Category: Sparks

  • A Day in Rome

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

    A Day in Rome

    By Rebecca Olivia Jones

    We arrive by taxi at our pensione in Rome. The taxi driver had been blowing his nose but he was helpful with the luggage.

    We check in at the front kiosk of what had been a convent. A couple of nuns assign us a room with two single beds. We are informed of a continental breakfast in the kitchen 6:00 am-8:00 am and the rules that include making your bed each day and leaving the building by 9:00. Be back before 10:00 pm when the front door is locked.

    The pensione is located up the street from the Forum, across the cobblestone street from an ancient church with a Gothic bell tower and near a tiny restaurante that makes fresh pasta.

    For two days we hike the hills and ruins of Rome and taste divine piatti and gelato.

    The third day, my nose, lungs, and throat blow up with a bad cold. We are flying back home to California the following day, so it is decided that I break the rules and stay in my tiny bed.

    My partner supplies me with rough tissues, medicinal tasting cough drops, and apple juice and leaves for his day of adventure.

    I lie with the large window open and aurally tour our little street of Rome. I hear all kinds of shoes clip and clop on the cobblestones.

    I listen to languages that seem to include Italian dialects, Australian English, French, German and Japanese, even dog bark.

    Around noon I sniff garlic and onions and tart tomato. I visualize the sizzle of sautéed delicate white pesce and tangy radicchio.

    I am too sick to long for a glass of vino rosso but a mug of soothing peppermint tea with honey would be nice.

    I am drowsy when the tonal power of a pipe organ resounds from the church across the street. It continues with the harmonies of a Bach prelude, then a delicate Vivaldi cantata and goes on to classic renditions of hymns, some familiar to me.

    I am lifted off my feverish mattress by the vibrations of the glorious music.

    I am ready to enter heaven.

    As the concert concludes, two nuns walk into my room, as surprised with my presence as I am of theirs. Through universal sign language, “no” and “si,” they ask if they can get me anything.

    I croak “grazie” and decline, embarrassed at being caught still “a casa.”

    They kindly leave me alone. (I am relieved my partner had made his bed.)

    Soon, he brings me a takeout bowl of salty minestrone and chewy panne rustica. He fills the room with excited energy, blows me a kiss and takes off for parts unknown. Finally, my belly and heart full, I drift off to sleep.

    A warm breeze dries my forehead. The sounds of wandering tourists fade.

    The memory of my divine private organ concert in Rome remains.

    Rebecca Olivia Jones is a playwright, singer, dancer, composer, choreographer, director, always a poet. In 2021, Rebecca collected her poetry and lyrics, accompanied by beautiful photography into a memoir, “Beachsight,” available on blurb.com.

    Rebecca has a B.A. in Creative Writing from New College of California. Also, a mother, grandmother, sister, and a seeker, she lives in San Rafael with her long-time boyfriend and their cat; teaching singing lessons via zoom; enjoying hiking, gardening, cooking, reading, and writing. She is an advocate for the Alzheimer’s Association.

    Marlene C

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  • Gratitude

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

    Gratitude

    By Kathryn Petruccelli

    Spring in a cold place. Which means everything is so heartbreakingly tender—tulips lifting their dusky prom skirts, dandelions twinkling in their green sky.

    I’ve lived here a little while, this rural New England town, its six months of winter, a place accustomed to waiting for beauty to appear. I’ve left somewhere I loved to move far away in service to a restless heart, the bonus draw of family. In the time since, I’ve witnessed a father-in-law dissolve from brain cancer, a second-born survive the bypass machine, tiny heart sewn back together.

    Walking through the park with the baby, I call a friend back home to catch her up, or to remember who I am, or to plead with her to come visit and if she can’t, at least to understand. The wheels of the stroller make that delicious sound they make as they roll over gravel. Cherry blossoms are open, magnolias, their ancient blush. It’s good to hear her voice—magical, even—then, I falter.

    “What? What is it?” she wants to know.

    “No, nothing,” I say. “I mean, it’s not that bad here,” I try, watching the robins, chests plump as plums at the edge of the lake, side-eyed, cocking their heads askew to see the ground in front of them. 

    Kathryn Petruccelli is obsessed with place, language, and the ocean. Her work has appeared in the Southern Review, Rattle, Poet Lore, Tinderbox, West Trestle, Plant-Human Quarterly, and elsewhere. She teaches online writing workshops from western Massachusetts, from which she also gardens and pines for California’s central coast. More at poetroar.com.

    Published in River Teeth, 2/21/2022

    River Teeth is a biannual journal combining the best of creative nonfiction, including narrative reportage, essays and memoir, with critical essays that examine the emerging genre and that explore the impact of nonfiction narrative on the lives of its writers, subjects, and readers.

