Write On Edge: My Distant Teachers

I am a writer. If you ask to see my credentials, I will show you all I have written. I did not say I was a published writer ...yet. To be a writer all it really takes is to set to the task of writing on a regular basis.

That is fulfilling, but, personally, I don't like to do anything half-assed and I know that I am on the steep end of the learning curve when it comes to all that is involved in the craft of writing. I did not study writing or even literature in college. I was a double major in Mathematics and Education. These studies have served me well, and, I believe they continue to serve me, but there is much I don't know about that which I spend my days doing now, and I am thirsty for knowledge.

Enter Write On Edge. This is a website often linked to from Rivera Runs Through It and discussed in passing. I was recently asked in an interview for the Carpe Diem blog what my number one favorite website was (besides my own). I nearly dismissed the question as unanswerable, until it occurred to me, I visit Write On Edge every single day. Here's just a piece of my answer:

I have gotten an incredible amount of inspiration from Write On Edge. This group has two weekly writing prompts that I try to participate in as much as possible. Those prompts, in part, are what inspired me to start Rivera Runs Through It so I would have a blog space to write creatively.

I realized that if I had a computer that could only access one website and nothing more, I would set it to http://writeonedge.com/ because I could sit by my computer with a notebook and some paper and still write, still learn and still grow as a writer only with access to their site.

It began with a quest for writing prompts and community. I sought out the two prompts a week from what was then known as The Red Dress Club, and let them unleash my creative juices. (Off My Trail  was the first post I wrote for the community, I am still so proud of it.) Then, as each prompt came with a word count, I began to learn about word efficiency. Through reading the posts created by other bloggers linking to the community, I began to see how many different angles one theme could be perceived from, which led to even more creative thinking. Finally, I started to read the posts in between the prompts that were filled with writing tips, experiences, lessons and the creation of a book club for writers.


I did not intend to write about the Write On Edge community today as I sat down before my computer. My intention was to write about and review the book I finished yesterday, The Memoir Project by Marion Roach Smith. The book taught me so much about writing, research and observing life, but I would never have read this book if not for Write On Edge. It was the selection for our current book club. We will be discussing the first three chapters tonight on Twitter at 9:30pm EST (use hashtag #writeonedge if you want to join the discussion).

The other two books we read as a group were On Writing by Stephen King and Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. With each turning page I feel more connections being made, more dendrites growing and a new skill is blossoming at my fingertips.These are incredibly exciting reads for me. So, just as I wrote about On Writing and as I reviewed Bird by Bird, you can be certain you will be reading my reactions to The Memoir Project, but it appears that story was not for today. Today's story is about my distant teachers, the wonderful people behind the scenes at Write On Edge and the community of people who participate there as well.

Today's blog post is a long overdue Thank you to a community that probably has little to no idea what a large impact they have had on me.

Do you participate in an online community?

How have they helped you grow, learn or just share in your time with them? 

For fellow writers, where do you find your inspiration and your education?

 

Someday I Will Look Back and Laugh [Fiction]

This post is written in response to the Write On Edge Red Writing Hood Prompt this week. It is a piece of short fiction based on the following:

According to Dante, the gates of hell are inscribed “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”

Let that inscription lead, but not necessarily define, your piece for Friday’s link-up.
500 words or less.

Concrit welcomed (and desired). 

 

“Brandon?” he’s pretending he doesn’t hear me again, “Brandon!”

“What?” I should expect that attitude by now, instead of flinching every time it comes flying.

“What the hell is this supposed to mean?” I can’t help but flail his binder in his direction.  I bought it two days ago for the new school year, and now it has, “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,” scrawled across the cover in large, sloppy printed letters.

“It’s a joke, Ma. Re-lax,” he says which he then sees fit to demonstrate by slouching down onto the couch with his back turned to me, and his senses numb to the beautiful world outside our door. In one move his headset is back on, the controller is back in his hands and my son, five feet in front of me, is virtually swept away to a dystopian universe where he is fighting for his very survival with people he has never even met or seen in real life.

