Saved Symphony

Anticipation heavy

then

With fury and fervor

A symphony arrives

First, low rumbling, then

FLASH

The cascade begins,

Rain dances in crowns,

its impact

for a split-second

reflected back

Want to capture the crowns

And save them

Not for a rainy day,

For the steamy day

When I'll toss them about

To relive the storm

For more Flash Friday 55, go see g-man's comments. That's where you leave your link, too.

Thanks go to the amazingly gifted Jane at Aging Mommy. She wrote a wonderful poem about a storm as a symphony. I stole her idea and made my own. Here's hers. (At the bottom of the post, but don't skip it! She writes with humor and honesty.)

Red Faced @ Life is Good

Red-faced. Embarrassed. Chagrinned. That's me. I made a colossal blunder recently. But, the first step to getting over that sort of fiasco is to make light of it, try to see the humor in it, and then just keep on swimming.

I've been working on my writing a lot this spring and summer. I've read books to hone my craft, I've brainstormed, written drafts, edited, and published posts. Last week I was working on a GMC chart. Goal, motivation, conflict. Both external and internal. The charts look like this:

Character GMC's

Chrystal Bane-Howard	External	Internal
Goal
Motivation
Conflict

They help you get a handle on what makes your character tick, and gives richness and depth to them. I've been toying with finally writing a novel, since it's a long-term goal of mine. And times a wasting. So I had filled out this chart for the possible wife character (Chrystal), and another for her slime-ball husband (Dan). Their motivations and goals were not exactly...admirable shall we say. And I sent it to a writing buddy for critique. Thought I sent it to a writing buddy.

So I get an email from myself containing this chart. Hmm, that was stupid. But I send a lot of emails to myself when the recipients are a group of people in the bcc. I must have been on auto-pilot. I didn't think much of it, no harm done. Re-sent the email to my buddy. It's not long before emails start pouring in.

“I'm confused. What do you want me to do with this file?”

“Did you mean to send this, please explain.”

Then the phone rings. It's The Swede.

“I think you sent me a file by mistake.”

It's at this point that I go to my sent folder, and realize with dawning horror that not only did I send it to myself, I also filled in the bcc. As is habit for many, many emails I send daily. You see, I'm the coordinator for our church's prayer chain. I sent my file TO THE ENTIRE PRAYER CHAIN. OMG! I mean, people get email by mistake a lot, but this file wasn't regarding tame subjects. These characters were committing adultery and murder and phony works of philanthropy. I'm simply mortified.

Immediately I go to damage control mode. Lots of people only check their email once a day. Maybe they'll get my explanation without even opening the file. There's at least some hope. I send out a self-deprecating apology, asking that they just delete the file. And pray. (Appropriate, right?) I know what you're thinking, “Well if she's that embarrassed by what she wrote and who saw it, maybe she shouldn't be writing that.” Yeah, I hear you. But I happen to believe Christians should read widely and variedly, and discern for themselves what's appropriate or not. It's just that a lot of these dear pray-ers are of my grandparent's generation, where a lot of stuff just wasn't said out loud. And certainly not by church-goers. So it's while cringing that I await what the senior pastor will say. Because of course the entire church staff is on this list.

He apparently, though, was a bit behind in his email. Almost a week later I get his email. I recognize the subject line he's replied to. This is what I've been waiting for.

“I'm not quite sure what you want me to do with this.”

I write back, peddling as fast as I can, tell him about the damage control I did, about people's reactions. And wait for his reply. It's not long before he puts me out of my misery.

“That's SO funny. Please give my regards to Chrystal.”

So folks, the moral of the story is this. Don't send emails on auto-pilot. Ever. As for me, I think I'll print copies of what I've written and hand them to my writing buddy. Better safe than sorry.

This post is part of Alphabe-Thursday. We're going through the rainbow, one color at a time. Head over to our hostess with the most-est, Jenny Matlock for other great posts featuring the color RED.

Do You Still?

He'll always be

A persistent ache,

though the ragged edge

has healed,

one tiny sliver

at a time.

Like a stone,

caressed by

incessant waves,

whose edges get

smooth, over time.

Now, when she allows

the memories,

they're an embrace,

not the stab of regret

that used to come.

Wistful, she can still see

his gaze

hungry eyes

feel the giddy leap

of her young heart.

Again, warm hands,

mapping the lines and curves

of her body,

the long

s l o w

kisses

which left her

dizzy,

scrambled

and

reaching for more.

She sighs.

They once

loved 

big,

powerful

and

forbidden

no thought to resisting.

But now

Does he sit there like this,

In a rumpled bed

Alone,

and remembering?

This is a magpie tale.  

Mourning After, part II

Today I have the privilege of partnering with the amazingly talented Brian Miller at WaystationOne.  He wrote the first half of this story, so jump on over there to read the beginning, then come back here for the end.