    Marlene C

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  • Gimme Shelter

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

    Gimme Shelter

    By William Frank Hulse III 

    When we’re watching a movie from the comfort of our recliners, relaxed and mellow, my bride will become frustrated when the hero does something physically impossible.

    For me it’s the magic of movies. I don’t believe it for a second, but the scenes are fun and allow me to freestyle through the adventure.

    Since I almost always immerse myself in a character, I want to enjoy moments of charmed innocence, believing everything I see and hear and feel.

     It has a gauzy sheer that stays in place, even when the curtains go up. It helps give the events an element of reality that only lasts until the closing credits roll. When Nancy gets uptight about the science friction, I remind her, “Suspend your disbelief.”

    I enjoy being drawn into the story. It is surely escapist, in the best sense of the word. It distracts me from the realities that loom on the horizon or are present and accounted for, clamoring for my attention – begging me to worry or fret. Not fair!

    I cannot solve all of the world’s problems; I can barely keep my own from bubbling over and scalding me with their persistent demands on my attention. And, I’m healthy! What a terrible price life inflicts if I can’t escape its anxieties for a time. But I can do better than escape. I can withdraw from the fray and enjoy sanctuary.

    It’s not like the escapist and vicarious enjoyment of some wild movie or book. It’s that still, quiet haven where I can preen – clear out the dust and grime and parasites and align my feathers so that I can fly again – better yet, soar again.

    There is a completely blue sky this morning. Try as I may, I can’t find that shade of blue in my box of crayons but when I close my eyes, it is shining brightly in my mind’s eye.

    And that sun, oh, that sun, is shining even brighter.

    I will soar again and warm my soul – but I’ll remember not to fly too close to the sun. My crayons might melt.

    I wonder what color would emerge from 48 crayons. That will keep me guessing and smiling at that wonderment. It’s not something I see into my immediate future, but I do plan to get a jar of bubbles and watch that tiny miracle unfold and then make tiny pops to end their flight.

    There now, isn’t that better. A moment of examination and another of reflection to set the stage and allow me to wend my way on this soul’s passage, right here and right now. Namaste…

    William Frank Hulse III is a native Oklahoman, born and raised in the Indian Cowboy Oilman community of Pawhuska. He began his college career at Central State College in Edmond but enlisted in the U.S. Army in 1968. While serving in the military Frank completed his undergraduate degree with the University of Maryland. Upon his return to civilian life in 1975, Frank was employed by Phillips Petroleum Company for almost 30 years. Since retiring he plays guitar and writes.

    Note From Marlene: You are welcome to comment on this story on my Writers Forum Facebook Page.

    Marlene C

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  • You’ve Got It, Child

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

    You’ve Got It, Child

    By Elizabeth Kirkpatrick-Vrenios

    I am full of gratitude for the restless sea, sky butter-milked with clouds, the gentle love of a girl named Shih Tzu. What can I do to reach out from this bliss to the needy world?

    I have given you all you need.

    What am I supposed to feel right now?

    Feel what you will, it is all important or not.

    What can I do to move over the hurdle of this chaos?

    There is no chaos, only change.  You may not be around for the end, only enjoy what is the now.

    Sometimes I cannot reseed the patches of my life.

    Do not carve your initials in the tree or scrape your name in the dust, your footsteps do not matter.  No one will care. All will be taken away, but much will be given to you.

    How can I light the way?

    Light the wicks on the wax ravens and enjoy the flight.

    Sometimes I cannot bring myself to take down the pictures of the dead I carry inside.

    To remember is a part of me, but to not let go is a death of a different kind.

    Why do the poisons of the air, the earth, the sea, the flames of the forest disturb who I am as a human? Why do guns, bombs, destruction jar my inner self – shaking me to a place I cannot reach?

    Because you are my child, my miracle, my right hand, the one who cares for the earth, the sea and all who dwell within. Be still and listen to what you are to do.  

    Why does an image of an angel descending toward a miracle that never comes, haunt me?

    Because you are waiting for a miracle which is already here.

    What if I forgave those who destroy us and take over who I am and leave me a vanishing shadow in the dust?

    That is right child, what if, what if?

    Sometimes I want to gather up my shattered glass and stars with both hands and cradle them safely home.

    I think you’ve got it, Child.

    Elizabeth Kirkpatrick-Vrenios‘ award winning chapbook, Special Delivery, was published in 2016, and her second, Empty the Ocean with a Thimble by Word Tech Communications.  

