Theme Week #14 - Rewrite

Tick, tick, tick...  The clock is ticking on the wall, softly, quietly, steadily - but there are things to do.  Rush, quickly, scurry - carpool, make dinner, wash the dishes - lots of things to do before the clock ticks again.  Make a list, jot it down, don't forget - homework, grocery shopping, mail the bills - all of them need to be done today.  Far down the list, too far down, way at the bottom - get a haircut, give a hug, snuggle with a movie - important things seem so small in the hustle and bustle.  The clock keeps ticking but it won't tick forever, make time for the important things.  Pick a day, any day, and work from the bottom up.

Theme Week #15

Choice #4 Week 15.Write about yourself as a writer--hopes and dreams, strengths and weaknesses, ambitions and failures; reactions to the semester, what changed for better or worse in your writing; course experiences, problems, positives.

The first time I sat at my keyboard squaring off to face the first assignment for this course I had some trepidation.  I knew that I was competent at writing research papers, analytical papers, even short essays if I really focused myself, but I was unsure at my ability to write engaging creative pieces that were based on myself and my life.  Many, many times I have sat and discussed things in my life ending the story with "If I wrote a book, no one would believe it true!" because as we all know, fact is stranger than fiction in most cases.  It is one thing to sit and tell a story to someone, catching their eye or smirking to emphasize the sarcasm - but to write it down in black and white I had lost those basic tools of communication.  Practicing, learning, and yes even being pushed outside my comfort zone, has made me feel more capable and empowered me to write more confidently and creatively than I was able to before. 

In the back of my mind I have always thought that I would like to write a big story.  I always seem to daydream a bit while I am driving into town and those moments I think that I really should write them down sometime.  My issue with writing a big story is direction - I don't have a starting point.  I read big books, short books, different series of books, over and over and think that I could do that.  BUT then I think, those people had an idea, they had a starting point that they were solid on before they built this character world around it, and I just don't have that starting point.  One of the great things about this course is that it gave me that starting point, those prompts to kickstart my brain in some sort of direction.  There have also been times that I managed to kickstart my creativity all by myself, and jotted down some short stories in my new writing journal. 

There are a few in there by now, different places, people, and ideas - little pieces of what could potentially become their own little worlds, but still far from that point.  I add to a bit here and there to those stories, I may be mulling one of them over in my mind while I am folding laundry or doing dishes and stop to add another little fragment.  I think of them like puzzles.  I have three or four going, and every once in a while I will add a piece or two to one of them.  Perhaps eventually I will have a whole puzzle done, a complete picture where you can see all of the parts and colors.  Until then, I have learned to enjoy working on them, building on them a little at a time for fun, and learned that the goal is not the completed puzzle but the enjoyment and satisfaction that I get from finding those pieces.

On a personal note, John, thank you so much for you patience and encouragement.  There were times when I was, pleasantly, surprised at your reactions to my writing, and your comments and constructive criticism helped me as the writer, to understand more about the reader's perspective.  I look forward to next semester more than I anticipated I would, and who knows, maybe I will have a few more pieces fit in the puzzle.

Theme Week #14 (x2)

#1

There is one flower in the corner of the yard.  It only blooms once in a while, briefly giving over to color instead of the drab green and brown.  It stands tall though, taller than the ones around it, and they seem cluster close together around the sturdy stem.  Their vibrant colors in varying shades only makes to highlight the tall one, a beautiful setting for it to live.

#2

Snaps and pops punctuate the crackling flames.  Mesmerizing to watch, tongues of fire lap the edges of the logs.  The heat radiates out, waves of color and warm, bathing the room before it.  The cat is curled up on the chair, snoozing in the comfort of home.

Theme Week #13

Generally I try very hard to be a kind and considerate person.  It is one of the things that I am kind of funny about.  It drives my husband crazy, and probably my kids too.  I truely believe in the saying my mother uses "What you put out into the universe comes back to you."  I don't know where she got it, or if she made it up, but I have heard it so often I automatically say "Universe-schumiverse" in the back of my mind, like I did as a kid, before I remember that I totally agree with her.  Overall it boils down to being nice to people, everyday, every time you have the chance.  When I was out shopping at ungodly hours of the morning on Black Friday, I was reminded how many people perhaps don't believe in that same tenet.  I could clearly see the look of gratitude and surprise on the face of the woman behind me when I passed her my cart and grabbed another one.  Or the smile I got from the man who had dropped his receipt in the parking lot when I picked it up and ran after him to give it to him.  I remind my kids all of the time, being kind is not a big thing, it's all in the little things.

Week #12 Prompts

59. The door slammed, and I never looked back.
He was drinking again, and it was almost noon. I had to work in an hour and he knew it. A careless attempt to remind him didn't make any difference.

"Don't forget I have leave for work soon, it's just you and the kiddo for a while."

My attempt at nonchalance fails. He shoots a glare to where I am standing with a smirk on his face.

"Ya I know. I can have a couple drinks and still watch my own kid without your help."

It really didn't make me feel better, it just reminded me how ridiculous this all was, almost like rubbing my face in the fact that I hadn't done something before. At least it was a short shift today.

**

The supervisor told me that I had a phone call. Immediate worry popped into my head, what had happened? was the baby sick? I head to the phone and pick it up, my hand was slick with sweat.

"I'm going out. You need to come home and watch him."

"What? I'm working, you know I can't just leave. I'll be home in a couple hours. You can't leave a 2 year old home alone by himself."

"Ya, well, I'm leaving here in 15 minutes whether you are here or not."

**

Racing through traffic I wonder if he was lying or not. It does occur to me how sad it was that I totally believed him. Followed closely, again, with how stupid I must be to begin with to be with him still.

I pull in the driveway and his friend's truck is idling in the yard, he wasnt' kidding I guess - or he just knew me all too well.

I found him in the little kitchen, giving our son a PB&J - he didn't even cut it in half for him

"Two minutes to spare. Cutting it kinda close weren't you?"

So many responses fly thorugh my brain, but I say nothing. I pick up the sandwich, cut it in half, and put it on a plate. I felt the tears well up at the hopelessness of it all, but he hated it when I cried, and it made it worse. I turned to the sink to get a glass of water, turning my back on him.

"One of these times you are going to push me too far, you know. I don't know how long I can keep doing this with you." I can hear him heading to the front door behind me.

"Ya, I doubt it"

The door slammed, and I never looked back.

60. I held you in my arms.
I held you in my arms, and the tears rolled down my cheeks.

You never said you loved me, but I did.

You said it was great to be together, and it was.

But then you said, in your journal lying next to your bed, that our relationship was "inconvient" and it broke my fragile heart.

I asked you about it, but you weren't even mad I had read it.

You just said you were sorry.

It didn't make the hurt go away, it made it deeper, more permanent.

You said it wasn't my fault, but I knew it was, somehow.

You drove me home and asked if you could have a hug, and I knew that it was goodbye.

I held you in my arms, for one last time, with tears rolling down my cheeks.

58. I met the most amazing person last week.
I met the most amazing person last week. He came through the doorway and I caught sight of him as he entered the room. He was a young guy, tall and handsome, with freckles sprinkled across his cheeks, broad shoulders and a narrow waist. He walked like someone that was comfortable in his own skin, just being who he was, you can tell. He wasn't wearing the baggy pants or noxious screen print shirts you see so often on people old enough to know better. He was whistling as he went, but it wasn't a tune I could place. Who whisltes now-a-days? Everyone has iPod's or some other gadget to fill their brain with noise. This was a guy who thought his own thoughts, one who made his own way in the world, followed his own path - definately the kind of guy you could take home to meet your parents. He met my eye and I smiled at him, with a hint of invitation in my own eye. "Come talk to me" it said. He cocked his head and returned the smile. As he walked toward me, I could smell his cologne, it was a warm kind of smell that made me think of chocolate.

"Hey, mom. Whatcha doin?"

Theme Week #12

It was a hot, sultry night.  A perfect night.  We had had a few drinks earlier in the evening, alcohol was buzzing pleasantly through my brain.  As I showered, my thoughts skipped ahead to the club we were going to.  The thumping bass reached down to my very bones, and when I closed my eyes I could almost see the flashing lights keeping time to the patter of water against my sensitive skin under the shower spray.  Hot wet skin, shining with sweat from dancing, moving.  Hands ran themselves down my side, following the curves, spreading soft lather, filling the shower with the scent of lavender, vanilla, and something warm and sexy.  Hands resting on my hips swaying to the music, the fabric of my skirt rubbing against the movement, inching slightly higher then lower again.  I can feel the roughness of the hands against my body, fingers trailing, outlining my body with whisper-light touches.  Hands running up my neck and into my hair, freeing the last of the shampoo to run down my back.  Turning off the water, the droplets slashing at my feet pick up the tempo again, fast then slower and slower.  Warmness envelops me as I wrap the towel around me, holding me tight, my chest heaving with each breath.  I open my eyes, it's time to get dressed for the night.

