The List

Response to Prompt #19 Grocery List Flash Fiction

by Helen Sadler

Story started 10/14/14

Completed on 12/11/16 to match the prompt

The lavender bubble bath was just what Talia needed. Not once in her life had she ever felt as aggravated as she did today. Not once in her life had she ever connected with the phrase “Calgon take me away.”  Not until today.

Her thoughts swirled back to the moment she knew she could not work for that bitch Pamela Brady any longer. Why had it taken so long to see?

She had answered texts during her daughter Ella’s soccer games and birthday parties and swim meets – always some emergency.  She had worked incredibly long hours, and last year even cancelled her vacation at the last minute, losing her deposit at the resort.  Why?  Because she believed in the work.  Her boss needed her and made her feel needed.

But that was changing.

It was the incident this morning, and a pink post-it note, that set things in motion.

Ella had woke with her hair in a tangled mess from a combination of swimming and sleeping on wet hair, thus causing a knotted mess that needed attention – at exactly the wrong moment.  Pam was calling the cell constantly, asking why Talia wasn’t at the client meeting. Never mind that the time of the meeting had been moved up two hours, right amidst the time Talia is trying to get Ella out the door.  None of that mattered.

On the way to work, while stopped at lights, Talia had scribbled off a list of items she needed from the drug store: refill on her Prozac prescription, hair de-tangler so the event of this morning would not be repeated. Ibuprofen for her constant headache and unbearable monthly cramps.  Fibre-All to keep her barely functioning digestive system going.  Sensodyne for her teeth that often grind in the night.

But when work was done, and she got in the car and saw the post-it note list sitting on the front console of her Lexus, she knew she could never go back.  When was the last time she had shopped for anything besides her stress needs? When was the last time she brought fresh food in the house, and not just take-out? 

Talia crumpled up the pink post-it. She took out a pad a paper – a good size legal pad – and began making a new list: Fresh vegetables. Granola. Pineapple and watermelon and grapes. Eggs. Cheese. Tortillas. Lots of fish and meat. The list went on and on. Oh, and wasn’t there a Farmer’s Market at the local park tomorrow? It could be a start. Once the resignation email to Pam was sent. Maybe she would even take Ella – a girls’ day together to start a new life.

Talia closed her eyes and sunk into the luxury bath. Who is this woman questioning her existence? And if she walks away from the life she knows, the life that’s been a comfort, who will she become?

Somehow the questions were more important than answers. It all seemed so clear. She was ready to take the leap.

She had the list.

Celery

Response to Prompt # 19: Grocery List Flash Fiction

Celery
by Laurie J. Kemp

Fucking celery. That was all she could think to put on that striped strip of paper on the magnetic grocery list pad that hung on the refrigerator door. No one to cook for and too many extra pounds to shed since having her baby. Ten years ago. Now he was gone, and so was his father. Olivia felt so alone.

She pulled up to Publix and shuffled through her purse to find the list. She stared at it while she waited for "Pretty Woman" to finish playing on the radio. She always loved Roy Orbison. "Celery. I need a fucking shopping list for celery?" she said out loud. All those empty lines on the list stared back at her. If things had been different, her list might be filled with juice boxes and Oreos, maybe steak and veggies for salad and the ingredients for chocolate chip cookies. Instead, it was empty. Like her life.

Her eyes began to well up. It wasn't just celery on her list. The celery was a symbol, for tomato juice, hot sauce, and a shit ton of vodka. The celery was just a garnish, a symbol of how she drank away her life and all that was good in it. "At least I'm not guzzling it straight from bottle anymore," she quipped at the word on her list. Baby steps. Ah yes, baby steps. Just the word baby was enough to launch her into an all out sob. She fumbled around for a tissue, a napkin, anything to wipe the snot and the tears. When she finally gave up, she looked again at the list through her tears. Celery. She blew her nose in the striped strip of paper, crumbled it up, and tossed it out the window.

