The Write Spot Blog by Marlene Cullen

Category: Sparks

Memorable writing that sparks imagination.

  • I Scream, You Scream

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

    I Scream, You Scream

    By Nona Smith

    It’s been well over a year since I’ve done any grocery shopping at Safeway. Early on in the pandemic, it was Harvest, our other local supermarket, who quickly adopted safety precautions: it made mask-wearing mandatory, limited the number of shoppers inside the store at any given time, provided handwashing stations outside, and offered free Latex gloves. Safeway was slow to adopt protective measures, making me feel unsafe in Safeway.

    Fast forward eighteen months, and I’m fully vaccinated and in need of a cake mix Harvest doesn’t carry. Being as health conscious as it is, the shelves in the baking section at Harvest are laden with organic, gluten-free, paleo, KETO, dairy-free cake mixes. There are only a handful of non-organic, full-on gluten, white sugar mixes on the very bottom shelf. I’m guessing their placement there is to give the consumer time to re-think their unhealthy choice while bending over to reach one of those boxes. So, I’m off to Safeway to find my cake mix.

    Of course, it’s there, nuzzled amongst dozens of others of its ilk, within easy reach. I pluck it from the shelf and decide to do the rest of my grocery shopping while I’m already in the store. I pull out my grocery list.

    When all the items are checked off, I crumple the list and stuff it into my purse. Then I go in search of the shortest check-out line, which––because shoppers are encouraged to stand on the six-feet-apart circles painted on the store floor––brings me half-way down the ice cream section of a freezer aisle. And, because I have nothing else to do while waiting for the line to move, I begin perusing the freezer cases and discover an ice cream trend. The highest end ice creams––Haagen-Dazs, Ben and Jerrys, Talienti––have adopted “layering” as a new marketing gimmick. Only pint cartons are offered this way: four layers of different textures and flavors. I’m imagining plunging my ice cream scoop far enough down into the container to reach all four layers at the same time. Nope, I determine, it can’t be done. One would need a spoon to get the effect the product promises. I suspect the idea really is, to sell more product by encouraging shoppers to have their very own pint to dip their very own spoon into. I can’t imagine this trend will last beyond the summer.

    The line moves, and I find myself in front of a section containing lesser-known brands, such as Fat Boy and Fat Boy Junior. I’m wondering what kind of market research led someone to name their product that when the line shifts again.

     Now I’m in the popsicle section and looking at a product that reminds me of the summers of my childhood. I can almost hear the tinkling notes of the white ice cream truck as it announces its tour through my neighborhood. And here it is in Safeway’s freezer: the Good Humor Creamsicle, orange popsicle on the outside, velvety vanilla ice cream on the inside. I’m tempted to put a package in my shopping cart. The only thing that stops me is knowing the Creamsicles would melt before I got out of the store.

    Another five minutes pass, and I’m now standing in that spot between the end of the aisle and the conveyer belt, leaving enough space for shoppers to pass through with their carts. An idea strikes me, and I reach into my purse for the crumpled shopping list and a pen. Smoothing out the list, I jot some notes about what I’ve just discovered. As a writer of personal essay, I know that anything––and everything––is fodder for a story. Why not ice cream?

    By the time I’m wheeling my cart out of the store, I’ve decided to make a stop at Harvest on my way home and do a little market research of my own.

    Standing in front of the ice cream freezer at Harvest, it’s just as I suspected. Yes, the high-end, four layered, products are there, but there’s no sign of Fat Boy or his son. Instead, there’s a product called Skinny Cow. Also, it appears there’s an equal amount of low fat, sugar-free, nonfat, nondairy ice creams made from soy, almond or coconut milk as those made from actual full-fat cow’s milk. The Rebel label promises “high fat/low carbs” for people on a KETO diet. There’s even an ice cream designed for kids who don’t like vegetables. It’s called Peekaboo and is made with “hidden veggies:” vanilla ice cream with zucchini, chocolate with cauliflower. Who knew? The freezer is filled with organic, health-conscious choices, seemingly designed to keep the Harvest shopper living a nutritious lifestyle.

    I tuck the note-filled grocery list back into my purse and head home. Maybe one day I’ll write a piece about ice cream.

