Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for the ‘Fiction’ Category

Buff Me

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Inspiration, Non-Fiction, Our Moments, Relationships, Short Stories, Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged on March 24, 2014| 41 Comments »

My wordpress popularity really seems to fluctuate somewhere in between that was a fair Idol audition and good God, get off the stage.

 

And that’s okay. I appreciate that certain posts just don’t resonate, but I’d really like to understand the formula. I know there are probably prime times to publish, not to mention better days of the week. Appealing eye-candy for the more visual and just the right tags can also make all the difference.

 

I try to post fairly regularly and of course I always attempt to be fresh and witty…can’t you tell? Yes, I have a facebook page (which you are of course, more than free to share and like) and I do boast my posts through various other forms of social media. However, I’ve never topped thirty-five likes on a wordpress post.

 

I’m pleased with my progress to date, but it confuses me to see bloggers just starting out, that have already garnered thousands of views and the same in followers. I find posts that consist simply of a quote, one photo or a half-cocked thought, with hundreds of likes.

 

Don’t get me wrong – more power to these fellow floggers. I’m just dying to know err, interested in how this comes about.

 

On a more personal, specific level – I wrote a short story a few posts back, called Helena. It received twenty-five likes. Clearly, one of my more popular posts. The next, a continuation of Helena, only got thirteen.

 

Now, Gladys is written in the same style as Helena and continues the storyline from the original. The third installation, Mrs. Statton, is more of the same and hit fifteen likes. A little better, but still nowhere near the first twenty-five for Helena. Eat Crow, the fourth piece…eight whopping likes.

 

Whonh, whonh, whonh.

 

What I’d like to know is – did I post at a bad time, on the wrong day? Did my writing change from audition-acceptable to incapable of carrying a tune? Or, is it that you believe Helena should have remained where I left her?

 

Besides helping motivate continued writing, a writer’s hope is that blogging will bring the crucial feedback needed to sharpen and buff their trusted sword. So, it stands to reason, that in a perfect world, readers will be the worn grit paper and soft polishing cloth at the end of every post.

pen-sword

 

 

 

 

 

Read Full Post »

Eat Crow

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Life, Parenting, Relationships, Short Stories, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , , on March 21, 2014| 6 Comments »

Part One, Helena, is HERE

Part Two, Gladys, is HERE

Part Three, Mrs. Statton, is HERE

—

It’s just like any other day, Gladys decides as she applies her mascara, lifting each lash to its fullest extent. She fills the arch of her brow and shimmers her cheekbones before taking another sip of her lukewarm coffee.

Except it isn’t really. Today, she won’t be there to pick Helena up from school. She won’t be home to make dinner. And she may not even be back to watch the season finale of True Detective.

Her tummy does a bit of a flip. She smooths down the front of her blouse, smacks her lips and heads for the kitchen. After chucking her half full mug in the sink, she rummages through her purse and manages to round up sixteen dollars. Quickly scrawling something to the effect of get whatever this will buy you for dinner on a piece of scrap paper, Gladys takes one swig from the flask tucked behind the empty fridge and heads for the door.

Lying at the bottom of a stack of paperwork that’s taken me through ‘til nearly lunchtime, I come across a cluster of pages stapled together, sporting a hot pink Post-it. It’s covered with Mr. Crawford’s loosely looped handwriting – Stephanie, You need to read this, he advises. It’s a doozy.

I glance wistfully at the clock on the wall across from my desk. As tempted as I am to dive into the text, I know I don’t have time. I scan my calendar for a prompt on my lunch appointment and am reminded of what an unfortunate name Mr. Anass is for a high school Principal.

As the school Counselor, I’ve seen my fair share of varied troubling data, but have never been passed a student essay before. I sigh. It’ll have to wait. I tuck it into my briefcase, take a sip from my water bottle and set out to Manger Corbeau, where Anass will be waiting. During the drive I muse over the possible scenarios that could have led to naming the restaurant Eat Crow, but fail to come up with anything plausible.

It makes sense that it’s Anass’ favorite place to eat.

Eat Crow

Read Full Post »

Mrs. Statton

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Life, Parenting, Relationships, Short Stories, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , on March 18, 2014| 11 Comments »

Part One, Helena, is HERE

Part Two, Gladys, is HERE

—

“We got a new girl today.” My blade presses through the taught, red skin. “She’s a bit tragic, I think.”

“And what makes you think that?” Rick asks, sipping his wine, eyes widening over the rim of the glass.

“Well, I’m not sure, really. She just seems so…independent.”

“And independent translates to tragic for you?” His eyes get even bigger.

“Okay, maybe she’s not tragic. Maybe her situation is tragic.”

“So, what’s her situation, exactly?”

Juice mists my fingers as the red pepper splits into halves and falls open on the cutting board.