"Fuck celery!" she shouted, and she drove away without ever getting out of the car. Instead she drove down one more light to the plaza at the next intersection. She pulled up to the spot right in front and stared hopelessly into the window. The bright red neon sign flashed on and off calling to her, "LIQUOR. LIQUOR."

Erica the Beautiful

https://youtu.be/IXiRuSIXbns

Truly Phenomenal

Erica the Beautiful

My princess threw herself a fairy tale last night. In a rustic alley reminiscent of the Prohibition era, with a flower girl twirling a turquoise parasol,  surrounded by love, my niece married her true love.

When she appeared at the end of the aisle,  my heart jumped into my throat so hard, so unexpectedly to me, that my nephews burst into tears.  In that instant,  I saw the little girl in a white bonnet, beaming at church because she thought the choir was singing her praises in the hymn "Erica the Beautiful". I saw the sweet cherub running to me crying as her older brother chased her down. I saw the twelve year old at the kitchen sink late at night,  doing dishes and calling for her little brothers to get ready for bed. I saw the fifteen year old, brimming with pride, handing me her binder filled with her plans of being a detective.  I saw the little girl holding back tears when talking about her dad's new family.  I saw the angry teen, scrawling epitaphs in sharpie all over her mattress when my mother died. I saw the brave young woman in combat gear when she was in Iraq. I saw her.

Brave beyond belief.  Full of faith beyond reason that her dreams would come true. And they did.

She is a formidable force. Creator of award winning cakes. Traveling nurse working on her Master's between medical missions to Third World countries. Proud Veteran and incurable romantic,  with unmatched style and organizational skills. When I look at her now, as the woman she's become,  it's easy to forget that little girl longing for love.

Last night,  her phenomenal entirety came crashing into my mind all at once. This girl I cried so many tears for. The one that hoped beyond incredible odds that if she just tried her best her life would be a fairy tale proved herself true.

She is my hero.

And not just mine. It occurred to me,  as I watched her father/daughter dance, surrounded by her brothers and stepdad,  that she had a hand in raising us all. I don't think I was the only one.  I don't think I have ever seen so many men cry so hard at a wedding.  I know none of us were prepared for it. I think it says something about this phenomenal woman that so many phenomenal men reacted so viscerally to Erica's dream wedding.  She sacrificed so much of herself,  her youth, to be a good example to her brothers, to all of us. After so much selflessness,  sacrifice, and loneliness, so many disappointments that we helpless to shield her from, our princess became her own knight and made herself complete. Then she found a prince and a knight as goofy, sentimental, courageous,  passionate,  ambitious,  and free -spirited as she is. 

For so long,  she seemed to me the muse for this song, but now this little girl with nothing wrong isn't all alone.

Phenomenal Me

This post is in response to prompt #18: Phenomenal Women.

It’s hard to recognize a single woman who has influenced me. My life has had no shortage of phenomenal women, so here’s to all of them…

My mom who birthed me, raised me, and taught me what truly unconditional, unbreakable, infinite love is. Lucky for me, my grandmother also came with the package. My Bubbie loved family above all else. She taught me to cook, not with recipes but with love. I should only feel as beautiful and smart and perfect as I was in her eyes.

My sister, who above all else has been on the journey with me to womanhood. Sharing the most challenging and triumphant moments in young womanhood. Teaching me what I should look for in every friend I meet and expect nothing less than what she always shared with me.

My teachers, all of them, I never had a bad one. Mrs. Schneider, Mrs. Baranoff, Ms. Ritcher, Mrs. Kravitz, Mrs. Bliok, Mrs. Ortola. The teachers at E.M. Baker Elementary School in Great Neck, New York were outstanding. Each of them was special in their own way. Mrs. Schneider recognized me in a mall in Florida, almost ten years after I was in her Kindergarten class. Ms. Ritcher taught us to square dance. Mrs. Bliok brought back the fountain pen and taught us to write in cursive with the most beautiful peacock blue wet ink. Mrs. Ortola gave us our own checking accounts and had an archeological dig in a giant raised sandbox. They instilled a love of learning in me during the most important time in my development.

