The Shadow of The Imagined

I don’t know you.
Correction: I don’t know all of you.

You’re like a shadow.
That part that comes from the shining of the afternoon sun on your true self, the heart of you.
But please, show me your heart.
Or will it take time for me to see you?
After all. . .
Your shadow—is a representative.
My shadow—is a representative.
I can only imagine who you are from your shadow.
But once the sun goes down
Once trouble and tribulation emerge in the night
Once pain, jealousy, and envy wrap their arms around us and
Envelopes us
And squeezes us like the hungry pythons they are. . .
Then and only then will I know if what I see is what I imagined.
Or if what I imagined is truly real.
Or should we continue to fake it?
Should we continue to live as our shadows?
Continue to live within our imaginations of each other?
Instead of facing the pain of being our true selves?


Writing prompt: Write 5 minutes on the following phrase: A shadow can indicate what is only imagined.

The Note

"Check, please," I said as the waiter walked by not once, but twice. He'd been super nice up until this time, and I'd been considering leaving a tip much higher than my usual 15-18%. But with each pass, his tip for good service was disappearing like a puff of smoke in a strong breeze.

"Check, please," I yelled a little too loud for my own comfort. He slowed this time, stared into my eyes, and said "One moment".  Those gorgeous blue eyes that my friend and I had been giggling over were all of a sudden cold and icy.

"Humph. He's going to mess around and get no tip," I said under my breath.

My friend Pam laughed. "We can leave him a tip. A tip of the day. Look both ways before crossing a busy street."

We both laughed a bit too hard. We quieted down when our waiter was standing at our table, placing the black sleeve containing our bill on the table with shaky hands.  He slowly backed away, all the while maintaining perfect eye contact.

"He better hope we pay this damn bill. He better hope we don't do it like we use to back in the day. Just up and leave. No tip. No paying for this meal. No nothing."

"I know that's right," Pam said.

I opened the bill sleeve. At least he remembered to give the twenty percent discount on our meal. Coupons are the best.

There was something scribbled across the bottom of my bill.

"Someone just called in a bomb threat. There's a bomb under table Two, Section 15. That is your table. If you get up from the table, it will blow. So DON'T MOVE."

Pam was gathering her coat. "Come on, let's go."

"No," I yelled.  "No, let's stay. I want dessert."

"But you said you were full. And you said we had to be outta here by eight so you can pick up Johnny."

Johnny, my sweet baby boy, would have to wait, I thought.

"No," I repeated as I gently waved my hand in the air to get the waiters attention. This wasn't necessary, as he was staring at me.

"Yes," he said, barely above a whisper.

I handed the bill to him. "I got your message. Loud and clear.  The hot fudge sundae would be a great addition to our meal. We'll take two."


Afterword 

This story is actually from a writing prompt given by my gub'ment writing group. It's from a page of prompts and I chose this one. The prompt should be easy to see, as it was a waiter runs up on you and give you a note. What does it say?  (Something like that).

I tend to be a bit on the violent side in my writing. My first thought was a waiter handing a person a note about a bomb. It's not realistic, but hey... it's just a story.

Now, I have no idea where that story goes. But, I have a book titled Plot and Structure, and there's a suggestion in there concerning plot.  When there's a big turning point in a story, one should write TEN different scenarios... and choose the craziest one, the one that's original and out the box. The instructor of my last writing class said write TWENTY different scenarios and choose the most shocking.

 I have written three scenarios and I'm shocked already.  I think I will try to write that twenty. I tend to have a one track mind, and this will definitely break it up.

No telling what I will come up with.

I Remember...

I remember laughing so hard that I cried.

I remember the first time I told you I loved you.

I remember the first time you told me you loved me.

I remember the gentle breeze flowing through my hair on the first day of spring.

I remember the taste of lemonade that needed more sugar.

I remember the burn from the heat of a pepper that was just a little too hot for me.

I remember the fight we had, and how I thought it would all blow over.

I remember the way I felt when I realized we would never speak again.

I remember the heat of the vinyl seat in a car that had been parked in the direct sunlight at the height of summer.

I remember the joy I felt when waking up on Christmas day to more gifts that I could count.

I remember the confusion I felt after a receiving a diagnosis that was considered fatal in times past.

I remember the elation I felt when I found out that such a diagnosis was not considered terminal.

