Today I rolled the Metaphor Dice. The words; wonder, memory and unspoken spoke to me. If you would like to use the words in a poem or short story in a post, please do. After you post, copy its link in my comment section to share your writing.
Photo by Philippe Donn
Unspoken
Memory is an unspoken wonder
Disappearing quickly over time
Delete the past to make space for the present . . . or vice verse.
We cling to the passage of time.
Fond memories become fonder, an unspoken wonder of days gone bye.
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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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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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You don’t need a WordPress account or be a follower to comment. However, followers receive an email notification of new posts and reflect my popularity.
Write your comment in the box below or click on the caption icon to the right of the title above. Ignore requests for a name or username and press post or save. Your comment will be posted anonymously.
(The word pearl was a prompt given at a writing session. A strong female character came to mind and her story enfolded.)
Pearl
The last time I saw her, she was young; youth sparkled in her eyes. Now the sparkle is gone, the jade blue color diminished by time; her convictions etched in lines across her face. Her once narrow nose is broader, broken from standing up for others. Her chest sunken with anger, not there the first time we met.
“Pearl is that you?” I inquire.
She strains to turn towards me, her range of motion greatly compromised.
“Yes, I’m Pearl,” Her voice recalls dignity, and she pauses to ask, “Have I had your acquaintance?”
It was 1971; we got on the Concourse Avenue bus in the Bronx, each with a child in hand. She took notice of my bruises and we became friends.
I take the seat alongside her and gently touch her forearm, “Pearl, it’s me Rosa . . . . Rose, remember. . . .” I expect her to ooze with gladness, say, “Lordy, Lordy, Rose, how are you?”
Instead, she says “Rose? Can’t recall a Rose, refresh my memory child.”
If she remembers me, she would never mention beatings, and hiding in safe houses. I remind her of Bainbridge Park; how we would meet after lunch, let the children play in the sand box then walk them to sleep in strollers.
“I remember sunshine and playgrounds, how is your boy . . . ?”
“Danny, Dan, he’s at Fordham University; studying to be a lawyer.
Danny was five when I made the decision to leave the morning after a beating. I phoned my sister, asked her to get him from school, and left a note for John saying I didn’t want a divorce, and wouldn’t fight him for our son.
I worried about leaving Danny behind. Pearl said, “Don’t fret; your boy be fine,” and hooked me up with people.
John was a New York City Police officer and protected by his brothers, but the force would not ignore his beating a child.
Sill, I moved every four months with a new identity.
Three years later, the Richmond Virginia Newspaper reported the hunt for the killer of John McGill, a NYC Police Officer shot in the line of duty. I went home; stood next to his coffin, widowed with a pension; my eight-year-old son at my side.
John had never mentioned I was gone to anyone on the force.
Now Pearl dozes next to me, and her head bobs from side to side startling herself. “What was I saying?”
“We were talking about the time we brought the boys to the Bronx Zoo and rode the train around the park ten times. You packed potato salad and fried chicken; a stranger asked to buy your picnic lunch.”
The mention of potato salad crystallizes in her milky eyes, “I remember the day you left, bruised and wearing borrowed clothes; it broke my heart knowing I’d not see you again. How you been?”
“I never got to thank you, Pearl. . . .” She interrupts my attempt at gratitude and explanation of regret .
“Hush, Woman . . . tell me something that will make me smile.”
* * * just saying
(Originally posted on November 23, 2014)
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There were two thoughts in his head, set side by side in juxtaposition and he did not enjoy the feeling. They nagged at his sense of well being like two conjoined twins complicating separation. If one was true than certainly the other false unless both where false and consequently why connected. He look in the mirror, his face growing old with deliberation of whether to love or hate her.
Today our local paper’s feature story is about Hal Kushner, a U.S. Army veteran and the keynote speaker for this afternoon’s Memorial Day ceremony at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C.
Kushner known from “The Vietnam War,” a ten-part documentary series aired last September is 77 years old, still works as Ophthalmologist, and was a five-year POW. I was pleased to see the News-Journal coverage of his story and several articles sharing other veteran’s stories.
Reminiscing, Earl Tingle Jr. said ‘I wanted to go,’ ‘I feel a sense of tragedy’ Dr. Frank Farmer explained and Neal Coates expressed gratitude saying, ‘I was blessed to come back.’
Each tell poignant stories, however the caption, ‘This one will be different’ above Hal Kushner front-page picture struck a chord. He was referencing today’s ceremony and intrigued as to why his experience would be different continued reading.
Kushner says speaking has taken on a “personal difficulty” and he thinks as we age have less control over our emotions and are more emotional.
I cannot help thinking he is a lucky man and wish I was attending the ceremony.
Saturday unable to view my WordPress blog, I did not think much about it. We were having dinner company, I should be setting the table and besides there would be time in the morning.
Sunday morning, however, I still could not view the site, only the W on an empty page. The login box was gone, disappeared. That is impossible I told myself, it is here just invisible, un-seeable, view-less.
So I typed the URL http://www.claudiajustsaying.com in the tool bar and bingo, my posts appear and relief fanned off panic, however there is still no login box. It does not appear! It has disappeared!
Well if the WordPress front door is shut perhaps, a back door was left open and I attempt to like another blog posted on the Daily Prompt site and cannot.
I recently upgraded my WordPress account and have a promise that the Happiness Engineers will chat with me but that is not working because I need a login box to tell them I am in distress. I search the help option reading answers to many questions that do not HELP ME!
The login box has disappeared.
Perhaps I have been hacked so I change my password and sent a security code but when everything is said and done cannot get in, a login box will not appear.
Desperate I open my receipt email for payment of the upgrade, send a reply email to Owen at WordPress, and go to bed.
With my head on a pillow and unable to sleep, rather than mourn the loss of eight years of blogging I force myself to replay the happy Royal Wedding of Megan Markle and Prince Harry and image what I would have done to Prince Charles had I been Lady Di.
Thankfully in the morning there was a response from Owen asking for a screen image and instructions on how to do this, which impressed with myself was able to. His follow up suggested using another browser, and I did with success, the disappeared box appeared.
The problem was with my search engine and it took another hour exploring their help button to get things working.
Seriously, I am extremely grateful to Owen and the other Happiness Engineers in helping the disappear to appear.
Alluring, irresistible, fascinating or at the least intriguing, is what she wanted to be, not this reflection in the mirror; a short chubby woman with bed hair, wearing a worn blouse, a large watermark decorating her breasts. In front of a Dyson hand dryer, she held the shirt up to watch the water stain shrink and wished she could too.
Once back at the sink, searched for styling gel inside her handbag then applied the right amount to bring some curl into her hair. Unbuttoning the top button on the blouse changed the too tight look to voluptuous . . . . applying hot red lip-gloss made her closer to captivating.
Captivating
Seriously Just Saying 
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