My friends’ moms, the ones who were like mine, and the ones who weren’t. Julie’s mom, Linda, who was a wonderful artist and hand calligraphied all of the neighborhood Bar-Mitzvah invitations and hosted sleepover birthday parties. Jennifer’s mom, Carolyn, the school librarian who treated me like I was her own. Gillian’s mom, Suzanne, who was a musical free spirit who allowed us to explore the same in ourselves. And Stacy’s mom, Judy, who took me in like her own and even on family vacations, when my parents were splitting up.

My co-workers at the domestic violence center, where I had my first “grown-up” job. I learned to put others before self and became hooked on working in the non-profit sector. All of them for helping me understand women’s issues, and the challenges of women of color, and how a grassroots organization of women can empower a community.

My friends who have survived tragedies, losing children, losing parents. Fighting their way out of financial challenges and broken families. Committing themselves to be the best parents, teachers, nurses, artists, writers, lawyers, realtors, human beings they can be.

My grade school students over the years who have fought poverty, trauma, abuse, learning difficulties, broken homes, mental illness, or just childhood in general in the 21^st century.

My college students who are raising children, working full time, supporting their families, and going to school. And doing really well at all of it.

There are so many more. The women I work with now at PACE. They give everything, heart and soul to the young women we serve. We all try to live by example and role model for the young women in our center. We work tirelessly to help them see the possibilities in life.

I am inspired everyday by the phenomenal women in my life, young and old. I learn from them every day, about kindness and grace. About forgiveness and love. About persistence and commitment. About sacrifice and beauty. About being a phenomenal woman. All of them are part of me and who I am as a woman. I am phenomenal because of them.

Dinner with the In-laws by Annmarie Ferry

For prompt #19 Grocery List Flash Fiction, I am finishing a story that I began at the Sanibel Island Writer's Conference.  It's kind of cheating, but I like what I have so far and want to see it to fruition. I don't have a picture of the list, but it was titled "dinner with the in-laws" and included the following: chicken boobs, garlic, cheap white wine, zucchini, beer, and whiskey. A little bubble letter note on the bottom read:  Please remember to get EVERYTHING this time. If not, add "new wife" to the bottom of this list."

With that said, I plan to visit the found grocery list site often for inspiration--or just a good laugh. I might even pluck a few to use as part of a lesson in the classroom on characterization.

I just hope no one ever finds my grocery lists...

Dinner with the In-Laws

The beads of sweat forming on Kelsey's upper lip threatened to dissolve her carefully applied Bonne Bell Lip Smack gloss. This was the first time that she would host a dinner for her new in-laws. She wasn't worried about her father-in-law; as long as he had his whiskey, he would wolf down about anything.

But, her mother-in-law was a different story.  Although her taste in wine was less-than-sophisticated, she was quite the foodie. And quite the bitch.

"Did you get the garlic?" she frantically asked her husband, whose ass was comfortably planted on the sofa, beer in hand.

"Oops. Guess I forgot," he shrugged as he took a swig of beer, his Adam's apple bobbing as he gulped it down.

"You jerk!" she shrieked, not amused. "I even put a note on the list to P-U-H-L-E-E-Z get everything. Everything in ALL CAPS!"

"What's the big deal? It's only garlic?" Chip's gaze wandered back to the TV.

"Only garlic??? Only garlic???" Kelsey was ready to toss the pan at the back of his head. "I am making garlic chicken for your goddamn parents! You know your mother will looooooove this fuck up."

"Call it un-garlic chicken then," Chip chuckled at his own joke.

Now tears streamed down her face as she eyeballed the other spoils from Chip's half-assed shopping trip: zucchini, cheap white wine. She was considering just guzzling the entire bottle, but then inspiration struck.

