Tag Archives: Writing

Lemons VS Lemonade

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I’m ready to scream, yell and tear my hair out. It’s 10:30 am and I’ve been at my computer for forty-five minutes and accomplished nothing. My first task was to send an email to members of my book club about the next book selection, but I cannot open yahoo mail after waiting patiently and then some.

My computer is new and I have Windows 10, but this morning everything is operating at a snail’s pace.

What I was able to do, was reserve David Baldacci’s new book Dream Town at the library. He is a favorite author of my husband’s, unfortunately, the wait is long, I’m #77 on the list.

Do the math. If each reader keeps the book for 2 weeks, that is 154 weeks away. Realistically we might have the book the end of August. I could buy the book for him at Barnes and Noble for $14.99. It’s something to think about.

Back to the book club selection; we chose Agatha Christie’s Death on the Nile, because I was reading The Christie Affair by Nina de Gramont and commented that it was a decent read but, did not reveal much about her disappearance for eleven days after her husband, Archie, informed her he was having an affair and wanted a divorce. Intrigued by the author’s life we decided on one of her novels, since none of us had read any of her books.

Well, I just checked my email and can read open messages. I no longer want to pull my hair out.

. . . just saying

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April Fools 2022

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Flash Fiction

No Fooling

     Today, crisp cool air mingles with a blazing sun as I leave my minuscule apartment on Lexington Ave. The weather has been dreary. This morning is glorious.

     Around noon, I stop for lunch at a typical outdoor New York café; the tables are round and small; the metal chairs look uncomfortable, but are not when I sit.

     A waiter fills my water glass, and announces he will be my server. The menu choices are unexpectedly appealing; fennel quiche, gazpacho soup, and more.

     I take time ordering.

     The man on my left, glances my way. His thick blond hair is sun streaked and he looks familiar, a little like my friend, Sam.

      Groomed brows frame his eyes. Carefully pressed gray slacks, and a wrinkle-free dress shirt complete his polished look.

        I sit back to wait for my meal and people watch; New Yorker’s enjoying the sun, walking and talking loud. A biker babe dressed in leather, pushes a doggie stroller. The dog wears goggles and rests his paws on the bar celebrity style. I laugh aloud.     

       My order comes, and the man who looks like Sam stares in my direction, again. His eyes searching, and as the tables fill up, the man gives a knowing nod my way, and conceals a smile.

He faces me, but, I can’t tell if he is looking at me, or not.

     Behind me a couple seat themselves, and I refrain from turning around. They create a stir dragging empty chairs across the concrete and arranging shopping bags, and I realize the man who looks like Sam is studying them.

     When the waiter takes my empty plate, I order a Cappuccino and the ‘Chocolate – Chocolate’ cake, and listen to the couple’s banter, intrigued.

     The woman protests, “I didn’t make you come here, you said it was your favorite restaurant.”

     The man responds, “Eve, you’re the one who claimed the food was something else.”

      “You loved the zucchini mushroom quiche, and what about the gazpacho soup? You raved!”

     “No, you never listen; I said the quiche was good if you like quiche. And the soup ‘the best’ Gestapo!” His words are slow and deliberate. He gets up. “I’m going to the men’s room.”  

     His voice sounds like Victor’s, and I look.

     Sam rushes to fill his empty seat, firing off questions, “What’s going on? You said you would be at here 12 o’clock, alone.”

      Coyly, Eve removes her Hollywood style sunglasses, checks her diamond wristwatch, leans forward, and whispers, “Oh, my, it is past noon, isn’t it.” Playing with her neckline she continues. “Victor’s golf was cancelled. When he learned I was coming to the city, he said he was coming.” She shakes her head and says misty eyed. “He’s my husband. I couldn’t persuade him otherwise. We’ll do it next time.”

     Sam laughs, “You think me a fool, Eve; there are other restaurants in town! Why lunch here? There won’t be a next time.”

     “Next time . . . answer your cell, damn it!” She shouts after him.

     The husband returns. A tan complements his brown eyes, perfect Roman nose, and romantic lips. Approaching the table, his aloof expression becomes surprise, as our eyes meet.

He is my Victor, and my heart pounds.

     Sitting across from his wife, he tucks in a cloth napkin. “Who was that? You seem upset. Is everything alright?”

     Eve clears her throat, forces a smile, and explains, “Someone who goes to my gym. It’s nothing. I’m tired, and sorry. Sorry we had words.” She reaches across the table to take her husband’s hand, “Can we forget it?”

