If I were a painter, I would wear a twist of string tied to my ankle long ago by a lover who never promised and left before I ever asked. I would live and work in an echoing flat with iron floor-to-ceiling windows and colorful but cracked tile in the tiny toilet. The window near…
A moment past her prime, Marthe tilted her chin forward. It was a trick taught by her mother that “elongates the neck and makes your decollate irresistible.” She hoped it was working because she felt a bit like a fool, or a giraffe, maybe a foolish giraffe. Boning poked at the tender skin under her arms,…
She didn’t know what to say. There were really no words, at least none came to mind in the moment. Her soul was torn, bleeding. Disappointment washed over her like a huge unexpected wave destroying an otherwise sunny day. Sure there were a few clouds in the sky. There would always be clouds, but this,…
A couple of months ago, Barb, aka Book Club Mom, interviewed me and asked about my experience finding an agent. At the time of the interview I had not yet looked for an agent. I have spent the past few weeks in that process and I feel a metaphor coming on. Finding an agent is…
If I lived in a lighthouse, I would bake fresh bread every Saturday and my cookie jar would always be full. I would wear wellies, worn out jeans, and sweaters. I would have a big down coat with a fur trimmed hood. When I came in from outside, I would leave my boots at the…
My forty-two words for Yeah Write’s Gargleblaster Challenge. The prompt…“Tell me something, old friend: why are you fighting?” She sat by me in the auditorium, more hair missing now than present under her scarf. The lights dimmed. “Why are we here? You should be…” “Shh. Our daughters are on stage. This is where I should be.” I held…
Here’s how my crush on Stephen King got started. Alys (Alys in Underland) wrote a review of The Shining. I had to read pieces of Shawshank Redemption in a film class I took forever ago, but I’d never read anything by Stephen King. Most of his books are creaky door scary and I don’t like to be scared.…
She knew she was not getting any younger. She told herself she needed to go for it, reach for it, take her turn. Was it her turn? When did she get in line? She told herself it didn’t matter. She woke up, stood up, and reached. Nothing. Her fingertips touched the smooth empty shelf. She strained…