WoW 12/5

Write On Wednesdays Exercise 27 -  Mel suggested that we look at the "12 Days of Christmas" poem/song and select one of the days/lines for our writing inspiration. So, whether a Partridge in a Pear Tree or Five Golden Rings, write your line at the top of your page, set your timer for 5 minutes and write the first words that come into your head.
12 drummers drumming – kind of
This story is part of my magnum opus, a work that has beenin progress for nearly a decade.  It is  a children’s fantasy novel, and you can read the first chapter here.  Finally, finallyI have written to the point where I introduce the last of the three characterswho inspired it all and I’m writing with a fervor that I haven’t had in a longtime. I have to admit, any prompt would have probably led me somewhere in thestory.  P.S. “Fezzant” isn’t misspelled;it’s a different creature than our ph kind.
The festival reached them long before they arrived.  The sound of the drums was first, “THUD badaThud bada THUD” it enveloped them like a huge benevolent heartbeat, a sound that they could feel as well as hear. Next, was smell, an amazing aroma that made the trios' mouths water.  Roasting fezzant, honey soaked sun pears, and fish pies beckoned.  “Come,celebrate the harvest, rest your weary bones, give thanks to the King” they whispered.  Our travelers were more than happy to comply, and Albert found himself having to twine his fingers in JubJub's coarse hair as the bear’s giant wings bear faster, faster.  Even Malarkey, though still visibly scared, had a smile on his face.

Poetry

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Poetry

I dont' write poetry much anymore.  I find that odd, because that's all that I used to write and most of what I used to read.  Pablo Neruda, T.S. Eliot, Louis MacNeice just to begin.  Lately, while I've not felt motivated to write poetry at all, I've been reading it again and revisitng some of what I wrote a couple of years back.  I thought that I'd post a few here.  I'd love some input. 
Prolonged Winter
Shuffling through a melancholy fog,
milk and eggs on my arm and a blister on my heel,
the slush sucked at my shoes.
A flash of fuchsia pushed through the grey,
an unexpected birth from a crackin the sidewalk,
premature child of spring.
I nearly tripped trying not to crush it;
squatted, examined, and plucked it.
Not knowing what it was, I calledit “Pinkus Two-leafus,”
and clutched it to my breast.
Back at home, I put it in my favorite coffee mug;
the one with the witty saying and pencil sketch that makes me smile
even in the morning.
Displayed in the window, the flower shone a bit,
as she danced and flirted in thedraft.
Humming idly, I packed away mysweaters,
put on a pink sundress, opened all the windows.
The air felt crisp and green.
Sleeping that night was easy at last,
wrapped up in blankets, cocooned in the knowledge
that spring would come again.
Waking, I stretched languorously,
and padded to the room where thetiny pink whisper
sagged, frozen by the wind.
Bitter diamonds crushed the frail blossom.
The two proud leaved were shriveled and wrinkled;
crone’s hands offering an apple.
The wind cackled and moaned through the blinds.
I eyed the sky warily on my way to the garage,
and unpacked three thick sweaters.


Loss
My son, Roland, was a wonderful blessing to our family.  He lived for 30 hours.  I wrote this shortly after we went home from the hospital.
Lying awake, counting ceiling tiles.
There are thirteen rows of twenty-two each,
Which makes two hundred eighty something, I think.
Tethered to the bed, breathing pre-digested air
My life is measured, not in coffee spoons, but it
Infomercials and the rhythmic ache
In my arm, clamped upon ruthlessly again and again.

Nurses flit busily, a hive of bees in
Sensible shoes, I wilting flower.
They hum their mantra, “get some rest, get some rest.”
Pollen sacks filled with oblivion in
Handy tablet form: Percocet, vicodon.
Their smocks are garish, desperately cheerful
In the stark fluorescent light of this demented garden.

