Inspired by WritingFix’s Prompt Generator

   Vicki mcBride

February 17, 2009 @ 4:59 pm

prompt: an item in the refrigerator

Potato

I like it here
in the bottom drawer,
no one bothers me,
only when that
light goes on.

The cool dark
lets me grow
my sprouts,
my offspring
if you must….

I shudder to
think of my
possible fate,
let alone my sprout’s.

Pierced,
washed,
placed on a
glass plate
going round and round
getting so dizzy
I cannot feel the heat.

Then sliced open,
lathered with butter,
…her hips need me
like another Hershey bar!

Oh fates,
please leave me safe
in the bottom drawer
with my sprouts.

   Tomek

February 18, 2009 @ 8:55 am

Monday: OPEN YOUR REFRIGERATOR (FOR REAL OR IN YOUR MIND) AND LOOK FOR AN ITEM YOU’VE NEVER WRITTEN ABOUT IN THERE. WRITE A POEM OR PARAGRAPH OR PLAY (OR WHATEVER) ABOUT SOMETHING IN YOUR FRIDGE.

A Written Confession to the Raspberry Mustard Dated June 2009 in my Fridge Door

Hello Raspberry Mustard,

I hope this letter finds you well. I know it’s been a while since we’ve, well, spent time together, and I suppose I finally owe you an explanation. The baby dill pickles mentioned you’d been asking about me, which is why I am writing to you now. You know, I remember when my wife brought you home on a whim from the butcher, and we first met. You were clean, sleek, and new and interesting. You aren’t the kind of mustard I’d normally go for, but there you were, and there I was, and something happened. We were both experimenting, admit it: we were young, out for something new, spring was in the air. You were so sensual. I want you to know…. to remember that despite myself, I enjoyed our time together.

I think we both known that it couldn’t last. You’re exotic, new, interesting; people notice you on the shelf. Me, I’m plain vanilla, boring, just shades of dull gray. And to be honest, I don’t even like fruits. We were just ships passing in the night, a few moments’ passion but after a couple sandwiches, well, it just wasn’t meant to be. Take heart; life brings many disappointments but at least you have the memories of our brief time together to treasure. There are many mustards out there who will never get to know even that brief pleasure, or be held with such intense — if brief — passion. You were good, baby, you were good.

It’s true that I’ve been avoiding you. This is very difficult to write, but, well, I’ll just have to come out and say it: I’m seeing another mustard. I know you want to know the when and the where, but it’s not important how we met. All you need to know is that she and I are better suited to one another. She’s a robust, earthy brown mustard, someone who lends a pleasantness to my sandwiches. She’s not as exciting as you, but then again, neither am I. You need someone more flashy, more New Age-focused who looks for new styles and new combinations. I’m not that person. Please don’t be bitter.

So, I guess by now you’ve figured out what has to be. Your expiration date is coming up soon, and I think it best for all concerned that you be gone from my fridge by then. I am really sorry that it didn’t work out, but I can’t change who I am, any more than I could ever expect you to change who you are.

Thank you, and good bye.

With affection and admiration,

Tomek

   Julie Fonda

February 18, 2009 @ 9:25 am

Monday: OPEN YOUR REFRIGERATOR (FOR REAL OR IN YOUR MIND) AND LOOK FOR AN ITEM YOU’VE NEVER WRITTEN ABOUT IN THERE. WRITE A POEM OR PARAGRAPH OR PLAY (OR WHATEVER) ABOUT SOMETHING IN YOUR FRIDGE.

“I Cannot Believe It’s Not Butter Spray”

(A Silly Poem about something in my refrigerator)

By Julie Fonda

* * *

I Cannot Believe It’s Not Butter Spray,
I get to have some every day.
And thereby all my guilt allay,
With zero calories, it’s okay!

Because when you are over 50,
On fat grams you have to be thrifty!
Well if you want to live over sixty.
Of course I think that would be nifty!

For on a diet, I’ll always be.
No fat or sugar or cholesterol for me.
Or McDonald’s French fries I guarantee.
Because those things are bad for me.

I choose to live another day.
Squirting my “I Cannot Believe It’s Not Butter Spray”
On baked potatoes in an elaborate way.
So extra pounds will stay away!

   Vicki mcBride

February 21, 2009 @ 12:02 pm

prompt:Life as Monopoly

Chance Cards

Collect $200, pass Go,
Land on wedding chapel
buy lifetime investment.

Pass jail,
land on Kelly, Chip,
Tim, Katy and Dan.
Receive dividends
daily.

Draw Chance card,
illness for Dan.

Land on Railroad,
ride rails of of
town and marriage.

Collect rent
on Boardwalk,
Acting and Writing
Theater.

Pass Go again,
collect $200 again.

Draw Chance card,
accept benefits
of age.

Land on Reading R.R.,
heap cars
with prayers
and sonshine
for Chip.

2/21/09

   Vicki mcBride

February 22, 2009 @ 9:53 am

Tomek and Julie:

What excellent writers you are! There is space in that fridge for raspberry mustard and I Can’t Believe It’s Not Mustard! The potatoes and sprouts welcome new residents!!!
Keep writing
Vicki

   Justice

February 22, 2009 @ 8:08 pm

You are all so good. I love the raspberry mustard. I cannot remember the last time I laughed all the way through something I read. Thank you!

   Vicki mcBride

February 28, 2009 @ 11:10 am

prompt: write a letter to a book

Dear Silas Marner,
It is extremely gratifying to be able to finally explain how I felt about you. You were required reading in freshman English. It was pure torture. Your story is depressing and I truly wish you were filled with nicer, happier characters. As a 14 year old there was enough angst in my life without being filled with your morose and dark words. Then, to add insult to injury I was asked to analyze and dissect your story, finding hidden meanings and purpose of your author.
I am sorry to be so rude, but was very grateful that at the tender age of 14 I was already a voracious reader and knew there was better great literature out there. Alas, I fear some of my classmates never read another book after being subjected to you.