Since he’s distracted, I open his binder in the hopes of finding the punch line to the “joke” on the cover.  What I am greeted with is a lot of work. There are at least 30 pages filled back to back with notes, diagrams and even highlighted sections. I feel the weight of the world easing it’s gravitational pull on my person until my eye catches on one conglomeration of letters and symbols that is not readable in the English language, but I recognize it immediately: G4m3r_F0R_L1F3.

That’s him. It’s Brandon, except it is not the Brandon I gave birth to sixteen years ago, that is his avatar, his virtual representation. That is not the name he would be using in his schoolwork. Which means one thing – this book contains no schoolwork. As I flip through the pages again, this time with a more critical eye, I see that all of this “work” is some sort of plan for his virtual survival in a world that isn’t real.

I’m about to confront him when he is literally saved by the bell, or , rather, the ringing of the phone. I gather my composure, answer it up without checking the caller ID.

“Hello, Mrs. Ward?” responds a polite, but unfamiliar voice.

“Yes, who’s this?”

“Mrs. Ward, I am Ms. Fere, Brandon’s guidance counselor. We need to talk about Brandon’s future here. I’m not sure he’s going to make it.”

"You know, Ms. Fere, it's funny you should say that, I was just wondering the same thing," and I couldn't help but laugh. I had just found the sadly ironic punchline of my son's "joke."

Dancing With Diavlo

This post was written in response to a writing prompt from Write On Edge. We were asked to write about hope remembering the algorithm taught to us by Marion Roach-Smith in her book The Memoir Project. To put it succinctly, here is the prompt:

This is a piece about (x), illustrated through (y).

So, for this week, we want the (x) to be hope.

Meaning:

This is a piece about hope, illustrated through (y).

What is the (y)? Only you know. You have that truth—those stories in you. Now share it with us.

Below is my story of hope illustrated through my yesterday. In my quest for constructive criticism for this particular post, I would like to ask if you feel that the hope is evident in this piece, or if you can only see it because the prompt was added.
 
Last night's dinner was delicious. I made, for the first time, Shrimp Fra Diavlo. I burned my arm with splattering oil when I put the shrimp in the pan. For the entire night my arm was on fire. My wrist glowed red and by the time I went to bed my flesh had browned as if it were charring as each minute passed. I had enjoyed the hot spices of my meal but felt as though fate mocked me in my devilish endeavor.

It was one of those days, you know the kind, where the world wants to shake you.

You see, before the the shrimp debacle I was watching the evening news. A story came on about a new treatment for cancer. I found it fascinating. My husband came into the room, sat beside me and was equally enthralled by the story.

As I sat and listened I realized something, There will be a cure. My mind reeled with this epiphany. I questioned myself, Will it be for all cancers, Nicole? Or just this brain cancer? All I could muster was those five words, There will be a cure.

I don't know if my husband saw my fascination, or was just awash with his own, but he started to tell me of another similar treatment he had heard about. As he spoke I could hear nothing but my five words swirling in my mind. Before I could stop myself I was in tears.

It was guilt.

I realized that at the beginning of the story some part of me wanted to find anything wrong with it. My mind wouldn't allow a cure. A cure wouldn't be fair. If my mother couldn't have one then how could I live knowing others could?

Then I remembered her suffering, her pain and her end. No one deserved that.

My husband didn't need to ask what made me cry, he knew it was thoughts of my mother, but I felt I needed to clarify, "They're going to cure this. And when they do that's going to be a hard day for me." It scared me to think that I must have felt this way for almost six years and I didn't consciously know it, but saying it out loud was such a great release.

Thank GAWD for College!

I was going to my first fraternity house. I wasn’t in college yet, my friend’s brother was, so we were going to go see him. I worried about only knowing two people there. I worried that I was too young to be there. I worried I would spend the night up against a wall, by myself.

But then they heard me speak.

I don’t remember what I said, but before I knew it, there was a crowd of fraternity boys surrounding me asking me to, “Say something else!” because they loved “that New York accent!” Never before had I thought I had an accent, but evidently I was entertaining these boys from around the country with some sort of intonations that set them reeling with joy.

