Write about a contest you won
OR came close to winning
OR wish you had won
#justwrite #amwriting #imawriter
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Any Haircut Is Better With a Smile
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.
Any Haircut Is Better With a Smile
By DSBriggs
My hair is what? Old, graying and instead of wiry, fine. Since I have been retired my hair style is whatever takes no work and usually in need of a trim or cut.
Haircuts, however, are so darned expensive that to save money I used cut-rate clip-joints. I decided to let my hair grow out. It eventually came down to my shoulders. I tried to wear it back with a French braid or bun or even a pony tail. This dream came crashing down when I no longer had the hand strength or coordination to use rubber bands designed for fine hair. Too klutzy to use hair accessories like combs or claws or barrettes, I resorted to clips. My friends were too kind to tell me that really wasn’t working either.
So, I decided to splurge. Go to a real salon that shampoos and styles.
I met the hairdresser. She seemed really nice. When she offered me coffee or tea. I thought, why not? Part of the splurge. She sat me in front of a full-length mirror and left.
Off she went to get my coffee. She was gone so long I thought maybe she had gone to Starbucks. But she re-emerged with a cup. I apologized to her for the hassle of having to brew a fresh pot. (What else could take so long?) She said that the coffee was already made but she had been so busy she hadn’t had time to pee. I could understand that scenario perfectly. She also admitted that her mom had called with an update about her sister who was hospitalized the night before.
We finally settled in for the haircut. We looked at pictures of haircuts because she wanted to make sure we were on the same page. I wanted a long pixie with feathered bangs and some height on top. Several of the styles we looked at were what I had in mind. The only style I did not like was an angular, very short cut with long bangs swept to the side. I specifically said I did not want that type of cut. Hair in my face drives me nuts. She said that she understood and went to work.
I noticed my hair kept getting shorter and shorter as she talked about her sister. Since it was in the back I wasn’t too concerned as inches came off and hair piled up around the chair.
It wasn’t until the sides started disappearing that I commented that it was a bit short. After the fact was a stupid time to point that out. I was still hopeful my bangs would be okay. No. She cut my hair exactly like the picture I did not like. Heavy glop of hair over one eye.
The dastardly deed was done. I paid and over-tipped because while I was disappointed, I didn’t want to make her feel worse since her family was in melt-down.
As I write, I’m wondering if my lack of communication with the hairdresser and my doctor the day before was my fault? I used to pride myself on explaining so clearly that people understood. When had I lost that ability? Have I lost it or is the world so crazy now that people do not listen carefully? I certainly can’t listen to the news at all. If I listened carefully, I would just want to get on an iceberg and float away.
So while I sort of have forgiven the hair cutter, I have not forgiven myself for allowing her to ignore my wishes.
Ironically, I have received many compliments. I have also been reminded that:
Hair grows back and any haircut is better with a smile.
DSBriggs and her hair live in Northern California. She has been writing with timed prompts for over ten years. Her writing has been published in Marlene Cullen’s The Write Spot Anthologies. The books are available through Amazon and your local bookseller.
When not writing, Donna enjoys reading, thinking about quilting, and walks with Moose, her 12 and a half year old hound. She also enjoys travel and time with good friends.
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Grandma Carrie
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.
Grandma Carrie
By Robin Mills
I remember the scent of my grandma Carrie, slightly sour mixed with ivory soap. I remember the click of her heels, the kidney shaped metal cleat meant to prolong the life of shoe soles tapping on the cold hard tile floor of their Palm Springs apartment. I remember seeing the white hoop cheese she used to stuff her home-made blintzes, nestled between her front teeth when she leaned in to whisper something in my ear, and her thick toenails covered in shiny red polish.
Grandma Carrie came across the ocean as a child with her mother, from Kiev, fleeing pogroms and leaving behind some of her ten siblings who would never follow, only to be lost to concentration camps. They settled, living in a New York walk-up, likely shared with more people than there were bedrooms. As a young woman she took secretarial courses and was a member of the American Socialist Party. She married Morris in 1924, and they moved out west where the weather was friendlier.
