Category: creative writing
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Have you ever wanted to be inside and outside at once? Wished to be there and here? Missed what you have, while you still have it?
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I’ve been drunk-binging on nature lately, pulled from my grind-screen work and what I ‘should’ be doing to spend hours just gazing at the wonders of the fall. I end up working way too late to compensate, but you can only see the foliage in the daylight. Such transformation is amazing. It gives me hope.…
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It’s like trying to describe why you love the way oatmeal looks. It’s gray, face it. It oozes. It’s not colorful but it sometimes hides sweet colorful things, like raspberries or bright green bits of a diced Granny Smith.
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I heard voices, and not just the recorded ones in the audio headset. I also heard the voices of prisoners past and prisoners present, calling me to attention.
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Apple Crisp Start with apples. The best thing is to pluck them heavy handful by heavy handful, from laden trees on a sunny day as the bees suck the sweet from the windfalls at your feet Otherwise, handpick them at the market – the farmer’s market, not the hypermarket. The apples need to be relaxed,…
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I met her in the showers, at the University Recreation Center on the Friday night of welcome week. She was me.
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I’m doing a forty-day series of writing prompts to jump-start a novel that I’d let go of working on. I write each prompt in the voice of the character of my story. A lot of it won’t be in the story, but it is a lot of fun and I’m getting to know my character…
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No and You Cannot Rinsing a dish, I think: When I grow up, I want to be a poem! flaring, burning, writhing, flaming, feel my body shrivel to ash, feel my soul drift heavenward… “Ri-dic-u-lous!” the twins chorus No and You Cannot, that pair who live in my head, have lived there my whole life,…
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Waxing moon/July 28 How many times we all cooed at the newborn moon, cradled in the ghostly arms of the Sycamore we oohed, we ahhed, we sighed— moonstruck Tonight the waxing moon’s gotten herself tangled in the twisty-fingered Sweet Gum just outside my new window I ooh, I ahh, I sigh— still moonstruck
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This week brought the twenty-third anniversary of my mother’s death. The morning of the anniversary, I woke gently. I felt so peaceful, as if I had been rocked in my sleep. It reminded me of how I slept on the day she died. I was a new mother then, my firstborn just five weeks old.…
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