I’m Shaking – 100 Word Song

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parking

The shaking came suddenly.  I had never seen him before but something about him made every hair on the back of my neck stand at attention.  His pores oozed malevolent intentions.  I had never feared being on my own in the past but, with one look into his eyes, all of that changed.

I got into my car and locked the doors.  The engine came to life on the first try and I maneuvered around the corners in the parking garage as quickly as my limited driving skills would allow.  His face burns my memory.  His stare haunts my dreams.

~~

Written for the 100 Word Song challenge at My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog.  This week’s song is I’m Shaking by Jack White.  I’m not sure what prompted this story and I hope I don’t run into this guy!!

Photo credit: panoramio.com

Night breezes seem to whisper

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Dreams

(image credit: panktimehta.blogspot.com)

I have always been fortunate when it comes to dreaming. Not only do I have very vivid dreams splashed with a vast array of colors but I also retain most of my dreams in my waking moments.  Last night was no exception to those rules.

Last night I dreamed of my mom.  It is not the first time she has been in my dreams since she passed a couple of weeks ago but this dream was the first time that she was the main character in the night-time production of my subconscious.  During the wee hours of my REM sleep we were able to have a conversation.

In the bizarre circumstances of my dream she had already passed away but when I was the only other person in the room she would become magically reanimated and we would talk at great length.  When others entered the room she remained still, not a word escaped from her lips.  When I awoke this morning, rather than feeling perplexed I felt deeply comforted and peaceful.  I don’t recall many of the words she uttered to me in my sleep but I do feel a great sense of warmth and a feeling of relief that she is content on the other side.  She no longer carries the chains of the physical limitations she endured with her illness and, finally, she truly feels fine.

Have you ever received messages in your dreams?

 

 

Last Trifecta

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A chorus of silent voices,

joining in harmony around the globe.

Embracing passion,

creating relationships,

making friends.

We placed a bet on the Trifecta,

wagered everything we had.

We all came in first.

trifecta

~~

(image credit: trifectawritingchallenge.com)

Written for the last ever Trifecta challenge – 33 words of our own choosing.  It saddens me that the doors to the Trifecta lounge will be closing but I am thankful for the friends I have made in that lounge.  Thank you to the creators of Trifecta for giving us the opportunity to hone our skills and choose our words wisely.  And thank you for creating a community that will live on in our newly developed friendships.

Is there a right way to write?

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When I began to really delve into writing poetry and short stories I was more comfortable writing in long hand.  It freed my mind to truly compose the ideas, the rhymes and the drama, and felt much more like a natural flow from brain to hand to ink to paper.  The archaic version of computers we had at that point did not lend much ease in the writing experience since it was a behemoth that was no more moveable than my car.

In the bygone days of my youth (I make myself sound 100 years old), when I began to read voraciously, I would always have a pen and paper handy to write down any words I found challenging and words that I was excited to use in my writing.  It went on for pages.  I still have those pages and, although they are now collecting dust in a storage bin, they still remind me of my hunger for words.  My hunger now is much more easily satiated.  With the ease of Google, on-line dictionaries and thesauruses I no longer have to put the word to paper and look it up in a bound, hard-cover dictionary.  I even have a dictionary in my Kindle should the need arise to define a foreign word.

Nowadays, I’m sure a chimpanzee would have much more success with that foreign writing object we call a pen.  I used to have beautiful handwriting and now the things that come out of the pen slightly resemble a modified version of shorthand.  (It would be far more beneficial for me if it were shorthand since I currently have no clue what I’ve written!)

shorthand

(photo courtesy of commons.wikimedia.org)

With the ease of the digital age I use a voice recorder if I am overcome with inspiration.  Random thoughts that used to be scribbled on scraps of paper are now stored in my phone for easy access.  My calendar is on my iPhone and so is my shopping list.  Even with my creative stream, that long steady flow of blue ink has been replaced by the gentle tapping of the keyboard on my laptop.  I have finally been able to train my mind to tune out the incessant clicking and it no longer derails my train of thought.