She carefully sliced the zucchini as the chicken browned,  then removed it to sauté the veggies. When they softened, she splashed the pan with some white wine, added the chicken, and let it all simmer.

"Voila!" Kelsey exclaimed, victorious. "White wine chicken with zucchini."

"Is that even a thing?" Chip grunted.

"It is now." The back of his head, the pan, the temptation was becoming too much.

The ding dong of the doorbell came just in the nick of time.  Chip slowly peeled himself off the couch, beer in hand, to help Kelsey greet his parents.

"Hello, dears," chirped her mother-in-law, fake smile plastered across her smug face. "It smells divine in here."

"I would love to sniff some whiskey," grumbled her father-in-law as he gave Kelsey a quick peck on the cheek.

And so it began, dinner with the in-laws.  Thank God Chip remembered the whiskey--and to grab two bottles of cheap white wine.

Prompt #19 Grocery List Flash Fiction

I fell in love with flash fiction during my 2-day session with John Dufresne (pronounced Dufrane). One of my favorite exercises (although I haven't sat down to finish the story I started) was to write a piece based on a grocery list.  If you think about it, an individual's grocery list says a lot about that person and offers a unique glimpse into his or her life.  

In that spirit, check out the found grocery lists on grocerylists.org.  You access the lists by hovering over each image and clicking the link that pops up (directions on the top of the page). One you find a list that interests you, create a piece of flash fiction to tell a story about the person who wrote the list.  

It will be fun to see where this takes us!

Rooted in Love

Response to http://trailbrazin.blogspot.com/2016/10/phenomenal-women-prompt-18.html

Rooted in Love
The Sisters of Saint Joseph
by Helen Sadler

This prompt was a wonderful challenge – how to come up with an inspiring woman I have never written about before.  The first person I was going to profile was my great-grandmother, Julianna.  But then I realized I have written about her several times before.  Then I thought of going deeper.  I thought of Frankenstein author Mary Shelley and her mother Mary Wollstencraft.  I thought of Gloria Steinem.  All good choices, and yes, inspiring.  But it was when I came to the influence of the Sisters of Saint Joseph in my life, tears filled my eyes.  Yes, I thought.  I have struck on the right thing. 

I was taught my nuns my entire life, but it wasn’t until I went to high school at Saint Joseph Academy on Rocky River Drive in Cleveland that I felt inspired by the nuns (save my second grade teacher, Sr. Flaviana.)  I will be the first to admit that during my time at SJA, I was not a fan of the nuns.  It is only in retrospect I realize what they gave me.

The Sisters of St. Joseph are much like their male counterparts, The Jesuits.  Their purpose lies largely in social justice issues.  Think of Sr. Helen Prejean of Dead Man Walking fame, working tirelessly to eliminate capital punishment. 

What the Sisters gave me, I realize now, was a way of looking at the world with integrity and love and faith.  I’m sure a lot of my idealism comes from those days sitting in Theology class studying The Holocaust or Marriage or Womanhood or Consciousness.  I remember long discussions and even disagreements over what the meaning of love really was.  Sr. Kathleen Carey insisted it could only be in the conscious actions we take, whereas a student names Sue swore her dog loved her.  A debate worth having?  Yes!  After all, the dog did run and greet her.  Wasn’t that love?

We did projects and papers on those doing good work in the world.  I clearly remember writing about Jane Fonda, probably a polarizing figure to some.  But my admiration of her was met with confirmation that she was a worthwhile human being, doing what she thought was right to bring peace and justice to the world.

Every year in late winter we went on retreat.  As freshman and sophomores, it was in-school retreats. As juniors and seniors we went to remote retreat locations.  This taught me the value of quiet, of time to just think about my spiritual life in a concentrated way.  It is something I have incorporated into my life ever since, as often as I can.

