Cries in the Night

Her cries pierce the darkness. Through the blackened halls, she wanders and calls their names, but only the silence replies to her. Confused, she searches their hiding places. Calling them as she travels from room to room. The panic in her voice growing as she finds nothing but emptiness in their usual hiding places. She cannot understand why they do not come to her. So on through the blackened halls she wanders. Searching for that which she has lost. 

In helplessness I sit and watch. The pain in her voice unmistakable. She doesn't know what I know. She doesn't know of the cruelty that snuck in while she was out. She doesn't know that which she searches for is lost forever. Never to return to her. How I wish I could remove her sorrow. Could return to her that which she searches for, but it is beyond me. All I can do is offer her a kind word as she passes me in the night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Every year we have a mother cat who has a liter of kittens on our roof. A couple months ago, she had her annual litter. The kittens are big enough now that they are starting to eat solid food, but not so big that they are weaned. There were four of them. Every day they would come downstairs into our room and eat dinner with us. During the night they would chase each other, play hide and seek, and enjoy the tiny bit of freedom they were denied during the day. Then when the mother cat returned from being out in search of food, she would call them and they would run from their hiding places. She'd bathe them and up the stairs they would go until the next night. Until three days ago. 

Three days ago, they didn't come down for dinner. I thought it odd, but didn't think more about it until the mother cat returned and began to call the kittens who didn't appear from their hiding places. When she realised they were not there, her cries became panicked. A terror filled her voice and she has spent the last three nights crying. I'd never heard a cat mourn before. I didn't even know cats mourned, but the pain in her voice is clear. Her kittens were stolen. Taken from her while she was out in search of food for them. Now she sits and cries. It's heartbreaking. 

I'm not a cat person. I don't like cats, but that doesn't mean I would harm innocent kittens either. I'm certain the kittens will have died unless someone takes them in. They aren't weaned yet. They aren't big enough to fend for themselves. But the way this mother cat grieves for her lost babies is just beyond words. As humans we tend to look at other creatures and see them as unfeeling objects. I'm no PETA follower, I eat meat, I've worn leather and even fur, but I don't abuse animals either. I think there is a fine line in this world and somehow I think the balance is starting to tip. Sooner rather than later.

Oh Lawdy Look What I've Gone and Done

So I can't believe I actually went and did this but I am known for my impulsive decisions. I signed up for NaNoWriMo (is that how you write it if not you know what I mean). I've been working on my memoir/biography/I need to get this out of me so I can write about other things book. The problem is I get about 6 chapters in and think "Oh if I changed the POV to this it would be AWESOME!!". So I scrap my whole thing and start over to get about 6 1/2 chapters in and think "Oh Oh if I change this to that then it'll be even AWESOMER" and I scrap it and start over. I have issues with short attention span if you've never noticed. 

During the first Insecure Writer's Group post, I got a lot of very helpful feedback. One of the comments that really appealed to my need for constant change was NaNoWriMo. The only thing that can override my need to constantly change things is my need to meet a deadline. If I know I need to bang out 50,000 words to get some shiny pretty to hang on my blog, then I'll bang out  50,001 words just to be on the safe side. I do not miss deadlines. This is perfect for me. Although I'm not going to focus so much on word count as I am just finishing the first draft. If it meets the word count great and if not I still consider it a success. In my head I know what I want to write, it's just getting my fingers to cooperate. 

So during November I may be a little absent if I am you'll know why. Think about me and if you're in my neck of the woods I like my hot chocolate with marshmallows. Thank YOU!!  

Is anyone else participating?? I hate walking into new places alone.

Stained Nails

I remember how the juice stained my fingers and turned my lips purple as it trickled down my chin. I remember how the thorns stuck in my jeans and tugged at my hair as I pushed my way through. If I close my eyes, I can hear her voice. Humming Amazing Grace softly to herself. Hours were spent the briar patch, picking blackberries. I ate as many as I put in my bucket. Every Saturday was spent there. 

On Monday when I went back to school the other kids talked about their weekend adventures. Movies and the mall were what they chattered about. While I had lots to tell I just smiled and nodded. When asked what I did, "oh nothing" was my reply. There was something magical about that briar patch. It was all mine. I didn't want to share it with anyone. Except her. 

We'd talk about life and I'd tell her all the things I never could find the words for in front of others. Yet when it was just me and her, the words seemed to take on a life of their own. They streamed forth from me. Insisting to be brought into existence. A never ending supply of words and syllables combined together into thoughts and emotions. Secret treasures hidden from all but her.

They use to ask me about my stained fingernails. I would just shrug. Never offering an explanation. Most likely they thought me to be trailer trash with dirty nails, but I knew better. So did she.