“God, I don’t really know that either, I guess. Her mother didn’t tell us much.”

“Well, I think one of us is drunk, Steph cuz I don’t get it.” He grins and pours himself another.

Stephanie contemplates the thinning hair and mangle of bracelets, the easy blush and her eagerness to get the usually dreaded classroom antics out of the way.

“Honestly, there isn’t an issue to speak of. I just felt this, I dunno, gap between her and her mother. And Helena, well, she’s…ugh, okay I’m going back to my first thing – tragic.”

“But, is she hip?” Rick asks, swirling his wine.

I begin to answer before I realize he’s taking a stab, slipping in a joke about his once favorite band.

“Ha ha. You’re just hilarious.”

Rick circles the granite island and wraps his arms around her from behind.

“Steph, like you said, this Helena is…what was it? Independent? I’m pretty sure she’d want for you to enjoy your Friday night. Not to be thinking about her. I can guarantee she’s not thinking about you right now. Besides, your man here is gettin’ All Tore Up over the smell of that sauce.” He squeezes her a little tighter.

She pretends not to notice his second ‘Hip’ reference

Helena lies on the floor of her room, the pile of hair growing beside her, and wonders if Mrs. Statton will notice she’s added two new bracelets to her wrist.

Halved Red Pepper

Read Full Post »

Washing Day

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Inspiration, Non-Fiction, Our Moments, Short Stories, Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged on March 17, 2014| 12 Comments »

Although laundry as whole has not been a favorite pastime of mine, it has its rewards. Sure, I dread the collecting and sorting, but I don’t mind the washing and the folding quite as much. I despise the putting away, but love the fresh scent that I get to place in the drawers as a result of a task I saw through to completion.

However, I do find that things never quite look the same once they’ve been hung out to dry. That white shirt is never just as crisp and that black sweater always ends up a shade lighter than it once was.

It’s somewhat the same for me, when it comes to writing. I adore the process, but there are things about it that leave me feeling faded and worn.

That story that creeps in and convinces me it’s good, those lines, those words that shout, “I’m the one!” The subject that feels interesting and unique, the characters that promise to slay souls and sink ships.

They are silenced when suspended on the line to be judged. They become meek and mild when unpegged and pulled in. They stop clamoring for first and many times, let themselves fall down into the dirt below.

Luckily though, passion is persuasive and begs to be picked up, shaken out and washed again, as a clean slate offers endless possibilities.

You can read my (yet again) RUNNER UP short story HERE.

Fall 2013 Wow Contest Photo

Read Full Post »

Gladys

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Life, Parenting, Relationships, Short Stories, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , on March 14, 2014| 17 Comments »

If you’d like to read Helena first, click here.

– – –

Ms. Harris perches at a small table, rolling melting ice cubes around in her short glass, vacantly staring in the direction of the empty chair across. Her lips purse as she surrenders to the realization he isn’t going to show…again.

“One more round, Gladys?”

It’s why she comes here. They know she’s not done, but are polite enough to ask as though she might be.

“Absolutely, Damien. Just one more.”

“Food today?”

“I’ve decided I won’t be here long.”

He gives the empty seat the same look she had, nods and heads to the bar.

Gladys. She’s never loved her name. Never understood how someone could look into a tiny newborn’s face and choose Gladys, but still, she prefers it to Ms. Harris. She’d been tempted many times over the years to return to her maiden name, but couldn’t bear to be separated from Helena, even if only by title.

She adjusts her blouse and crosses her legs.

Helena.

They certainly did not need to add different surnames to the long list of things they didn’t have in common. Besides, it would seem their name is all that held them together at times and Gladys never took that for granted.

She picks up her phone. No messages. She’s not surprised. He’s never had any respect.

Tempted to text her daughter, she puts the phone in her bag. The last thing Helena had said to her before entering the school this morning was; ‘I’m fine. Stay out of it.”

And, she’d tried. All these years she had tried to stay out of it, but had never quite managed. Had never had a choice. He’d made sure of that.

Damien returns with a whiskey on the rocks. Her second. And her last for today. Despite being unwanted, she’d be there waiting for Helena to emerge once the school day was done.

Eyeing up the shot, she waits for the ice to weaken the sting.

ice cubes 3

Read Full Post »

Helena

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Life, Parenting, Relationships, Short Stories, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , , on March 8, 2014| 15 Comments »

If you’d like to read Gladys, which could be considered part two of Helena, click here after reading below:

– – –

It’s a small smile, but enough to show me that her two front teeth overlap. She stands a distance from her mother’s side, trying desperately not to look at either of us.

“I’m sure Helena will be welcomed with open arms, Ms. Harris. In fact, I’ll see to it that she is.”

I smile warmly, but the girl blushes from head to toe and moves farther away. She absently pulls her hair, strand by stand, dropping each one to the floor as it comes out at the root and it’s suddenly clear why there are sparse patches scattered across her scalp.

