Something A Little Different

Since I wound up with writer’s block early on in this blogging adventure, I decided to add a little more variety to what you all get to read.  A wise woman advised me to use writing prompts to stir up the creative juices, and I thought it might be fun to share what comes out of them.
Hopefully, this will become a regular thing.
I need to warn you all, I don’t intend on going back and editing this a lot, I want it to be a sort of brainstorming session, as organic as I can make it.  If you all would like to leave feedback, I welcome and appreciate the advice/encouragement.

Today’s writing prompt :
What’s the weather outside your window doing right now?

I am looking outside my window, and I hardly notice the weather.  I am overcome with wonder at the large tree that sits about 20 yards in front of my house.  It’s a striking tree because it has white flowers that bloom in the early spring.  And as it is now that time, the tree’s branches are weighed down by plump white blossoms.  I don’t notice the cloud cover that has hidden today’s sunshine, nor do I care much for the chill that nips today’s air.  I care more about the dance the tree’s branches are performing for me in today’s light spring wind.  It feels like the tree is trying to get my attention.  Each time I look away, I notice it’s white floral bulbs hopping back into my view.  The tree stands in front of my house with such grandeur, as if to say, “YOU THERE, ADMIRE ME!”
Admire, I shall.
Even as the clouds, that I now notice, block the sun they do not block the tree’s beauty.  The natural shade turn the bright blossoms from white to off white, giving the tree a vintage feel.  All the more inspiring to me.  I continuously glance at the tree, it gives me a sense of hope, a sense of calm or tranquility.  I see one side of the tree has a branch that hangs low to the ground.  I wonder if it is inviting me to climb inside it’s complex branches, to sit among it’s tiny floral wonders.  What daydreams await me inside there, I wonder.  Will they dance across my eyes like pixie fairies?  Will I fall asleep on a branch to the sweet smell of the blossoms and find my daydreams that way?  Maybe I could climb into the tree’s floral mass and simply hide-hide from the life I live.  I could sit with the blooms and pretend I have no real responsibilities, no deadlines, no commitments, nothing.  Is that why this tree and I have paths that cross?  So that I may crawl into it’s branches and absorbed?  The rest of the world must carry on in my absence, but I am nestled comfortably in the soft flower clusters of that tree.

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Rekindling the Flame, pt 3

The pair had finished their drinks and sat for a moment in silence, staring at each other, smiling.  Eric checked his phone, then looked around.
“Waiting for someone?”  Rosalyn teased as she also looked at her phone.  She scanned the room for Violet, who was no where to be found, but sighed in relief from the text that she sent to check in.
“No, I was thinking this place is getting a little crowded.  Wana get outta here?”  He asked with a half, turned up smile
Rosalyn was reapplying her lipstick, “Sure, that would be ni-”
“Hey! You still have that?!”  Eric asked excitedly while grabbing her wrist and running a finger over the gold bracelet that hung effortlessly around it.
Rosalyn laughed.  Eric’s sudden enthusiasm caused her to draw a long streak of lipstick across her face.  She wet a drink napkin and fixed the shimmering pink smear on her cheek, “Of course I still have it.  You gave it to me.  I have almost everything you gave me.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“Because we aren’t together anymore.”  The statement hung above them awkwardly.  The heavy music pumping through the bar and the sounds of chatter mixed with the clanking of glass became suddenly apparent to them. They felt the urge, almost simultaneously, to look anywhere except in each others eyes like they had been all night.
Rosalyn cleared her throat and said, “That doesn’t mean that these things still aren’t special to me.  Or that you still aren’t special to me.  It just means that our lives were headed in different directions.  The things you gave me over the years….I keep them to remember you.  To remember the good times, the times I cherish and miss.”
Eric stared at her bracelet as she said those words.  He was remembering when he gave it to her; her birthday during a date night filled with fun and laughter.
He thought he felt his eyes well up and his throat tighten.  He blinked hard and masked his emotions in a manly cough.
“Rosalyn…”
“Hey, didn’t you mention something about getting out of here?”  She cut in with a half smile that matched his.
Eric sat back in his chair and folded his arms, “I did.  Where would you like to go?” He could feel the Guinness float in his head.  Good thing we don’t drive in New York City, he thought.
“You asked me! It was YOUR idea” Rosalyn jested, giving Eric a playful shove.  Her heart had been pounding that familiar beat.  It was Eric’s beat.  Despite her heart’s rhythmic dance, Rosalyn felt calm in his presence.  She felt like they had picked up right where they left off all those years ago.  She was excited to see where the night was going to take them.  Her knees tingled with the thought of standing up and walking, she could feel the warm damp feeling of lust for him.
“Ok, right you are” He said standing up and motioning for the check.  Rosalyn pulled some cash out of her clutch, but Eric insisted she put it away.  The two playfully argued for a moment until Rosalyn submitted and tucked her money safely inside the small bag and snapped it shut.
Eric draped his suit jacket over his arm, came around to Rosalyn who was beginning to get out of her chair, helped pull the chair out, and offered to escort her to the door.  He hasn’t changed a bit, Rosalyn thought accepting his offer.
They met eyes on the way out and turned their heads away quickly with a chuckle.  Eric looked over to where he began his night.  His coworkers had become scarce, but he gave a goodbye nod anyway.  At the door, he stopped them took his jacket and wrapped it around Rosalyn’s shoulders and gave them a quick rub. She had forgotten how tall he was and it took a second longer than she realized to scan up to his eyes.  Rosalyn looked at him with pleasant surprise.
“It’s a little chilly out there, tonight” Is all he said as he opened the door for her.