Week #10 Prompts

44. You write a story which ends with the words, "...and then I woke up and it was only a dream." And then you wake up.
I suddenly sit up in bed. My heart is pounding, tears still wet on my cheeks, I look around. Am I still dreaming? I hear the beeping of the alarm clock, but I don't trust it. I listen to the house creak as the furnace comes on, and the wind blowing the leaves in the backyard - still not convinced. The dream was too real, and I woke up before, only I didn't really.

I used to call them "terror-mares" these dreams I would have. I didn't have them often but when I did I remembered every detail for a long, long time. Deceptively normal, the dream starts out with boring everyday things, grocery shopping with my daughter this time. Nothing outlandish like winning the lottery or being a movie star.

We were driving home from the store, she and I chatting away about the skeleton system, it was what they were studying in science last week. There was no dramatic music or feelings of anxiety to warn of the shift in the dream. She starts singing along with the radio, and I muse about singing lessons for her as I round the bend in the road. We crash headfirst into the car in our lane. The singing stops, the music stops, time stops. Crunching, screeching metal, tires, cries.

My eyes are still closed, my heart is pounding, and I can feel the tears seeping from the corners of my eyes. I hate those dreams. I hear an annoying beeping noise, no doubt the alarm clock. Thankful for the interruption of a terrible dream, I open my eyes. I am not in my bed. The hospital curtains sway from people passing by, quiet feet walking quickly from one place to the next. The beeping gets louder. I look over, still expecting my cheap plastic alarm clock, and see the heart moniter keeping time with my heart. This is not a dream.

I must have cried out. Nurses enter the curtained area where I am laying, looks of concern and alarm on their faces. One nurse has glasses, just like my daughter's. I scream her name, and their look of alarm increases. They begin talking in clam quiet tones. Car accident, critical condidtion, broken bones, medication to help you rest dear. I fade away, pulled down to blackness by the medicine in the little syringe they put in my IV. The beeping fades away too, it becomes smaller and smaller...

Then loud, too loud to ignore. I suddenly sit up in bed.

51. Just calm down and begin at the beginning.
"Just calm down and begin at the beginning." The police officer looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to speak.

"The beginning?" The beginning, where is the beginning. Is the beginning when I was 5 and my mother married my new stepfather, and I learned what it was like to feel left out and ignored? Is the beginning when I was a teenager and that same man threw the pot of spaghetti that I had made on the floor because of a careless comment I had made? Or the time that he dumped coffee on my head because I dared to yell back at him that one time? Is that the beginning, when I learned that men acted like that and that it was normal, it was just part of life?

Or was it when I met another man, one who wanted to be with me, but used his hands to make sure I knew that he was in charge? Was that the beginning? Maybe it was tonight. When my man decided that it wasn't ok for me to use the phone and ripped it from the wall, maybe that was it. Or when he followed me to the neighbors house screaming and yelling accusations, curses, and threats.

I looked up at the officer. I suddenly knew where the beginning was. I began telling him the story of tonight. The beginning was right now, the beginning of the end.

49. Doesn't matter where you begin, you'll end up back here.
Stuffy, smothering little town - everyone has their nose in everyone else's business. She was a bright and energetic teenager just biding her time to see this place in her rear-view mirror. Big dreams and a big life awaited her out there, but for now she waits, and waits...

**

Hello big city! So many new things all in one place, who would have guessed it was only a couple hours away from the cow farms. Malls and stores, clubs and restaurants, taxi cabs and city busses that ran all night. Young men that were interesting and exciting. She didn't know that it wasn't safe to walk from the bus stop at midnight until she saw the shocked faces from her new co-workers. She didn't realize people would lie and take advantage until her new car broke down, or that the taxi drivers would take the long way if she didn't watch them carefully. She finally learned that a new and exciting man was just someone she didn't really know, and that they might be lying about things like "love" and "forever."

**

Coming home felt like sinking into a comfortable chair - it was there, waiting for you, when you needed it. When she was scared and hurt, it was soothing and caring and warm. She went for long, carefree walks in the sunshine, hearing the stream gurgle and a dog barking somewhere further down the dirt road. She felt tension and pressure float away into the fluffy clouds. She would smile when thinking about the big city, and shake her head What had she been thinking?

Theme Week #11 - Maybe?

He said, "I want to be with you" but then went out with the boys for a night of drinking.

He finally said, "I love you" but still flirted with the waitress.

The last time he said, "It wasn't my fault" but I stopped listening.

Much later, I went to college and I took a great English class.  I learned more about myself and my life in that class than I would have imagined.  Emphasis was the key.  The teacher looked at me and asked, "Where is the emphasis?"

Well, where was it? 

Was it "I want to be with you" or "I want to be with you"?

What about "I love you" versus "I love you"?

And clearly "It wasn't my fault" over "It wasn't my fault."

It didn't matter all that much anymore, but it makes me pay attention to what I say and do.  I remind myself "Where is the emphasis?"

Week #11 Prompts

53. The things I see as I walk along the street--that's heaven to me. Or is it?
This small town is heaven to me, or is it really?

Heading up the hill to the post office, I take my time. The small bench off to one side of the sidewalk sits quietly in the shade. The paint is peeling on the bench and the flowers planted nearby have died from the heat. The sun is shining but the hill is steep, and the sidewalk is a path of cracks and mismatched pavement waiting for the unwary - to trip them or turn an ankle. Across the street the rumble of the moving truck catches my attention. The wheels carve into the grass from a careless turn of the steering wheel. At the post office I get my collection of junk mail and sale flyers, election notices and campaign promises. Wasteful and useless to clutter my home.

Regular problems, usual crap, no one notices or cares outside of their own little bubble. Is this little town really my own piece of heaven?

Heading out of the post office I notice the poster over the large recycling bin near the door. Thousands of pounds of paper recycled and reused instead of rotting in a land fill last year, I add my donation to the pile. Looking down the street I see the moving van is now parked alongside the street, the new owners of the house talking to the driver about being more careful. The walk down the hill lets the light breeze push the hair out of my eyes to see the cracks in the sidewalk more clearly, easily avoided. Nearing home, my neighbor nods in my direction instead of waving. His hands are full, carrying a tray of bright flowers towards the shaded bench area.

I smile. I am happy here, this little town IS heaven to me.


54. Pick a prompt from http://onemillionfootnotes.blogspot.com/. Tell us what it is and run with it. - "He heard it in the music. "
Teenagers don't make any sense to me. My sixteen year old son is just as much a mystery as he was when he was first born. He has had opportunities that I never dreamed of, and gone on adventures that I could have only wished for him.

"Isn't it great that you are going to Costa Rica? Are you excited?"

"Yeah, I guess."

Or

"You leave for Germany tomorrow, are you nervous going by yourself?"

"Nah, not really. It'll be ok."

But when my son puts on his headphones, and starts up his iPod, his face transforms. Wonder, excitement, tension, and anticipation drift across his face as he stares at the blank wall.

All he was and wanted to be was there, in the music. He heard it all in the music


52. Find an ad, copy it so we know where you're starting, and speculate on the tale behind it--thinking as you write about meanings beyond the obvious.
Scanning down the pages of Uncle Henry's, I look for all the things that I need that I didn't know I needed until I saw them. Here and there I sketch a mental picture of the writer: happy and sad, young and old, starting new adventures or erasing memories of the past.

"Large 30 yr. collection of Pre 1964 silver coins. Mostly quarters and halves BO."

The older man, sitting in his living room glances over at the handmade bookshelves along the far wall. The books of coins, lonely without their former neighbors, standing tall and proud still. The packing boxes stacked along the walls holding only the important and necessary - which was all the new little apartment would hold. "If only.." drifted through his mind. If only she hadn't gotten sick and died, if only they had saved more just in case, if only they hadn't taken out the second mortgage instead of selling the house, if only...

Theme Week #10

The ringing phone pulls me away from the sink.  Wiping my soapy hands on a dish towel, I send out a quick prayer that the school is not calling with a sick child, and answer the phone.

"Hey there." 

It's Sarah.  I wonder what she wants.  She never calls just to say hi, and whatever she wants is usually wrapped up in a strange and convoluted tale of wierdness.  But I play my part and ask how she is doing, and what she has been up to lately.

"Umm..."

Here it comes.  The umm is the signal.  She knows that I know that there is something going on, and she doesn't know how to come straight out with it.  She knows that I will ask.

"So, what's up?  Is something wrong?"  I head to the coffee pot to get another cup.  I know that I will need it.  Stirring in the sugar, I hear her take a deep breath and let out a sigh.  It's all I can do to play this game with her again, and again, and again....

"Well..."

Stage two begins.  Progress of sorts.  Now I get to drag whatever it is out of her, piece by piece.  Why is it that she calls me for something and I am the one that has to play guessing games?  Glancing over at the clock I realize I have half and hour until I have to leave for class, no time for games today.  Frustrated, I head off the tiptoe-ing around and come straight out with it.

"Listen Sarah, I have 15 minutes until I have to walk out the door.  I am really glad to hear from you, but why don't you just tell me whatever you called to tell and ask whatever you wanted to ask?"

