Trigger - Kathy

Just a silly 10 minute write... 

Have you ever had a word that stopped you in your tracks, a word you’ve spoken a gazillion times, but just now stopped to really think about it?  That happened to me today with the word trigger.  

Trigger, what an interesting word.  It’s sharp to the ears and active to pronounce, moving the tongue from the front to the middle and then to the back in two short syllables.  So much is going on, it’s quite the oral workout.  Try saying it slowly and pay attention to the movement. “TRRIII-GGERRR”  So satisfying.  It’s possible to stretch it out to three syllables, making the “I” its own syllable.  Try that… “TRRR-III-GGERRR”.  Notice your lips slinking to a camera ready smile before returning them to a purse, like a mom warning her child.  If taking control away from the “R” is the goal, Trigger can even be stretched to four syllables.  Try that one, paying attention to the acrobatics happening in your mouth.  TRRR-III-GG-EERRR  but that causes the “e” to sound like a “u”, don’t ask me why, but it does. And it’s not really syllables at this point, just an oral workout.   Now five syllables is how my six year old granddaughter read this word in her take home reader called Timmy the Triggered Tiger. TT-RRR-III-GGG-EEERRR and that completely loses all meaning of the word at all.  Reduced to soundbytes - phonemes.  So, watch your tongue and pay attention to the aerobics happening when you pronounce your favorite words. 

The Side of the Road - Susan

This started as a 10-minute exercise. I kept expanding it, trying to give a better sense of setting -- both time and place. We meet Fila again, now as a young woman, married with four sons.

Fila stood in the warmth of an early November afternoon beside the dusty, hard-packed dirt road running from Dallas all the way to Fort Worth. In her hands she held a surveyor’s map and property specifications for the 26 acres spread out in front of her. Shading her eyes with her hand, she gazed out at the property George was determined to buy. Fila had learned over the years that George’s ideas almost never panned out, and Fila was opposed to leaving McKinney and her mother’s family for the uncertainty of Dallas. However, George was convinced the construction in a city booming with oil and gas money would mean more work for him and more money to educate their four boys.

Although she remained unconvinced, Fila knew that George was one to dig in his heels when challenged, and her arguments only increased his determination to move the family yet again. To keep the peace and break his stony silence, she agreed to drive a borrowed car the 30 miles from Plano to look over the property, knowing full well her opinion would carry little weight.

Even as doubt crowded out optimism for this latest scheme, Fila knew that George needed to leave the blacksmith business where he was underpaid and overworked. With the automobile replacing horse and wagon, blacksmithing was becoming obsolete, and George’s future in Plano was limited. However, Fila carried a nagging knot in her stomach, born of fear for adding more debt to what they still owed her stepfather. They never seemed to be able to get ahead, always taking two steps back for every step forward. “When will it end?” she wondered.

Fila pushed aside doubt as she took in what she could see of the 26 acres. Some of the land had been worked recently, the detritus of a past cotton crop still littered the ground. A small grove of pecan trees bordered a field to the east where a donkey stood motionless by a split rail fence, his companion bird dog asleep beside him. Fila smiled at the sight and wondered if the dog and donkey came with the property.

Consulting the map, she took in the boundaries of the fields and calculated that the spread could support a few head of livestock and a sizable vegetable garden. She imagined a summer trade where the boys could sell fresh vegetables and shelled pecans to the travelers who were sure to come when the proposed viaduct across the Trinity River was built.

Fila was nothing if not practical. With a keen sense of value and potential, she turned her eyes to the barn and the farmhouse, both large, well built, and, from where she stood, in good shape. The house faced north, a red brick, two-story, with a covered porch entrance and windows across the front. A mature live oak tree stood not far from a stone wall that separated the yard from the field to the west of the house.

It was a long way from Plano and the life she and her family had built there, surrounded by her uncle's wealth and her stepfather’s family. But fate, not fortune, had intervened yet again. Resigned, she sighed and said to the gods who may or may not have been listening, “This will do. This will have to do.”