I remember the reading a story so good that it grabbed my emotions tight and made me cry.

I remember leaving a city I didn't like only to return to a city I called home.

I remember the apricot-softness of a newborn's skin.

I remember the school bell ringing, signalling that was time to go home.



From Government Creative writing group, July 17, 2014. Writing prompt: Wrtite a poem with every line beginning with the words "I remember..." (10 minutes)

That poem is from an exercise given in my government writing group, which has been meeting once a month for the past few months. I'm not naming my agency on purpose, but the group is based up in our DC headquarters. I participate on the phone. It's been good for me. There's a nice mix of  people.

I like this exercise because it forced me to relive a plethora of feelings, everything from joy to sorrow. There are even some sensory lines there (taste, touch, etc).  I may work on it a little more.

I'm wondering what would I write if the time limit for the exercise was a full hour?

And I'm wondering if I have some lemons in the fridge for lemonade?

Spring is Near (Days Like This)

Days like this...
When Mother Nature is such a trickster,
When awful snowstorms fueled by 20 degree temperatures and harsh blustery winds are followed close behind by days like today, where it's sunny, 75 degrees, and not a cloud in the sky....

Days like this reminds me of when I was a child, where the sudden warmth turns the snow and ice into a nasty slush.  I remember thinking that if the slush was clean, I could mix it with my favorite Kool-aide  flavor

But my little feet and toes were frozen.
I couldn't even feel them through my cheap shoes.
Slish-slosh, slish-slosh I go, as Mama drags me along.
We were hurrying for the bus, but all of a sudden we stopped, missing our bus.
Mama pointed at something.
I looked down, and there it was...
A beautiful daisy, standing tall and strong,

Pushing up, gazing at the sun from the slush ground.
I reached down and plucked it up with my tiny fingers.
"Spring is near," Mama said.
"No Mama," I said. "Spring is here. Mama, Spring is here."

She knelt down and gently took the flower from my hand, and she placed it in one of my afro puffs.  I remember the sun shining warm upon my face that day as we waited in line for the next city bus. The lady behind us said "It's gonna be a hot day! Spring sho' nuff near."

My Mama corrected her with words I'd spoken only a few moments ago...
"No, spring is here, Ma'am. Spring  is here."

From Workplace Creative Writing Group, Washington DC, March 17, 2015. Writing Prompt: Write a poem about Spring; writing time: 15 minutes.

March

We’ve made this journey for well over three decades, this journey every March to my Grandfather’s grave site. Before we leave out the front door on the chosen day, my father would pour each of us an ounce of his father’s favorite drink: a glass of thick chocolate milk topped with frozen sliced strawberries.  We'd have a moment of silence, and it's so quiet that we can  hear ourselves breathe. And I wince every time from the brain freeze brought on by cold  fruit.

And then we make the long march to the grave. We walk a mile through dense woods, down to where the

river breaks from left to right. And right there, as the river turns, we rest. But only for a moment.

I get scared there, right at the river bend. Thirty years ago when I was a ten-year-old boy, we saw a bear, a big one. But lucky for us, a gentle wind blew, and the bear decided to follow the wind instead of following us.

After marching for awhile, we can see the grave from where we stand, covered in a thick blanket of bright green moss.

“Let’s clean Daddy’s grave,” my father says, his voice an odd mixture of excitement and sadness.

We his children are happy to oblige. The five mile walk is worth my own father’s sad smile. We clean my grandfather’s grave. We talk of good times long gone.  And after we pay our respects, we make the long walk back, the long march back home.

From: Workplace Creative Writing Group, Washington DC, March 17, 2015.

10 minute writing exercise: Use the following 12 nouns and verbs in either a poem or prose about MARCH. Title your piece “March”.

grave, pour, bear, breaks, rivers, rest, moss, follow, wind, turns, door, breath

Quiet Symphony

It is amazing how when at night
I turn off the television and the house lights
In search of quiet so I can fall asleep.
Except it isn’t really quiet.

For in the distance, there is a freeway.
It’s not far away, but it is far enough away not to trip me out and have me staying up all night from all the noise.

Yes, I can hear the cars as they speed to their destinations.

And in the distance, a train track runs. I can hear the hard thrusts of engines, powering trains down tracks of wood and steel.


