Knuckles Gnarled and Knotted
Hands Chopped, Sliced, Skewered
Fingers Blistered, Broken, Bent and Twisted
His Nails Nearly Nonexistent
Laced only with Embedded, Entrenched Earth
Skin Leathered and Dessicated
Line with the Pain and the Prison of His Life
Holed Up in the Holler
Credit: www.crystal-life.com
Greta waited until her husband was fast asleep. Then she’d tiptoe out of their bedroom, pull on her overcoat and mud kickers and practically run to the barn. She need not have worried about waking the sleeping giant next to her. Bert usually drank himself to sleep most nights. As long as she fed him three squares a day, he usually left her alone. After a full day of working the vineyards with the field hands, he only desired about six tall ones for his last meal.
Tonight, she only heard the long low whistle of the train as she scurried across the grassy path. Franco must have sensed her arrival for he lay there waiting on a blanket in all his beautiful bareness. The tower of burlap feed sacks created a cozy and well-secluded nightly hideaway for their nightly assignations.
Franco was a brute of a man in the fields, sweat pouring from his body as he hauled and lifted these same sacks for cultivating the robust plantings along those thousand acres of heavenly grapes. But his strength turned to tenderness when he took Greta into his arms. Their love-making was transcendent, nearly tantric in its ritual. She did not hesitate to offer herself in ways she could never have imagined; opening herself to him, discovering her pearls of pleasure. A feeling of intense vertigo, a loss of total control, near groundlessness drew them together time and time again.
They had been together long enough now to know that what they were experiencing was not fiction; not just sheer physical attraction. But until they could untangle themselves from their daily reality, this was all they had. They held onto each other and they held onto hope.
IT’S FREE WRITE FRIDAY!!
This is Kellie’s Prompt:
Here is your FWF prompt:
You may use any of the following words as inspiration for your piece, or you may use all of them if it does not hinder your ability to write in free flow.
train – burlap – fiction – pearls – vertigo
![trust[4]](https://magicinthebackyard.files.wordpress.com/2014/01/trust4.png?w=400)
Meeting for a late night meal
Not quite strangers, Not quite friends
But something else unborn and unspoken
A forward movement,
A relevant transition,
A certain shift
resonating between and within us
The repast remained barely consumed
Our hearts full of anticipation instead
The ease at which we came to be joined
An affirmation that it was meant to be
The darkness deepened outside
The air breathing its long December chill
But here in this space lay newborn warmth
Eyes wide open
Souls ready to receive
Two lovers sealing their covenant
A confident expectation
A credulous commitment
Thus, on this night,
in this blood-thin blackness
this achy, gasping vortex of interminable frost
A recollection of our whispered pact
soothes me in a blanket of torrid heat
Just one word this week. It can mean many things can’t it? I am grateful to have it back in my life. I took a trip down memory lane for this one. And I am glad that I still am making more with my beloved! Perfect way to end the week.
Image Credit: Passion for love by Bagdadi
My verse, you say?
I have not a clue.
My words are my life.
My thoughts a singing stream, a babbling brook and a raging river.
I wear many faces.
Fierce Female but not a Fatale.
Passionate Protector of my Progeny.
Irenic but Fearless in the Face of Falsehoods and Fallacies.
Vivacious, Vigorous Vibrant Vamp.
Physically Fit Phoenix Fertile in Mind, Body and Spirit.
My Work on this Earth has yet to be Complete.
My next Calling is in the Making.
I Sense a Worthy Cause.
But I Know One Thing:
Who I Am Makes a Difference
NOW
The following is the speech, and it is your FWF prompt. What will your verse be?
“We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, “O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless… of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?” Answer. That you are here – that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play *goes on* and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?” — John Keating (Robin Williams) Dead Poets Society
Credit: www.colourbox.com
We started dying before the snow, and like the snow, we continued to fall.” — Louise Erdrich, Tracks
Kate wrapped herself in her favorite yellow scarf and her long flowing black sweater. The late autumn air had taken on a sudden, even cruel chill; one that she was not quite ready to embrace. She stood outside on the back deck facing Madonna Peak. Already, the old girl seemed to be bracing herself for the coming onslaught and endless void of whiteness.
