What's on Your Writering Mind?
Just when I think I am not going to compromise, I do.
Lucky are the few who never have to, or should that be too?
Compromise, a tendency so strong I am confused.
Is it about having my way, winning or being sore?
I prefer not to sit down to dinner at 4:30 or 5PM, but I do,
Because it suits you!
There is so much more to compromise, you haven’t a clue
Do you?
Remember the days of mushy white wonder bread spread with margarine and sprinkled with real sugar, that was a snack after we changed out of school clothes into play clothes (woolen Jamaica shorts, argyle socks and white Keds.
It was the time of hot dogs, English muffin pizza, Bologna sandwiches, cool aid, powdered milk, and the introduction of frozen vegetables.
My all time favorite snack, however, was crackers smeared with gooey peanut butter and of course grape jelly.
Today I indulged in that with an afternoon cup of coffee and found myself in heaven.
. . . Seriously just saying
The Cadets filed across the stage one by one, abruptly stopped or came to a halt and after saluting the Commander came to rest. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder hands at their sides, the buttoned down shirt collars smiled. Snug belts hugged midriffs and razor sharp creases cascaded their pant legs brushing the tops of high shine black shoes, making each one indistinguishable from the next. The sameness and harmony guaranteeing no one was more important.
. . . . Seriously Just Saying
There is something appealing, soothing about the cardboard cup in my hand. The container dressed in army green with a crisp white lid appears dignified. A dirt brown cuff wrapped around its middle protects my fingers and palm from the too hot content. The walk from the coffee station to a comfortable table and chair looks to be an easy task but is not when my handbag slips off my shoulder. The strap lands in the crook of my elbow, I tighten my hand around the paper cuff which pops open the lid and hot liquid slides down its crisp exterior threatening to scald my hand. I rush to the nearest table fearing what would come next, that is when we met.
Chicken Coop Devastation
The wind howled in anticipation. The chickens squawked necks jerking forward then back pecking at unseen danger, their skinny claws raking the dry brown ground. Molly raised her head, called into the sky; “Lord, Lord save us from devastation.”
As the wind threatened to raise her skirt high, she lured the chickens inside the coop wondering if it would make a difference; if anything made a difference.
The lone road leading to the house was empty. Skip probably not on the way back probably headed towards that other woman who brought them havoc.
Molly knew something was going on from the first “Meet the Teacher” night. Skip had showered, shaved and wore the right fit jeans. Molly teased him, “You spruced up, feels like we’re going on a date.”
She knew because his eyes locked with Ms. Jenny’s as they stood in the doorway, before his hand casually brushed the third grade teacher during a meeting folder exchange.
She had been vandalized, came upon a locked box previously hidden in the attic floorboards empty, the jewelry and money inside taken by someone she love. Her heart demolished and destroyed.
The weather alert sounded and Molly tucked herself inside the chicken coop praying, “Lord, Lord save us from devastation.”
. . . . Seriously Just Saying
“Are you ready?”
“Not really?”
“Not really? We agreed to vote early, avoid the lines.”
“I’m having second thoughts.”
“Second thoughts, about voting?”
“No second thoughts about Trump. What if he wins?”
“He’ll be president.”
“Hilary’s a liar, she deleted emails and then there’s Benghazi? Think about Supreme Court nominees. How can you vote for her?”
“Well for one thing she’s not going to be investigated by the FBI and to my knowledge hasn’t groped anyone.”
“Your right! I’ll vote for Hilary. You know history is in the making, a woman president, and a man first lady.”
“Oh! You’re changing your mind? . . . The Supreme Court? That’s some serious stuff, needing some serious thought.”
“You’re making a right about face?”
“Yes, you were going to vote for him. I can have second thoughts. ”
“Right but I had second thoughts first and now I’m voting for Hilary.”
“Well I’m voting for Trump! Any third thoughts?”
“Get in the Car.”
. . . . Seriously Just Saying
Nora sets two hot coffee containers on the reception desk then places her handbag on the swivel chair. She removes her coat walking towards the open closet door, several winter coats hang lazily on hangers inside. She buttons her Mohair wool jacket to a wooden one, to prevent it slipping to the floor, and turns to see Don, wearing a smile, wiggling out of his leather bomber.
Nora says, “Good Morning, Don, I brought you coffee.”
“Thanks Nora, a peace offering or you gonna start?” He reaches for a hanger and drapes his jacket on it. The heavy shoulders pull to one side and the end of the hanger pokes the forearm of the garment.
She answers, “Peace offering, although I find it irksome and would not abuse such a beautiful article of clothing if it were mine, it’s yours and you have every right to hang it anyway you like.”
Don’s smile broadens, “Irksome as in irk? A little word, short and to the point. Irk, produces a sharp sound with little effort if you pucker you lips together, Nora,” then his smile fads.
. . . . Seriously Just Saying
Amanda holds the pen tightly and pauses, she could go vulgar; an f-you or drop dead? That is not her style. Love or hugs, both would be sarcastic. She scans the words, a Dear John letter of sorts, hastily scribbled telling him farewell, adios, and good-bye.
Her cell rings. The screen says it is John, not the real John, her John. Seconds before the call transfers to voice box, she picks up.
His raspy voice says, “Amanda, I’m so sorry, Jimmy got stopped, a DUI, I went to pick him up. He was so messed up I didn’t have a chance to phone, I know I said this wouldn’t happen again, please say you’ll forgive me.”
Amanda takes time to respond thoughtfully, with patience, “John, that’s what you said last time you were a no-show. What happened then? Was that the time your mom fell in the driveway? I have trouble remembering. Perhaps it was the time you drove that woman who was attempting to transport $500 of groceries in a baby stroller, home.”
“Amanda, you know I love you. I’m just no good about calling. I start getting caught up in their problems and the next thing I know I’m in trouble with you. Please you got to understand.” His voice is soft and genuine, sincere.
She clears her throat and states firmly, “John, let’s be candid.”
“Amanda, why are you calling me John? And candid? You don’t love me. Never could accept me for who I am. You want me to be perfect, show up when I say I will, phone when I can’t. I’m a sloppy careless stupid person who loves you. But that isn’t enough! No never enough. Guess what Amanda, we are so done.” John hits the end call button.
Amanda picks up the pen and writes a valediction, Sincere Regrets, before signing her name on the bottom of the letter.
. . . . Seriously Just Saying
Margaret parked her white turbo Buick, grabbed her cell pressing the microphone icon and said, “Parking outside Macy’s swimsuit entrance under a skinny oak.” She was on a mission to find a dress for her upcoming 50th High School Reunion.
Inside, she hurried passed department windows looking at the latest fashions. However, stopped suddenly to gaze at the reflections thinking, don’t I know that person?
She did. It was her.
This was not the first time she failed to recognize herself.
At the age of 68, a stranger in the mirror greeted her mornings. Oh, the face was hers; just not the twenty-five year old one she expected.
She wondered about this silent transformation taking place. How had she become an old woman?
. . . . Seriously Just Saying
Seriously Just Saying 
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