I gave them the typicals, the “tawlk” and “caw-fee” but I didn’t know what else to offer. My pseudo-celebrity status was disconcerting when even after I thought the show had ended I would catch some eyes looking at me in envy. “Am I saying things wrong?” I asked.

“No, it’s AH-some!” they would say, but I still wondered...

Years later, after spending time working in Manhattan, going to a college that was local, but attended mostly by students from all over the country, without intending to, my New York accent slipped by the wayside. In fact, I didn’t even realize it until one day I thought I’d share a video of my Sweet 16 with my boyfriend.

I thought it would be nice if he could see me on my big day.

As the video played he looked at me in horror. And I, on the other hand, couldn’t tear my eyes from the screen. I recognized the girl on the screen. I could even remember her thoughts as the images played before me, but what was she saying? The Staten Island/New York/Italian-American accent that now causes me to cringe when I catch snippets of Mob Wives or, lord help me, The Jersey Shore was coming out of my mouth.

“I will tell you right now, if you sounded that way when we met, there’s NO WAY I would’ve asked you out!” and there it was. From my boyfriend, now husband, a judgement placed on me based on the speech of my home. It was what I had expected from the strangers in the frat house, not from the man I loved.



This post was written in response to this week's RemembeRED writing prompt on the Write On Edge blog. 

This week’s RemembeRED prompt is: Write a piece of creative non-fiction in which turns of phrase, dialect, slang, or colloquialisms feature prominently.
Choose ONE moment and explode it. Please, no laundry lists of phrases. This is a memoir, not the urban dictionary.

Quickie Check-In #2 for ROW80 2/5

This might be the quickest check-in ever. It's SuperBowl Sunday, I'm a New Yorker, and the GIANTS are in the game!! Much needs to be done celebrated on this day...

With that said, I do have obligations to my ROW80 Challenge. On last Wednesday's check-in I reassessed my goals and rewrote a number of them. In the short span of time that has elapsed between then and now, some more rewriting needs to happen!

A Shift in Focus on "Spreading Out"
 
Since I have started ROW80 I have placed a large emphasis on writing for the Yahoo Contributor Network. This was part of my "Spreading Out" goals. Well, this past week I got a couple of offers to allow me to spread out without feeling like a hamster in a wheel. First off, I have been asked to do guest posts on a couple of blogs (one of them being from Chris at The Carpe Diem blog who shared his book love story with me) and secondly I have become one of the regular writers on The Word of the Nerd website, which I am very excited about. So, my Yahoo Contributor's Network is going to go on the back burner right now, which is where it was starting to feel like it belonged anyway (there is an insane amount of competition for visibility when you're a newbie like me, I have to work up my presence there slowly).

Reading Like I Have ADHD

I haven't finished any books since Wednesday (except for the preview issue of a comic book called Stick City I did a review for on Word of the Nerd), but I have started (I wish I was joking...) at least three more books on top of what I was already reading. My brain will implode shortly, but I'm riding this wave until Wednesday, at least. At which point I should have completed at least one of the books.


Three Hours of "Writing"


I forgot how much time editing takes. I was working on a short story piece for the Write On Edge prompt this week that flowed pretty quickly. I was happy with my work, but at word count time found that it was nearly 700 words. The prompt specifically said 400 words or LESS. I spent the entire day pairing it down. I made it, but my time set aside for writing on Friday was gobbled up by this process. So... does it count? I think so. Editing is a part of writing and I was working on a creative piece. Although it ended up on my blog, I don't really consider participation in the Write on Edge activities as "blog writing" in the strictest sense of the term. I participate in them regularly to hone my craft.

Those are my biggie thoughts about my ROW 80 challenge at this point in the week. Tomorrow begins my month long online writing workshop where I'll learn some of JK Rowling's greatest writing lessons from the expert in the matter, Susan Sipal. I can't wait!

Here's the list of the ROWers checking in this weekend - show your support!

Soul Music

"There's no music," she says pulling the covers over her head.

"Well, let's put your radio on, then." Her iHome has been playing since the day we got it for her. She wakes to it, plays it after school and falls asleep to it. My little girl loves her music.

"Not that music," she muffles from under her comforter. "Please turn it off Mama."

