel has accomplished her goal of writing “divinely-inspired pieces.”

    I learned about Ariel at one of Kevin Powell’s writing workshops. A shout out to Kevin Powell for inspiring writers.

    Spring/Summer 2022: Kevin is offering Friday Night Writing, and Sunday Writer Events, info on Kevin’s Facebook Page.

    Marlene C

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  • Pull

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

    Pull

    By Guy Biederman

    Writing backwards, I row toward home.

    Note from Marlene:  Your turn. Write a story in six words.

    Guy Biederman teaches short fiction and is the author of five collections of short work, including Nova Nights (Nomadic Press,), Edible Grace (KYSO Flash Press), and Soundings and Fathoms, stories (Finishing Line Press).  His work has appeared in many journals including Carve, Flashback Fiction, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Bull, great weather for Media, Riddled with Arrows, The Disappointed Housewife, and Exposition Review, where he was twice a Flash 405 winner. Guy’s stories, prose, and poems have also won a Publisher’s Choice Award, an Editor’s choice Award, and been nominated for the Best of the Net.

    Born in the Chihuahuan Desert near the Mexican border, Guy grew up on a Sting-Ray in Ventura, learned to write in the Peace Corps during a civil war in Guatemala, honed his craft pulling weeds and planting flowers as a gardener in San Francisco, and later received his M.A. from San Francisco State, where his teaching career began.

    Guy has been a creative-writing midwife since 1991. His collection of short work, Translated From The Original: one-inch-punch fiction will be published by Nomadic Press in 2022.

    You can purchase a copy of Nova Nights here (and also support a really great independent publisher).

    #guybiederman #nomadicpress #unityinthecommunity #poetryislife #nationalpoetrymonth

    Meet Guy in [Zoom] person:

    May 5 and May 19, 2022: Guy will teach flash fiction writing. Free on Zoom through Recovery Writing of Idaho.

    Marlene C

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  • Face the Sun

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

    Face the Sun

    By Flynn

    I see that you are broken badly

    For you this can’t be fun

    I know I cannot fix you

    Still, I’ll help you face the sun

    Flynn is a musician, writer, and artist, originally from New York City, now living in Seattle, WA. He is the creator of SinkCoffiti art.

    ​As a lifelong artist, Flynn is always looking for the next opportunity to translate his everyday experiences into artistic expressions of art and music.

    SinkCoffiti is an original art design concept using coffee, light, and photography to create unique art. 

    Originally posted on Suleika Jaouad’s The Isolation Journals Facebook Page.

    #justwrite #amwriting #iamawriter

    Marlene C

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  • EGGS-istentialism

    EGGS-istentialism

    By Su Shafer

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

    Fragile egg is not so fragile.

    Blank slate not so blank.

    Like a bud inwardly smiling

    About the blossom to come.

    Potential quietly waiting,

    Imagining possibilities.

    A whole universe before creation.

    How can it contain so much excitement

    And remain so calm

    And confident?

    It doesn’t fear the breaking

    Or the new world waiting

    Outside its shell.

    Su Shafer is a creative crafter, fabricating bits of writing in poetry and short stories, and generating characters that appear in paintings and sit on various bookshelves and coffee tables.

    She lives in a cottage on the Olympic Peninsula of Washington, and always has an extra cup of tea ready should a Sasquatch stop by on its the way to Island Lake nearby. Adventure is always afoot in the untamed forests of the Pacific North West!

    Marlene C

  • A Pantoum for Constance Demby

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

    A Pantoum for Constance Demby

    By Leigh Anne Caryl

    They said she died almost without notice
    Thank God her music lingers
    Beautiful transcendent videos
    Visuals of stained glass gothic cathedrals
     
    Thank God her music lingers
    An unapologetic exploration of meditative melodies
    Lifting me above the Ethos Grand
    Visuals of stained glass gothic cathedrals
     
    An unapologetic exploration of meditative melodies
    Beautiful transcendent videos
    Visuals of stained glass gothic cathedrals
    They said she died almost without notice

    ______________________________________
    Tribute to a Marin County Friend I will never forget

    Leigh Anne Caryl is a pen name. This is her poetic inner child and muse that has been a lifelong writer and constant internal friend, who feels safe to reveal the emotions, and deepest secrets within her soul.