Pickin' Scabs

Time heals all wounds or so they say. Mine seem to just fester and then erupt in a pus filled lava flow. When they scab over I pick them till they bleed again. There are times when I wish my scars were visible. Times like today when I wish my outside looked as beat up and scarred as my insides do. Yet wishes are just figments of the imagination. Kinda like fairies, except no amount of clapping makes wishes come true. I know I've been clapping for many years now. Maybe it's not wishes that aren't real. Maybe it's time itself and that is why I seem to be stuck in an endless spinning circle that goes no where and has no end. Turning endless in one spot. Revolving on itself. Spinning. I breathe and close my eyes. Exhale.

Invincible Doubts

I have moments of weakness. When doubt creeps into the crevices of my mind and causes me to wonder if I truly am capable of being loved, appreciated, cared for.  Most of the time when these creepers come, I can quickly throw them out  and shut the door before they have a chance to rush back inside. However, some days a few seem to sneak in without being seen. They settle in and wait until I'm not looking then they slowly make their presence known. It is during these moments I feel my weakest. When time seems to stand still and the earth stops rotating. The air hangs heavy around me and the wind blows restlessly. Even though I am at my weakest during these moments, they are also when I am at my strongest.  For it is during their reign, I become invincible. Strong, confident, and certain of the path that lies before me. I push ahead fearlessly and I achieve my greatest accomplishments. Maybe next time when the creepers come I won't be so quick to chase them away.

Graduation Almost

This is for a writing prompt from TRDC. The prompt was graduation. 

Everyone expected I would graduate with honors. Then I would go to university, get my degree, and become something important. Except things didn't quite happen like that. At 16, you think you know far more than you actually do. The war that raged between my mother and I grew more heated and vile with each passing day, and I was constantly looking for ways of escape. That's when I met "him". He became the answer to all of my problems. I was in love, young, and desperate to get out of the hell hole that my mother called "home".

He was dark, tall, and exotic. All of the things that young girls dream about. All of the things you imagine in a fling over spring break, but none of the things you expect from a husband and provider. We married my junior year. I was determined to graduate though. I was determined to go to university. Marriage was not going to stop me from getting out of that rinky dink sink hole of a town. It was a stepping stone. The first step towards a better future. At least, that is what I convinced myself of. That is what I told myself every day. At some point I even began to believe it, but then the universe had other plans.

Six months later I would be sitting on the bathroom floor of our one bedroom apartment. Waiting the longest five minutes of my life for the results of a test I had not studied for. When the two blue lines appeared, I stared at them praying I was hallucinating. Praying that the tears rolling down my face were making me see double. Praying that this was some cruel joke and at any moment it would end.No amount of praying however could change the results of that test.

Five minutes earlier  I was thinking about a cap and gown, but now I had to think of onesies and booties. Five minutes earlier I was only worried about my sash not matching my shoes. Now I would trade that sash for maternity and the bump would keep me from seeing my feet let alone my shoes for the next several months. 

I saw my entire life flash before my eyes in that cramped bathroom. The life that would now never be. The life I had hoped for. Longed for. Now it was dead. Gone in a flash. Nothing anyone did would bring it back to life.

Image Source: accountingdegreesonline.com

It's funny how two little blue lines altered the course of my future. I didn't graduate. There was no university. No degree. Years later I would get my GED, but that did little to fill the void of the life I had let slip through my fingers. The life that almost was. I know most would say I became a mother and that is a great accomplishment. However, I failed that test too.

For 17 years I had been an honors student. For 17 years I held 3.8 GPA. For 17 years I was at the top of my class, but on the most important test of my life (motherhood), I failed.  There are no ceremonies for that. 

Power of the Written Word

Via: www.pharmacy-technician.net

Getting feedback/critiques of your work is always nerve wrecking, but it is essential if you want to grow as a writer. Some of the most common comments/feedback I get are that my writing is powerful, emotional, and that I am "brave" for having the "courage" to write about such things. The last part of that comment is always so shocking to me. I don't see myself as brave or courageous. I write about my life the same as anyone else does. Every person who blogs writes about their life in some form or fashion and I am no different. It just so happens that this is my life. 

I realize my life isn't "normal" and that I have experienced things in a way that most people did not, but regardless of all that my life is, I still can't see the bravery or courage in doing the same thing that so many others do. All I am doing is writing about my life. Nothing more, nothing less. It really isn't brave. 