This Is Why You Pace Yourself

I have so many stories to tell you.  So many “Ah-Ha” moments, for myself, to discover in the writing of these blogs. I sit here, with the site open ready to type away all the memories, stories, and thoughts, pressing against each other in my mind dying to leap onto the page….
I am blocked though.
I haven’t blogged enough to have writer’s block, I think.  Yet here I am writing to you, all, in a confusing point of view; am I in 3rd person, watching myself sit on my couch with my computer on my lap, or am I narrating, giving you a glimpse into myself and my life?  I am listening to a carefully chosen playlist trying to get in the blogging mood (Please refer to “Setting the Mood”) with little success.  I am beginning to think there are too many outside distractions for me to effectively open the door to let everything out for you to read.
Too much light is one problem; yes, it is an unusual problem, to have too much light.  Right now the light is shining right through the window taking my eyes away from the screen and to the possibilities that could be had in the shimmering solar rays.
The television is on.
Another problem.
I am not a white noise person, despite trying to convince Adele to get me in the mood through my earbuds.
I need silence.
To wrangle my wild, bucking memories and stories.  I use the silence like a lasso to capture a particular literary thought and drag it to the screen.  Right now I all I can focus on is whatever cartoon is trying to teach my “fan club” manners and social etiquette.
My “fan club” is the problem, of this I am sure.  Their constant requests, needless riots that destroy my headquarter, and the list goes on and on.  I am constantly pausing the creative juices from flowing.
So, here I am, trying to think of ways I can NOT blame myself for my own writers’ block.  I mean, I could pick everything up and head to my cozy, quiet bedroom right?  I could turn the television off and send the “fan club” to their rooms to play couldn’t I?  I could even take notes on ideas and thoughts that pop in my head throughout the day, and just wait until after everyone has retired for the evening to get to work cranking out all the things desperate to get out of my mind.

 

Rekindling…A Brief Passage…

April 20, 2008

Dear Diary,
It has been a solid month since the worst day of my life.  I force myself to get up each morning and to put on a brave face for all those who love me, but I am dead inside.
I feel nothing.
Before leaving my room to carry out my day, I sit at the edge of my bed and sob.  My tears are fat-pregnant with every memory of Eric and me.  The pain I feel inside my chest slowly burns throughout the day, feeding on whatever happiness it may find . By nightfall, it takes every ounce of energy in me to crawl into bed, cry once more and fall asleep; desperately hoping to wake up the next day back in his arms.  Every day, I am let down.
I know my friends and family are excited about this new chapter of my life.  I am home now, in their minds.  They have no idea that I left my home, along a bridge that I ignited and wept while it smoldered to nothing.  I simply came back to my starting point.  And while I could look at my cell phone now, in the wee hours of the night, and find countless numbers to call for support and encouragement….it won’t be Eric’s voice I will hear.
I can’t help it, I miss him!  How could I have been so stupid?!  Why did I have to break that trust?!
And that last fight…what an awful day….all the yelling, and finger pointing.  I was almost daring him to test me; I was throwing things around the house just to fuel the rage that was already consuming us both…I wish I could take it all back.  I wish I could go back in time and see his rich, dark brown eyes stare into mine.  To see his triangular face ignite into that beautiful, intoxicating smile that sucks me into his world without any regret of what I left behind.
Now, I am back here.
Where it all began.
The computer desk is still sitting in dining room, though now it has a more modern version of computer resting on it.  My family is still the same, more energetic now that I am in town for what looks (and feels) like forever.  Mom and Dad have been really great, I can’t forget to try extra hard to hide my emptiness around them.  I know they are happy to have me back, but they don’t know the whole story; just that we had a big fight over Eric emailing a girl which led to him throwing me out. Of course they will be on my side-I am their daughter.  But they have no idea that their daughter invaded his privacy to uncover emails, texts, and written letters.  They don’t know that I was caught red-handed by Eric, which led to the huge fight.
What would they think if they knew their precious daughter was untrustworthy with people’s privacy?

Love Always,
Rosalyn

Girls Night Out or Something More?

