Hiatus

If you haven't noticed, my daily word writings have become more weekly or bi-weekly word writings.  Sorry about that.  I have started walking again, and with more movement, comes more responsibility.  I have been doing a lot more for my reporting job.

November is also National Novel Writing Month.  I decided not to start a new project this year for NaNoWriMo, but I have been working on revisions to an older manuscript.  Picking it up after almost six years has been an adventure.  And the process has turned into more rewriting than revising.  My style and skill have improved a lot!  Yay!  My grammar, maybe not so much.  I think I need to brush up on some of the dialogue rules.

So, I just wanted you to know, I have not been doing daily words, but I have been writing.  A lot.  I will try and make some more time for daily writing words and posts on my other blog, Okashi, but a woman only has so many words in her a day.  At least for now.  I find that my writing attention span gets longer each day.  Too bad the days don't get longer with it.  I hope you will all be patient with me.  I hope to get back to daily word writing soon.

Thanks for your support.

Onions

When I was in first grade I had a show and tell assignment.  Each week a different student in Mrs. Puckett’s class had to take home a shoe box, fill it with something they loved, something they hated, and things that represented their family and interests.  At the time, I loved horses – guess I still do, but I digress.  I loved horses, so I had a My Little Pony in the box.  I also had pictures of my family – Mom, Dad, sisters, brother, grandparents.  I was taking dance lessons at the time, so I threw in a ballet shoe.  I liked tap better, but my ballet shoes didn’t smell quite as bad.  I remember that when it came down to picking the thing I hated, I had trouble.

“Daddy says ‘Hate is a strong word,’ and I’m not supposed to hate anything.”

“Well, what about something you don’t like,” Mom suggested.  It was the day before my presentation and we had scattered my items over the kitchen table to rehearse. 

“I guess I don’t like cats.”

“Did you want to put a picture of a cat in here?”

“But I don’t not like them that much.”

In the end, after several suggestions of things that I didn’t not like enough, we came up with an onion.  I really did hate onions – to the point where hate might not have been a strong enough word, but it was all my first grade vocabulary could come up with as the ultimate dislike.  Mom had to pretty much mince them to keep me from picking them out of my food.

The fateful day came, I gave my presentation, everyone agreed that onions were the worst, and then it was Jackson Knight’s turn for show and tell the next week.  My last sacred duty was to take the show and tell shoe box home, empty it out, and then return it the next Monday so Jackson could fill it.  Not going to lie, I was a little nervous about this last part.  So the first thing I did when I got home was to start unpacking the box on the kitchen table.  I left the onion for last, but finally, it was the only thing left in the box.

It was just a regular white onion.  About the size of a baseball.  To this day, I am not sure what possessed me, but as I pulled the onion from the box, I had the overwhelming desire to peel it.  So I did.  Sitting at the kitchen table, I rubbed off the papery beige skin on the outside.  Then I used my nails to claw away the first layer of white.  The smell was overwhelming and soon I was crying.  Mom came over by layer three.

“What are you doing?”

By this point, I was confused myself.  Tears streamed down my face and I just started bawling. 

Fast forward thirty years.  My opinion on onions has changed.  After spending some time abroad, I have even been known to enjoy them raw on salads and such.  My mother cursed me to have a child just like me.  I have two – neither of my boys can stand to be in the same house as an onion.  I have to mince them even finer than she did.  Thanks, Mom. 

I have this theory, why I now like onions.  Yes, they taste good, but I also think I like onions because they make it okay to cry.  When I was in first grade, I hated crying.  I did it a lot, as all children do, but I hated it.  Now, as an adult with children of my own, I find it very hard to let myself cry.  Not because I don’t want to, but because it will upset, scare, or otherwise scar my boys.  Onions are my salvation.  It isn’t the good cathartic cry that we all need – the ugly, sobbing, disgusting cry that is freeing and terrifying at the same time – but it is a form of crying that is socially acceptable and does not cause other adults to ask the dreaded “is everything okay?” It is safe crying.

I think back to my show and tell for Mrs. Puckett’s class.  Now, my box would have pictures of a very different family – much older and much larger.  Ballet shoes would be replaced with mementos from my boys’ various sports and my drafting tools.  I still love horses, but that My Little Pony is long gone.  I would need a much bigger box! 

Of course, there would be no onions in my adult show and tell box.  I think I am finally able to use the word hate correctly, but the things I hate aren’t really things you can put in a box.  Things like self-doubt, deadlines, bills, and the evil that humans are capable of.  

Fight

Emma slammed the bedroom door as hard as she could.  Then opened it and slammed it again.  Hot tears poured down her face.  She could picture John still sitting on the sofa, his face as confused as when it had all started.

She felt bad for screaming, calling him names.  Then she felt worse for feeling bad.

