When I was a tiny, venturing child, I walked toward unknown with a smile.
Terrified mother forbade and guided me away from dangerous street
Knowing I would never resist the siren call of tall corn stalks in endless field
Stretching to the horizon with only small rises and falls in otherwise flat.
The corn lived across our never-busy street outside a city not yet grown.
It beckoned lustrous, silky-sounding leaves of every green there is —
every expected shade with occasional flashes of unnamed marvels
(the very kind most appealing to wide open curiosity with pudgy legs).
I never did…
* The idea kernel for this piece started with A Rustic Mind (Manali Desai) “Can I Call Myself a Writer?”
It was a simple question: “Can I call myself a writer?”
My simple answer: “Yes, you can.”
Call yourself whatever you want — don’t wait for anyone to hand you a label, description, golden crown, whatever else you imagine comes with the writer label. You are hereby granted permanent permission to declare yourself writer. (Of course, you also have equally permanent permission to declare yourself dog, house, master of the universe, genius bedmaker….)
The trouble with asking if you can…
You carry our serious while I am the impish, merry one who laughs
At thunderstorm surprises, stubborn ivy, and mysteries inside our walls.
Until you, I was somber, plodding, laser focused woman strategizing
For all she was worth, for love and for money, for quieting that
Small, still voice within that whispered there is more for me than this.
From a safe distance, I watched friends fall in and out of love, had good times For myself when a person and a place checked boxes I never questioned Until you walked in that night and I knew you from everywhere…
Everyone went back to the Fourth’s mansion for post-funeral festivities. The Fourth Wife of Mark was renowned for laying out a lavish spread of delicious food, endless drinks, and wide open generosity. The dozen guest rooms were fluffed to accommodate sudden guests and others requiring a safe landing after the shock of losing their idol.
I watched them leave, ignoring my editor’s command to go to the afterparty and complete my story.
“There’s a lot of eyes on you right now. Do this story right and you’re guaranteed a byline.”
I felt his crocodile smile gleaming through the phone. All…
Robyn’s phone chirped.
Could it be Jason?
Taking a deep breath, she tapped the screen.
Josie: Paper towels?
Her roommate must be prowling SHOPPER EMPORIUM, filling a cart with groceries and household supplies. If Robyn didn’t hold the line, their tiny apartment would overflow with cheap paper towels and tins of cat food for needy strays.
She added the dancing girl emoji. Dancing girl meant no time for texting.
Dr. Sophia, her stand-in therapist, barged through the outer door. She charged past Robyn and the receptionist with a panted “Give me a minute.” The office door slammed behind…
I scrawl words on the page once I can see through the tears, breathe through the clogged nose, can stop dowsing heartbreak with wine.
Hold me close
Hold your dreams closer
Dreams are more solid than this life
Hold me close
Let our hearts speak truth
To the ones we have been
To the ones we are now
To what might have been
To what’s coming next
I don’t know where this is going
But it’s been an incredible ride
And I wouldn’t have missed it for anything
Not for love, not for home,
All the things we’re supposed to…
Kerry needed $1.00.
Being seven, she had one guaranteed way to get it.
She ran her tongue across the front of her teeth, probing for the
most likely candidate. Not a single tooth was on the verge. She’d have to make the magic happen on her own.
Watching her shows that night, she went to work on her top front tooth.
Relentlessly, she pressed and pulled, pushed forward and back until the tooth yielded ever so slightly before bedtime. She continued her mission until she clutched tooth fairy money.
Her parents were stunned by huge orthodontist bills seven years later.
This tiny tale is a very true, very painful, and terribly embarrassing personal story….
With gratitude to J.A. Taylor and Centina Pentina for the wild, wonderful prompt:
I was three years old when I learned a truth that has never steered me wrong. Whatever choice I face, it’s always gone better for me when I take the path that scares me most.
My tricycle was shiny new, bright red promise of adventure. We lived on top of a mountain. Every day, I sped up and down that quiet suburban sidewalk, getting off to push my bike up the steepest part.
I sat on my tricycle. I clutched the thick, pristine white handlebar grips. The seat was firm and comfortable and the foot pedals were just right.
Nothing about her was special: she had just past puppyhood with eager face
Ready for what was next, whatever it was, however it came
Like the person she was walking, a kind human who swooped into shelter,
Exclaimed when their eyes met and wept when they sniffed one another.
Her person declared “She’s friendly!” as she tugged irresistible to lone walker
In need of attention from a dog who knows better than not to say hello
To another lost one, who was not abandoned and left for dead,
But who is still tender-edged, open-hearted possibility for more than this now.
Writes "A snapshot in time we can all relate to - with a twist." Novelist, marketer, business story teller, new product imaginer…