    Nona Smith is the author of Stuffed: Emptying the Hoarders’ Nest and numerous other short stories published in various anthologies, including The Write Spot: Musings and Ravings From a Pandemic Year, journals and the St. Petersburg Times (now Tampa Bay Times.) Currently, she is writing a mystery about a woman named Emma whose dear friend goes missing. In her search for her friend, Emma finds herself. Nona writes personal essays and memoir pieces as well as fiction, always with an eye towards finding the humor in situations. She lives on the Mendocino coast with her husband Art and two mischievous cats.

    Stuffed: Emptying the Hoarders’ Nest and The Write Spot: Musings and Ravings From a Pandemic Year are available at Gallery Bookshop and on Amazon.

  • Dedicated to Dad

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

    Dedicated to Dad

    By William Frank Hulse III 

    I was out on the back patio, grilling some hamburgers. After talking to the two dogs next door I sat down at a little café/bistro table my wife arranged as a little hygge spot for us. Out of the corner of my eye I caught movement and turned to see a beautiful yellow butterfly go passing by, on its way to a luncheon appointment I suppose. I smiled at the thought and then, for some reason, my father came to mind. He died 18 years ago but he has this clever way of making his presence known. Sometimes, it’s one of his nifty quotes that he borrowed from Will Rogers – a local hero of ours. Other times it’s his shadow that looms large when I’m guessing what next or what now. Those two questions seem to demand a little conversation with Dad. What would you do Dad? He’ll laugh and ask me, “What are you paying me?” He often said, “Free advice is worth exactly what you paid for it.” Isn’t that great! It was his theory that unsolicited advice had a hidden price tag, and I supposed there’s some truth in that.

    So, Dad shows up unexpectedly and inquires how I’m doing. I might as well be honest, he could always read me like a book. When he died, after a long battle with cancer, I was devastated. He had beat the cancer but the aftershocks just kept coming. Like a friend of mine said about her husband, Alan, “He was broken.” Neither Dad nor my lifetime friend Alan were emotionally or spiritually broken but their bodies just gave out. But, Dad left behind tangible evidence of his emotional and spiritual health in a number of ways. In Mom’s wallet, in which she almost never keeps money, Dad had folded up a tissue thin page, like from a Bible. It was a love letter folded and then folded again. When Mom opened it up she was overjoyed. It was a number of months after his death, maybe even a year. Dad was faithful and loving even in death.

    I could stop now and you’d be none the wiser about Dad’s big secret. Over the years he had the habit of stashing money in the oddest places. It was emergency cash that he kept at home in case one of his many friends came by and asked for help. The circumstances were varied but the loan had the same terms – no interest, pay me back when and if you can. He wouldn’t have made a very good banker but he was a fine friend. Time marched on after his death and Mom was doing a bit of downsizing. She asked me if I wanted a nice wooden, windup mantel clock. It hadn’t worked in years but I thought I’d take it to a clock repair person and find out if it was worth restoring. I asked my bride to give it a once over so that the dust and grime of a lifetime didn’t mar its finish. She opened to clock because Mom said the key to wind the clock was inside. Inside there was an envelope; no address or note but ten $100 dollar bills! We took it over to Mom’s and she was blown away but she knew the culprit! Dad visited that clock for some reason with $1,000. Mom insisted we take $500 as a discovery fee. We argued until I could see it was a lost cause. Mom wanted to share with us.

    Dad probably never heard the word hygge. But he had a knack for coming to the rescue when he learned of one of the little old ladies from church had a problem – money, snow shoveling, lawn mowing and the like. I like to think of him as a hygge deliveryman, always ready to bring comfort, contentment and grand memories.

    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.

  • Network

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

    Network

    By Deb Fenwick

    It’s new and improved! Try it! Don’t miss this opportunity.  Buy now. No, not goodbye now. But look at this good buy, now! Amazon Prime straight to your door in 24 hours, guaranteed. And, if all goes well, gig workers will deliver your Starbucks just as your DoorDash lunch is arriving. Thank goodness for the bits and bytes that zoom unseen through your Wi-Fi and into a fiber-optic network that traverses the globe. It’s fast. And you are the master of your point-and-click world.

    Plants have a dynamic unseen life beneath the soil. In late autumn, perennials slowly go into a state of dormancy in response to cold weather and shorter daylight hours. Gradually, leaves and stalks disappear. Life continues underground, and roots go into a potent winter slumber. In spring, in response to warming soil and sunlight, new growth begins to emerge. The energy stored in buried roots and bulbs converts into sprouts and shoots. Fields of tulips and daffodils bloom in predictable cycles every year.