I notice tears in her eyes. I climb over to lay beside her, "What music, then?"

"The music from Daddy. The music on the inside."

I've read books and remained active in the Church, but these moments are hollow. I want to cry with her, but she doesn't want to cry now. Right now, my baby wants music.

"Don't I give you music? ...and your sisters?"

"Yes, Mama, but it's not loud enough. Daddy's music was louder. Will he ever come home from Heaven?"

Pull your heart back together.
                                             Find your strength.
                                                                           Your child needs you.

"No, Baby, but he misses you. I know the Church says Heaven is always happy, but sometimes the people in Heaven get sad."

"That's not what Father Joe said," note to self: kick Father's ass on Sunday.

"Well, he's wrong," as I talk I feel her start to unwind, "I know because of the rain."

"The rain?"

"Yep. Rain means someone in Heaven is crying," as I talk, I wonder, Why can't this be true? "Sometimes they're happy tears --"

She looks at me and smiles, rolling her eyes, "Like you do sometimes when you watch those boring movies?"

I laugh, "Yes, like that. Some rain is like that, but sometime, like when a Daddy misses his ladies, the tears are sad."

"I hope Daddy's not sad a lot of the time."

"I know and I know he's hoping that you're not sad, too," we both sit quietly for a moment, then, "So... Should we get up now?"

"Not yet..."

"OK."

The room stays quiet. I'm filling with the warmth of hope for our family. I could lay here all day, maybe she could too, but then

I 

hear

the 

music.

"Mama?" she whispers, "Do you hear it?"

"I can't believe it... I do."

"Mama," she leaps out of bed crossing to her window,  "I think Daddy is crying happy tears this time."


 
This post was written in response to a Red Writing Hood Prompt about music from the Write On Edge blog. Here's this week's prompt:

Show us in 400 words or less how your character reacts to a piece of music. It can advance a story line or provide a character sketch–or both! 

The Unexpected Guest

This post was written in response to this week's Red Writing Hood prompt on the Write on Edge. It is as follows:

“The cure for anything is salt water….sweat, tears or the sea.”
~ Isak Dinesen, pseudonym of Baroness Karen von Blixen-Finecke

For your Creative Non-Fiction tell us about the last time that one of these three things “cured” you. If you are going with Fiction, have your character resolve a problem using one of the three (or all three!!!). 

I went for fiction. I hope you enjoy it.
 
"Mommy, I did bad."

I braced myself for the confession of some silent, disastrous mess made while I ignorantly stole some reading time for myself. As her eyes met mine I saw a sadness there that sent an ice pick through my heart,"Come sit, Honey, what is it?"

"...memember the beach today?" she's so serious.

I nod.

"A-and memember you said I was so lucky acause I saw the star?"

"Of course! That starfish was beautiful," I didn't know how this made her unhappy. I tried to change the mood, "Remember its colors? What colors did you see?" she's a fan of color recall, this should've scored a smile.

Wrong. It brought tears, "I think it's ick. I think I hurt it."
"What do you mean it's sick? I'm sure the starfish is fine," why was she still thinking about this?

The little hand that had been in her pocket the entire time, emerged in a tiny fist. She opened it, and sniffling, asked, "Mommy, no more colors? I made them go away?"

It was her starfish. Not on the beach where I last saw it, but in her gentle hand with a piece of pink lint hanging on one of its legs. Somehow, I know this is my fault.

"Oh Baby, it needs the sea, that's all. We'll have to bring it home."

"Then I won't be lucky?"

Mea culpa.

In the kitchen I mixed water with salt in a glass, "This is Starfish's sleeping bag for the sleepover you guys are having tonight, but tomorrow, we have to bring him back home, OK?"

"We're having a sleepover?" She smiled as she looked through the glass and my heart melted as she whispered, "I am lucky."

My Title and Tagline

The following is my response to the Write On Edge RemembeRED writing prompt of the week:

We’re doing something short and sweet for this week’s RemembeRED post.
Imagine your life, or a part of your life, as a title and tagline.
That’s it. Give us the title, and give us the tagline.

