Category: Sparks

  • Totally Awesome

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

    Totally Awesome

    By Caitlin Cunningham

    I was an eighties girl. I embraced the radical change away from the disco and traditional rock music that I did not really care for when I was young.

    The eighties brought an entirely new sound that I loved. It was fresh and energetic.

    After I turned twenty-one, I went to nightclubs frequently in the eighties,

    I would dance to every song, not caring who asked me. I just wanted to dance all night long.

    And the outfits we all wore—so much black and neon. Most clubs had black lights that made our colored accessories glow… as well as the lint on our black garments.

    There were a few clubs I frequented regularly, both at home and at college. I remember one place that was a former Safeway grocery store converted to a dance club. There was day-glow paint splattered on black walls. They had giant lighted cubes we could hop up on to dance (for the very confident). The place was huge but always had a line of people outside waiting to get in. 

    Another place I liked had a small interior courtyard with a swimming pool. At night the pool was covered by a Lucite dance floor that lit up. It seemed so extraordinary, and slightly dangerous, to be dancing on top of a pool. There was also an indoor dance floor but being out in the cool air, within a crush of sweaty bodies was always preferable to me. Young men and women in cutting edge outfits and over-gelled, gender-neutral hairstyles, stood about trying to look cool and severe.

    It was a new era, a time of changing viewpoints and the tumbling of the Berlin Wall, the explosion of Mt. St Helens, Reaganomics, and Glasnost. There were battles against communism, against human rights atrocities in China, against AIDS, against the status quo. It was the generation of MTV.  Musicians now competed for prime spots on the network through elaborate video productions of their songs that visually brought the music to life, even using the platform to raise money and awareness for world causes.

    Appearance was everything, both politically and literally. Copying the attire of the top performers was common. Everyone wanted to look like Madonna with her sexy tousled blonde curls, heavy eyeliner and controversial crosses dangling about her neck or Duran Duran with their tight pants, heavily padded shoulders and spiky bleached hair or Michael Jackson all decked out in skin-hugging, bright red leather. 

    It was a dynamic time, a changing of the guard. Everything was extreme. The music, the clothes, the hair and the attitudes. It was a sort of rebellion against the laid back, free thinking 60s and 70s, a generation seeking its own identity.

    It was a totally awesome era.

    Caitlin Cunningham lives and works in Petaluma, CA. She is an educator working with high school students who have mild learning disabilities. She especially loves helping students with math and writing.

    She has two adult children, a son who graduated from Iowa State with a history major and a daughter who is currently a pilot studying aviation and aeronautics at the University of North Dakota.

    She started writing with Jumpstart years ago but stopped when her husband became ill. After his death in 2020, she returned at Marlene Cullen’s urging.

    Returning to the Jumpstart group has been a supportive and therapeutic environment for resuming her writing and escaping her grief.

    Marlene C

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  • A Love Letter to Myself

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

    A Love Letter to Myself

    By Luz Leyden

    I love that you are embracing all the ‘unfortunate events’ you have experienced and are trying to encapsulate them in writing so that you are insulated from them and their effects.

    You are a caterpillar who has formed a chrysalis and you are digesting yourself inside so that you can emerge transformed, free, able to fly, released from your former life and all its restrictions. That process and that bravery deserves admiration, respect, and love.

    I will try to do what is right for you. I will try to steer you towards light, towards enlightenment, towards your real self. I admire your bravery in staying sane through everything you have endured, despite callous provocation. Stay strong.

    Luz Leyden lives in Ireland where she writes . . . sometimes into the early hours of the morning.

    Marlene C

  • Night Knight

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

    Night Knight

    By Su Shafer

    We spend almost every night together.

    I’m not away from home often

    But when I am, I ache

    And I don’t sleep well.

    I am uncomfortable with

    The hardness of strangers

    The impersonal coarseness

    Or aloof purist sterility.

    There is never the welcoming

    I get at home.

    The soft embrace,

    The understanding.

    At home there is no judgment

    Or pressure that I am not doing enough,

    No criticism that I am not enough

    My bed cradles me like a mother.

    I am held in a cocoon of love

    I never want to leave.

    I close my eyes and my bed hums

    A silent lullaby

              Sleep dear one

              Tired caterpillar

              Your work will wait

              Dream of wings

              And drinking flowers

              Wake up the butterfly

    That you are.