It's been two weeks since he died, and I'm drowning. But I knew that someday I would. After all, there's penance. Penance for sins so great we cannot breathe them out loud. I look at my treasure. This living, breathing proof of my husband, Will's love. A love that I didn't think I ever deserved. And I know it's all my fault his daddy's gone. How am I going to raise this precious child without him? I can't even breathe.

I met him accidentally. I know people say that, and then believe that some higher power arranged it, but not me. I know it really was an accident. I mean, how many times does it happen that you're in a car crash and the paramedic turns out to be the love of your life? I gave up believing such nonsense at an early age. But there he was. His kindness calming me, his reassurance actually believable.

“Mom? Mom? Aren't we going to play”

I shrug the thoughts away, the blanket of them too heavy for my child. We play. I tuck him in.

Evenings are always the hardest. Without his presence, I have no compass. I'd been a silly girl to believe in redemption. In a love so overpowering that the past melted away. “It doesn't matter what happened before we met. What counts is from now on.” I'd actually begun to think it might be true.

I can't sleep in our bed. We'd loved so tenderly that last morning, and I can't bear to go back there without him. Instead I haunt the couch, and try to endure the vacuum my life has become. But the chill always comes, creeps into my bones. Evil. But tonight's chill is different. Tonight Josh said, “Daddy is right there!” And I haven't been able to shake the feeling of a presence, even though I was able to so calmly say, “Well of course, he'll always be with us, honey. In our hearts.” Tonight the chill has weight, and form, and makes me uncomfortable in my skin.

I see it again. I'm in that room, monitors beeping, doctors discussing me in whispers as if I weren't right there, didn't have a voice. Or a choice. “It's either her, or the child. We can't save them both.” Unable to speak, unable to cry out in protest, I fade away.

They saved me. As for our first child, my unborn, precious, miraculous child, he was gone. And I know that's why they took Will. To pay for that, they took him. Took my north, tied these chains of grief around me, and shoved me into this darkness from which there is no escape.

And the dreams have started again. It's always the same. I see our unborn child running towards me, about six years old, golden hair curling, slightly damp at the temples. His little legs sprinting across that meadow, into my eagerly waiting arms. He doesn't see the presence behind him, doesn't see the hooded figures with icy breath, skeleton hands, quickly catching up to him. I know that if I reach him first, he's mine. But my feet always get stuck in the mire, and I never get there in time. He's always just one step out of reach when they snatch him up, take him away. His piercing scream of terror echoing, “Mom! Mom! Help! Don't let them take me!” No words come. I want to say, “I'll find you, I'll rescue you!” But I have no mouth. I can't even scream.

I always fight sleep. Most nights I end up in the hall outside Josh's room, as if I could guard him from that evil by my physical presence. Eventually my body gives in to the sleep, and when I awake, I'm curled up on the hardwood floor.

“Mom! Mo-om! Wake UP! Daddy is taking me to the park!”

I'm startled awake. Sunlight dances in through the sky-light, haloing his perfect little face.

Ah, umh...”When?”

My vision clears and I see Josh. And Will! Propped on his hip is the six year old from my dreams. Will reaches for his son's hand, and I'm suddenly wide awake.

“No Josh! No!”

He takes his daddy's hand, and as the three of them turn and walk down the hallway, I'm paralyzed. Just like in my dreams. I'm screaming, screaming, trying to speak, to run, to stop it from happening, but as always I'm stuck.

I don't know how long I lay there, but I know what I'll find when I get up. Finally, I move. Terror and grief are stuck in my throat, thick like paste, but I can't stop myself. I open the door to Josh's room. And of course he's lying right there. Not moving. Stone cold to my fingers.

His eyes flutter, my heart clenching in a fist of hope, “Mom, I saw dad, and another little boy. He said everything is going to be okay and that he will always love us.”

I pull my son to me, threatening to smother him in my embrace, as I soak up the last cold vestiges of my husbands touch.

Saturday Centus #12 Going Home

Driving six hours is a long time on the road. Six hours spent singing car-aoke and taking in the picturesque scenery, but mostly reminiscing about the good times. But those days were long gone and my mind was in a different place now. Or was it? My pulse quickened as I passed the road sign which read "Medford 27 miles."

Despite what I'd been through, the thought of my cozy room at my Grandmother's house made me smile. But it's not easy going home again. Not when you left with high hopes, big dreams, and return penniless, and barely hanging on to your hard-fought sanity. I take the turn to Bedford, and despite my misgivings, I find another smile. This town that I grew up in, where my sweet Grandma was my mother from the age of 3, hasn't changed much in twenty years. And then I'm there. She's on the front porch. “Welcome home, honey!” “Hi Gram!”

