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Green Poop
Just when I get my writing grove back, shit happens. Yesterday morning if was green poop. You can laugh but my husband thought it serious and had a small melt down. His poop was apple green. He got up between 3:30 and 4:30 am (Why? Because he always does.) I rose around 7:30, and was greeted with this seven fire alert, before I had coffee.
Consequently, he cancelled plans to play bingo, waited for the doctor’s return phone call and worried. Attempting to be a loving wife, (we’re married 51 years). I spent the next five hours consoling him and reassuring him, he wasn’t going to die. . . today.
I’m working to enter THE WRITER MAGAZINE’S SPRING SHORT STORY CONTEST
https://www.writermag.com/contests/ and planned to hit my computer writing, with my first cup of coffee.
I won’t bore you with the other distractions thrown my way, but around 2pm the wheels fell of the bus and after yelling at my husband, he promised to take the anti anxiety-depression medicine.
This morning I woke refreshed and started writing around 8am. The disruption? Lost cable service.
The dead line for the contest is June 20th. However, we are leaving on a trip on June 14th and I would like to submit by this weekend.
If there is anyone willing to critique my story, (it’s 2000 words) Please let me know and I will email the document to you.
. . . Seriously Just Saying
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Daily Prompt Hat
Photo by Monica Turlui on Pexels.com
Staying Alive, staying alive
Hat Head
Bed Head
Remember what you said?
You’ll love me even when I’m dead.
Well––––I’m not dead, just crazy in the head
You put a metal hat on my head and I got into bed
Woke up with fried head
That was when you said, you’d love me more if I was dead.
But I’m staying alive, staying alive.
. . . Seriously Just Saying
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Bullshit and Peas
“Have you always gotten your way?”
It was a bullshit inquire from a detective.
The man, Fred, I think he said was his name, sat opposite me in a white dress shirt that was too tight and stained. My guess was, he missed his mouth during breakfast, frequently.
An ugly belt hugged his hips keeping his stomach in check, like a dam keeping water at bay. I speculated what might happen if his belt broke loose.
“Pretty much, according to my sister, but you know how sisters can be. She swore if Mom served peas, I wanted and got carrots. But she’s an incurable liar. Miss Goody-Two-Shoes is what she calls me.”
“Did you like peas?”
“Sure, the small itty bitty kind, the frozen package says petite. And they had to be cooked right, bright green and not mushy, I hated mushy. Mom wasn’t a good cook.”
“So, you were spoiled?”
“No, I’d have eaten the fucking peas. It wasn’t about the God damn peas. It’s about power. Isn’t it? You have the power to screw me, Mr. Hot-Shot.”
“Calm down, it’s small talk.”
“Yea, small talk? I’ve been here for hours, you asking the same questions. Mr. Hot-Shot, wearing that not to expensive watch.”
The DA twisted his arm and looked at his Mavado.
“I know how to play your game. You provoke me, I get angry. Like with mom. I’ll push the peas around until they get mushy than smash the plate in the sink, and listen to the garbage disposal make a noise like an electric saw cutting up a dead body.”
“Why did you do it?”
“Mush the peas?”
“No, kill your mother.”
. . . Seriously Just Saying
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Sunday, Not Just Another Day
Today is Sunday, but not any Sunday, it’s Mother’s Day, a day that brings joy to many, although maybe not.
My daughter has planned a special treat for me a picnic. I love a picnic but I’m not looking forward to the occasion. My son died four years ago and for some unknown reason this year is especially difficult.
Friends have frequently asked how do you survive the death of a child and I would quote Ted Kennedy and say, “We go on for the living.”
So I will put on a big smile and sing, On a picnic we will go for it’s summertime you know, and we love to spend out Sundays in the park. Did you bring the hot dogs, hot dogs, hot dogs? Did you bring, etc.
. . . Seriously Just Saying
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Shlub
schlub [SHləb] NOUN
shlub (noun)
- a talentless, unattractive, or boorish person:
K.J. Hanson describes Jeff, a character in his short story Cheapskate, as a shlub. The noun remained in my head until I wrote something.
Shlub
“He’s a shlub,” said the guy at the next table.
Although unfamiliar with the expression, I couldn’t have agreed more. The restaurant was crowded, and the jerk, dressed in a worn t-shirt and a grunge baseball cap to cover a scraggly head of hair, stood out in a crowd of business people. Some chatted effortlessly, others sat people watching, like the guy alongside of me. Whose dress was trending; jeans, white t-shirt and a herringbone blazer. His companion did all the talking while the guy pretended to listen, preoccupied with the ensuing drama.
