Category Archives: Uncategorized

Mommy’s Jumping Jelly Bean

thDaily Prompt; Write about your worst fear

A pounding heart filled this apprehension, trepidation and fear guides my outstretched fingers, almost touching but not reaching my daughter who is ever so near. She has climbed out a window, her chubby legs dangle enjoying the view. Her eyes twinkle and when she sees mommy, claps her hands repeatedly, as a two-year old will often do. I signal quiet with a finger to my lips as panic replaces subdue. Then shake and shiver petrified of any move. The drop is disastrous if not fatal, but not the only view.

Writing 101: Day 8 Death to Adverbs

Go to a public location and make a detailed report of what you see. The twist of the day? Write the post without adverbs.

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Early Morning No Pay

A light rain mists the air, and moistens my skin as I step outside. The weatherman predicts heavy rain and flooding in southern parts of Florida. I hustle the block and a half to the beach. The cool air and overcast skies a relief from constant sunny skies. The waves are angry and slap the shore with determination leaving little space to walk.

There are other options, the hotel grounds, and lobby.

The bellman pulls the wood and glass door open and nods his head good morning. Inside the Mediterranean lobby is empty except for housekeeping.

It is early and an upright vacuum fueled by a long yellow cord sucks up the previous day’s activities. The staff member nods and shuts off the sweeper as I pass.

Someone else polishes the large floor to ceiling mirrors and tabletop glass.

The gift shop opens at 8:30 AM but on the coffee table is a generous pile of USA Newspapers for the taking.

My husband will feel lucky he does not have to pay.

 

. . . Seriously just saying

Writing 101 Day 5/ Before I Go

You stumble upon a random letter on the path. You read it. It affects you deeply, and you wish it could be returned to the person to which it’s addressed. Write a story about this encounter.

Today’s twist: Approach this post in as few words as possible.

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Before I Go

Yesterday, I’m walking my dog, Fife, and Fife is pulling the leash way off the path going in circles, making me crazy, looking for just the right spot to do her you know what, and find an area that might make her happy, then starts scratching and pawing at the leaves only to uncover, an envelope addressed to Charles.

So after poop scooping Fife’s deposit, I examine the item.

The Charles, written in cursive with a black felt tip pen, has a romantic squiggle underneath. The seal is broken and a single page letter unfolds easily in my hands.

The letter reads:

Dear Charles,

        Before I go, I want you to know, and goes on to explain why she’s leaving.

Now I’m in a pickle, Charles would definitely want this letter back and Fife and I have a big decision to make.

 

Writing 101Day 4-Write about a loss

s2e084581-3bad-4f17-8a85-15cd7485eeacAuthor: Трахтенберг Михаил

(For today’s assignment I am taking Myra on a longer journey or series about loss of self. Myra appeared in Day 2 of Writing 101, the first two paragraphs are that post.)

A View of My Room

After dinner, Myra walks to the beach. Mahogany and apple green coleus, line the cement path along 16th road, and crêpe myrtle, provide shade. The sun is soft and will soon set. Low tide gives the shore width and Myra removes her sandals to feel the tepid water on her feet and walks.

The beach is empty and the waves peak white, then brush the water’s edge and provide an upbeat tempo that match her mood. This is as near to heaven as you can get, bad still exists.

Silly, it is silly to leave after all these years, but sillier to stay with who knows how many years left. He does not drink or womanize, pays the bills on time, and takes the garbage out in a timely fashion. Unlike Hillary Clinton, she could not boast, “He is the most fascinating man I know.” There was no reason to stand by her man.

An earlier disagreement over a wash bucket in the kitchen sink spurred her decision. A chartreuse green plastic bowl bought at the Dollar Store and his comment, “Why are you so stubborn?” Like a thorn in her side, needed removal.

When she cooked, he cleaned up and vice verse. Tonight, not saying a word he noisily shifted and tossed silverware, splashing water across the counter, his body language giving him away.