    Here’s the big box store where year-over-year profit growth is nearly guaranteed. Everything we never knew we need is fluorescently lit in a mammoth, temperature-controlled warehouse. Save time. Save money. Save your life and buy toilet paper now. Lots of it. Here’s a 24 pack of 60-watt light bulbs. Need 1,000 ballpoint pens? How about a five-pack of toothpaste? They’ve got a dozen pallets of each. It’s an effective business model. Thousands of pallets of plastic are routed through a network of facilities and loaded on and off trucks. By offering only one format for purchase, high volume consumption is guaranteed!

    Under the soil, there’s a microscopic fungal network of plant communication at work. The mycelium is an ecosystem of thin threads connecting one plant to another in what’s been dubbed the “wood-wide web.”  Suzanne Simard, a professor of forest ecology in British Columbia, has researched fungal links between trees and found that older trees share resources like carbon, water, and nutrients with younger trees that are struggling to grow on the dark forest floor. Plant hormones that serve as chemical alarm signals and defenses are also passed along the network when there’s danger from toxins and insects.

    Danger! Wear your N95 mask and stand six feet apart as you wait in line to get your laptop repaired at the Apple store. Not those kinds of apples. You know, Macs? The genius bar? No. Not that kind of bar. The bar where you hand over your credit card and a 25-year-old digital native examines your hard drive. They show you how to use the functions on your computer or iPhone. Things that you never knew you couldn’t live without.  Mysterious, invisible tools that make your life easier—so you can live faster and smarter.

    In addition to the forest, mycorrhizal networks exist in prairies, grasslands, and even in stretches of the Arctic. A New York Times article from January 2021 suggests that the fungal network exists anywhere we find life on land. There’s a complex system of partnership, communication, responsiveness, and reciprocity living under your feet, right now.

    Now! Click here. There’s a special offer. Use this coupon code. For subscribers only. Interested in meditation? Track your exercise and your daily step count! Keep track of your daily calories on a fitness tracker. Did you know there’s an app for that? Check your phone.

    Or, you could just take a deep inhale and decide to go for a stroll outdoors. Maybe even leave your phone at home and marvel at everything you can’t see. It’s free!

    Deb Fenwick is a Chicago-born writer who currently lives in Oak Park, Illinois. After spending nearly thirty years working as an arts educator, school program specialist, youth advocate, and public school administrator, she now finds herself with ample time to read books by her heroes and write every story that was patiently waiting to be told. When she’s not traveling with her heartthrob of a husband or dreaming up wildly impractical adventures with her intrepid, college-age daughter, you’ll find her out in the garden getting muddy with two little pups.   

  • One Wish Now, or Three In Ten?

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

    One Wish Now, or Three In Ten?

    By Patricia Morris

    Patricia’s response to the writing prompt: Would you rather have one wish granted today, or three wishes granted ten years from now?

    Given that my dear friend of forty years died last week after a fast and furious 6-week illness, I will take my one wish today, please. No waiting for ten years for anything anymore. There are no ten years guaranteed, especially when, in ten years, I will be six months shy of 70 years old. That is a shocking thing to write, but that is my reality.

    Having only one wish, the pressure is on. To make it the “right” wish, the “best” wish, the “greatest good for the greatest number” wish. I could game it. I could make my one wish be to have one wish granted annually for the rest of my life. Leave it to the dormant lawyer brain to spring to life and offer up that one.

    I could wish to know when and how I will die. But no, I couldn’t do that and do away with the fundamental mystery of life. Then I would probably spend the rest of my days fixated on that moment and drain the life out of life.

    I might wish to end and reverse global warming. A wish to repair all the environmental damage that humankind has wrought and then, once repaired, for earth’s ecology to hold steady. I like this wish, but I can’t help wondering about unintended consequences. It violates the scientific fact that nothing holds steady. That even seemingly solid mountains are moving, that friends come and go, that I will come and go. That stars, made up of the same stuff as you and I, burst into life and flame into death. I wouldn’t wish for it to be any other way.

    Patricia Morris’s lawyer brain went dormant decades ago, and she tries to keep it that way when she writes for fun, as she does on Monday nights at Marlene Cullen’s and Susan Bono’s Jumpstart Writing Workshops. Her writing has appeared in Rand McNally’s Vacation America, the Ultimate Road Atlas and The Write Spot:  Possibilities and The Write Spot:  Musings and Ravings From a Pandemic Year, both edited by Marlene Cullen. The Write Spot books available at Amazon, Book Passage (Corte Madera), and Gallery Books (Mendocino).