“We must control your pain,” they say
When I deny relief once again.  Jaw locked,
Fists clenched, my breasts weep the tears that I cannot.
Leave me in solitude with my pain, the throbbing
And the aches.
 Give me that gift;
The pain and the scar are all that I have to hold,
Mocking substitutes for the weight,
Thebreath, the sweet powdered smell of my beautiful little boy

There is a third, but I think we will leave it here for now.  I'd welcome any critiques/criticisms/comments/compliments

I didn't kill him...

he was dead when I got there."  Stephen King said that once, in response to a reader who was dismayed at the death of a favorite character.  For the longest time, I thought that was a cop out.  After all, who is in control of the story if not the writer?  Then, just last week, I did it.  I killed a carousel horse.  It was a bad death, too; ambushed in the middle of the night by giant arachnids, wrapped in silk, guts sucked out.  Granted, I didn't go into that much detail - this is a children's novel after all - but, well, it was implied.  The strange thing was, though I knew from the beginning that one of my characters ran a carousel horse ranch, and have known for quite a while that he would gift my weary travelers with one of said creatures, I really didn't think that it would die.  But, as I got closer and closer to this scene I discovered it was really the only answer.  I put off writing this scene for a long time, even worked on other pursuits to not have to do this, but finally I couldn't put it off any longer.  My travelers had a place to go and as I procrastinated I couldn't help but picture them stuck in place, bored, checking their watches every now and then to see when I might come back.  So, I girded my loins as it were, sharpened my pencil, and killed the poor beast who never hurt anybody.  I'm not going to lie, I cried.  I also understood what King meant when he said what he did.  You know what the worst thing was?  As the character that was one of three that started this adventure in my head FINALLY appeared, flamingo pink wings and deafining roar bursting from one of the spider's capsules, it was absolutely worth it. 

WoW 11/25

Write On Wednesdays
Exercise 25 - I heard a song on the radio during the week and I thought the lyrics would make an interesting prompt for WoW. So, write the words "The saddest thing I ever heard" on your page, set your timer for 5 minutes and write the first words that come into your head based on the given prompt.
It was the saddest thing I'd ever heard, and oddly enough, I don't even remember the words.  Some meaningless barb about the usual....his money, his dick, the way he helped around the house, or didn't.  Whatever.  I remember the way she laughed afterwords, though, her bleached white teeth glinting ferally in the light.  Feral is the word.  Lionine.  She was all veldt with her expertly tinted hair, her bronzed skin, the hammered gold cuff on her dainty wrist.  I know that I have never felt more like a sheep than I did at that moment, surrounded by the other veteran wives in our Army baseball caps and T-shirts - gifts from husbands who had access to no more than a PX and five minutes of their time.  Dumpy, helpless, bleating.  Feeling awkward, we picked at the heaping plates of nachos, wings, and gummy mozzarella sticks,  suddenly aware of the extra pounds the deployments - the loneliness - had put on us.  What made it so unspeakably awful was the way his shoulders drooped.  Those shoulders had carried 70 plus pounds for days on end and this woman could wither them with a word.  And something in his eyes told us this wasn't the first time.   

WoW 11/17

After months of encouragement, my dear friend talked me into joining write on Wednesdays over at ink paper pen.  I got so addicted to reading other peoples work that soon I had to join in the fun. I I restarted my writing website (abandonded after by book stopped selling and I stuck my little literary ostrich head in the sand), and off we go..  This is my first of what I hope to be many WoWs.
The Fight
Mind over matter.  I can do this.  I fight the urge to bend over double as yet another wave of pain pummels me.  Stand up straight. Act normal. Breathe.  It’s just your imagination. It’s not really happening.   Oh, but it is.    It’s happened before.  I know how it will end.  Even so, I do dishes, sweep the floor, sing along with the radio louder than necessary – belting out the lyrics like and a child hiding under the blankets to keep out the dark.  The pain is lower now.  I clench my womanhood like a fist; look through a book of names.  A name.  To name something is to make it real.  Maybe the right name will be what ittakes.  A spark.  Deep down I know that it will only make itworse.  In the arena of my mind that I don't care to visit often, a voice starts to chant the names of those who have gone before. “Phoenix, Alex, Mollie,” it says, “Max and Morgan.”  Suddenly, I run to the toilet, the ultimate,unavoidable insult.  A wail escapes my lips as the blood begins to flow and the battle is lost once again. 