“Helena, stop.” Her mother’s whisper is sharp. “Remember what I said.”

I didn’t think it was possible, but the girl turns a deeper shade of red and I can’t help but wonder if she’ll be alright here.

“Nothing to worry about.” I reassure her. “You’ll be fine.”

Ms. Harris’ lips tighten. She turns to Helena and brushes roughly at her blazer, pulls on her tie.

“Well Helena, I’m off. And for heaven’s sake, keep your hands out of your hair.” With that she walks away, leaving the girl gaping after her. No hug. Not so much as a good-bye.

“You’ve got lovely hair.” I tell her as we head into my office. I walk to the chair behind my desk. “It’s so straight.” I reach up to my own curly mop and laugh.

She stands until I ask her to sit.

“We’ll head to your class when you’re ready.” I offer when I notice her eyeing the door.

“I’m ready.”

“Really? Because we can sit here for a while. Talk. There’s no rush.”

She pulls at her hair, adjusts her glasses and stands.

“No, I’d like to go now if that’s okay.”

The walk to Mr. Roy’s room is quiet, no one in the halls, just the sound of Helena’s loose laces slapping the floor.

“Your mother didn’t tell me much, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sorry about her. She’s like that.”

“Have you signed up for any of our teams? Or enrolled in the book club?”

“I suck at sports and book club is social suicide for someone like me. I don’t need any help being unpopular.” Her tone is well beyond her years.

We reach Mr. Roy’s door and Helena finally looks at me.

“I’m okay on my own.”

Several bracelets slide out from under her jacket sleeve and circle her thin wrist as she reaches for the doorknob.

“Helena…”

“Absolutely no jewelry allowed. Yeah, I know. I read the rules before I got here.”

“Yes, you’re right, but what I was going to say is, you know where my office is if you need anything.”

She enters the classroom and from the hall I hear her say; “What are you lookin’ at? Never seen a baldy, four-eyed, new girl before?”

I think of Ms. Harris and how Helena had stood so far away from her. How her mother had been so rough, how she hadn’t said good-bye. I think of her tight lips and her stern whisper and I know now, Helena has always been okay on her own.

bracelets

Read Full Post »

Shady Haze

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Inspiration, Non-Fiction, Our Moments, Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , , on March 1, 2014| 14 Comments »

I often come to this door, but have never turned the key.

Until this time.

This time, I press against the cold steel and watch my fingers curl around the handle and slowly twist. I can tell by the way I inch forward that I believe I’ll have the chance to choose whether or not I want to enter, after I see what’s inside.

But this is not so today.

The door opens and I’m in with such force that my cheeks draw back and my neck strains against the pressure.

It’s so dark.

Lack of light is not the issue. It’s well-lit. Sharply, in fact. Bright fluorescents so exposing, that I can see all of my smudges and every choice I’ve ever made.

Nonetheless, it’s dark in here.

The blaze of light showcases every setting, subject and sonnet I’ve ever engaged in and holds it up to the heat of the glare. The doubt of it all melts and it drips its hot, inky stain over my skin.

There’s often darkness in light.

But whether or not we turn the key, open the door, step inside or flip a switch, it goes both ways. There’s also light to be seen in the darkness.

We just have to imagine it’s there.

light in the dark 1

Read Full Post »

More

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Inspiration, Life, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , , , on February 18, 2014| 14 Comments »

“I know where you live.”

I stop mid pour. The rich smell reaches my nose and it’s glorious, despite not being able to stomach the stuff.

“I don’t think you do.” I say calmly, tipping the pot once again. Little coffee bubbles dance on the old Formica countertop.

“I do,” he says. “Saw you outside the Laundromat last week. You were driving that old green wagon.”

He takes a sip and closes his eyes as if it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. His lips pull into a wide, flat line.

“Yeah, well I don’t live at the Laundromat.” I joke.

It’s the simple things, isn’t it?” He sighs. “Coffee, black and hot. Cures whatever ails.”

“I don’t drink it,” I tell him. “But I imagine if I did, I’d be dousing it with cream and sugar.”

“Nah, that stuff just smothers the quality of the bean. I like to know what I’m drinking.” His eyes are still closed but they open when he asks; “How in the world can you work in a diner and not drink coffee?”

“Love the smell, can’t stand the taste.”

“Ah, it can be a cruel, cruel world.” He nods and smiles a little wider, exposing surprisingly white teeth from behind his reed-thin lips.

Ding.

Slamming my chit on the spike, I grab his order from under the warmer and set it in front of him. Two eggs, sunny side up, extra crispy bacon and sourdough toast, lightly buttered.

“How long you had that car?” He asks.

As he snaps off a piece of bacon and dips it in the ketchup he’s squirted on the edge of the plate, I can’t help but wonder where his sense of quality is now.