Suddenly into this quiet symphony blows a hard wind, rushing with urgency through the tall trees that dot the yard. And on this very night, there's an extra special cameo:

It’s the rain,  a soft and persistent patter upon my spanish tile roof. It's working with the wind to batter the trees, causing them to drop their acorns from their delicate branches.

And tonight, there is you
Laying here beside me.
Your breath is slow, deep, and even.
I hear you exhale
Inhale
And exhale again.
And the sound of your breath, it is quiet.
But at the same time
Just as loud as the car, train, wind and the rain.

My head rests upon your chest
Your chest hairs are sparse and downy
They tickle that space that has no name
That space between my cheek and nose.

We made love during this quiet symphony
Our moans and groans special guests stars
At this performance given just for us and by us.
As we lay, you break the silence with one simple question
And it’s the same question you always ask:

“You still think about him, don’t you?”

At a time like this, it would be best to lie.
 But I can’t lie.
I can’t lie.
Not when I'm vunarable like this.
Not when I’m coming down from my sexual high.

And I can’t lie to you, my husband
My husband who has loved me faithfully for so many years.
Love is the conductor tonight, and it won’t let me tell a lie.

“Yes,” I say.  "Yes Lord Yes."

The word is quiet as it slips from my mouth, barely a shushed whisper.
It is barely audible amongst the quiet symphony of cars, trains, wind, breath and rain.
I still think about him, the love of my life. But my parents didn’t approve of him, saying that I would make you, my husband, a better wife.

They were right.
I was a better wife.
I had a better life.
But what of the rushing wind?
What of the falling rain?
What of the hurried cars?
What of these cargo carrying trains?

And what of my heart?

I can’t think of that, my heart
My fast beating heart, right now.
My thoughts are brash and loud, off-key and in need.
There's no need for other words to be spoken.
For now I will concentrate and focus on the quiet symphony

This quiet symphony...
Which plays so softly for you and me.


Afterword

Hmm.  Usually I holler "That ain't me!" after a story. 

But that story is highly biographical.

When I wake up in the mornings, I hear all kinds of sounds. And they aren't loud enough to jar me, but I still hear them. I live about a mile from the freeway, and I live about the same distance from some train tracks. I hear the rain, and the wind blowing through my trees.  Those are always still quiet moments, where there's no television, no nothing. Just the sounds of nature and life moving fast for others.

I was reading something in my favorite author's rough draft of her next novel, and a portion indirectly reminded me of that one line in the story:

"You still think about him, don't you?"

I was asked that one evening after some lovemaking by the ex-hubby. I said yes. He didn't say anything, but I remember him having a attitude later. It had to be connected with that.

The boyfriend I had before him was the best boyfriend EVER. But I let him go because he wasn't that smart. I should've been mature enough to appreciate his best attribute: He was good.

I was young. And I didn't know any better.

Tayari was like... "Wow."

"I'm gonna use that as a writing prompt," I told her.

And I did.

And a good writing prompt it was.

I Once Asked

I once asked you if you were happy.

Happy here in this place

Happy here in this space.

Happy with the love we share.

That was your chance, you know, to come clean with me. At that very moment I would've been willing to forgive. Not forget, but forgive. Forgetting would take a little longer.

For it would take a little longer to forget seeing you with her in the restaurant where we had our first date, in the very place where you proposed, at the table you asked me to be your wife for life.

It's too late now, too late to answer the questions I once asked. For you're staring at me, eyes vacant black pools, blood streaming from the hole in your head, made from the bullet from my gun just seconds ago.

I once asked her, the woman laying next to you in our bed, why she took you from me. Just like you, she can't answer the question either. Her eyes are shut, but the hole in her head is bigger than the hole in yours.

Maybe she's with you somewhere in eternity.

Wishing that when someone asks a question, you both would have the courage to answer.

from Women of Color Writing Workshop, February 2014
Writing prompt: 7 minute timed.

Choose one phrase from the following to start your story:

If I could stop...
If you must know...
I once asked...
The first day...
The hurricane neared...


It is easy to see which one I chose. I chose to use "I once asked..."

This story shocked the ladies. The angry woman in this piece seems so... calm. 

Did the turn in the story shock you?

If so, good. I love when I can jar your emotions in so few words.

Shock value is key.

The Knob (Alarm)

There is a knob that sits on the nightstand on the left side of my the bed.  That is the side of the bed on which I sleep.