    Patricia Morris will be a featured presenter at Writers Forum on July 29, 2021 at 6 pm.

  • The Bigger Picture … Life is more than me.

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

    The Bigger Picture . . . Life is more than me.

    By Christine Liles

    What I’m about to say is my own opinion and my personal thoughts about Life. I don’t expect everyone to feel the same way or believe the way I do. I’ve experienced quite a bit in my life that’s led me to feel the way I do. Life is magical. It’s mysterious and unpredictable but also glorious and such a gift. I will say that I do believe in God. I believe we are all here for a reason. 

    To me, Life is like a chain of reactions. Think of your life. Think of everyone you currently know, everyone who has seen you do something, and everyone who you’ve come in contact with by doing a kind gesture or even a fender bender.

    Take all your life events and imagine all the people in it and what their lives would be like if you never existed. Imagine that you were never born. How much of an impact on those people’s lives have you made? Most of those people will never know what difference you’ve made, but it could be a positive one. I bet right now you are wondering where I’m going with this . . . right?

    For a while now, and I know I’ve mentioned this before on my blog, Living On O2 for Life, I’ve really thought about my life as a whole. The Bigger Picture. I’ve thought about the people I meet briefly and I feel a little guilty that I don’t remember them . . . though they certainly remember me. I think about my family and what their life would’ve been like if I hadn’t been born. 

    I often question myself when I’m out of the house doing my errands, in doctor’s offices, or just out to dinner … Why do people remember me? Sure I use oxygen. But it wasn’t until I went to my pain management doctor, I started wondering about all of this seriously. He looked at my chart with all my health problems and we talked a bit. He said that he saw that I’ve been through so much and I seem to be such a pleasant, vibrant person who can smile despite what I’ve been through. Then, he said that I’ve been blessed, truly blessed. I was truly at a loss for words. This is not me tooting my own horn. I just don’t know if I see myself that way. So, I often wonder why people do see me in such a kind light.

    There are two reasons why I am the way I am. I’ll be the first person to admit to you that I am NOT perfect. I don’t believe anyone is. Though, I tell my husband that I’m perfect in every way. *Wink* I do have days when I struggle with life. However, the core instinct in me wants to spread joy (that’s what I call it) because it makes me feel good and alive and I hope with all my heart that it makes someone’s day better as well. I don’t want to have to imagine what my life would be like if I couldn’t find a reason to smile. So, I wonder sometimes what it would be like if I was never born. And in wondering this, comes the HOPE that I have made a positive impact on someone’s life. 

    Life is more than me. It’s about all of us. We are all interconnected and we need each other.

    My name is Christine Liles and I blog about living on oxygen for life. I’ve used oxygen since I was 17 years old. 

    Note from Marlene:

    Christine shares her stories on her blog, Living On Oxygen for Life. I have enjoyed her blog posts for years. I love her upbeat and sparkling personality. We have never met in person, but I feel like I know her (from her stories on Living On Oxygen).

    About Christine:

    I was born as the middle child of two sisters. Both are healthy . . . thank goodness! Growing up, I was restricted from certain gym class activities; things like running, jump roping, or anything that made me breathe hard from exerting myself too much. What was so great was that my family, especially my sisters never treated me like I was a fragile flower. In a way, that made me stronger inside. Even though I was born with serious heart and breathing problems along with the scoliosis that had me wearing a Milwaukee brace, I was still a kid who rode a bike chasing after the ice cream man, played two years of girls’ league baseball (wasn’t very good), and I was even in a bowling league. I’m sure wasn’t suppose to do all that because of my health but my parents tried to let me experience life as close to normal as possible. There were times where I had to sit out from the fun because it was just too beyond my capability.

  • Day Tripping

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

    Day Tripping

    By Karen Handyside Ely

    As we enter the trailhead from Shell Beach, brisk and bracing winds swirl hair and chill bones. Am I crazy, wearing only shorts and a t-shirt?

    We begin our ascent, turning backwards often as we inch up the hill so that we can soak up the panorama that unfolds behind us. Sunshine shimmers on the Pacific, making it glitter as the waves undulate, achingly alive. Light on water, is there anything more beautiful? As we crest the first hill, we stop one last time to feast our eyes. Mine fill with tears. It overwhelms me, this hushed moment in the sea breeze. Immersed in this timeless vista there is such peace in knowing how long this view has been here, and always will be. The echoes of eternity, the promise of constancy. We continue on.