What do you do?  Do you still give the ink a chance or are you a slave to your keyboard?

Friends around the globe

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We, as writers, spend countless minutes and hours at our keyboards, grinding stories until they are made into the finest powder we can create, to put stories to a page that we can only hope many eyes will see.  We toil with adjectives and adverbs, we argue with grammar and punctuation and we stress ourselves with synonyms.  We fret over story lines and we mold characters into strange and exciting people.

Each time that star or conversation bubble appears we anxiously look to see who has taken the time to like our work and comment on the words we have strung together.  With those comments we create relationships that span cities, countries, even continents and forge a bond that may always remain digital.  We share in each others joys and triumphs and we offer words of encouragement through the tough times.  We become friends.

I have come to realize the irrefutable truth in this phenomenon over the last week.  So many of you have reached out to offer condolences and words of sympathy and it has meant more to me than my words can express.  I truly appreciate the depth of the relationships we have created in this literary and photographic world and thank you for each virtual hug, each word of encouragement and each expression of love.  You are a tremendously special group of friends and I thank you.

You better run – 100 word song

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You came unannounced.  You stealthily crept into my head and strategically built your wall in the darkest confines where I couldn’t see you.  Like a thief, you stole my ideas.  You banished any character from entering my thought process and you murdered my will to write.

But I’m on to you.  I’ve seen the ugliness in your soul.  Your darkness is no match for the light that words provide.  My will to create is much stronger than your effort to suppress my creativity.

I enter each day more prepared than the next.  If I see you again, you better run.

~~

Written for the 100-Word-Song challenge at My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog.   This week’s song – You Better Run by Pat Benatar.

From the Horse’s Mouth, literally

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Today was a creatively inspiring day.  Today I went from not having any neurons firing in my brain to a cosmic overload of things I want to talk about.

On Friday I wrote a post about my first crush.  It was a Daily Prompt that inspired me to write a cute, truth-based story in response to the idea.  I haven’t thought about that adorable, freckled-faced red-head for many years but writing that post made me smile thinking about him.  The story also encouraged me to check the vast world-wide web to see if he would appear in real form instead of just the memory of a six-year-old.  The result of my search was successful and way beyond my expectations.  It also took me in a few directions I had not anticipated.

I had reached out to him on LinkedIn and found that he graciously accepted my invitation, perhaps out of morbid curiosity, but he accepted nonetheless.  We exchanged a few words and he inquired about the blog post that led me to him.  I acquiesced and sent him the link.  His initial response after reading it was more favorable that I imagined and I was curious to see where his life had led him after our brief time together in school so many years ago.

The object of my youthful affection is a now a documentary filmmaker in Toronto.  He has won several awards for his talent, including two Juno awards, and is now working on a project that is far closer to my life than I would have thought possible.  His company is called Regular Horse Productions (he was formerly with Horse’s Mouth Media) and he is currently making a film about Massey Hall, a significant Canadian structure, a piece of history that MY ancestors donated to the city of Toronto in 1894.  My middle name is that same family name and carries on the tradition of the historic family that is etched into the arts and entertainment district of one of the most popular cities in the world.

I have yet to discover the direction that his documentary will follow but I will be waiting with bated breath to see how my family history will come to life.  I have three original Chatelaine magazines from June to August of 1964 that document and detail the pilgrimage and the ancestral tree of the Massey family dating back to 1531.  Perhaps one day Andy and I will share a coffee and some conversation about my ancestors that will help shed some light on how that beloved plot of land was donated so many years ago and still thrives in Toronto today.

And to think, this random connection almost forty years later began with a school-girl crush and a lost bunny……who knew?

The Voice Within – Trifecta Challenge

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The Angel and the Devil sat on opposite shoulders spewing arguments around the head that separated them.

“I know I am the reason for her funk, and I’m quite proud of that fact.”  The Devil crossed his arms and a smug smile crept over his peeling lips.