Cupcakes, Church, and Hookers OR Who Am I to Write this Blog

"I struck out 1,720 times, but every one was almost a home run." Mickey Mantle

I’m not gonna lie. The past week or so has been rough here in three handed land.  Really rough. It seems like every move I make is “swing and a miss.”  I invented a new recipe for salted chocolatecupcakes.  Like a good, but busy hostess I had tasted each element, but served the guests at my get together before Ihad a chance to taste the finished product. Big mistake.  These were not salted chocolate.  These were cocoa essenced salt.  One of my guests aged 35 years as all water was sucked out of her face. Somewhere a camel keeled over from dehydration because he smelled these on the wind.  Like, I should just mash the AMPLE leftovers into a block and put it in my yard for the deer to lick…except I like deer.  Then my grape jelly….didn’t despite the fact that I had it at a temperature and added enough pectin to theoretically turn it to mortar.  My kid missed the bus…twice,I got called some pretty mean names, I think I’m managing to put on my baby weight post baby, and ever since about the 28th week of pregnancy I’vedeveloped a form of narcolepsy that completely prohibits me from staying awake late enough to participate in the joys of marriage.  It’s a shame. I like the joys of marriage.
So, I decided as a bit of a mental defrag, to visit some of the blogs I enjoy.  Man, that was like grocery shopping when you’re hungry. These people NEVER strike out, or so it seems. First, I went to Moozann’sMind. Wow! What an amazing woman of God! Did I mention that I volunteered for a position in my church this week and didn’t get it?  Guess I’m not as wiseas Moozann.  Hmmmm.  Tried Single Dad Laughing.  That's a good parent right there.  This dude never gets mad at his kid (or so it seems) and manages to be honest and self-deprecating without sounding whiny.  Me, I do whiny all too well.  Thought I’d go for a laugh instead, and went to Rants from Mommyland.  Those are some seriously cool chicks over there.  They write commercials and use phrases like “oh even yesser” without sounding ridiculous.  Man.  They call their readers hookers and assume we will know it's a compliment.  (I didn't.  I had to go to one of my cool mom friends for a translation.)  Anyone who knows me knows of my several failed attempts to incorporate cool vernacular into my vocabulary.  Important note:  overweight, bespectacled housewives willnever be able to successfully utter “True dat.” It’s a fact.  I will so never be a cool mom.  Heck, I’m a few steps removed from Mom jeans.    Sigh.  Can’t cook, chaos breeding, uncool. Who in the world am I to write a blog to teach anyone anything?
Then today, a breakthrough. I placed a plastic sheet on the living room floor (see “Pac Man Kitchen in the next few weeks to see why there instead of, oh, say, my kitchen) and laid upon it my bushel (!) ofJonagolds, a bowl, a pot, my composter, a paring knife and two potatopeelers.  I figured I might as well get theapples out of my pantry and put up before I battle .000 on those as well.  I have big plans for those apples: juice and jellyfrom the peels, butter and sauce from the flesh.  And apple pie slices.  Lots of apple pie slices.  It wasn’t long before my dynamic duo, the Stuttering Samurai and the potty training Pantsless Wonder came sniffing around.  “Watcha doing?” They asked.  “Putting up apples.  Wanna help?” Of course they did and soon they were enthusiastically if inefficiently helping me peel away, munching on the peels as they went.  Suddenly it hit me.  I’m THAT mom.  The mom who makes cookies with my friends’ kids, the one whose 2 year old is skilled enough with an apple peeler that I don’t’ worry about him hurting himself. I’m the one who carries a plastic sword in my belt loops when I’m cooking just in case I need it.  And I guess, given the point of this endeavor, that’s not such a bad kind of mom to be.  And I’m pretty sure, as D kissed me,smearing apple goo all over my face, that I heard the sound of a baseball hitting the sweet spot.