Posted in Blogging, Challenges, Creative Writing, Fiction, Inspiration, Life, Metaphors, Our Moments, Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writing, tagged Creative Writing, Creativity, Emotion, Fiction, Growth, Inspiration, Metaphor, Support, Thoughts, Writing on May 1, 2023| 2 Comments »
Time waits for no one. That’s what they say.
So we work really hard to keep up.
But time. In the meantime. Does what it wants. Has a mind of its own.
Its own drum to beat.
It runs.
It marches.
It walks.
But there’s a little thing you may not know.
If you find the right time. And listen very closely. You don’t need to chase it. Exhaust yourself trying to keep up.
Because the right time will stop. Match your pace. And whisper.
It’s okay. Hold my hand. I’ll walk a little slower.
Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Inspiration, Life, Non-Fiction, Our Moments, Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged Coffee, Metaphor on September 14, 2013| 10 Comments »
Like a droid, I walked into Starbucks and it wasn’t until I opened my mouth to order that I realized I didn’t actually want a coffee.
What am I doing here? I wondered.
If you’ve ever been to Starbucks, you’ll know there’s a language. You need to be able to order your grande, non-fat, half-sweet, extra hot, double shot, no whip macchiato in 5 seconds flat. No stumbling. No stuttering.
So, to be standing in front of this high-haired, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed barista and not have a clue what to say was, well, awkward.
“Something cold?” She offered, unable to conceal the hopeful gleam that I wouldn’t hold up her line much longer.
Something cold, I puzzled. Something cold? But, but I always got coffee. Hot coffee. Extra hot coffee. Something cold?!
Her eyes fluttered and a Colgate crescent fastened itself into place just below her sweet, petite, pierced nose.
“We have these things,” she informed me in a voice that sounded like a long, twirling question mark. “They’re like, cold with ice and berries, you know? They’re good.” She shrugged.
“Alright,” I conceded. “I guess I’ll try one of those.”
It felt odd to watch her write my name on the foreign, clear plastic cup, the comfort of my usual white, smooth familiarity gone with my snap decision. But I only had a moment to feel uneasy about my impromptu choice. In a flash, spontaneity was set in front of me, beads of water diluting the black lines of my freshly Sharpied H, A, Z and Y.
As I walked out into the sunshine, I paused, the fear that my gamble would disappoint, halting me.
Finally, caution was thrown to wind and I whet my whistle.
Sometimes it just takes a ballsy barista to bust your blahs and quench what has been a long-standing thirst.
Very Berry Hibiscus Refresher
Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Inspiration, Life, Short Stories, Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged Burdens, Metaphor, Self-help on April 28, 2013| 4 Comments »
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.
Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Inspiration, Life, Non-Fiction, Short Stories, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged Impatience, Metaphor, Patience on April 18, 2013| 12 Comments »
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’.
Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Inspiration, Life, Poetry, Short Stories, Uncategorized, Writing, tagged Expectations, Frustration, Metaphor, Pressure, Stress on January 23, 2013| 10 Comments »
I rubbed and polished it with my cloth fresh and new, unsuspecting and ever willing, still stiff and crisp. The more I scoured, the brighter it shone.
I took it everywhere. I kept it in my pocket, under my hat or tucked into the toe of my right shoe. At night, it rested underneath my downy pillow, just below my dreaming mind. In the shower, hot soapy water spilled over it, suds trailing the day’s slough down the drain and deep into the pipes.
For a while, well, years really, I barely noticed it apart from the effort it took to make it glisten. But as time went on, my polishing cloth grew black and flecked with holes, limp and lifeless, and what was once light became cumbersome, too big to keep in my shoe or under my hat.
More years passed and despite great efforts, my ratty cloth, now a rag, didn’t bring even a hint of shine, its once brilliant gleam forever lost under many layers of shadows and clouds.
The days, months…years slipped by and it lived on, more than lived, it thrived, growing bulky, bigger, heavier and harder than ever before. Once coveted and craved, now clunky and colossal.
Towing it behind, I trudged through the murk and came to a stop. This was the place…the point where I couldn’t carry it anymore, my body refusing to take one more step.
After years, a lifetime, I, at long last, let it go. Heaved away, it spiraled outwards in a frenzy of rejection and I watched, waiting for it to descend to the dismal, dreary bottom. Drained, exhausted, it took me some time to realize that it was not sinking; it was instead me, rising to the top.
Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Hardship, Inspiration, Non-Fiction, Short Stories, Uncategorized, Writing, tagged Goals, Inspiration, Legend, Metaphor on November 26, 2012| 11 Comments »
The paths are littered with boulders, rocks and large, fallen branches. Some are blocking my way and moving them is difficult. I push and pull, tug and tear, all the while; aware I’m not alone.
I make my way up and over the many big rocks, each one cutting, bruising and scraping my skin. I shimmy under branch after branch; their leaf laden twigs, poking at my torso.
I am famished.
Gales gust through the forest and whip debris up into my face. My eyes sting with the biting force and my hands fumble at the clasped satchel strapped across my chest.
Seeking shelter behind a large trunk, I lift my meager loaf as red eyes stare out from the darkness above and paralyze me. Frozen from the cold moments before, I am now crippled with terror.
I regain my composure but realize it’s coming for me. Many more red reflections materialize in the woodland’s black backdrop and I understand the brute is not alone. The group starts to emerge from the deep and their mangy fur, glistening lips and cloth-like tongues draped over razor teeth become clear to me.
They are ravenous.
I look down, knowing the food I have will distract them, but not for more than a mere wisp of time.
I decide to run.
Holding my satchel to my chest, I bolt out into the lashing rain and flee the pack. I sail up and over rough terrain and dash past gigantic trees, their low-hanging branches narrowly missing my head. Brush slices at my cheeks but the blood is washed away by torrents pelting from the sky. The creatures snarl and snap at my heels, their teeth snag and shred the fabric of my clothes.
They are relentless.
Muscles scream and my body aches. I sense I’m reaching the end and fear the battle is lost. My journey has been long and my heart close to exploding as I climb what I believe will be my last crest. Weary, I grow, as I turn to face what will be my maker, but I see their lowered heads and tattered tails drifting back down the trail.
It’s then that I know – If I had fed them at the bottom, they would not have driven me to the top.
Kin With Your Skin
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Hazy Shades of Me 