Category: Sparks

  • 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

  • Steady Going

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

    Steady Going

    By Christine Renaudin

    Two months into summer,
    three in retirement,
    one more kiss of the sun.

    I am starting to feel the change in ways that do not rub me wrong, like a shirt grown too tight,
    or a pair of new shoes    

    I am settling into a certain ease I didn’t know before, or I had forgotten.
    There is hardly any rushing through things unless absolutely necessary in case of an emergency.

    I walk the dog daily.

    Three months into summer,
    four in retirement,
    signs abound, changes beckon.


    I have trouble remembering what I did on a given day, and I resort to lists to keep track of the books I’ve read and places I’ve gone, so I can tell people when they are kind enough to ask.
    Morning and afternoon melt in one another.
    I glide along sweaty, in blissful abandon: losing sight of the shore no longer upsets me.
    I don’t even worry the oar, but trust the sail will hold the wind, and the wind will show me to my destination.

    Four months into retirement,
    five into what feels like,
    a whole other season,


    I cannot be bothered to wear purple, put on a bra, a mask, a face, pick an outfit, apply lipstick, or even darken an eyebrow.
    It’s too darn hot for the season, there are too many fires, time runs too fast to waste it on untruths.
    Voting is a disaster.

    Five months in,
    Halloween spooks
    the hell out of me.

    Detachment has set in. I couldn’t care less about those many things that used to matter so
    they dictated my every move and mood.


    I’d rather light a candle for the latest friend who passed and for the one who hopes to last a bit longer.

    I’d rather watch the flame settle into the night and pray.

    Christine Renaudin’s writing has been featured in various publications by The Sitting Room, several of The Write Spot’s Sparks, as well as in The Write Spot anthologies:  “Discoveries,” and “Musings and Ravings From a Pandemic Year,”  available at your local bookseller and on Amazon (print and as an e-reader).

    Christine lives, writes, and paints in Petaluma, CA. She is also a dancer. Her most recent performances in 2022 include Sunset in Spring (Fort Bragg), and The Show Show (San Francisco).

    An avid practitioner of Contact Improvisation, she facilitates the monthly West Marin Contact Improvisation Jam at The Dance Palace in Point Reyes Station. She loves to see these various practices interact and inform her art-making process.

    Marlene C

    , , , ,

  • Print Dreams

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

    Print Dreams

    By DSBriggs

    Back in the day when I was a teen, I wanted to be a writer. I picked out my pen name, Kelly Brione.

    I began to dress as a writer. My image, based on a Stanford University guide, was to dress in black tights, a gray skirt, and a pink fluffy sweater over a black leotard.

    I had plans to write the Great American Novel, even though I did not have a clue how to do that. 

    I talked enough about being a writer that my Dad purchased a Smith-Corona portable typewriter for me. It had Elite type rather than the larger Pica type. Elite was the size of type that newspapers used for writing news stories in columns.

    I dreamed about being a columnist like Herb Caen or Erma Bombeck. 

    One thing about writing is that I have always loved libraries.

    Back in the day when libraries were stocked with books and magazines, tables and chairs for studying space and enforced quiet. So different today, with cases of CDs, DVDs, media, and computers in place of  drawers filled with index cards that let you finger thru author, title or subject cards.

    There are, of course, still books, but stacked in tall narrow aisles. So narrow in fact that a person with a backpack cannot turn around. If two people are in the aisle, one has to back up so the other may squeeze by. 

    Back in the day when aisles were wider, a girl could sit on the floor and read a chapter or two before deciding whether to check the book out. The library limit was two books and two weeks before it was overdue.  

    Back in the days of my late teens I had a summer internship at the local paper that published only on Wednesdays. I got to write features. That was really fun and some were even published. 

    However, when the Sports Reporter was sent to Alaska to cover our hometown’s quest for the Little League World Championship,  I was assigned to cover the local sports desk. I never had to go to a game but would wait for the scores to be phoned in to write up before midnight deadline.

    What I remember most was struggling to come up with forty different ways to say beaten or defeated. That was probably the most colorful coverage of weekly scores the readers ever had. Despite having been published, I was not offered a job at the end of my internship.

    So in the fall I went onto college to start my major in Journalism. The required English classes killed my interest in writing. I was not interested in why a comma was placed where it was. Line by line analysis of Cotton Mathers’ 17th century sermons extinguished my dream of becoming a writer.

    So I switched to Social Science, a major for people who didn’t know what they wanted when their dream became a nightmare.

    I stopped writing. 

    As a side note, I recovered my  love of writing.

    DSBriggs began writing again by journaling. It was, however, Marlene Cullen’s introduction to prompt writing thru Jumpstart that reignited DSBriggs love of writing just for the sake of writing.

    Dreams of being published were realized when her work was included in The Write Spot Anthologies: Discoveries, Possibilities and Path To Healing.

    DSBriggs still lives near a library in Northern California. 