     Eve appears confident and why not? I’m the other woman.

     I play with the raspberry sauce on and mush the the ‘Chocolate-Chocolate’ cake.

   I stop at the couple’s table when leaving and smile, “Victor, What a surprise to see you and your wife.”

As I walk away, Eve asks, “Who’s is that? You seem upset. Is everything alright?”

. . . .  just saying

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Write Naked

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Write Naked

Write Naked is the title of a Florida Writers Association Blog I recently read and immediately had a visual picture; successful writers sitting at their typewriters nude. It wasn’t pretty.

Then the line, “Would it help?” from the film, Bridge of Spies, came to mind. The character never frets, but inquires if ruminating would help his situation

Could wearing your birthday suit make words flow and bring a place in the sun.

More than likely, I’d just get sunburn.

Come to find out, writing naked means to write from the authors emotional experience and bare ones’ emotions.

Therein lies the problem.

Today’s environment of political correctness has me stymied and frozen in place. I truly do not want to offend anyone and just when we think the worst of the Pandemic might be over, Putin starts a war.

Chicken Little’s’ false news, “The sky is failing,” has become reality.

Would it help if cursed at him in the nude?

. . . just saying

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Christmas In Florida

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By Gosh By Jolly

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Christmas In Florida

It’s far from cold today in Florida; not even chilly. The temperature will climb to the mid-eighties.

I miss the snow.

Christmas doesn’t feel like Christmas when I’m wearing shorts and sandals.

My poinsettias won’t get the recommended sunlight inside our house so they are spending time outdoors. However, they might experience wilt since they prefer air temps between 65-70.

 The local newspaper gave detailed instructions on how to care for the plant and suggested that, with a bit of work, they would bloom again. It sounded like a lot of work to me.

I’ve never had them bloom again, in Florida, but was successful in New Jersey, when I threw them off our deck.

Miraculously sometime during spring cleanup they were in bloom

. . . just saying

 

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Good Grief; there are 34 days left in the year!

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It Is. . .What It Is

“Today is Saturday, November 27, the 331st day of 2021. There are 34 days left in the year.” Like other newspapers, our local paper reports this information, and includes significant events from previous years, i.e.; Macy’s first Thanksgiving Day parade took place in 1924 and the release of the Beatles album “Magical Mystery Tour” in 1967.

Only 34 days left in the year! Good grief! Thirty-four days to achieve the goals I committed to 331 days ago.

Oh well, . . . it is what it is.

This expression, one of resignation, is included increasingly in conversations.

Why?

We never catch a break from mayhem.

So, I’ve been watching Lifetime Christmas Romance movies late at night and was thrilled not to see any uniformed police officers during the televised Thanksgiving Parade.

I’m thinking of sending a personal thank you note to Tom Selleck, you know the Police Commissioner of NYPD.

I know. . . I know, he’s not really the police commissioner in New York City. But you may agree, he should be.

. . . just saying

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Poetry; How I’m Doing?

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Some Explaining to Do

Zipping along, writing without a clue . . . The words flew

A minor dental procedure was the first undo

Follow by pain in my hip, x-rays and a walker too

Then vertigo . . .boo-hoo . . . once the crystal where out

There was something else to do

Physical therapy not to walk like a drunk

Add to the stew . . . cataract surgery.

And . . . there’s still more explaining to do?

But I’m not feeling blue and please don’t you.

. . . just saying

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Poetry

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(A friend confided her memory of a dance recital and wearing a red dress in detail. Regrettably, she had no childhood pictures of herself. I wrote this poem for her.)

Photo by Misha Voguel on Pexels.com

Little Girl Blues

A photograph will always be in my mind.

Not on a bureau, credenza, night stand or shelf.

There is no where to look.

Nothing to find.

It’s not in the foyer, on a desk, or anywhere else.

The treasure lies deep inside my mind.

A girl . . . in a magenta dress!

Dancing the flamingo.

Swirling . . . Twirling.

Her feet stomp the floor.

The red taffeta bodice clings to her chest.

The crinoline and chiffon flounce and cheer for more.

The white poka dots stand and applaud.

She smiles.

There is no where to look.

Nothing to find.

The treasure lies deep inside my heart and mind.

. . . just saying

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Flash Fiction

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woman standing by the side of a watercraft
Photo by alleksana on Pexels.com              

                                                   

Lynn

    Lynn stood on the sidewalk and could not remember who she used to be.

