Archive for April, 2013

He trudges along his near invisible path. The path he’s been trudging his entire, whole life.

His thin trail cloaked in twisted and tangled trees and trunks. Hidden under broken and bent barb and brush.

Holed up inside his rusted roost at the end of his ratted road, he sidles his wood-burning warmer, rocking and reading, wearing and wondering, settling, suffering.

He sleeps silently in his bed with none, eats quietly at his table for one. Windows assaulted with carwash crepe, angry branches leave insides sodden with weight.

The path he’s been trudging his entire, whole life.

But, had it been forever this way? The more he thought, the more he sought, to find a time when he’d had a spine.

So, he stuffs his wool-covered feet into steel-shielded sheets, throws a long-handled axe across his back and unburdens. He hacks away at thick, burly trunks. Chops at the rot where the deep roots have sunk.

Ever so slowly, the changes he’s made somehow let the old him fade. As he swings and sways, things just fall away.

And, when he’s done, he is light.

Lght through the trees

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“Who the hell would do this?” She barks at Sam.

They are up to their dusty eyebrows in broken tile, rotting fiberglass and pieces of popcorn ceiling.

He turns and sees that the old towel bar she’s holding sports a large chunk of what used to be their bathroom wall. The massive, chalky piece is clinging to the bar for dear life, no intention of letting go.

“Good Lord, Jill, how about a little less demo? We’re not going for open concept here. Try leaving the wall where it is.”

He’s tired. They both are. She gets it. This reno has been a whole lot more work than they’d bargained for.

“I know, sorry. I didn’t do it on purpose though. The bar was like, Crazy Glued to the wall. There aren’t even any screws here or anything.”

“Idiots,” he says with a sigh. “Why would they do that?”

She finishes her work in silence. They have enough on their plates.


Joe and Barbara turn the key together. They are so excited to own their first home they don’t even notice that the lock is rusty or that the key barely makes it out upon their firm yank.

With the door open, Nathan lets go of Barbara’s other hand and teeters his way down the hall. Barbara, nine months pregnant, waddles after him. Baby number two due any day, her back is sore and she’s more tired than she’s ever been in her life. The move has taken its toll.

Joe wanders from room to room, seemingly over moon, and honestly, he is, but deep down, he’s smothering fear. How is he going to pay for this? He can’t bear to tell Barb there’s been talk of lay-offs at work. This came, of course, after they decided to make baby number two and after they signed the papers for the house.

A year in, they’re barely making ends meet. Joe is laid off. Baby number two is sick. Medical insurance disappears along with Joe’s job. Things in their new old house are falling apart. The roof needs repairing, the electrical has to be rewired, their hot water tank blows.

Fear has triumphed in the struggle and is now smothering them both, so when Nathan accidentally pulls the towel bar off the wall, Barbara quietly glues it back on.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” she whispers, stroking his soft, pale hair. It’s all better now, don’t worry.”

She doesn’t tell Joe. They have enough on their plates.


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Use, lose, choose and abuse your muse.

Do you? Any of the above, I mean.

It’s taken me a long time, years really, to acknowledge this muse thing. I don’t have one, I’d think. Ideas simply come to me. I think them up. That’s it, that’s all.

Do you? Have one, I mean.

Some people talk to them, deem them male or female, name them, feed them crumpets and tea. I’ve always felt a little left out. All this fancy literary speak and writer talk; way over my head, I’d think.

And then I looked up muse.




To be absorbed in thought

An instance or period of reflection

Meditate – ponder – contemplate – ruminate – think




A circumstance, person, place or thing, which poses an effect, positive or negative, and as such, leads to a creative work


It seems I haven’t been left out at all.

Have you? Paid attention, I mean.


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The powder slowly fell out of the paper envelope into the bowl, reminding me of a dump truck off-loading a pile of sand; only the dust rising from this pour was so sweet, my mouth watered at the scent.

I carefully tore open a second packet, fearful of losing even one of the tiny, tasty granules. Spinning a spoon, I methodically mixed the two flavors together making sure all was evenly dispersed.

The kettle was taking forever. I braided my hair and drew hearts on the windowpane where condensation had formed. I did a few pirouettes and slid back and forth across the sleek kitchen floor, but the kettle still hadn’t boiled.

Unable to wait any longer, I added the slightly more than lukewarm water and stirred away. Growing even more impatient, I added the cold and happily popped the mixture into the fridge.

I did some homework, brushed the dog and painted my fingernails, each one a different color, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I checked and checked again, finally deciding it was good enough.

Quivering almost as much as it was, I brought the heaping bowl up to my room. I’d waited for what felt like an eternity and I was finally about to reap the reward.