At this moment, Kate felt like that rugged bluff. Trodded upon, windswept, beset by boulders and littered with the detritus of too many lost souls. How many times had she and Sam gone to the well of their relationship only to find it dry once again? At first, he had taken to heading out on aimless drives in their jeep, sometimes returning hours or even days later. No explanations were ever given and Kate was afraid to ask questions.
Lately, he had taken up drinking again. Alcohol had never suited Sam. Sometimes he’d pass out cold on the couch but other times and more often than not now, he turned monstrously violent. Some furnishings and even some precious momentos were scattered and subsequently shattered throughout their cabin. Once sober, Sam had no memory of his dirty deeds. And he refused to go for help despite Kate’s tears and desperate pleading. When he started to lash out at her last winter, blackening her eye and breaking her arm ( she told the ER doctor that she took a short fall when ice climbing), she made plans to leave. But then Sam begged her forgiveness and promised to clean up his act.
And he did. For a season or two. But the destructive cycle resumed two days ago. He came swerving up the dirt driveway drunk and high off his ass, his face fuming, a savage mask hell-bent on reeking havoc. When Kate locked him out, he took his shot-gun out of the jeep and blew the door open. She hid in the bathroom while he tore the place apart. Kate tried running outside with just her clothes and the spare key for the jeep, but he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her back inside.
And that’s when the worst happened. Unspeakable acts of debasing cruelty that left Kate numb and weak. She must have blacked out because when she woke up, he was gone.
Somehow she knew it wouldn’t be for long. With one last look at Madonna, she took a deep breath, walked back inside, reloaded the 12 gauge and waited for his return.
#FWF Free Write Friday: Quote Prompt
I didn’t mean for it to get this dark but that’s a free write for you!
Credit: www.dreamstime.com
Nicolette hopped on the old big yellow for the first time once again. She didn’t bother taking a survey for possible seats to share with someone or even look for empty ones in the middle. Just sat herself down right behind the bus driver. She placed her side-saddle book bag on the empty space beside her. Of course, in 1973 no one thought to carry a bag for their books. Just wrapped them in paper bag book covers and a bungy cord. That’s if they even bothered with books at all. From her twelve-year old perspective, the only ambition that her peers had were playing spin the bottle in someone’s basement or smoking in the bathroom between periods. In fact, she could already smell someone’s morning high at the back of the bus.
She let out a heavy sigh. A new school away from the safety and innocence of her elementary years where her teachers encouraged her intellect and her small group of friends felt free to be themselves and not follow the crowd. But when Daddy lost his job, they were forced to sell their small house and move to the local trailer park on the other side of town. Momma said it would be temporary and as soon as Daddy landed on his feet, they would buy another house back in their old neighborhood. Yet Nicolette-a girl Daddy said was born with an old soul-knew the family had a long road ahead of them. Dixsville Junior High would be her school for the next few years. A place where they said the inmates ran the asylum. Where the rough kids went. The Dixsville Dump. Not like Janesville where class sizes were smaller and teachers were respected and rules were followed.
Without warning, her brief reverie was disrupted. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her bag being moved to the floor. In its place, sat a long-haired “greaser” wearing a thin black leather jacket, dungarees and black boots. Nicolette dared herself to look him in the eye. Surprisingly, he had a tender, sweet face and a welcoming smile. “Hey there, you must be the new girl. Name’s Joey. You look like one of those smart chicks. Don’t worry, Dixsville ain’t as bad as you think. We’ve got some great teachers who look out for kids like you and me.”