It was all his fault.  He was the one who wouldn’t tell his boss no.  He knew it made her mad when he was late getting off.  He should have just clocked out.

Dinner had been ruined.  It was nothing fancy and would heat up just fine, but it was the principle of the thing.

Emma sat on the edge of the bed and wiped away the tears with the back of her hand.  She prayed he would open the door, come and try to comfort her, partly because she wanted his arms around her, but also because she wanted to yell more.  Maybe she should go back out there.

But it wasn’t his fault, not really.  He could not control the weather or the job.  But she needed to blame someone.  And so she yelled at John, slammed doors, and made mountains out of cold pizza and flat soda.  

Sunglasses

Jack hid his bloodshot eyes behind vintage Ray Ban sunglasses.  The professor’s voice echoed around his head and made him wince.  It was only supposed to be one drink.  But one led to two, led to a dozen and here he was at his ten a.m. psychology lecture struggling to keep the late night Taco Bell run down.  Silently he cursed the professor for taking attendance at lectures.  

Defeat

All his life, defeat had meant the same thing as loss.  You were defeated, you lost.  It was over.  But as he stared at the scar snaking its way along his ankle, Alex wondered if that were really true.  He hoped it wasn’t.  Maybe defeat could mean something more like setback.  You lost the battle, but there was still a chance to win the war. 

Walking again would be his war.  It was too much to think of running or playing football again.  Just walking. 

“Small goals,” Dr. Mallick had said.  “Small, clear goals to start.”

Alex had never been good at small.  Or clear for that matter.  He was a dreamer.  Everyone said so.  And big dreams, too.  College ball.  Then the NFL.  He knew a lot of people had that dream, but, unlike them, he was going to make it.  Or, had been.  Until the wreck. 

Walking again.  It seemed so small compared to his dreams before.  But with his legs dangling from his bed, the fresh scar turning darker and darker purple with each second, even that small goal seemed out of reach.

He shook his head, physically trying to fling those bad thoughts from his mind.  He could make it.  Such a small, clear goal.   He would make it.  This wasn’t defeat; this was a chance to get stronger.  He would get stronger.  He would walk again.

Rain

The clouds hung low and heavy.  Dull grey and oppressive.  Ciara could smell the rain not far off. 

She had always loved mornings like this.  Well, before she had always loved mornings like this.  As she tightened Rollie’s saddle, she realized that now mornings like this meant a wet, cold day of riding.  She pulled her cloak tighter around her neck and swung into the saddle.  If she was lucky, it would only be a light drizzle that wouldn’t soak through the wool. 

Her hopes had changed so much in just a few weeks; from praying she didn’t show up to the feast in the same colors as Princess Josephine to worries about finding enough food to keep her belly from growling.  How had she fallen so far so fast?

Doing Dishes

Mary plunged her hands into the warm, soapy water.  She pulled a plate from the top of the submerged stack of dishes and began to wipe away the little flecks of tonight’s dinner.  Her mind wandered out the window over the sink, into the backyard, and over the back fence to Mrs. Curry’s darkened house. 

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise; the woman had been in her nineties, but it was hard to see the house empty.  Mrs. Curry had always been there, ever since they moved into this house eighteen years ago. 

She had watched the boys grow up.  Ethan would scale the chain-link fence, whatever creature he had just found safely in his pocket or fist, and Mrs. Curry would “ooh” and “aww” at it.  She had been a science teacher, so creepy crawlies didn’t bother her.  Neither did rambunctious boys. 

She had helped Danny with his science fair project on Pluto.  Or had he helped her.  By that time she was in her eighties.  Mary had tried to keep him from bothering her, let her enjoy her retirement, but Danny never listened.  He had gotten an A. 

Mary herself has started going over once the boys started getting too busy with sports and school.  She would take over a piece of cake or cookies, with two teenage boys, there were always a lot of extra sweets around.  They would sit at Mrs. Curry’s dining room table and talk about family, weather, and life.  She had led an amazing life.  Nothing they would make movies about, but it was still impressive. 

She had never married, despite the Mrs.  Parents had made assumptions as she got older, and all teachers are Mrs. to their students.  It never really mattered to her.  Her students were her children, so in a way she saw herself as Mrs. without the Mr.  Several of them still came by from time to time, her students.  They brought their own children.  And rocks.  Mrs. Curry had always loved rocks.  Smooth, black river rocks were her favorite.  She painted them.  Not with faces or anything, more like mandalas – intricate designs of flowers or animals with bright colors and lots of wispy lines.  Ethan and Danny had scoured the neighborhood for rocks for Mrs. Curry.  There wasn’t a smooth stone left in a ten block radius, Mary mused. 

What would happen to all those beautiful rocks, now that Mrs. Curry was gone?