On Wings of Memory - Susan

 Note: This is a revised version of my story where Fila's idea of sin didn't seem so sinful. I have tried to strengthen her definition of sin so that it's clearer to the reader. 

“Lord, my knees hurt,” Fila moans as she bends to pick up the hoe off the hard-packed soil, dried by a relentless Texas sun. Leaning heavily on the hoe, she turns to examine the neat rows of vegetables, noting the ragged progress of cucumbers, squash, and beans that manage to grow in spite of the heat. Her gaze lingers on the five-gallon water bucket waiting under the lone live oak tree in the yard. She knows the tomatoes need weeding and watering, but that will take more strength than she can muster in the late afternoon sun. 

Supported by the hoe, she walks slowly on bowed legs to the porch at the side of the century-old farmhouse. “I’ll just set a spell,” she says to herself, feeling guilty about leaving the row of tomato plants un-hoed, but not guilty enough to keep going. She knows her arthritic knees will make her pay later. “Well,” she says silently, “we all pay for our sins, don’t we?” 

Standing the hoe by the dusty porch steps, she holds onto the handrail and pulls herself up the steps to the rocking chair placed nearby. A glass of tea, wet with moisture, sits on the small wicker table beside the chair. 

She lowers herself carefully into the rocker, settling her body to ease the pain in her back, a constant reminder of decades spent bending over wash tubs, weeding gardens, ironing shirts, and bathing displaced grandchildren in the old cast iron tub. She sighs as a nagging pain creeps down her left leg, “Yes, indeed, we pay for our sins.”

She picks up the glass of tea, wipes the moisture on the hem of her sun-bleached housedress, and takes a long, thirsty drink. Setting the glass on the table, she says aloud, “God knows I’m familiar with sin. Could write a book about it.” 

Her words come to rest in the memory of a 17-year-old Fila and the courtship of an old man, bent on taking her for his wife. She wonders, “Does the Lord forgive you the sin of marrying the wrong man? Of living every day as though he matters to you, when you hate even the thought of his touch, of his rough hands on your body?”

She reaches for the glass of tea again, but stops to ask herself, “Who’s the sinner anyway? The deceiver who makes your mama think he has cash in the bank, who pretends to be more than he is and to have more than he has? Or is it the girl who marries him, all the while knowing she’s marrying a man she doesn’t love and wishing he was someone else, someone she still writes to and pines for? Isn’t that the very definition of infidelity?” 

As she lifts the glass to sip the now lukewarm tea, Fila rocks gently, rhythmically, letting the motion loosen a memory of her youthful self and the dreamy romance of a long-ago poem:

Many a farewell word

And sweet goodnight

On the doorstep

Lingers in my heart.

Her thoughts drift to the young Alabama man she left behind, with eyes the color of midnight; a man of gentle speech who made her ache with sweet tenderness. But that was before the possible became impossible, before a good father ended his dispirited time on earth, leaving his widow and his daughter to pick up the pieces of a life crushed by debts and fears.

Fila has learned to live with disappointment and disillusion. She avoids too much reflection or memories of lost love. But today she is bone weary and mindful of her age and the infirmities that slow her body and mind. 

She sets down the glass, now empty, and closes her eyes as she rocks. Aware only of the setting sun and the cicadas scratching the still air, she whispers a poem for a lost love:

I dream of my darling tonight

My darling so tender and true;

Oh, had I but wings for the flight

Those wings, love, would bear me to you.

The tears come, not for the first time, but with a deeper regret for the road not taken when the one chance to fly came along. “I’d have needed more than wings to shift me from this place,” she sighs.

Being careful to steady herself on unpredictable knees, she pushes up from the chair, picks up the empty glass, and turns to take one last look at the tomatoes reminding her of their need for tending. Assuring them that she will be back tomorrow (God willing), Fila says goodnight, leaving thoughts of the past to sleep in the silent air of a windless Texas night.