When I Grow Up- Indie Ink

My weekly Indie Ink writing challenge. I must say I am loving these challenges. They are forcing me out of my comfort zones and making me flex my writing muscles which I love. I also am reading some amazing people and learning so much. This week will be my first nonfiction submission.  My challenge this week came from Joelyn. The challenge was to finish this sentence, "When I was younger I wanted to grow up to be....and then share why and what you have become today. I challenged Dili. You can read his reply here. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When I was younger I wanted to grow up to be a dancer, but not just any dancer. No pole was going to suit my dreams. I wanted to dance in the Alvin Ailey dance theatre. From the time I could walk, I started dancing. Dance was my escape from reality. It was the one thing that was all mine. The one thing that no one could take from me. I never told anyone of my dreams. I never allowed anyone to see how naturally talented I was. It was mine and as long as I kept it a secret, then it would remain mine.

I use to sneak off into the woods with my 80's silver boombox. I would turn the music up loud and then I would fly. That is what it felt like when I danced. I felt free, alive, clean. I would spend hours back there in solitude, flying. When darkness forced me to find my way back down to the earth, I would close my eyes and dream of soaring high up in the sky. 

However, like many other things in my life, my dream was to be taken from me. In a single moment, it ceased to exist. It was ripped from my grasp. Even though I tried to deny that it had been stolen from me, a part of me knew. A part of me knew that it was gone and nothing I could do would ever bring it back. 

I often wonder if the other driver knows that she committed murder that day. Simply because she thought herself too important to stop at the stop sign. Even though my dance existed only within me, I grieved its loss the way one grieves the passing of dear loved one. I remember lying in the hospital bed watching PBS tears streaming down my face. I had been waiting for this special for weeks, but now it was bittersweet to watch. When the nurse came in, I pretended to be in pain. Even though my dream had died, I still did not want anyone to touch it. Their touch would taint it and it was the one thing in my life that was pure. I wanted it to remain pure. 

Eventually I would learn to walk again even though my left leg is now permanently shorter than my right. Although I will never dance again; whenever a song comes on the radio, I close my eyes and fly.

Un-Mother's Day

I am not one that celebrates "days" regardless of what the "day" is. I have never been one that remembered "days' nor do I expect gifts or acknowledgement simply because of a "day". I am awesome every day and I don't feel that appreciation of my awesomeness should be limited to one "day". However, there are a few days that make me catch my breath, and this past Sunday was one of those. It is a great reminder of why the dull ache sits in my chest. It makes it hard to swallow the guilt and regret that I have. 

It reminds me of just how much I have lost and how I will never be able to get those lost things back. They have been captured by time and no amount of sorry and if only will bring them back to me. They are simply gone. 

There isn't a moment that goes by where I don't think of my children. In my mind's eye, they are still the little angels I saw looking back at me from the rear window of the car as I stood in the motel parking lot. That image of two little hands waving good bye haunts me. I don't know if I will ever get the chance to make amends. I hope and pray that some day I do. That someday new memories will replace the years of emptiness, but that hope does little to ease the ache and longing of my heart. Even though there were a great many events which lead to this separation, I blame no one and no thing except myself. It would be easy to blame my bipolar and say I had no responsibility for my actions, but that isn't true. While it might make it easier to accept and understand my actions, it does not excuse me from the consequences. 

I waited to write about this because I didn't want to take anything away from any one on that "day", but I know I am not alone. I know I am not the only mother without her child(ren). I know there are many others like me who feel joy for those mothers who can hug their children and at the same time feel the ache of empty arms. That is why I wanted to share this. For them. For the silent voices that are unable to express the pain of their decisions and maybe give a bit of understanding to those effected by those very same decisions.

Indie Ink - Waltz with Me

 My weekly Indie Ink writing challenge. This week I had kinda difficult time. Not sure if I fulfilled the challenge, but this is what I heard as scary as that is. Apparently I am channeling Stephen King because I have been dark the last couple challenges. This week I was challenged by Melissa who definitely provided me with a challenge. She asked me to listen to a piece of Franz Schubert's music and to then write a poem or flash fiction piece inspired by it. My challenge this week went to Cope. You'll be able to read the reply here.

What’s the matter dear? You haven’t touched your dinner. Eat up. I have something special planned for after dinner. There there now. Stop crying and drink your wine. Oh I almost forgot.  How’s that? It’s your favorite, isn’t it? I remember the first time I saw you listening to it. The way you sat there on the sofa. Your eyes closed. You tilted your head back ever so slightly. You allowed the music to encompass you. For the life of me I cannot understand how a woman of your caliber ended up with a bafoon like him. He is so beneath you.

Shhh darling. Here. Let me feed you. Open wide. Yes, that’s a good girl. Listen at that violin. Isn’t it marvelous? I do my best work to this piece. That is why I chose it specifically for you. You’re the most spectacular specimen I have found. Only the best for you, dear. There now. See that wasn’t so bad now, was it? How was the duck? Exquisite, no? Jean makes the best confit of duck. She would be pleased to know I had chosen it for your last meal. 

