The Write Spot Blog by Marlene Cullen

Category: Sparks

Memorable writing that sparks imagination.

  • Dem Dry Bones

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

    Dem Dry Bones

    By William Frank Hulse III 

                In my hometown, the old hospital is where I was born. The same holds true for almost all of my 1947 vintage classmates. The old hospital was built in 1923 and razed in ’65 when the new hospital was completed. The memories I have of the old hospital and the memories I have of the old high school are sufficiently intertwined that I can hardly separate them. Both places were mighty scary after dark – mighty scary. Both buildings had basements with very little light from outside, so they were scary with shadows and dark corners, if the lights were out – even if it was high noon. There were classrooms in the high school basement – physics, biology, chemistry and home economics and student restrooms. The hospital basement was almost exclusively storage, as I recall. My memory of the hospital centers around three trips there for stitches. I wasn’t accident prone but I was adventurous and didn’t always look before I leaped!

              When we were 13 years, there were three of us who were far past adventurous. We were bold, audacious and mischievous in the extreme. We didn’t break the law but we sure bent it into a pretzel. We were thrill seekers. There was no leader of the pack. One day Larry would have a crazy idea, the next Robert would get an unwise notion – and on the third yours truly would have a flight of fancy and no parachute whatsoever. The only reason we didn’t get in trouble was due to the fact that we were nighthawks, typically on a Friday night.

              I’ve probably failed to mention the fact that my Dad’s dad, my grandfather for whom I’m named, was the high school janitor and a bus driver. Granddad knew more about me than he let on because I’d ridden on the school bus he drove for a year. I behaved – to be sure. Granddad didn’t brook any nonsense even from his favorite grandson. That would be me. I inherited Granddad’s gleam in my eye and a propensity to laugh from dawn to dusk and then some. Sometimes, I would help Grandad clean the school. I wasn’t looking for a job – I just enjoyed being around him. When he got back from his bus route, he’d go back into the high school and give it a once over before the next day’s activities.

              Being in the high school after ‘business hours,’ I figured out two or three different ways to do so – even when Granddad wasn’t around – especially when he wasn’t around. I’d been known to smoke in the boy’s room but hadn’t ever been caught. I figured I was bulletproof so I told my nighthawk pals we should invade the high school one night. We didn’t have vandalism in mind – we were just intrigued by being someplace we weren’t supposed to be. One Friday night, a senior with a large dose of ornery took a cow up on the top floor. He left hay and water but that cow roamed the halls for the whole weekend and dropped manure deposits about every 10 feet. School opening was delayed that following Monday while Granddad and I cleaned up after ol’ Daisy. Nobody thought it was funny – everybody thought it was hilarious. Most of the teachers and Granddad pretended to be upset but the truth is it was a heckuva prank.

              My memory is a little fuzzy here but I think the three of us brainstormed a prank to top the cow in the high school. It might’ve been my idea but Robert and Larry have graduated from this life and are probably smoking in the boy’s room in heaven. Bless ‘em. But back in 1960 we were full of enthusiasm for one particular prank. We wanted to ‘liberate’ the skeleton in the biology lab. We named him Mr. Bone-jangles. At first, all we wanted to do was bring him out for a weekend – a furlough of a sort. But try as we might, we couldn’t figure out a way to get old’ Davey Bones back into the high school biology lab. We knew Mrs. Ahrend would be calling the FBI and Scotland Yard to help recover her lab partner. Getting caught by the authorities – that would be bad. And for me, having Granddad and Dad find out I was involved would be a fate worse than death. So, just for the record and in case they’re watching down from one of Heaven’s fishing ponds, “It wasn’t me.” I’m just reporting the facts as best I know them. Sorry, Larry and Robert, but you’re on your own.

              Davey Bones somehow ended up in my basement. To this day, I’m still baffled how it happened. I was certain Mom and Dad wouldn’t find ol’ Bone-jangles because he was back in the darkest corner of the basement where my aunt and uncle’s non-essentials were stored. They had moved to Oregon and had planned to retrieve the goods when they came back to visit.  I think their junk may still be back in that musty corner. They’ve been gone for 20 years now but they might need that stuff – you just never know.