    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.

    You can read more of Su Shafer’s writing here:

    Herald

    Burgeoning

    And in The Write Spot Anthologies, available from local booksellers and on Amazon (print and as ereaders):

    The Write Spot to Jumpstart Your Writing: Discoveries

    The Write Spot: Musings and ravings From a Pandemic Year

    Marlene C

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  • Wants In a World of Plenty

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

    Wants In a World of Plenty

    By DSBriggs

    I just want to…

     

    Laugh aloud.

    Stay Alive.

    Keep learning.

    Keep mobile.

    Keep learning to let go.

    Keep loving.

     

    I just want to…

     

    Shout at the Government.

    Shout at prejudice.

    Shout at stupidity.

    Shout at injustice.

    Shout at the mess.

     

    I just want to…

     

    See Children playing.

    Hear laughing.

    Taste warm bread.

    Smell fresh rain in the forest.

    Touch my dog’s velvety ears.

     

    I just want to …

     

    Accept the pain that comes with death of loved ones.

    Accept that I do the best I know how.

    Accept help graciously as I age.

    Accept that my way is only one way of many.

    Accept forgiveness. 

    Accept that some things are unforgivable.

     

    I just want to:

     

    Continue to write,

    and be a committed listener.

    Appreciate where I have been,

    and accept that this is where I am now.

     

    Okay! Okay! 

     

    I also want to…

     

    Conquer dust and dog hair.

    Finish some projects.

    Sort my mountains of paper.

    Laugh daily at something funny.

    Irony is okay.

    DSBriggs is a retired educator. She has lived in Northern California most of her life.

    She still loves to write and has been honored to be published in The Write Spot Collections: “The Write Spot to Jumpstart Your Writing: Discoveries,” The Write Spot: Possibilities,” and “The Write Spot: Writing as a Path to Healing. Available in print and as ereaders at Amazon.

    Mostly she likes to write about her dog and life in the past century.

    Donna has recently added to her want list: more travel and a pen that doesn’t skip.

    Marlene C

  • Rain Dog, a Pantoum

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

    Rain Dog, a Pantoum

    By Suse Pareto

    Dog is bored and restless.

    Rain is pouring down.

    I’m loath to leave this comfy bed,

    but walk we must, says she.

     

    Rain is pouring down,

    the road is sodden and feckless.

    But walk we must, says she,

    up to the woods we go.

     

    The road is sodden and feckless.

    The hills are wet and slick.

    Up to the woods we go,

    Dog barks in great delight.

     

    The hills are wet and slick,

    rain drips from leaf and stick.

    Dog barks in great delight,

    “Water slithering, sliding everywhere!”

     

    Rain drips from leaf and stick.

    The gullies run fast and wild,

    water slithering, sliding everywhere,

    it’s like the earth has burst.

     

    The gullies run fast and wild,

    Dog nips at water’s tumble.

    It’s like the earth has burst,

    she frolics and romps quite madly.

     

    Dog nips at water’s tumble,

    gamboling down the hill.

    She frolics and romps quite madly,

    there’s never been a better day.

     

    Gamboling down the hill,

    a whirling dervish made of mud,

    there’s never been a better day.

    As rain keeps pouring down.

     

    A whirling dervish made of mud.

    It’s time to end our walk,

    as rain keeps pouring down

    my soles and hat are sogged.

     

    It’s time to end our walk.

    I whistle loud and firm.

    My soles and hat are sogged,

    but never has my heart

    felt so lithe and light.

    Suse Pareto writes and lives in western Petaluma, California with her dogs, cat and husband.

    A pantoum is a poetic form derived from a Malaysian verse form in which the 2nd and 4th line of every verse becomes the 1st and 3rd line of the following verse creating interwoven quatrains.

    Pantoum rules and pantoums on The Write Spot Blog:

    Create a pantoum

    Barbara’s Braid

    A Pantoum for Constance Demby

    Marlene C

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  • Smiling

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

    Smiling

    By Jenny Beth Schaffer

    Smiling, after a certain age, is an act of boldness and an invitation to danger because already there are enough lines and wrinkles in your face that the very last thing you want to do is aggravate the problem. Because as everyone knows perfectly well, each smile takes a tiny toll on the elasticity, the buttery lacquer of your already anxious countenance.

