Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Steady Going By Christine Renaudin Two months into summer,three in retirement,one more kiss of the sun. I am starting to feel the change in ways that do not rub me wrong, like a shirt grown too tight,or a pair of new shoes I am settling into a certain ease I didn’t know before, or I had forgotten.There is hardly any rushing through things unless absolutely necessary in case of an emergency. I walk the dog daily. Three months into summer,four in retirement,signs abound, changes beckon. I have trouble remembering what I did on a given day, and I resort to lists to keep track of the books I’ve read and places I’ve gone, so I can tell people when they are kind enough to ask.Morning and afternoon melt in one another.I glide along sweaty, in blissful…
Category: Sparks
Memorable writing that sparks imagination.
Print Dreams
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Print Dreams By DSBriggs Back in the day when I was a teen, I wanted to be a writer. I picked out my pen name, Kelly Brione. I began to dress as a writer. My image, based on a Stanford University guide, was to dress in black tights, a gray skirt, and a pink fluffy sweater over a black leotard. I had plans to write the Great American Novel, even though I did not have a clue how to do that. I talked enough about being a writer that my Dad purchased a Smith-Corona portable typewriter for me. It had Elite type rather than the larger Pica type. Elite was the size of type that newspapers used for writing news stories in columns. I dreamed about being a columnist like Herb Caen or Erma Bombeck. One thing…
Simply A Shoot
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Simply A Shoot By Jane Person I was born a sweet onion my core protected by layers of peel As the brown dry layers peel off, a stink surrounds. Eyes water There will be more down to my core Under the faucet dirt and grime the externals simply slide off There will be more down to my core Tender layers peel a bulb thinner, lighter There will be more down to my core Fear. What will be left of me? A little voice coaches—Just peel. There will be more down to my core Protecting peels now gone. Left a small, green shoot. There is more down at my core The person, me The small shoot unmasked Free from disguise Perhaps free at last Jane Person,…
Herald
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Herald By Su Shafer After all these years She’s letting go No more worrying If she’s too fat Or too old Or what he’s thinking Or feeling Or if he’s alive or dead No more waiting For the rock to roll The hope when it moved a little But found a new dead end to be still So she’s letting go Dropping the over-packed luggage She carried with both hands For so long Her arms feel like wings As she walks in the sun Her steps so light, she might take flight On her way to the mailbox She sees a golden jewel beetle Resting on the sidewalk A living gem that stuns her breathless Spreading amber wings, it lifts effortlessly Into the air and buzzes regally away Sometimes messengers are more beautiful Than you can…
Reality’s Ruse
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Reality’s Ruse By Mary O’Brien Summer shakes Winter’s hand,proposing a fling.Autumn’s wind scurries themboth away –not a fan of farce. Martinis at three,come by and get me.Loose lips sink ships:my mouth full ofsharp torpedoes. My reality is oftena ruse, driven to otherworlds on printed pages,between coversin greedy hands. I left my scarf inthat dream –the one with the pulledthread Itied round your finger. We never made it to New York.That was your ruseto keep me interestedlong enough to marryin Vegas. “Reality’s Ruse” inspired by Just For Fun . . . Prompt #672 on The Write Spot Blog, Mary O’Brien is a Retired Trophy Wife (RTW) from the Pacific Northwest. She has volunteered for the Court Appointed Special Advocate program, founded local therapeutic hospital humor programs, and supported various other non-profits and do-goodery. Enjoying the artistry of…
Defrosting
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Defrosting By Patricia Morris After all these years, I stand in front of the refrigerator this afternoon and hear my mother’s voice, “Don’t stand there with that door open!” I chuckle. I’m standing here because I can’t remember what I came to the refrigerator for. As that kid, some 60 years ago, I was probably looking for something to eat. Maybe a slice of bologna. Maybe the green Jello salad with a layer of cream cheese on top. Maybe that rare delicacy – a green olive stuffed with a bit of red pimento. Whatever it was, I’d grab it and close the door at my mother’s command. I imagine what she was thinking. Holding the door open meant using more electricity, which meant a higher electric bill, which meant more financial worries. It also meant more…
The Old Gray Mare
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. The Old Gray Mare By Susie Moses After all these years I am beginning to understand that I have to face the fact that old age is getting a toehold. I am not exempt. I am loathe to use it as an excuse, not wishing to define myself by numbers, but the signs are there, harder and harder to ignore. Harder and harder to resolve or fix. There has been a resetting of the bar. Firm reminders that I cannot slow this process down by sheer will. I have come to accept certain limitations. It seems I will not be hiking the entire Appalachian Trail after all. It does remain beyond my capabilities, no matter that someone else born in the same year might accomplish that very thing. I face the fact that I have missed…
The Seagulls Came and I Knew
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. The Seagulls Came and I Knew By Norma Jaeger The seagulls came to the back yard. We didn’t live that close to the coast, Portland, about 80 miles inland. We had never had seagulls in the yard before, as best I recall. But there they were, drinking out of the bird bath, flapping around querulously, and generally making strident seagull noise, breaking the otherwise early Saturday morning quiet. I had returned the night before from an intense, two-day job interview in Seattle. With the seagulls in the backyard, such gulls and their cries, being ubiquitous in Seattle, I knew I would be offered the job. Because I had become disenchanted with my job in Portland, I was pretty clear I would accept the job. What I did not know, but realistically what I should have considered,…
The Divorced House
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. The Divorced House By Simona Carini At the Greenwich Observatory onceI straddled the brass line in the courtyardOne foot EastOne foot WestHeart at longitude 0°.Felt familiar. Walking around North BerkeleyI happened on a house bisectedYellow on the rightGray on the left.Felt finely honed painwafting out the divorced houseEast and West facing off at a meridianrunning down the front and a short flight of stairsBright red on the rightBurgundy on the left. Felt like the child going homehaving to decide whether to enterthe door on the rightor on the leftTo inhabit my father’s worldor my mother’sHeart at longitude 0°. Except home was one apartmentwith one doorone kitchen and one bathroom.One familynever divorced. The mystery of the divided façadeof my parents’ marriage.From the sidewalk across the street,the halves conflict.At close rangethe shift across the line is not a…
Wait.What?
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Wait. What? By Brenda Bellinger Mindlessly scrolling through Yahoo News (a time suck, I know), I came across a headline titled “Caroline Kennedy’s first grandchild’s name revealed.” It stopped me cold and aged me a lifetime all at once. I still picture Caroline as that sweet little girl at her father’s grave site in 1963, two days before her seventh birthday. A moment that precipitated that image is forever etched into my memory. I was sitting in my third-grade classroom at McKinley School in San Francisco. Our teacher, Mrs. Johnson, whom I recall being about the same age I am now, was in front of the class at the blackboard when we heard a soft knock at the classroom door. The door opened and our principal motioned for Mrs. Johnson to step out into the hallway….