As seniors, the Sisters allowed us to study existentialism in literature.  It remains my favorite high school class to this day.  To sit and ponder the words of those who did not believe there was a God was a revelation to me.  It did the opposite of what some would be afraid it would do – it caused me to confirm my belief in God.  I could not tolerate a meaningless universe, even as I love and adore the writings of Albert Camus, and to some extent, Jean-Paul Sartre.  It was literature worth knowing.

As the years go by, I can see more and more clearly how the Congregation of Saint Joseph (as they are now known) deeply influenced me as a teacher.  I reject the role of reward and punishment in our current system because I know it isn’t needed if the focus is right.  We knew that the real reward in life was to be a good and decent person.  We had very few punishments at SJA – no detentions and very few suspensions. Yes, it might have been because it was a private school.  But I still believe it went beyond that.  I think there was a unifying factor in the teachings that created a safe space for us to experiment, yet find a place to land if needed.

I receive a publication from the Congregation quarterly, in which they write about the work they are currently doing.  This past summer, for example, they were instrumental in “Circle the City With Love,” an event held the day before the Republican National Convention started in Cleveland (see videos.) 

In the current issue of the magazine, they cover the Circle the City event, as well as the Community Builders of Peace Program (for students), their partnerships with groups around the country to preserve the earth, the launch of a human trafficking TraffickCam app, and questions that take us deeper into our relationship with God an others called “Re-examination of ‘Consciousness’” – something I have been using and find immensely inspiring.

Although I have lost interest in attending Masses or being part of a Catholic congregation, I am well aware that my life and my idealism and my entire way of being is rooted in the loving energy of the Sisters I have known, and the contributions they made to my life, even as I dismissed them or even actively rejected.  They knew that what they had to offer would take time to sink in. I try to remember that with my students.  Not all teachings can be heard and acted upon immediately. Some of them take a long time.

So, I dedicate this blog to the ones who made a difference to me – the phenomenal women of the Congregation of Saint Joseph.  Long may their work take root and grow in the world.

The Pastor's Wife by Annmarie Ferry

I am dedicating my response to this month’s prompt, Phenomenal Women , to Brenda Birch, the wife of the pastor of the church I attended during my middle and high school years.  I was privileged to know Brenda on a personal level not only through her role as “the pastor’s wife,” but also as her go-to babysitter for her three young, active boys. I saw firsthand the challenges and sacrifices of being a minister’s wife and witnessed the grace and strength with which Brenda handled it all. And, she always showed an unwavering faith, but also showed her vulnerability, making me realize that the qualities that are sometimes perceived as weaknesses hold more power that being closed off, aggressive, and harsh. She often told me I had a tender heart, and while sometimes I think it would be easier to have a hardened heart, I will always remember and cherish those words.  

The Pastor’s Wife 

Phenomenal women aren’t always bold and brazen.

There is also strength in being kind and gentle,

sensitive and sympathetic, soft-spoken and calm.

Not all phenomenal women announce their presence.

Some slide into your life right when you need them the most,

not knowing the impact they made, 

that they gave you confidence, validation, a sense of belonging,

a soft place to land when teenage emotions got the best of you. 

Phenomenal women can have tender hearts, 

compassionate souls, and the power to hold their tongues,

practicing diplomacy even when challenged and exasperated.

Not all phenomenal women realize how remarkable they are.

They selflessly sacrifice personal time for the benefit of others,

never making you feel like a burden,

always making you feel like you matter, that your feelings are important,

that you have a purpose and a place in a confusing and cruel world.

Phenomenal women aren’t measured by fleeting things—

financial success, social position, or fame, 

They are measured by the imprint they left on your heart.

Phenomenal Women Prompt #18

Today started with me looking for inspiration in my new collection of Maya Angelou poems, hoping to find a mentor poem to inspire my own creation. I would call it a fail since my original purpose wasn't satisfied, but it was anything but.  I came across "Phenomenal Woman," and read it over and over. Then, I pulled up a Youtube video of the illustrious Maya reciting her own masterpiece. I instantly thought of my Trailbrazen sisters and shared it on our Facebook page.