Sincerely from long ago Freshman English,
Vicki Read

   Vicki mcBride

March 2, 2009 @ 7:43 pm

prompt: a future perfect day

She had been dreaming about this for ever-so-long. It didn’t matter that she was old and had white hair. It mattered that he was here, finally. In all her wishes it didn’t seem possible that he would actually come, wrap his arms around her and whisper in her hair that he loved her. He had strong arms, they made her feel young once again and her heart began to be lighter. She had worked very hard all her life to be positive, look on the bright side and know that sooner or later a good thing will happen. Well, here it was. He had come to take her home….to their home. The past was like a giant brilliant star, all lumped into one shimmering essence, good and bad all together. She put her arm around his waist, walking slowly taking the essence of him into her very being.

   Benson W.

March 7, 2009 @ 11:27 pm

Ok, I’ll write what you guys are writing: that refrigerator stuff. I’ll start writing …

Box of Surprise – based on a true story
-By Benson Wang

Fridge, my wonder box of surprise.
Though the stenches make onions cries.
Beneath the cheese, the gooey mold lies.
Care to taste my soggy french frues?

Why is the yoghurt turning brown?
giving my stomach a big squelchy frown.
The cup of orange juice upside down.
Hope my turkish delight not drown.

Where’s my jello from last night?
On the counter, radioactively bright!
Little I know, the vanilla ice cream
and the chocolate icecream had a melt fight.

My fridge as you can tell, is not a pretty sight.
But one thing prevails it all: milk: the white knight.
It is the bad milk that that settled the plight
made me throw up, its face in delight.
After all the box gives me tons of surprises.
The ultimate source of frenzy, the ultimate site.

   Julie Fonda

March 8, 2009 @ 5:25 pm

Vicki,

Thank you for your encouragement. I enjoy reading your writing also.

Julie

   Julie Fonda

March 8, 2009 @ 5:28 pm

Justice,

Thank you!

Julie

   Vicki mcBride

March 9, 2009 @ 11:51 am

Benson, lovely writing, I can almost smell the inside of the refrigerator! As for me, I am going to close the fridge door and write about other stuff that Corbett sends as prompts. My fridge just isn’t that interesting.

   Julie Fonda

March 9, 2009 @ 4:46 pm

MONDAY: WHERE DO YOU STORE IT? WRITE ABOUT SOMETHING YOU OWN THAT SOMEONE GAVE TO YOU BUT YOU’RE TOO EMBARRASSED TO WEAR OR DISPLAY IT.

“Nobody Fish in the Middle”

By Julie Fonda

A couple of years back a man in my twelve-step group gave me a gold necklace with diamonds in it. It was completely unexpected. He had gone to Hawaii and had brought back souvenirs for his friends. To me, the man was just an acquaintance, but I surmised that it he considered me otherwise.

This was a man who was always crying in the meeting over other people’s problems and ingratiating himself to the women and offering to give them rides in his airplane. But he hadn’t behaved that way around me. Maybe this was the beginning?

When I opened the box and stared at its contents, I was entirely taken aback. I couldn’t accept a gift like that from a married man or any man, for that matter. I was a newlywed at the time and felt embarrassed to be receiving such a present from someone other than my husband! So I thanked the 12-step man and told him that I could not accept the necklace. In fact, I tried several times to give it back to him, but he wouldn’t take it.

So I put it in the bottom of my junk drawer and haven’t laid eyes on it since.

Later the man stopped attending 12-step meetings, and I heard through the grapevine that he had relapsed and was getting a divorce.

I don’t think that it is healthy for married men to be buddy-buddies with married women. It rarely leads to anything positive and may give observers the wrong impression. Worse still, it may lead one of the friends to believe the relationship is more than what it really is.

Besides, why get involved in the appearance of “evil”?

There is a lake in Massachusetts whose Indian name sums up the philosophy of this happily married woman:

Here it is (and you can sing it to the tune of “Oh Christmas Tree,” if you want to):

Lake: Char-gog-a-gog-Man-gog-a-gog-Cha-bunna-Gunga Mog.

Translation: “You fish on your side, I’ll fish on my side, and nobody fish in the middle.”

   Tomek

March 13, 2009 @ 7:40 am

MONDAY: WHERE DO YOU STORE IT? WRITE ABOUT SOMETHING YOU OWN THAT
SOMEONE GAVE TO YOU BUT YOU’RE TOO EMBARRASSED TO WEAR OR DISPLAY IT.

Friendship is something special, something as sustaining to life as food and water. However, some friendships are more akin to that old saying about how what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Indeed, there are some of us who really don’t need enemies.

I am thinking of one friend in particular, actually a very good friend, with whom I’ve developed an odd ritual. Jason and I have known each other since junior high school but after I moved away from the home town we started this habit each Christmastime of buying each other horrific gifts. I have no idea why or when it started exactly, but each year we try to find the most embarrassing and gaudy gifts possible for one another, with the mutually-agreed caveat that these things must be displayed — at least for some time — as if they were treasured items.

My wife quickly caught on to this tradition when we got married and went out of her way one year to acquire and paint a barnyard collection of different faux stone animals all in hot pink, and we made the trek to his home to install them on his front lawn, to the delight of his neighbors. He retaliated with a three-foot high plastic clock hideously trying to look like 18th century baroque décor but looking more like it was designed by Andy Warhol during a bout with intestinal flu. To boot, this ghastly clock couldn’t even keep time well. One year we bought him the classic singing fish, supplementing it with an article from the Wall Street Journal confirming this as the worst possible gift to give someone. He told us that this fish terrorized his poor cats for weeks. As I recall, his response was some lovely ceramic chickens. This year, I felt triumphant as I sent him two three-foot-long authentic Coho Salmon pillows — he works in the seafood industry — for him to have waiting for him on his couch when he comes home from a hard day’s work, and my piéce de résistance was a refrigerator magnet made from genuine Maine moose poop. It is with great trepidation that I await his package.