              On Sunday afternoon we put an old shirt and trousers on Davey and found two perfect blue marbles for his eyes. About 11:00 that night we all snuck out and retrieved our pal and took him up to the hospital and ceremoniously left him on the front steps. We had made a placard and put it on his lap. It said, Rest in Pieces. The skeleton was back in the biology lab later that week. Three years later, Mrs. Ahrend was our biology teacher. She looked right at us but warned the entire class to expect fire and brimstone if Mr. Bone-jangles ever went AWOL again.

              The old days were nothing short of amazing. I was careful not to tell my son about our shenanigans. He didn’t have the sense God gave a goose and that was like father like son.      

    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.

    #amwriting #justwrite #creativewriting

  • Magnificent Hydrangea from Safeway

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

    Magnificent Hydrangea from Safeway

    By Elizabeth Kirkpatrick-Vrenios

    Just like clockwork – this gorgeous flower wilts two hours after I place her in the vase. I carefully fill the water with the little food packet that comes with the flowers, cut the stems, arrange her perfectly, arrange her hair, fix her makeup, and convince her she will be the star at our dining table.

    “What do you need?” I ask.

    “Just some loving care – and oh, yes, will you feed me some sugar and trim my nails? And while you are at it, fluff up my gown.” 

    Dutifully I oblige, but just as the guests sit down, the flower drops her head to her chest, her leaves droop and she gives up the ghost with just a single petal dropping theatrically to the tablecloth.

    There she is, right on target, pulling a Theda Bara (I think I hear a theatrical sigh and see an eye roll as she expires). She flops on the table and goes through her death scene in front of everyone as if before a camera.

    I thought it was a fluke the last time I bought her cousin, a white peony – (she had winked at me in Safeway, claiming she would make me proud and shine gloriously on my dining room table if she were treated right). But she had collapsed just as the main dish was being served.

    This hydrangea is a particularly good actress. I am fairly certain of this, for there is an audible gasp from my dinner guests, when she acts her way through her death scene. One very sensitive lady (pale, skinny, a vegan) rises and dashes for my bathroom, another rather rotund bald man tips his wine over as he hastily shoves his chair back, and a third covers her mouth with her flowered napkin. 

    There is stunned silence as I lean over, pick up the limp dead actress, and gingerly carry her to the garbage can in the kitchen. As she collapses, she moans something about being abused and mistreated by the woman of the house. 

    The nicest thing I can say is that while I never liked Miss Hydrangea-Theda Barrow’s type of acting, she provided some excitement to what was a fairly dull meal.

    One thing I know for sure, the next actress I bring home for the bouquet will be something closer to a mum.

    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, Unsplendid, Edison Literary Review, Passager, and NILVX. 

    She is a Professor Emerita from American University, 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. 

  • Know Your Colors

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

    Know Your Colors – An Introduction to the Plant Mood Chart

    By M.A. Dooley

    Luckily, my face turns colors when I feel emotions. Whether I am sad or happy or embarrassed, angry, jealous, afraid, confident, guilty, content, confused, giddy, flirtatious, thoughtful, nostalgic, hesitant, determined, focused, agitated, brazen –or if I feel a song coming on–I can consult the Plant Mood Chart. Rather than grasping at some external label that’s not quite accurate, I hold up the chart at the mirror, or sometimes with a friend, to make sense of the inside of me. It’s quite convenient, saving me lots of time and effort.

    Much like the little cannister with the PH and alkaline hues used to test hot tub water, but far more complex, the color chart corresponds to feelings and can even suggest a backstory as in, “What happened that brought me to this point?” 