 I found it one day during my daily walk around the neighborhood. I'd stepped on it. I was so caught up in the music streaming through my headphones that I didn't even see it. Harold Melvin and his Blue notes have me like that from time to time, where I'm not paying much attention to where I'm going.

I'd reached down and picked up this knob. In that moment I wondered where it came from and who lost it.  It was much too pretty to throw away. I slid it in my pocket and went on with my routine.

Later that night, I sat it upon my nightstand.  I meant to throw it away, but I didn't. And it has been there on the nightstand ever since.

I didn't know what it meant. But it began to mean something to me. Whenever I hit the blaring clock alarm in the mornings to shut it off,  the first thing I saw was the knob.

And after a time that knob was staring back at me.

At times it was the world, and the seas, and all that lay within.  Other times it was the sky full of birds big and small, wings spread and floating on the wind.

At other times it was wise men staring hard at me, men frowning so ho hard that their eyebrows knitted together in the hardest of lines. They were wondering, no asking, why was I there in bed besides yet another random man? Why had I just lay with man after man who didn't love me, man after man who didn't even know my name?

The world.

The seas.

The skies full of birds.

Life... at its richest and fullest.

Shielding my heart from the good times and bad.

Attempting to shield my heart from the dark times of seeking satisfaction from random man after random man. . .

. . .after random man.

I kept the knob there, right there next to the clock with the flickering and fading red digitals. It was the proper alarm I needed.

Hopefully it would someday open my eyes to all I needed to see.



From Women of Color Writing Group, January 2014.
5 minute writing prompt. Our facilitator bought some cabinet and dresser drawer knobs from the thrift store. We were to each pick one and write a story about it.

This is the knob I chose:



I see a lot there in that knob. I saw blue skies, blue water, birds... and what looked like frowning asian men or something like that.

The character... my goodness- Her and her random men. That sounds like a deep seeded secret problem. And it sounds dangerous.

She is obvious conflicted about it all. I wonder what that's about? Hmm.

Grandmother's Purse

My purse.

I carry it where ever I go.

It is bright red with white polka dots the size of silver dollars. The clasp is gold, peeling and rusting with age.
The fabric is patent leather, so it sticks to the skin of my thigh if I leave it resting there for too long.

It doesn't match my clothes and shoes. Come to think about it, it doesn't match anything I own. For I don't own any red clothing. And white is not my style.

But that's all well and fine. It doesn't have to match. It was my grandmother's purse, the one she gave to me as a child. I will always remember how she pointed to it with shaky hands as she whispered in an equally shaky voice, "I told them to pull that pocketbook out just for you, little girl."

They were the last words she'd spoken exactly an hour before she died.

The purse itself is important, but what it contains is just as important, if not more: a bible, heavily marked and tattered, the gold leaf pages now a dull yellow; a small black journal, stuffed and overflowing with my grandmother's joys and pains.

And there is a black and white photo of she and I as we sat on a bench in the pouring rain patiently waiting for a bus that must've lost its way.

I was cuddled up next to my grandmother that day. She'd pulled me close, her arm wrapped tightly around my shoulder as she held a tiny black umbrella with broken spines over our heads. That day, she asked someone passing by to take a picture of the two of us.

Later while sitting in the warmth of the bus, I asked her why we took a picture while it was raining.

She said it was because even in a storm, we could still smile.

It was simple enough, but too simple for my little mind to capture a hold of at the time.

But I understood after her death, the photo and what it meant, and how it went hand-in-hand with that bible and journal.

My grandmother left me a piece of herself, a piece of her very heart. And I leaned and understood that if I didn't have anything else in life, I was richly prepared.

For she had left me all that I would ever need to make it through every storm of life.

From Women of Color Writing Workshop, January 2014. 
7 minute writing workshop. We were given a sheet of paper containing some 25 items that could be found in a purse. We were told to pick 3 of these items and write a story about the purse and these three items. 

It should be obvious what I chose:  a spiritual book, a photo, and a journal.

My grandmother is still alive, but I remember back in the 70s, she was always taking pictures. She had a Kodak camera that took black and white pictures. There was a flash cube that she would have to place on top of the camera.  And even back then she had a big blocky camcorder, and so there is film of me as a little girl, running around. (It was awful whenever I brought boyfriends over, and she would pull out this projector screen and run these films. Ugh).