A million things ran through my mind listening to Shantay speak about her weekly trials and tribulations.
It was girls night, and after attempting a healthy meal so that would blow our diets on wine, we had retired to her car which was parked behind the restaurant.
“And it wasn’t even like he was good at what he was doing…” Shantay had been telling me a story about her boyfriend, but I was barely listening.  I was paying more attention the the way the light from the streetlamps swam into the front seat with us and painted her already beautiful complexion.
Shantay continued talking, I continued pretending to hear her; absently shaking my head and occasionally answering, “Yeah”.
I found it odd how interested I was in studying her features.
Her skin was soft and supple and I found myself staring, in places, longer than I should have.
Shantay showed up, tonight, wearing a black and white corset cut tank top with a thin, black cardigan that showed her breasts abundantly.  I couldn’t help but notice how round they looked; like perfect rolling hills on the horizon of a meadow. I was slightly envious as my own breasts were considerably smaller, but was more impressed at how comfortable Shantay was with displaying her body.  She gave off a vibe of confidence that was envied by ladies far and wide.  Having Native American heritage, Shantay was blessed with high, slanting cheekbones, reddish tan skin, and eyes that were mere almond shaped slits containing copper colored gems inside.
“What do you think I should do about Dave?”  Shantay asked me, breaking my wondering thoughts.
“Well, I, um, hmm..” I stammered a tad embarrassed, “I think you need to follow your heart”
That was always the answer to problems with men right? I thought.
She didn’t look convinced but smirked anyways.
I think she bought it.
Phew, close one.
OK, time to focus on the conversation (which had already consumed 3 hours of our night).
That was always the way, when I spent time with Shantay.  We could see each other every day and hardly run out of things to talk about.  Our outings turned into vacations, our errands turned into road trips, all because time disappeared when we stared talking.  Tonight was no different.
Except I was seeing her in a new light.
“My heart is telling me that Dave better get his shit together and fuck me!” Shantay laughed hard, and so did I.
“Oh no!”  I gasped between giggles, “Or else what?”
“OR ELSE TAY-TAY GONA HAFTA STRAY-STRAY!!!”  We laughed hard and long as Shantay swayed her head and hand in alternating S patterns.
There were more topics touched on through the night, but I found myself tracing her body with my eyes, I wasn’t sure if I was noticing, or searching.  Shantay opened a water bottle and as she took a long swig, I watched her long slender fingers work intricately to balance the cap and bottle in the same hand.  I was shocked at how I wanted to caress those fingers.
What am I thinking?  Shantay is my friend, and I am not attracted to women! I tried to picture my own boyfriend in my mind, and while his handsome chiseled face came to mind with ease….I still found a hot chill sweep over the back of my neck for Shantay.
I was overwhelmed with a sense of guilt that I tried hard to conceal.  I thought of my friends who were in love with their same gender.  I felt as if I was betraying them, I knew I was attracted to men and wanted to be in relationships with men. I was able to imagine a future built around being with a man.  But the more Shantay spoke in the pink glow of the streetlamps, the more I found myself wanting to press my lips against hers.

This Little Light of Mine, I’m Gonna Let it Shine

Why don’t all boys look like mine?  That is the thought running through my mind as I lay on my bed with my son, watching him drift off into a nap.  It is a thought all mother’s must think of their male versions.  My window is open just enough to let today’s spring breeze toss his hair softly.  He is looking around absently; he has been asleep for minuets, but his eyes haven’t realized it.
I am staring him right in his glossy brown eyes.  He is so perfect, I think, How could anyone look different?  His skin is milky with a touch of yellow; the product of Eastern European and Hispanic heritage.  He turns his face to me, in a sleepy daze, and I admire its shape.  My son’s face is long without being too rectangular and slants down to a button shaped chin that is the base of two peach colored lips. They are ever so oversized, foreshadowing their shape in years to come.  Girls will write about his lips in their notebooks, I think to myself, if they still use notebooks by then. There are no straight lines chiseled in his face, but rather slopes and curves; his features swim to my eyes.
His breathing is now heavy and his eyes are closed.  I notice how perfect they are.  They are identical to almonds in his slumber, and have such expression; even if not open.  His brow protrudes slightly giving him a distinct male look.  I see his face morph into the kind of man he will be and back again.
I am setting him gently into his crib now.  His arms and legs are long and knobby-a sign he will be tall in life, I am convinced.  I am standing over his crib watching him sleep for just a moment, I can see the mannerisms that will follow him into adulthood; they way he sleeps on his belly with his arms spread out being on of them.  He has the face of defeat, of which I find amusing; he was defeated alright, by sleep, I think.

Homemade Fanfare

I have a fan club.
I am desired, wanted, sought after.
My fans are few but devoted.  They watch my every move, knowing where I am or where I will be before I do.
My fans wait for my appearance and are inconsolable when I depart. I hear their wails long after the doors are closed.
They adorn me with gifts, all from the bottoms of their hearts.  Gifts that are laced with remnants of their personalities; imprints of their souls for me to keep forever and revere whenever I feel like what I do is not appreciated.
When I make my appearance, my fans raise their hands to me-begging to be noticed, even if it is just a glimpse.  They crave my approval, my acceptance.  I appease my fans, of course, how could I not?  I couldn’t do what I do or be who I am without the love and admiration of the fans pining over me.  Their gifts line my walls, their cries are heard, their hands are held with the deepest gratitude and love. As they are to me, I am a fan of each and every one of them.

I have a fan club, they call me Mom.