Mom, Wife, writer, self proclaimed funny girl, and publicly proclaimed "piece of work".
Lover and writer of fiction and non-fiction alike and hoping you enjoy my attempts at writing either. Yes, you. Reading this. I want you to like it.
The Power of a Creative Break
Hello Vocal! If I were at all apologetic for taking care of myself, I suppose this is where I would inform you that my sincerest apology was yours for the taking due to my rather long absence from updating your feeds. Certainly a writer cannot make her way without readers, and certainly she cannot maintain readers without giving them something to read! Thus is the essence of the writers creed I’ve bound myself to in so many forms of ink and blood; “Ass in chair, words on page. Repeat.” These are some of my favourite words about writing, and this continues to be my mantra as a writer, however, I’ve learned that the execution of said mantra is the art of which I’ve still much to learn.
Answers at the Pear Tree
“The day the first pear falls from the tree unto the grassy ground below, you will know the answer.” Day 1 Desi was crouched at the end of her front walk, looping her shoelaces furiously around one another. She scanned the sidewalk and then slowly rose to standing. Not a soul stirred under the perfect blue sky for as far as Desi could see. Another quiet day in another beige suburbia. Is this a cliche start to our hero’s journey? Sure. I’d love for you to come up with something better, if you’re so smart. This isn’t even about you, anyway, it’s about Desi and the frickin pear tree, so just try to be a little less critical. It could be worse— it could be “a dark and stormy night….”.
It was as if I had awoken from a deep sleep, only I was standing straight up, and I found myself in a strange clearing I couldn’t quite recall seeing in the past. I felt an overwhelming sense that, regardless of my memory, I should know where I was, but I just couldn’t seem to place it. The ground was covered in a pure blanket of snow, and although everything dawned the touch of the mid-winter’s frost, the air was gentle and warm. I’d never been so contented while surrounded by ice; I’d never felt so invited by the cold, but it called to me on this day. I stood just before a sea of proud spruce trees stretching around the entire clearing, but my eyes were drawn quickly to the gleaming coming from the middle. Even my steps were easier and quieter than ever before; in this wonderland, the powdery snow simply made way for each of my steps as if it were eager for me to reach my destination.
Bull in a China Shop
The way someone leaves is entirely more compelling than the way you meet them: the relationship burning to ash is far more interesting than one spark of intrigue, in my opinion. Everyone always asks to hear the idyllic tale of how you met, but no one asks quite so eagerly for the story of the day they left. Of course, in her case, she came and left in the same way, just like she promised.
Friend to the Plants
I watched his twice daily traipse to the garden begin again in late spring. Though he enjoys the odd triumph due to a rather strong corn stalk or a healthy crop of beans, he hangs his head at the sight of the empty bee house each day. I’ve overheard him telling visitors that there just aren’t any bees around, and I realize that despite my persistent buzzing around his favorite crops, he doesn’t know I am present. I am resting upon the strawberry bushes, I play amongst the trees, and I surf the winds to see the entirety of the yard and the garden beds as often as they blow. I feel such a sense of pride soaring over the long cement walls of the garden beds, and I can still remember him churning them in the mixer. Each garden ornament remains exactly as it had been placed last year, most needing a good rinse from the hose. I announce my presence the best I can, buzzing with the verve I wish he himself possessed, but he remains afraid and despondent.
Mr. Quentin extracted the empty dropper from the cake, and gently wiped the chocolate frosting from the glass before screwing it back into the bottle. He slipped the compound 1080 into the inside pocket of his uniform jacket. Admittedly, a rather nasty game of roulette, but you’ll soon learn it was necessary. Mr. Quentin placed the slice of chocolate cake with the other seven slices, placed a hand on each side of the cart, then hung his head and paused. Another year, another dinner party spent serving his prized chocolate cake to the wrong family; although, thankfully, this would be the last. The thought made Mr. Quentin smile, and with a satisfied sigh, he closed his eyes and pulled the cart into a soft pirouette in front of him. The cart wheels on the marble floor was usually a noise that reminded Mr. Quentin of his hatred and misery day in and day out, but today, it was music.
Three Birds Market
Prairie winds lash and embrace me all at once, delighting in something other than crops and grasses to dance with. Despite the breeze, the late august sunset is warm against my outer walls. Inside, the light fights its way through the weak spots in the walls and roof, littering the floor with sunbeam spotlights; this reminds me of my age, which I don’t enjoy being reminded of often. I exhale the warmth into the winds, and the air inside me remains cool. The creaky complaints of my walls and rafters in the wind are drowned out by the joyful sounds of life enjoying the shelter of my walls. I am just happy to no longer be lonely.
I knew that I would hear him coming, but I didn’t think that the sound of the lockets hanging off of his belt would make it so damn haunting. I guess everything’s a little more eerie since the sun burnt out on me: my mind likes to fill in the darkness with what it thinks things might look like now, but my mind doesn’t have much good left in it. I slump back into the seat of the car and I wonder what time it might be. It’s the first I’ve remembered of the concept of time at all since I been on my own. Guess I want to know my time of death, since ain’t no one else gonna pronounce it. Maybe he’s got a watch amongst that string of silver hearts and I could catch the time before my locket is added to the collection. Surely one of us owned a damn watch, too.
Unfortunately, you’re me.
I was teeming with rage, ranting to you over snacks at your kitchen counter. Another day at work, another day fighting the systems that be, another day wondering what the hell I had to do to make change and why I had been so compelled to pick this fight as my career. Another day hating the patriarchy and navigating my way through destroying it. My son stirred from his nap, pulling me out of my angry trance and back into complete infatuation with my new role: mommy. I returned from his room with him cradled in my arms to find you had not moved a muscle, as if you had frozen in thought following my ranting. I sat back down, and your eyes truly sympathized for me when you crinkled your nose and said. “Unfortunately, you’re me.”
Logan and the Mailbox.
Logan was trying his best to keep from shuffling his feet on the cement, but it was proving pretty difficult to walk and write at the same time. The street was so quiet, apart from Logan’s scrrraaaaape pffffffttttt scraaaaaape-ing of his winter boots, and the quiet made it the best place in town to do his writing. His little black notebook was balanced in his palm and hugged tight to his chest, while his other hand gripped a weathered pencil and scratched onto paper the greatest story ever told in a little black book. Quite possibly, this would be the greatest story ever told in any little book, even little red books and blue books.