She is, at the age of 84, so amazed by the technology of this day. She doesn't understand it all. She was ahead her time some 40 years ago.

So I thought of her as I wrote this piece. She and I are so much alot. I love pictures and photos. I love my bible. And you know I love writing and journalling.

I think I will call her.

And the next time I see her, I will read it to her.

Yellow light (Wait)

Daniel remembered exactly where he was on January 1, 2000 just as the clock struck midnight. No, he wasn't at home, hoping and praying like so many that the computers and the whole world didn't stop, didn't just shut down and crash all around him (This whole Y2K thing had everybody going crazy).

He was in his car, in his Brooklyn, New York neighborhood at a red light waiting for it to turn green.

But instead of turning green, it turned yellow.  And it stayed yellow.

Maybe it was a sign that things had indeed gone wrong as the clock struck 12.  What light changes from red to yellow like that?

He sat patiently staring at the yellow light, waiting for it to turn green or perhaps waiting for it to operate like most yellow lights did and turn red.

At any rate, he understood its meaning.  It meant wait.

Wait.

Wait for his anger to fade before he showed up at her house to let her know exactly what he thought of the sudden breakup over the phone a few minutes ago without warning.

Wait to see if she was just having one of her "moments" and would call back and apologize.

Or it meant wait.

Wait.

Sit and wait for the one, the one for him.

For the one for him was worth the wait.

And in that very moment, he decide that waiting was the very best thing to do.

From Women of Color Writing Workshop
5 minute writing prompt:  Use the following in a writing prompt: 

Person: Daniel
Place: Brooklyn NY
Date: January 1, 2000
Color: Yellow

Clear Liquor (Sip)

I drank my liquor
My favorite sweet clear liquor
From a frosted jar chilled for hours in my freezer
My freezer that has been cooled low
Cooled low to its coldest setting

Why?
Because I like it like that
And when I gently removed my jar from the freezer,
I see the white smoke swirling softly
Swirling oh so softly from the jar
As I touch it first to my cheek
And then to yours.
As I touch it first to my lips
And then to yours.

I enjoy sharing my liquor
My favorite sweet clear liquor
With you
Because my liquor
That good good liquor
Was something of my own
It was, and has always been,
My secret addiction
And I shared it with no one.

Now I share it with you,
And now my secret addiction is you
And the smile on your face
As you sip with me
As you sip me
And as I sip you
While the white smoke swirls
A soft fog swirling between you and I
Between me and you
A love supreme
Warmed to its warmest setting
By the love we make.


From Women of Color Writing Workshop, 11/22/13. 7 minute writing prompt.

The writing prompt was a visual one. The Facilitator Dawn passed 4 interesting bottles around the room.

Here's a closeup.

The prompt involved creating a piece with one of the bottles or up to all four if we wanted.

I was immediately drawn to the frosted bottle. When I think of frosted glass, I think of the old frosted glasses my mother kept in the freezer back in the 70s. She said it kept whatever she drank really cold.

And I believed her because I could see the "smoke" come off of them when she sat them on the table, and when she poured whatever she was drinking (most likely Cold Duck), into them.

And I remembered thinking... That's really cold. 

The ladies were a bit taken aback by my piece, as it's not in my usual style or voice.

It lingers on the edge of erotic... just on the edge.  That is as far as it will go. You know how I whine about not liking erotica. Your friendly neighborhood Oldgirl has swang from chandalier to kitchen counter to chandalier. Can't say I care to read about it.

Serenity read this last week and she wanted to know what type of liquor the woman and her lover were drinking. I had my thoughts, but I wanted to know what she thought, since she's my resident wine and liquor expert.

She mentioned Reisling. I was thinking along the lines of Moonshine. Serenity didn't say anything. She knows her big blog sista is a bit bootleg and ghetto. I don't even know what Reisling is.

Moonshine sounds more along the lines of "secret" liquor, liquor you don't wanna share with folks.

And this woman chooses here to share it with the one she loves.

Hmmm... 

Thanks for reading!

In This One...

In this one, you are sweating profusely.
Your hands are shaking.
Your heart is thumping hard and fast in your chest.

The man before you, the kind cashier at the gas station near your home. . .
His eyes are wide
His hands are raised in surrender
He's yelling
Pleading
Begging you to put the gun down.