Nicolette looked at him in disbelief. What was talking about? Kids like him kept the teachers in line, didn’t they? And ate kids like her for lunch. As if to clear her confusion, Joey asked her, “So what do have first period?” All of Nicolette classes were Level 1-the courses for the geeks. “Geography with Mr. Fiske,” she replied. “Hey! Me too!” he answered. “In fact, all my classes are the Level 1’s this year. My dad said if I don’t get my act together and show some ‘potential’ (he said this word in a sneering tone) I would be shipped off to military school instead. No way I am giving up this (he tugged at his jacket) for those brass monkey suits.”
“HEY! MR. JOE SMARTY PANTS! COME BACK HERE AND HANG WITH US FOR THE REST OF THE RIDE! “Oh. Looks like my boys want me. What’s your name by way?” With a quick and still shy smile she answered, “Nicolette.”
When the ride ended, she stepped off the bus first. As she walked the long portico to the roughly worn brick building, Nicolette knew it was going to be a memorable year.
Kellie took us back to junior high with this one! I know I am dating myself…
Credit: www.talentplusplus.com
Today is the last day of a wondrous year. A time of growing as a writer and an independent woman who despite my age, experienced many “firsts”. I know there are more of those to come and I hope to embrace them as best I can and seek help when needed.
This post is being written as a way of expressing my continued thanks to my dedicated followers. The year 2013 saw an explosion of followers to my little blog. Since March, I have added 164 lovely people from all over the world to this space. I am glad my words and thoughts resonate with you. It is because of you that I continue to write and be inspired. I have never considered myself to be a writer, really. Do I possess the gift of spoken word? Yes. Speaking and talking- absolutely! But writing? That is for those lofty souls who can delve deep into the human condition and make us laugh, cry, or simply breathe.
But encouraged I was by my eldest son and my now fiance’ back in the summer of 2012. I wrote and wrote and published weekly. Then came the fateful March Friday when WordPress interviewed Kellie Elmore http://kellieelmore.com/. It was and is through her Free Write Friday prompts that my writing took and continues to take a different path. Without her, I would not have met, shared and read other talented writers who follow her and participate in these creative endeavors.
April came and WordPress offered its 30 poems in 30 days challenge (NAPOWRIMO). I had never written poetry in my life but another writer who follows me through email said: “There’s poetry in your words. You should give it a try.” Many thanks to Megan for the push! Again, I gained new followers and discovered once more the power behind just a few words.
The spring gave birth to a bountiful season of summer writing (thanks once again to Kellie’s FWF) and my first ever series of creative fiction, one of which turned into a full-fledged short story. Never thought I had it in me!
Writers are vulnerable people. With each sentence we reveal more and more of ourselves and our life experiences. It is a risky business. We look less for pity (if at all) and more for affirmation and acceptance as artists. We want our words to touch and inspire others. Give them strength. Help them to know that they are not alone. Well, that is at least what I hope.
So once again, thank you to everyone who reads this blog. I hope you will continue to be with me in the coming year and encourage others to join in on the fun. I wish all of you a happy new year and one that is full of new discoveries about yourself and the world around you!
“Where we choose to be, where we choose to be–we have the power to determine that in our lives. We cannot reel time backward or forward, but we can take ourselves to the place that defines our being.”
― Sena Jeter Naslund, Ahab’s Wife, or The Star-Gazer
Long I ago I ceased wondering and worrying and feeling ashamed of decisions I had made regarding my life’s choices. Like if I didn’t get married 24+ years ago maybe I could have avoided the heartbreak, abuse and eventual diminishment of myself that the union ultimately gave me. Maybe I would have had a different career, different partner, different house, different community, different friends. Maybe it would have been better? Really, who cares? I made the right decision at the time ( no one had objected, everyone loved him) and I stayed longer than I should have. Even I don’t know when the right time would have been after so much time has passed. And really, who cares? I have two beautiful, grown sons and a pretty satisfying career as a result of being their mom. I got to raise boys who are becoming contributing members of society as a result of my hard work.
