Category: Sparks

  • Burgeoning

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

    Burgeoning

    By Su Shafer

    How many petals are in a peony?

    There’s no way to tell from the bud – a closed hand

              holding more than you can imagine.

    They unfold slowly, the way a smile spreads

              before a secret is told.

    Each petal

              a curled finger uncurling

              an alluring promise of beauty to come

              a whisper – just wait, just wait…

    And then suddenly

    It blooms

    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.

    Marlene C

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  • You Think You Know Me

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

    You Think You Know Me

    By Karen Handyside Ely 

    You think you know me, but you don’t know…

    that I am struggling with a powerful bout of depression. I’ve battled it before. I’ve been in deeper, darker, more dangerous pits. This current episode has rolled over me slowly. Not a storm, but more a dense, thick, cloud cover, wrapping me in the heavy humidity of numbness and ennui, pinning me to the ground with a listless, languid, low-grade despair that makes me want to sleep all day.

    I’m suffocating one breath at a time… in slow motion. This time around, my depression isn’t a raging sea, which has been my usual experience, but an ebbing tide that creeps back over the sand as the fog rolls in to smother the beach.

    I could cry, just writing this, but I don’t. I continue to function, smile, interact. And I try to fight back. I fight with prescribed medication. I fight by restricting alcohol and chocolate – alcohol because it provides temporary, false relief that will ultimately kill me, and chocolate because of my natural proclivity to drown myself in calories, which will also kill me.

    I work with a counselor. It doesn’t feel like it helps, but I know it will. I know I WILL get better. I always have before. My hope has not completely flickered out. I think this is partially a delayed reaction to the covid years, a sort of PTSD, now that the crisis is over (as “over” as it can ever be.) I lived in fight mode for 2 ½ years and managed to keep my head above water, legs propelling me forward. Now my strength and discipline are gone. I’m left with a sorrowful emptiness that I cannot shake.

    For now, I am trying to be gentle with myself. I’m clearing away the unrequired obligations in my life that do not bring me joy. I am de-cluttering the way I live, ala Marie Kondo. I am reintroducing the activities that used to motivate me. I am withholding self-judgement, the hardest exercise of all, and learning to love who I am, not what I do or how I look.

    I don’t think that I am alone. Yes, I have a medical diagnosis of depression, but I can sense the sad fatigue that clings to people around me wherever I go… in grocery lines, or shopping at TJMaxx, in airports and zoom meetings. I think so many are coping, on some level, with this feeling. It hides behind frantic busyness and red-hot anger. It lurks beneath everyday smiles and societal pleasantries. Most of us aren’t incapacitated by it, but the weight of what we carry has become a constant. You think you know me, but you don’t. Right now, I grapple with knowing myself.

    Karen Handyside Ely was born and raised in Petaluma, California. She delights in difficult crossword puzzles, the Santa Rosa Symphony, and traveling with her husband, James.

    Karen has been published in several Write Spot Books:  The Write Spot to Jumpstart Your Writing: Discoveries, The Write Spot: Reflections, The Write Spot: Possibilities, The Write Spot: Writing as a Path to Healing, and The Write Spot: Musings and Ravings From a Pandemic Year. All available at Amazon and your local bookseller.

    Marlene C

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  • Never Should You Ever

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

    Never Should You Ever

    By Ken Delpit

    Whether it’s

    “Never would I ever,”
    Or “Never will I ever,”
    Or “Never could I ever,”
    Or “Never can I ever,”
    Or “Never should I ever,”
    Or “Never have I ever,”

    You cannot help but marvel
    At what an eternity “Never” is.
    At what a commitment “Never” is.
    At what a delusion “Never” is.

    Few such utterances can hold true,
    When a single exception renders them moot.

    Most such utterances harbor doubts.
    We just cannot help ourselves in our passions.

    Who among us say these things?
    Why, everyone, of course.

    Who among us mean these things?
    Well, everyone, of course.

    But who among us are truthful about “Nevers”?
    Well, some of us are…
    Or, intend to be, at least,
    At the time, that is,
    For the most part, anyway.

    So, take heed at the notion of “Never.”
    Its purpose is rigid,
    But its use is fluid.

    Lest you think “Never” always means forever,
    Never should you ever. 

    Ken Delpit, in moments of introspection, grapples with intentions versus realities. “Nevers” and “Alwayses,” generally well-meaning pronouncements, are sly co-conspirators in life. They come in lots of flavors. They come in myriad weights. They come with varying degrees of truth…, or not. They can be purveyors of principle, and they can be agents of deception, including of self. Ken is happy to have found free-writing for exploring such ponderables, not so much for finding answers, but more for discovering questions.

    #justwrite #iamwriting #iamwriter

    Marlene C

  • Dear Number Five

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

    Dear Number Five

    By Karen Quest

    Dear Number Five,

    If we are to believe the song, one is the loneliest number, but without you, we wouldn’t know where we’d be. I checked you out, and from math to science, to art, music and literature, to religion and biology, you’re everywhere!

    I hope you have fun reading some cool facts about yourself.

    I give you my Ode to Five.

    Starfish are pentamerous

    Which might sound kind of calamitous

    Five appendages have they

    And no matter what you might say

    I think they are quite glamorous.

    It isn’t criminal to take the Fifth.

    Lanford Wilson chose you for the title of his play, The Fifth of July.

    Beethoven named one of his symphonies after you.

    There are 25 one-ounce shots in a fifth of alcohol.

    Almost all amphibians, reptiles, and mammals which have fingers or toes have five of them on each extremity.

