Writing Prompts

I saw this:



And then I thought...what if this?...

For perhaps the first time in his life, the Pirate was terrified.  He was losing her and nothing, no one, not her family, not the doctors, not even his love seemed an equal match to the demons in Elizabeth’s head. 

She had lost so much weight.  Her skin was waxen. Her eyes, dark and sunken, held no spark, no trace memory of any happiness the two of them had ever shared.  Day after day he entered her room at the sanitarium, hoping for a miracle.  And every time he left bowed with heartache.  She was slipping away a bit more every day.

In desperation, the Pirate did the only thing he could think of to do.  He stole her back.  He walked her past the prying eyes of the staff, across the grounds and behind the ridiculous carousel some well-meaning, thankful father had presented as a token of his appreciation.  When he was sure they were out of sight, the Pirate led his mute, compliant captive through a carefully concealed break in the chain-link fence and into a waiting sedan.

He couldn’t say later how he came up with the church.  He only knew she used to love it- loved the way the stained glass colored the dust motes floating in the late afternoon sunlight, loved the tender smile on the Virgin’s face as she stared into the face of her newborn son.  The Pirate only knew this had been her sanctuary once upon a time.  So he stationed two of his men in front of the chapel’s thick wooden doors and led his lady down the center aisle to settle her beside him on the wide, front pew.

She never questioned him but then, he didn’t expect her to, not really.  She hadn’t said one word to anyone since her release.  Hadn’t even acknowledged their presence. Still, when he leaned down and pulled his guitar out from beneath the bench, he’d hoped she might recall it.  But she just sat, staring down at her hands as if she didn’t recognize them either.

“Remember this?” he whispered softly.  “Before they…before you were…”  He broke off, clearing his throat with a sound that even to him was half-sob, half-cough.  He glanced over to see if she’d noticed but Elizabeth was still staring down at her fingers, slowly pleating the fabric of her wrinkled, cotton skirt.

“We used to sing this,” he said, trying again. “I wrote it for you.”

He hugged the guitar closer to his chest and felt the tissue-thin membrane between despair and hope rip apart.  It was as much for himself as for her that he began to sing.

Saturday Afternoon with Loveseats

There is a saying hanging on the wall in my kitchen that just about sums up my thoughts on the meaning of life...

"There are things you do because they feel right and they may make no sense and they may make no money and it may be the real reason we are here: to love each other and to eat each other's cooking and say it was good."

Today four sweet pranksters came to help me pick up a sofa I'd purchased.  They wouldn't let me pay for gas, even though it was a 60 mile round trip. The blew me off every time I tried to thank them for taking their entire Saturday afternoon to help me.  They cut up and carried on the entire way there and back.  They sat on every sofa and chair in the store, made faces, snort-laughed and chased each other like ten year olds.

We laughed the whole way to Winston Salem and back. But more than anything- they made me feel so lucky and loved.

What more can we ever ask for in life than to know what it is to love and be loved?

Lucky, lucky me.

Tuesdays at the Nursing Home

I'm on the locked Alzheimer's Unit this afternoon when an attractive, petite woman walks up to me. "Tell me," she says, "what's missing on me?"

I look at her carefully. I'm weighing this question, giving it serious consideration even though I know she's got dementia. I study her, take in the bright green peasant top and jeans, the chic haircut.

"I don't know," I say finally, "but I love your hair."

She screws up her face and I realize she has no teeth.

"No, what?" she says. "What did you say? I can't hear you. Look at me. What am I missing?"

"Your teeth?" I ask, completely forgetting for the moment that she has dementia. "Did you forget to put in your teeth?"

She shakes her head.  "No, I don't think so.  Something's missing on me. What is it?"

The symbolism of the moment is completely lost on me as I struggle to answer.

"I don't think you're missing a thing," I tell her.

She shakes her head and leaves me to wander up to the next person.  "Come on," I hear her say, "what's missing on me?"

I spend the next hour sitting with a woman who's new to the unit.  She's driving the staff nuts because she keeps asking for her daughter, sure her girl's disappeared and needs her.

"Please, please stick with me," she begs.  "Please help me find my daughter. She wouldn't just go off and leave like this."

