Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Enduring Awe By Karen FitzGerald What brings me joy? Riding my bike brings me joy. The wind in my face on a warm day, sailing through traffic jams piled up at those long, stop lighted intersections like Farmer’s Lane and Highway 12. I love it. I always feel child-like when I’m riding my bike. Recently, I’ve taken to singing while I cruise. Not too loud, but loud enough to feel the vibration of my voice ripple through my body, from throat to sternum to stomach and right on down my legs to my ankles as I pump my way up the Chanate hill. I especially love going off trail. That is, I am not a mountain biker. Oh no. Too hard on the back. In fact, any more I’m thinking mountain biking people are not fundamentally joyful people….
Category: Sparks
Memorable writing that sparks imagination.
The Sleeping Lady
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. The Sleeping Lady By Tina Deason The earth in its dormancy is like a sleeping lady. Her make-up: the leaves, the flowers, and the vines, are washed away and her naked face is revealed. And like a sleeping woman, one can see the radiance that glows from within. Without the outer adornment, we see that beauty is skin deep. . . the bark on the trees, the moss on the ground, and the rosehips clinging to the bushes. All that was hidden or silently forming is now exposed. We find glory in the structure and smell the scent of Nature’s Night Cream wafting through the air. Without the blanket of sunshine, we realize the bareness of earth’s body, with angles and curves we neglected to see before. Now we reach out to caress them and notice…
Halloween Special
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Halloween Special By Graham Chalk I am posting this for the edification and diversion of fellow travelers. I wish for no observations regarding my syntax or your tin tacks. I do not wish to hear about your grammar or my grandpa. I thank you. Halloween Special I have not written this story down before, although I have told it before. Told it as if I were at confession and the listener was a priest. But there will, I believe, be no absolution. How much of this story is true? I will let the reader decide. Schools are scary places. And when they are empty? Then they are very scary places indeed. Full of dead echoes. Generations of ghostly, silent feet disturbing the sleeping dust of generations My very first ever job was working as a lab…
Changing Seasons
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Changing Seasons By Julie Sherman My garden is feeing anxious. The hydrangeas are protesting with powdery mildew on her large leaves. The yellow stargazers are shrinking back into themselves refusing to open. The last of the white roses are reluctantly peeling back one petal at a time, objecting to the assault of cold temperatures after having owned a sunny resort for the past 4 months. The plumbago has given up altogether, and the sweet peas are trying their best to climb the trellis. The last few pink ballerinas are hanging precariously to their brittle fuchsia branches before folding in their tutus, turning brown, and falling to the ground. Only the chrysanthemums are welcoming the morning chill and pale gray skies. The veteran plants know what’s coming and are bracing themselves, feeling tough enough to survive. They…
Seasonal Considerations in 14 Stanzas
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Seasonal Considerations in 14 Stanzas By Christine Renaudin Yesterday’s rain was announced,yet came as a surprise,we’ve grown so used to dreading drought and fire. Yesterday’s rain was a giftearly for the wet season,tardy for the thirsty and parched. Yesterday’s rain relieved anxieties, expectations, released myriads of winged insects dancing in today’s afternoon sunlight. Some are termites, I think, roused by the premature sprinkle.They flutter aimlessly as if lost in the midst of dream.In two hours, I hear, their wings will fall and drop them home to thrive or die. Yesterday’s rain took us insidetrading shade for shelterto share a Sunday lunch with friends. Today the sun glistens over puddles,the air feels clean, cobwebs glitter,alive with earthy fragrances. Breath deepens, heart quickens,there is a bounce in the season: I want to catch its tune. Soon the grass…
Halloween
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Halloween By Tina Deason This season holds mystery and thrill, as the sun fades and the fog clings to the earth. The darkness hides creatures and haunted beings. The empty trees have died for a bit, but plan to return in the spring. The thought of witches casting spells and making potions right out in the open after hiding away for the eleven other months of the year, intrigues me. The creaking bones of the dead and the soft sound of earth moving as the zombies unearth themselves to rise to life. . . And Dracula! I had the most fear of Dracula when I was a kid. I used to slam my hand against the light switch and run up the stairs as fast as my legs could get me to the top. In my…
One Cup At A Time
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. One Cup At A Time By DSBriggs Judith saw her hand reaching out and towards her mug. She noticed since her brain injury, she had to mentally plan any movement step by step. She closed one eye so that only one mug was in her vision. “OK. Lift the hand out of the lap. Make sure the arm isn’t taking a side trip of its own. All right, aim for the mug on the right. Uncurl fingers. That’s progress. No one has to unbend and stretch ‘em.” The knuckles on her hand were swollen and she noticed she was thinking in third person. “My knuckles, my knuckles are swollen. I have crooked fingers too.” She watched her arm and hand work in unison as she reached for her mug. She mentally told herself to grab as tight as she…
September Light
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. September Light By Cheryl Moore From the terrace, over the wooden fence with its lattice trim, the hills glow golden. A shadow of eucalyptus stretches across, cutting off the light. Beyond, higher hills rise—these with a woodland coat, perhaps pines or other conifers, roll gently against the pale blue sky. A turkey vulture slowly circles with its ever-present eye. A fence running across the golden grass bisects the slope—earlier cattle grazed, gone now. The shadows grow—longer and longer—the glowing gold slowly dims as the sun edges lower and lower toward the earth’s rim. On this September day with the equinox not far away, the evening approaches more swiftly, in preparation for the long nights to come, short days of limited sun—another year passing, another year to come. Cheryl Moore grew up in the mid-west, went to college…
All In Good Time
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. All in Good time By Lynn Levy “How do you work it?” Joe finally asked. Agnes smiled. It was one of her rules. No cell phones in the house. Not no phones, but by the time these kids got handed over to her, less-is-more turned out to be a good starting place. “What’s the phone number?” Agnes asked. Joe shrugged, which was not a surprise. Kids didn’t memorize numbers anymore. The phone stored them. “Alright,” Agnes said. “The first thing you have to do is memorize the phone number here. Get it down until you can say it by heart. It’s just 10 numbers. 304-555-0058. Say it back.” “Three oh four,” Joe started and faltered. “Can I write it down, at least?” Joe asked. Agnes shook her head, and repeated the number. This first test told…
A Simple Building
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. A Simple Building By Cheryl Moore A simple building lacking in flare Why am I so often drawn there? Roaming its shelves, tasting its wares A whole wide world available there Journeys take me around the world And when I no longer want to roam Work on gardens, on business On cooking and art And English lit and Shakespeare To keep me smart Not to mention poetry To suit the fussiest muse So much to read, no time to lose. Cheryl Moore grew up in the mid-west, went to college in San Francisco, then lived in foreign lands before returning and eventually settling in Sonoma County. In recent years, she lives in a house and garden where deer nibble on roses, raccoons dine on fallen figs, and her bird feeders are busy. A nearby river offers…