    I’m no longer cold. The climb has loosened my muscles. We have entered a new world as we bid a loving farewell to the sea. We follow the trail that takes us through scrub brush and into a verdant meadow. Periwinkle lupin and amethyst iris stand out in stark contrast to the pale green of the grass. This is a world of muted colors and modest foliage; an in-between space, stunning in its simplicity. The endless sky is open and clear without a single cloud to ripple its stillness… and then we hear it… the screech of a hawk, like the opening hymn in Earth’s grand cathedral. We stop again to absorb the majesty.

    We come to a fork in the trail and opt to take the low road. We pass from meadow into forest and are enfolded in a tapestry of vivid color. Cyprus and Pine line the path, and ferns become abundant as we wade deeper and deeper into the jungle magic. We have transcended time, finding ourselves awash in a primordial forest. Redwood trees reach towards heaven, congregating in faerie rings amidst the velvet redwood sorrel. The air has become heavy and we can almost hear the trees breathing in the silence. We have stumbled across a sacred space. We feel like the only two people on the planet.

    Our senses are tenderly bombarded. The pungent, mossy forest floor settles comfortably in our nostrils. The quiet hangs like a blanket around our shoulders, occasionally interrupted by the groan of a tree or the hum of an unseen insect. The sun streams in long rays of filtered light, warming our skin. This grove is a banquet of emerald, sage, juniper, and moss – every shade of green imaginable – all framing the deep glow of redwood bark. We stroll into the empty campground and spread our little picnic on a bench near the trickling creek. We have arrived.

    Karen Handyside Ely was born and raised in Petaluma, California. Upon graduating from UC Davis, she worked in San Francisco and New York City in corporate finance. After a 30-year career as a mom and “professional” volunteer in Scottsdale, AZ, Karen returned to her beloved hometown in Sonoma County.

    She delights in difficult crossword puzzles, the Santa Rosa Symphony, and traveling with  her husband (of 35 years) 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 on Amazon in paperback and as ebooks.

  • It

    By Cheryl Moore

    It’s as slick and slippery as an eel living in a low walled enclosure, searching all the crevices to find bits of debris that didn’t find their way to the long, dark tunnel at its root. It spends most of its days and nights resting against the hard, upper ceiling except at meal times when it is an important assist in processing the food, or when in company its primary function is to express thoughts into language.

    So many kinds of languages it helps to express — the hard, umlauted words of German, the soft shushes of Portuguese or Polish, the rapid clip of Spanish or Italian, even the clicks of Khoisan, and of course, the vast vocabulary of English which has borrowed from all over the world.

    Such a useful organ, the tongue, it may even be aware of when to hold its peace.

    When Cheryl Moore came to California in the early 1960’s, she realized she’d found her home. Then moving to Petaluma in the 70’s, she was as close to paradise as she’d ever be.

    Travel has taken her to Europe and the Middle East. She has written on these memories as well as on the flora and fauna of the local river and her own garden.

  • Voices

    By Ken Delpit

    Individual voices are fascinating. They reflect uniqueness.They involve specific characteristics and abilities, both physical and mental. In tone and in lyric, they express specific perspectives and emotions. They can be soft; they can be harsh. They can be musical to some, grating to others. They can be up-lifting, but also down-putting. Voices may not define us completely, but they certainly represent us while the rest of us waits backstage.

    But voices rarely come just one to a customer. Multiple voices can reside in a single person. This is certainly true for writers. Each fictional character, partially invented and partially native, taps into its writer’s own voice box. Voices within propel writers’ fingers, and shape their stories.

    With few exceptions, it is also true that everyone has multiple voices, whether writer or not. Anyone who hides true feelings or conceals real intentions uses a voice convenient for the deceit. Anyone who senses that they could inflict emotional damage may give their real voice the hook, and push a kinder understudy out as stand-in.

    United voices can swell the heart. They project multiplied energy.They promote commonality. They express hope and desire in ways that are much greater than the sum of their individual parts. And in a good way, they reduce us. They reduce us to not-so-different beings, with both interests and purposes in common.