This is Saturday Centus, and once again I'm trying to contain my verbosity to 100 words past the prompt.  If you'd like more info, please visit Ms. Jenny Matlock at "off on my tangent" for the full rules and more great takes on this prompt, which was in bold italics above.

Maybe Her Name is Alice

sometimes I see her

watering her tiny, tattered lawn

her bathrobe

just as tattered

having long since lost

it's vibrant colors,

so faded, it's more of a shadow

than a garment

and barefoot

(Have you ever seen an 80 year-old lady barefoot)

her toes, squishing

newly watered grass

her hose

sending the rainbows

my way

This is Flash Friday 55.  Tell a story in exactly 55 words, then head on over to g-man and tell him about it, leaving your link in his comments.  You'll find more 55s to visit, too.

T is for Teacher @ Life is Good

I have a lot of stories about my eight years as math teacher, track coach, team leader, committee member, and the three years that I also was allowed to teach English. (I never got my certification in English, though I was pretty close to a minor. For middle school it doesn't have to be official. They just accepted the courses I'd tested out of doing AP English and Literature, and my creative writing and lit stuff in college (“stuff”, isn't that a great, specific word for an English teacher? LOL) (Though of course, as you know, my training did not include rules about using parentheses. Probably good, because I'd be breaking just about every one of them.) With so much to tell, this post was already two pages long before I even arrived at my middle school. I've therefore chopped all that and will tell you one story that to this day never fails to leave me in fits of giggles when I go back to it.

We had nine periods one year. Yes, each is shorter, but you have all those transitions to work through. Regardless, even I, the self-proclaimed math nerd, would not have wanted math ninth period. It was going on March, and we'd just returned from spring break. During spring break they re-wax all the floors. My classroom was part of a former “open classroom design”. I remember this trend well, as it was how I spent my own middle school years. However, bright minds had finally caught on to the fact that middle school kids are easily distracted. I know, really observant, right? So there was a temporary, moveable wall between me and the social studies teacher. When I wanted to dismiss my kids, I had to peek out the door to make sure he'd already dismissed his, as mine had to traipse through his classroom to return to civilization. It worked fine, though. Mr. M and I were both schedule oriented people. (Please hang with me, this background is crucial to what happened.) So here we are, ninth period, newly waxed floors, dividing MOVEABLE wall. Just trying to sum up so you know what's important.

My classroom was very structured. As is math. As am I. We'd completed the five warm-up questions, graded our previous homework, and were just getting to the lesson of the day. I have no recollection of what that lesson was, though since it was March, probably geometry. I'm at my over-head, doing examples, and I've just about had it from him. “Kyle” was one of those smart-ass kids who pushed every envelope edge and button he could. But he was smart, and funny, and gosh-darnit, I really liked him. However, he'd made one rude comment too many (though they were clever, still rude) had distracted one infatuated girl too many, and it was time for action.

“Kyle, get your books and switch to that seat back THERE.” I pointed to the wasteland. I had a table at the side of my room which my blind student needed for her braille machine and her aide. When she wasn't in the class, it was my “you have been banished from the rest of us decent folks” seat. He picked up his books, snarled at me, and went marching exaggeratedly towards the back. As he's getting ready to turn the corner behind the rows of desks, he encounters the newly polished floors, and with one of those exaggerated, giant stomps, looses his footing. With a thundering THUD he slides like a baseball player into home plate, and hits the temporary wall, which starts to sway. I'm talking big fall, big thud. The entire classroom ERUPTS in laughter. I mean, picture this. This popular kid, who just got told where to go by his favorite teacher (yea, he told me that, AFTER this incident) ends up being taken down ALL the notches, and is lying on the floor, books scattered. As for me, I'm gone. Dissolved in the biggest fit of giggles I've ever had.

Mr. M comes to my door. “Is everything ok? We heard a huge thud. The wall was moving.” He then notices the laughter all around. And the red-faced boy at the quarantine table. “Hey Mr. Hotshot, guess karma caught up with you!” The class again dissolves into laughter. But they calm down soon. Me, not so much. I don't know why exactly I wasn't able to pull it together, but each time I started to return to the lesson, the image of his fall played again in my brain. And I started giggling again. “It's not that funny!” “Can we have some more examples?” But they hadn't seen it from my perspective. Most of them just heard the thud, turned around, and saw him lying there. They missed the snarl, the stomp, the karma. I just gave up. “We'll catch up tomorrow. No homework tonight!” “AWESOME!” “What are you going to do tomorrow, Kyle, to get us no homework?”

This is alphabet soup week at Jenny Matlock's Alphabe-Thursday. We've been asked to stir it all up by posting either an old post which we want more readers for, a post for a letter we missed, or just another take on a letter we've already done. I decided to take T (for Tina the teacher) and post what I'd been thinking of when we were on vacation. Please head over to Jenny's and taste some more of the “soup”.