    Her first published poem was in 1989. She was printed nationally by Prentice Hall Press, as the forward to a 21-step book on recovery titled, “Soul Survivors” by J. Patrick Gannon, PhD.

    Her audience reaches survivors suffering from trauma and abuse. Leigh Anne writes about what her alter ego cannot. Along the way, she intertwined original healing music, and her lyrical message of hope, with musical friendships of different genres that sparked her ambition and personal growth.

    This pantoum is dedicated to the memory of a woman with a special personality, who wasn’t afraid to be a pioneer, a New Age innovator, and a mentor.

    Marlene C

  • Divine Candy

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

    Divine Candy

    By Sandra de Helen

    On Route 66, Dead Man’s Curve
    our house with an outhouse on seven acres
    with no running water,
    no candy store in sight.
     

    We ate the eggs our chickens lay,
    beans, potatoes, and greens
    Mom picked in the woods.
    No sweets except on holidays.
     

    Grandma baked pies,
    Aunt Mame made candy:
    Chocolate fudge, peanut butter bars,
    and her heavenly divinity.
     

    Billowy clouds of white sugar,
    studded with walnuts Mame herself
    picked out with her prized nutcracker set.
     

    Black walnuts the family gathered together
    to gather from alongside gravel roads
    of the nearby countryside.
     

    Once each year every small family
    within our larger family
    were gifted a decorated box
    of Aunt Mame’s treasured sweets.
     

    We rationed them, made them last
    by savoring each bite with the mindfulness
    we’ve long since forgotten.
     

    Only my sister and I are left to recall
    our Aunt Mame and her gifts.
    No one thought to ask for her recipe,
    and no family member makes divinity.
     

    Sandra de Helen lives and writes in Portland, Oregon. She is author of the Shirley Combs/Dr. Mary Watson mystery series, set in Portland; Till Darkness Comes, a thriller set in Kansas City, Missouri; and four collections of lesbian poetry published by Launch Point Press.

    Sandra is a member of the Golden Crown Literary Society, Dramatists Guild, Honor Roll! and International Centre for Women Playwrights.

    Follow her on Twitter @dehelen

    Follow her on Instagram @dehelen

    Check out her Facebook page.

    Marlene C

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  • Instructions for See’s Candy: A Love Song Learned from My Mother

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

    Instructions for See’s Candy: A Love Song Learned from My Mother

    By Susy Pareto

    “Life is a box of chocolates. Here’s how you do it,” she said without another word.

    Pick up a piece.
             chocolate filling
             marzipan
             truffle
             brickle
    Pause to note the smooth, warm texture between thumb and finger. 

    Now, bring it to your mouth,
    And slowly,
               steadily,
                          bite down.

    Teeth cut through the buttery darkness
    Like cutting blades on a garden clipper
    The sweetness seeps out like sap
               covers the tongue
               coats the palate
               transforms the sides into
                        cool
                        creamy chocolate-y cocoa-y
                        truffle-y nougat-y praline-y
                        other-worldly
                        let-me-lie-down and dreamil-y

    Eyes closed.
    Nothing exists but mouth,
    And tongue,
                twirling, swirling, luring
    All thoughts into one luscious lump of pleasure.
                  Chocolate.

    And I want you again, and again, and again 

    A lifelong love affair, long after she’s gone.

    Susy Pareto writes, gardens and lives in Petaluma, California. A former translator, she spent many years in Europe and holds a BA in Design and an MA in Linguistics. Her favorite pieces are as yet unpublished.