Stop blubbering. You’ll ruin your make up.  Now just let me clear these dishes away. Guess what’s for dessert? Strawberry cheesecake. I know how much you love strawberry cheesecake. I picked the strawberries fresh this morning from the garden just to make this for you, darling. Aren’t you going to thank me? Of course not, you’re a selfish sniveling cunt who only thinks of herself, aren’t you? If you hadn’t been so selfish, then you might not be in this predicament, but no, you couldn’t hold the door for me when I specifically asked you to. You were too wrapped up in that snot nosed brat that was pawing at you. Women are all the same. No matter how much you give to them, they never appreciate it.  I worked hard all day preparing all of your favorite foods and you have yet to thank me.

All you can do is blubber like a cow. Filthy animals. Are you a cow? Of course you are. You let those brats feed on you like little baby cows. In that case, it seems only fitting I have them for my dinner tomorrow night. I mean you raised them like cows so why shouldn’t I treat them like cows? Ahh, do you hear that? Do you hear how elegantly the bow slides across the strings? Shhh this is my favorite part. Listen. It is orgasmic, don’t you think? 

I fancy myself an artist. Most are not capable of understanding the complexities of my work. I don’t hold this against them. It isn’t their fault their parents were unclean and therefore destined them to a life of inferiority. I see the world as it truly is.  I do not allow myself to become burdened by the day to day frivolities the way others do. This is why I must do my work. To free them. Like this poor troubled soul that sits before me.  Awww, it ended. You know what that means don’t you? Your end has come too.  Shh, this will only hurt for  a moment.

This Needs Work -Indie Ink

It's time again for the weekly Indie Ink writing challenge. This week I was challenged by the lovely alyssa from alyssagoesbang. The challenge she gave to me was "This needs work". My challenge went to Rachel in the OC. You will be able to read her reply on her blog HERE

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jamie was a naturally, talented sculptor. That is why when Jamie locked herself in her studio and stopped answering the phone, everyone assumed she was just working on her next piece. She would always lock herself away from the world when she was in the "zone". However, John, her twin brother, felt something different about this piece. He didn't know what it was. It was just a feeling. He and Jamie had never really shared that twin thing people always talked about, but suddenly it seemed to be kicking in. 

After being unable to reach Jamie for more than two days, John decided to go to her studio. He just had to be sure she was ok. The pit in his stomach continued to grow as he approached the front door of the studio. From outside he could hear the music blaring that she played as she worked. John knocked on the door, but Jamie didn't answer. He tried to listen for sounds inside the studio, but the music drowned out any sound that may have been within the studio's walls. Uncertain of what to do next, John suddenly found himself kicking in the door of Jamie's studio. He knew she was going to be angry, but the pit in his stomach just wouldn't let him leave. 

As soon as he entered the studio, John knew something was wrong. He couldn't see Jamie anywhere. There were no signs she had been working on a new sculpture. He slowly made his way to the back of the studio. Jamie had made that area into living quarters for when she was in the "zone". 

At first John couldn't figure out what was happening. Jamie was sitting on the edge of the bed. He could hear her muttering, but was unable to hear what she was saying. He reached over and turned off the stereo. The studio fell instantly quiet. 

"Jamie, are you ok?" he asked. "Jamie, it's John. I was worried about you. I just wanted to be sure you were ok". 

Jamie didn’t move. She just sat there, frozen.  As John made his way around to where Jamie sat, her words became clear. 

“It just needs a little work. Then I’ll be perfect”. 

It was all John could do not to vomit when he saw what Jamie had done to herself. He took the bloody sculpting tool from her hand and raced to the bathroom to grab some towels. He began applying pressure to the gaping holes Jamie had cut in her body. 

“It’s going to be ok Jamie. We’re going to get you help”. John tried to sound calmer than he felt. Frantically he dialed 911. “Please hurry” he whispered into the phone. 

The ambulance arrived within minutes although it seemed like hours had passed since he entered the studio and found his sister covered in blood caused by her own hand. Jamie was taken into surgery immediately upon arrival at the hospital. John was told to wait in the family waiting area. 

He collapsed into an empty chair as soon as he walked into the room. The full weight of the day’s events filled his mind and a long forgotten memory flashed before his eyes. He could see his 13 year old self sitting on the sofa in the living room of the family home. Jamie was standing in the center of the room, naked. He could hear the voice of their drunken father as he mocked and laughed at Jamie. Poking at her body. Grabbing at her breasts. Licking the tears that slid down her cheeks. Even though John always kept his eyes tightly shut during these sadistic inspections of Jamie’s body, he could hear the slurred words of his father, “This here needs a little work and then you’ll be perfect”. 