"Oh... well I can call you back later."

Damn, I forgot about stage three.  Where she wants to be so considerate and doesn't want to be a bother.  Well I can play that game too.

"Well if you want to, but I didn't know if you were just calling to say hi or if there was something specific you wanted, to talk about I mean.  And you know that once the kids are home it gets too hectic for me to chat on the phone for more than a minute or so."

Hah!  Let's just see what she does with that.

"No, I'll just call you back later, maybe tonight or something.  Or if you don't have class tomorrow, maybe I can just catch you then..."

Calling her bluff, and claiming victory, I agree.  Tonight or tomorrow would probably be better, and I will talk to her then.  Setting down the phone and humming as I walk off to the shower, I figure that I might just have time to stop for a snack before class.

**

Sarah sets down the phone.  She looks at it for a minute then sighs as her eyes drift over to the suitcases sitting by the door.  She can call back later tonight or maybe tomorrow... maybe.  It really depends on where she ends up staying, since it's not going to be here, not anymore, not with him.

I wish I had known...

Week #9 Prompts

week 9 prompt 42
A random list of things about me:

1. I was never, never going to have any kids!
2. I love my kids more each day.
3. I hate liars
4. After all these years, I still haven't figured out whether I like my hair long or short
5. I love cooking
6. I am the most unorganized person
7. I forget to remind my kids to brush their teeth
8. Even though I want to be a nurse, I hate going to the doctors office
9. I have the same address book now that I had in high school
10. I am secretly terrified about getting older
11. My mother is my favorite person in the world
12. I was in the Army for 31 days
13. I once threatened to shoot someone
14. I love fixing things
15. I can still wear the same clothes I did 10 years ago
16. I don't like being a housewife, I stink at it
17. I love being home with my kids
18. I live in the same town I grew up in
19. There are times that I wish I could have another baby
20. I am a closet WOW player (if you don't know, I'm not telling you) and I'm awesome
21. I was afraid of the dark for 3 years after my divorce
22. I only drink about twice a year
23. I know what it's like to love someone who doesn't love you back
24. I always hated my step-father
25. I strive to be a great mom and a friend
26. I love shopping
27. If I start reading a book, I have to sit and read the whole thing as fast as possible
28. I bought my mothers house because I can close my eyes and see her standing in the room
29. I never called my grandfater as much as I should have
30. I love to write, but I am terrible at corresponding

41. You never know what you have until it's gone

I could feel the eyes on me, staring, as I walked off the bus. The long aisle stretching even longer as I walked past all the mixture of preteens and children, stuffed cheek and jowl in the seats. Certainly they had heard, certainly they had seen the commotion in the back seats where the elite high school kids sat. Finally taking the final step off of the bus, I re-adjusted my backpack and started up to the house. The eyes were still on me but I never turned, pretending not to notice. I started up the driveway as the grinding gears and cloud of diesel fumes saw the bus rumbling off down the road. I never even looked over my shoulder until I was sure that it was out of sight. I calmly walked up to the house, as if the eyes were still on me, evaluating. Carefully pushing open the door, I heard the radio blaring in the kitchen accompanied by clanking pans and dishes. Releived of my audience, I collapsed gratefully onto the couch and thought, "I made it" as I burst into tears.

**

My mother saw my tearstained face and her look reopened the floodgates. I knew I was going to have to tell her what happened, how embarassed I was, how surprisingly sad I was. She sat and wrapped her arms around me, not talking, but humming under her breath like she used to when I was little. Between sniffles I caught snatches of the tune of the lullaby that she used to sing to me every night. It made me feel warm and loved, but still not quite ready to look her in the face and talk about it. As I was sitting at the table, staring at the cup of hot chocolate steaming between my hands, I began my story. It was an old story. Young love, happy and carefree turned to bitterness and betrayal - told time and time again by tearful teenagers to sympathetic mothers and friends. She murmured in all of the right places, nodded seriously when appropriate, and sighed when I did. She tactfully refrained from asking why I was so upset when I was the one who had wanted to break it off.

**

Weeks later I saw him, talking and laughing with friends. I pointedly looked away and put a little more bounce in my step, just to prove I wasn't at all paying any attention to anyone besides my own friends beside me. As the two groups neared, it seemed our pace slowed down, time slowed down. With a mask of calm and confidence I lifted my eyes and glanced around the hallway, oh so nonchalant, pointedly not looking at his group. I felt the eyes staring, but turned away from them and looked over at my friend instead as we passed. She was looking past me, toward the other group in the hall but dutifully looked at me when I had turned. The look on her face surprised me, sadness and worry, what had she seen? Throwing caution into the wind I chanced a look over my shoulder. He was there with his friends, his brown hair carefully messy in his cool and confident way. Leaning against the wall of lockers, laughing at some joke or story. But a newcomer had joined them. She was blond and petite and tall, just a few inches shorter than he was. She was there, in my place, holding his hand.

39. I came, I saw, I conquered.

I didn't want to go, but I had to. I suppose that no one wants to go to court, but I REALLY didn't want to go, but I kinda did too. Divorce court is a bit different I guess, I definately wanted to go and get it over with, but I wasn't looking forward to it. Walking into the room, I saw that my soon-to-be-ex was there already. He already had the stupid weepy expression on his face, practicing for the judge i suppose. He looked hopefully past me to see if I had brought our son, like a two year old should be in the middle of this circus in the making. His eyes snapped to my face, just a quick glint of the mean peeked through his mask of pathetic, but I saw it there. As I was walking to my table with the lawyer, my ex watched me.

As I sat in one of the chairs, I met his eyes again.

"Yeah, go ahead and look" I thought to myself. "I came, I'm here, now what are you going to do?"

**

Talk, and more talk, and more talk. My mind was numbed with talk and talk and talk, would he ever shut up? I hope they paid the court reporter by the amount she typed instead of hourly. It's a common saying that the man who represents himself in court has a fool for a client. Well that was turning out to be true. I sat, making occasional notes on the legal pad before me, idly doodling in the margins when his stories got too ridiculous to bother with. Finally the judges' voice boomed, rumbling a question. My ex responded and stepped down from the witness box, finally. The process moved bravely on, witnesses for him and then for me speaking one by one. Telling tales, some long, some short, some straight out of fantasy, but telling them all just the same to the patiently waiting judge. I spoke last, answering the questions from my lawyer fully without becoming too emotional and sticking strictly with what I remembered happening. It was harder than I thought, to keep my story within bounds, not to stray into the land of exaggeration. Certainly the judge saw that every day and could see right through the cunning lies my ex had already told. The judge explained that we would be at recess while he made his decision, and walked out the door off to the side of the room. I looked over at my ex, he was already staring at me. His mask, unnecessary now, discarded allowed me to see the real person beneath.

A day late and a dollar short, I finally had seen what he was really like, the real him. Yeah, it took a while, but I saw, finally, I saw.

**

Why would they call it a recess? Certainly recess brings up images of palygrounds and laughing children, this was not recess. We stood quietly in the large hallway. Heels echoing up and down as people paced and wandered aimlessly. We were called back in a short time later. I worried that it was too short, did it mean that the judge fell for the emotional side show that my ex had put on? We settled quickly and the judge came in. He began talking and explaining, and suddenly slammed the gavel down and left the room. Finally the word sunk in. I had done it. I had won. I looked over at his table, and met his eyes. This time I was the proud and confident one, this time he was unsure and sad.

I walked out of the courtroom, and into the life that was waiting before me, ready to live.

"I told you," mentally chiding him. "I told you it wouldn't work out like you wanted. This time I came, I saw, and I conquered."

Theme Week #9

A cry came from the bathroom.  I rolled over and went back to sleep.  Footsteps on the stairs, someone was knocking on the door.  I lifted my head.  The bathroom light was on, I could see it from crack of the door not completely closed.  Another cry from the small room.  A mumbled question from outside the door.  I hear another sound from the bathroom.

"Michelle are you okay?"

"I think my water broke."

**

We drove too fast.  Jill, the neighbor from upstairs, was nervous about delivering a baby in the car.  The streetlights flashed by like a strobe from the clubs, I really didn't want to see what was happening in the back seat.  Michelle was making noises that scared me and worried Jill even more about the seatcovers.
Finally pulling up to the large ER doors, I could see lots of people wandering around, it looked like a full house.  I hoped they had an express line like at the grocery store.

**
"I'm sorry you will have to wait here."

"If she can't go in with me, then I will have this baby in the lobby"

Michelle wasn't someone to mess with when she was on a mission.  Today's mission?  Deliver a happy, healthy baby, with her best friend, roomate, and labor coach by her side (regardless that her friend was only 18 and looked about 12)  The nurse took another look at my nervous face and turned around to push the wheelchair.  I imagined kicking her in the butt, I hated when people looked down at me because I was young and looked even younger.  Just wait 20 years you ol' witch, I'll still look 20 and you'll look over 100.

**

"Push! Okay, stop, now breathe.  Now push again!"