In this one
You smile, because you know...
No, you understand
That this man's life is in your very hands.

Just a moment ago, this cashier was smiling.

He was overly thankful that you walked in and knocked out the robber who was waving a gun and demanding money from the cash register. You knocked the thief out with a swift karate chop to the back of the head. It was the first time you'd put that black belt training to use, and it felt good. You reached down and snatched the gun from the robber's limp hand.

And in that very moment,
Upon feeling the cool steel of the gun in your hand,
After living such a monotonous and boring life...
You want to know what it was like,

... to rob, shoot, and kill an innocent man.



From 2012 Women of Color Writing Workshop. Writing prompt: (5 minutes) Begin a story with "In This One..."

I've done this before, and it is one of my favorite writing prompts. It even gave me a chance to write something in the 2nd person point of view.

Cat. Bounce. Rain.

(Experiencing technical difficulties around these parts, so I can't post up what I want to post today. So enjoy this repost of a writing prompt story instead. This one here is for that hypothetical stripper "Chocolate Drop")


“She got that Kitty-Cat! She know how to Bounce wit it!”
“She got that kitty-Cat! She know how to Bounce wit it!”

The DJ yelled that over and over again as he spun records on the turntable.
He yelled it as I spun round and round that pole.

Men hooped and hollered.
Dollar bills rained.
And rained.
And rained.

I didn’t hear any of it
As I swung round, and round and round that stripper pole.
Dollars raining, drowning out my tears.
Providing a light veil for my unspoken fears.
Soon it would be all over.

House lights on.
Adoring fans gone.
Only the sound of my careful footsteps, as I walked all alone.
Just me and a pocketbook of dollars,
Those wrinkled crumpled dollars
They'll soon be gone, evaporating like this summer rain.

Silence displacing the accolades.
Replaced by the sound of my own breathing…
My cigarette ember glowing, gray smoke unfurling.
Smoothed out by the taste of my salty tears.

Cat once warm, now cool against the hard wooden bench as I awaited a cab home.
No bouncing as the sun came up over the horizon.
“There would be more cat, more bounce," I whispered as I took a long drag from my cigarette.
"And there would be more rain tonight.”



From October 8, 2010 Women of Color Writing Group. Writing prompt: Write a verb and a noun on a card and place it into a basket. Participants pull a random card from basket and write for 10 minutes using the verb and noun they pulled.

I pulled a card with the words "cat" and "bounce" written on it.


Hmmm... maybe I was suppose to write about Oscar-Tyrone! lol

The Bonfire Answers

Only four days after the death of her husband, Maryanne made a bonfire of his clothes and favorite possessions.

She hated that she had to wait that long to do that, something she’d been dreaming of doing since the first time he hit her some ten years ago. She would’ve like to have done it when the hospital called to tell her that he was dead, but that would’ve been rude, what with his many friends and relatives around all hours of the day holding candlelight vigils at the hospital, in the house, and on the front lawn.

A raging fire with her husband things as kindling would have looked beyond suspicious.

And if anyone ever found out that it was the arsenic sprinkled lightly in his morning coffee and not his failing diabetic kidneys that had killed him, that too would have been a shame.

So when the last of the many offered casseroles were eaten and the last of the heartfelt condolences were offered, Maryanne gathered up Charles’ things and piled them high in the backyard way back beyond the huge thicket of trees out of view, and sat them on fire.

As the flames consumed the items, she thought of his drunken rages and his numerous affairs.

“Where are they now, Charles?” she yelled. “Where are your fists? Where are your women?”

For the first time there was no answer.

The crackle and snaps of the flames consuming what once was were the only sounds to be heard.

And that was the only answer she needed.



From Knight Writing Class, May 16, 2013.

Writing prompt (homework):  Begin a story with "Only four days after the death of her husband, Maryanne made a bonfire of his clothes and favorite possessions."

The Well

I see my past deep within the murky waters of the well.

A past that I can't physically touch, for it only lives in the deep abyss of my mind.

But ever so often, the images rise and fade
Blend in and out
Concave and converse
And distort beyond recognition.

I see the faces of those who loved me
And I see the faces of those long gone
I see the faces of those who didn't judge me for being
Too Fat
Too Skinny
Too Dark
Too Light

But in their minds I was just right.
They are people I recognize
Their blood flows thick and warm through my veins
The connection bone deep
More real than pure life itself
And they are calling me
Beckoning me
To look down into the waters and see them in the well.