    Twice nominated for a pushcart prize, she has poems published in various anthologies and journals including Stories of Music, The Poeming Pigeon, Love Notes from Humanity, Stories of Music, American Journal of Poetry, Cumberland River Review, The Feminine Collective, The Kentucky Review, Unsplendid, Edison Literary review, Passager, and NILVX.

    She is a Professor Emerita from American University, artistic director of the Redwoods Opera in Mendocino, California, a member of international Who’s Who of Musicians, and has spent much of her life performing as a singing artist across Europe and the United States. 

    Marlene C

  • Fortunes I Did Not Get In Cookies

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

    Fortunes I Did Not Get In Cookies

    By DSBriggs

    A wise man marries a wiser woman.

    You will get good news; and you will recognize it.

    If you miss your bus, start walking.

    A book returned is a friendship kept.

    Get a dog, it will save you.

    Blood is thicker than water but only Vampires should care.

    Delight in today; for tomorrow is no guarantee.

    Buy a car for its usefulness; not for its beauty.

    The One that got away is not the One for You.

    A blind man cannot see beyond his fingers.

    Asking for help is a sign of strength but ignoring it can be a weakness.

    A half full glass can be emptied and refilled.

    A wise animal is better than a noisy friend.

    Luck is knowing when to walk away.

    Keep a pencil around for it never needs booting up.

    And one I did get; if your table moves, move with it.

    DSBriggs lives and writes in northern California. Her muse lately has been a roommate with soulful brown eyes, four long legs, and a very loud bark, Moose.

    Donna has been fortunate to be published in Marlene Cullen’s The Write Spot Series including: Discoveries, Possibilities and Writing As A Path To Healing, available at your local bookseller. Also available in both print form and as ereaders at Amazon.

    Writing with Marlene and the other Jumpstarters has been one of the most fortunate activities of my life.

    Marlene C

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  • Nothing to Write About

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

    Nothing to Write About

    By Maeve Riley

    Day 30, May 6

    The nearly full moon is rising over the mountains across from our house. It’s blinding to look at and negates any need for a headlamp. Luca paces around, damp from the river, hoping for a second dinner. Marley is content under a blanket on the green velvet couch; he’s seen plenty of full moons in his time.

    I stand outside in shorts that I bought ten years ago at the mall in Merced when I was in college. They are a deep red with black stripes and have the Hogwarts emblem printed all over. I am barefoot, my feet somehow still dirty from the garden even though I just showered. I also have on a pink and purple sweater that I bought at a thrift store in Santa Barbara because it reminded me of a sunset.

    The night is warm and smells sweet of locust trees. I stare at the moon and for a little while longer after Jake goes back inside. Eventually I go inside and gather my shoes and my phone and its charger before I head over to the studio to try to write something for this One Hundred Day Project I’m in the midst of.

    “I’ve got nothing to write about!”

    I think, in the same way that I’ll look at my closet and despair over nothing to wear, gaze into a full fridge and lament about how there’s nothing to eat.

    I like this project because it forces me to look into the creases of my life. I shake out the couch cushions and peer into my memories. I look for the less obvious moments. I only have so many obvious tales to tell. The really big things, I’m beginning to realize, fruit over time. I’m grateful for life’s artful ways of teaching lessons when I don’t realize that I’m supposed to be learning.

    Maeve Riley is an artist, reader, writer, and an enthusiast of the natural world. She is fascinated by life and people and their lives; it is her favorite subject to write about. She lives in Western Sonoma County with her partner and their two dogs.

    Marlene C

  • Traditions

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

    Traditions

    Rebecca Olivia Jones

    Grandma used flashing colorful lights and handfuls of tinsel like a grotesque costume on her Christmas tree. I loved its tacky design. I watched it before I fell asleep on the couch the night before our Boxing Day. My brother chose to sleep on the floor to be nearer the presents waiting under and all around the tree. Grandma was very democratic in her gift giving to all her younger grandchildren. Five of us were one year apart; Pam 10, Becky 9, Patrick 8, Byron 7, and Danny 6. We each received a large box filled with a bunch of recycled smaller boxes. Grandma would even re-use Tampax boxes for the smallest gifts.

    Pam and I were thrilled to receive, for example, a doll, a rhinestone necklace, fuzzy slippers and a box of shortbread. The boys received a Tonka truck, a baseball, a shirt and a bag of sour gummie treats. We played for hours sitting on the living room rug, the Christmas tree like a glamorous babysitter. Grandma always made rhubarb pie and pumpkin pie and her favorite—mincemeat pie, which I still don’t get. Who ever thought of baking a raisin and meat pie and then calling it mincemeat? My favorite treat was her fruit cocktail cake. She made it with canned fruit, butter, sugar and condensed milk. No wonder I have a sweet tooth! I no longer  touch any of that but it was manna as a child.