Patty and Everyll -Nez

Patty and Everyll

https://docs.google.com/file/d/1z6-2PPBcChrA5lRsfHb_k2SF_ZIx8LHH/edit?usp=docslist_api&filetype=msword

Holding Hands - Nez

Stunning in her white wedding dress and handsome in his new suit and tie, Florence Mae Van Sickle and Clark Alexander Nesmith were married on the 3rd of May 1916, in her widowed mother’s home in Shields, North Dakota. Clark and Mae were crazy about each other and already had plans for their lifetime together. He was 22, she was all of 17. 

They drove fifteen miles in his horse and buggy to catch the train for their honeymoon in Bismarck. He had promised her a house but their first home was a two-room sod hut on a small farm on the North Dakota prairie. Seventeen months later their first child was born, so they moved to South Dakota, where he worked for the railroad. In February 1920, they used his railroad pass to take the train to Bellingham, Washington. He resigned from the railroad, and Clark and Mae Nesmith made northwest Washington their forever home. 

Clark delivered milk from farms to the dairy processing plant and built houses on the side and Mae popped out kids from 1920 to 1928. He finished the first house in Bellingham and  presented it to Mae and they moved in, and then he built another, and another. Evey time he completed a house they moved into it and sold the last one. Their growing family moved four times in seven years, and each time they celebrated by having another kid. Each kid was born at a different address. By the time Mae was thirty, she had given birth seven times in eleven years, and was raising six kids. They were on plan and happy.

With six young kids when the Depression hit, Clark joined the Carpenter’s Union and rarely lacked for work which was mostly in Seattle, so he moved the family there. He became a “master finish carpenter” who was known to hum, whistle or quietly sing to himself as he worked, normally with a home-made toothpick in his mouth. Grampa told us grandkids the best carpenters “Always Measure Twice, Cut Once,” and we should, too. That was his motto for life and work. Quality craftsmanship, like his, was always in demand. 

Gramma loved telling the story that during  construction of the old Federal Court building in Seattle, four sets of ten foot tall teakwood doors were ordered for the entrance, eight doors in all, four outside and four inside. Teakwood is very heavy and each door weighed more than a ton. It was requested that Grampa hang them. He did such a masterful job they claimed a three-year old child could open and close each of those huge teakwood doors with ease and without risk, yet they would stop a truck. He was highly praised during in the dedication. Gramma was so proud. (The building has now been repurposed but those doors are still there, almost eighty years later. A plaque still bears his name.)

After WWII, they stayed in Seattle several years, but now in his fifties Grampa suffered three heart attacks, all on the job. After his first one, the most major one, he recuperated in the hospital for three months and another month at home before he was allowed to return to work. There was no heart surgery. Gramma never left his bedside but fretted with worry over him and their lack of adequate income. After his recovery from his third attack, at the age of fifty-nine, doctors urged him to take a medical retirement, but he figured they wouldn’t have enough income so he refused and returned to work. 

Between 1941 to 1962 Gramma and Grampa became proud grandparents twenty times (yes, twenty, no twins). Whenever us grandkids stayed over with them Grampa always got us up each morning to line up and march behind him, to his rendition of “Oh, When the Saints Go Marching In”, to the kitchen where he made the best, thinnest “flapjacks” ever. With syrup or fruit jam they were so delicious we would eat several. Gramma would take us to the zoo “to see our other relatives”, or to the lake to splash and have picnics or ferryboat rides. Wherever we went she had us hold hands. And we were all very aware that wherever Gramma and Grampa went they always held hands. That was their thing.

My grandparents seemed to always be on the same page. They talked about everything and worked through their differences before bed. They told us to, “never go to bed mad at one another. It makes tomorrow a better day.” And they laughed and sang a lot (he mostly hummed, …the toothpick). They had their faith, their respect and deep devotion for each other.

Grampa finally retired at sixty-five and they moved back to Skagit County. He never had another heart attack. They leaned on each other and he built her another house. And she wanted to travel so he quit taking side jobs. 

