Unspoken

Your brown eyes peer deep into my soul every time you look at me. Edged with sadness, fraught with frustration, yet glowing with joy your eyes tell a wordless story. I linger on memories of you, emerging from infancy learning to walk at 9 months and at 15 months, pointing at letters, announcing the names. Mounting concern surrounds my wonder.

What a quirky little fellow you are.

Such a bright boy, precocious and energetic; they say you endure somewhere between Aspbergers, ADHD, or profoundly intelligent. I cannot tell you in what kingdom you reside and my heart continues to ache.

This writing is in response to Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word challenge.  You'll find more writings to read here.  

March Rain with the March Hare

“You will do foolish things, but do them with enthusiasm.”

~Sidonie-Gabrielle Colette

It rained over the weekend. Slate gray skies wept a sad song all day Saturday and then sighed while dropping a few more tears on Sunday. We refused to be pulled into melancholy March and instead found reasons to smile and laugh.

  What’s not to laugh about when jumping in puddles while carrying a little umbrella with Optimus Prime striking a strong pose on it?

Who could ever frown at cupcakes dressed in chocolate frosting with a curl at the top? And let’s add a sprinkle of pale pink sugar for a glittering effect.

Then there’s Alice in Wonderland. In Lewis Carroll’s classic children’s fantasy, Alice says, “If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be as it is, because everything would be what it isn’t. And contrary wise, what is, wouldn’t be. And what it wouldn’t be, it would. You see?”

So the rain over the weekend that’s extended into the Monday would not be rain at all, but tiny wet drops falling from sky with soft tinkling laughter. Each would find a soft pillow to land on, jump up and pirouette all about the grassy lawn. Gray clouds would be violet and pink cushions with French knots embroidered in green. What is up would be down and what is down would be up. Penguins would wear bikinis instead of tuxedos and butterflies would turn into caterpillars.

The new Alice in Wonderland movie enchants with the lovable characters, the absurd Queen of Hearts, and wonderland in all it’s magical mystery glowing in vibrant colors. For a while we were transported to wonderland with Alice and forgot about here and now.

Oh what a happy place to be a child once again, even if only for an hour or two.

A Daisy, Kerouac, and Me

Oh, I don’t know what to write. I’ve been working on The Broom Man, but I can’t post it. I read somewhere that if you post excerpts of books you plan to try to have published, it puts the book in jeopardy of not being accepted because…it’s been previously published or at least part of it has been. So….no glimpses of what I’ve been working on for a year now. Yes, it’s taking me a year to write a fictional book loosely based on an intriguing character from my childhood. Mystery surrounded him and assumptions followed him, which when added to my imagination presents a tale of small town life seen through the eyes of someone on the fringe of society.

If anyone knows that what I’ve said is a bunch of pig swill, please let me know. I’d really like to post bits and pieces, get some reactions and who knows, maybe a critique or three.

Since I don’t know what to write today I’ll return to Jack Kerouac:

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars…”

Excuse me while I sigh….

About My Writing

Lately, I’ve been more of a reader than a writer and that’s ok. It’s more than ok it’s a damn good thing. I like scurrying down my blog list, reading posts by my favorites and leaving thoughtful comments. I’ve also rebooted my journal. Writing it out on a clean white sheet of paper satisfies me to the core. From the feel of the paper beneath my hand to how I grasp a black ink pen, it’s a tactile experience. It’s one of the few times I allow the whisperings of my heart to flow from hand to page without censure. If I’m angry…I write it in stark, emotional, bare-bones words. If I’m feeling benevolent and kind toward the world, a flowery prose ends up in the journal.

Then there are the days when I become the creator rather than the reactor. Those are the writing times I love best. I have no need to cleanse myself with words or cut my soul open to release life’s venom. Instead, I delve into that magical place of fantasy and fiction. It’s the place where I conjure up characters that reside in a population 2000 place, like the town where I grew up. The descriptive part of writing intrigues me and in a first writing I lose myself in painting my picture of Cape Cod, Chicago, or Comfrey, an imaginary region. Getting lost in the minutiae of life delights me and often reveals the inner sanctum of a character that might not otherwise be exposed.

Then comes the characters themselves, those personalities that populate the places I’ve been, the places I’d like to go, and the places I can never physically go because they exist only through me. At times, the characters become so real I dream of them, I worry what may happen to them, and I watch them develop through my words. I’ve discovered the hardest character to bring to life is the evil one…that spirit that makes bad decisions that hurt others for whatever reason. Does every story need a villain, an antagonist? Perhaps not, but it sure adds to the mystery and excitement.

Writing fiction is a deep-rooted love that started when I was a little girl. I’d pen my words in a yellow tablet after my sister fell asleep. These days, while the rest of the world slumbers, I escape to my fictional world of overrun gardens, brick buildings, and a man living on the fringe of small town society trudging through life with eyes wide open. I pen short stories and novels, unfinished and waiting for a conclusion.

Have you started a book, a novel, a memoir?