    Then, too, united voices can be daunting. When assembled spontaneously, they can give birth to future planned gatherings. When unanimous in pain, they can startle us into action. When joined in purpose, they can change societies. When unified in anger, they can erupt in revolution.

    Voices. Both calming and rallying. Both music and weapon. Take care of your voice, as you would a fine French horn. Be careful with it, as you would a loaded revolver. And, remember to let it be silent much of the time. Absence of voice can often be the most commanding, and most harmonious, voice in your repertoire.

    Hearing voices” is sometimes a sign of losing it. While that may well be true in his case, Ken Delpit clings to the notion that being fascinated by the many voices that surround and lie within us helps with his writing. Ken hopes to promote himself beyond his technical background (computers, mathematics) into credible and imaginative science-fiction novels.

    “Voices” was inspired by Baba Yetu, Prompt #583 on The Write Spot Blog.

  • A Safe Place

    By Kathleen Haynie

    When did I feel safe?

    I can’t remember ever feeling safe. I search. Maybe I felt safe at Ocean Beach—only strangers around and I could keep my distance. A place to run to on the “N” Judah street car. Run from the fighting, run from hurt, run from the anger. Run to feel away, to feel unfettered, to yell at the ocean where no one could hear my voice drowned out by the Pacific roar.

    I could hide in the open expanse of sand and waves and roar and motion and cry, the tears running.

    Running.

    Run into the cold fog, run into the bits of sand in the air, run with the pull of the earth. Drawn into the pull of the receding water, losing itself/myself into the empty of personality, empty of emotion. Fleeing and dissolving into the pull back into self.

    Self-drained with fast breathing, salt saliva falling from the corners of my mouth, legs shuddering. Walk into the empty, let down, rhythm, constant, certain, constantly coming in, constantly leaving and blending, losing.

    Safe in the roar, safe in the pull, safe in the empty.

    Kathleen Haynie. This City Girl turned into a Sonoma County Horse Girl, and then retired from decades as a professional in health care. She is now acting out a latent inclination for the dramatic arts as a drama student and cast member of Off the Page Readers Theater.

    Surprisingly, the journey continues into the newly found delight discovered in written expression. Kathleen felt honored to have her work, What They Did to Alice, performed at the 6th Street Playhouse 2020 Women’s Festival. She has decided that dark chocolate is perfect with a full-bodied red wine.

  • Dad

    By Susan Bono

    “That’s quite a sack of rocks you’re carrying, sweetie,” my father’s friend Bruce said more than once during phone calls last year. It was his way of acknowledging how heavily Dad’s poor health, hard-headedness and self-imposed isolation weighed on me. But I also took it as a tribute to Dad’s stubbornness and my strength, too.

    “Dumb as a rock” never made much sense to me, since stone strikes me as having its own unassailable intelligence. Its ability to endure illustrates its genius. I have never believed in the ability to factor equations or compose sonnets was proof of brain power, although I shared with Dad the idea that someone with rocks in his head was lacking in foresight and flexibility. Rocks may be smart, but they are slow. Time measured in stone is something else again.

    There were moments during my dad’s dying that were as slow as serpentine, sandstone, rose quartz, chert. His unseeing eyes were obsidian, and the pauses between breaths were long enough to form fossils. But just after that great wave rolled down from the crown of his head, darkening the air around him so his spirit glowed like a white shell at the bottom of a silty river, a tear slid from beneath his closed eyelids. That’s when the sack of rocks fell empty at my feet and I was surrounded by the tumult of released wings.

    Originally published in The Flashpoints 2008 issue of Tiny Lights. This issue was dedicated to the memory of Susan Bono’s father, Morris N. Zahl (12/24/24-3/22/09), whose light guides Susan.

    Susan Bono, a California-born teacher, freelance editor, and short-form memoirist, has facilitated writing workshops since 1993, helping hundreds of writers find and develop their voices. Her work has appeared online, on stage, in newspapers, on the radio, and in anthologies, including The Write Spot series.

    Susan is the author of “What Have We Here: Essays About Keeping House and Finding Home.”

    From 1995-2015, she edited and published a small press magazine called Tiny Lights: A Journal of Personal Narrative, as well as the online component that included quarterly postings of micro essays and a monthly forum dedicated to craft and process.

    She was on the board of the Mendocino Coast Writers’ Conference for more than a decade and was editor-in-chief of their journal, the Noyo River Review, for eight years. Susan often writes about domestic life set in her small town of Petaluma.