A little inspiration that a friend gifted me:
Although, part of me has “outgrown” his books, as a retired Early Childhood Specialist, I will always love his dedication to children. AND, I am a _UGE fan of his art!
“Brilliant, playful, and always respectful of children, Dr. Seuss charmed his way into the consciousness of four generations of youngsters and parents. In the process, he helped kids learn to read.” Read more
All these old journal kernels (entries) are raw, unedited and scanned into this blog.
I set down my lunch sack, take off my Mary Janes, and step over a railroad tie that borders the sandbox. “Hey, Scoot,” I say.
“Emmy!” he says without looking up from the hole he’s already made. “Dig for gold?”
“How deep’s it buried?” I ask.
“To the island,” he says, loud enough for others to look over.
If Miss Primrose is in sight, the bullies shut their traps and don’t make fun of him for the way he talks, or the way he likes his blond hair cut into a burr but makes his Mama leave the three red patches an inch longer. “Strawberries patches,” he calls them.
Seven-year-old Janie clambers over and says, “I want to find an island.”
Me too. I want to find an island. Anywhere but here in the Hilltop school yard. Stupid name, Hilltop. We no more sit on a hill than Mama’s home cooking chicken and dumplings.
Janie and Scooter start chattering, so I dig my toes further into the sand and imagine pulling Mama out between my toes. That’s all the treasure I need.
A shadow hovers over me, but I don’t turn when it says, “Playing with retards?”
Scooter pays no mind to the comment and keeps digging for gold.
I look behind me. Frank’s hands are in his pockets. He’s pushing himself up and down by his toes.
“Don’t know how tall you are?” I say.
Frank looks at me like I have an ostrich head. “Huh?”
“You keep bouncing on your toes. You wanna be a ballerina Someday?”
“You gonna play in a sandbox all your life? Even when you’re all grown up?”
“You’re not grown either, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“I’m older than you. So, you’re that girl whose Ma disappeared.” He’s not nice when he says it. “And your daddy’s missing.”
I look toward the seesaw for help. The top hairs of Rachael’s red bob take turns bouncing up and down with Carla’s blond ones. They don’t pay me any mind.
“You’re stupider than you look,” I say. “Daddy’s at work.”
Scooter stops digging and looks up into Frank’s face. “Can’t disappear. Houdini died!”
I love how Scooter accents the words that are important to him. It’s his way of saying something important without having to string a bunch of words together to make a proper sentence. Scooter’s world is filled with magic, and not just because he loved Houdini.
Frank shakes his head and looks at me. “This dimwit your friend?”
“At least you got one part right.”
He puzzle-faces.
“Who’s stupid now?”
“Keep playing in the sandbox, Enema,” he says.
I go back to digging trying my best not to stand up and claw out his eyes. I hear him spit and stomp off.
I want to speed through time so Miss Primrose can ring the dismissal bell. Nothing’s the same, and now it’s worse since Frank-furter entered my life. I think I’ll call him that. No, even better. I’ll call him Franken-Farter. I smile and yell the name inside my head and reach for my lunch sack. It’s gone.
Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket
Featured image photo credit
always write outside? Even when I travel, I search for a place out in the elements where I can plant my tush, open my laptop and write.
Perhaps walls close in my thoughts.
Or the heater or AC turning on sounds too artificial.
Or I don’t like the fake lighting.
Maybe it’s because I got used to writing (or painting) outside when I was a smoker. But that was long ago.
Maybe it’s because, outside, I can sit at a table and throw the ball for my mini-Aussie using a right-handed muscle memory with no thought but for the words I write. So he and I, kill two stones with one bird (yes I meant it that way) – and it makes us both happy as he returns for another 50 throws.
I have one of those propane heaters, kinda like restaurants do. So if it’s above 40 degrees, I’m still good to go.
Because I live in Texas, the temp works with me. Right now, I think it’s around 68.
I like the soft wind, the openness, the expanse and, at least the hope of, the unbound creativity where no walls surround me and world shows up and says,
“Howdy do! Break Into – your creative zone”
Any maybe, it’s also because I get to see this:
I painted this two years ago while waiting for my grandson to be born. When the joyous bundle arrived, all I had to do was fill in the name.