Lost in the past, John didn’t hear the nurse enter the waiting area. He nearly jumped out of the chair as she gently touched him to gain his attention. “Your sister’s out of surgery. There will be a lot of scarring, but she is going to live”. 

“When can I see her?” John asked. “Please I need to see her. Just for a moment.” 

“Ok” the nurse seemed to understand the unspoken plea in John’s voice. “But just for a minute. She is sedated and probably won’t even know you’re there”. 

“It’s ok. I just need to see her”. Tears began to fall from his eyes as he entered the hospital room where his once beautiful sister lay. Bandages covered almost every inch of her face, arms, neck and chest. He quietly approached her bed and leaned over her, kissing her softly on the head. Just like he did whenever their father would leave the room and he would grab the afghan off the sofa and wrap around Jamie’s exposed body. Even though he knew Jamie couldn’t hear him, he said the words anyways.

 “You’re perfect just the way you are. I will never let you forget again. I love you, my beautiful sister”.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

your feedback, suggestions, constructive criticism is always welcomed. I would also appreciate if you voted for my blog just click the button below. No need to do anything else. Thanks for your support!!

A-Z Reflections, Ups, and Downs

I can't believe this month is already over. Congrats to all who made it to the end! It seems like only yesterday I started with addictions and today was the zabardast finale. I met so many amazing people during this journey. To say that I had a blast would be a total understatement. I learned so much about myself during this month. Things I never expected to learn. I found focus for my blog in the future and have some great ideas I plan on starting to implement within the next few days. I also met some amazingly talented writers. They have given me such inspiration and opened up my creative mind to new ways of thinking. 

I can't thank Arlee, Alex, and the other hosts for enough for the amazing job they did in hosting this event. Getting 1200+ bloggers to all play nice is an enormous task and you all did an amazing job. The one and only thing I think I would do differently is to have a theme. At times I felt like my posting was just all over the place. For someone who is anally organized and theme oriented, I should have known that I would need a theme, but since this was my first time I had no idea what to expect. So I just dived in and hoped for the best. Really that is all you can do. No matter how much someone explains an event like this to you, you really can't understand it until you have been a part of it. 

Towards the end I did start feeling a bit overwhelmed. I tried very hard to keep up with reading others' blogs especially those who commented on mine, but life, time, and electric got in my way. I appreciate everyone who left a comment and/or visited my blog during this month. While I tried my best to visit everyone who visited me, I am certain I missed a few. With an event this large, I don't really know what the solution to this would be except maybe just accepting that you can only do/visit so much and not beating yourself up for not visiting everyone.

If you followed me during the challenge and I didn't follow you back, please leave me a comment so I can find you. Sometimes the Google friend thingy doesn't have a link for me to be able to see where you came from and my psychic abilities are limited so leaving me a comment and/or chocolate lets me be able to find you. I think I am going to take a break for the next couple of days.

However, I am planning on starting a weekly feature called Saturday Spotlight. It will feature Indie Authors so please stop by this Saturday to see my interview with my first guest in the Spotlight. If you are an Indie Author and would like to be featured, then send me an email


 I totally stole this from Alex and am sharing with all of you. If you would like to take it you can. No rules attached because we all know how I feel about rules. This award was designed by the lovely Elizabeth so visit her and say thanks!

In the famous last words of Porky Pig

Z (abardast)

Zabardast means excellent/awesome/amazing in Urdu

The last post!Whew! I made it!

I can't believe this month has ended. It seems only yesterday I was admitting to my addictions and today I am writing about the zabardast time I had. I would like to thank Arlee, Alex, and all of the other hosts for making this such an amazing event. I met so many wonderful people and it really was so much more than I ever thought it would be. I know I have learned so much during these few short weeks. I have gained focus and direction for my blog and am looking forward to implementing those new-found insights in my future posts. While this has been a blast, I am exhausted. Now it's time to hit the hay and get some Z-z-z-z's.

W (ish upon a star)

Twinkle twinkle broken star 

How I wish to be where you are

Up beyond the tortured night

Forgotten and lost

Beneath your beauty shining bright

I beg of you deny me not

And grant this wish I wish tonight

Take me up to where you are

And change me into

A beautiful bright shining star

When I was little, my favorite thing to do was to sit outside at night and stare up at the sky. I would lie on the grass, alone with the night, the stars, and the sky. It was the only time I ever felt "real". Even though no one was around I felt visible. Whenever my heart is troubled or I just need a moment of peace to ease my worried mind, then I still go and sit under the night sky and stare at the stars. It has always been my one true friend. The one and only thing I could count on. The one constant in my ever changing world, and no matter how much my life was being turned upside down, whenever I would look up at the night sky for a moment, I had peace.

