I’ve begun writing everyday.
Ok for 3 days.
They are 100 word pieces like I have been submitting on here (off and on) for the past couple of years.
In case you are looking for the prompt, I downloaded the Webster dictionary app and have been writing pieces based off of the “Word of the Day”. Perhaps it’s not complicated enough, but it saves me having to randomly point to words in a dictionary or find inspiration in the same environments I am exposed to everyday.
There is also much that has changed in my life since the last post. Mostly good, some bad, some merely products of time.
I’m still struggling, but I’m still fighting.
Hoping you, too,are persisting.
Blame it on the state of things, but we haven’t been on a holiday in 12 years. Hell, I haven’t been on an airplane in 10, and he finds no problem in remaining here while I watch his waist gain ground across the couch frame.
“We can see the world right here, hun. We got cable and internet for days.”
I spend more time in the garden, relaying pails of dirt and water to cover seeds and watch them grow. As they raise up, I know that birds, breeze, even rain will scatter the blooms—helping them travel more than I ever will. I didn’t know I could envy a plant that depends on me to even exist, but there you have it.
As for him, he may or not move any time soon—but come fall, I’ll uproot and find some new ground.
Well, a new month has rolled around and with the coming of May comes Short Story Month. Amazingly I have actually written something both today and yesterday. I’m sharing today because it’s short, and kind of surprising in how I managed to take 12 “fourth grade spelling list words” and turn it into a story comprising multiple themes that I had floating in my thesis. It’s not astounding literature by any means, but I did pat my back on a couple of creative problem solving to get a couple of those words in.
Here’s the list if you want to write your own:
And here is the website if you want to do your own challenge: Storyaday
Day 1 of NaPoWriMo calls for a “Lune” poem, essentially a 5-3-5 haiku style, following either the rule of syllables per line, or number of words per line. I ended up doing the latter for this specific exercise. Not that this needs much background, but I am currently on a Friend Pilgrimage, and I ended up doing a Thai Chi/Yoga class with a friend before I left to travel to another city. After I told her about the poem a day prompt, she told me to write about the class. I figured why not, and this is the result. I’m not convinced that this piece is finished, or perfect, but it’s the first day of the challenge, and the second thing I’ve written in the past 4 months since completing my MFA–so rusty gears and all that. Without further ado:
Firm footing on anxious ground;
expire weakness, extend focus. Repeat.
Hello readers, writers, movers and shakers:
It’s that time of the year again, where I drum up content by participating in NAPOWRIMO!
That’s all I really have to say. I’m in the midst of traveling and job applications, so I’ll most likely write the poems and either forget to post them, or post them in large clumps. Either way, they are coming, and hopefully soon I can really delve into my monthly 100 word stories, which I believe I promised myself that I would start at the beginning of January.
What can you do, you create a list of 5 things you want to accomplish in 2016, and you make good on 4 out of 5 of those promises before April. I feel like you should call that a success.
At any rate, I hope this message finds you well, creative, and healthful.
Stay curious. Stay eager.
P.S. For any who are interested in participating/are looking for prompts/wondering about the upcoming hyperlinks under NAPOWRIMO, should check out www.napowrimo.net.
We are not yet ready to share a suitcase.
I pack too many shirts, and you too much underwear.
You cannot part with your 24 oz doubt, and that leaves no room for my travel size anxiety.
We can organize, re stack and re fold, but TSA will not allow our combined fear in one bag.
So for now, you’ll check one bag, and I’ll check two : the third for misplaced apprehension and imagined scenarios. We’ll each keep a bag apart as we travel, for our secret and reoccurring pasts.
*From the prompt: “(Add 3+2 – me and you)”
Her only expression of care, even love, she missed giving.
As each person left, drifted to towns across time zones,
Her language fell out of reach.
She tried with words
Ordained by men
To keep them tethered.
But the cooking, the aromas,
The pallet teasers could not communicate
As they once did.
No longer could she
In her giving
The smiles and jokes,
Warmth extrapolated from full stomachs.
And so the epicenter of her joy,
The power of nurturing—
Anonymous and kind
Leaving her to cultivate alone,
Feeding only herself.
Here’s a quick 100 for you guys. I know it’s been a while (almost a month!) But I am hoping to get back to a normal-like schedule soon. This 100 is currently alternating between prose and poem, so consider it rough. But exercise often is, right?
The root cellar under the oak tree is where he told her to meet. She hated the smell of dirt and potatoes, but it was cooler, and hidden from the road. So she went.
The cellar was tucked into a barren field on a farm that was reclaimed in the 70s by Heinz™ Ketchup. They sent factory women who needed to convalesce here.
Crazy women, she thought, hysterical and desperate for attention—if psychology had anything to say about it. She brushed a cobweb off her shoulder, wondering how many women had found it in this hole.
“Fairfax, South Carolina”
Magnolia cones lie, red berries crushed against sidewalk, buried in overgrown lawn. The petals, long ago bruised and wilting, have blown into suburban gutters. He tries to make it up once a month to mow; air out the house; remember.
Fifteen years and by now he starts to feel nothing except a musky heaviness. Mildew has seeped into the cabinets and wrap-around polyester couch. He sees only the hospital bed in the living room, instead of the swivel armchairs he used to play in.
Looking out to the yard, ghosts of daughters run—swinging along tree branches, riding bikes up the block. He will find them at home, grown and smelling of flowers.
This is definitely a moment from a much larger whole and maybe you can discern that I have Carson McCullers on the brain today.
“Caught and Loose”
He’s been running the perimeter for five years now; trying to shed forcefields: family, girlfriends, leases. His feet jolt against gravel asphalt, always stopping short of the town limit. He pauses as his chest struggles to expand—wants to erupt and spread out across the border.
He hocks a loogie, right into the next county and turns back. He passes others riding out on their scholarships, jobs and military orders. They gleam hopeful from driver’s seats, but it’s its own settling; chained to their inevitable track. As bad as staying put. He wipes his face with his shirt and runs on.
We never say we are going to Papa’s or Dad’s house. It has always been, will always be, Granny’s or Mama’s. Even though their patriarchal hands hammered the nails that shelters our visits, it is always the matronly warmth that caulks the gaps.
It clings to our clothes when we leave, a guiding sealant reminding us to eat, brush our teeth, be open to love.
Inherited, I hope, so that light may be blessed upon children and children’s children. Crafting the home with embraces and tears. So that even as we pass, the mothers of the past, the bond between boards only strengthen—the home that men built and women filled.