Friendships have a way of generating lots of mementoes which we hold dear and treasure for the rest of our lives. Some friendships, however, generate mementoes which are better suited for the closet and will take years to forget. It’s that forgetting that keeps us alive.

   Vicki mcBride

March 21, 2009 @ 9:24 am

writing about a prank

Grasshopper Candy

You all know and remember what we did in high school as pranks that we thought hilariously funny? Such was the prank with the grasshoppers. One of my friends in Sophmore Biology was my lab partner. She thought it would be great fun to take some of the little critters we had not dissected home and envelop them in a delicious, sugary, pastel coating. I agreed to be the “distributor” of the delicacies. Next morning, there she was bright and cheery with a sweet candy box filled with pink and green little candies, some even had sprinkles on them, all the more tempting!

   Vicki mcBride

March 21, 2009 @ 9:31 am

(above story continued, I pushed an alien button and sent it on prematurely)!!!!!!
My boyfriend was Mr. Hunk. Captain of the football team, big man on campus, a real hottie and he knew it. He was my first victim. Teenagers are always eating, he was no exception. He chose a nice green candy, popped it into his mouth and chomped away. He did say it was crunchy but good, I stood by and smirked. What an evil girlfriend I was! As he finally swallowed, I told him what was inside the sweet, green candy. Expectoration is too gentle a word for his actions the rest of the day. As I met him between classes, he couldn’t stop spitting and gagging. Needless to say I was the only one that shared the humor as I dare say the poor grasshopper wasn’t laughing either.

Vicki

   Vicki mcBride

March 27, 2009 @ 12:03 pm

prompt: beating the odds

Dan beat the odds, twice.
At age 10, swollen lymph nodes and fatigue proved to be acute lymphocytic leukemia. My youngest, my baby. Lab tech found the abnormal T-cell count in a little country clinic, white cells climbing 5,000 a day. Best pediatric cancer specialist practiced in neighboring city. Four years of chemo, radiation, sticks, blood draws, spinals….basically hell for a 10, 11, 12, 13 year old. Immune system always down, isolation from others imperative. But all worth it at the end…complete remission and now at age 38 we can say cured.

   Vicki mcBride

March 27, 2009 @ 12:11 pm

beating the odds continued: ( I keep pushing the wrong button.)
Dan grew up, lived a full and active bachelor life, always and a day hunting and fishing. Always. He met a wonderful young woman who shared his love of all things outdoors and they married. A month later the Washington Army National Guard called him to serve active duty in Iraq. The belief that he would be safe escaped me and we sent him off with prayers and angels every step of the way. His job was driving a fuel truck with air escorts through the streets of Baghdad…a bomb on wheels. The truck was not blown up by roadside bombs and they took enemy fire. Such was everyday life in Baghdad. I figured God had given me a miracle when he was 10 but prayed there was room for sparing his life one more time. After 18 months, he came home. Not the same, never will be, war does that. But he is alive, hunting and fishing again and this time with his little two year old daughter in the backpack, hiking the trails.

   Vicki mcBride

March 30, 2009 @ 11:28 am

Want Ad:

Wanted: One sturdy pair of knees, female preferred. Must be in working order, no steel, titanium or other artificial agents present. Cartilage content must be above 80%, elastic and fairly pliable. Knees may be used but not abused. Would prefer a pair that have been non-smokers, fairly thin and well oiled. (See cartilage reference above.)
If this describes the knees you have for sale, please
call with specifics and price.
Thank you, all calls will be screened for artificial knees.
Vicki

   Tomek

April 3, 2009 @ 11:57 am

Monday: WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE IN THE CLASSIFIED ADS? THINK ABOUT YOUR LIFE. THEN WRITE AN IMAGINARY ‘WANT AD’ OR ‘LOST AND FOUND AD’ FOR SOMETHING PERSONAL THAT YOU NORMALLY WOULDN’T SEE IN
A ‘WANT AD’ OR ‘LOST AND FOUND AD.

Lost and Found: Seeking my Lost Youth. Last seen relatively recently in this vicinity, but suddenly disappeared. Characteristics include full head of hair, nice and trim body shape, seen as at least “fair-to-middling” attractive by young, attractive women (and is not referred to by them as “Sir”), full of vigor as well as lots of really stupid ideas. Generally quite wily, does not have any commitments or debts to pay, and all his clothes fit. Has lots of friends, and able to lift things without having back troubles for weeks afterwards. Remembers where he puts things. His doctor does not shake his head pensively during visits, and he has the ability to stay out all night with his friends and show up the next morning at work looking like nothing happened. Thinks he knows a lot more than he really does. If seen, please return immediately to pudgy, bald middle-aged guy with confused look on his face, sitting in a red sports car wearing a Hawaiian shirt. Reward if returned even just partially intact.

   Vicki mcBride

April 6, 2009 @ 7:27 pm

Oh my gosh Tomek!

I think I saw him turning the corner down the block. He looked a little confused but reasonably accurate as you described. The one thing that didn’t fit however, he had one of those little fuzzy dogs sitting beside him with a matching Hawaiian shirt on, you know the kind that all the young glamour girls carry around in purses? What’s up with that??