V (iew through a child's eyes)

This is my third week participating in the Indie Ink Writing Challenges. There are some amazingly talented writers there. This week I received my challenge from Andrea. My challenge was "you're 12 and got the task at school to write about your family". I challenged Leah and you'll be able to read her reply at her blog here.Your feedback is always welcomed.

Growing up living in my grandparents house, we didn't have much. There was no indoor plumbing. Instead you just picked an unused spot out back in the weeds. If you had to go at night, there was an old tin can at the end of the front porch. It was too dangerous at night to use the weeds. A snake might crawl up your pant’s legs and try to take a bite outta ya. At least that is what Pa use to say.

 I wasn’t allowed to use the weeds at night.

Our water came from a well at the side of the house. In the winter it would have to be heated on the stove. Then Ma would quickly fill the bathroom sink so I could take a bath.

It was fun when Ma helped me wash my hair.

We didn’t have a normal washing machine. Instead we had one of those old timey ringer washing machines. My arm got caught in that thing more times than I can remember trying to get the sheets through the ringer. We also didn’t have a dryer so clothes had to be hung out on the line.

 Sheets take a long time to dry in the winter.

You also had to be careful where you walked. Some of the floor boards weren’t too sturdy and you could fall through. Like the time my uncle forgot and stepped on the wrong one and fell through the attic. I never laughed so hard in all of my life. Me standing at the bottom of the stairs looking up at his legs dangling through the ceiling. Him yelling at me to get Pa. Me doubled over, tears streaming down my red face, trying my best to suck air back into my lungs. I thought I was gonna suffocate right there.  Finally, air seeping into my lungs just as Pa came to see what all the ruckus was about.

Times were tough. Dinner sometimes was just cornbread and buttermilk. I liked those nights the best. Filling my glass up with ice cold buttermilk. Then crumbling the freshly baked cornbread into it. After each spoonful, taking a bite out of a crisp green onion that I had just picked from the garden. Much better than the nights when we had poan bread and salmon patties.

I didn’t like poan bread. I tolerated the salmon patties.

Saturdays were the best. Pa and I would go to visit Pa’s sister, Aunt Giddie. Her house smelt like dog piss, but she made the best turnip greens and macaroni salad I had ever eaten in my whole life. As soon as she would hear our car pull in the driveway, she would start fixing my plate. By the time I walked in the door, she would be saying, “There’s a plate on the table fer yee. Help yurself. The rest is on the stove”.

 Aunt Giddie didn’t get any visitors except on Saturdays when Pa and I went there. I didn’t really like Aunt Giddie, but if I went there, then she would always let me take an extra piece of chocolate pie home with me for later. Along with a big bowl of macaroni salad.

 I loved macaroni salad.

Some people called us poor. Others called us “white trash”. I didn’t mind because on Sundays I got to go exploring in the woods or fishing with Ma, and when we would get back, there was Aunt Giddie’s extra piece of chocolate pie waiting on me, and sometimes Ma would even make her homemade banana pudding.

Homemade banana pudding is my favorite. It's the only dish Ma knew how to make.

T (ranslation)

 In my profession, I wear many hats. Some out of necessity and others voluntarily. The majority of my daily work consists of reading books that have been translated into English by others. The main things I edit are grammar and spelling mistakes, but more importantly, word choice. Choosing the wrong word can alter the entire meaning of the sentence and can therefore make the entire translation incorrect. 

I thought my job would be helpful to me in my writing, but I have noticed it is more of a hindrance than it is helpful. I may spend hours agonizing over which word to choose. Which word will make the hair on my reader's neck stand up and which word will cause their eyes to become wet when they hear about the death of their favorite character? 

Word choice is extremely important in writing, but I think I tend to over-think  it. Instead of allowing the words to flow freely, I try to push and pull them in the direction I want them to go.

What about you? How do you know which word is just "perfect" or which word is just "so-so"?  

                                                                                           

Psht

This is for the weekly Indie Ink writing challenge. This week I was challenged by an extremely talented writer alyssa at alyssagoesbang. I have to admit I cheated just a teensy bit on this challenge. The challenge was to look to my LEFT and write about the first blue thing I saw, but to my left is a wall that is painted completely WHITE with nothing blue on it whatsoever. So I looked to my RIGHT and saw well something blue. I am not telling what because I don't want to spoil the surprise. The story below is fiction but it is based on a real event. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent and the guilty. These are their stories.  Oh and I challenged Andrea. You'll be able to read her reply there." 