After water dribbled down a cabinet door, Myra said, “Sweetheart if the bowl is in your way, empty it, put it under the sink.” And repeated her previous explanation, “I like to use the bowl to hold water so I can rinse my hands or clean a sponge without running water, while cooking.”

His response, “Well, now I know,” as he emptied the bowl and set it on the counter with calculated force, wreaked of sarcasm.

On the counter, the textured bowl resembled a horn toed frog and Myra thought she heard a rib-bit sound, but did not. She put the bowl under the sink, and filled the void by saying, “Don’t be stubborn, if it annoys you don’t use it, please. . . just put it away.”

“You’re the one who’s stubborn, why do you insist on using it?” He said emphatically.

And so her decision was made.

Her mind is clear. She will leave tomorrow.

 

. . . Seriously just saying

Writing 10: Day 2 A Room With a View

Writing 101: A Room with a View (or Just a View)

We’re all drawn to certain places. If you had the power to get somewhere — anywhere — where would you go right now? For your twist, focus on building a setting description

A View From My Room

After dinner, Myra walks to the beach. Mahogany and apple green coleus, line the cement path along 16th road, and Crêpe Myrtle, not in bloom provide shade, although the sun is soft and will set soon. Low tide gives the shore width and Myra removes her sandals to feel the tepid water on her feet and walks for exercise. Her mind is clear. She will leave tomorrow.

The beach is mostly empty and the waves peak white, then brush the water’s edge and give an upbeat tempo that match her mood. This must be heaven if there is a heaven, a place where bad does not happen.

Myra mentally packs and includes her books and writing-table, things she will need in her new writing room, a room with a view. A view of water, possibly lake water and trees, many trees, trees that change colors. A small lakeside cabin, minuscule will do. It is the view, fog lifting mornings a defining solemn moment of dawn, and new beginnings.

. . . Seriously just saying

Granny Tango

Voice Work

Your blog is about to be recorded into an audiobook. If you could choose anyone — from your grandma to Samuel L. Jackson — to narrate your posts, who would it be?

Granny Tango

Truly conflicted, Samuel L. Jackson and Grandma discuss who best can narrate “Seriouslyjustsaying.”

“So nice to meet you, Mr. Jackson.”

“Same here, Grandma or may I call you Gertrude?”

“Yes, Gertrude is fine, I’ve been told my granddaughter has a blog that will be recorded, will she be arrested, do I need a lawyer?”

“No Grandma, rather Gertrude, it’s nothing like that, a blog is a post, how can I explain this . . . your granddaughter is a writer and publishes her work online, she’s not in any trouble.”

“Oh petty, that is such a comfort, my brother Thomas was a writer, a lovely writer, so dear, why are we here?”

“Well Gert, they need someone to record, you know tape her stories, make an audiobook. It’s between you and me.”

“Oh petty, what’s an audiobook? I don’t want to do that.”

“F___, Granny I don’t want to do that either.”

“Well, Mr. Jackson, let’s get Mikey, he’ll do it!”

. . . Seriously just saying

 

 

 

 

 

An Irish Hand Me Down

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Daily Prompt Clothes and toys, recipes and jokes, advice and prejudice: we all have to handle all sorts of hand-me-downs every day. Tell us about some of the meaningful hand-me-downs in your life

An Irish Hand-Me Down

The smiles tell a story of joy and happiness at our son’s Anthony Andrew baptism. His great Uncle Dick, (don’t laugh anyone called Richard was nicknamed Dick), is holding Tony Drew  wearing the hand-me down Christening dress. My sister, Judith Andrea, his godmother, is behind him and my grandmother, Gertrude, a young seventy-five, is clutching her purse.