 



Hindsight is 20/20 Even If I'm Not
by Nicole D. Rivera
 

One woman's look back at her beautiful, imperfect life filled with love, loss, family, teaching  and two broken eyes.

Lost After Launching

I was in my classroom at my desk. We could have been eating lunch, in class, or just returning from recess, I don't remember. The fifth grade teacher was in the hallway crying. This woman who was part of my future, more "grown up," world was crying. She spoke to another teacher and I saw her eyes were red, too. Suddenly, as my teacher joined the hushed conversation, there seemed to be an epidemic of sorts - the adults in the small building were all distraught, whispering to each other in the protective world of the school's hallway while we, the children, the fragile, the ones who cried daily, sat speechless and wondering.

Teachers aren't supposed to cry. That's what I believed when I was nine years old.

My mind swirled not about why they were crying, but first about how. I thought about what it meant that in these short minutes that passed that we were the strong ones. I thought about what power could have swept them all away from us so uniformly - the lay teachers, the nuns, the parent volunteers - all those we were taught to run to in an emergency looked as though they needed someone to run to now. Who is left?

My teacher wiped her eyes, but her Irish decent betrayed her. She was red, her eyes puffy and her make-up was a mess. I didn't want her to tell us. I didn't want to be another casualty of this conversation. I steadied myself, told myself I wouldn't cry, told myself I'd be strong, and I told myself I didn't even have to care if I didn't want to.

"Ladies and gentlemen, there was a terrible accident. We all need to pray for the families of all of the astronauts on the Challenger..." The rest is a blur, until I reached home and saw that my father, another teacher was crying as well, along with my mother.

I didn't cry that day. I prayed. A lot. Not just for the families of the astronauts, but for the astronauts as well. I prayed for a miracle. I prayed for what was supposed to be. I prayed to understand.

On January 28, 1986, my teachers cried, a dream died and a hero of mine was lost 73 seconds into her great adventure. It was the first time I learned that not everything in this world makes sense. It was the first time I realized that even being an adult didn't mean that it would.

I didn't cry that day, but I've cried so many times about it since. Even today when seeing a picture of a perfectly successful launch I still can think of nothing else besides Christa McAuliffe, the woman I wanted to be.

Write on Edge had a Surprise Prompt today and I just happened to stumble over it. Here are the details: 
Take a look at the photo below and write. Don’t think too hard, just write what comes. Fiction or non-fiction. Don’t spend too long. Have fun!

Where Are My Feety Pajamas?

The following was written in response to this week's Red Writing Hood writing prompt from the Write on Edge blog. Here's the prompt from this week:

We’d like you to craft a piece of fiction or creative non-fiction around the holiday season... The piece should begin with “The doorbell rang” and end with “snow began to fall.”The middle is up to you, and the entire thing should be under 300 words.

That which follows is creative nonfiction. It is an amalgam of holiday/family gatherings from the last couple of years. 
 

The doorbell rang, or tried to. It's been on the "fix-list" for months, it makes a fractured buzz that only the dogs and I can identify as "doorbell." I run to the door hoping to get it open before my brother clutches the doorknob.

I don't make it.

"What the hell?" I hear his frustration before I see his crimson face. I don't want to laugh, but it's all I can do to keep my sanity in this house that is crumbling under my watch.

"Forgot to tell you," I say as he hands me the doorknob in a huff, "Doorknob's broken."

"I don't even want to talk about it," he says. No, the house is not perfect yet... , I think, wondering what other open sores he'll find in our childhood home.

I turn to the cooking, hoping everyone will enjoy the fabulous feast I'm preparing.

We laugh, eat and I notice the table is getting more crowded every year, even though I still feel the emptiness. We watch movies, play games and do all the things we used to do in the basement while the "grown ups" played poker and drank cordials upstairs.

At some point, after dessert, after too much wine, someone says, "I guess we're the grown ups now, huh?"

"Do you think they were as clueless as we are?" I ask.

"I can't think of any reason why they wouldn't be," my cousin says.

My brother adds, "Our parents were older."

"Sorry, dude, we're old," I remind him.

