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.
I have trouble saying goodbye, not to people. . . I think I’m good at that. But to objects; like my orange library card with the metal stamp. Clothing, my black cocktail dress (it still fits), mush cards from my son, and Martha Stewart Magazines.
The above photo was snapped from a Halloween issue.
There was a time, when I traipsed through the woods to find and assembled something like that. Well, it never came close, but had a lot of dried stuff.
In Florida, that is not happening.
The alternative is to thumb through the magazine, and I do so, happily.
Autumn is short lived in Florida. There is no raking of leaves, then jumping into the piles.
I still hear the children laughing.
Remember. . .this was called fun.
The Christmas hurry up will begin Thanksgiving day, or November 23rd, and like it or not. . . my world will turn red, and green.
I’ll have to say goodbye to the golden colors of fall.
I’ll tuck Martha’s magazines away, take out the past Christmas issues, and go into the woods to cut our Christmas tree.
… Seriously just saying
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D is for disappear as in the New York Times Best Seller novel, “Gone Girl” by Gillian Flynn.
Nick and Amy Dunne, two out of work New York City writers, move to Nick’s childhood home in North Carthage, Missouri when they learn Nick’s mother is fatally ill.
Nick is a journalist.
Amy writes surveys or opinion questionnaires, e.i., Which of the following will lead to personal happiness.
A. Caring more about others than yourself
B. Discovering a passion
C. Exercising and eating well daily
D. All of the above
Nick persuades Amy to invest the last of her Trust Fund in a business for him and his twin sister, Margo. They name the bar, “The Bar”.
Amy disappears on their wedding anniversary, and Nick becomes the prime suspect.
However she didn’t disappear, she’s hiding.
Gillian Flynn has written a plot driven novel that I read quickly and was reviewed favorably, but I could have put the book down easily. The twisted ending was a turn off for me. The movie also has the same distortion of love, or love gone crazy ending. I like happy endings.
“As The Washington Post proclaimed, her work ‘draws you in and keeps you reading with the force of a pure but nasty addiction.’ Gone Girl’s toxic mix of sharp-edged wit with deliciously chilling prose creates a nerve-fraying thriller that confounds you at every turn.”
Amy’s disappearance is not to vanish, perish or cease to exist. Her vanishing act is one of revenge and dysfunction, concocted when she discovers Nick’s infidelity. Victimized and bamboozled Amy plans to get even and does.
I can imagine the survey/questionnaire Gillian Flynn might ask readers to take about her character, Amy.
What makes this character happy?
A. If you can’t have the one you love make sure no one else can either.
B. Make everyone who hurts or disappoints you suffer for the rest of their lives.
C. Inflicting pain on others is key to personal happiness.
D. All of the above
The author, Gillian says “she was not a nice little girl,” and “Libraries are filled with stories on generations of brutal men, trapped in a cycle of aggression. I wanted to write about the violence of women”
“The point is, women have spent so many years girl-powering ourselves — to the point of almost parodic encouragement — we’ve left no room to acknowledge our dark side. Dark sides are important. They should be nurtured like nasty black orchids.”
Have you read the book or seen the movie?
. . . just saying
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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.”
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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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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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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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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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 or with an avatar if you follow me.
Seriously Just Saying 
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