Crying.  We were all crying. I was crying because I think all of the bones in my hand were broken.  Michelle was crying because her body had just done something that defied all laws and was a miracle at the same time.  The baby was crying - well he was crying because that's what babies do when they are born.  I looked at Michelle just when she looked over at me. 

"What did you decide on for a name?"  I wondered because she had changed her mind a dozen times.

She started laughing, tears still in her eyes, "I have no idea."

Week #8 Prompts

36. A city street--

Horns blare, tires screech - the city is awake even this early in the morning. Lights - green, red, yellow, white, blue - flicker, blink, and glare across the rain slicked streets. Cars rush by, racing to where they need to go. No one is wandering the street, absently thinking of what they want to do today, where they want to go. Everyone is moving with purpose, knowing just where they need to get to and getting there as efficiently as possible.

Sturdy business shoes clomp through the little puddles, high heels skirt the edges, and the rare galoshes ignore them completely. I look down at the puddle by my sneaker-clad feet, there is a leaf floating in it. Small and green, full of life, it floats in the little pool of water. Reminding me of the stream by my old house, where you could sit all day watching the leaves, branches, and flowers floating by. It was quiet there, not like the city with all the hustle and bustle, blinking and crashing, talking and yelling.

Quickly, before the next set of clomping shoes came by, I reached down and picked up the leaf. I put it in my pocket and headed up the street - looking up at the sky wondering if it was going to rain again.

35. Three of them sitting there in complete silence.

No one was talking. United in solidarity, the three of them sat in complete silence. Largest to smallest down the line, they awaited their sentence. They were a sorry group to look at, splattered with mud.

The first looked bored, sporting a long scratch down the side of his face. It just beginning to redden, dotted slightly with blood. His red hair stood up in random spikes on his head, ends colored dark, like a bad dye job. His clothes were mussed, grass stains evident on both knees of his dark wash jeans. The laces of his untied boots were just grey clumps beside his feet, looking like dead worms.

The next suspect sat motionless, as if any move would trigger a reaction, looking carefully to either side waiting for the danger to pass. Mud slowly oozed down his forehead, dangerously close to his eye. He twitched, not sure if it was safe enough to wipe it away, or just suffer the tickling itch as it moved closer and closer. His red tshirt sported a ragged gape which exposed his thin chest and his thrumming heart, erasing the mask of quiet and calm. He was missing a shoe, the remaining sock was grey with the same mud from his forehead. It didn't matter much, it didn't match his other sock anyway.

The smallest of the three fidgeted, as if to worm her way into the background and escape notice. Her look showed indecision, stand brave or give way to tears in some hope for sympathy and lienency. The glasses perched on her nose were smeared with the mud as well, nearly blocking her vision entirely. Her hair, long and blond, had escaped the elastic holding it away from her face. One long section dripped onto her shoulder, making a dark spot on the only clean section of her once-blue shirt. Her hands were red and chapped, mud and dirt beneath her nails could be clearly seen even through the bright polish. Her bare feet left prints on the floor, each contour of her foot outlined neatly in grey against the white tile in front of her.

I took a deep breath. All eyes snapped to mine, wary and expectant. Sentencing time had come.

33. "We are gathered here today to remember....."

No one understood. I watched as the people climbed out of their cars. Women's heels clicked on the pavement, men stood patiently by. Everyone walked in pairs or small groups, one man waited on the edge of the grass. He joined the pair that reached him first, he didn't want to walk up the small hill alone. I stood motionless near the parked cars. It was quiet here, the murmuring of condolences was drowned out by the wind through the trees lining the small road. I wanted to laugh, what a sorry picture this made and what crazy jokes would he have made about this whole production. He would have made me laugh, if he had been here.

Theme Week #8

He called to say he was going to be out of work a little late.  That's okay because she was late to start on dinner.  Escaping from coloring with her son she noticed the clock and realized she had exactly 20 minutes to make the "home cooked" meal she had promised that morning.  They had both agreed that it would be nice to have something that wasn't fresh out of a box with preprinted directions for dinner, and she had forgotten.  Groaning, she got up from the floor, promising her son, before he could start complaining, that he could watch Sesame Street until she came back.  Heading into the kitchen she mentally ran down the list of things that she could make with the defrosted chicken that could be considered "homemade" without a recipe. 

Struck with inspiration, she grabbed a pot, filled it with hot water, and placed it on the stove.  Taking the chicken out, she heard the echos of "Sunny Days" coming from the living room. Humming along she sliced the chicken, put it in a bowl and dumped some marinade on it.  Then she waited, watching the pot, waiting for it to boil.  She dumped the rice in as it began to bubble and got the skillet for the chicken, snagging a bag of veggies from the frezer along the way.  She glanced at the clock, he should be home any minute, but the rice will be at least 15.  Maybe he will hit traffic on the way.  She hated to be rushing around when he got home, when all she wanted to do was relax with him for a few minutes.  She heard the car, the rice was boiling along, the chicken was sizzling in the pan, and the veggies were waiting patiently for their turn.  Damn, so close to being done, just 5 more minutes. 

The cry from the living room distracted her, rushing in, she found no one murdered but that Sesame was over.  Turning back to the kitchen she saw the door open and he walked in.  Looking past him she could see the rice boiling over and the chicken starting to give off smoke.  She smiled at him and started to say how nice it was to see him as she headed toward the stove, but at that same moment he took an ungainly step towards her and kneeled down on one knee - and landed directly on her bare foot.  She screeched and jumped back, rescuing her toe from his workboots and glared down at him.  With a rather sheepish smile on his face, he held up a box to her, "Should I say I'm sorry or ask you to marry me first?"

Theme Week #7

He is all of the cliches - apple of his mommy's eye, a chip off the 'ol block, the spitting image of his dad, a cheerful roly poly kid, poke his tummy and hear him giggle like the Pilsbury doughboy - all of that.  But he is more than that - bigger, broader, deeper.  He is also a Label.  This Label is Autism.  The kind of Label that requires a Capital letter, to put that extra Oomph into it.

He walks into the room cheerful enough, humming to the tune that happens to pop into his head or reciting his inventory of tv commercial jingles and catch-phrases.  Not looking left or right, he goes to the computer.  He looks expectantly at the screen, it's turned off, just a square of black looks back at him - and all hell breaks loose.  Knocking over the chair, flopping on the floor, flailing his legs wildly - it's Autism.

Happily chattering away, he pushes the grocery cart down the aisles, steered descretely by Mom holding onto the edge of the handle.  Stopping now and then as he sees items that he remembers from the kitchen at home, he grabs a box and carelessly chucks it into the cart, regardless of the fragile eggs or bananas inside.  At the next stop Mom takes the box back out and places it on the nearest shelf - sorry Mr. Stockboy, it's Autism.

At the doctor's office there are great new toys to look at.  He doesn't play with them because the other kids in the office are over there playing with them, and he doesn't like to play with other kids.  He sits and bounces in his seat in the waiting room by his patient little sister.  She is reading him a book, he is not interested or paying any attention, but she is determined to keep him "occ-ah-pied" while they wait.  Mom reminds him that after they see the doctor they will stop for a juice at the store - doctor's first, then juice at the store.  He repeats it like a mantra, "doctor's First! then Juice! at the Store!"  The nurse comes out of the special door just for nurses, and calls out a name.  Not his name - not his turn - not happy.  He yells his disappointment, screams really, and recites (for everyone who wasn't paying attention) "Doctor's FIRST! Then JUICE! At The STORE!"  His sister looks at the startled faces of the other kids who stopped playing, and tells them "It's ok, he has Aud-a-tis-um."

Week #7 Prompts

30. Take a look at a photo of a person. What do you see?

As I sat flipping through old pictures, I wondered again if I could possibly get all of them organized. A small pile of photo boxes and new albums stood ready by my side should I attempt the impossible. Today I would settle for getting rid of this beaten up shoebox and putting the photos in something sturdier. I saw one last picture, way in the back, stuck in the seam of the box, perhaps trying to hide from me.

I pulled it out carefully so as not to tear the edge or bend the picture. Flipping it over, I saw three faces smiling up at me. I wasn't fooled by the two bland smiles in the background anymore.

The little face in the front with the smile framing two brand new teeth was innocent enough. Drool was just beginning to form at the corner of the upturned mouth. Sparkling blue eyes twinkled as the photographer danced and sang to get his attention. Small children have that gift, they don't have to like what they are looking at to make it look like they do. They are so entranced by anything new that it is wonderous to them. Certainly this face radiated life and promise enough to overshadow the faces behind it.

The other faces, his and hers, both wearing masks with a smile painted on, hovered above the smaller one. They were good masks, but time had made them transparent. The dark wavy hair of his head no longer seemed handsome and carefree - it was pretentious and calculated. The lock hanging over his eyes didn't lend that air of innocence it used to, now it was menacing. The shadow over his eyes almost made it possible to overlook the measuring glare that beamed from them.