All these old journal kernels (entries) are raw, unedited and scanned into this blog.
Innocent Meta, mislead to the bordello, is mistook as a prostitute by one of Madam Fannie’s clients.
“Hold that position right there, new girl!”
Edgar? When had he arrived? The three of us peeked over the swinging doors and into the parlor.
Typically a Southern gentleman, Edgar Harmon became cantankerous with too much liquor in his gut. President of the West Texas Bank and Trust, he was still as short and pudgy as when I met him a lifetime ago. Gray hair, the ones still clinging to his scalp, made him look older than his fifty-eight years.
Edgar rose from the divan and staggered toward Meta. “I liked seeing you bent over like that. If you had a little more meat on that rump of yours, you’d be right as rain. You know, a little something more to hold on to,” he said, chuckling.
Meta stood firm. “Excuse me?”
Sadie nudged my elbow. “Shouldn’t we do something, Miss Fannie?” she whispered.
“Hush. I want to watch what happens.”
Excerpt from The Last Bordello
(Four Quills of a Tale is a folktale about losing one’s creativity and the struggle to regain it)
I stroke the feathered quills between my calloused fingers with care, unsure what to expect. Katrina the Great Storyteller has been my shining star atop the tallest pyramid and, if the old woman is correct, Katrina will soon be revealed. But what if my grandiose impression of her becomes one of disillusionment? As a General orders the march forward, my duty calls. I inhale a breath of courage and place the first goose feather quill between my fingers. I insert the quill into the ink.
What is this? The quill refuses the ebony ink, repelling it like water on a duck. My hand trembles, but calms when the nib forces my press upon the parchment.
It is because of Goose, my muse, that this is, my final story, will be written and subsequently told. I trust that you, Mr. Kent, will not become tiresome or burdened with this charge, but instead, ultimately enlightened and fulfilled.
I drop the quill. Yes, I am scribing. But these thoughts, these words, this handwriting, is not my own!
The quill rolls decisively toward my trembling hand. I have no recourse but to, again, place the first goose-feathered quill between my fingers.
I never abandoned you, my listening friends. Not with intention. I once was a soul of brilliant color. Sometimes, my hues of imagination were bountiful and my flowers bloomed from gardens sweet. I tilled the soil, deep in exploration of dreams, and stirred fertile ideas in the rich black earth.
Once discovered, I took the gems to flowing rivers, cleaned them, and analyzed them with curious and appreciate eyes. Oh, how I loved those times—when Goose and I traveled the countryside sharing tales of imagination with you! Even now, I smile remembering how Goose fluffed her tail feathers with bravado when amongst the listeners.
And then the colors of my imagination began to fade. Weeds in my gardens multiplied like diseased cells. I yanked and pulled, discarding the bad, hoping the good would conquer. Sometimes, the scarce treasures bled around my hand and trembled with frustration like a blank canvas waiting for paint. Particles of uncertainty coursed through my veins. I tried to find the voice within my stories and the stories within my voice. But they had vanished, as if stolen by thieves in the darkest of night.
What could I offer if not my stories?
to be continued ….
Because I fed her and the rest of her eager mates in water world every morning?
Because I was excited when Alex the Fish Man said yesterday she was bloated and may be ready to have babies?
Alex the Fish Man is on speed dial. I told him she was laying on her side, panting as she stared at me. He said she could have been bloated because of a something-something disease. The companions continued to swim by her, nudging her. “Get up. Get up!,” they said.
I turned up the oxygen level as told. Her panting slowed but she did not get up.
The others stared at me like saying, “aren’t you going to do anything?”
A brief visit to my computer, I went back to check. No movement. Nothing. Gone.
All I could do was say, “I’m sorry.” And to the others, I said the same.
Life.
As I often say, during the good or the bad, “There goes that Universe again.”
She was still alive in this photo. Posting her dead would have been callous.
Carolyn Dennis-Willingham 