Nobody knows why but Grampa liked Chrysler cars but at sixty-eight he bought a new silver Chrysler Imperial to pull their new silver Airstream trailer. They traveled America in that Imperial and Airstream and saw most of the country, except for Alaska and Hawaii. They would never fly yet they marveled at new technology and were amazed that they saw a man on the moon, had color tv, and drove an Imperial and to think that their first home together was a sod hut and travel was by horse and buggy; all this in their lifetime. A great romance of sixty-one anniversaries. My Gramma and Grampa. He was 22, she was all of 17.

p.s. - After Gramma passed away in 1978, Grampa was lost, in a daze. He mourned her for a year then he simply laid down and joined her. 

Nez Nesmith – January 2024 

Love in the Keys - Kathy

 Totally unfinished!!  I'm trying to play with an interactive story of sorts, told in PowerPoint/Google Slides.  Just playing :)

Love in the Keys 

Love in a Strip Joint - Mike P

 Love in a Strip Joint

(sung to the tune of Aerosmith’s Love in an Elevator)

My luck with the lottery ran dry before it started. Played it 3 times

and never hit the grand prize. Made me think I was chasing

rainbows and leprechauns. My keister was parked on a bar stool

next to a guy at Cabaret East. “Look pal, he said, I work at Dallas

Gold & Silver and have this magic gold tooth. You know, Jack

and the Bean Stalk shtick---magic beans, magic tooth. It’ll grow

hell for leather.” He fished it out of his pocket and showed me. “I

paid two grand for it, but since I like you, you can have it for

1900—it will bring you luck. I swear.” I scratched my head on

that one, but it did make sense. If you can’t trust a stranger in a

strip joint, who can you trust?

I forked out the cash and he gave me the tooth. I gave it a good

eyeballing and stuffed it in my pocket I could feel its low and

steady vibration. Magic gold teeth will do that. Everybody knows.

I made a beeline for home. I scratched out a small hole in my

backyard, dropped the gold tooth in, and then covered it with dirt.

Back inside I peeked out the kitchen window. Watched the clock

and waited. Watched some more. Waited some more. Always

been OCD on clock watching. And then suddenly my house

quivered and did an Elvis hip-shake. Backyard cracked open

and up sprung a full-grown tree trunk. It shot straight up a good

10-12 feet and then filled out on all sides. Looked like a golf

umbrella peppered with teeny weeny gold tooth buds.

By the next morning those tiny buds had grown to adult molars,

incisors, and canines! With gold being almost $2 grand an ounce,

I’d soon have enough money to shameless flout and wallow in my

new-found riches. A tisket a tasket, I picked up a green and

yellow basket and you know the rest. Filled with teeth I skipped

back into Dallas & Gold and Silver and sashayed out with a

bucket of cold, hard cash!.”

I wasn’t greedy after that, so I waited a spell. Sat tight on my

new-found riches and harvested my gold tooth tree only when it

fully blossomed. Several months passed. I was flush with cash

and my bathtub brimming with teeth. It was early spring, a time

some think to find love. And where better than Cabaret East!

The hotbed of passion with the stench of stale urine hanging in

the air. But I went for their killer Valentine’s day lunch buffet and

an overdue hello to Bruno.

I had just pounded down my first drink and was munching on

brown, wilted lettuce when I noticed a blond feverishly working a

pole. Working it like Picasso going to town on a canvas. I blinked

once. I blinked twice. I even blinked thrice. “Bruno, is that…..”

“Yep, she’s back….they all come back,” he said with a smarmy

smirk.

We made eye contact. Oh yah, it was Coco. She then stared off

into the smokey darkness with eyes of one who hated for just

being born. A life buried in despair. Where hope found no

quarter. Destined to work the strip joints and crack houses

peppered along North Industrial Blvd. Living in the homeless

camp just east of the Elements.

Using my best Edward G. Robinson voice, I said, “yah, see that

the dame gets this, yah, see that she does” and I slid a freshly

grown gold molar to Bruno. I pulled down the brim of my fedora,

gave a perfunctory nod, and strolled out of Cabaret East for last

time.