But to my surprise, it wasn’t ‘good enough’. In fact, it wasn’t any kind of good at all. It was runny and watery, not firm and wiggly. It was sour and sad, rather than joyful and jolly.

As I sat on my bed slopping the red garble around in the bowl, it didn’t take me long to figure out that greatness never comes from ‘good enough’.

Write quickly

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Fake It

Fake it ’til you make it!

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I am borrowing a page from the Book of Saige. Eating the bread, drinking the wine; entering the daunting Confessional. Bless me Father, it’s been never since my last confession. Is it a sin to confess when you’re not Catholic? I know you’re probably not supposed to drink the wine…

1. I shared something on my personal facebook page a few days ago. It went like this:

Marilyn Monroe....the worlds biggest icon! Her tummy isn't tightly toned, her thighs touch, her arms aren't skinny, she has stretch marks and her boobs aren't perky. She is known as one of the MOST BEAUTIFUL women in history. Be confident girls. You are HOT, you are SEXY, you are a Marilyn so do not let any man, media or moment of judgement ever take away your confidence! ♥ EL

Marilyn Monroe….the worlds biggest icon! Her tummy isn’t tightly toned, her thighs touch, her arms aren’t skinny, she has stretch marks and her boobs aren’t perky. She is known as one of the MOST BEAUTIFUL women in history. Be confident girls. You are HOT, you are SEXY, you are a Marilyn so do not let any man, media or moment of judgement ever take away your confidence! ♥ EL

Now, while I do believe the gist of this to be true, with an upcoming Maui trip as my motivator, I immediately proceeded to google ‘diets’, found one and voila, apart from the bread and wine I consumed above, I am hungry. No harm in dropping ten pounds, right? Except when you pass out on the morning of day three.

2. I write for myself, but I won’t lie. After a year, I have finally started to accumulate more than five sympathy ‘likes’ from supportive friends and my mum on some of my posts…sometimes as much as thirty-four. Yay, me!

Anyway, a person starts to depend on get used to this sort of thing and when one of my pieces only drummed up a mere four this week, it stung. Ah…don’t go running to like it, now. I get it. It blew. It’s okay. Big girl pants glued in place.

3. I want to be published. Don’t we all? However, I’m nothing but talk. I haven’t taken any steps toward making this happen since 2010. I’m ecstatic my blog has me writing regularly, but I’ve also let it distract me from my ultimate goal. Don’t get me wrong. I’m extremely happy here in the blogosphere, but I’ve let it satiate me. Apparently, I want to eat my cake and not have to bake it first.

4. I used to give my house a thorough cleaning every other day and quick wipes and swipes in between. I now give it a wipe n’ swipe every few weeks and a thorough cleaning once a, ehm, year…? Something’s wrong with this picture. If I were working steadily and regularly toward my ultimate goal, this would be understandable, but like I said…

5. We have an extra fridge in our garage and it smells like something died in there. Since it only houses sealed beverages, I’m afraid this might actually be true. I have yet to investigate since my abovementioned yearly cleaning isn’t due for at least another six months.

6. The posts I spend days hours on get less likes that the ones I whip out in hours minutes. I am not sure what this says about my writing or me. If you do, please give me hint.

7. I scraped a smattering of mold off the top of the sour cream last week and let everyone have it. Expiration dates are only suggestions, aren’t they?

8. I am a fully trained and licensed Aesthetician and have, what is probably the worst skincare routine ever. It works for me. Don’t tell anyone.

9. I douse most things in hot sauce or failing that, chili peppers. I may be known to keep one of these items in my purse at any given time, but I never, ever bring my own tea bags. Promise.

10.Smallmight be slightly autobiographical.  Just sayin’.

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So honoured to be promoted by a fellow author and blogger. Check it out and hurry, hurry…it’s set to self-destruct at midnight!  ;0)


Author Wednesday – Hazy Shades of Me.

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Through the fog, it vies for my attention. I can barely see it just below the surface of the sand. Grains scattered over the exterior, it’s mottled, difficult to visualize. Dust surrounding, settling, my view is nearly blocked.

People walk past, not seeing what I can almost see, busy, distracted. Although the sun skips on the water’s tips, a haze keeps me from seeing clearly.

I stab and strive, but can’t reach it.

The longer I wait, the deeper it drives. Rooting itself in the bottomless beneath and I fear I will miss my chance. Never see it again.

I beckon passersby, begging them to nab it. I wave and yell, scream. They take no notice of it or me, oblivious to my struggle.

I reach out for what I’m sure will be my last chance and its edges finally hint at my fingertips.

“I am yours,” it murmurs, “and only you can keep me from sinking.”

Only You

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