    Mommy insisted that we dress for Christmas dinner. We were like her trophies—aren’t my children beautiful? My Christmas dress was always itchy at the waist and I always spilled cake on the velveteen.  My poor little brother was costumed in a mini suit, his shirt tail hanging out from wrestling with his cousins.

    As the years passed and our elders died, the traditions changed and now, we have no family traditions. There are no elders to honor or to whom to feel obligated and my brother and my daughter live far away. Gone are the shoulds and the pressure to perform as hostess or appropriate guest; to cook a huge banquet; to clean hundreds of plates, glasses, a gravy tureen (for heaven’s sake,) or polish great-grandma’s silverware. All that kind of tradition for Christmas is no longer a necessity. I live with a man who grew up Jewish and he could care less about a Christmas tree or a Hanukkah menorah.

    My needs are simple. I consider every day and every meal a celebration—grateful to be alive, to be safe, to be comfortable. I create my own rituals around daily spiritual practices, taking time to write, read and cook with my partner. My writing workshops are my church and temple. The garden is my Eden. At Christmas, for a sense of continuum for being raised in a Protestant family, I send presents to my grandchildren, string little lights in the bedroom for a cheery mood, hang a few old favorite ornaments that signify peace, love and hope and attend a Christmas Eve service to sing Christmas carols. I even set up a small menorah to honor my partner’s people and the traditions that have led us to who we have become together.

    Rebecca Olivia Jones is a playwright, singer, dancer, composer, choreographer, director, always a poet, in 2021, Rebecca collected her poetry and lyrics, accompanied by beautiful photography into a memoir, “Beachsight,” available on blurb.com. Rebecca has a B.A. in Creative Writing from New College of California. Also, a mother, grandmother, sister, and a seeker, she lives in San Rafael with her long-time boyfriend and their cat; teaching singing lessons via zoom; enjoying hiking, gardening, cooking, reading, and writing. She is an advocate for the Alzheimer’s Association.

    #amwriting #iamawriter #creative writing

    Marlene C

  • Winter Solstice 2021

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

    Winter Solstice 2021

    By M.A. Dooley

    This blessed day when the light returns,

    I stand on the mountain of my home 

    Grounded at 7:59 AM and look up. 

    The round moon wanes floating over 

    Saucer clouds docked in the west. 

    A soft haze hangs between me and my Shire,

    Layered hillocks of veiled emerald, 

    Taste wet and lush as if the drought is over. 

    The sun rises behind a filter of grey

    Cotton balls connected at fluffy centers like 

    Fat caterpillars in the sky. 

    When the time rings for a celestial split, 

    A tear in the cotton,

    A thin sliver of blue blinks open 

    And the sun sears my eyes 

    Carving the womb of awakening.

    I am the field of green softened by one ray,

    I am the strong back of the moon, 

    Light as the wind that whips my tassels

    Reverent as a child witnessing a miracle

    I welcome life and light this Solstice sunrise.

    M.A. Dooley is an architect and writer from the Santa Cruz Mountains, Sonoma County, and the Sierra Nevadas. Dooley has been published in “The Write Spot: Musings and Ravings in a Pandemic Year” and in “Poems of a Modern Day Architect,” Archhive Books, 2020.

    #amwriting #justwrite #poetry #iamawriter

    Marlene C

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  • A Little Louder, Please

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    A Little Louder, Please

    Susan Zahl Bono

    Christmas 2005

    I must be going deaf. It’s the season when yuletide TV ads are louder and brighter than the shows they’re interrupting, but I don’t seem to be hearing their message. December is swinging into its second week and I haven’t bought any presents. Last weekend, my husband wrestled the fake tree into the living room and wrapped it with lights, but if that’s as far as we get, I’m not going to be heartbroken about it. At night with those little lights glowing, I can almost forget the ornaments are missing.

    These are my dark ages. My kids are too old to believe in Santa and too young to make grandchildren. They stopped caring about trees and holiday trappings about the time we gave in to their dad’s allergies and went artificial. As far as their gifts are concerned, there are only so many ways you can wrap money. My husband likes to order his own gifts, and all I really want are my closets emptied and my left eyelid to stop sagging enough to let me see out of it in the morning. I’m not inspired to do much baking. Everyone my age knows about the dangers of letting Christmas cookies into the house.

    A few days ago, a three-year-old took me to lunch. Her mother drove, but the little queen was obviously in charge. Giuliana, dressed like a Victorian monarch in a flouncy skirt and short velvet cape, issued orders from her crash-tested throne in the back seat.