Her mask was in place as well, but just as transparent as his. The brassy blond hair tried to look expensive and elegant, but it was just overcolored and overworked, not flattering to her too pale complection. The glint of her earrings didn't make her sparkle, but made her seem even more bland and drained. The wide eyes looked out to pay attention to everything that was going on, to everything that she was supposed to be doing or not doing. There was no smile in those eyes, just a timidness that makes you wonder what she was worried about. The too-red smile was too tense, stretched across her face in response to request, not any actual feeling.

The masks didn't come close to the cheerful caption of "Happy Holidays" across the bottom of the photo. There was no 'Happy' here, it was not a 'Holiday' by any means.

Holding the photo, I looked at the neat stack of pictures destined for the new photo box, where they would be safe and secure. Looking at it one more time, I reached out for the shoebox and carefully, so as not to tear the edge or bend the picture, I put it back where it was before - in the back, stuck in the crease of the worn out shoebox. I slowly placed the lid back on top, leaving the lying masks in the dark.

31. Who's the first person you remember?

I have a picture in my mind of a small girl, bouncing down the sidewalk. Her small hand reached up and was swallowed up by a much larger one. Looking up, and up, and up.. she smiled at her granfather's face.

That was me, me and my grampa. I can close my eyes and see a picture of that day, that moment - even though no such picture exists. His face is the first real memory that I can actually sit and remember. I can see the crinkles around his eyes as he smiled down at me. I can feel the leathery skin of his hand surrounding mine, the origin of my thought that warm's color was brown, like his hands. And his strong arms that stretched up and up and up, almost longer than I was tall at the time. He was the opposite to my ivory skin and smooth face - but I wanted to grow up to be just like him.

I'm still short, and I can't get a tan to save my life. But I can close my eyes, and deep down inside, I am still reaching up, holding his hand, wishing to grow up just like him.

34. Check out Carolyn See Locator of Lost Persons --those short, very evocative, mysterious, and poetic grafs. Try a few of those!  

(I kinda felt like doing something a little different, so thought I might give this a try - no promises!)

Michelle Peters
I wonder where you ended up? How two girls with nothing in common managed to be friends is one of life's mysteries. I thought of you the other day as I sighed - again - about my dead straight hair, and the fights we had about how I thought your unruly curls were much more preferrable. Did you ever really shave your head one frustrated morning?

Kathy Wysocki
Do you know the impression that you made on those young girls? Do you remember the tactful discussions about appropriate wardrobe choices for interviews? Do you remember the girl that wore the strech-pant leggings and t-shirt anyway, and still got the job? You said I was lucky they saw what I was made of on the inside. I remember that everyday, it has gotten me through a lot.

Edwin Hahn III
I kept a teddy bear to remind me of you for years after our friendship faded away. Time and circumstances would have made things turn out very different between the two of us, I think. I'll never forget that waterfall we all hiked to, did you ever go back to find your hat?

Week #6 Prompts

27. The safest place in the world....

It was a bad day. It was actually one of those days that my mom and I would talk about call a "terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day" (one of my favorite children's books by Judith Viorst). But luckily, I was heading home and I knew that my day would be getting better. When I walked in the house, the stress headache pounding to the rhythm of my steps the kids all yelled "Mom's home." It was nice to get such a great reception by my headache kicked up another notch on the pain scale. I knew exactly what I needed to make this day go away. I headed into the kitchen. Hubby was standing by the stove nervously prodding the contents of the pan. I knew that he hated to cook something outside of the realm of boxes with directions printed on them, but he was gamely giving it a shot. He glanced at me as I walked in the room. The look on my face told the tale of my day, and I suppose that he knew what I was looking for, since he turned down the heat on the stove and walked toward me, arms open wide for me to step into.

The world ceased to exist once his arms closed around me. I felt their warmth through my jacket, soaking into my stress-knotted muscles of my back and shoulders. I leaned my cheek against his t-shirt covered chest, a warm cotton wall in front of my face. The only noise reaching my ears was the steady thump of his heart, a metronome to steady my own racing pulse. Standing here, in his arms, burying my head, there were no phones ringing, no crazy or reckless drivers to avoid, no arguements, bills, kids, worries, cares... just me and him. This was my favorite place, the place where it was just he and I, where the world could not touch us. Where the rhythm of our heartbeats were the only sound.

26. You haven't been there since you were little. Now you go back....

The tall grass swished against my legs as I walked. Past the barn and down the fenceline I went, to the swimming hole where I spent most of my childhood summer days. The trees leaned to the side right where I remembered and I slipped past the gnarled trunks as I had so many times long ago.

The edge of the stream was lined with smooth rocks still, the sun changing them from brown and black to bronze and gold. The water was still cool and dark though. A startled gasp escaped my lips as I dove in, cutting beneath the surface and popping up near the big old tree. The tree was smaller too, I could almost reach the branches that hung over the water. The branches that shaded the beach from the afternoon heat. Wasn't the beach bigger then? There was the depression in the rocks where we built our campfires, once we were old enough to convince our parents that we could stay out after dark. Maybe that was why I still loved grilled hotdogs, and yet couldn't stand the sight of a boiled one. It's amazing that we didn't give ourselves food poisoning, since anything we could stab with a stick was fair game for campfire dinner.

Jutting out into the stream, just as I remembered, was the long flat rock where we would lay after swimming. How many times has I sat there feeling the sun-warmed granite beneath me? It wasn't quite a big as it used to be, certainly not big enough for me to stretch out completely upon it. Looking upstream and downstream the familiar boughs of much larger trees arched over the stream like a curtain of green. The stream might not even exist past those boundaries, but it was still here, in the same place where I stumbled upon it so many years ago.

It was the one place where I had gone from my childhood that was exactly the same. This was a small bubble of my past, where nothing was new, shiny, or touched in any way by the dirty fingers of progress and modernization.

29. When you finally arrived, it was nothing like you imagined....

I didn't want to go to Germany. I didn't want to go because my ex-husband lived there. I didn't want to go because I was taking my oldest son with me to see my ex-husband, his biological father. I didn't want to go because I had not seen or heard from my ex in over 10 years until recently, and that was just fine with me. I didn't want to go because it was a million miles away from my family, my kids, my home. I didn't want to go because it was his home, his place, his territory.

I had heard all about how great it was, how old the buildings were. I had heard all about how nice the people were, since tourists were there all the time, and they didn't hate alll Americans on sight, mostly. I heard how great his house was, where we would be staying (what in the world was I thinking??), and much his wife was looking forward to meeting us.

I did some research, looked at books and websites to figure out a little about where I was going to be for a week. I saw pictures, and learned important phrases like "where is the bathroom" and "do you speak English?" I packed carefully for the weather, proposed to be chilly but without much snow, perfect weather for sight-seeing. I brought along every phone number that I could concievably need including the US Consulate, a couple of friends in Europe, and every country code within a hundred miles or so of Germany, just in case.

We landed just in time, just before I had completely decided to turn around and go back home. We collected our luggage and passed through multiple security and customs checkpoints, declaring again and again that we had nothing to declare. Finally escaping the maze of the international terminal of the airport, we walked out into the bleak cloudy day.

As we stepped outside, the sun peaked out from behind the clouds. The sun bounced off of the rough stone buildings, sparkling with ice. The passing train whooshed by, stirring up whirlwinds of dusty snow. The people chattered with a musical lilt as they passed us by. The open shops in the platz offered the aroma of delicious handmade baked goods and freshly ground coffee.

Looking around I spotted my ex standing near a petite blond woman. She stepped forward and offered her hand.

"I am so glad that you came."

This wasn't going to be at all like I thought.

Theme Week #6

As I opened the door, the fresh air enveloped me, welcoming me, pulling me out the door.  As I stepped outside, the concrete was cool and surprisingly pleasant beneath my feet.  Stretched before me was a vista of trees, plants, and wildlife - the porch I was standing on was the sideline to this playing field of squirrels and birds.  The white columns to either side of the small steps down framed the scene as perfectly as any photographer.  I walked quietly over to the end of the porch, navagating as smoothly as I could to avoid spilling my coffee.  I skirted around the dog sculpture sitting near the first chair.  Many a time had I tripped over the oddly shaped arms and legs, sticking out at strange and random angles.  Certainly that must have been its only purpose, since it really only appeared to be an ugly, odd-ball, colored stack of metal straps and pieces - with dog ears and a tail.  I moved valiantly onward, safely past the dog.

My favorite chair was sitting near the end of the porch.  In the morning light, I could see that a couple of leaves had blown onto the weathered cushion.  The fading floral print contrasted nicely with the bright orange and yellow leaves.  The chair itself was an old one.  No doubt a yard sale find, refurbished and repainted to be brought back to life, and perched here on the porch to invite someone, such as myself, to sit and enjoy a morning cup of coffee.  It was some neutral color - tan or beige or perhaps faded white - nothing bright or gaudy like the neighboring dog or the overstuffed cushion.  The wicker had broken loose in a few places and stuck out, ready to grab hold of a sleeve or strand of hair if the oppertunity presented itself.  You could tell that it was well loved regardless, the paint was worn thin on the wide arms to show the darker color of the original wicker beneath.  I brushed the leaves off of the seat, and looked carefully at the spider who was scurrying across the concrete floor near the legs of the chair.  It continued safely past the chair and off the side of the porch into the bushes, not showing any sign of coming back and crawling up my own leg.  The crinkling sound of the cushion and the creak of the wicker adjusting to my weight was lost in the chorus of birdcalls echoing across the yard. 