I soothe.  I lie. I tell the truth. And nothing helps. Nothing matters. Thirty seconds later she clutches my hand, her eyes filling with tears. "Please help me find her," she pleads. "I'm so lonely here."

I hate broken heart Tuesdays.

This weekend I accompanied the Youngest and his girl on their move to New York City- the land of Law and Order's crimes against humanity and Midnight Cowboys.  I know...and Breakfast at Tiffany's and a host of other wonderful places and people...but this is my baby we're talking about.  I wasn't just watching him leave the nest to fly gracefully around the tree...he did that in college. Now he's soaring like a hummingbird heading to South America for the winter of my discontentedly anxious, watching-from-afar, ever-changing motherhood.  And as I must realize, over and over again, he will be fine because he is one of the most competent, savvy human beings I know.

So, his place wasn't surrounded by junkies and homeless people. It was even better than my first apartment in Philly.  A colorful fruit and flower stand marks the corner where he now lives.  We set his belongings out onto the sidewalk and no one rushed up to steal them. A couple pushing a stroller did stop but only to argue about the state of their relationship.

"No," she said, stopping to face her young husband. "I want to talk about this...You always brush it off but this time we're going to talk it out."  I carry a box into the building and return to hear her say, "Fine then, I'll just call a lawyer! Is that what you want?"

By the time I came back for the next box, they were gone.

The neighbor across the hall had to open his apartment so we could get the new, not huge couch into the boy's studio loft.  It's that small but cozy and inviting, with a lovely view.

My brother's family came up, seasoned New York visitors and residents.  My brother and I spent the day making up the backstories of every interesting person we saw, including their current dilemmas and hopes for the future...The biker bouncer with the long beard stuck guarding a Porky the Pig-esque figure outside the bar. He makes no secret of his disgust for the Pig but like people and their dogs, he favors the porcine mascot.  His wife taunts him about this late at night when he comes home drunk and wakes her up. She once told him his performance and accompanying body parts made it difficult for her to tell him apart from the fiberglass oinker.

Two transvestites worked the corner, their feet swollen and painful from the unaccustomed height of their new heels.  "You know, Nance, it only takes one minute and 32 seconds to be in agony in heels that high."

"You should buy better shoes, John," I tell him.

It's Happened Again!

Five minutes ago we were here...

And now, suddenly, we're here?!

How is it this keeps happening? First the oldest gets married and now, not a month later, the youngest graduates from college...with two majors and a minor, a successful comedian, a boy becoming a man...

I know, this is how life's supposed to go. One moment you're feathering the nest and trying to wrap your mind around this fragile, new creature that is your baby- the next second- they've flown the coup and the sudden silence is deafening.

A few minutes ago I was in charge of their well-being- now I must watch nervously from the sidelines.  I know only as much as they share but I feel and imagine so much more.

They don't need me like they did and this is a good thing, I remind myself. It means they are launching, soaring into their futures with strong wings and brave hearts. I am so proud of the men they're becoming...etc, etc, etc...And yet- I miss my babies with all my heart.

Selfish, but true, and all a part of the process...Dammit.

Ophthalmologists See Straight Through You in Randolph County

This quote was taken directly from a Randolph County, NC Commissioners Meeting.  I am a fiction writer and I can only aspire to invent a character as wonderfully quirky as Evangeline James.

"Evangeline James spoke, saying that she was currently a notary public and doesn’t charge because she is “for the underdog.” She said that she believes that before anyone is issued any type of firearm, there should be an international background check performed. Ms. James also said 'the eyes are the windows to the soul, meaning that ophthalmologists can look into our eyes and see every single thing that is wrong with us. So cut the crap and get everyone an eye check.'"

When writers gather and someone tells a story that is simply too wonderful, the highest compliment the others can pay is to ask "Are you gonna use that? Cause if you aren't, can I have it?" That is how I feel about Evangeline. I just have to use that somewhere...

What Happened?

When did this happen?

When did he grow from a little boy who loved his yellow raincoat and his pacifier

Into this man?