We fall silent. I'm about to submit to the weightiness of my reaffirmed adulthood status when I glance out the window and burst into a good old fashioned Snoopy dance.

My husband points out what I saw:

 snow 

began 

to 

fall.

Do You Run?

The following was written in response to this week's Red Writing Hood writing prompt from the Write on Edge blog. It is also inspired by one of the characters in what I THINK is going to be the novel I am working on for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month aka NOVEMBER). Here's the prompt:

Some people consider themselves athletes. Others do not.  Write a piece of fiction or creative non-fiction in which athleticism features prominently... Let’s try 400 words or less, please.

Have you ever run before? I mean, I hope as a kid you did, I think as kids we all ran all over the place for no reason, but I mean now... now that we're old enough that we have to have a reason? Have you run since then?

I hope so.

As far as I'm concerned it's just about the only place I feel truly free. I feel the wind on my face, the ground beneath my feet and I hear... nothing. I'm not saying that I go deaf or anything crazy like that, I just mean that the sounds don't really count, they don't sink in. There are no distractions.

That's why I joined track. It was a no-brainer for me, really. I'm a runner. I'll join track. Duh.

But not everyone's there for the same reason. Some are all about scholarship money, some are doing whatever their parents tell them to do, and others are on the team because it's what's hot right now. (We've kind of been kicking ass for the last couple of years, if you didn't already know!) There's one other kid on the team who I would consider a runner, like me, but we never talk.

I think I know him pretty well without even talking . He's quiet, but he's got a lot to say. He's not "cool," but that stuff doesn't matter to him. He looks like he's always relaxing, but he's not lazy.

I know these things because he's a runner. He runs, so he thinks. Since he is a serious runner (I've seen him running before school even on days we have practice!) he is confident. A lazy person doesn't run like him.

I didn't mean to write so much about him, but I just get mad that he doesn't get the respect he deserves on the team. I get mad that some of the kids think they're better than him. I hate the judgement...

Anyway, the point is running, as in running for real, is not easy, but it is AWESOME. I hope you run. If you need a reason (which I guess we do now that we're teenagers), let it be that running can make you happy. Don't do it for your parents, for a scholarship, or just because I said so - remember running, remember the fun of it. It's still that awesome!

Got to go run! :)

~B

Arachno-PHONE-nia

This post was written in response to this week's Red Writing Hood writing prompt from Write on Edge. Here is the prompt:
For this week’s Red Writing Hood prompt, we’re inviting you to truly scare us.
Here’s what you’ll need to do:
Compose a post in the form of a text–160 characters.
Your text must elicit or express fear.


Not sure how anyone else would respond to this text, but if I woke up to it I'm not sure I'd be able to move!

Go ahead... laugh at me. Everyone does.

Here's a link to a story about one of my REAL-LIFE 

encounters of the spidery kind: BLACK WIDOW!

Classroom Connections

"Hey Miss, I didn't know you wanted to write," this echoes in my head in the voices of a thousand students in my memory.

Why would they?

Why would anyone?

For over a decade there were no clues, no signs, no thoughts cast in the direction of my writing. I was creative, I couldn't help myself there, but the journals lay dormant and the "Writing" files on my floppy discs and hard drives stayed closed. I had stopped writing.

Over the last year I have truly wondered why this was the case. Now that I have released my words and allowed them to walk the world again, they (and I) keep asking, "Why were we stifled for so long?"

I imagined it was the teaching, but felt, in the depths of my soul that must've been some sorry excuse to cover up something else I could not fully comprehend. Last night, while reading Stephen King's On Writing for the Write on Edge book club, Read on Edge, I found my answer. It seems that one of my greatest writing heroes had exactly the same problem as I did. In his own words,

...for the first time in my life, writing was hard. The problem was the teaching. I liked my coworkers and loved the kids -- even the Beavis and Butt-Head types in Living with English could be interesting -- but by most Friday afternoons I felt as if I'd spent the week with jumper cables clamped to my brain. If I ever came close to despairing about my future as a writer, it was then. [Stephen King, On Writing, page 73]

The one distinct difference between Mr. King and myself is that I did not despair about my future as a writer, I simply gave it up. I chose teaching - heart, body and soul.