   Vicki mcBride

April 7, 2009 @ 12:05 pm

Describe the first remembered classroom:

Bancroft School, 1947, kindergarten. The world opened and all the possibilities were in front of me with Mrs. Archie Buckley gently leading the way. Tall, two story brick building, surrounded by secure cyclone fencing. Classroom right inside the front door. Easy escape if necessary and if somehow I needed to run home. Home an easy six blocks away, walking by myself, amazing given today and children alone on the street. Classroom ceiling very tall, very high and windows bringing all sunlight in to show me where to hang up my coat. Wooden floors polished to a high gloss, smelling of soap and wax and smiles. No desks yet, we only needed tables to sit with our friends and draw or squish clay into unrecognizable shapes. The magic time came when Mrs. Buckley gathered us at her feet on the floor for storytime. Her voice was soft, the stories wonderful and in time, she tamed my desire to constantly talk and interrupt her. It was my nemisis…that talking business. I was so excited and happy to be in school. Drawing time was the other magical part of the half-day. There was unlimited drawing paper, big thick chunky crayons, easy to grasp and oh the colors! My favorite subject to draw was ladies….or girls. They were easy. Geometric shapes made up their heads and bodies but the hair was the crowning glory! A flipped bob of sorts, actually backwards and frontwards J’s…I never tired of drawing them. Mrs. Buckley however, tired of them and encouraged me to try something else. Trees? Dogs?
Houses? It was a challenge, one I could forestall until first grade.

   Emily

April 10, 2009 @ 11:21 am

Tomek, I like that. It’s very creative and powerful. An old man searching for his youth again is something I’ve seen before, but never like this. The last line was a great ending. Thumbs up from this side.

Prompt: “Did it get kept or did someone know to prevent it? Write about a promise that should not have been kept.”

Broken locket dreams
are all I have left.
He said to me,
“I love you,
love you…
Love you…”
All lies, lies!

Broken songs’ echoes
are what I remember.
He said to me,
“I’ll be back.
I promise. Cross my heart.
And hope to die.”
Hope will die.

Broken, bleeding hearts
are what is left of me.
He said to me,
“Please forgive me,
I’m sorry,
so sorry.”
Forgiveness is too good.

Broken lives.
Falling apart.
Crumbling down
into ashes
of a once proud lover.
He promised he’d come back
and he did.

With someone else.

   Vicki mcBride

April 18, 2009 @ 11:40 am

The giggler.
It was me. It got me into a lot of trouble. Fourteen and invincible, hated English class. Teacher that should have retired 50 years ago. Only now do I understand why those road weary teachers had to hang on so long. No work, no retirement. My partner in crime was Phyllis. We started laughing at our teacher. Having been a teacher myself, I now know I would have wanted to clobber us. The laughing turned almost hysterical. We had a few others join us. The teacher warned us. The giggling was almost out of control and had a mind of it’s own…yeah right. It’s just that fourteen year olds have little to none self-control. His last warning was, “If you don’t stop, I am going to have to get ugly.” That did it! We rolled on the floor, tears coming out of our eyes, snot out of our noses. We were cruel girls. He was ugly. We were promptly sent to the Vice-Principal, who essentially did nothing except tell us to be kinder and more understanding. The advice fell like water off a duck’s back. I am now so sorry to have caused that nice balding and tired man so much grief.
(But he did have a mustache like Hitler’s!)

   Kirsten

April 23, 2009 @ 5:37 pm

“What’s the most important plot element? Setting? Character? Conflict? Write a defense, or pretend these three things are characters in a scene, and write their argument for ‘Which one of us is best?’”

“If only you could understand what it means to be me,” Character lamented, reclining in a soft leather chaise, her face forming into a melodramatic pout. “It is so very difficult to go through what I have to. These writers think that they could put me through anything. They need someone to be kidnapped, they need someone to be the villain, they need someone to be ridiculously funny. And who do they choose? Me. Always me.”

Conflict raised his dark eyebrows and laughed, “Please Character, you are not that important. Without me you would sit idly in a room and do absolutely nothing. You couldn’t even think coherent thoughts. I’m the one who dictates where the story goes and what you do and what goes through your head. Without me you would be nothing.”

Character shook her head fervently, “But without me you would have no one to do those awful things to.”

Both of them turned to a light airy chuckle coming from the other side of the room. “You see,” the speaker said, “that is where you are both wrong. Neither of you could exist without the other. You build off of one another to create stories, and, granted, get the most attention for it. But I can stand on my own. I don’t need Character or Conflict. I can simply exist.”

“Oh, Setting, I didn’t think you would join us,” Conflict drawled.

Now it was Setting’s turn to raise his eyebrows, “I’ve been with you the entire time Conflict. But that is what you’ve failed to notice. I am the room you stand in, the chair that Character is sitting in, the world outside these walls. Just face it. I can exist without you, but you can’t exist without me.”

“That’s true Setting,” Character said sitting up. “But writers normally write Settings for Characters and for Conflicts, not just for some pleasant scenery. If they do, then it’s for exercise only. You could never be published just as you are.”

“What Character is trying to say,” Conflict said condescendingly, “is that you can exist but you would be incredibly boring without us.”

“I think,” Setting said, his tone matching Conflicts, “that we would all fail miserably without the other. Conflict needs Character, Character needs Setting, Setting needs Conflict, etc. A story wouldn’t be very good without any of us. We are all needed to suceed.”

   Fawn

April 26, 2009 @ 10:31 pm

Listen to some music you haven’t listened to in a very long time. Write about a memory associated with that music.

Nineteen somethin’

I howled along with Linda Ronstadt’s rendition of Blue Bayou on the 8-track cartridge that played on the requisite eight-track tape player. “It was 1970 somethin’ in the world that I grew up in.” Store shelves stocked record players alongside LP’s and 45’s. Broken and dirty needles had nothing to do with drugs. The songs skipped in all the best places from “shaking my cool thing” in the living room, as I watched my reflection in the picture window. I went to my first concert at the Kalamazoo County Fair and was convinced Shaun Cassidy was singing Da Doo Run Run just for me. Donnie and Marie ruled the air waves and the lunch boxes, and the hip kids wore ponchos, gauchos, and clogs.

I agonized over the purchase of my first 45 rpm record, finally deciding on “Don’t you want me baby?” by Human League. “It was 1980 somethin’ in the world that I grew up in.” Santa delivered a tape recorder with “Air Supply’s Greatest Hits.” It was “like totally bitchin’.” I could do all the Solid Gold dancing I wanted without missing a beat. Brooke Shields didn’t let anything come between her and her Calvin Klein’s, and after two years of relentless begging, my mother finally agreed to buy me a pair. I was entering junior high and those jeans were my ticket to popularity.