    Although little understood by the public, there is a consistent body of work by Species Translators over hundreds of years.  They were doctors, spiritual leaders, druids, medicine women, scientists, and athletes who uncovered a correlation between emotions, humans (who change color) and plants including trees, fruits, flowers and vegetables. I just checked as I am writing this, and sure enough, I’m a white orchid, focused on explaining how the system works. Later on, I might be a pink lady – a little flushed with excitement to share my research with a broader audience – and then shrinking back in sepia, like an acacia, as some consider me a whacko, which turns me embarrassed into bright tomato.

    Yet there is a great deal of science behind the Plant Mood Chart similar to the deeply analyzed Bach’s Flower Remedies. Recent neuroscience has shown how the amygdala strengthens the part of the brain’s cellular memory reaching back to reconnect with earth’s ancients – plant beings. They are the ones that came first, offering life to all that followed. Biologists and healers alike know that plants actually feel and communicate. Plants not only have feelings but create feeling. Like us, they exist partly underground hiding their vulnerable veins, cool and safe, but also seek the sun their heads shining for all to see.

    As we breathe in their shifting colors, the more we become like plant beings. Today, we have a growing evolutionary opportunity to adapt as carbon emissions increase along with our CO2 intake. Oxygen transmuted by the sun through chlorophyll makes me turn ivy green with envy of their design to efficiently transfer and store life energy.

    With so much wind driven cross pollination, subatomic particles get into genetic codes and distribute globally. Most color changers are part wood fairy (my 24 and Me results indicated Corklorian Sprite at 1.3%). Many people are finding it natural to burrow into a soft barked redwood (sienna – comfort) or hide amongst the autumn fern (pale yellow – shyness) or wave their arms in the meadow like a big sunflower (golden – pride). Since we don’t always have a mirror and the color chart handy to verify our emotional states, listen with the ancients and their children rooted and sprouting from the earth to learn the colors of feeling. Our relationship to plant beings becomes our guide to understanding ourselves.

    M.A. Dooley is an architect, mother, skier, runner, and dancer who spent most of her life exploring the Santa Cruz Mountains, Sonoma County, the Sierra Nevadas, and the San Joaquin Delta.

    M.A. has been published in The Write Spot: Musings and Ravings From a Pandemic Year, and Poems of a Modern Day Architect, Archhive Books, 2020.

    M.A.’s writing has appeared in Sunset, San Francisco Chronicle, and The Press Democrat.

    #amwriting #justwrite #creativewriting

  • The Way Through

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

    The Way Through

    By Rebecca Olivia Jones

    Fears change over the years

    Never being good enough

    The youthful drive for perfection

     

    The impossible

     

    Competition and proving myself

    The best daughter

    The best dancer

    The best singer

    The best at all attempts

     

    Not possible

     

    Time has mellowed anxieties into a soft pillow of joy

    Fear now is the walk toward unknowing

    A loss of self

    The fading memories of life’s struggles

     

    I witnessed Mother’s decline into helplessness

    The night wanderings

    The frightening hallucinations

    Her ultimate vanishing

     

    Will I vanish, too?

     

    The slow breaking of synapses

    Unable to make decisions

    Thoughts like ghosts

    The fear of losing control over choices

    Existing in a continuum of uselessness

     

    I also watched my father’s vanishing

    But he held on

    Giving until his music stopped

     

    Perhaps, the only way through the fear is beyond thought

    Beyond the unknowable

    Accept what was

    Hold faith in life as it is

    Trust loved ones living

     

    And love the ones who have vanished

     

    Rebecca Olivia Jones is a playwright, singer, dancer, composer, choreographer, director, and 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. She is also a mother, grandmother, sister, and a seeker. She lives in San Rafael, California with her long-time boyfriend and their cat.

    Rebecca teaches singing lessons via zoom; enjoys hiking, gardening, cooking, reading, and writing.

    She is an advocate for the Alzheimer’s Association.

  • The Smell of Old Leather, the Scent of Cigars

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

    The Smell of Old Leather, the Scent of Cigars

    Karen FitzGerald

    Every so often Georgia would pull out that tin cigar box her Gramps gave her some 75 years ago. Imagine—75 years she’d been hauling that old tin box around, moving it from the family homestead to her college dorm, to that sweet pensione in Italy in her 20’s, to the little garden apartment when she and Gitulio married. Good gosh! And how many other moves in her 85 years had there been?