As I look there the image merges into a reflection that I recognize, although I don't consider it as much as I should.

Familiar eyes
Lips
Nose
Face

The reflection is one I recognize
It is an image of me...
Of course it is me:
For I am the amalgamation of all those who came before me.

From Women of Color Workshop, 2011... 5 minute writing prompt: Write a story about looking into a well and what you see.. .

I, John Smith

She threw it all away.

The ring I, John Smith, bought for her - she threw it away.

The ring I saved a whole year for-- She threw it away.

Who does that?

What kind of woman takes something so valuable and throws it away, like it's just another piece of trash?

I'll tell you what kind of woman...

The woman who left me, John Smith, for him...

Some guy she met at a biker bar.

"He's a badass," she said. "As a matter of fact, his nickname is Bad Ass. And he's nothing like you, John."

Mr. Bad Ass knew how to show her a good time, knew all the best bars and hangouts.

And I, John Smith, just worked ten, sometimes twelve hours a day.

I was boring, not an ounce of fun to be had.

Just boring John.

Even my name was boring, she'd said.

John Smith.

And now, here we sat in a hotel lobby, some ten years later, talking.

That guy, Mr. Bad Ass, was long gone, locked up for attempted murder and armed robbery.

And she waited for hours to get some time with me, just to let me know that she'd come to her senses, seeing how after four kids and far too much trouble that maybe, just maybe, I, John Smith, wasn't so bad after all.

And it didn't take much to see that. Afterall, she'd seen me, John Smith, on all the morning news shows.  She'd even watched me at the White House, walking casually through the rose garden chatting with the President. She had the same questions the President had. She, like he and everyone else, wanted to know how I did it all and what my secrets to success were.
And she saw me, just like the entire country that day, respond that the key to it all was letting go of those who didn't think you were good enough. And letting go of those who couldn't and wouldn't support your dreams.

And it meant having enough sense to know that anyone who throws it all away wasn't really meant for you in the first place.

And she wanted to tell me that that day that she'd heard every word I said, loud and clear.

She wanted to tell me that I was right.

I, John Smith, was the best thing that'd ever happened to her.

And in her quiet moments she was haunted by sad memories of how she threw it all away.

I sat quietly and listened to her every word, and I watched the tears fall like rain from her eyes.

At that moment, I knew that I, John Smith, was a perfect catch...

For once in my life, I was the one that got away.

And that right there?

That very realization?

It made my day.



....from Women of Color Writing Group, April 2012,

Writing Prompt: . Write a story that begins with "She threw it all away". (7 minute time limti)

Happiness

The roving reporter stuck a microphone in her face, and asked the question he’d been asking of everyone on the corner that night.

“Did you see the killer? Did you see who shot Boo Johnson?” he asked the woman leaning against the stop sign with her arms crossed.

She stared the handsome reporter up and down.

Then she looked into the camera.  “My name is Cinnamon. Cinnamon Sugar."

The reporter cracked a smile, the same smile most men had when she uttered her professional name.

“Ma’am, did you see who shot Boo Johnson?

Cinnamon Sugar stared back into the camera. “Some say you can’t buy happiness. We beg to differ.”

“Is that so?” the reporter said.

Cinnamon Sugar nodded. “I don’t know who shot Boo Johnson, but I’m just telling you our motto: Some say you can’t buy hapineess. We beg to differ.”

The reporter stared blankly.

“For happiness is between my legs. Happiness is me down on my knees. Some say you can't buy happiness. We beg to differ. You see, we aim to please.”

The reporter yelled “Cut” and walked off to someone who had something more useful to say.

What she said was good.

What she said was right.

She wanted to let the city know what was going on in her neighborhood.

Happiness.




From September 2010 Women of Color Writing Workshop.

5 minute writing prompt. Draw a magazine clipping out of the basket and use it as subject matter for a story.

My magazine clipping was "Some say you can't buy happiness. We beg to differ"

That had me a little O_o. But I think I did okay on the spot in 5 minutes. This little vignette prompted a full character sketch of Cinnamon Sugar, who is a character in my manuscript Always Watching.

Barely Breathing (The Peephole)

I'm looking through the peephole, and what do I see?

