By JLR
Everything was just as we planned for: the brand-new retirement home, nestled in the mountains on our little acre of heaven. We were planning to move in the next week.
I had finally a date set for my retirement and then unwelcome to our door came the news-Cancer.
The doctor's words were echoing in my ears: "the tumor is positive." Completely and without equivocation, this news was not anything she or I wanted to hear. It is just plain fact, that every way they spin the words, they all are the same, its CANCER. You need to remove it as soon as possible.
Then the litany begins,.. it is okay, it's early, oh, it is so very treatable. But, then the caution and the final summation of encouragement and plans and procedures the last words, it is CANCER, and your body is under attack.
So now, my soul mate has this heavy numbness. Indeed, no longer just a scare. This news has become surreal so soon! She is, we are worried, we both are optimistic for sure, but still, she has this unwelcomed, unplanned rap at our door. Her body is under attack, and she is now a part of this crazy, hazy, sisterhood.
So many questions! Some things, I will even not know to ask! I could not have prepared for, nor had I never thought about, nor did not also consider, that one of us and mainly she would get cancer! We could never imagine having even the slightest thought about talking about this topic!
Now, all that spins and flows through and over in my mind is that my precious soulmate has cancer. My soulmate is so youthful and full of life and happy and playful! All the hope and dreams for the days ahead, became hours crashing under the waves of so much uncertainty.
We are just wrapping our minds around all the clinical terms, the radiation oncologist, sentinel node injection, Nuclear medicine, surgery, mastectomy, partial mastectomy. Boy! Profound choices! Then the added burdens of recovery, radiation treatment, and treatment and treatment if all goes well, we will do chemo. I'm standing beside her, thinking," it is just unrealistic to put poison into a body and not expect some terrible things to occur." All the while, I am smiling and telling her, "we will get through this."
I yelled out to GOD... this is not right, this is unwelcomed, this is far too much information, no wait! GOD this is not enough information, where are you? Why now? Why her? Begging, pleading to the unspoken stillness that surrounded us. Stop! Tell me! Explain to me! Do not talk over me, around me! My dearest wife and I have plans and you "Big C" was----. No, you "Big C" are not a part of our program!
Then you make that decision only a woman can make. The doctor was telling you, "we just need to do a lumpectomy," we caught it early. Your operation will be a simple procedure. You, however, had spent some deep personal time alone and decided to do a radical double mastectomy. When you informed the doctor that is was your decision, your body, he said, "I think that is too much," don't need to make such an aggressive move. You, my dear, stood your ground! When the lab returned a week after your surgery with the results, you shed mighty tears. Knowing that you have instinctively made the right choice and then having the surgeon tell you, "we simply did not see cancer in the other breast, you made the right decision."
So began the next year of reconstructive surgery and the waiting to get some clarity about this new life that has just started. Simple things like finding stillness each day, seeing birds gathering at the feeder in a more connected manner. Watching the rainfall and feeling as though your soul was being washed and cleansed. Planning also changed. We now approached our retirement in a five-year window and having become more spontaneously active.
Rise to this, we surely did. This cancer came unwelcome at our door, and we celebrate two years today that my precious wife is cancer-free!
word count 710
| Author Notes | Every day, I thank my Divine Source for my wife's continued good health! |
By JLR
I remember the day as if it was yesterday. Tuesday, June 23rd, 1970, and the president was Richard Nixon. In that third week of June, people were listening to, "The Love You Save," by The Jackson 5. I had just arrived home from Southeast Asia and felt ready to get back into the swing of living a civilian life.
While spending a few days just getting my feet back on the ground a high-school buddy, Chuck, came by and said, "Hey, let's go down to the Dodge dealer. I need to get my tires balanced and rotated."
"Sure," I agreed, "why not." Little did I know I would fall head-over-heels in love on that trip.
We drove into the service bay. The manager showed us into the dealership waiting area, and Chuck told him what he needed. Not one to sit around idle, I decided to explore the showroom floor.
I stopped in my tracks the minute I entered the showroom! There she sat, the most beautiful, sleek, dazzling, well-appointed thing a man could ever set his eyes on. This baby had it all: a key lime green paint job, a white leather interior that smelled like a freshly tanned hide with all the bells and whistles behind the wheel, including the slapstick automatic. Under the hood was "the beast," a 440 Mag full race cam Hemi engine. This car was made for burning rubber and it just teased me as I walked around this magnificent rocket on wheels. Fortunately, I had saved every dime I earned while in the service overseas and spent my whole wad that day.
Needless to say, I didn't go home with ol' Chuck that day. I bought that rocket and, boy, sitting here fifty years later, I truly miss her.
word count 300
| Author Notes | I truly loved that 1970 Dodge Charger RT. But had to put away the boy toy when our first daughter was born |
By JLR
I couldn't believe it was Saturday! I looked at the light on the clock and already the hour hand was showing it was past 7:00 AM. My world was about to rock, and I was still in need of breakfast before the celebration began.
The remarkable thing about this event that was set to begin is it was the day of my wake!
I was fully awake waiting for my soul to be selected when I heard a small, still voice telling me that I had not listened for the ringing phone to invite me to get with it; to get squared away and arrive at the scene.
Suddenly, it occurred to me that I hadn't paid my phone bill in many a month and I likely missed the call and would be stuck missing my most important day, so I decided to stay home.
| Author Notes | thank you to the artist for the use of "Grandmother's Rosary" by meg119 |
By JLR
My gracious sake! Today, I shut off my company computer, my traveling laptop, my business cell phone, my computer printer. Then I shredded my remaining business cards. Wow! Retirement!