Polling for Love - Mike P

 Polling for Love

(sung to Nazareth’s Love Hurts)

The city bus rumbled to a stop, and he got out. Shook off the cold

and went inside. Every eye took a walk all over him. Here to case

the joint or pull a robbery now? From his pocket out came a

tooth. A big honking molar. Solid gold tooth in mint condition.

Passed down from his great grandfather, who grave-robbed a

gypsy in Transylvania. But times now, they were hard and cash, it

was short. Often since his criminal conviction as Chief Financial

Officer of Enron had he cried out to the heavens, “hard times,

don’t come around here no more!”

But that was then, and this is now. Sprung from the federal pen

almost a year ago. He’d become a regular at adult bookstores

and strip joints dotted along North Industrial Blvd. Surprisingly,

that was proving not to be a path to eternal enlightenment. He

now had plans. Big plans! And they started now with this tooth.

He plopped it down on the counter. ‘How much?” The Dallas

Gold and Silver sales rep looked incredulous. But upon closer

examination and a lot of head scratching, he looked up and said,

“$1,700…take it or leave it.”

He jammed the bills into his pocket and looked up to the clock.

Just 15 minutes before showtime. This was to be his day. His big

day. The day his life turned around and headed north. But for

now, he needed a bus that headed south. Fast. South on North

Industrial.

He was always a clock watcher. His mother said he was

naturally skittish. Said he reminded her of a gerbil rooming with a

tomcat.

Lickety-split, the bus was in front of Cabaret East. His Timex had

taken a lickin’ but kept on tickin’. He had 7 minutes to spare. His

heart pumped faster. He plunked down on a bar stool. Bruno

burped and looked up. “Back again, eh, pal?” “Yep, today’s the

day my life changes …for the good. Hit me with your finest

Frangelico.”

The top of the hour came, and the top of the hour went. He

scratched his head and pounded down a second Frangelico.

“Hey Bruno, where’s Coco? She’s not working the pole.” Bruno

never looked up from the bar, grumbling, “da’ dame done quit on

me. Right out of the blue. Claimed she wanted something better.

Better than this? Can you believe that?”

“No way…she was Baryshnikov on the pole.” “Yah, whatever.

Said she wanted to ‘make something ‘of her life.” Bruno scratched

his head and with a greasy laugh, “they all say that. She’ll be

back. They all come crawling back.”

He hoped Bruno was right. His eyes had long followed her pole

gyrations with canine devotion. He was going to use the money

from his gold tooth to ask her to marry him. Oh sure, they’d never

been out on a date, but that was just a technicality. Never even

actually met. She always smiled and called him handsome John.

That was a head-scratcher. His name wasn’t John. And no one

had ever accused him of being handsome. But he knew she was

honest. Coco would never think of him as a endless tip machine.

Would she?

He watched the clock tick. Watched the arms move. Mind racing,

head down heart breaking, where could his strip joint goddess

be? Stirred his drink with his finger and sighed deeply. Love was

still on the back burner.

A Girl and a Map - Susan

This is an expanded version of a story I posted earlier. I wanted to create a stronger sense of setting at the beginning and to tie in the ideas of hope and a new future at the end.

Fila sat on the wide wooden steps of the large white-washed farmhouse, a worn map of the Southern United States resting in her lap. She watched as day broke over fields of dry bark and lint, all that remained of the Alabama cotton crop planted six months ago and harvested just last week. It had been a decent crop, but not enough to convince Fila’s mother to stay and keep working the farm alone. The fields, desolate in the half light of early morning, mirrored Fila’s own mood of bleak acceptance. The land was no longer theirs, having been sold to neighbors, along with all the farm equipment. Save for the barest essentials required for this unwelcome move, the house and everything in it had been sold or given away. Nothing would remain of the family she loved, and nothing of her life in this place would be marked once they turned their faces to the west. Of the livestock, only the two family mules, Jack and Mike, were left. Now they stood hitched to a wagon, waiting patiently to pull two broken hearts to Texas.