I used to think that I was failure because I became a divorced woman. Like the marriage’s demise was a reflection of my own inability to maintain a commitment. When my father told me that he was proud of my decision to obtain legal help and move out of the relationship while protecting myself, it affirmed that I was doing the right thing. People often said they were sorry that my husband had left. I was not. Really, I did not care.
As time moved on, I was acquiring the abilities to become a more independent woman. I got my Master’s degree in the midst of all the turmoil while still working full-time. I took on my former husband at every obstacle he put in my way. Sometimes they were pebbles. Sometimes they were boulders. But, really who cares? They need to be moved and surmounted on the road I was building to a better life.
Today I stand at a crossroads. I have proven to myself that I can be on my own and very happy. I have made amazing financial decisions that secured my present and I hope my future. I have moved out of the past to the point that it seems like it never existed. I am working on being present in my present life, letting go of things that I cannot control and planning a new life with the man I love.
I would not be writing and living my life if the pain of the past had not occurred. I am grateful to have gotten out of it. My experience-through publicly writing about it here at WordPress- I hope has given others inspiration and the seeds of strength to create their own lives and speak their own truths.
Open your mind. Open your Heart. Speak your mind. Speak from your heart. Live by your instincts. Live your life.
Post inspired by Kellie Elmore’s:
 |
#FWF Free Write Friday: Quote Prompt |
Photo credit: www.flickr.com
He stood on the street corner in the shadow of the amber street lamp. The night was bitter cold and the promised snow was gently falling on the shoulders of the people who passed him by. They appeared not to notice him as the peals of their holiday laughter echoed down the hushed city avenue.
He never felt so alone. Bereft. He knew that she and her husband were back in the city for the holidays visiting family. Their sons were grown now with little ones of their own and she never missed a chance to be near her precious grandchildren. She bought the brownstone so she would have a place to stay and play on her visits. Despite the distance, it was clear that she had kept a strong sense of community here; the amount of guests entering the doorway provided enough evidence. Never mind the vibe of good cheer and love that seemed to dance through the bricks of the building.
He moved closer. His sons were not interested in seeing him once again this year. He was dying to see what his four grandchildren looked like-he had never met them or seen them in a photograph. He knew that they were at the prime age to experience the magic and wonder of the season and he longed to share it with them.
At once, the four appeared in the large bay window. Two girls and two boys-maybe four to six years of age dressed in their Christmas finery. A picture postcard of innocence and joy.
His heart wrenched and he fell to his knees. On this night-this eve-it came rushing back to him. The weight and force and pain of what he had walked away from all those years ago. He was crushed and defeated. Weak. He rose slowly, his feet wet and cold, his fingers stiffened by the frost. He had not walked far-just enough to be out of sight when an overwhelming sense of fatigue came over him. He sought respite in the nearest snow bank.
*********
“Hey, mister are you all right?” The group of revelers came upon him a few hours later, his body nearly hidden in the snow except for the black of his boots. “Aw Jeez man. I think he’s dead. Call 911.” The wagon came quietly. They loaded him on the gurney and checked for identification. None. Just another John Doe lost to the streets they thought. They could hope that someone would notice he was missing and give him a proper burial. But no one ever did.
I took a bit of liberty with the FWF title “I Saw It Through a Frosted Window Pane.” It fit with the story. I am sure Kellie won’t mind!
Take a look at the other great writers over there by just clicking on the link below:
I imagine one day that you will come clean. Look inside yourself and uncover the damage and pain that once was hidden and then slowly festered like an abscess. I fantasize and visualize the scene. Your sincere apology for letting your wounds bleed out until they killed my trust. Your realizations of the love you lost. Your enlightened self-awareness of your sheer selfishness and self-absorption. Your chaste chagrin for your failure as a father. Your road to redemption and reconciliation regarding their relationship with you.
But the package remains sealed. Locked tight and unexamined. Returned to sender.
This one is as raw as it gets. It’s been a funky week where the poison of the past took up rent in my head. Time for an eviction notice to be served!
Building A Life Of Hope 