Promise, I will write again soon.
Promise, I will write again soon.
“I write to find strength.
I write to become the person that hides inside me.
I write to light the way through the darkness for others.
I write to be seen and heard.
I write to be near those I love.
I write by accident, promptings, purposefully and anywhere there is paper.
I write because my heart speaks a different language that someone needs to hear.
I write past the embarrassment of exposure.
I write because hypocrisy doesn’t need answers, rather it needs questions to heal.
I write myself out of nightmares.
I write because I am nostalgic, romantic and demand happy endings.
I write to remember.
I write knowing conversations don’t always take place.
I write because speaking can’t be reread.
I write to sooth a mind that races.
I write because you can play on the page like a child left alone in the sand.
I write because my emotions belong to the moon; high tide, low tide.
I write knowing I will fall on my words, but no one will say it was for very long.
I write because I want to paint the world the way I see love should be.
I write to provide a legacy.
I write to make sense out of senselessness.
I write knowing I will be killed by my own words, stabbed by critics, crucified by both misunderstanding and understanding.
I write for the haters, the lovers, the lonely, the brokenhearted and the dreamers.
I write because one day someone will tell me that my emotions were not a waste of time.
I write because one day I will be gone, but what I believed and felt will live on.”
― Shannon L. Alder
Oh, I can’t wait for Spring to be here
So, I can clean my house again
Sort out the mess in the attic
Clear the garage
Tidy up the garden
There’s a lot to be done
Like washing up the window panes
Hose the drive way power clean the roof
Remove the dead leaves from the gutter
But the Winter is here to linger for another few weeks
I guess I have to sit and wait
Learn the art of Patience.
Okay, I must admit; I was the one who crawled inside the jar, but who screwed the lid???
daily prompt: vegetal
Someone once asked me:
And I added for a good measure:
Labels are for filing. Labels are for clothing. Labels are not for people.
Which reminds me of what Juliet said to Romeo on that fateful night. You know…
“What’s in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.”
But for the sake of an argument let’s mess up things a bit…
I read in a book once that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, but I’ve never been able to believe it. I don’t believe a rose WOULD be as nice if it was called a thistle or a skunk cabbage.
― L.M. Montgomery
Just because we associated them names first with other things. If we reverse the order…
Anyway, in the end…
My neighbours are mostly older people who are way past their early retirement ages. And though they are mostly nice, quiet people; they are also very interested, well- meaning, nosy individuals who got a lot of time to kill in their hands.
When the sun is shining, they will come out and stand at their open doors (sometimes in groups or alone) surveying the neighbourhood waiting for something to happen (or someone to pass by) and be sure they are the first who going to notice anything, anything at all.
When I come home from work, I am (feel) forced to make small talks with them ranging from the weather, their dogs, their illness, down to I’m putting my key the wrong way in the key hole (I wish they tell that to D.) damaging the door paint around the hole area. And they will gladly show me how to do it properly if I allow them.
I do like making small talks once in a while and I appreciate the concern but lately, the moment I approach my block, I’m kind of wishing…they are not there.
And if not, I find myself walking faster and faster, can’t wait to get inside, lock the door, breathe a sigh of relief, have a cup of green tea and listen to online radio from somewhere.
I have nothing against them. I like them enough. They are nice neighbours. But I find that after spending more than 8 hours with them at work; I have a right to have few hours to myself minus well-meaning, nice, very interested seniors who got a lot of time I don’t have.
Write a scenario using Nighthawks by Edward Hopper as inspiration…
The woman was bored. She shouldn’t have agreed to come here. And for what? To wait, she had been told; more than that she knew nothing. Nobody said something to her. Not Tom, not his friends nor their women. All that was expected of her is to dress up pretty and prance around like a horse in a livestock market. Asking questions were never been encouraged in their set up, persistence can lead to some unpleasant physical interaction which often left her bruised and drained. Was this the kind of dreams she had been chasing since she was a little kid in Nebraska? The reason why she had left her friends and her family? Some days, she wished she was back in the farm where she was born, back in the waitressing job she loathed so much! It all looked heaven to her now in comparison with this… this hell she wormed herself in, in pursuit of a better life, love and happiness. Where are those dreams now? Gone, gone together with her self-respect and pride. She might as well be dead!
Tom was anxious. What taking the soda jerk too long to hand him his package? When he reached under the counter, Tom thought finally he was going to have it but that strange guy with his suit and fedora waltzed in and everything stopped, put on hold. He could hardly contain his irritation, especially when he knew that Grace was starting to get impatient. She didn’t want to come, but he needed her there, for the show, as a decoy; with her presence and looks, she often attracted attention more than he cared about. She was perfect for the job. Now the package and they can all go to bed. Leaving without it was no option. Not if he values his own life.
Sal had gotten the tip from his informer early in the evening. The man said the drop was going to happen tonight, in this diner. He then described the man and the woman who are now sitting opposite him. The description didn’t do her justice though; she was more captivating in person Sal thought. Pity she was in the wrong place at the wrong time and with the wrong somebody. But c’est la vie… causalities of war.
