Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. Leonard Cohen

Thursday, December 30, 2010

Make It Up Monday #1: 52 Weeks of Wordage

There was something he was supposed to remember. There was something he was supposed to remember, but he was darned if he knew what it was. John tried to focus his thoughts through the soft sweater fuzz that seemed to cover his brain. What was he supposed to remember? It was on the tip of his tongue, like the bitter taste of this morning's coffee. He hadn't had a decent cup of joe since his wife died a week ago. No, that wasn't right. A month ago? Maybe a year. That woman knew how to make coffee. John looked around him at what was once his proud home. It was really starting to show its age, like him. He glanced down at his feet. Where were his boots? Who had taken his boots? He needed his musket by him all the time now, to protect him. John closed his eyes and tried to remember. The effort made him sleepy. He leaned back in his chair. He had been a hero once. He knew that much.

Make It Up Monday #2: 52 Weeks of Wordage

We're already late for Mama and now we got us a flat! She's gonna be loaded for bear when we get there now. I don't even want to think about it. "Don't you fret, kiddo! I've got a spare in the trunk, and I'll have us on the road again in no time!" Yeah, right. That was, like, a hundred hours ago, and it don't look like he's fixin' to finish this job any time soon. And he's whistlin' too! Don't seem to bother him none that Mama's gonna be yellin' and screamin' and all red in the face cuz he's late again bringing me back from his weekend. Sure, he'll just smile his crooked smile and say, "Aw, c'mon, Jess, you know I'm tryin' my best for the girl. And I sure do miss your pretty face too." And Mama will just roll her eyes and tell him to grow up, and I'll get stuck with her ugly mood the rest of the night. I ain't never gettin' married when I grow up.

Make It Up Monday #3: 52 Weeks of Wordage

“I’m not sure where to begin. There’s a group of four people dressed in Victorian looking clothes, but not totally. One has goggles, and one of the guys has gel in his hair. They approach another guy, also dressed in Victorian-type clothes, on the street. He’s got some sort of weird eye piece and a hat. He’s carrying something on his back. The group confronts him and demands his hat! I don’t know why. The guy with the hat and eyepiece says that he’d rather die like a mongrel dog on the street than give them his hat. Then the guy in the military uniform pulls out a sword and says, ‘So be it!’ That’s when I woke up. What do you think it means?” “Hmm, we don’t really do much dream interpretation any more, but how have you been sleeping?” “Fine, I guess.” “Any other side-effects or issues you’ve noticed?” “No…” “Well then, sounds like you’re doing well. Let’s continue on the same dose and I’ll see you again in a month.”

Make It Up Monday #5: 52 Weeks of Wordage

Make It Up Monday #6: 52 Weeks of Wordage

Missy felt another sharp jab from Mama's finger in her ribs. "Wake up! We're about to have a photograph taken of our stagecoach journey, and you were about to sleep through it!" Missy reluctantly opened her eyes, looked at the camera, and smiled. She wondered if falsehoods could be detected on film. She was miserable. Mama and Papa kept telling her how lucky she was to be able to go on this trip to visit those springs out west, but all she could think about was how Cousin Jeremiah's head kept lolling over onto her shoulder when he fell asleep and how Mama glared at her as if she had invited this intrusion! And how her boots were too tight on her feet! And how the stagecoach kept rocking, rocking, rocking and her stomach felt like a pot about to boil over. On top of it all, Missy was plain bored. She was, by nature, an active and curious girl, and sitting for extended periods in close quarters made her irritable. She closed her eyes again and began to imagine an Indian attack or, even better, a stagecoach robbery! That's what this journey needed, Missy thought. Too bad those were only stories...

Happy Birthday

submitted for image 46 at Magpie Tales
Sarah never drove without her gloves. Her naked hands against the steering wheel felt like bare feet against the gas pedal, like her body unbelted in the seat-unsafe and wrong. She deliberately left the gloves out on the table by the living room couch as she packed up her purse for dinner with Ted. "It's my birthday, so I plan on having some wine," Sarah called out to Ted in the bedroom. "Whatever you want, hon," Ted answered. "Okay, but you know you'll have to drive home this time. I don't want to have to worry about it on my birthday, Ted." "I could've done the driving last time," Ted replied as he entered the room, "but you wouldn't let me. I'm a good driver, Sarah. I know when I've had too much. I've never gotten us into trouble, have I?" Sarah didn't want to get into this argument again. She was tired of arguing, tired of monitoring Ted's drinking, tired of always doing the driving. Maybe just this once, for her birthday, Ted could refrain from overindulging and let Sarah enjoy herself. "I'll be a good boy, I promise," teased Ted. "Boy Scout's honor." Sarah laughed and kissed Ted's cheek. Then she reached back and slipped the gloves into her purse as they left the apartment.