    It was a horrible feeling.

    She strolled casually to a nearby bench and sat to quiet the feeling.

    The weather was mild. The sun strong.

    It was not the present that disturbed her.

    Having silly thoughts, she hummed an old Peggy Lee song, “Is That All There Is?”

    She came to buy Christmas gifts, or so she thought.

    Instead, she window shopped and tried on clothes in an upscale woman’s store; attempting to find a new identity.

    Norman Rockwell’s picture of the golden-brown turkey on a large platter surrounded by family flashed  across her mind.

    Her romanticized past was painful to watch.

    She had been the women wearing the plaid apron, trying to fulfill other people’s dreams. Okay, perhaps they’d been her dreams too.

    It was hard to remember, things were different.

. . . just saying

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Old Film Twelve Angry Men

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Yesterday afternoon, my husband and I watched the film, “Twelve Angry Men”

It is a classic.

We frequently tape movies on Turner Classic Movies or our local PBS to watch together at a later date. Everything about the film is impressive and perhaps more relevant today

The writer, Reginald Rose, used a single setting, little action, and mostly dialogue to explore social issues; prejudice, segregation, and injustice.

Wikipedia states it nicely. “12 Angry Men explores many techniques of consensus-building and the difficulties encountered in the process among this group of men whose range of personalities adds to the intensity and conflict. It also explores the power one person has to elicit change. The jury members are identified only by number; no names are revealed until an exchange of dialogue at the very end. The film forces the characters and audience to evaluate their own self-image through observing the personality, experiences, and actions of the jurors.”  

The gentlemen of the jury, many dressed in tie and jacket, appear civil  . . . But tempers flare when Henry Fonda suggests things may not be what they appear.

It is a great movie.

. . . just saying

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Flash Fiction

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(The word pearl was a prompt given at a writing session. A strong female character came to mind and her story enfolded.)

Pearl

The last time I saw her, she was young; youth sparkled in her eyes. Now the sparkle is gone, the jade blue color diminished by time; her convictions etched in lines across her face. Her once narrow nose is broader, broken from standing up for others. Her chest sunken with anger, not there the first time we met.

“Pearl is that you?” I inquire.

She strains to turn towards me, her range of motion greatly compromised.

“Yes, I’m Pearl,” Her voice recalls dignity, and she pauses to ask, “Have I had your acquaintance?”

It was 1971; we got on the Concourse Avenue bus in the Bronx, each with a child in hand. She took notice of my bruises and we became friends.

I take the seat alongside her and gently touch her forearm, “Pearl, it’s me Rosa . . . . Rose, remember. . . .” I expect her to ooze with gladness, say, “Lordy, Lordy, Rose, how are you?”

Instead, she says “Rose? Can’t recall a Rose, refresh my memory child.”

If she remembers me, she would never mention beatings, and hiding in safe houses. I remind her of Bainbridge Park; how we would meet after lunch, let the children play in the sand box then walk them to sleep in strollers.

“I remember sunshine and playgrounds, how is your boy . . . ?”

“Danny, Dan, he’s at Fordham University; studying to be a lawyer.

Danny was five when I made the decision to leave the morning after a beating. I phoned my sister, asked her to get him from school, and left a note for John saying I didn’t want a divorce, and wouldn’t fight him for our son.

I worried about leaving Danny behind. Pearl said, “Don’t fret; your boy be fine,” and hooked me up with people.

John was a New York City Police officer and protected by his brothers, but the force would not ignore his beating a child.

Sill, I moved every four months with a new identity.

Three years later, the Richmond Virginia Newspaper reported the hunt for the killer of John McGill, a NYC Police Officer shot in the line of duty. I went home; stood next to his coffin, widowed with a pension; my eight-year-old son at my side.

John had never mentioned I was gone to anyone on the force.

Now Pearl dozes next to me, and her head bobs from side to side startling herself. “What was I saying?”

“We were talking about the time we brought the boys to the Bronx Zoo and rode the train around the park ten times. You packed potato salad and fried chicken; a stranger asked to buy your picnic lunch.”

The mention of potato salad crystallizes in her milky eyes, “I remember the day you left, bruised and wearing borrowed clothes; it broke my heart knowing I’d not see you again. How you been?”

“I never got to thank you, Pearl. . . .” She interrupts my attempt at gratitude and explanation of regret .

“Hush, Woman . . . tell me something that will make me smile.”

* * * just saying

(Originally posted on November 23, 2014)

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