    It’s a high-risk situation, this smile or not smile gambit, one requiring the weighing of the pros and cons, and typically you have just milliseconds to make the decision. Look no further than Wile E. Coyote to understand the consequences of split second decisions. 


    Someone passes on the street, a stranger perhaps, casting the sunshine of their toothiness in your direction. What. Do. You. Do? It calls for a response and it’s clear that turning to them with a bland facelessness, with the cold chill of a nothing response, dead in the eyes, limp in the facial muscles, would be, well, a rejection. Rude. So rude. And it might provoke violence.

    Those of you raised properly are more likely to automatically smile back without thinking this through. The automatic, unconscious response of  the nice person. The well-bred person. One who has finessed and lubricated numerous social interactions through practice and because it was beaten into you. 

    You’ll pay later. You’ll look like trolls, like the shrunken apple head dolls my friend Jennifer makes with the kids in her kindergarten class. Cute? Yes. Attractive? I don’t need to answer that.

    Meanwhile, as a woman, you’re constantly told that you’re prettier when you smile. “What a lovely smile you have,” a complete stranger exclaims when you’re waiting for your pills at the Kaiser pharmacy. She has an incredible complexion, creamy and smooth, her eyes like giant buttons against the blank scrim of her face, just as they were when she was a toddler. Her hair, with the smallest touch of grey in it, reads as a halo against the harsh fluorescent lights casting their hellish blue glow over the sad line of people wending their way toward the irritable pharmacy assistant. Perhaps this stranger’s name is Jeanne. Or Lisa. Whoever she is, she’s setting you up and you need to be watching out for this sort of thing constantly. 

    However confident you are that you’re reading this situation accurately, that this is someone simply being friendly and helpful and perhaps — although this is a reach — paying you a compliment, know that you are headed down the wrong road.

    This is just simple mathematics. The more you smile, the deeper the rivulets of loss and hopelessness you carve into your presentation, into your publicly displayed self-image. Your war chest. They are counting on this. The Jeannes, the Lisas, the Margarets, the Brittanys, the Leslies, in the cold calculus of their day to day strategy, they are mounting their campaign of war. They are deliberate. They are impeccable in their planning. They are generals. They are single. They want you out of the way so they can sweep through the territory, pillaging, doing violence, and stuffing the spoils into their rucksacks.

    If you fall prey to this, you will prematurely age and take yourself out of the competition for the available romantic partners. And this is what they want. They want the good ones for themselves. This is evolutionary biology.

    I know, I know. I know your protests, I’ve heard them all: this is just brainwashing from beauty magazines and infomercials and very insidious, strategic ad placements on Twitter. This is part of the capitalist machine. This is a pack of lies, engineered in the boardrooms of Sephora, Maybelline, in the homes of all the Kardashians — every single one — and in the outposts of obscure European countesses and baronesses shilling makeup and acupressure facelifts. I’m not going to try to stop you. You do you. You stay in denial. You carve your face up one interaction at a time.

    And then you will be alone, and at your very poorly attended memorial the anemic clutch of mourners will talk about how beautiful you were on the inside.

    Jenny Beth Schaffer is a physical theater artist and a writer living in Oakland, California. 

    Marlene C

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  • One Shrug for Chocolate Chip and Two for Peanut Butter

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

    One Shrug for Chocolate Chip and Two for Peanut Butter

    By Robin Mills

    Olive made her way slowly down the aisle. The Canyon Country Store was older than even her grandma. It had been there when the road that snaked up and over the hill from the valley side to the city side was just dirt. The floors creaked, oak rubbing oak.

    When the 3:00 bell rang, most kids piled onto the stubby-nosed yellow bus, the small kind, not the long sleek yellow bus with rounded edges. There were not enough kids up in the canyon to warrant a big bus like that, so they got the small version. But Olive preferred to walk. It gave her a chance to look at things and even occasionally find something another walker had unknowingly dropped.

    And when she got to the Canyon Country Store, she would usually just look at the doors with people going in and out. In, empty handed and out with a brown bag or two, full of food. She wished she could come out of the store with a brown bag of food. She also knew that would likely never happen.