“But it’s awful watching her frustration swell to the boiling point.  Can’t you ease up a little?”  The Angel’s plea fell on deaf ears.  The Devil was quite adept at tuning her out.

Without warning, the shoulders of the host body began to rotate.  Her arms reached forward, her fingers entwined and she stretched.  Her fingertips touched the keyboard and the Angel stood to watch.  Something magical happened and the Angel merely observed as the words began to etch themselves onto the screen.  A little squeal of glee escaped her lips as she turned to stick her tongue out at the Devil.

Now the Devil felt the frustration.  He stood and was about to embed his pitchfork into the side of the head when the Angel cried out.

“Don’t do it.  She’s writing about us!”

The Angel continued to smile as the Devil flipped her off.  They both took a seat on their rightful shoulder and let the creativity happen.

~~

Written for this week’s Trifecta Challenge.  I have been in a writing funk of my own the last few days and after reading a comment by Ad-libb3d at 4:00 am, the lightbulb slowly began to shine again!!

(image credit: wallpaperswide.com)

Now onto this week’s Trifecta prompt. We’re back to one word, its third definition and the 33-333 word limit.

Happy Writing!

FUNK (noun)
1 a :  a state of paralyzing fear
b :  a depressed state of mind
2 :  one that funks :  COWARD
3 :  SLUMP  <an economic funk>  <the team went into a funk>
- See more at: http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/#sthash.euwKt2HW.dpuf

The hamster on the wheel goes round and round…um, he’s dead Jim.

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I have so many things that I want to say but none of those thoughts are willing to take the leap from my brain to my fingertips.  Writer’s block has built itself into an unending concrete wall and suffocated the hamster powering my thought wheel.

I have had these moments before, days when my brain was completely blank but, now as those days keep accumulating, I feel the weight of the winter blahs settling in and that feeling is compounding my lack of enthusiasm for writing and reading blogs.

I am determined to make my presence known in your blogs, once again, and reap the rewards of your diligence in your blog posting.

I need to feel the warmth of the spring sun on my face to revitalize my brain.  Mother Nature…..I hope you are reading this!!

What do you do when you have writer’s block?

Monty Writeon’s – The Meaning of Blog

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meaning of life

(Image credit: Monty Python)

Part I – The Miracle of Birth

The conception of my blog was, indeed, immaculate.  It was unprotected and unplanned but, once it was miraculously born, it brought great joy to my life.  I have nourished it, fed it and loved it.  Its incessant need has brought many sleepless nights but the rare moments that it smiles at me make the bags under my eyes worthwhile.  I have held it close to my heart and have had moments that I wish it would sleep through the night and let me get some much-needed rest.

I have used many tricks to make it laugh and have relished the moments that it brought a smile to my face or a tear to my eye.  I have suffered through its teething and those many moments that nothing I did would make it happy.  Through its toddler phase we had a great deal of fun together, learning about each other as we spent more time together.  I watched it learn to walk and then to run.  I soothed its scrapes and cuts when it fell but, through all the tumultuous growing pains, we forged a bond that cannot be replaced.

Part II – Growth and Learning

Over the past year and a half I have watched it grow and mature.  I have seen it develop a personality and gain some independence.  But its need for me and my attention seems to be waning.  It seems to have rapidly entered its teenage years before my eyes.  It has become sullen and withdrawn.  We don’t spend much time together these days.

I get up early to go to work and can’t find the time needed to spend with it in those rising hours of the morning.  I have been working more split shifts recently and when I come home for my break it is lying on the couch, having accomplished nothing on its own during my absence. When I attempt to create some lasting moments with it in the afternoons, it ignores me and does not react to my efforts.

I can only hope in the near future that the negative teenage reaction will subside and, as a young adult does with their parents, we form a new alliance and become friends again.  I miss spending time with it and miss creating the words and phrases that we would carve into our reality.  With a little more effort on my part, I’m sure I can find that one common thread that will bring us back together again.  I put my faith in its capacity to grow and mature and its ability to accept the fact that I, too, have my limitations.

And the words shall set us free.