No regrets there.

Never a one.

However, life has taken me down a very strange path in recent years and teaching is off the table. Leave this girl alone long enough and her words will surely surface. I've decided there's no use in denying it, just like there's no use in trying to hide my cowlicks. I roll with it instead -- spiky haircut is back and, while I have to acclimate myself to these waters I abandoned so long ago, I'm writing again.

I don't know what will come of it, but I promised Stephen King as I continued to read his book today that I would "not come lightly to the blank page."

I'm here, Mr. King, and I hope you are enjoying your Friday afternoons however they find you these days because, whether you intended to or not, you're still teaching me.

10 Tweetable Tales

This post was written in response to a Red Writing Hood writing prompt from Write On Edge.


This week's prompt is as follows:
This week’s assignment will require the fewest number of words ever: we want you to write a story – your choice of topic – as a tweet.
That’s right. One hundred and forty characters. Not words. Characters.

Below are my attempts to tell a tale in 140 characters or less (not including their titles, of course).


 
1. NIGHTMARE
She woke up sweating, shaken by the previous night’s dream.
What’s that feeling on her face?
Lights on - She screams -The spider flees.

2. THE WAIT
Two days I stare at a silent device.
Was it my laugh? Was it me?
We kissed, you smiled, the stars aligned.
Or maybe not, maybe -
IT’S YOU!

3. FRIGHTENED
Hello?
Is anyone there? I think the power’s out. My flashlight’s broken. My son doesn’t live around here. I don’t know what to do.
Hello?

4. AT THE VERY LEAST
“He ain’t here!” slamming the door, thinking that, at least, he’d shared his new address. But “the least” was always too much for her ex.

 5. THE PREQUEL
A boy, a fire dragon, and her egg - these are the ingredients for building a Leagacy. Flet clutched Sheleia’s egg awaiting the true battle.

6. HOW MUCH DOES THIS COST?
A bucket in one hand, an icy cold jug in another. I struggle through the aisle peeling my shoes from the sticky floor with each step.

7. CLASSY
College; Whatever 101:
“Blah, blah.”
I write it down.
“Psst, you got a pen?”
Sure.
“You got the notes?”
Yep.
“What’s your name?”
Interesting...

8. OUR SIXTH SENSE
Her eyes are wide. Her tongue dangles. The drool pools beneath her.
My head aches. My vision blurs.
The sky turns gray, the storm is coming.

9.  T.W.E.E.T.
Tell it
Without description
Emotion or
Expression
Through abbreviation, emoticons and links.

10. THE LAST OUT
Crack!
“I got it!” The words clear his stage.
He moves to the left, then to the right with the glove positioned over his head.
*Smack*
Cheers!

So that's it. Which one is your favorite?

My Melancholy Monet Memory

This post was written in response to a writing prompt for  RemembeRED from Write On Edge. In an apparent attempt to make us all need some major happy pills after writing this week, this is this week's prompt: 

We all have them.

Memories that we wish we could forget…things that we wish we could banish from our minds.

Imagine that writing down your worst memory will free you of it.

What is it?

Why does it haunt you?

What could you have done differently?

Write it down and let it go.

Let’s keep it to 600 words or less.

 


I thought I would be haunted forever. I thought this time would live in my mind more vividly than any other in my 29 years. I thought I would relive it over and over in my mind for the rest of my existence.

I was wrong.

Instead, I was scarred. The outcome, everyone knows, but the details - oh those stubborn old details. My healed and scarred soul allowed only formless, broad coverings of the worst attack it has ever seen. Only a few power images force their way through to build this impressionist view of the most life-altering event of my life.

Sometimes, though, that scar itches.

**

The first day, a Thursday, the skies turned black and opened whole, ready to swallow me. They threw water at me. They shouted with thunder. They blinded with lightning. They left me behind saturated and beaten to battle with their elements as I gave the only give left giving... bring her home.
I was her rock. For the love of all things heaven and Earth, I promise you, this is what she said to me the day before. “You have always been my rock. You have to bring me home.”