   The dress hand made by my mother’s mother of Batiste (Fine Cotton) and Irish lace that her mother brought from Ireland; the bodice hand embroidered, and the seams  French to prevent fraying and unraveling. The delicate dress was only hand washed, rolled in a towel and then laid out to air-dried. My mother and her sister were christen in it, as well as myself and seven siblings. My son was the first of many grandchildren and great-grandchildren to wear the dress. There is history in this dress.
   This prompt has inspired me to expand this post for claudiajustsaying that I will publish this Sunday.

Dig Deeper

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Digging Up Your Digs

500 years from now, an archaeologist accidentally stumbles on the ruins of your home, long-buried underground. What will she learn about early 21st century humans by going through (what remains) of your stuff?

Dig Deeper

Terran 48 removed her head shell and spoke directly into the drone, “Contact the Archaeology Ministry, we unearthed a digital picture frame, manufactured by Kodak with humans of all ages laughing,smiling and dancing; evidence that Homo-sapiens were programmed for happiness as early as 1970. ”

. . . Seriously just saying

Not Happening!

Zoltar’s Revenge

In a reversal of Big, the Tom Hanks classic from the 80s, your adult self is suddenly locked in the body of a 12-year-old kid. How do you survive your first day back in school?

Not Happening!

I shake and shutter at the thought. The year would be 1960 and I’d be going into the seventh grade in WAJ Central.

You cannot make me do it, I am not going back.

I am, in fact, missing on the reunion list, although my name appears with the caption “Do you know where this graduate is?”

But I am not returning.

The school is named WAJ, after the sending towns; Windham, Ashland and Jewett. You can  locate it on a map, by looking for Green County above Kingston, New York. If you ski, perhaps you’ve been to the sloops of “Windham Mountain Resort.

WAJ is a small rural school with kindergarten through twelfth grade housed in one building. There were thirty-five students in my 1966 graduating class, one of which was my brother, because although older, he was left back twice.

Our move from Long Island to the Northern Catskills was a middle of the night move, motivated by our father’s belief it was better that constructing a bomb shelter.

Anyway, why go back as an adult, I was one of the few adults way back than.

Well I could go back and tell the science teacher, Mr. Christman, not to throw a frog reeking of formaldehyde out the window and comfort to Ms. Lazare, the French teacher, who after hearing a loud pop believed she’d been shot and fell to the ground clutching her chest. 

But I am not going back and you cannot make me!

. . . Seriously just saying

 

 

 

Black Cherry Berry

Pick Your Potion
Captain Picard was into Earl Grey tea; mention the Dude and we think: White Russians. What’s your signature beverage — and how did it achieve that status?
(Thanks, Bea Patricia, for inspiring this prompt!)

Cherry Tree-67698

Black Cherry Berry

He who likes cherries soon learns to climb!” German Proverb

May stood in the kitchen while the kettle boiled, reminding herself not to forget she had turn on the damn stove. She examined the package of herbal tea called “Black Cherry Berry,” to kill time. This was the only beverage she drank.

The box top showed a picture of a 1969 Ford pickup truck driving a dirt road with cherry trees in the backdrop. A wooden basket filled with cherries filled a bottom corner. White cherry blossoms decorated the adjacent corner. It was pretty.

Celestial Teas marked the bottom of the box along with the boast, “We’ve blended healthy teas with environmental consciousness since 1969.” The environmental consciousness pleased May.

Her arthritic hands struggled to remove the clear cellophane, open the cardboard, and unwrap the parchment paper. The message, “The famous cherry blossom trees of Washington DC, given as a gift by Japan in 1912, are ornamental trees and don’t produce cherries,” was printed across the box lip.

Good to know thought May. 

She turned off the stove, poured hot water into a two-cup Pyrex measuring cup and deposited two bags of Black Cherry Berry tea.

She would wait until the tea reached room temperature then pour the liquid into a plastic pitcher add the rest of the boiled water deposit the container in the refrigerator to chill. She had prepared her chilled drink of choice everyday for the past five years.

May glanced at the clock, it was eight o’clock in the morning.

. . . Seriously Just Saying