My parents often dropped my brother and me at their home and went off to have kid- free time around an oval shaped pool full of shimmery blue water, under the hot desert sun. My mother, in her black and white zebra bikini and dark cat-eye glasses, lounged poolside in the quiet.
Carrie toted us around the desert in her blue Buick, to air-conditioned malls, miniature golf and parks full of cool grass where we laid down under shade trees until the moisture soaked through our clothes.
At night we slept on the fold out couch in Carrie’s living room, sleeping sideways to avoid the cold hard metal bar that otherwise poked our backs. In the morning, the earthy scent of cracked wheat hot cereal wafted from the kitchen. We sat at the round table covered in a sticky plastic tablecloth rimmed with roses. My grandfather Morris ate soft boiled eggs and read the newspaper, folding it longways in thirds, flipping from section to section. His days were spent hunched next to the radio listening to KCBS news and weather on the hour, wringing his hands or staring off into space. He suffered from “undiagnosed pain in the bones” and lived Palm Springs summers in a wool cardigan and hat.
My father in passing once mentioned Carrie was married, before Morris. He had a name, Meyer Lesowitz, even pictures of this man. Pictures of them, hiking with friends, posing with her stylish short hair, head band and knicker hiking pants. They were often arm in arm, or close enough to be, atop a boulder or mountain peak.
We were told it was a short marriage. A year. And that he had died in 1924, a young man.
In going through boxes of photos and memorabilia I found an autograph book dated the year of this man’s supposed death where he was mentioned as a good friend and wished best of luck. And a College of the City of New York yearbook. And a letter in the New York Times, April 25, 1944 signed by Meyer Lesowitz Teacher of the Blind, 20 years after his “death”.
My grandmother had all this in her box of memorabilia that was passed from her to my father to me.
That autograph book still sits on my desk, waiting for me to find more mentions of him online, or a family member to surface and tell us everything of his life. So far, nothing.
Robin Mills lives in Petaluma California. By day she is an American Sign Language interpreter. Her non-work hours are spent writing, swimming, hiking, photographing the world around her, traveling, playing in various art forms and swing dancing. She has work published in Underbelly Press, The 200 Word Short Story and The Write Spot and was a finalist for publication in Big Brick Review.
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What are you tired of? . . . Prompt #842
Writing Prompt:
What are you tired of?
#justwrite #iamwriting #iamawriter
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Dastardly Deeds . . . Prompt #841
Writing Prompt:
Dastardly Deeds that someone did to you.
Dastardly Deeds you did.
Have you forgiven them?
Have you forgiven yourself?
Can you?
What would it take to forgive?
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Write a letter to someone who . . . Prompt #840
Someone took care of you when you were little. A mother, father, grandparent, aunt, uncle, sibling. Hopefully there was someone you could rely on.
Someone who helped you learn things, how to navigate life.
Most of us had someone we could count on. And if we didn’t have that, we learned to make-do, to take care of ourselves.
Who helped you learn about life? Who gave you advice? Who could you turn to?
Write a letter to that person.
Something to think about when writing this letter:
Just Write!
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A mother figure . . . Prompt #839
Maybe you have biological children, or adopted children, maybe you were, or are, a mother figure to someone.
Maybe you have taken care of, or are still, taking care of someone.
Write about someone you are caring for . . . either as mother, grandmother, aunt, sister, spouse, partner, sibling, friend.
Someone you are responsible for.
Or someone you do things for. It could be big things: Cook, take to doctor visits, oversee finances.
It could be little things.
Write about a person who trusts you, who calls on you, who looks forward to being with you.
A friend.
Write about being a mother, a mother figure, a caretaker, or someone who other people depend on.
If that doesn’t work, write about dreams you had . . . when you were a teenager, when you were dreaming of your future, what did you envision?
Just write!
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A Place in the Sun
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.