Weren't we just lying on the family room floor playing with his "little guys?" How did this happen? What happened to the baby who didn't sleep through the night for years? Or my little boy who cried because he turned 5 and I told him he was a "Big Boy" now?  Where's the boy who stood by my side at book signings, arms crossed, unsmiling because he was on duty as my "bodyguard"?

I know, things change.  My boys have grown up and I have grown older.

But no matter what- the more things change...

The more they stay exactly the same...

Even Though I Now Live in Town...

I still manage to live down an unpaved country road...

Things Worth Writing About...

Forgotten people...Like Bobby the man who sits in a corner of his room at the nursing home, so slumped with defeat his body has grown into the shape of a fat comma. Behind him, on his bedside table, is an 8 x 10 portrait of himself back in the days when he still had hope.  In that picture he's leaning in toward the viewer, smiling all the way up to his eyes. When I look at the man he's become, all I get is a quirked eyebrow, a short, sarcastic nod toward the young boy in the photograph and a shrug.

Or Annie, pulling herself around the nursing home in a wheelchair, muttering to herself words I can't understand and moaning softly. But when I come up behind her, slip my arms around her neck and lean in to hug her, she laughs like a delighted five-year-old. "Let's blow this popstand," I whisper. "Uh-huh, let's do that!" She says, knowing neither one of us is going anywhere.

Or Faye, Belle's former roommate. She's got six kids, all frequent visitors, all promising she'll be going home soon, then telling the social worker they just can't tell her the truth...that no one's coming, that revisions to her home aren't so it will be wheelchair friendly but more livable for the members of the family hoping to move in.  Somewhere down inside her ample soul, Faye knows this. The weight of their betrayal pulls her sideways in her chair and pins the stroke-paralyzed side of her body against the uncomfortable metal armrest.  "Hey, Baby Girl," she says. "I been lookin' for you all day. How you doin'?"

I like the losers, the disenfranchised, the hurt and angry underdogs.  Maybe because I've always felt just a little out of place and uncomfortable in my own skin.

That's why I like the Pirate who lives down the alley from me. Mad as hell at the Historical Commission, angry with the cops and college students, gentle with his five year old daughter, mouthing the obscene words he hurls so she won't hear him spouting his irate truths.

I like the crack whore and her boyfriend, the way she tries to hard to befriend my dogs, trying to reassure them when she and her man suddenly spring out into the alleyway fresh from using or whatever it is they've been doing behind the dumpster.

And I dislike the moralistic, self-righteous do-gooders who claim they're only in it for peace, harmony and justice.  I dislike them intensely.  It's easy to hide behind the shield of piety.  It's easy to preach forgiveness.  It's rolling around in the trenches and having your ass handed to you a few times that teaches life's true lessons.  But as usual, I digress...

Writing Blocked

I'm blocked. Have been for too long to say. But I'm trying.  A few measly paragraphs.  Does it hook? Feedback anyone?

            I used to be normal, just like you.  Then one day I woke up and realized my kids had left home, my husband had traded me in on a newer model and I was now standing on the edge of a cliff called “The Rest of Your Life.”  

Shortly after that, due to a misprint on Craigslist and short bidding window, I became the proud new owner of a house on Tate Street.  A sweet, yellow, Dutch Colonial overlooking the college campus, right in the heart of the funky, downtown district.  I felt like I’d rediscovered the hippy girl I used to be-only a bit older and wiser.  Or so I thought.

            That was before I arrived home one day and found the Pirate’s dog leering at me through a gap in my own privacy fence.  I didn’t know it then but Fate was about to teach me a very valuable lesson-there are no U-turns on Life’s Highway.  

Goodbye, Belle

Today I said goodbye to Belle, my patient from the nursing home.  For the past 4 years I've spent a portion of almost every Tuesday with her but her funeral made me realize something- I knew a very small part of her.  In fact, it's that way with all of my patients.  I come in right before they go out.

I get to know and love people who most often no longer resemble the person their families and friends knew and loved...or in some cases, despised.  I walk in when almost everyone else has walked out.

Is this the carcass of life then? The last dregs? Or is it, as I've come to view it, the reduction of a person down to their very most basic essence? It is hard to be funny and wise when you're in pain, or suffering from dementia, but I find this in almost every single person I meet.