    “A little louder, please,” she said, indicating the car stereo. The queen’s mum, like any good mother, pretended to comply by touching the volume knob.

    “A little louder, please,” our sovereign commanded, with only a trace of irritation in her voice. Soon, such seasonal favorites as “All I want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth” and “Frosty the Snowman” engulfed us.

    I suspect Giuliana’s mother was afraid I would condemn her daughter’s musical tastes as well as her own lack of parental control. On the contrary. The sappy rendition of “Jingle Bells” took me back to yuletides past when my own kids demanded the volume cranked on Dr. Demento’s Christmas Novelties, payback for having tortured my own parents. As a child, my favorite holiday album featured Jack Benny’s halting violin and someone loudly lisping, “I thaw Mommy kith-ing Thanta Cloth.” Little ones really do know what Christmas is all about.

    “A little louder, please,” the Good Queen said again, this time for our benefit. She was having no trouble singing along with a relentlessly cheery “Deck the Halls,” and she wanted to make sure we heard the music, too. Any fool could see that her mom and I were so busy dissecting the past and worrying about the future we were completely missing out on the fa la la la la.

    A wiser woman would have joined in on a couple of verses of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” or “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” I’m sorry, Giuliana. I wasn’t ready to listen.  But it’s not too late. Sadly, my own collection of holiday music is heavy on a cappella versions of “The Holly and the Ivy,” “O, Come, O, Come, Emmanuel” and carols played on antique German music boxes. But maybe if I play them loudly enough, I’ll start to remember what the fuss is all about.

    Susan Zahl Bono is a California-born mother, teacher, writer, and editor who’s lived more than half her life with the same man in the same house in Petaluma. She published Tiny Lights: A Journal of Personal Narrative for twenty years. She facilitates writing workshops, including Jumpstart with Marlene Cullen. Her own work has appeared online, on stage, in anthologies, newspapers, on the radio, and in several Write Spot anthologies. Her book, “What Have We Here: Essays about Keeping House and Finding Home” was published in 2014. 

    #amwriting #justwrite #creativewriting #iamawriter

    Marlene C

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  • Silence For The Soul

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

    Silence For The Soul

    By Sarah Horton

    Silence for the Soul  is our tradition, created to welcome us into the deeper doorways to the heart. It is timed around the changing of the seasons. We gather in silence for a variety of meditation practices as individual as the people who come:  sitting, walking the labyrinth, indoors, outdoors, eyes open, eyes shut, journaling, more sitting. We start with intention and breathing together. We end by coming together in a circle for the breaking of bread, homemade soup, and soft sharing.  

    I have been doing this on a regular basis with two other friends of the heart since the “2012 ending-of-the-world” or simply an ending. This was our new-beginning-offering and continues as one. There will be anywhere from the three-of-us regulars to fifteen other souls to hold the circle of magic and light for transformation and healing. Gentle in our ways of remembering the solstice seasons as they may change; or a lunar or solar eclipse that may occur; or other celestial event calling to us. Diligent in holding the simple structure of silence and care of the spirits that show up at the metaphorical doorways of change, we are all in our own ways sweet and welcoming, sincere and loving, renewed and refreshed at the closing bell.

    We don’t talk about IT much, we just seem to come together at the right times of the year bringing snippets of knowledge and current feelings for what is needed. Our box of candles and signs sits on a shelf in the dark closet awaiting the top to be opened to the light, the candles set around and lit, and the signs strategically placed to welcome all to enter and remain in silence for their time with us in the stillness. 

    Then the soup is served and the breaking of the bread is done quietly; we slowly eat together returning to peaceful sharing with others. There is no rush to put our box back into the closet or bring our newly polished hearts of gold out into the world. And so it is.

    Sarah Horton is an artist living in “the Lost Sierras” with Chris, her beloved, and Lulu, the master Bichon Frise. Sarah is an adventurer into the wilderness of the heart as well as the natural world. She dabbles with paints on large canvases and memoir writings that the nature spirits nearby seem to appear in. Published in several books, paintings shown in galleries, and when called, travels to mystical places in this beautiful world. 

    I’m working on a series of short memoir stories to put in a Box of Memories for my daughter, her friends, our family, and future friends yet to be met. Similar to finding a box of old photographs with scribbled handwritten notes on the back; our memoir stories of people, places, events of celebration and transformations that are written in the personal may impart timely universal wisdom. Stories that may make a difference, lend support, or sooth a difficult or healing situation in our human family. —Sarah Horton

    Marlene C