Fila knew she should be studying the map, memorizing the route from her birthplace in Girard, Alabama, to her uncle’s farm in Plano, Texas. But her mind was blind to the paper in her hands. She sat, unmoving, and stared down at lines and faded words. They meant nothing to her, and she grieved the paper they were printed on. 

This was her father’s map, a good father’s map, and she wondered if he would have led them west had he lived. A moot question now. Her mother saw no future here in Alabama without a husband and income to manage the 40 acres of cotton, not to mention a heavy equipment business that thrived during the War of Northern Aggression, a business doomed after the restless peace of loss descended on them. Her father’s skill at building roads and rail lines for the Confederacy meant an end to the business and its owner.

Fila wondered where this move would lead beyond the miles a wagon train would travel. What good could possibly come from this uprooting of body and soul? From the brokenness of their hearts? Everything but a grave left behind? Fila’s mother, although grieving and anxious about the future, had assured Fila that this move was necessary and not entirely without hope. Their uncle in Texas was a good man who had befriended Fila’s family on more than one occasion. “We will trust the goodness of others and Uncle Ned’s promise to help us,” her mother said with conviction.

Fila was not so convinced as she stared at the map, giving it her full attention now. With her finger, she traced the route they expected to take, starting in Girard to meet up with the wagon train in Columbus, just across the river. From there they would cross Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana, then into east Texas, turning north at Dallas and on to Plano. The wagon boss estimated covering 10 miles a day, God willing and the weather held. How far was it, anyway? 800 miles? 900? 80 days minimum. That’s almost three months in a Conestoga wagon. Dear God, how would she ever survive such an ordeal? Yet, here they were.

As Fila folded the map and laid it on the porch step, she saw a young man walking slowly up the path to the farmhouse, a weathered hat in his hand. Fila recognized him as the hired driver of the wagon that would soon take her into her future. As she held out her hand to him, she smiled and said, “I hope you know the way.” Clasping her hand, the young man replied, “Yes, ma’am, I do. Your hope is not misplaced.” 

With that, Fila picked up the map from the step, nodded to the young man, and turned back to the farmhouse, her heart a little lighter knowing that, indeed, someone knew the way.

A Christmas Swan Song - Susan

The fir tree stood tall and twinkling next to the mantle decorated with fresh evergreens and fragrant pine cones. The smell of burning wood in the fireplace and a roasting turkey in the oven filled the spacious house, declaring that Christmas Day had arrived. The tree was regal, worthy of the effort it took Evelyn and her son, Roddy, to cut it down on a freezing day in rural Wisconsin. Not for the first time Evelyn’s husband, William, had failed to join them in the snowy woods, saying he had a meeting at the medical school. Over the ten years of life in Wisconsin, Evelyn and Roddy had morphed into a pack of two, with Evelyn trying to make up for both William’s absences and his emotional separation from them. She hoped that the resentment and anxiety that had crept into their marriage might be set aside today, might even be resolved without a permanent rift. 

Evelyn wrapped a cashmere shawl around her shoulders and sat down on the ottoman near the fireplace. “You can be Santa, Roddy,” she said to her man-child of 15. As Roddy handed out the presents spread under the tree, Evelyn breathed in the warmth of the comfortable room, the beauty of the art on the walls, and the sounds of a boy choir singing carols in the background. 

She picked up the box Roddy had laid beside her. William’s gift. The tag read only her name, not the nickname he gave her when they were newlyweds and still in love. She held the box on her lap, staring at it. A shirt box smelling vaguely of strawberry, no, of vanilla. So, something to wear. He never bought her clothing, which made her both curious and apprehensive.

The present was beautifully wrapped. William was very good at picking unusual wrapping paper and contrasting ribbon, the kind with a wire, molded into a perfect bow. He squared the corners of the paper, no crumpled edges or crinkles. He tucked the greeting card under the ribbon, always a card with the right sentiment, not too romantic, not too neutral. 