Belle was spoiled by her husband and when he died, I learned, became clingy and needy but also feisty and full of ribald jokes.  When I came along, she was going deaf.  She grieved for her home and husband. Couldn't understand why her friends and family had seemed to desert her. And eventually, she invented two new friends who stood by her until the end.

I miss the woman I never knew and treasure the friend I made during Belle's last few years. I will miss her.

I'm back....again! Bet you forgot what I even look like, it's been that long, huh?

 It's been a time of transition around here. For one thing, I've said goodbye to my sanctuary of the past five years, the Little Cabin in the Hollar. It was a hard decision but one born of necessity. It was time to make changes big and little in my life and in order to do so, I had to say goodbye to my little farm.

There have been many goodbyes and changes, some painful and a few hopeful. I live in-town now, surrounded by the vibrance of UNCG's college life, in an elderly Dutch Colonial that had been sorely abused by renters. With a little effort and elbow grease, it's coming back to life.

Still, even this new home may turn out to be temporary as it seems the winds of change aren't quite finished with me yet. That's all right because I have my eye on another battered gem a short distance away.

After all, houses are only brick and wood.  It takes family and friends to truly make a home. My hooligan boys are still as strong and present in my life as ever, although even our family's configuration is changing...for the better.  The Eldest Unnamed One will be getting married in April.  And the Youngest graduates from UNC and will be heading off to make his fortune in the Big City.

My dear, sweet lady in the nursing home, Belle, enjoyed one last wonderful Christmas, thanks to my cousin Omar and his wife's donation of a big, fancy wreath for her door.  Last week, after a battle with pneumonia, Belle died in hospice.  Her funeral is tomorrow, on Dad's birthday. Somehow this seems fitting.

There have been many sorrows these past six months, much grieving and loss. But it's almost Spring and I feel the beginnings of new possibilities.  The scent of Hope is in the air.

Some things remain the same and for those, as always, I am very thankful...

I'll try to be here more often...with tales from my new life in the "city."  Maybe I'll tell you about the Pirate Dog and his wild-eyed owner who live down the alley...He's not the Moonshiner but he's just as much of a character.

Tuesdays at the Nursing Home

Belle is 92, almost blind and so hard of hearing, you have to shout to make yourself heard.  Visitors rarely come to see her but Belle is resilient. She has two imaginary friends- Edith, the woman with no feet, and Jeff, Edith's father.  The three of them have been talking, Belle says.  They want to know where the wreath is I bring every year to hang on her door.  Belle can't remember breakfast, but she remembers that tacky, fiber-optic wreath with the singing reindeer, elves and Santa.

"I told Jeff all about it," she says, leaning forward in her wheelchair and gesturing up at the top of her wardrobe where Jeff lives.  "He said he knew you'd remember it this week."

And I do.  But this year, during a move, the wreath was "misplaced," along with quite a few other treasured items, so I no longer have it.  I try to explain this to Belle but she can't or won't hear me.  I've tried to find a replacement, but when it's that gaudy, it's appeal is limited. You can't buy a fiber-optic wreath with animated, singing figures anywhere this year and believe me, I've tried.

"Edith," Belle says, calling up to the empty space above our heads. "Wait til you see what she's a gonna bring us. When it gets here, we are going to sing all night and if someone don't like it, they can kiss where the sun don't shine!"

I imagine that wreath, stuffed in its box, packed away in someone else's attic and hope this year it brings as much pleasure to its new home as it brought to Belle's.  Somehow I doubt it will.

Life at the beach after the rain...

All in all, not a bad first day in a week full of waves and seagulls.

Gardening with Snakie

Looks like I'm gardening, huh?

Cutting away at those pesky weeds...

Not. Seems Mr. Snakey got himself all fouled up in the garden netting. Just like last year. You'd think I'd learn but nooo! My bad.

He's on his way now, just a mite worse for wear...

Easter Weekend With Puppies

Red Sky This Morning

You know what they say- Red sky at morning, sailors take warning...

The view from the back porch of the cabin this morning.