**

“Help me,” she said weakly, but her frail frame, her eyes and soul screamed  it. We were alone in the hallway, in the middle of the night . She tried to go to the bathroom by herself. A reminder that she, too was eroding on this trip.

“I will.” This night, I believe my words. I believe in my power. The rock has only begun to be battered by the winds of defeat.

**

Hospice arrived with the chisel of reality. I feel the debris fall to my feet and wonder how long the rock will last. I make a phone call before it is too late. I call the Pastor and tell him, “You must do what needs to be done.”

**

I check on her incessantly. I bring her ice. I bring her morphine. I touch her hair, her arm, hold her hand and rest my head on her shoulder, remembering a time, pre-rock, when that is where I belonged. That is my spot.

**

I cried in the shower. There wasn’t enough water to wash away the tears. I would emerge a clean, water-beaten rock. A little more eroded, but shiny all the same.

**

“Help me,” I would hear her whisper, now lips cracked from lack of fluids, as the evil inside her stole everything we gave.

“I’m trying.” A new response as the evil inside also stole my confidence, my power, my hope. I began to understand that no matter the size of this rock, the erosion will win.

**

“Help me,” no longer words spoken, but now just mouthed and I’m the only one lip reading. Tears hot in my eyes that I hope her yellowing eyes can’t see, my mind screams back, “I can’t!”

**

And then a self-inflicted avalanche, “It can’t be much longer, can it?” Guilty to want to keep her. Filled with an unnameable darkness within realizing granting her reprieve meant wishing her death.

**

It took ten days for my mother to die after I brought her home. She was widowed with two children at the age of forty. For 29 years she never let me go hungry, cold, or want for a damn thing. She was my rock. While I know, if she were here, she would tell me that I did everything I could have, all I know is that my worst memory will always be being helpless when it really mattered.

The Road Home

This post was written in response to a Red Writing Hood writing prompt from Write On Edge (the new and super-improved site from the ladies of The Red Dress Club).

This week's prompt is as follows:

Your assignment: You must begin your story with the words “We had to leave immediately” and end it with “And then we realized we were already home.”

The middle part is up to you.
 
 Here's my beginning, middle and end.


The Road Home

We had to leave immediately. There was no time to contact you. I am sorry you had to find out this way, but it was really the only way we could guarantee our safety and keep the secret. The phone numbers, e-mail addresses and Twitter handles we have all been using are all gone. To state it bluntly, this piece of paper is the last communication we shall ever share.

With that said, let me tell you what you need to know:
Your house is the blue house on the road we have already discussed. There is no number on the front and I suggest you keep it that way. There are three bedrooms and each contains a suitable wardrobe for at least the next month or so. I won’t write about the cash here and hope that you remember all that we discussed before. The car in the garage is registered and insured under your husband’s new name.

The attic is  the KEY, remember? Girl, I hope you do, because there is no way I am leaving that kind of information in a printed letter. Here’s what I can tell you: your day is Tuesday. Be there at 16:34. If you miss your time it’s over, for all of you. This is non-negotiable.

Your assignment will begin this Tuesday.

For Now, For Then and Forever,
K

“Was that it?”

“Oh yeah. That was definitely IT. No one is coming for us. This letter is the end. We have to go.”

“A letter. On a god-damn tree? How did you even know to stop here?”

“The GPS. This marker popped up about two hours ago. I knew it was them. I hate this. Don’t make me think about it; just grab the kids.”

I hated it too. What I don’t think she realized is that I hated it more than she ever could have fathomed. We were in the woods, hiking for three days since we got off at the designated station and now the sun was setting again. Tomorrow was Tuesday. If we didn’t get to that blue house soon we would all be killed and I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that these people would kill my children first.

As I approached my wife, now with the kids in tow, one little hand tugged my arm, “Daddy, can we live there?” We followed her pointed finger to a point about 100 yards in front of the tree where we found the letter. There was a house.

In a broken voice, my wife asked, “Sweetie, would you like that?”

This time, as we struggled to see in the dusk that the house was indeed blue, two delighted children’s voices, “Yesss!!”

And then we realized we were already home.