Sipping my coffee I spied two blue jays chattering to each other, and the world, over their birdfeeder breakfast.  A cardinal swooped in, rousing the jays to fly off to the nearby tree to finish their conversation.  Small brown birds, swallows perhaps, darted here and there through the branches of the trees.  Stopping for a moment at the feeder when the larger birds had flown away, then off to the bird bath for a drink, and then off again to another branch - all the while chirping and singing their own little song.  A brave squirrel raced across the fallen leaves, trying once again, to scurry up the pole to the feeder.  After an unsuccessful attempt or two, it relented and satisfied itself with the fallen seeds along the ground, then scurried back to the trees to chatter back at the birds.  The chorus of nature echoed around me - no cars zooming by, no people talking - just the breeze blowing through the leaves of the tress, creating the background to the small performers on their stage.

Theme Week #5

I woke up on Saturday morning, having enjoyed a little bit of sleeping in, thinking that it was going to be just a normal kind of day.  I got up to go start the life-sustaining coffee in the kitchen and noticed that the house was surprisingly quiet.  Quiet in my house on weekends is like the silence in the horror movies just before the monster jumps out and grabs you - it never means good things.  I went to investigate what was going on, maybe catching that monster before he could catch me.

I wandered through the living room, noting that no one was watching TV or playing on the Wii - usually favorites on Saturday morning while waiting for breakfast.  Strange.  I head upstairs, still searching for the source of the quiet.  As I push open the door to the older boys' room, I hear the TV going and know that I have found at least some of my children.  Looking in I see the three younger kids sitting on the floor in a half circle around the TV.  I hate the idea of a TV in the kids room, but I was a bit in awe of how quietly they were sitting (next to each other even!) and watching it.  As I said good morning, their heads all snapped around to look at me.  Suddenly a barrage of questions, comments, and complaints were aimed in my direction.

"Mooommmm, Branden changed the channel on my show before it was over.  Is it my turn now?"

"Mum!  Miranda won't let me watch my sports updates.  I need to know the score from last night!"

"I want pan-cakies, pleeeeze."  Leave it to Colby to be all about the food.

I turned my head to look over at my oldest son, waiting for his contribution.  He looked at me and rolled back over in bed, pulling the blankets up.  "Can you get them out of here?"

I turned back to the other three with a confused look.  Why were they up here anyway?  I know that Miranda in particular hated watching TV in the Boy Room. 

"Mom, can we get a big flat TV like Mimi and Grampy have for the living room when we go shopping?"

"I want pan-cakes!" 

Pancakes I could do, but wait, shopping?  Are we going shopping?  What was she talking about?  Miranda must have seen the confused look on my face and was kind enough to bail me out.

"Mom, the TV downstairs is broken.  When are we going up town to get a new one?"

I turned and headed downstairs.  As I stood in the living room I glared at the TV - hmph, traitor.  In a last ditch effort to save my Saturday, I pushed the button.  Nothing, well, nothing but a strange buzzing noise.  Not good.  I fiddled with the other buttons on the TV, then the cable box, all in vain - still nothing on the screen. 

I could hear Colby asking again about panckes and a grumbled response from my teenager.  The natives were getting restless up there.  It was time to get moving.

I headed into the kitchen to start the pancake batter and grab a cup of coffee for myself, and Hubby too.  He didn't usually drink coffee, but I figured that he was going to need it. 

Our Saturday plans had just been changed.

Week #5 Prompts

 

17. You’ve lost It! Where is It?

The sun was brighter, the sky was blue-er, and the birds were cheerful-er... well you know what I mean. The first day of our honeymoon looked to be just about perfect. Hubby and I decided that we wanted to go camping at this really great campground that we had been to before. It was by the lake and had boats and things to rent during the day, and at night we could sit by the campfire and play cards by lantern-light. Barring a small incident with a curious racoon in the middle of the night, things were going great, and that day promised to be exactly what we ordered so that we could go out on the lake for the day. It was lots of fun to paddle around the lake, stopping for a while to lay in the sun or swim to cool off. We managed to keep the paddleboat upright the whole time. After taking the boat back in we went up to change to go out to dinner. I heard hubby yelling as I came back from the showers.

"Where is it? Oh my GOD!! Where is it?"

My darling husband, newly wed for almost 48 whole hours, had managed to lose his wedding band. He swore that he didn't take it off, but that it must have fallen off in the cool water of the lake. I smiled at him, it was funny to see him freaking out. He looked at me like I was crazy, not understanding the smile at all. I was smiling first - he was my husband and there was a ring to lose at all, second - because he was so upset, it was a big deal to him that it was gone, third - because he had no idea how long I was going to be able to make him miserable about this, even after we went to the jewelery store for his new one the next day.

22 – A Stranger comes to town

A stranger comes to town. Ya, that's me, I'm the stranger here.

Stepping out of the airport into the 110 degree afternoon heat reassured me of the fact that I was indeed, the one out of place here. Having just spent the last 36 hours transporting myself by car, bus, and plane from Maine to Missouri, my brain was scrambled just about enough to sit and argue this fact.

How could I be a stranger here? I was born here, I grew up and started kindergarden here... Just because I moved away (against my will) in elementary school doesn't mean I am a stranger.

Of course I am a stranger. Wasn't I just getting the wierdest look for asking where I could get a soda instead of asking for a pop? Aren't I the only one for miles that appears to be melting into the pavement? Didn't I just have to describe what I was wearing to my cousin on the phone so she could recognize me to pick me up? I might as well just ask for the nearest lobster pound while I am at it.

I have no sense of humor when I am arguing with myself, so I didn't laugh at that. However, I did call a truce and leave it. There were things to do and places to be since I finally arrived - mainly get to see Grandpa. Grandpa was the reason that I had come out to Kansas City. He was sick, very sick, most likely dying - and I was there to see him before he was gone. Grandpa was my heart and soul, I had loved him dearly ever since I could remember. He was always there, in every memory I had of my early childhood.

My cousin did find me, and we cruised down the interstate towards the hospital. Blissfully the AC had a chance to kick in before we arrived and I was no longer quite melting like a forgotten ice cream cone. Walking down the hallway and into Grandpa's room, I was forcably reminded of the arguement I was having with myself earlier.

Who are these people? Do I know them? Am I in the right room? Or are they?

Of course you know them, you moron. Grandpa is right there in the bed. Do you think people wander hospitals and just walk in and hold hands with people they don't know? Don't you think the nurses pay attention to who goes in and out of the rooms?

I recognized Grandma (Grandpa's second wife) sitting off to the side and I went over to hug her. She was smaller that I remembered, and sad. I didn't hear what she mumbled in my ear, but that was ok. I stepped back and turned around, everyone else was looking at me. I could almost hear the conversations they were having in their heads, "Who is that stranger? Where did she come from? Is she related?" I ignored all of them for the time being (I would apologize later) and walked up to Grandpa's side.

I reached out my hand and laid it on top of his, looking weak and pale even against the white hospital sheets. I looked up into Grandpa's face, into his eyes, and smiled. He smiled back, "Hey stranger, what brings you here?"

20 – The battle begins

"The battle begins!" I whisper under my breath. It's 7:43pm on a cool, crisp Wednesday night. I mentally give myself 2 more minutes of peace before announcing bedtime, since I know what will happen once I do. My two minute reprieve goes all too fast, but I get up from the computer regardless and take a deep breath.

"Ok, guys. It's time!!"

Instantly I hear the whines, grumbles, and stomping that accompanies bedtime every night. Miranda gets to me first.

"But mooooommmmmm..." she begins. "This is a new show and I won't be able to see it again and it's only got a little bit more and I promise I will get up in time for school I'll even get up early and Branden is still watching his show and it's not fair that the boys have a TV in their room and I don't."

I don't know how she has the breath to say that all at once without stopping. It's a good thing that I don't have to bother listening to it all, since it's probably the same thing that she said last night, and the night before, and the night before... Regardless, I put on a smile. She knows that it's not the "ok you can stay up late" smile, it's the "Your excuses aren't working and you're going to bed" smile. She sees my face and stomps off to the bathroom, hopefully to brush her teeth and change. I'm optimistic like that.

Branden is next, stomping down the stairs. "Mum! I have homework!" as he swings his backpack onto the table with a thud. Homework is the magic word - worlds revolve around homework, time stops, and mountains move. Not this time.

"Bran, tomorrow is Thursday. You have a study hall first period. You can do your homework then instead of shooting hoops in the gym." I can see the attitude starting to boil under the surface of his pain expression. "I asked you if you had homework earlier, and you said 'no.' That was your chance, so you will have to miss hoops tomorrow."

