Sudden Downpour

“It was sunny when you left home, so you didn’t take an umbrella. An hour later, you’re caught in a torrential downpour. You run into the first store you can find — it happens to be a dark, slightly shabby antique store, full of old artifacts, books, and dust. The shop’s ancient proprietor walks out of the back room to greet you.” You turn to him with a big, wet smile. You hold up a tarnished gold Aladdin’s Lamp. My golly, it looks like a genie would jump out at any moment. You stutter. “How much, much do you want…?” He doesn’t allow you to finish your sentence. He leans over and picks up a big dark grey cat. It’s not for sale. Never will be for sale.” Now you’re angry. “It’s out here on a table with items for sale. Is it that you don’t want to sell it to me? What, you don’t think college students have money?”

“If it were for sale, how much would you sell it for?”

He clears his throat as if he just drank bitter coffee and swallowed burnt, crunchy toast. “It’s not an antique. It’s a keepsake. You do know the difference, don’t you?”

“A keepsake is, well, a keepsake is…”I lean over and put the lamp back on the table. “Well, I don’t know the difference. Are you going to tell me?”

“Maybe.”

 

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Her heart crumbled as she saw the betrayal laid out before her… Word Prompt

 

Her heart crumbled as she saw the betrayal laid out before her. She didn’t know whether to look at her brothers and sisters or to keep her head down. She knew only that she wanted to die. All of this time she thought they had her back like when they were children. It wasn’t that way at all. They blamed her for the breakup of her mother’s fourth marriage. Since she was in the last stages of cancer, the family thought she couldn’t deal with stress. True. Then, I moved in with my dirty clothes sack of problems. Her world fell apart piece by piece while she lay sick in bed. Thinking her only worry was whether someone would come in to open the window while the shade was on that side of the house. Really, her problem was whether my stepfather and I would kill each other before another morning shined in her window. From the time he looked at me during a New Year’s Eve party, he had hated me.  It was our first meeting. Holding a champagne glass while his other arm lie across my mother’s back, he looked at me like I was the most ugliest, dishonorable person in the world. I couldn’t walk over to him. My feet wouldn’t carry me. Like now, I felt paralyzed. I felt  it better to turn around and walk out the door as quickly as possible.

Nelson Mandela Day

 

Today is Nelson Mandela Day. I am grateful for such a day. It is a time for me to remind myself of  Nelson Mandela’s legacy. His dream  for those he  left on earth is  to remember the highest motivation. It  is to love our fellowman. In other words to strive to live the Golden Rule, do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

How many miles from our continent is it to Africa? Thousands? Yet, this man’s life and death has made distance in miles shrink or not matter at all. His beam of light continues to flare brightly.  It is  impossible to hide from the brightness. Now Light years away in Heaven or wherever good people go after death, his love for freedom still reaches  us. Living under the bondage of any one man’s superiority over another man can only destroy a nation. Freedom for all mankind is necessary for us to live a good life here on earth. Nelson Mandela is our guiding light.

lucid, pennies, derail

My thoughts completely derail when I remember you walking into the dining room with chandelier candlelight behind you. I was not lucid. All I could think of were the copper pennies in the stockings under my pillow. I kept pennies in a red sock under my pillow all the time, always. My father told me, “keeping pennies close will always bring you good luck.” I always believed every word he said until the night he lied to the policemen. He pointed at my mother. “She’s nuts. She follows me everywhere I go in the car. Last week she slapped a woman’s face, a co-worker whom I had picked up to take to work at the dry cleaning plant. After she slapped her, she ran. If she ever buys a gun, well that’s the end of the story for all of us.
I looked at him with my mouth open. That wasn’t the truth. My mother had left us a long time ago. I didn’t think she would ever come back. http://paradiseparadisiac.wordpress.com/2014/07/16/writing-prompt-of-the-day-41/

practice writing

Not every son who loves his mother will become the kind of man who knows how to love a woman. Loving is difficult. Loving a woman is risky. Miracle married a man who loved his mother: pink roses on Mother’s Day, wet kisses after school, a tight hug after he ate his last bit of macaroni and cheese. When Jimmy grew up, he married a rich girl. He was from the opposite side of the tracks. After their honeymoon in Jamaica, he woke up the next morning looked at her sleeping, dark brown face and wondered what to do with her now. It was much easier to jump out of bed and head to his taxi cab. Dealing with raincoat and umbrella burdened women and men seemed easier than dealing with a wife who had everything she ever wanted in the world including his whole heart.