Evelyn slipped the card from under the ribbon and held it a moment, suspended between fear of getting a generic Merry-Christmas-to-Anyone card or a sincerely romantic card that she would mistrust. But, true to form, he had picked a perfectly balanced, barely sentimental greeting: “You make Christmas special….” The signature line caught her breath: “I will love you forever.” She sat without moving, trying to decode the message, suspicious of what lay in wait beneath the words.

Gently and precisely, she pulled away the wrapping paper – white swans wearing Santa hats on a green background. Swans, she thought, how interesting. Prescient? A subconscious swan song? Opening the lid of the box, she moved aside the white tissue, which reminded her of her mother’s perfect gifts from Neiman Marcus all those years ago. She sat staring, no, more like fascinated, as she examined a pink short-sleeved, loosely knitted pullover with little knitted flowers all over, front and back. She held it up, turning it first one way then another. Again, the faint scent of vanilla. She carefully folded the sweater back into the box, managing to mouth “thank you” to William, and laid the box back under the Christmas tree. 

She returned to the ottoman, where she sat watching, but not seeing, Roddy opening the pile of gifts on his wish list. Always analytical, Evelyn pondered the pink knitted sweater. Twenty-five years of marriage and still he didn’t have a clue about her. She was an Ann Taylor suede blazer kind of woman. Of course, she thought. He had taken someone to Christmas shop, another woman, younger, with a taste for floral pinks and scented candles. Evelyn wondered who the woman was this time. 

With a flash of insight, she knew could not escape now; fate had intervened with its inevitability, not entirely unwelcome, like losing an ache one has gotten used to. Confronting William, she knew, would mean the end of everything. She had lived with his betrayals for years, so what was different now? Why today? The sweater. Not the garment itself, but the sheer audacity of it, like sharp scissors that snipped the remaining delicate thread of a relationship that had slowly unraveled around her. 

Evelyn shrugged off the shawl as she stood and looked around the festive room, not allowing herself remorse or regrets. It was Christmas, and the severing would come later, after the presents, after the toasts and the eggnog. She straightened and breathed in the changes to come. As she turned, she bent and kissed her smiling son on the head, then moved resolutely to the kitchen. 

Chapter 11 - Marc

 Chapter 11 - Marc

Hidden Fees - Kathy

 Hidden Fees 

Hidden fees lurk in mysterious

Nooks and crannies

Places and traces

Of where we are, have been

Or will be soon

Lurking on library cards, 

Bank and Netflix accounts…

Ticketmaster, Phone bills, 

Hotel rooms and recycling bins

Cruises, flights, and rail lines

Assembly, delivery, and haul aways

National, state, and community playgrounds

Owning a pet, riding a bike, driving a car

They’re not a tax they say

And 

Nothing is free they say

And that is a truth

Snow - Kathy

 My three phrases:

Writing on the wall

Dealing out the Deck

Diamond Miners

Ugh, it’s like Groundhog Day again!” thought Snow, waking at the crack of dawn to start her day.  She got busy scrambling eggs, pouring orange juice, and setting the table.  Then she rang the breakfast bell, and just like that seven little men marched down the stairs, each one nodding and greeting Snow with a “Good Morning, Snow!” They all took a seat at the long wooden table, said grace, and then dug in.  Every day, every day was the same.  And despite adoring these little men who saved her life, and kept her safe, she wished for something more.  She wasn’t sure if this was better or worse than putting up with her annoyingly jealous and dangerous stepmom, but she supposed being alive and rather bored was better than dead.  After all, the little group of diamond miners kept her busy taking care of them, and they protected her in their small den of a home.  

Day after day she cooked, cleaned and scrubbed laundry for the little guys, while they dug through the nearby mountain digging up diamonds and selling them to Sir George.  Sir George, a giant among the mountain people, not only traded gold for money, but collected taxes, carried the mail, and delivered messages from the Queen. Snow and the miners considered Sir George a friend they could trust, as he was the only other person who knew where Snow resided.  For if the Queen knew, Snow’s life would be in danger.  

