Tag Archives: reinventing yourself

Sunday, Not Just Another Day

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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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The Scowl

Photo by Andrea Piacquadio on Pexels.com

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

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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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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.

Shiver in Thought

 

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    Daily Prompt

     I shiver to think about it. The way the door slammed behind me with a hollow metal sound and the echo of heels tapping down a distant hall, surrounded by quiet, a deafening quiet.

     I pulled my coat close around me against the unknown cold, and shook, questioning why I agreed to this.  I trembled at the touch of a hand on my shoulder. My knees quivered with palsy wondering how this would end.

     I turned around jittery and he inquired, “What are we having for dinner?”

. . . . seriously just saying

Miniature

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Daily Prompt Miniature

Lucy says my heart is miniature, her heart is bigger. Everyone’s heart is bigger than mine.

Lucy says my heart is a replica of hers, only mini; a mini heart, tiny and small; a miniature heart, the size of a frog’s.

Lucy knows because she dissected a frog.

Lucy says I am mini inside but not mini outside.

Lucy says if I don’t believe her she can dissect me.

 

Learning to Write

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Daily Prompt Learning

“It’s none of their business that you have to learn to write.

Let them think you were born that way.” 

Ernest Hemingway

I  learned to write secretly. The year was 2009. My husband and I retired to Florida. Characters, words, and sentences began to dance in my head.

One day I sat at my desk, my back to the office door when my husband asked, “What are you doing?”

Sheepishly I replied, “Writing.”

Slowly I gained the confidence to participate in writer’s groups, joined FWA and write my blog, claudiajustsaying, posting regularly, until recently.

I have gotten out of the habit of writing. My mind no longer word streams about ordinary life events. I am pretty much brain-dead. I contribute this to the vertigo or constant dizziness I have experienced for the past year and a half.

This void is an aspect of writing I am learning about.

I miss writing; taxing my mind to find just the right words, agonizing over where to place a comma. Deciding whether to say “place a comma” or “put a comma.

. . . .  Seriously Just saying

Mundane

Key Takeaway

Give your newer sisters and brothers-in-WordPress one piece of advice based on your experiences blogging.

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Mundane

A good start?

Capture what is in your heart

But, keep it short
Simple, provoke a thought

Something different, and or new
A different view, revealed by you

A catchy title attracts too

Gives a clue
A hint of the perspective gnawing at you

 . . . . seriously just saying

Monster Come Home

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I am struggling to write. This morning I read another struggling writer’s thoughts and was inspired. I even borrow her pic. Please check out writersramblings

Monster Come Home

     Interesting? Yes! Pretty? No, was my initial reaction to the decorative item the customer ahead of me held in her hand.

     The box was unusual. A purple ceramic dragon sat on a book, whose gilded pages had been stonewashed to give the appearance of aged parchment.

“Can you come down in price? The filigree is chipped in several places.” She asked. Her voice was soft and gentle, her blunt haircut envious as she swung her head side to side.

      The cashier smiled an unfriendly smile. “What’s the color of the sticker?”

      The purple dragon glared with hatred and its blood red tongue stuck out. I anticipated the mythical creature breathing fire in her direction any minute. The reptile had a crusty head and shiny gold scales decorated its back.

      The customer raised the dragon box high to view the only flat surface a price tag might adhere, and said, “Red.”

      “Red means it has already been marked down fifty percent.”

       Putting the trinket box on the counter she responded, “Is that really the best you can do?”

       I positioned myself counter side and joined the conversation. “It’s unique, only appeals to a niche market unless something of value is inside.” The shop was one that invited patron participation, more a second hand or consignment rather than antique.

      The cashier studied the item with consideration, “No can do, that red sticker has the final say, that’s the price. Twenty-five dollars, if you want it.”

       “I’ll think about it, perhaps come back.” She returned the box to the spot in which she had found it.

        The elaborate details appeared to confine the dragon in ways I had not noticed before. Was he breaking out or settling in?