    But, here she was, in Happy Valley Seniors’ Residence with her tin box from Gramps, about to open it for possibly the last time in her life; open it to retrieve the cherished item inside —her very first diary.

    Her arthritic hands wrestled with the lid of the container while a thought crossed her weary mind. Surprisingly tight this lid on such a worn-out tin. But it did finally give way to the beaten and battered, leather bound book within.

    The gold, etched letters in beautiful cursive writing that spelled out the word “Diary” were pretty much all worn off, but that did not distill the thrill, the wave of emotion that swept over her as she ran her hand across the cover. And that precious lock of gold—OK, only tin, really, but to the ten-year-old Georgia, it was pure gold that lock, and she still had the key! Imagine. And the entire contraption worked! The key and lock and binding all in order, as were the words on the pages that she hastily, excitedly scribbled out 75 years ago.

    Not even the urgent screams of sirens penetrated her tender thoughts in lifting the book from the cigar box. Do I smell cigars? The smell of leather? Really? After all these years?

    She inhaled deeply, took it all in—the smell drifting through her memories. She thumbed through the first pages of her first diary, the first words of her very first, private thoughts. 

    When the firemen broke down the door, the smell of gas was overwhelming. There they found an old woman sitting, peacefully, head down, chin to chest, a soft smile on her face, a worn-out book in her hand.

    * A wonk is a person who takes an enthusiastic or excessive interest in the specialized details of a particular subject or field, immersing oneself in the subject matter.

    Karen FitzGerald, founder of Think I.N.C. (Thinking Innovation, Not Consulting), professional trouble-shooters in business and organizational management, is transitioning from business management wonk to full time writer.

    Karen is a prior board member for a variety of organizations: The Sonoma County Public Library Foundation, National Women’s History Project, Living Room Center (a day shelter for homeless women and women with children). She is a Finance Committee Member for Interfaith Shelter Network.

    Karen recently dusted off her M.A. in English which she achieved with a Master’s Thesis on language centered theories of human behavior (1994).

    Over the last several decades, Karen has been rejected by obscure presses and prestigious publishing houses alike. Ever the optimist, except when not, she moves forward, undaunted, with pen, dictionary, and a sizable inventory of Wite-Out correction fluid in stock.

  • Just Looking

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

    Just Looking

    By Ken Delpit

    What’s in a look?

    Quite a lot, actually. Consider looks in their simple verb forms, for instance.

    The meanings range from imperatives to advisories to admonitions to out-and-out warnings.

    Look away. Look up. Look over there. Look down. Look around. Now, look here! Look sharp! Look out! Look at you!

    Or, consider the noun forms. As with its cousin verb forms, noun looks span a range of meanings, from complimentary to critical to probing to mysterious.

    Let’s take a quick look. That is a bad look for him. They kind of gave me a funny look. We need to take a deep look. Now, that is a good look for you. I was left speechless when she gave me that look.

    Or, consider “ing” forms to describe appearances and states, from transitory to reputational to habitual.

    Looking tired. Looking confident. Looking like a winner. No thank you, just looking. Looking surprised. Looking smug and haughty. Looking like you’re enjoying yourself. Looking Good!

    In short, if you find yourself stranded on a desert island, and you have only a few words at your disposal, you could survive pretty well if “look” is among them. Well, that and a solar-powered satellite cell phone.

    Thank you, Ken, for this fun take on the word look.

    Ken Delpit has been writing for quite a while, that is if you count computer programming and technical documentation as “writing.” Since leaving those professions behind, Ken has discovered an exciting new world of creative writing. He is now giddily exploring new devices, such as adjectives, subtlety, mystery, and humans with emotions and feelings.