The indecision is plain on his face: admit he lied, make up an excuse, or suck it up. Before he has a chance to pick one I add the killing blow, "You know if you don't have enough time after school for homework now, maybe we should take you out of Cross Country?" That did it, Mom-1 Branden-0. Branden sulks off and pounds on the bathroom door to hurry Miranda along.

It's too quiet, so I head upstairs to find Colby. As I come to the top of the stairs I hear, "Goodnight Mom" Colby is lying on his bed, covered up, patiently waiting for his goodnight song. What a good boy!!! "Hush-a-bye?" he asks. I sing his goodnight song, ingoring Miranda and Branden as they clomp up the stairs as loudly as possible in protest. I check in on both of them afterwards - making sure they are actually in bed, wish them goodnight, and then head back downstairs.

I begin switching off the lights, making a circuit around the rooms of the house, picking up cups and discarded socks along the way. My very own victory lap - peaceful, quiet victory.

Week #4 Prompts

15. You have a friend, lover, s.o., parent, whomever--and you have a magic potion. Once they take it they will tell you the absolute truth for one minute. Who do you give it to and what do they say?

There are times when I am talking to someone, or maybe asking them a question that I really wonder if they are giving me the real answer, or really what they are thinking. Sometimes that is a kindness, do I really want to know how everyone's day has been? Or how they are feeling today? Maybe not. There are exceptions to this rule of course, as there are to all generalities, and I think that for each person there must be at least one exception.

By definition, an exception is something special, out of the ordinary, and (straight from Merriam-Webster) a case to which the rule does not apply. Everyone lives by the rules of exception. I think that if you are really lucky you have someone in your life that is an "exception" to that rule. I consider myself one of those lucky few, to have an exception in my life. For me, my exception, my special rule-does-not-apply person, is my mom. She is the one person, that no matter what the situation, or question, I would want to hear exactly what she was thinking. So could I imagine one person that I would give a magic potion to? One that would cause them to tell you the absolute truth about everything? Yes, yes I could.

14. Wishing? Lying? Dreaming? Dancing? Boxing? Cooking? What is writing like for you?

It's time. Time to get ready to go.

I go into the kitchen and get my drink, the box of special crakers that I hid from the kids, and head into my room where the computer is. Setting those things down, I realize I forgot the phone, and my cell phone. I wander through the house collecting these bits and pieces that I will need and approach the computer chair.

I figure that I should open the window (which is right next to my chair) but make sure that the curtain is fully closed so that the sun doesn't blind me as I look at the screen. I hit the button to turn on the computer, and make myself comfy in my chair while slipping off my shoes. The welcome screen pops up before me, then disappears while my programs load. I open the crackers and take a drink of my soda (no ice because it just melts after a while and makes it taste terrible).

I hit the internet explorer icon and again my computer charges forward, connecting me to the world wide web and all it has to offer, but narrowing itself to my blogger homepage for now. At the last minute I decide I need to go to the bathroom. I might as well go now so that I don't have to stop what I am doing later and risk losing my rhythm.

Ok, bathroom done? check. drink? check. snack? check. phone close by? check. window open and curtain closed? check.

Reading the instructions for the week a couple of times over lets my brain stretch and wrap around the words and ideas they convey. I sit and ponder a bit, warming up my brain, thinking about where I want to go. Having thought about it all, all warmed and stretched out, I mentally hear the starting gun and my fingers begin to type.

On your mark, get set, go.

13. What inanimate thing do you wish could talk?

Driving along in the car I play the what-if game. I do this all of the time since the radio is mostly just annoying to me while I drive. Usually it's "what if I won the lottery?" or "what if we moved to Tennessee?" - today it was "what if I was on Survivor? what would my one item be from home?" (prompted by my recent conversation with hubby about the some of the craziness on Survivor)

So tooling down the road, I mentally flip through my special, personal items that would remind me of home and my life. Not clothes, pictures? No. The one thing that I could think of was my coffee cup. Chuckling at what my poor cup would think of whatever craziness I would be drinking out of it on Survivor, certainly not my perfected brew of half-decaf coffee I make at home.

Playing along with the daydream, I wonder what my poor would say about its well-used, and much loved life in my hands? Would it chastize me for the time that I left it in Tennessee by mistake? It took a week of threats to my mom before she carefully wrapped it (in bubblewrap) and sent back. Would it complain about the permanent stain on the bottom, from years of stirring in the sugar each morning? As I glance down and look at my cup, sitting next to me with the last bit of this mornings coffee in it, I smile. Maybe I love it cause I can identify with it?

I'm not much of a Disney fan for the most part, but when I saw it in the store with Grumpy (looking rather hung-overish) on the front in a bathrobe and slippers, I had to have it. It looks much like I do sometimes I think, first thing in the morning, endlessly searching for the kids missing sneaker, or misplaced homework. Inside the rim, much like the post-it notes that I leave as reminders on the bathroom mirror it says "Wake up Grumpy." It makes me smile. How can a coffee cup be so much of me? How can I sit and talk about something like a coffee cup for so long anyway? I don't honestly know, but it's true. I wonder what it would have to say about me?

Week #3 Prompts

#9 - Try a conversation between you and yourself. Sometimes arguments are fun.

The soft glow of the lamp shines across the computer desk. All around, the house creaked and moaned, settling for the evening. The kids are showered and in bed, hubby is safely occupied with something out of earshot. I sit here wondering what I should do with myself. The Mom on my left shoulder and the Me on the right discuss the options.

"You really should go do the dishes from dinner" Mom says patiently. She knows where this discussion is going to go.

"Seriously? I just cleaned the kitchen, made dinner, and made dessert. I even took over homework duty and got the kids settled. I think that I am off duty for the rest of the night." Me huffs and turns away, presenting a cold shoulder to rebuff any further remarks.

Mom sighs, "Who is going to do them? The kids are in bed, and Hubby certainly won't be doing them tonight, if ever" she grumbles. Me tries one more shot.

"I deserve some quiet time too. I had class today, and homework, and.. ugh"

Mom reaches over and pats Me on the back, "There you go. There's your pat on the back. Do you feel better? Let's make a deal. Go and start the dishes, make some coffee, and when the coffee is done you can call it quits and leave the rest for tomorrow."

Me, knowing when to quit while still ahead, agrees. "Alright, but this time I really AM going to stop when the coffee is done, and leave the rest!"

Mom smiles, "Ok, if you say so." I leave the comfy computer chair and head to the kitchen, Mom, Me, and myself.

#11 - I said, she said conversation.

Listening to the ring on the other end of the line, I take a deep breath and remind myself that I need to be nice.

"Good morning, how can I help you?"

It's the familiar sound of the switchboard operator. I recognize her voice from the several other calls I have made this week (so far).

"Hello, I was hoping to speak with Kelly. Is she in today?" I add the extra question on the hopes of getting some information rather than the automatic transfer to Kelly's line.

"One moment please. "

No such luck. Whisked away through the maze of the office system, I mentally prepared what I am going to say to the voicemail yet again. This is the fourth call this week.

"You have reached Kelly's desk. I am away from my desk or on another line..." What a surprise. Even calling first thing in the morning doesn't help. I am pleasant, but a but firm on the voicemail. Rattling off my name, number, and serial number as requested, adding the little note that I have been calling since Monday morning and really need to speak with her today.

Frustrated I call back again.

"Good morning. How can I help you?"

"Hi, I have been trying to reach Kelly since Monday but have not heard from her. Is there someone else in the office I could speak with?"

"One moment."

It sounds like my friend the operator has heard this request a time or two.

An un-necessarily perky voice answers, "Good morning can I help you?"

I spell out the details again, explaining that I was trying to reach Kelly, and had left messages, but was really just needing some questions answered.

"Well, they are all in a meeting this morning so there isn't anyone else that could talk with you right now. Do you want me to transfer you to Kelly's voicemail?"

The well-meaning suggestion loosens my grip on my temper.

"I did just explain that I had left yet another message this morning. I don't think that leaving another one will help, do you?"

"Well, I am sure that she will call you back once she is out of the meeting."

This poor woman doesn't have a clue.

"I will call back later this morning to speak with the supervisor. Can you tell me her name?"

The magic word, supervisor, can sometimes cut through the confusion.

"Well, yes. Kelly is the supervisor for the office, so she is the one you would need to speak with anyway"

"Of course. Well thank you for your help," or lack thereof.

#10 - Go to a crowded public place and be a fly on the wall. Just listen. Can you pick out conversations? Write down a little of what you hear, maybe as dialog.

The sun bounced off the glass door as more people came into the store. Over the clang of the carts, and the squeeky wheels I can hear their voices come into focus:

"..just to pick up a couple things, then we can go home and start dinner for your folks" A pretty woman with a much taller man grumbles as they head toward the produce section.

"I didn't invite them, you know" He sounds defensive, and this is obviously not the start of this conversation, but perhaps a new chapter of it.

"You didn't invite them? Well who did? I sure didn't. Like I have enough time to do the whole domestic song and dance for your mom on a Tuesday night" The lady looks like she is ready for a quiet house with a glass of wine to me.