    Marlene C

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  • Inspiration

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

    Inspiration

    By Brenda Bellinger

    Toward the end of his life, my father, who used to enjoy painting, would often say he couldn’t “get in the mood” or “just lost interest.” His easel stood waiting, a blank canvas in place and a table of brushes and paints nearby.

    Sometimes, writing can feel that way, as though you’re engaged in a stare down with a blank screen. Which of you is going to win? You can wait to be inspired (it might be a while), you can use a writing prompt or you can just let your thoughts spill onto the page in a stream-of-consciousness fashion and see what shape they take.

    The thing about inspiration is that it’s bound to strike at an inopportune moment like when you’re in the shower or you’re driving or you’re in that liminal space between barely awake and soundly asleep. Just in case the stars align, and it happens to strike when I’m ready and waiting for it, I always carry a small notebook and pen with me.

    We recently joined our son and his family for a day at Angel Island in the middle of San Francisco Bay. The weather was perfect and the ride over on the ferry smooth. They had reserved a campground for the evening and loaded some of their camping gear on a two-seater bicycle. Our almost six-year-old granddaughter alternated between riding on the bike and walking alongside. We were walking together enjoying our view of the bay when she said something about a blade of grass “swishing” in the breeze. She froze in her tracks, bicycle helmet still on her head and said “Nana, I need to stop right here and write a poem.”

    I loved how we all moved over to the side of the path and allowed this to happen. She found a place in the grass and sat down next to her mom. I handed her my notebook and pen and for just a moment, the entire world seemed to pause as a small poem about a butterfly emerged from the pure chrysalis of a child’s mind.

    Brenda Bellinger’s work has appeared in Small Farmer’s Journal, Mom Egg Review, Persimmon Tree, THEMA, the California Writers Club Literary Review and in various anthologies, including The Write Spot: Reflections, and The Write Spot: Musings and Ravings From a Pandemic Year (available at your local bookseller and at Amazon).

    Her first novel, Taking Root, a young adult story of betrayal and courage, is available through most local bookstores and on Amazon.

    Note from Marlene: Brenda’s Blog is a collection of thoughtful and entertaining reflections on what matters.

    “Inspiration,” was originally posted as “Carpe Momentum” on Brenda’s Blog, February 22, 2022.

    #amwriting #justwrite #iamawriter

    Marlene C

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  • The Smell of Old, Ancient Time

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

    The Smell of Old, Ancient Time

    By Mary E. O’Brien

    Old smells like perfume

    That’s past its life cycle

    The scent you get when you are

    Hoping for exquisite but discover stale.

     

    Old is stale sheets that have absorbed

    The fevers and worries

    And peaceful slumbers of

    The maximum number of humans.


     Old time has absorbed into its pores

    A thousand smiles, given in vain

    To cheer or to greet,

    Unreturned.


     Old time is a black satin circle,

    Etched with circular lines that contain,

    Miraculously, violins piercing the sorry soul

    Or wandering heart.


     Old, ancient time is beige sand

    Cradling the bones of saints and gladiators

    Clinging to crevices to keep their shame and secrets in the grave

    Which we all have a right to.


     Old, ancient time smells like a baby’s hair.

    The very start of time carries the

    Baby’s suckling breath

    Carries the breath of a babe from dawn to dusk of mankind.

    Mary E. O’Brien is a Retired Trophy Wife (RTW) from the Pacific Northwest. She has volunteered for the Court Appointed Special Advocate program, founded local therapeutic hospital humor programs, and supported various other non-profits and do-goodery.  

    Enjoying the artistry of music, the music of words, the words of healing, and the healing of art, Mary is spending her pandemic hibernation immersing herself in art journaling, watercolor and writing.  

    She lives in Idaho with her tolerant husband near her comedic grandchildren, and is loved by an elderly, sugared golden retriever. 

    #amwriting #justwrite #iamawriter

    Marlene C