I spent a lot of time at the mall squandering my McDonald’s paychecks on clothes and music. “It was 1990 somethin’ in the world that I grew up in.” The cassette tape was being overrun by the latest and greatest technology: the compact disc. It took me a while to get onboard the CD train, but after buying my first dual function CD/cassette player, I relented and sent my penny in to Columbia Records. Soon I had my first twelve CD’s, and I was once again on the cutting edge.

Now it’s 2000 somethin’ in the world that I’ve grown up in and the advancement of technology has once again made the way I listen to music obsolete. Gone are the days of the big stereo systems and the even bigger speakers. Now it’s who has the biggest gigabyte that rocks! I’m not quite ready to part with my collection of discs, so I’ll just stick the buds in my ears, wear my MP3 player on my arm, and dust them from time to time as I shake my humps, my humps, my lovely lady lumps!

   Amber Gianera

May 13, 2009 @ 3:31 pm

Prompt:
“What would you say to yourself? Write an imaginary scene between you at your current age and you at a younger age. If you don’t want to use dialogue, you don’t have to.”

If I could talk to myself at 13, the first thing I would tell myself is to stop fighting so hard! I would say:

“I know you are struggling to be different, but realize that everyone who looks at you can see your uniqueness just by looking at you. Think of all the people who stop you to ask if that is your “real” hair color. Less than 2% of the population has natural red hair. It doesn’t get any more “different” than that.

Remember when you tried smoking last year in the playhouse with Angela? You’re going to want to try it again this year. You’ll be looking for a way to express your anger and you’ll want to try smoking again. Don’t do it! Smoking despite your asthma doesn’t make you a rebel. If you keep smoking, 10 years from now you will try to quit and it will be the hardest thing you’ll ever do in your life. It will be so hard that you will fail, over and over. It will take seven failures and thirty total years of trying to quit until you finally stop for good. Please don’t start.

What really makes you different is your sensitivity. Don’t people tell you that all the time (as in, “you’re too sensitive”)? Remember this: your sensitivity is a gift. You can’t teach someone how to be sensitive in the way that you are. Other people don’t experience “knowing” and “awareness” in the way that you do. Just listen to, honor and trust your instincts. Also, all those crazy dreams mean something. Remember them and write them down. You’ll be amazed at what you learn.

At some point this year, you will get some other kid’s allergy shot and it will put you into anaphylactic shock. You’ll pass out and after some more shots you’ll be able to breathe again. Don’t worry, that’s the last allergy shot you’ll ever get. When you wake up, it will be about 3:00 am and you’ll be back home in your bedroom with the pink bedspread up to your chin. You’ll be wide awake, hungry and bored out of your mind after the 12-hour drug-induced sleep, but please don’t turn on your flashlight because it will wake up your Dad in the next room and his angry flashlight-lit bodiless head will haunt you into late adulthood.

Finally, some random thoughts going forward:
• It’s still ok to get excited about going to Disneyland. Even adults get excited to go to Disneyland.
• Don’t black out your yearbook picture with a marker. That is the only record you will have of yourself at that age and you’ll be sorry. By the way, you’re cuter and skinnier than you think you are.
• Occasional mediocrity, stability and familiarity (in other words, “standing still”) won’t kill you.
• When you don’t know what to say, it’s because you’re not really listening. You are a great listener and people are drawn to that.
• We, as people, are more alike than we are different. That goes for blacks and whites, athletes and handicapped folks, popular and unpopular kids, great philosophers and mentally retarded people, priests and murders, children and grandparents, etc. Keep looking for the common ground.
• People need other people. You will always need other people. Treat them the way you want to be treated.

Oh yeah, and tell Dad that the little garage startup company in Cupertino with the apple logo may be worth looking at.

   April

May 25, 2009 @ 12:41 am

Prompt:THINK OF AN INTERESTING CEILING YOU ONCE STARED AT AND THOUGHT ABOUT. WRITE ABOUT YOU STARING…AND WHAT IT WAS THAT CAUSED YOU TO STARE