“Four years,” I answer. “My Grandma left it to me.”

The dark moons under his nails loosely string each finger together like a black crepe streamer and his clothes are on the worn side of things, much like his skin, supple and weathered.

“Ah, a treasure then. It’s a ’73, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, how did you…?”

“Lucky guess,” he says. “We used to have one back in the day. I learned to drive in it.” He chuckles. “Showing my age now, I suppose.”

“More?” I hold the pot over his almost empty cup.

He nods. I pour.

Despite his ruffled appearance, I can smell fresh shampoo and sharp aftershave as I lean in to wipe up the drips.

“It was a guilt gift,” I confess. “She wanted nothing to do with me. The car made her feel better.”

“Did it make you feel better?”

“Probably not for the right reasons,” I admit. “It’s the only thing I own. It’s more important than it should be now.”

“I’ll take it off your hands.” He offers and slides his business card across the counter. It claims he’s the owner of the Green Bean Organic Coffee Plant. The same coffee we use in the diner.

“I can’t. I still need it.”

“If you didn’t have it, where would you be?”

“Um, taking the bus?” My eyes shift.

“Sometimes it’s good to rid yourself of things that are holding you back.”

“I told you, I still need it.” I look away. “Why are you so hot for my car anyway?

“I could say it’s because it’s green. Or because, like I said, I learned to drive in that very same car.”

He lightly knocks his fist twice on the countertop. “

“But, I’d be lying. It’s because I know where you live.”

Green 1973 Wagon

Read Full Post »

Well Done

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Inspiration, Life, Non-Fiction, Relationships, Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , , on February 14, 2014| 8 Comments »

Oh dear. My 150th post and I screwed it up. I knew you guys were discerning readers, but never did I think you’d shy from one slightly rare serving!

Where do I go from here? Is it too late to say I’m sorry? To promise I won’t do it again?

No, it’s not too late. Yes, you’re discerning, but I’m pretty sure tolerance, compassion and forgiveness are in there somewhere too. That has to be true or we’d have parted long ago.

And it’s a good thing, because I’m trying desperately to be a writer. And to quote Thomas Mann; “A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.”

 

Make no mistake – we’re friends because you’re particular.

 

It could be argued that what I did the other day wasn’t writing, but I stand firm that all writing is writing. I started this blog to bolster my commitment. I hoped knew it would hold me accountable for producing something on regular basis. I wanted it to make me think.

I dreamed of it making you think.

I spent years writing in journals. They didn’t suddenly stop selling them in the stores. I didn’t run out of pocket money to buy one. I chose to display my trials and tribulations on a public forum. I decided I wanted you to witness my stabs and my stumbles.

Some things I write to reflect and some things I write to connect, so neither of us should be surprised by the odd, rare roast post.

It’s how I get to know you.

It’s how I hope you’ll get to know me.

It is how we’ll get to well-done.

Heart shaped meat

Read Full Post »

Pre-heat To 450

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Inspiration, Life, Non-Fiction, Our Moments, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged on February 12, 2014| 13 Comments »

Is it too late to start a post? Some would say yes. It’s 11:15am and when I’m still working on it at 3pm and behind on all I should do in a day, I might be agreeing with those people.

But…yesterday, I did paperwork – like, all day – and then again for two hours this morning. Wah. I deserve a break, don’t you think? That is a lot of time spent on something I really don’t like doing. Am I right?

Yes, I’m right. I just wish I could feel right.

You see, paperwork is kind of like housework for me. It’s this illusive, slippery matter that slips through my fingers, no tail in sight. Anytime I hear anyone say, “Oh my goodness, I cleaned all morning. It feels so good to be finished!” I can’t help but ask, “Finished? How are you finished? Where do you get one of these houses you can clean and actually be done at some point?”

Because, I for one, am never finished cleaning.

Except, I don’t mind cleaning. I like the smells and the scents, the sparkle and the shine. It’s relaxing. It’s satisfying. It’s visual.

Paperwork? Not so much. It’s not pretty. It’s not creative. (Well, not in any legal way) There’s very little smell. It doesn’t sparkle or shine. And I have to say, it’s anything but relaxing. I mean, shuffle, shuffle, shuffle, money, money, money, crunch, crunch, crunch, sweat, sweat, swear sweat.

and…

Do I need to keep this bill? Can I write that off? Did pay my property tax? What do I do with this? Will this come back to haunt me?

No bliss about, I tell you.

There are some things we have to do and some things we want to do. For me, writing is definitely both of those, so why does it always come one hundred and sixty fourth on the list?

But even at 164, it’ll happen. Although sometimes it means serving up an undercooked post like this one. Just take a Tums before reading and it won’t be so upsetting.

Oops, too late.

when writing isn't a money maker

Read Full Post »

« Newer Posts - Older Posts »