PS I am trying to use dialogue which I am pretty weak at using so any tips, feedback, suggestions are most welcomed. 

~~~~~~~~

Psht! Psshht! Psshht!

"Where did he go? Do you see him?" I asked Shane, who by now is doubled over laughing so hard tears are streaming down his face.

"He ran in the other room", he manages to blurt out in between fits of laughter.

"I cannot believe he did this again. I swear he does it just to piss me off. He knows he isn't allowed in there so why does he keep doing it?"

I put the can down and begin picking up the panties that Uncle Fez had scattered about the room. "Stupid idiot", I mutter as I pick up the last of them and put them back in the drawer. "I swear if he does this again, I am going to do more than get the can after him."

"Awww, Nina. Don't be so hard on him.  It's not a big deal,".

"Not a big deal?! I'd like to see how you would react if it were your underwear he kept trying on instead of mine."

"You're just jealous that he looks better in them than you do".

"Oh really! Well for your information, that pair he had on just now? I just bought those today and was planning on surprising you later. Guess which one of you WON'T be getting in my panties today?" 

Just as I turn to walk out of the room, Uncle Fez runs passed me, headed straight for my panties drawer. 

I grab the can off the dresser.Psht! Psht!  Terrified, Uncle Fez runs between Shane and me, and disappears into the guest room down the hall.

"He did it again, and right in front of me this time!" I scream at Shane, "Will you do something? Please? He's more afraid of you than he is me. Besides, aren't you a little jealous he gets in my panties more than you do?"

"Ok! Ok! Give me the can. I will go see if I can get him to give them back.".

"Thank you."  

 As Shane takes the can out of my hand, I kiss him lightly on the cheek. "My hero," I say in my most southern accent. He rolls his eyes and then starts to laugh again."I never in my whole life saw a cat so afraid of a can of air freshener before," he says as he walks down the hall towards the guest room where the extremely naughty  Uncle Fez is hiding and  protectively guarding the latest addition to his prized Victoria's Secret panty collection . 

Please visit indie author Lizzy Ford's site. She has just released her April free ebook novel, The Warlord's Secret. 

Synopsis of “The Warlord’s Secret:”

Rissa, the tormented Warlord of Tiyan, struggles to protect her people and Tiyan’s magical springs against enemies led by the King of Landis and traitors within her own walls.  She must also protect the secret of Tiyan’s magic and the source her ultimate doom: read more..

M (emory)

I would just like to say thank you for all of the encouragement and support I received regarding yesterday's post. I was very nervous about writing it, but am glad I did. I wasn't really sure what to write about today. Yesterday took such an emotional toll on me that my brain is sort of feeling a bit fried at the moment. It was a big thing for you to digest as well. Having news like that dropped on you is quite shocking and hard to digest, even when it's about a total stranger. I spend most of my time trying not to remember but thanks to all of you  the memories are no longer as heavy. So thank you for helping me to carry them  and for making my load a little lighter. I would like to give a special thanks to a few in particular who contacted me via email and shared their stories. For once I have no words, so instead I shall leave you with your memories as I sift through mine. Andrew Lloyd Webber said it much better than I ever could. A new day has definitely begun.







Daylight
See the dew on the sunflower
And a rose that is fading
Roses whither away
Like the sunflower
I yearn to turn my face to the dawn
I am waiting for the day . . .

Midnight
Not a sound from the pavement
Has the moon lost her memory?
She is smiling alone
In the lamplight
The withered leaves collect at my feet
And the wind begins to moan

Memory
All alone in the moonlight
I can smile at the old days
I was beautiful then
I remember the time I knew what happiness was
Let the memory live again

Every streetlamp
Seems to beat a fatalistic warning
Someone mutters
And the streetlamp gutters
And soon it will be morning

Daylight
I must wait for the sunrise
I must think of a new life
And I musn't give in
When the dawn comes
Tonight will be a memory too
And a new day will begin

Burnt out ends of smoky days
The stale cold smell of morning
The streetlamp dies, another night is over
Another day is dawning

Touch me
It's so easy to leave me
All alone with the memory
Of my days in the sun
If you touch me
You'll understand what happiness is

Look
A new day has begun

             

L (ab-o-) L (ahjah)

No, it is not a the latest latte from Starbucks. Although it does have a nice ring to it, doesn't it? I'll have a grande lab-o-lahjah with whip cream on top please. Where was I now? Oh right, lab-o-lahjah. It means "style of speaking, tone" in Urdu. From the various writings I have done for workshops, challenges, and posts here, I have noticed that my lab-o-lahjah is sometimes not clear to my reader. I often want my audience to see the story from a certain point of view or only know certain things. Sometimes because it is controversial and I just don't want to get into it. Other times because it is just too painful to put into words, but a part of me needs to share it so I share what little I can and hope that you all will be patient until I am able to share the rest. 