Then, I added a line to a collaborative poem we have been crafting.  It turns out it will be the last line.   That suggestion, whether Helen knew it or not, was the ultimate compliment, just what I needed. It symbolizes the need for closure I have, and the steps I've been proactively taking to gain that closure.

And, Inspiration didn't stop there. A forgotten song from Sarah McLaughlin, "World on Fire," came across the radio today. I shared that with my writing sisters too. More brilliant writing by another phenomenal woman.

That brings me to this month's prompt:  Write about a phenomenal woman who has had a profound impact on your life. This extraordinary female can be dead or alive, famous or infamous, a writer, a singer, an actress, a politician, a teacher/professor, a colleague, a mentor, a friend, or anything at all.  Your tribute can be in any form you would like: song lyrics, poem, biography, etc. Here's the challenge: Find someone you haven't written about before, maybe do a little research to reveal things even you didn't know about her.

I can't wait to read about more phenomenal women written by, well, phenomenal women!

Why We Write (a Trail Brazen collaboration)

by Annmarie Ferry, Dana Herman, Helen Sadler, and Laurie Kemp

We write to be courageous, to push beyond the barriers we've hidden behind for too long.


We write because we want to interact with the world. We write because we can't find our place.


We write to shock, to entertain, to enlighten. To shout out to the world in hopes our echoes are returned.


We write as rebellion to the androcentric society who tells us women's voices should be soft and kind, not uproarious and shocking.


We write to be heard.


We write because we can.


We write to converse with Maya Angelou and SARK and Anne Lamott and Natalie Goldberg and James Taylor. We write to talk about John Dewey and Joy Harjo and Nick Flynn and Sherman Alexie.

We write because words.


We write to have power. We write because we're sometimes powerless.


We write to vent our frustrations. We write to celebrate our happiness. We write so that all of our emotions have a voice.

We write to make sense of pain and loss.

We write to remember days of our youth--willow trees with tire swings,  wondrous summers in Florida, the seemingly never-ending wilderness waiting to be explored, the loving touch of a mother. We write because we have hopes and dreams for the future, a future that holds more possibilities than we are imagining.

We write because it's our lifeline.

We write because sometimes we're not brave enough to do anything else.

We write because beaches.

We write because what else can you do when turtles are sunning themselves outside your door, a juvenile Little Blue Heron is fishing the edge of the pond, and the skies are full of cottony silver lined clouds floating on a cornflower blue sea.

We write to keep it all together. We write because things fall apart.

We write because we bleed words.

We write to stop bleeding.

We write to describe the sunrise and the sunset and the watercolors across the sky and the Sanibel seashells and the Corkscrew Swamp and the sawgrass and cypress of the vast Everglades.

We write because of who we've been. To remind us of who we are.

We write sound our auspicious yawp.

We write to hear our own small voice.

We write because the trees, a blackened silhouette obscure jewel-toned sunsets of cotton candy blue and deep 80's mauve, the color of my mother's curtains.

We write because plovers run, sciddling this way and that, creating tiny Pterodactylesque tracks in the sand as the tide languidly rolls in, out.

We write because we make each other.

We write to mark time in moments of peace, to make the elusive smoke signals of our souls solid, so we can return when we can't remember how.   

We write to unpack the suitcase of who we are, one we neatly packed years ago.

We write to remember. 

We write to forget.

We write to learn about ourselves, each other, and the rest of the world.

We write to process and reflect upon and document our experiences, and to recognize and acknowledge our sense of place.

We write because unsent letters pack a healing punch. We write to cut those who have wronged us, hurt us, pissed us off.

We write to honor our sacred promise to each other.

We write to plug the holes in our sinking ships. We write because sometimes we can't. We write because we need a lifeboat in those moments. 

We write to escape a reality we cannot control, to lose ourselves in a fantasy world where as authors, our pens are all-powerful. We write to paint vivid landscapes, to sketch caricatures, to show the world only what we want it to see.