MY OLD ROOM AT MOM’S

“Junior!” I heard my mom yell to my dad. “It’s time to eat!” The aroma of mom’s fried chicken and potato salad filled the air as my bedroom door opened. In walked a tall slim brunette wearing a Black Sabbath T-shirt, Levi jeans and bare feet. The young version of myself standing timelessly in front of me did not see me staring at her. She didn’t know I was there, for we are one in the same. Her youthful reflection in the mirror brought back feelings of many years ago. The brown mirrored dresser that held her likeness was covered in scratches and missing several knobs. The photos of friends and relatives wedged in the left side of the mirror frame were separated by a white saxophone neck strap that was waiting to be snatched up at any minute and rushed off to band practice. The stiff wavy sheet music of Louie Louie and Proud Mary on the dresser haled the tale-tale signs of practicing in the damp bathroom with the water running full force to drown out the musical sounds as not to annoy the parents. The cluttered area of the dresser consisted of colorful braided friendship bracelets, silver hoop earrings, cherry cough drops, a banana clip and a Chemistry book from her 10th grade class. As I look closer at this apparition of myself, there is sadness in her face and emptiness in her eyes. She has a longing to be loved by her parents and accepted by others. The desire to be a normal teenager, go places and do things her friends do has overcome her. She looks to her music for comfort and her room, this room, my room is her sanctuary. It is the only way she is allowed to express herself. As I look around the dark room, she is everywhere and she is nowhere.
Seeing that my ghost of the past is fading before my eyes, my sight takes hold of the walls in this cool place of voluntary confinement. The walls are covered with posters from the top of the almond colored ceiling to the stark white baseboard just above the floor. It is my wallpaper, courtesy of ‘Hit Parader’ magazine. The faces of the band members look back at me. Mötley Crew, Black Sabbath, Warrant, Poison, Bon Jovi, Guns N Roses, Tesla, Alice Cooper, Metallica, and yes, even a couple of the Doobie Brothers. It was the music I looked to for comfort. I felt like I was in a time machine taken back to those awkward days of uncertainty. But here in this room I had a feeling of security and a sense of being. I was in a room of my peers and they were always staring back at me listening to my worries and celebrating my joys. There was no judgment passed within these walls. These were my friends, my wallpaper of allies.
In front of me is my old bed with the dark blue comforter that rarely smelled of fabric softener. It is a double bed, large enough to get lost in with my little sister who was 5 years younger when we stayed up playing lightening tag on the walls with flashlights in the dark. The almost flat pillows have Sesame Street pillowcases, a symbol of a teenager not wanting to grow up, yet being thrust into adulthood by the world around her every waking moment outside this space. The dense bed is adjacent to the carefully covered wall. It is a perfect stepping stool to the small window in the middle of the posters. There are yards and yards of light blue country curtains covered in miles of huge white ruffles on the unfinished wood curtain rod. It was my mother’s touch of course. I always felt it was her ideal of a cruel joke on me. Her way of adding a “girl’s touch” to my cold overcast space she tried so unsuccessfully to pull me from.
In the middle of the ceiling is the white ceiling fan with gold trim. The blades ingeniously decorated with sticker photos of all my school friends. A closer look reveals stickers such as ‘YOU SUCK’, and a hand revealing the middle finger and lightening bolts with clouds.
A cool breeze sways the Looney Tunes necktie and the keyless Tinker Bell key chain necklace hanging from the light fixture next to me. As I look to the right in the room towards the largest yet identical window to the smaller one, I can see the outsized peach tree in the tall grass of the back yard. As I walk closer my hand touching the postered closet beside me, my attention has shifted. I open the closet door to expose the suede and leather jackets, some with tassels some without, all masked by the scent of youth. Black T-shirts featuring Harley Davidson, White Snake and Kiss along with ripped blue jeans populated the wire hangers in front of me.
My antique tenor saxophone lay forgotten with the musty old blue and white Reebok sneakers and black combat boots on the brown shag carpet on the closet floor. All of these images that once lay dormant, resembling the feelings of my youth have now been awaken.

   Lynne Elliott

May 26, 2009 @ 1:48 pm

A poem about something that made me mad.

JUSTICE SERVED BY: Lynne Elliott

Making sense of it now would never happen
I now know that I had stepped into the lions den.
Women with stories and pain and sorrow,
Most growing up wondering if they will eat tomorrow.
I entered this place unsure and with child
Knowing this process will be anything but mild.
I had heard the phrase ’going thru the motions’
It feels like you’re walking, and on your shoulders are 20 tons.
My charge is conspiracy, a charge they don’t have to prove,
The only solace I get is when I feel the baby move.
The sentence was harsh and I am so confused,
Twelve years for that, the prosecutor wasn’t even amused.
The girl next to me murdered her child,
But, she’s only here for a very short while.
Justice served? I think not!
But, that’s what the Judge says I’ve got!
My sentence was cut, it’s five years now,
My son has grown, but, I wasn’t there to see how.
Instead I was here, but not in vain,
I studied hard so not to go insane
I earned two degrees and finally got out of that place
I made it through the nightmare, but only by grace.
The statistics and society say a felon will never be much
What most don’t realize though is that education is my crutch.
My son is with me now after all these years,
His resilience always seems to bring me to tears.
Life is good now and I have started to smile
I must admit though, it took quite awhile.
Strength, it seems, comes from very deep
The rewards I get are all for me to keep.
Justice served? That’s pretty lame,
But, whatever they threw at me, I no doubt overcame!

   bugbug88

May 31, 2009 @ 4:20 pm

“Do you know what’s back there? Find (or imagine) a closet or cupboard in your home that you haven’t opened for a week at least. Open it and look deep inside. Write about something in the back you find and have never thought to write about before.”

They told me to open the closet

so I did.

Never open the closet.

There was deep within it a creature I cannot explain.

It was covered in papery skin

with teeth like broken pencils

and claws that ripped apart books.

Its eyes were huge

they beckoned in gaudy words

and useless scribbles

and from within its throat it regurgitated

failures

accidents

hopelessness.

I didn’t trust it

it seemed ready to catch me

and bring me back home

to feed me to its children.

I stared transfixed for a long time.

This is my writer’s block.

   Tomek

June 5, 2009 @ 7:41 am

Saturday: WHAT STORE BEST REPRESENTS THE TYPE OF PERSON YOU ARE
RIGHT NOW? ARE YOU A MACY’S OR A WAL-MART KIND OF PERSON? OR
SOMETHING ELSE?

When I was a very young lad, my parents would sometimes give me some pocket change — usually an odd assortment of dimes, nickels and pennies, with the occasional lucky quarter — and we’d run off to the local store. Now, we rarely had more than, say, 50¢ or so, but that amount was usually good enough for a brand-name candy bar — my favorite was Snickers — plus a few pretzel rods, some Swedish Gummi fish, or maybe a Jawbreaker or Fireball. Collectable cards with bubblegum were also a prized item. Without getting into unimportant details like exactly which decade one could purchase that amount of junk food for 50¢, we will instead focus on the scene of a bunch of rug rats standing by the cash register, counting pennies and straining their nascent mathematical skills to budget for the maximum sugar hit while the cashier/store owner stood by with a expressions ranging from boredom to amusement. While all of this was going on, we paid scant attention to the other people moving around us, accepting our lack of manners as part and parcel for those of our age group, but as I think back now, I can remember them grabbing milk, or nails, or thumbing through records. Occasionally we’d be asked to clear way for some elderly woman, and the stock guy would come and carry her bag of stuff to her car or down the street where she lived, though the cashier would be careful not to take an eye off us.