A Place in the Sun
By CM Riddle
I often find myself writing about the past. It’s easy to remember and type the facts. But today I am writing about the future.
Instead of facts, I’ll define the future and bring it into reality. My vision of the future is inspired by a song from the past.
Tuning to Spotify I hear Stevie Wonder belt, “There’s a place in the sun where there’s room for everyone, gonna find me a place in the sun.”
The lyrical line weaves its way through my thoughts and soon I imagine the most amazing place. A place without pain or suffering. A place filled with hope and everyday joy. That’s where I want to be.
Suddenly an esoteric feeling hits deep within my bones. Not knowing if I will live long enough to experience what’s coming, I am somehow assured that there is a future that holds a place in the sun, and it will exist for everyone.
Swept in confidence, I am aware my grandchildren and all future children of the world will build this place of security. They emerge from a new place, one that is ancient and innovative at the same time. They bring with them kindness and silliness. They offer help and reach out without expectations of return. They are fulfilled by giving more than taking and this place of beauty flourishes.
I see a future where harmony takes place with every step and the earth is green and growing. I see health and wholeness beyond what we have. The world is cast in a beautiful, energizing, healing, vibrational saffron. A warmth that embraces humankind and melts greed. It is a vibrant color that restores instead of dismantles. The glow of the world is one of ecstasy.
People and communities take on challenges and step-up, leaving no one to suffer. These tribes and families establish a new kind of wealth. One that does not involve money, banking, or stocks. They find prosperity in creativity and craft within each other. Bartering and trades for betterment are the new investment. And most importantly, no one is left hungry or homeless. There is no need to escape through drugs or other stimulants.
The air and the water return to perfect balance and if just one person tries to “own” what belongs to all, well, then they will have to go without for a long time. That seems a fair consequence.
This place is filled with more walking and cooking. More gatherings, more laughter. More wisdom and discovery. There is no such thing as insecurities of any kind… food, housing, trade goods. It’s all there for the giving and receiving.
Support comes from all sources. Family, establishments, community. This is the dream I have. I may not be here on this plane, but it is coming. There will be an element of peace greater than anything ever imagined—and this time around it will be real.
Tina Riddle Deason writes under the name CM Riddle. An author and creator, Tina has published several articles and books, including those about rituals and ceremonies. She is a High Priestess who leads a variety of Women’s Circles. A mother and grandmother who lives with her husband and “fur-babies” in Rohnert Park, CA.
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How you became who you are . . . Prompt #838
Write about how you became who you are.
Why you are the way you are.
Is it genetics, epigenetics, nature, nurture, not nurtured?
Remember a pivotal event. Something happened that changed the trajectory of your life. You may not have known it at the time. But looking back, you might discover the “aha” moment.
How to find that pivotal event, that “aha” moment:
- Maybe there is a clue in something you write about repeatedly.
- Scroll through your memory bank of photos, “see” a photo where you are frowning. What is that frown about?
- There is an uncomfortableness when you remember a particular occasion.
- You can also write about a highly emotional situation, starting with, “Here’s what happened . . .” You don’t have to think about an epiphany. Just write like a reporter, “Here’s what happened . . .”
You might not find a pivotal event during this writing. However, if you keep writing, it might pop up.
Just Write!
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Write about yourself . . . Prompt #837
Write about yourself.
Ideas on how to start:
Basically I am [optimistic], sometimes I am [pessimistic].
When no one is listening, I [sing out oud].
When no one is watching, I [dance].
I am slow to [warm up to people].
I quickly [form opinions].
You can use these sentence starts:
I am determined . . .
Basically I am . . .
Sometimes I am . . .
When no one is listening, I . . .
When no one is watching, I . . .
I am slow to . . .
I quickly . . .
I am determined . . .
Marlene’s Musings:
I have often thought about how to “show” body language when writing. When we interact with others, there is much about body language that conveys our mood, emotions, reactions. How to show these things? The Emotion Thesaurus to our rescue!