We write because certainty eludes us, but we know for certain that every word we record is permanent.

We write to affirm our own humanity in a world of technology.

We write to question humanity, begging for benevolence--or at least common courtesy and common sense--in a world where civility has taken a backseat to inexplicable brashness.

We write because it's easier to frantically scribble out mixed emotions than it is to speak them; we write because the scrolling cursive words soothe us.

We write because our writing sisters share mentor poems that inspire us, act as the muse we have been quietly listening for, desperate to hear her whisper. We write because her voice doesn't come as a whisper but instead pours out like a waterfall over a cliff: fast, furious, and forceful.

We write to push ourselves into new ways of being, and to uncover the old ways that no longer serve us.

We write to record moments we are aware of beauty or significance or humor.

We write to connect point A to point B in our minds, and then to demolish the map.

We write because phenomenal women with strong constitutions and soft hearts have much to teach the world.

Why We Write Prompt #17

In preparation for Sanibel Island Writer's Conference (with a clear affirmation that we WILL all be there), we are using poet Jeffrey Thomson as a mentor this month.  He wrote the attached poem called "Why I Write."  We will collaborate on "Why We Write."

https://agnimag.wordpress.com/2015/09/14/not-ready-to-run-why-i-write/

His poem has 44 different "thoughts" about why he writes.  So, perhaps we can shoot for doing 10-11 each and make it about the same length?

Consider posting yours in a specific color so that we can distinguish each contribution. That was a great suggestion, Laurie.

Conversation with Maya, Part II: My New Quilt

I once again find myself staring in the mirror, this time fresh out of the shower, eyeing my belly--or should I say bellies--when the all-to-familiar feeling of disgust begins to bubble up.

"Stop!" I say out loud, even though I'm the only one in the room. "Just stop."

A new commitment to eating healthy(ier) and to cut out alcohol until I get past this slump has me congratulating myself more than ripping myself apart. I am not perfect, but I am better than I was.  Even my "bad" choices are better for the most part. I'm not worried about reaching super-model status, but I have to admit not being classified as obese at my last check-up gave me some motivation to get as far away from that number as possible. 

I close my eyes and visualize myself stepping on the scale (yes, I have brought it back for a once a week weigh-in but no longer obsess over a daily weight). The number I see is the goal I set for the next two weeks. My prize? A glass of wine, my ultimate dangling carrot.

I see you wrapped yourself in that new quilt.  I hear the the soft, raspy voice whisper in my ear. It suits you much better. 

"Yes," I sigh. "I am trying. I still see the flaws but am making a conscious attempt to celebrate their stories. To celebrate my stories." 

That's the thing about quilts. They are just a bunch of imperfect remnants, unimpressive on their own. But, lovingly sew them together, and they become a wondrous piece of art. 

And, just as the last time we conversed, she drops the perfect word bomb and vanishes. 

I glance again at the reflection in the mirror, looking at the imperfect pieces that somehow fit together and pick out a few features that I actually like. After all, this body has carried me this far and has done some pretty kickass things. I'm thinking if I treat it right, it will continue to do so. 

I'm not quite there--seeing myself as a wondrous piece of art--but, I like that my path may just lead me there someday.  

The Last Children of 1960's CYO Day Camp

Response to Prompt #16

The Last Children of 1960’s CYO Day Camp

By Helen Sadler

Once there was a time when

            the hills looked like mountains.

Where climbing up the side of them meant

            grasping at tree roots

            and tugging our way up, our new Keds

            slippery on the dry dirt.

We used to wander the pine woods,

            a crooked trail before bursting

            into a field of daisies, the kind

            of place to make you want to

            fall down on the ground and

            watch the clouds.

We would continue through those

            Ohio woods until we

            found the horse trail down,

            back to our campsite

            stepping over the business

            of horses, and running

            freely at the end, our

            legs threatening to

            betray us by not moving

            as fast as the momentum

                        required.