The little diamond miners marched out the door that morning chanting “Hi Ho, Hi ho, it’s off to work we go,” and Snow got busy in her usual way by clearing the dishes, making the beds, and singing to the woodland creatures.  

While gathering flowers, Snow heard hoofbeats nearing the cottage.  She darted behind a wooden fence and peeked around the corner.  It was only Sir George.  He dismounted, tied his white stallion to the hitching rail and wrapped on the door.  I’m over her Sir, said Snow walking around the fence.  He turned toward her and lowered his head.  Immediately Snow knew something was wrong.  “What is it, Sir?” she asked.

“I’m afraid the writing is on the wall this time, Snow.  The Queen is sending out an army of soldiers looking for you.  Her plans are to lock you up in the tower until she can send you away forever, or perhaps even worse!”  

Snow shivered, “I’ve known this day would come, what shall we do?.”   She sat down on a log, rested her head in her hands and began to think.  Sir George joined her.

“Well, let’s deal out the cards in our deck…the queen wants you gone.  She’s so very jealous of your youthful beauty, dangerously so” he began, “And she will eventually find you - she has an army of soldiers,” he continued, “She is not afraid to use magical spells; remember what happened to her sister…ugh.”  They both shuddered just thinking about her poor sister, now a toad in the castle pond.  “What else do we know?”

“Well,” added Snow, “My little friends have collected so many diamonds, we’re absolutely rich beyond belief, maybe that will help, could we pay her off?”

“That’s it!” shouted Sir George. “The Queen is in such debt, perhaps we could pay her a hefty sum and promise her you would never enter her kingdom again.”

“ Yes!” nodded Snow.  “I am happier here, I just get a bit bored, but I suppose it’s better than dead, right?”  Snow didn’t sound all that excited, but rather reserved to a future of routine chores and singing to birds and squirrels.  

Sir George turned to Snow and took her hands in his.  “My dear Snow,” he started.  “I’ve been in love with you since the day we met.  What I haven’t told you is that when my contract is up with the Queen, I’ll be returning to Hampshire, where I will take over the kingdom from my retiring father.  It’s beautiful there…mountains, ocean, forests, and the most wonderful and happy people.  You would love it there. Would you, I mean could you consider…”  Sir George looked into Snow’s eyes, she was looking up at him full of anticipation, a bit of confusion, but oh so beautifully happy.  

“Yes…” she encouraged.

“Will you become my wife and join me?” he finally asked.

There was no question,  Snow jumped up, looked deeper into his eyes and just like that, planted a kiss right on Sir George’s lips.  Birds sang, squirrels jumped from tree to tree, and the seven little diamond miners came marching around the bend carrying seven buckets full of diamonds.

What happened next?  Well, the seven little men loved Snow and knew she’d be happy with Sir George.  They didn’t really need a lot of money anyway and were happy to pay off the Queen for Snow.  The queen was just as greedy as she was jealous.  She took the diamonds, Snow signed the contract banning her from the Queen’s kingdom and the next week, Snow and Sir George were married and settled into the castle in Hampshire.  The little diamond miners visited frequently, always happy to see their dear friends.  And the Queen?  She lived miserably ever after.

First Love - Marc

 FIRST LOVE

 

Suddenly thrust

​unexpectedly

To where time does not exist

​basking in feelings 

Long forgotten

​I find myself invincible

Untouched by seasons gone by

 

And then you are here

​a gasp leaves my throat

Or is it a sob

​for what was lost

Pulled away; no not yet

​I did not warn you

Of your tragedy to come

​diminishing you forever

 

Left with memories

​like ashes

Falling through my fingers

​only the memory

Of that summer

​when you gently

Helped a boy become a man

​

The Edge - Marc

 THE EDGE

 

The door slams

​making clear

For the first time

​someone so dear

Has gone for the last time

 

Like a brooding fog

​silence hangs in the air

Memories whirl

​while at the door you stare

 

The distance between

​then and now is so small

Standing at the edge

​listening to the past call

 

The closed door

​will become

and ending and beginning

​tomorrow

But now I am in this netherworld

​of change and sorrow