    The five rings of the Olympics represent the five inhabited continents.

    All major north-south Interstate Highways in the United States end in 5.

    While not all animals use them the same way, we all have five senses: touch, sight, hearing, smell and taste.

    Five is the most common number of gears for automobiles with manual transmission.

    From rock to rap, there are a lot of fives.

    The Jackson 5

    Maroon 5

    Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five

    Ben Folds Five

    Five Finger Death Punch

    Dave Brubeck Quartet’s famous song: “Take Five”

    Always remember – you’re a star – a pentagram!

    Love, Karen Quest

    Since 1998, Karen Quest has blazed a trail in the fair and festival industry as a solo female comedy entertainer with her one-woman comedy variety act, Cowgirl Tricks, and Over The Top Stilt Characters™.

    She is a small business owner with the title of Chief Operating Cowgirl of Giddyup Productions, representing some of the finest family variety entertainers in the business.

    A natural-born educator, Karen has taught acting, improvisation, physical education, and circus skills to ages four to ninety-two.

    Karen’s experience performing at libraries led her to enroll in the Master of Library and Information Science program at San José State University in January 2020, coincidentally, the same month she started Medicare.

    She is slated to graduate in December 2022, and her dream job is to be an Outreach Services Librarian.

    Although she is not fooled easily, she applied to many scholarships that turned out to be shams.

    Karen wasn’t chosen for this $1,500 “Fifth Month Scholarship,” but at least it yielded an essay that was fun to write. 

    The instructions were:

    May is the fifth month of the year. Write a letter to the number five explaining why five is important. Be serious or be funny. Either way, here’s a high five to you for being original. (250 words or less).

    Marlene C

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  • My Secret Cottage

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

    My Secret Cottage

    By Kathy Guthormsen

    I open the back door to dew sparkling in the morning sun and hints of rainbows shimmering in the lingering mist. They let me catch a fleeting glimpse before their magic fades. Goosebumps raise along my bare arms as I race through the grass and turn to look at my wet footprints. The sun will soon erase this evidence of my footsteps. I won’t be followed as I skip through an imaginary forest to my secret cottage at the far end of an enchanted glade.

    Rabbit hops along next to me hoping for the reward of a carrot. Cat slinks across the trail, hunting. She’d like to catch Rabbit, but he’s bigger than she is. And wilier. I raise my hand to shade my eyes and turn in a circle. Do I hear something stalking me? I look up and see Eagle soaring through the blue watching after me. I wave and continue along my path.

    My secret cottage is just ahead. An abandoned pump house my father moved to our back yard. He made window boxes and added a covered porch. I swept cobwebs and evicted spiders. Dad carried out a child sized table and chairs. I brought toys and plastic dishes. This is my place. Where I hide from pirates and make friends with birds. Where I hold parties for my dolls and my much-loved teddy bear. Where I serve mud soup and rock cookies. Where adult voices are not heard; adult eyes are not allowed.

    My cottage has faded into the mist of memories. The pump house is small, now derelict, with peeling paint and a warped plywood floor. But I can still visit in my dreams.

    Kathy Guthormsen is the creator of “The Story of Jazz and Vihar.”

    Her writing has been published in several The Write Spot anthologies.

    These books are available from your local bookseller and Amazon.

    You can meet Kathy, and possibly Poe and other birds:

    May 21, 1:00 pm to 3:00 pm: Children’s Museum of Sonoma County, 1835 W. Steele Lane, Santa Rosa, CA

    Date to be determined:  Copperfield’s Books, 144 Kentucky St., Petaluma, CA

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

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

    She maintains a blog, Kathy G Space, where she occasionally posts essays, short stories, and fairy tales.

    Marlene C

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  • Delicate as a Hummingbird’s Heart

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

    Delicate as a Hummingbird’s Heart

    By Noah Davis

    This past Saturday, the fire burning on the north side of the river jumped a ridge and lit another hillside of drought-stricken timber, sending a plume so high that the air turned red with the seared skin of Douglas fir and larch.

    At 5:30 that evening, in the diner booth across from my father and me, a young man and woman, both with shiny, smooth cheeks, sat drinking their waters in small swallows. He wore a collared, white button down with jeans and scrubbed cowboy boots. Her skirt was blue, like glacial streams, and her straight hair was the color of stacked wheat shafts when the sunlight isn’t choked with smoke. His bangs were still wet from the shower, comb marks straight as irrigation ditches. She ran her hands over her knees. He thumbed the crease of his collar. She had to lean in every time he spoke.

    Years ago, I’d have thought this was a quiet, brave thing, here in our burning world: two people making themselves lovely for each other. But now having realized that the world has ended so many times before, this young couple’s effort became that much more vulnerable. Something as delicate as a hummingbird’s heart.

    In the last week, a hundred million trees had perished before the girl leaned close to her mirror and blinked on mascara. In the last month, thirty skies had been choked to gray before the boy raised his hand to knock on her front door.

    Noah Davis’ poetry collection Of This River was selected for the 2019 Wheelbarrow Book Prize from Michigan State University’s Center for Poetry, and his poems and prose have appeared in The Sun, Southern Humanities Review, Best New Poets, Orion, The Year’s Best Sports Writing, and River Teeth among others. 

    Davis earned an MFA from Indiana University and now lives with his wife, Nikea, in Missoula, Montana. 

    Originally posted on River Teeth April 4, 2022

    #justwrite #iamawriter #iamwriting #iamapoet

    Marlene C

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  • 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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