       I studied the disappointed on her face. Her eyes were hazel and when she closed them, thick black lashes sealed the lids. Opening them, she swallowed hard pressing her lips. I put my hand on her arm and said, “Why don’t you open it?”

        We have been friends since.

The Whistler

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Recently it has been a real struggle to write so I have returned to a daily writing exercise. I randomly flip through the dictionary and point my finger at a word, then use as many of these words in a story/paragraph.

June 10th Writing Exercise:

Use these ten words to write a story; Transport, discrimination, estimate, collection, chance, whistle, layer, best, provide, and forth.

The Whistler

     Tanya turned around when she heard the whistle. It came from a man sitting on a wooden box turned sideways. His butt overflowed on the top while his feet straddled its sides. It was the kind of box featured in a Norman Rockwell painting. You know the kind, usually had some colorful lettering on it advertising Borden’s Milk or another dairy or produce company. Sometimes the lettering was in bold block letters done in black ink.

     This box was weathered, like the man who sat on it.

     Tanya put her hands on her hips and wiggled back to where he sat. Her high heels scratched the pavement as she walked. She said, “Mister here’s your only chance to apologize, so give it your best shot.

     The man wore a week old beard but smelled of day old cologne, possible Old Spice. He drank coffee from a white Styrofoam cup after blowing a circle of steam aside. Then slurped and said, “Ah . . . .” signifying the caffeine provided some relief. “Now why would I do that? That would be discrimination. I whistle at every pretty girl that goes by, regardless.”

     Tanya’s layered thoughts confused her. She was flattered while offended. She pulled at her too tight too short skirt and turned her chin to say, “Well this pretty girl wants to be the exception . . . discriminate me. I won’t be part of your collection. “

     The man nestled his coffee cup between his knees to free his hands and wrap a coat of sadness around him. “Collection? Never thought I was collecting anything, but now that you put it that way, guess I have a collection of sorts, a collection of memories.”

     Tanya watched the man as he stared into space, got a faraway look in his eye. The sadness he wore fell to the ground. Then a smile appeared on his face and when his eyes met hers said, “Well Miss whatever your name is, I don’t have bad intentions. Just like to whistle no need for you to be part of my memory collection.”

Fang Man

Help-me

     Help Me! I am truly struggling with my writing. Ideas used to pop into my head, gnaw at my mind and interrupt my thoughts during the day. I even woke during the night to write in my head. But, and this is a big but, that has stopped. Yes, there are some upsetting things in my life and I am suffering with vertigo; so I have good excuses. Nevertheless I worry the world is passing me by. This morning I decided to nip it in the bud and resume a writing exercise from the past.

     Writing Exercise:

                 Randomly select ten words from the dictionary or any book and use them to make a story. I don’t time myself, although when this is presented to a group there is usually a fifteen minute time frame. I also like to title what I have written. This is what I wrote.

Fang Man

          (Stretcher, Lady, fang, checkpoint, random, lodging, mixture, single-minded, infectious, smoky)

     “I had to force myself,” the lady said as she was carried on a stretcher. The reporter hurried along-side scribbling in a note pad. Her voice contained a single-mindedness that he knew had saved her. But how long would she be alive? Determined to get her story, he jogged with the rescue team as they weaved their way through the mixture of smoky air and chemical scents he noticed at checkpoint.

      “Lady, can you hear me?” He yelled at her listless body after the stretcher had been placed on the ground next to other victims waiting transport. “What’s your name madam? Miss, what’s your name?” He prodded her to answer.

     “My name?” She lifted her head to ask with skepticism followed with an infectious laugh. The reporter lowered himself onto the grass and sat at her side. He felt helpless and wished to be invisible, not there. All he knew was there had been a loud explosion.

     The woman looked into his eyes and said, “I remember his fangs,” and collapsed on the canvas mattress.

. . . . seriously just saying