    Aternatives for the word look, from Daily Writing Tips:

    “Look, it’s perfectly acceptable to use the verb look, but don’t hesitate to replace this fairly ordinary-looking word with one of its many more photogenic synonyms. Many of these substitutions come in especially handy when it comes to finding one word to take the place of look-plus-adverb or look-plus-adjective-and-noun, as the definitions demonstrate.”

    1. Blink: to look at with disbelief, dismay, or surprise or in a cursory manner
    2. Browse: to look at casually
    3. Consider: to look at reflectively or steadily
    4. Contemplate: to look at extensively and/or intensely
    5. Dip (into): to examine or read superficially
    6. Eye: to look at closely or steadily
    7. Fixate (on): to look at intensely
    8. Gape: to look at with surprise or wonder, or mindlessly, and with one’s mouth open
    9. Gawk: see gape
    10. Gawp: see gape (generally limited to British English)
    11. Gaze: to look steadily, as with admiration, eagerness, or wonder
    12. Glare: to look angrily
    13. Glimpse: to look briefly
    14. Gloat: to look at with triumphant and/or malicious satisfaction
    15. Glower: to look at with annoyance or anger
    16. Goggle: to look at with wide eyes, as if in surprise or wonder
    17. Leer: to look furtively to one side, or to look at lecherously or maliciously
    18. Observe: to look carefully to obtain information or come to a conclusion, or to notice or to inspect
    19. Ogle: to look at with desire or greed
    20. Outface: to look steadily at another to defy or dominate, or to do so figuratively
    21. Outstare: see outface
    22. Peek: to look briefly or furtively, or through a small or narrow opening
    23. Peep: to look cautiously or secretively; see also peek (also, slang for “see” or “watch”)
    24. Peer: to look at with curiosity or intensity, or to look at something difficult to see
    25. Peruse: to look at cursorily, or to do so carefully
    26. Pore (over): to look at intently
    27. Regard: to look at attentively or to evaluate
    28. Rubberneck: to look at in curiosity
    29. Scan: to look at quickly, or to look through text or a set of images or objects to find a specific one
    30. Skim: see scan
    31. Stare: to look at intently
    32. Stare (down): to look at someone else to try to dominate
    33. Study: to look at attentively or with attention to detail
    34. Watch: to look carefully or in expectation
    35. Wink: to look at while blinking one eye to signal or tease another person

  • Claudia

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

    Claudia

    by Nona Smith

    We held our wine glasses up and tapped their rims together. Clink.

              “Do you know why that’s done?” Claudia asked.

              “I have no idea,” I said.

              “The French began the custom centuries ago. It’s to make us appreciative of all five of our senses.”

    Claudia had a treasure trove of that kind of information.

     “Ahhh, les Francais; ils savent tout,” she added.

              She spoke three languages fluently and had enough vocabulary in others to find bathrooms in foreign countries and order wine in restaurants. Born in Germany and well-travelled, Claudia had European sensibilities and a sophisticated sense of style. Her hair was cut by a Sassoon-trained stylist, she wore only Italian-made shoes, and the walls of her dining room were painted Chinese red, seasons before that trend appeared in Architectural Digest. She owned a few expensive, elegant gold pieces, but most of her jewelry was purchased during her travels from local artisans or at art fairs at home. It was this we bonded over.

              On her first day working as a travel agent at Trips Out Travel, I admired her earrings: thumb-nail size, straight-back chairs, crafted from black metal. Definitely not gold, but certainly expensive. Something she might have found in a museum gift shop.

              My compliment caused her to tuck a strand of red hair behind her ear and caress her earlobe. “I found them in Taormina. I had to sort through all that cameo crap they sell there before I found anything interesting.”

              Claudia had opinions. Very firm opinions. About food and clothing and what was worth spending money on. Her generous smile drew people to her; her sharp tongue sent them away. She possessed a quirky, wicked sense of humor and had a flare for the dramatic. She’d once been married and had a son Adam she adored, but when I met her, Claudia was living alone in a one-bedroom gem of a house secreted into the Berkeley hills. She took her cockapoo Milo, a yappy attention-grabbing dog, with her almost everywhere. And Claudia was devoted to the game of What If… What if you weren’t a travel agent; what else would you be? What if you didn’t live in this country; where else would you like to live? What if you knew how to play a musical instrument; which one would it be?