"I told you I didn't invite them, but they are coming over either way I guess. Hell, let's just order a pizza and call it good" Poor guy, he almost sounds hopeful. Does he know that is never going to fly?

The woman turns from the tomatoes and gives him a look full of daggers, "Seriously? So I can hear about it 'til Christmas about how I don't cook or do all of the things that I should be doing to make sure you don't wither away and die without living at home?"

She stomps away toward the rotisserie chickens, leaving him looking at the unsympathetic tomatoes.

"No, instead I get to hear about it 'til Christmas.." he mumbles, following behind her, fading from earshot.

Theme Week #4

1. Write about it as close to black and white, just the facts as you possibly can.

I wandered down the hallway of my children's elementary school for Open House night.  Parents, kids, aunts, grandparents, cousins - filled the hall, all going in every direction.  My daughter tugged my hand and plowed forward.  Thank goodness she knew where she was going, because I had no idea.  As we headed toward her classroom, I looked around and noticed the same cinderblock walls that had been there for... well ,a long time since I could remember them from when I went to this same school.  Miranda's hand pulled loose from my own as she jogged ahead and into a doorway.  She was so excited about Open House, about showing me all of the neat things that she was doing in third grade.  With a wave to her teacher, I headed toward my little girl.  She was standing proudly by one of the small desks.  She was very excited about having a real desk of her own, not just a table with a cubby like last year.  I got to see a couple of projects that were laid out for parents to see examples of what their kids were doing all day, and a quick tour of the room to see the different areas for math, reading, and the older computer in the back. 

"It's from the olden times, Mrs. B. says it's ancient!" my daughter whispers.

I sighed because I recognized the admittedly older computer.  It looked much like the brand new ones we got in eighth grade.  After the tour, I spent a few minutes talking with her teacher and signing up for conferences.  My daughter convinced me that we had to say hi to her teacher from last year on the way out, however I threw in the condition that if she was busy with other parents we would have to pass.  As it turned out she was busy, and regardless of my daughters whining, we headed out the door and back to our house.

2. Then write about it so that the basic facts are there, unchanged, but you throw in a little fancy stuff to improve the story--you make the girl a blonde instead of a brunette, you add a few horsepower to the engine, you buy a few more dollars worth of clothes than you actually could afford--all this done, not to lie, but to make the truth sharper and, if you will, even truer.

I wandered down the crowded hallway of my daughter's elementary school for Open House night.  Parents, kids, aunts, grandparents, cousins, dogs, cats, hamsters, etc - filled the hall, all going in different directions.  A sea of people.  My daughter, barely restrained my my grasping hand, pulled me forward with single-minded purpose.  Thank goodness she knew where she was going, because in this craziness I could barely tell which way was up, forget trying to find her classroom.  As we headed toward her class, I looked around and noticed the same cinderblock walls that had been there forever... well not forever, but a long time since I could remember them from when I went to this same school.  Dotting the walls were samples of student writing and artwork.  I could see tell that we were nearing the third grade rooms as the printing got neater and the artwork contained less fingerpaint.  Miranda's small hand slipped loose from my own as she sprinted ahead and through a a nearby doorway.  She was so excited about that night, chattering on for hours about all of the neat things that she was doing in third grade.  With a wave to her teacher, I headed toward my little girl.  She was standing proudly by one of the small desks, like Vanna White next to the new puzzle, the name tag along the top bore her neatly printed first and last name.  She was very excited about having a real desk of her own, not just a group table with plastic bins for her crayons like last year.  She showed me her paper skeleton, they were studying bones last week, and a couple of other projects that were laid out for parents to gush over.  We also went on a quick tour of her room.  She showed me the reading area, the small desk with math games, and the computer area.

"It's from the olden times, Mrs. B. says it's ancient!" my daughter whispered, pointing at the sad computer sitting in the back of the room. 

I sighed because I recognized the admittedly, older computer.  I remember how excited I was when my eighth grade class got a brand new computer, one that looked quite the same.  Truth be told, it probably was the same ones.  I smiled at my daughter and reminded her that "ancient" wasn't a nice way to describe how old something, or someone, was.  After the whirlwind tour, I spent a few minutes chatting with her teacher about how Miranda was doing.  Nodding when Mrs. B. exclaimed at how nice and polite my daughter was in class.  Who was this child she was talking about?  She reminded me to sign up for conferences before I left, and turned to the next set of parents.  I could have sworn she gave the same exact script about their child.  As we once again braved the crowded hallway, my daughter convinced me that we had to say hi to her teacher from last year on the way out, however I threw in the condition that if she was busy with other parents we would have to pass.  As it turned out she was busy, much to my relief, and I wrangled my daughter toward the exit.  Whining just a bit, she joined me and we headed out the door and back to our house.


3. Finally, start with the same material but let it off its leash. It originates in fact, but winds up as fiction. Now the details aren't changed to tell the truth in a new way--they're just pure fiction.


My daughter and I entered her school and hit a wall of people.  It was Open House night.  There must have been three or four adults for every child attending the school packed into the little hallway.  Parents, kids, aunts, grandparents, cousins - filling the hall, milling about, heading off in small clumps in every direction.  I closed my eyes and sighed quietly, this is not what I wanted to be doing tonight.  Hubby was going to owe me big time for this one.  Interrupting my quiet moment, my daughter yanked on my hand to get my attention, and began plowing forward.  I mumbled apologies as I was dragged through and around other bewildered parents and family.  Thank goodness I didn't wear sandals, my toes were safely protected from being stomped on inside of my sneakers.  Like a shark smelling blood in the water, Miranda darted through the crowd.  I nearly lost my grip on her little hand, but managed to hang on as she towed me (hopefully) toward her classroom.  As we headed down the hall, the crowd thinned a bit, and I could see the old cinderblock walls that had been there for... well a long time, since I can remember them from when I went to this same school.  They were a bland tan color now, dotted with art and writing from the students, not like the awful green that I still shudder to remember.  I completely lost my grip on her hand as she pulled loose and ran into a classroom, hers I hope.  She was so excited about tonight, about showing me all of the neat things that she was doing in third grade.  I took a deep breath and entered the room.   Her teacher was circled by eager parents and children near the far side of the room, so I figured that I would wait to try to talk with her.  I waved in her direction and headed toward Miranda, who was dancing in anticipation.  She was standing by one of the small desks, proudly gesturing to the neatly printed name tag along the top.  I smiled as I wondered how long she would be sitting in the middle of five other desks, being a chatty person by nature,  was sure that she would be on the end within the month.  She was super excited about having a real desk this year, not just a round kiddy table with a plastic bin like last year.  Samples of her work were sitting on top of the desk.  Apparently they was supposed to reassure me that she was learning something besides social skills in class.  The paper skeleton that was on top was interesting, until Miranda told me that they were going to make clothes for it next week.  How do paper dolls fit in to the "No Child Left Behind" policy?   The teacher still appeared to be rather bogged down with parents, so we went on a quick tour of the classroom to see the different areas for math and reading.  There was a sadly older-looking computer in the back. 

"It's from the olden times, Mrs. B. says it's ancient!" my daughter whispered, as she pointed to it.  Excellent.

I sighed because I recognized the admittedly outdated computer.  It looked much like the brand new ones we got in eighth grade.  I wondered briefly where all of the tax dollars were going for technology since they apparently weren't going into this classroom.  After the tour, I waited my turn to spend a few minutes talking with her teacher.  The scripted exclaimations of "She's doing great" and "It's so much fun to have her my class this year" didn't do a lot for me, I had heard her saying the same things to the last mom.  She happily gestured to the board at the front of the room and reminded me to sign up for conferences.  I was tempted to "forget," but Miranda had heard her teacher and dutifully reminded me before I could slip out of the door.  I don't understand conferences.  I live in a small town and see my kids teachers almost daily at the post office, store, or when I pay my water bill.  I know if there is any problems that I get a phone call, so I just don't understand the concept of a whole meeting of scripted conversations.  I signed up for the conference, maybe something interesting would come up in the mean time and I would have something to actually talk about.  Leaving the room, my daughter squeaked about visiting her teacher from last year.  I didn't like her teacher last year, and I think the feeling was rather mutual, so I was not excited about visiting for fun.  I reluctantly agreed, however I threw in the condition that if she was busy with other parents we would have to pass.  Luck smiled upon me, as we looked in the room and the teacher was mobbed by her own circle of parents.  In addition, one child was lying on the floor having a temper tantrum, rather loudly.  I refrained from smiling, chastizing myself that it wasn't nice, and teachers work really hard, and blah, blah, blah, whatever, serves her right.  At this point I really just wanted to go home, my crazy, loud, children-filled house was nothing compared to this zoo.  This time I was the one that plowed ahead, tugging my daughter along, searching for the magical Exit sign that would release us from this madness.  Finally, we reached the doors.  I sent a sympathetic smile to a couple of parents bracing themselves to enter, and pushed on the doors to escape into the night.  I would call tomorrow to cancel the conference.