One June morning, learning where the

            grapevines were, to pull a stem

            and sip the sweet juice,

            the Rocky River calmly sauntering nearby,

            the sky blue and shimmery,

            peeking through the perfectly present trees

            who were wordlessly calling my name.

8/17/16
Inspired by Billy Collins' "The Last Man on Earth"

Dirty Laundry by Annmarie Ferry

Response to prompt #16 http://trailbrazin.blogspot.com/2016/08/prompt-16-writers-choice.html, Writer's Choice. I went back into my computer archives to dig out one of my first attempts at writing. I don't even remember if I published this on a blog.  It was a fun blast from the past, so I thought I'd share it here!

This confessional is from some years back, when I was a stay-at-home mom and volunteer-at-large.  I partially solved this issue by requiring my kids to do their own laundry starting in middle school. I will admit, however, that I still hate doing the laundry. 

I hate laundry.  Everything about it just works my last good nerve:  sifting through it to separate the stinky garments into different colored mounds; searching through the pockets for loose change, gum, or whatever else men and children will shove into pockets, only to forget; waiting for what seems like forever for the washing cycle to complete; finally throwing it in the dryer to have at least one item come out still damp.  

But, it’s the folding, hanging, and ironing that really drive me mad!  

I have to admit that I feel a sense of accomplishment when that last piece is tucked neatly away in its designated spot.  I breathe a deep sigh of relief that the process is complete, that my work is done.  I may even do a little dance if no one is around to witness it.  I check all the hampers to check out my handiwork.  Yep, they’re all clear.  I check again just to make sure there are no lingering wash cloths or socks lurking in some hidden corner.  Nope, all clear.  

Whew!  

So, how is it that those same empty hampers are nearly full within hours?  How the hell does that happen?  Does the laundry reproduce when the lid to the hamper shuts?  The answer eludes me.  All I know is that the laundry is never truly done.  NEVER.  And, that’s why I loathe it. 

Sometimes, when I am particularly overwhelmed, I sneak a few washable items in the dry cleaning bag.  Boy, is it nice to have your clothes come back to you fresh and clean, pressed to perfection, and hung up!  I know it costs a lot, and the chemicals are not good for the environment.  If I were a good citizen, I would buy only washable items.  But, I have to tell you, dry cleaning saves my sanity!   Maybe even my marriage.   And, I’m quite certain my husband’s job.  If he had to go to work in the clothes I ironed, he would be fired.  So, the dry cleaning sneak is just one of my dirty little secrets that holds my world together.

You would think from the way I rant and rave that I have 10 really messy children and a sloppy husband.  Truth is, I only have two kids, who are actually pretty clean.  And, my husband, well, half his clothes are dry clean only.  He also wears his jeans and sports shorts twice probably just to shut me up.  I don’t know how my friends with 4 and 6 kids hold it all together.  Do they have a secret laundry helper?  Or, are they just way better women than me?  Maybe they do the laundry with love, and I’m just an evil beast for feeling the way I do.  I can just see them in their clean houses, sorting, washing, drying, folding, hanging, and ironing with a smile on their faces and a warm fuzzy feeling in their hearts.  They probably sniff each fresh out of the dryer piece before they immediately hang or fold it to reduce wrinkles.  That is my laundry fantasy.  Instead, I am living a nightmare.  I have dreams where I am drowning in a sea of stinky workout clothes, stained shirts, and wrinkled dress shirts.  And, my family, they are just standing at the edge complaining that they are out of clean socks.  

Now that I’ve made a good first impression on you, let me tell you all the things that I don’t hate.  I love to cook.  I don’t even mind cleaning all the dishes.  Sweeping and mopping pose no problems for me.  Dusting, vacuuming, scrubbing toilets, you name it, I can handle it.  I volunteer at my kids’ school, in my neighborhood, and at my church.  I am a giver.  I just wish I could give my laundry to someone else!