Write Now! The Day I Became a Thief

http://todaysauthor.wordpress.com/2014/07/11/write-now-prompt-for-july-11-2014/comment-page-1/#comment-4254

As she … board the bus, she was frozen in her tracks when she recognized the man getting off of it. It was the man who accused her of stealing money from the church offering plate. It all happened one Sunday. Her life had gone from bad to worse. Now she was homeless. As a last resort, she walked into a huge Catholic Church. She knew the rituals well. Her mother was a staunch Catholic: She prayed the rosary. She went to confession. She went to an early mass. She cooked fish on Fridays.  So Marie felt like she had come to a best friend’s home for advice. However, when the offering plate came into her hands, she couldn’t let it go. She pretended a need to blow her nose and cough. Then, she quickly picked up two crumbled bills, two twenty dollar bills. She wondered why no one had noticed. That was the wrong assumption. Some one noticed and told the Priest and sisters. This very man getting off the bus had been the snitch. She wondered if he had seen her. Thank goodness, they were going in different directions.

 

 

 

 

Chagall

The Kitty jumped to the paisley rug.

“Barabbas! Give us, Barabbas!”

In a Russian village, Marc Chagall

painted.

In an American village, I embroidered

a satin stitched leaf.

Crewel.

His red walls,

His cow faces,

His squares,

His angles,

spoke of Geometry-

A circle with a compass.

 

 

 

 

On The Forest Floor

A Boston Fern in the woods.

My root system wide as a small

hand crafted floral rug.

Tightly weaved like my

corn row braided hair.

Sing Jesus Christ is my Savior,

My leaves unfurl like a butterfly.

I stretch out of my cocoon.

There are light and dark

green feathers.

Always cleansed by showers of the Holy Spirit.

Mature Boston Ferns resurrect daily with

Hearts of thankfulness.

 

Why I Need A Dog Along With My Cat

I’m still reading  Travels With Charley by John Steinbeck. I started it Wednesday. Didn’t think I would want to keep reading, but I do. After visiting Deer Isle, Maine, I want to ride further with Rosinante and Charley. To the three, I must seem like a meddlesome hitchhiker. He was kind enough to pick me up in the worse rain storm. The author describes rain in a way that makes me feel like I need to put on a pair of boots and get my umbrella.

Now Mr. Steinbeck is writing about Charley’s helpfulness. Charley helps Steinbeck meet friends. Isn’t that sweet? It’s true too. Whenever I see a dog on a leash with his master, I want to stop and chat. Of course, I want to pet the pup too. I always ask the master is the dog friendly. By this time, the dog can hardly wait to meet me too. Their tongue is hanging out like they’re thirsty. I suppose they’re thirsty to meet a new friend. Their tail wags like a ticker pendulum.

“In establishing contact with strange people, Charley is my ambassador. I release him,  and he drifts toward the objective or rather to whatever the objective may be preparing for dinner.”

Anyway, I want a puppy. My favorite pet is a cat. I have one cat. I think she would have many fun days with a dog around. They could play Hide and Seek together. My reasoning isn’t moving my husband. He says very firmly. “Not another cat, and no dog.” Well, I haven’t given up the fight or the ship.

“I have not yet begun to fight”(John Paul Jones).

  Now I have a broader reason. I need a dog to win friends and influence people. Maybe quoting that self help professional, Dale Carnegie, will work. When my husband was a very young man, he read many self help books. That’s the only reason I know about a title like winning friends and influencing people. I just want him to think about the friendliness of dogs and how dogs can communicate this emotion to a whole community. I can even use Charley as an example dog. I want a Jack Russell. Our neighbor has one. I know. Charley is a poodle. That shouldn’t matter. I don’t have to use the same breed for my example of a doggie ambassador. It just needs to be a dog.

Well, I’m getting antsy to use my example today and no later. I’m also really wanting to see where Mr. John will stop next on our travels. I’m a hitchhiker who doesn’t want to jump out of the truck. I guess Charley will have to push me out.  Before I go, look at this really happy, friendly dog. Friendship is written across his forehead in bold, invisible letters. Whoops, Mr. John has stopped the truck. I’m outta here. Bye Rosinante, Charley and Mr. John.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Travels with Charley by John Steinbeck In Search of America

I’m in the mood to take to the road. Unfortunately, I can’t travel at this time. So why not do a little Armchair Travel? I’ve had John Steinbeck’s non-fiction book, Travels with Charley, on my shelf for forever. It has a torn plastic cover. It must have been an old book discarded by a library to a used book store. I love looking at the front and back cover. There is this old guy, John Steinbeck in watercolor with his big poodle dog, Charley. Plus, there is the pickup truck with a cabin on the back.

I’ve just begun my journey with the three. I’m getting in the groove slowly. We’re up North around Maine, Deer Island or Isle. John Steinbeck is thinking about the difference between weather and climate. He prefers weather. I also prefer weather. It’s less boring when seasons are distinct from one another. After all, weather helps me converse. I can always fall back on “can you believe this heat?” “If it turns any colder, I’m going to have to hibernate like a bear.” Sadly, at this present time, I’m living where there is climate. Seasons are a bit different but not much. Thank God, some autumns fill our yards and highways and city streets with orange and red leaves. Do you prefer weather or climate?