The Cherry Trees are in Bloom!
The cherry orchard was in full bloom. Rows and rows of white-flowered cherry trees lined up very agreeably, both in straight and diagonal lines. Dannie rested her back against a tree, closed her eyes, and let a grin expand wide enough to end in a chuckle. Live was good. She didn’t have to work today, she had a good book, and the sun was just warm enough. She opened her eyes and her book, but before she bent her head to start reading, she spotted something high in a cherry tree peeking out at her a couple rows over. It was black and about the size of a box of Cheerios.
Whither, Rhonda?
Rhonda pulled into the A&W drive-in for a root beer and a burger, driving her parents’ 1962 Ford Fairlane. Yesterday she’d quit her job on the assembly line after her third week. Her father was furious; he’d gotten her the summer job in his factory– her first real job. She’d be a junior in high school next year, and apparently she had no marketable skills at all. They’d put her on what the other workers called “the baby line” since she was new and therefore slow. After two weeks of trying to go as fast as everyone else at four very simple functions, she’d finally gotten up to speed. With that challenge behind her, she turned to other ways to combat the boredom. She’d taken to working even faster to free up ten seconds to read a clue on one of the crossword puzzles in the newspaper that held the parts. It was not enough. At sixteen, the repetitious work for eight hours a day, with two, fifteen-minute breaks and a half hour for lunch came as a shock. She’d look at the clock, and the hands would not have moved at all. Her feet were still numb and her fingers full of cuts from standing at the line, handling the metal, the cardboard boxes, the tape, and the stapler. It irked her to give up and quit, but she had been ready to scream from the boredom. She crunched a French fry, sniffed back a tear, and contemplated her future.
The Joy of Dissing the Electronic Universe
I would love to read some short pieces (nonfiction, history, sci fi—you pick) about some characters (you?) struggling with their smartphones, laptops, tablets, Bluetooth, GPS, programmable thermostats, TV remotes, Facebook, DVRs, Tivos, email programs, websites, windows 8, Macbooks, and so on. Bring on the emotion! I heard recently that anyone born before computers is now an immigrant to the land of all things electronic, while those born to households complete with electronic devices are the true natives to this country. Can you remember beepers? The IBM Selectric? Carbon paper? Five inch floppy disks? Pong? Alien Invaders? Carmen Santiago? Long stretchy telephone cords? Getting up to change the channel for the five options available? Feel free to rant about your journey on the way to the land of liberty where everyone is free to be everywhere they can manage to be at once.
Janice and Alvin Duke it Out
Meaning, meaning, meaning, Janice thought, rolling her eyes. Would Alvin ever think about the mundane, easy things like a nice miniseries on TV or a walk through Evergreen Park to look at the roses in bloom? She reached for her latest novel, set in Scotland where the linen sheets were all ironed and scented with lavender. Sure the characters had problems, but it all worked out in the end. Alvin would hate this book, she knew. (Good thing she was reading it on a Kindle so he couldn’t see the title.) He didn’t like novels in general, unless it was Dostoevsky or, yes, he would stretch and read Dickens. Alvin was an existentialist; any ease in life was suspect. He did not pursue happiness; he pursued significance. She admired that so much, and felt weary at the prospect of emulating him.
Rhyming Poetry
Putting a rhyme in your poem can be Quite a quest, but then why else are we Hanging out here together, jabbing words at each other Giving birth to ideas while the naysayer is smothered? We struggle to write out a piece with some meaning Then post it and know that our egos need weaning. So that is my challenge to you on June fifth. Please post your fine rhyming poem here forthwith!
What is the Motivation?
Alfie is four. He is standing in front of his mother’s full length mirror and sobbing because his mother is not going to let him come with her in the car. He has to have a babysitter, even though he’s not a baby. He sees how his face has gotten all scrunched up and red with his sobs. He watches himself rub one eye at a time with a little fist. His t-shirt makes a good handkerchief to wipe tears off his cheeks, but the tears still sting. Look how his lips are quivering. He tries wailing and then choking. He likes to watch himself cry. Why is that?
Some Galumphing for You in Honor of the Thirty-Seven I Read Tonight
Bollywood dancers in scorpion outfits Tiaras decorated with gravel Square dancing to violin music. John and Martha fighting it out with umbrellas
Remember “Poems of the Day”?
A Poem of the Day is when you give yourself absolute permission to write a poem about what you’re doing in this exact moment or what’s on your mind or just to riff on whatever you feel like, without a whole lot of attention to quality. So you blast it out onto the page. You act like it’s a poem by using short lines and stanzas. You don’t say NO as you write, only YES. It’s all okay. Bim bam boom. You’ve written a poem. Sometimes it’s quite nice. Sometimes it needs work. You decide the next step. Ultimately, I want you to post your Poem of the Day here, beneath mine. Yes, I worked on this one about half an hour. I felt like getting the rhymes to work and to make it come out with at least some sense. It’s not great art. it’s just a Poem of this Particular Day. Your turn! Ann’s Poem of the Day 8/21/12 Supper’s on the table With sour cream and chives. One more day of waiting To see if I survive. All the pieces are in place I even bought dessert; Everyone is happy, And I am going berserk. I might sleep beneath a tree tonight, Stay up until the dawn. Something’s got to tear loose soon, Or I am going down. I gave up on happy endings. Try to ride the universe. My hangnails all have offspring. I’m a thin shell over nerves. So I imagine, and I write. This path or that, I try, Leading made up folks down conjured roads Where I feel more sane and sigh. I’m standing on one shaky leg, Looking out for any handhold, All preciously grabbed in gratitude As I read tales you’ve told.
And then?
Bowling balls. Druids. Hearing aids.