              Milo was not with us the afternoon we dined at our favorite dim sum restaurant in the City. We’d already polished off a bamboo steaming-basket of shrimp dumplings and a platter of al dente Chinese broccoli with oyster sauce when Claudia nodded to the waitress rolling another dim sum-laden trolley towards us. “We’ll have the shu mai and the pork buns,” she said with authority.

              We held our wine glasses up and tapped their rims together. Clink.

              “What if,” Claudia began, “you were on Death Row and going to order your last meal; what would it be?”

              I don’t recall what I answered, but Claudia’s answer came quickly and definitively. She waved her chopsticks over the bountiful table. “This is what I would order.”

              Late the next morning, Adam called. “It’s bad news. It’s Mom. She died yesterday.”

              “Oh, Adam,” I said. Tears sprang to my eyes.

              He continued to speak, “… alone in the house … Milo was with her … brain aneurism …”

              I heard his words, vaguely, but the picture in my mind was of Claudia, her chopsticks held aloft, pronouncing the dim sum her last meal of choice.

    “Claudia” by Nona Smith is one of the featured pieces at the Artists’ Co-op of Mendocino, Traditional and Contemporary Fine Arts 2021 Ekphrasis X Exhibition, where writing is paired with visual arts. You can see the artwork inspired by “Claudia” and the other winning entries at 2021 Ekphrasis X Exhibition.

    Ekphrasis: Art describing other art. Writing is paired with visual arts.

    Nona Smith is the author of Stuffed: Emptying the Hoarder’s Nest and numerous short stories, humorous personal essays, and bad poetry. She was a long-time board member of the Mendocino Coast Writers’ Conference and currently sits on the board of the Writers of the Mendocino Coast and is editor of the club’s annual anthology. Nona lives with her patient husband Art and two demanding cats.

    Her writing is featured in many anthologies including The Write Spot: Musings and Ravings From a Pandemic Year. Available at Gallery Books in Mendocino, Rebound Books in Mill Valley, Book Passage in Corte Madera, at Amazon, and through your local bookseller.

  • Barbara’s Braid

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

    Today’s Sparks is a pantoum.

    Barbara’s Braid

    By Karen Ely

    Weaving strands of amber honey

    Over, under, around and through

    Silky locks of shimmer sunlight

    Plaited patterns, three by two

     

    Over, under, around, and through

    Brush strokes cultivate the threads

    Plaited patterns three by two

    A tapestry of golds and reds

     

    Brush strokes cultivate the threads

    Silky locks of shimmer sunlight

    Plaited patterns, three by two

    Weaving strands of amber honey

     

    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 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.

    Discoveries is on sale for $6.99 at Amazon for a limited time.

    Writers Forum hosts Saturday afternoon writing for the month of October 2021. Free on the Zoom platform.

  • Ascension Garden

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

    Ascension Garden

    By Stacy Murison

    The first time, you drive by yourself. You have some idea you are going there, but are still surprised that you know the way, without her, through the turning and turning driveways. Left, left, left, left. Park near the rusted dripping spigot. The wind blows, unseasonably warm for November.

    You bring the candy bar, her favorite, the one from the specialty chocolate shop, the one with the dark chocolate and light green ribbon of mint. You try to eat yours, but instead, stare at hers, unopened, where you imagine the headstone will go and sob without sound while the wind French-braids your hair just as she would have, and that’s how you know she is here.

    She is still pushing cicada shells off white birch trunks with her toes, dancing around pine trees with roses garlanded in her hair, singing of her love of tuna and string beans, of percolated coffee, of lemon waxed floors, of gelatin molds, of cherries, of lilacs, of chicken soup, of kasha, of home sweet home, of you.

    “Ascension Garden” was published August 16. 2021 in River Teeth, A Journal of Nonfiction Narrative.