I see him pacing back and forth.
I see him stopping in front of the peephole and peering closer.
I see his face.
His face is warped
His brow is furrowed.
He is pissed.

I stand there with my arms folded tightly across my chest
I'm barely breathing, as still as a statue.
You see, I don't want him to see me, or to even know that I'm there.

I hold my breath and watch as he cups his hands to the peephole.
He moves closer and places his face to his hands, as if that will help him see inside.

He's not getting in tonight.

And I will stand here all night if I must
Watching, waiting, and barely breathing.

Yes, I will hold my breath and watch.
It is better to stand here watching and waiting,
And peering through the peephole

Than to face another threat,
Another accusation,
Another beating.

Tonight the peephole is my friend.
It is my third eye, allowing me to watch
And hope that the man on the other side,
The man who claims to love me
Will eventually go away...

...Go far far away.



From Women of Color Writing Workshop, September 2010...
5 minute writing prompt - You're through through a peephole... What do you see?w

I am From...

I am from a place
A most interesting place
On the Southside of town
SWATS
Ben Hill
College Park
And a few places in between.

I am from a time when we were afraid to walk the streets.
Terrified that “the man” was gonna get us
That the man was gonna reach out from wherever he stood
And snatch us
And kill us all.

I am from a family shattered and fractured like shards of broken glass
Broken, smashed, busted into too many pieces to count
A family so dysfunctional that God shakes His head
And looks over at Jesus and wonders aloud,
Could they every put this thing back together again?

I am from string wrapped and wound tight into balls
String woven together with shiny hooked needles into something warm and soft…
I am from string crocheted into something to cherish…
Blended into something that will last forever
Gifts that lasts a lifetime.

I am from wet ink
That flows from a pen that careens freely across this page
Freeing words that have been closed up in my heart for far too long
Words that spill freely from my heart
When allowed to break free, that is.

That’s where I’m from…


From Women of Color Writers Workshop, June 2012.

5 minute writing prompt: Write a story or poem that begins with the phrase “I am from”

I liked this one. It allowed me to write about things I love and things that have bothered me.

Balloons

I remember balloons.

I remember their beauty.

I remember the plethora of colors.

Today they are much more fancy, all metallic and crinkly, bent and squeezed into funny shapes.

But I don’t like balloons.

Because in 1973, me and my best friend at the time were sitting on her living room floor blowing up balloons.

We were little things, no older than three, you see.

And my friend, she blew up her balloon and it popped in her face.

And she screamed, her scream louder than the loudest fire or police siren.

And I haven’t been the same since.

I remember balloons.

I remember their beauty.

I remember the joy they bring.

But some 40 years later, the terrifying scream still rings in my head.

So I admire them from afar.

From Women of Color Writing Workshop, December 28, 2012… 

Writing prompt: Memory lane: Use one of the following sentences as the first line in your story.

I remember learning.

I remember biting

I remember balloons.

I remember falling.

Afterword

That is actually a true story. I don't like balloons AT ALL. And it all stems from that incident way back then when I was 3 years old.

I've been able to steer clear of balloons for the most part. I have been at parties over the years where people start popping them. I don't bust out crying, but I think back to that time so long ago.

I know one time, back in 1996, my boyfriend surprised me with a bunch of balloons for Valentines day. I didn't have the heart to tell him that I didn't want them. I remember leaving his place with all those balloons in the back seat of my car. I was completely unnerved. I took them home and left them in the living room. (I had a small place, but I stayed out of the living room for the most part). I threw them away one by one as they deflated.

But there was this one lone balloon... a big metallic heart shaped one with the words "I Love You" in big red cursive letters splayed across both sides. That sucker would not go down.

And it would float all over my little place.

I'd wake up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, and I'd run right into it.

I'd wake up in the morning, and it would be there in the bedroom.

Just floating.

And I would walk around it. Way around it.

My boyfriend, when he was over, would holler "That's a good balloon right there! That one holds the helium."

"Uh yeah," I'd mumble.

"I'll have to remember that the next time I buy you some balloons!"

O_O

LOL

That balloon finally went down. I remember throwing it away. Happily.

He didn't buy me balloons again. Thank goodness for that.

Ay yes. One of my phobias. Not rushing to get over that one unless I get a job blowing up balloons or something like that.

Then I'll work on it.

 Otherwise, it was good for a writing prompt subject!