Now, by this point you may have the theme music for the Andy Griffith Show going through your mind, but we kids really didn’t understand at the time that we were patronizing the commercial equivalent of the Dodo, The store was a local 5¢ and 10¢, a historic one, in fact, and though adults like my parents did their “serious” weekly food shopping at a nearby food market or headed for the local hardware store for repair needs, they still used the old 5¢ and 10¢ like a convenient corner store for quick stuff. People bought mostly basic foods items—milk, eggs, butter, chips — that ran out during the week, or they bought greeting cards, light bulbs or the latest LP from, well, I won’t say because I don’t want to date myself more than I’ve already done, but they still treated it in the utilitarian sense as a functioning store that fulfilled some part of their local shopping needs. Today, that store still stands, but it survives as something of a museum. Instead of practical stuff it is now filled with quaint Americana like rustic decorations, scented New Age candles, post cards, etc., for tourists who want to experience what life was like when the 5¢ and 10¢ was really the main shop in town. The candy shelves by the main cash register — now a computer — are still there, next to mousepads with pictures of the 5¢ and 10¢ on them. All the signs in the store are written in this annoying Playbill font type; when I was a kid, the signs were usually hand-written.

This isn’t a nostalgic trip or one of those “The Old Days were Better” stories, just some memories, that’s all. Times change, things change. It was that store that I thought about when I read the writing prompt, however. Today 5¢ and 10¢s are seen as cute, quaint, rustic, but there was a time when they were as utilitarian and functional as your local Walmart or Home Depot. They can no longer compete commercially; your local food or department store today survives by managing a very complex web of supply chains that stretch all over the globe to bring you affordable stuff. A 5¢ and 10¢ relied on goods usually made within a hundred mile radius. The few who survive do so by morphing into museums that describe their past roles in the local community. That’s about how I feel, like a store that straddles different ages, and often find my future very different from my role in the past, but still strangely defined by that past. I am not a chain or franchise store; I’ve spent a good chunk of my life trying to convince others around me that I’m really not completely insane. This isn’t a sad comparison, only to say that when I’m gone, my hope has always been that they’ll say something like: “Well, it’ll probably be a long time before we see anyone like him around again…”

   Carolyn Campbell

June 6, 2009 @ 8:37 pm

PROMT: A TIME WHEN I HAD TO TAKE A TEST

UNTITLED

Tests! Every student who has sat at a desk knows the anxiety of taking a test and the worried anticipation when waiting for results. As a teacher, I always tried very hard to make my students feel comfortable about tests. Incentives to encourage studying were used to by way of bonus questions for extra points. Extra credit was also a tactic employed to motivate students to study their notes and read their text books. Even so, there were always those that failed a test even with all my efforts at imparting all the necessary knowledge needed to be successful.
I forgot how stressful a test could be until the shoe was on the other foot. My payback as I began to call it occurred when I decided to go back to school to pursue my master’s degree in school library media. In order for me to enroll at the university, I had to take the dreaded Graduate Record Exam.
Nearly twenty years had passed since my college graduation. Over the course of those years, I had spent most of my days imparting knowledge to the minds of young fifth and sixth graders. I taught them skills from how to read a map to subject verb agreement. Not once I had used Shakespeare or the Pythagorean Theorem. Words like obstreperous, abstemious, and obfuscate were not used. Never did I need quadratic equations or geometric proofs. Now suddenly, I was going to be tested over mathematics and vocabulary I hadn’t used in nearly two decades.
I tried to study but wasn’t quite sure where to start. I knew there would be no extra credit questions, no bonus points earned for good behavior, no grading on the curve. It was my brain against a computerized test that would tell me immediately if my aspirations of furthering my education would commence or be crushed. I suddenly felt like a fifth grader taking the Georgia Criterion Referenced Competency Test, the test that determines if a fifth grader moves up to middle school. It was a nauseating feeling.
The day of the test came. I left the house early. I gave myself a pep talk. I got lost. A very good thing that I left with half an hour to spare. Once I finally found the testing center, my optimism rose. I had my identification, my verification papers, and a pencil. I was ready!!
After verifying my identity without providing a DNA sample, my purse and keys were stored away in a locker. I was ushered into a small room with a dozen or so computers. There were a few other test-takers already working away at a computer station. I was told I could press a button to suspend taking the test if I needed a break. I would get only one. I took my place at the assigned computer and busied myself with reading the instructions.
The first part of the test was a timed writing segment. I had one hour to pick a topic and defend it. Luckily for me, I was familiar with the topics so writing a defense would not be a problem, but about half-way through the writing, a problem arose. Apparently, driving around for an extra half hour made me forget all about my bladder. I didn’t have time for a “potty break” before test time and now my bladder was letting me know that I had made a dreadful mistake.
The digital clock on the upper right hand corner of my screen seemed to stop tracking time. I shifted. I squirmed. I lost concentration. Time stood still and I thought I would be running out the door in embarrassment at any second. I tried hard to focus on the written discourse in front of me, but my words could not convey my thoughts, for the only thing on my mind was finding a bathroom.
After what seemed an eternity, I finished my written segment with three seconds to spare. I pressed the buzzer that told the proctor I needed a break. I nearly tripped over the chair in my haste to exit the computer room. I found my small plot of heaven that day in a five foot by five foot room with a porcelain receptacle.
Once I resumed testing, I found it very easy to concentrate on synonyms, antonyms, and theme. I recognized the math problems with the Pythagorean Theorem and solved for x and y. I was confident that I was doing well. My perseverance was rewarded when I ended the test and saw my scores. I qualified for admittance into the doctoral program had I a desire to put myself through hell on Earth. I was going back to school!
It’s been several years since I took the Graduate Record Exam. I have since received my master’s degree and embarked on a career as a school librarian. But, once again, the halls of higher learning beckon. I will begin on my education specialist degree in two months. Two more years of homework, research, term papers, and of course, tests!