    Posted with permission.

    Stacy Murison’s work has appeared in Assay: A Journal of Nonfiction Studies (where she is a Contributing Editor), Brevity’s Nonfiction Blog, Every Day Fiction, Flagstaff Live!, Flash Fiction Magazine, Hobart, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, River Teeth, The Hong Kong Review, and The Rumpus among others. 

  • Chuckstable

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

    Chuckstable

    By Lynn Levy

    Dana cracked her gum and then smoothed it against the roof of her mouth. She pushed her tongue through, making that all-important thin membrane that would become the bubble, and Bobby watched, thinking that the gum made her tongue look as pink as the boa she was wearing. Which was saying a lot.

    There was no explaining, really, why Dana was wearing a boa at all, but Bobby knew her better than to ask. Dana had on a boy’s tank top, cut-off jeans, and Goodwill Kiva sandals with one of the straps broken. She also had a scab on her left knee that grossed out the toughest kid in the neighborhood, and a thin white scar on her right arm from the time she’d fallen out of the big old oak on a dare that she could climb higher than the boys. The bone had stuck through, but Dana didn’t cry. After that she made her own rules, and nobody stopped her. If she wanted to wear a pink boa to catch snapping turtles, that’s what she did.

    Dana blew the bubble and popped it, and used her tongue to pull the broken film back into her mouth.

    Bobby pushed his old safari hat down over his forehead, hoping the shadow would hide his eyes. If Dana caught him staring, he was sure he’d shrivel up and die, though he wasn’t sure why. He wasn’t even sure why he was staring, actually, it was just that over this last summer, somehow Dana had gotten really … interesting.

    While he watched, she took a couple of quick lithe leaps across the flat stones, until she was in the middle of the creek, cool water riding over her feet, making the creek surface a different shape right there, two smooth glassy bumps that no longer looked like feet. Dana crouched and looked down into the water. She let her fingers dangle just below the surface, the current drawing little wakes around each one. She didn’t seem to notice the ends of the boa dipping into the creek, the feathers shrinking with wet.

    Bobby jumped a little when she squealed. “It’s a big one!” she called. Then, annoyed, “Are you gonna come help me or what?”

    Bobby ambled over to the creek bank as if he was just himself, instead of how he felt, like he was someone meeting Dana for the first time and shy because of it. He’d known Dana since their Mommas had let them play out in front of the trailers, in undershirts and no pants.

     “What do you want with them snappers, anyway?” Bobby asked.

    “I wanna put one in Duane’s outhouse,” she said. “On accounta what he said about Chuckstable.”

    Chuckstable was Dana’s dog and the love of her life. He was also the ugliest thing God ever put together. What Duane had said was actually pretty funny, but didn’t bear repeating unless you liked the taste of soap.

    “His Pa finds it, he’ll just kill it,” Bobby said. Dana looked up at him, squinting. The light caught her eyes, and the browns and greens flickered just like the creek bottom.

    “Ya think?” Dana asked.

    “Uh huh,” Bobby said.

    Dana sighed, and leaned forward, reaching into the water to stroke the turtle’s shell once, carefully, from behind. Bobby noticed the way the knobs of her spine pushed against the tank top, and had the weird thought that she’d be safer in life if she had a shell too.

    “You’re right,” she said, standing. The wet ends of the boa came out of the water and clung around her knees. “But it was fun to think about.”

    Originally published in The Write Spot to Jumpstart Your Writing: Discoveries, print version available for $6.99 for a limited time at Amazon.

    Lynn Levy’s writing has also been published in The Write Spot: Possibilities and The Write Spot: Musings and Ravings From a Pandemic Year. All available in print ($15) and ereaders ($3.49) at Amazon. E-reader available with Kindle Unlimited.

    All the Write Spot books are also available through your local bookseller.

    Lynn Levy lives in Northern California with her husband, an endless parade of wild birds, and one dour skunk who passes by nightly. She and the skunk have an understanding.