The soda jerk reached under the counter for his gun. He knew that the deal was about to go wrong the moment the guy in the suit and fedora walked in. Sometimes, you got that funny feeling in your stomach and you know it for sure. It was supposed to be his last job. After this he was planning to retire and go back home, or go south. Not that there was something or someone to go back home to. Not since his Pappy blown his Momma away during one of his drunken episodes. Okay, he got his own revenge. He made sure it looked like an accident. No one blinked an eye when one morning they found his old man dead, drowned in the sea. Something like that could happen, especially to someone like his father who seldom sober, accidents happened all the time. Yes sir! It could. Now, all he had to do is: stay alive…
Reply To Writing Challenge: Find The Muse In The Masters
I know the place was geographically closer to the center of town, but the exact location where it could have been, I don’t remember anymore. I came back too late, a lot has changed and whatever fragments I could summon from my memory are too vague to be accurate. Therefore, I could not be held accountable for anything I might say. My words cannot be used as a source of reliable information.
As far as I could remember it was always dark in there for we had a small gas lamp which in my recollection was perpetually burning. I know also that there was one window on the front side (or was it at the back?) of the house (was it located between two streets? I can’t remember!) which for some unknown reason had never been opened. Perhaps the property used to be a small shop, I don’t know.
The inside of the house try as I might, I cannot picture the layout. If there was a kitchen or a bedroom I can’t remember anymore. It was a terrace house, that I am almost certain. The place was sandwiched between other nondescript buildings of forgotten colours in a neighbourhood which was equally hazy as my memory.
But there were scenes that are still clear in my mind. One of those was of my eldest sister (or was it my mother?) holding the hand of one of my younger siblings (I think it was Ems) over the gas lamp to sanitize the wounds that covered all of her fingers which were packed with pus. I can still hear her cry of protest even to these days.
There were bits and pieces of conversation I can recall. Like that one night I heard my eldest sister talking to some unseen people in the next room. I think they might be relatives for she talked freely with them. The conversation went like this:
“Put out the light.” The voice of a man said.
“Why would you want it out?” my sister asked.
“Because I want to score.” Muffled giggles of a female.
“You don’t need the light to be out for that.” I can hear the smile in my sister’s voice.
“It makes me uncomfortable. I used to doing it in the dark.” Said the man again.
“Why not take the example of my father, your uncle. He doesn’t mind doing it in broad daylight.” My sister chuckled.
And that’s all I can remember of that exchange.
In my memory, we had one neighbor, a family who sold popcorn for a living. They made the batch on a small single burner gas stove, packing them in small cellophane bags and sealed the lot over a candle flame. There were perhaps kids around my age or older but the images dance in and out of focus in my head.
The most vivid of my recollection was the night we heard some commotion outside. I remember waking up to the sound of angry voices and pitiful crying. Did someone open the door, or carried me outside for when I sat up I saw a mother dragging a struggling child with her. I can’t recall if it was a boy or a girl, but the kid was naked, that much I can remember. The woman proceeded by tying up the wailing kid around a lamp post (or maybe it was a water hand pump?) and left the poor bairn there crying whole night.
I wish someone could tell me if all of these are true. But there is no one from my family anymore to set the record straight. Those who are still among us are far and scattered all over the planet and I have no contact with them since time immemorial. And even so__ I am not sure if we share the same memories or if they have been there at all…
There is another aspect of these memories that bothers me every now and again… the fact that I could not recall if my parents were present or not. I don’t remember seeing the pair of them there. If not_ were where they? How about my other siblings? Aside from those I’ve mentioned, they were MIA as well.
Sometimes I think I must have imagined the whole thing…
Reply To Writing Challenge: The Unreliable Narrator
If she’d seen it in a crystal ball, she never would have believed what happened next.
The ice formed early, that November. But today is not snowing for a change but pouring. Rain water trickles unnoticed, into a minuscule fissure in the foundation. She can see it from the bedroom window looking down. She even imagines hearing the sound it makes. Had it always been there? She didn’t notice. Not in the beginning at least. Only the other day when she was in the garden and attending to that over grown rose bushes that was planted along the foundation of the house did she see it. She must tell it to Bill. There is a certain possibility that he is already aware of the matter. So perceptive is Bill about the things which concerned him directly. But where is he?
Lately, he’s coming and going are becoming more unpredictable. Not that his whereabouts interests her a great deal these days; she ceased caring where he might be a long time ago. She can’t stand the long nights of waiting, the worrying, and the looks he gives her when she dare asks. After a while, she gotten used to going to bed alone, mostly with sleeping pills and a glass of brandy, it works better that way. Only the silence she can barely stand. The emptiness of the house and the unspoken animosity between them are wearisome burdens.
Yesterday she went for a walk and had lunch with Emma. She didn’t dare to mention the apartment she recently purchased (from her own money) and her plan of moving there, alone. She cannot bear confrontation at this early stage. She would deal with whatever may come later. For now she has to remain decisive and strong. She will need it.
The sound of the doorbell pulls her out of her reverie. Who might that be? She suddenly conscious of her own naked body clad only in thin morning gown. She looks at the clock on her bedside table. She never realized it is that late already! How long she had been standing there looking at that rain water, lost in her thoughts?
The continuing loud chimes of the doorbell send her running down the stairs, pulling the garment tightly around her body as if for protection, she hurries to see her unexpected visitor. Two police officers are standing on her steps when she opens the door. Confusion seizes her and she stammers questions unintelligibly, one after the other.
“Ma’am, are you Mrs. Bill____?” One of the two interrupted her.
“There was an accident early this morning. The melting ice Ma’am… really dangerous. His car must have slipped, turned over and fell into the ravine. We’ve been calling you all morning, no answer. Passed by earlier but nobody home. We need you to ID him. Ma’am, are you okay?”
She collapses onto the floor, crying hysterically…
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