   Amber

June 8, 2009 @ 9:54 am

PROMPT: WHAT STORE BEST REPRESENTS THE TYPE OF PERSON YOU ARE RIGHT NOW? ARE YOU A MACY’S OR A WAL-MART KIND OF PERSON? OR SOMETHING ELSE?

Well-used, forgotten
Unearthed, donated, reborn
I am a thrift store

   Sandra Heggen

July 2, 2009 @ 12:47 pm

Monday: DID YOU KNOW WHAT IT WAS BEFORE OPENING IT? WRITE ABOUT A
TIME YOU RECEIVED SOMETHING UNEXPECTED IN THE MAIL?

I’m sitting in the burnt orange fake-leather recliner that we got for Pete just before he got orders for warrant officer school. Dean Martin’s show is on TV and he’s singing some country song about loss and pain. My mind slips away from the show and into my own personal loss and pain. Pete has found someone else, he wants a divorce. So he said in his letter. A letter, the bastard! Can you believe it? Not even a phone call, much less in person. A damn’ thin letter! A thin letter. That alone gave me a premonitory sinking feeling. Something bad was in that envelope. I for once didn’t rush to open it but slowly walked back to the house simply noting the Chicago postmark and reading my name and address over and over like a mantra.

He still loved me, he said, but she was pregnant and needed him more than I did. How could he know that? I needed him desperately. After six years I’d finally let myself believe that maybe he really did love me, that it was safe to let down my guard with him, that he would stay with me like the wedding vows said. I should never have done that. If I’d kept my defenses up, the pain couldn’t have got through, couldn’t have struck so deep, couldn’t have hurt so bad.

I hung on to his almost incidental phrase, “I still love you, but…” and thought that maybe I could get him to hang on to that, too, to realize that there was still a base for us to stand on. So, no divorce, I said, let’s try again. But he was adamant. So was I. Then, “She thought she was pregnant, but she wasn’t.” It didn’t change his mind. I guess she still needed him more than I did, pregnant or not.

So, he’s sent to Viet Nam before anything can be done about a divorce, and for a whole year I send newsy letters, nearly every day, as if I expect him to care about what’s going on back here. No complaints, no how much pain I’m in, no how difficult it is to do this, just pleasant, newsy news that he probably has absolutely no interest in. Two or three letters come to me: How can you do this? How can you act like nothing’s different? I love you, I said, that’s how. Maybe I should have said, I need you. Oh, well, live and learn.

One pleasant early spring afternoon I’m recuperating from major surgery and the sheriff’s car pulls up in front of the house. I sit on the porch in my rocker, curious but unwilling to feel the pull on my stitches if I rise to greet him. The deputy, a kind-faced older man in a starched khaki shirt and matching pants, droopy white mustache, tall, slightly paunchy, strides up the walk, stops at the bottom of the steps. He nods to me, pulls off his Stetson, hands me some folded papers. What’s this, I ask. He shifts uncomfortably, then replies in his soft Texas drawl, Well, looks like divorce papers, I guess. I just look down at them dumbly. He leaves quietly. Boy, Pete really knows how to time things. In a rare letter I got today he says he’s glad I didn’t die in surgery, then he shoves the knife in with a twist.

I’m not supposed to drive yet, but the next day I drive to see a lawyer Pete had once said was who I should go to if I ever needed help. Well, I guess I can be forgiven for not thinking too straight at a time like that.

Some time later, and quite a bit of money, too, the lawyer announces he can’t handle the case any more. No explanation. When I go to get some papers from him that I’ll need to send to the Chicago lawyer he referred me to, I spot a letter in Pete’s handwriting as he riffles through the file. I tell myself that it means nothing, but deep down I know better. Denial is a big part of my life. Without it pain can grab hold too easily.

We’ve been living in Texas but the divorce is, inexplicably, to be handled in Illinois where he was temporarily stationed before Viet Nam. The lawyer that I was referred to there drops the case suddenly, too. After I paid him, of course. Then I accidentally – accidentally, mind you – find out that I have to be in court up there at nine o’clock tomorrow or lose by default, and I’m still in Texas, and I have no lawyer. I’m a mess. Can I even get a plane ticket in time? What to do? My priest calls in some markers and I have a new Chicago lawyer whom I’ll meet two hours before we have to appear. Why am I doing all this? Why don’t I just let it go? Let him go?

On the redeye flight I keep remembering when my TV broke a while back how I took to listening to the local Public Radio station all the time. It’s a poorly funded station and they play the same tapes over and over. There was soothing, numbing, ignorable music until about 8 p.m. each evening, then would come a song we’d sung in chorus in high school – You’ll Never Walk Alone. When it came on I’d stop whatever I was doing and let its power wash over me. “Walk on through the wind, walk on through the rain, though your dreams be tossed and blown. Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart, and you’ll never walk alone. You’ll never walk alone.” So I walk on, to the bitter end. (Bitter end. That’s a Navy term, you know – the end of the rope.) In the end, after all, I give him his divorce. I can hang on to him, but I can’t make him love me. I never hear the song again after I get back. I get my TV fixed.

Now I’m back home and I sit in the orange fake-leather recliner that we got for Pete just before he got his orders for warrant officer school, and I hold his letter in my hand (”I still love you, but…”) and I listen to Dean Martin sing a country song of pain and loss. All around me everything disappears as I drown in feeling. My head drops back against the chair, my eyes close. Suddenly I hear this low, loud primal moan, a rough sound of pure unassuaged pain, pain so deep it’s beyond words, beyond tears, beyond time. It startles me. I open my eyes, raise my head, disoriented. I can’t tell where the sound is coming from until I feel the involuntary spasm in my throat cut it off. My God, did that come out of me? Shaken and dazed, throat raked and burning, I sit in the burnt orange fake-leather recliner we got for Pete just before he got his orders for warrant officer school. Dean Martin’s show is over. I turn the TV off, fold the letter back into its envelope, and go to bed.