The other day I signed up for the Indie Ink weekly writing challenge. This week was my first time participating and I was very nervous. There are some amazingly talented writers over there and I am hoping some of their awesomeness rubs off on me. For my submission, I wrote about a very painful moment in my life and while everyone understood and felt the pain of that moment. No one was able to understand why the pain existed. So I thought I would share the reason for that pain and maybe it would give my readers a bit of insight into why my lab-o-lahjah is the way it is. I apologize in advance because this post will be extremely Lengthy, but this is L so I guess that is ok.

I have mentioned before that I have bipolar. It is not something I talk about a lot but occasionally I do speak about it. I first heard the word in 2003. However, I had originally been diagnosed as "manic depressive" when  I was 13. Although, nowadays they use the term "bipolar" as a way of removing some of the stigma associated with manic depression. By the time 2003 rolled around, I was in my mid-20's, a single mother of two, and caring for an ill grandmother. My (now ex) husband and I weren't divorced yet, but he had been in and out of mine and my children's lives from the time of their birth in 1995 and 1996 until then. Then in 2003 my grandmother passed away and I took it very hard. I had a nervous breakdown towards the end of the year and really should have been hospitalized, but I somehow talked my way out of it and into outpatient therapy instead. This was a very bad idea. I was in the beginning stages of a manic episode which slowly grew over time. 

I moved to another state far away from my home, friends, and family. I worked two jobs and did the best I could, but I was stressed and in a very bad state of mind. For almost a year I somehow managed to hold myself together. Then in late 2004, early 2005, I began to lose my grip. 

I started having delusions. Visual and auditory hallucinations. I started being unable to tell the difference between fantasy and reality, and was starting to be unable to care properly for my children. I was yelling at them constantly. Yelling is too polite a word. I assaulted them with words. They walked on egg shells trying to not upset me. They were good kids to begin with. Amazingly intelligent, polite, and not the typical selfish bratty kids that I have had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting. We didn't have much. No TV. We slept on the floor. No movies or new toys except on birthdays. Their one and only real treat was on Mondays, my off day. I would take them to McDonald's for a McFlurry. It wasn't much but they always looked forward to Mondays. 

Then in April of 2005, I didn't pick them up from school. I simply "forgot". How do you forget? Well I don't know, but I did. When I showed up two hours late, they were sitting terrified and worried in the principal's office, and I gave some lame excuse about being ill and taking meds that made me sleep so I hadn't heard the alarm. The principal knew I worked third shift and slept during the day while the kids were at school and because they were good kids and had the appearance of being well taken care of, she didn't report me to CPS (child protective services). Which was standard procedure btw. Instead she gave a single mother who worked two jobs a second chance. Which I blew 12 days later when I repeated the incident. Again I made feeble excuses and she made it very clear there would be no third chance. Next time she would call CPS.

With the threat of my children being put into foster care sitting over my head and the ever increasing delusions and hallucinations I was experiencing, I phoned their father and told him that I was bringing them to him the following day. That he would have to take them for a little while because he was their father and it was just as much his responsibility as mine to care for them. Up until that point, I had never really forced him to take care of his responsibilities. He paid child support when and if he pleased. In the amount he felt he could "afford" regardless if it was actually enough to meet their needs, but that is another post altogether. 

He reluctantly agreed and I drove the 22 hrs back to my homestate where he still lived and in the motel parking lot. I said good bye.  A part of me knew it was going to be the last time I ever saw them. I don't know why I felt that, but I did. That was 2005. Since then I have spoken to them briefly a handful of times, but that is about it. After I dropped them off, I lost my hold on reality and fell off the map for quite a long time. Once I started to make my way back, I realized what exactly I had lost and fell off again. I have fought long and hard to regain my hold back on reality. It is a struggle that I face everyday. I live with the fact that most likely I will never see my children again. I miss them deeply. 

I don't regret sending them to live with their father. I was and am in no shape to truly care for them properly and as they deserve. Whatever wrong he did to me, he has at least given them the home that I couldn't, and that makes up for anything he has ever done against me. I do however love them and miss them very much, and I don't know if I will ever see them again. The only way I am not consumed by the pain that lives in the pit of my stomach is by writing. 

I write my pain away. Writing has become my means of survival. This is why my lab-o-lahjah is often consumed with pain and why sometimes I am unable to make the picture clear.