    But today, she let her curiosity get the better of her and pushed through the swinging glass door. To her left was the cash register and some friendly enough looking man as old as her dad standing behind it. “Afternoon”, he said, half lifting his hand in a wave.

    She reciprocated with a half-lifted wave and wondered if he could see right through her and knew she didn’t have a cent to spend. But then convincing herself he knew nothing of the sort, she headed to the first aisle, straight ahead.

    Boxes and boxes, cans and cans. Labeled in different colors announcing what they held. She let her hand lightly touch one, then the next, finally dragging her fingers along them like the keys of a piano.

    At the end of the aisle was a shelf of cookies, each in its own see-through bag, sealed shut, staring up at her. They looked so good, she could see the sweet in them. The sign perched on the edge of the shelf told her she would never have the pleasure of tasting one, so she just imagined the first bite she would take of the soft, doughy, chocolate chip cookie, crumbs raining down on her chest.

     “Do you think they are as good as they look?” The voice of the man as old as her dad said.

    She didn’t know if she should nod or shake her head, so she just dropped her chin and her eyes towards the floor.

    “Well they are.  I love ‘em.”

    She nodded, then waited, assuming the next thing he’d do would be to grab her arm and escort her out the glass door that had only recently swung open to let her in.

    “Which one do you want? Chocolate chip or peanut butter?”

    Olive shrugged.

    “OK. One shrug for chocolate chip and two for peanut butter.”

    She couldn’t contain her smile, and shrugged once.

    “Here you go. Enjoy.” he said, extending his hand, palm up, with a beautifully plump chocolate chip cookie perched in the middle. She raised her eyes just enough to see, then plucked the see-through bag from his palm. He turned, headed down the aisle and slid in behind the cash register, as if he had never left.

    She turned slowly and walked towards the door. He raised a half wave and smiled. She did the same. Then left.

    Robin Mills lives in Petaluma and writes with Jumpstart. She has worked as an American Sign Language Interpreter for 40 years and when she is not doing that, she is an avid swimmer, hiker, and an artist. Her current mediums are photography, polymer clay and fused glass. If you ever need a distraction from the things you should be doing (and let’s be honest, who doesn’t) you can see her photography at TheRobinMills.com

    Marlene C

  • Holiday ABC’s

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

    Holiday ABC’s  

    By Mary O’Brien

    When home alone in December, your options are:

    a) make ornaments

    b) bake goodies

    c) work on art project

    d) write Christmas poem

    f) practice using new corkscrew, make sure it works on reds, whites, as well as blushes

    g) clean out dryer lint filter, put lint in all of hubby’s jacket pockets

    h) phone long lost friend, sing carols to them

    i) see if cinnamon bears float in bathtub

    j) tape mini lights in spiral on carpet, making a yellow brick road

    k) try moonshine pickles, eat with chopsticks

    l) make pickle ornaments

    m) write ugly letter to Santa

    n) set fire to letter using fumes from pickles

    o) play Here Comes Santa Claus on keyboard using meow meow sounds

    p) write Christmas cards on pieces of burned toast

    q) use blow dryer to clean burned crumbs off kitchen counters

    r) apply spray glue to dog ears; glitter

    s) wear headlamp over Santa hat to set trash out for the night

    t) write country song about being left alone on a December night with dogs, moonshine and a Jeep

    u) make wreath of pickles, dry with blow dryer, add glitter AFTER blow drying

    v) make YouTube video on perils of laying electric lights on carpeting

    w) decide broken glass ornaments can be finely crushed to make glitter — roll out with rolling pin

    x) bandage hands when bleeding stops

    y) eye moonshine cherries . . .

    z) go to bed early with a book

    Mary 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 managed by an elderly, sugared golden retriever (send treats). 