    Marlene C

    , ,

  • Simply A Shoot

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

    Simply A Shoot

    By Jane Person

    I was born a sweet onion

    my core protected by layers of peel

     

    As the brown dry layers peel off, a stink

    surrounds.  Eyes water

     

    There will be more

    down to my core

     

    Under the faucet dirt and grime

    the externals simply slide off

     

    There will be more

    down to my core

     

    Tender layers peel

    a bulb thinner, lighter

     

    There will be more

    down to my core

     

    Fear.  What will be left of me?

    A little voice coaches—Just peel.

     

    There will be more

    down to my core

     

    Protecting peels now gone.

    Left a small, green shoot.

     

    There is more

    down at my core

     

    The person, me

    The small shoot unmasked

    Free from disguise

    Perhaps free at last

    Jane Person, who has lived in Petaluma since 1986, is on the third leg of her Triathlon—Aging while trying to shuck the protective layers.  Run, Jane, run.

    Marlene C

  • Herald

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

    Herald

    By Su Shafer

    After all these years

    She’s letting go

    No more worrying

    If she’s too fat

    Or too old

    Or what he’s thinking

    Or feeling

    Or if he’s alive or dead

    No more waiting

    For the rock to roll

    The hope when it moved a little

    But found a new dead end to be still

    So she’s letting go

    Dropping the over-packed luggage

    She carried with both hands

    For so long

    Her arms feel like wings

    As she walks in the sun

    Her steps so light, she might take flight

    On her way to the mailbox

    She sees a golden jewel beetle

    Resting on the sidewalk

    A living gem that stuns her breathless

    Spreading amber wings, it lifts effortlessly

    Into the air and buzzes regally away

    Sometimes messengers are more beautiful

    Than you can imagine

    She closes her eyes and takes

    A deep, deep breath

    Has the air ever been so fresh?

    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.

    Marlene C

    , ,

  • Reality’s Ruse

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

    Reality’s Ruse 

    By  Mary O’Brien  

    Summer shakes Winter’s hand,
    proposing a fling.
    Autumn’s wind scurries them
    both away –
    not a fan of farce.

    Martinis at three,
    come by and get me.
    Loose lips sink ships:
    my mouth full of
    sharp torpedoes.

    My reality is often
    a ruse, driven to other
    worlds on printed pages,
    between covers
    in greedy hands.

    I left my scarf in
    that dream –
    the one with the pulled
    thread I
    tied round your finger.

    We never made it to New York.
    That was your ruse
    to keep me interested
    long enough to marry
    in Vegas.

    “Reality’s Ruse” inspired by Just For Fun . . . Prompt #672 on The Write Spot Blog,

    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

    , ,

  • Defrosting

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

    Defrosting

    By Patricia Morris

    After all these years, I stand in front of the refrigerator this afternoon and hear my mother’s voice, “Don’t stand there with that door open!”

    I chuckle. I’m standing here because I can’t remember what I came to the refrigerator for. As that kid, some 60 years ago, I was probably looking for something to eat. Maybe a slice of bologna. Maybe the green Jello salad with a layer of cream cheese on top. Maybe that rare delicacy – a green olive stuffed with a bit of red pimento. Whatever it was, I’d grab it and close the door at my mother’s command.

    I imagine what she was thinking. Holding the door open meant using more electricity, which meant a higher electric bill, which meant more financial worries. It also meant more ice build-up in the small freezer compartment that sat along the top of the interior of that short squat white machine. This was long before the days of automatic defrost. Ice would build up on the top and sides of the narrow shelf every time the door opened and closed. Every couple of months or so it took pans of boiling water and a strong dull knife to clean it out, making room again for the ice cube trays and freezer paper-wrapped blocks of hamburger and bacon.

    A few years after my mother was gone, of all the household tasks that fell to me, defrosting was the one I dreaded the most.  I would let it go for too long, until the contents of that small compartment were engulfed by a virtual glacier. It would take hours and multiple pans of boiling water to loosen it enough to chop away at it with my small freezing hands. Tears were shed. I felt like Cinderella – before the ball. And I never actually made it to a ball. I just kept cooking and cleaning and doing laundry and homework, knowing I didn’t want this to be my life forever. I was too dutiful a daughter to plot an escape, and yet one ensued.

    So, after all these years, here I stand in front of a refrigerator with a completely separate, frost-free freezer compartment, powered by 100% local renewable energy that I don’t worry about paying for, trying to hurry up the search in my memory bank for what I opened that door for anyway.

    Patricia Morris lives under the trees in Northern California and writes on Monday nights at Jumpstart Writing Workshops. She dates her love of stories to being read to while sitting on the lap of her Great-Aunt Ruth, a children’s librarian. Her writing has appeared in Rand McNally’s “Vacation America, the Ultimate Road Atlas,” and The Write Spot anthologies “Possibilities” and “Musings and Ravings From a Pandemic Year,” edited by Marlene Cullen.

    Marlene C

    ,