The server delivered the check to the shlub, who immediately became agitated, flinging his arms up in the air and indicating some problem with the food.
His woman friend turn red in the face as the server removed their lunch plate like it was a hot plate. She was attractive in an intellectual way and rummaged through her handbag.
I imagined they’d met on line or some dating app. You know the type, skilled at embellishment and all about himself. It was probably their first date, but clearly their last as the woman got up to leave visibly shaken.
The guy at the next table stood when she did.
“Let me get that for you,” he said.
As they left the restaurant together, the shlub yelled, “What the fuck! You can’t do that.”
The Scowl
The Scowl
He wore a scowl. A permanent look of discontent. He glared at no one particular, and rarely smiled, but if he did, the smile never reached his eyes, like a basset hound whose jowls scrapped the floor, there was no emotion.
We met years ago, although never introduced. In retrospect, the event might have been better labeled a stare down. It was a bitter and windy day. I had ducked inside a city coffee shop to escape the pelting rain and found myself sitting next to him.
“Yikes! It’s wet outside.” I said sitting and shaking my umbrella free of rain.
The stools were the old fashion metal type with no backs that were low to the ground. My wet coat added to the squeaking noises produced by my twirling in place and attempting to prevent more damage. The man looked down, studied the drips puddling on the floor then locked eyes with me.
“Sorry,” I said feeling helpless. I smiled and ordered coffee and a bagel. He said nothing.
“It’s good to get out of the rain.” I mumbled.
His forearms rested on the counter and he stared straight ahead ignoring me, although our faces were visible in the mirror adorning the back wall. After draining his coffee cup, he signaled for a refill and frowned when the hot java tip toed near the top. He was handsome.
“I’d ask you out if you weren’t such a jerk.” I said.
“I dare you.” He responded scowling.
Seriously Just Saying
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Lonely in Volusia
Lonely in Volusia
“Doris,” he said taking off his hat.
“Jim?”
We had arranged to meet at a local restaurant after chatting on a social media site.
He resembled a potato, and an image of an Idaho spud flashed through my mind as he sat. Worn pointed cowboy boots prevented his knees from sliding under the table. He angled the chair sideways. Its wooden legs scraped along the floor as he said, “Nice to meet you.”
(It took me about forty minutes to write, and edit the above paragraph, my attempt to write everyday, and for now is all I’ve got.)
. . . Seriously just saying
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Goodbye
Word prompt ; use the following words in a descriptive paragraph: needles, breath, river, touch, swallows, summer, humble, paper, simple, bend, beams, crowd
Write Every Day
The river bend cascaded into a water fall. The summer air was hot and heavy. Sun beams faded and a crowd of swallows flew in the distant sky. Like the pine needles that poked my bare feet, the simple paper note in my hand pierced my heart. I remembered your breathe, recalled your touch. The thin texture of the envelope reminded me of our humble beginnings. I didn’t have to read it to know you were saying goodbye.
* * * *
I started writing in retirement, about 12 years ago, as a past-time. It has been said that stepping away from writing is normal and part of the writing process. That is what happened to me. I no longer write everyday or in my head, probably because I attempted to write a bigger project other than my blog, got involve in a critique group and lost my creativity. I’m, however, attempting to get back on the horse and have made a commitment to write every day. I’m a member of Florida Writers Association, and recently I read a post about successful writers/authors and this is what I took away:
- Write everyday, set a specific schedule and be committed to that routine.
- Read
- Don’t edit as you go.
- Don’t have your work critiqued as you go.
- Stop self editing and just write.
* * * just saying * * * wish me luck
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Flash Fiction
Lynn
Lynn stood on the sidewalk and could not remember who she used to be.
It was a horrible feeling.
She strolled casually to a nearby bench and sat to quiet the feeling.
The weather was mild. The sun strong.
It was not the present that disturbed her.
Having silly thoughts, she hummed an old Peggy Lee song, “Is That All There Is?”
She came to buy Christmas gifts, or so she thought.
Instead, she window shopped and tried on clothes in an upscale woman’s store; attempting to find a new identity.
Norman Rockwell’s picture of the golden-brown turkey on a large platter surrounded by family flashed across her mind.
Her romanticized past was painful to watch.
She had been the women wearing the plaid apron, trying to fulfill other people’s dreams. Okay, perhaps they’d been her dreams too.
It was hard to remember, things were different.
. . . just saying
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Seriously Just Saying 
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