    Marlene C

  • Make Light in the Dark

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

    Make Light in the Dark

    A Letter of Forgiveness to Myself

    by Caryl Sherman

    Dearest

    pale, broken, and lonely

    sit up

    stretch out your arms

    take a deep cleansing breath

     

    You don’t have to hold

    yourself apart

    from others anymore

     

    Cradle your intention

    slowly rock away the fears

    long to see the light

    listen to the raindrops

    splash away the tears

     

    Forgive yourself

    be a better purveyor

    of your own destiny

     

    Ever changing and growing with age

    intentionally litter your psyche

    with sprinkles and

    multi-colored streamers

    Dance

     

    Make light in the dark

    hold yourself

    in the palm of love

     

    Your humbled heart

    is right here…

    in the best place

    at the right time

    in our mutual care

     

    Live joy no matter what

    reminisce in laughter

    forgive again

     

    You are renewed, refreshed, and emboldened

    have trust and solace in your self pride 

    rest easily

    cast away all doubt

    throw kisses to the wind…

    Caryl Sherman: In the words of the very famous, and beloved cartoon character, Popeye the Sailor Man, “I y’am who I y’am and that’s who I y’am”.

    I am the artist, and musician, formerly known as Leigh Anne Caryl. I thought using a pen name would give me the veil of protection and credibility I needed to write authentically; but that turned out NOT to be true. In fact, it was quite the opposite.

    My authenticity is in who I REALLY am, just as honestly flawed and mismanaged as I was meant to be all along.

    So, I start anew, shape shifting my writings, in all its tempestuous glory; by my given name, in the hope that you accept me for who I really y’am!

    Marlene C

  • In Praise of Christmas Tree Farms

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

    In Praise of Christmas Tree Farms

    By Sus Pareto

    Yesterday I drove to Larsen’s Christmas Tree Farm, about two miles from my house. It was a balmy fall afternoon, and the road to the farm was lined with poplars and willows dappled in gold.

              Up ahead, I saw the red and green sign pointing to a narrow driveway which led to a dell where a yellow clapboard house and outbuildings gathered. Just a normal, traditional Petaluma farm — except when Christmas tree season opens. Like an explosion, the quiet dell surrounded by acres of orderly pine trees becomes a bustling hub of people and cars. As if by magic, gossiping groups of pre-cut trees have popped up while a tree-bagging station, ticketing station, and cookies-and-hot chocolate stand wait nearby. The barn has become a Christmas wonderland of sparkling trees and lights and ornaments. In the background, Christmas music weaves through the fragrant scent of pine trees.

              It’s the scent that gets me. So fresh and pure. Timeless. Like being in the middle of a mountain forest on a sunny day.

               I stroll along soft dirt through the aisles of trees. Voices float and mingle with the sunlight in the needles. Kids play hide-and-seek, parents discuss the merits of one tree over the next. Dads stand by with measuring poles and saws. Couples with their first babies. Grandparents and dogs. It feels all so safe and glad, and serene. The excitement of Christmas — the feelings that start to swirl and take on energy during the holiday season — is still on the horizon. This day is simply about strolling on a sunny fall afternoon through pine trees destined for felling with people you love, or like.

              I was not sorry to be alone. I enjoyed it. I paid my $95 (including shaking, bagging, trimming, and sales tax) and then watched my tree go through its handling: A quick shake on an old metal compressor to remove dry needles, then onto a rectangular table and into a funnel where it gets bagged in netting. A fresh cut to the trunk with a chain saw, and it’s ready for my car.

              I can hardly wait to get it home.

              No matter what I say about not caring about Christmas “this” year, about not wanting to make a big deal out of it, don’t believe me: I’m a liar. I can’t help myself. No matter how cranky I can be, every Christmas I temporarily forget any resentments I have, about how I don’t want to spend money, or don’t want to bother with decorations because nobody helps me put them away. When I hear the first Christmas songs, when I see the first decorations, when leaves start to fall and days get short and nights beckon for a fire, my resolve weakens.

               And when the Christmas tree lots appear, it fails. Every time.

              Trees beckon from parking lots, stores, and farms, and I’m powerless. ‘Oh screw it,’ I say to myself, ‘This year I want a really big, beautiful tree!’ And off I go to the Christmas tree farm. The floodgates open, my heart expands with warmth and joy in anticipation of another Christmas.

              Forget the thoughts of putting everything away in January, ignore thoughts of paying my credit card in February, now is the season to draw together, to love our lives, our homes, our friends, and even the worst family member. Let the house fill with the scent of pine and fake pine cones, cookies baking, hot roasted vegetables and meat. Let the pitter-patter of lights everywhere gladden our hearts. It’s Christmas.

    Sus Pareto writes and lives in western Petaluma, California with her dogs, cat and husband.

    Marlene C