So, right now I feel more grateful than sad. This day arrived providing me more hope than fear, more peace than concern. However, the reality of separation is strong.
Retirement came so quickly. This major branch ended one life journey, with another journey begun.
word count: 75
| Author Notes |
My sincere thanks for the use of "National Highway road" by Yogendra R Modak
Is life not a series of new starts and stops. For us boomers, the career was one of the longest and often muddled journeys. In our lives. Suddenly, our egoic identity is forced to make a significant shift in space and time. |
By JLR
I arose today, and following my usual routine, I turned to the Keurig and pressed the button for a fresh cup of coffee. Then I picked up my IPAD and noticed I had a received a FB notice from someone not in my contact list. The message simply said, "just want you to know your sister Millie died May 7th."
Today is August 5th, and immediately, I got a lump in my throat and began feeling a deep sense of long-lived anguish. Following this rush of emotions, my mind started reeling: When was the last time we spoke? Where on earth had she lived? How did she die? Where is she buried? Did she have a family? Who did she leave behind? Who is this person who sent this note?
Each question just added to the heap of long-forgotten questions since the last time we even had any conversation of any sort. Actually, years and years of time has passed since we shared the air in the same room. I know around the time, I was seventeen, Millie was turning fifteen. I now am sixty-nine and she would be, would have been - sixty- seven. "Damn me to Hell and back", it has been fifty-two years.
There is no simple way to even try to explain and begin to unravel the tragic reality that this fracture in a family was precipitated by. Back in the days when Millie and I were teens, families who were single-parent homes were rare. Some people even thought of these broken families as somehow unworthy of befriending. We were children who spent virtually all our time doing our best to stay out of the way, to be seen and not heard, good little children who were quick to go to our room to find safe havens.
There had been some dark and painful exchanges with my mom just days before I decided to pack my bags and leave home. Knowing that I was the oldest of four children in a house where the so-called parent was never emotionally available, never fiscally responsible, just got to be too much responsibility for me to carry the burden.
At seventeen, I started knowing that ordinary families were sure the basics were being provided for to make a house a home. Everyday things like the electric bill paid so the lights would work, stove oil was being paid so the furnace would heat the house, the rented television bill was being paid on time, so they did not come and take it away at a moment's notice; these things and more were never certain or even expected at our house. Then there were the unspoken & unknown physical abuses. I guess, some people would say that I snapped, others would say that I abandoned the family, others would say that I did what I needed to do to save what little hope I had of breaking away from this cycle of parental abuse.
One thing that made my escape, at the time, so smooth was America was at war. I had completed all my high school requirements, and I made a mad dash to the local recruiter's office and enlisted. To secure what I wanted to do in the military, I committed to a six-year hitch and took the enlistment papers home and put the pen in my mom's hand and said: "sign this." I went to the living room where Millie was doing some homework, and told her, "I am gone, I leave Friday for basic training, I will not be back."
Those simple words, "I will not be back" haunt me today more distressingly than they have ever before. Little did I know or even in the least bit fathom that those few words would create a chasm so deep and so wide that a family would be torn asunder. Those were the last words that I spoke to Millie.
There are no words to cover the enormous pain, I feel, from the news of this day. While I have shed tears and will likely continue to cry more as the days come and go, I know that God has taken a beautiful soul back into his arms. Millie, in whatever fashion and manner of life she created for herself, she did have an experience living in this time, and while we never shared in each other's lives, we were family and the loss of family and in my case, time and perhaps opportunity to undo those words have now come and gone.
So, what is the end of this for me? In a day or so, I will respond to this anonymous FB person and begin with a simple statement; I was Millie's brother, thank you for letting me know. Would you be willing to tell me what you can about my sister?
| Author Notes |
This is written in honor and memory of my sister Millie who I learned today August 5th, 2019...passed away May 7th, 2019
My deepest appreciation for use of this most perfect image "Distant Memories by MKFlood" |
By JLR
With the creation of man, there has been a mysterious connection with time and how man uses it. When we look at the history of keeping time and deeper into the measurement that we commonly use today, it all began with the division of the hour into 60 minutes and of the minute into 60 seconds with the Babylonians. History has shown that Babylonians, who used a sexagesimal (counting in the 60s) system for mathematics and astronomy, derived their number system from the Sumerians who were using it as early as 3500 BC.
Have you ever had the experience and asked yourself, “Where did the time go?” I find myself sensing this around a holiday event, or someone's birthday (like our 3-year-old grandson’s). Or in my case, as a sixty-nine-year-old, the physical changes (loss of muscle tone, turkey neck, age spots).
Some of us view the passage of time perhaps in short periods (such as minutes, hours or days). Others may experience the passage of time in longer intervals (like weeks, months, or years). People of all ages who can tell time usually have this sensation and wonder. For example, the child who can’t believe that the summer vacation from school always results in time on a calendar slipping away.
I am sure you, too, have had periods of life when time is not flying by; time can seem to last for an eternity. Have you had the blind date that didn’t go so well you and felt you had a padlock on the arm of the chair where you could not get away from that horrible date? Or that summer vacation when all your close friends were gone, and you felt as though you had nothing you even remotely wanted to take on?
| Author Notes |
required key words: 3, baby, padlock, colorful ribbon
my thanks for the use of "time flies" by suep |
By JLR
Twice It has happened! The words were right there at the very tip of my tongue. Intuitively I knew, I should stop, swallow every word. Think about it twice.
WORD COUNT:29
| Author Notes |
twenty nine words starting and ending with the word twice
Sometimes in our lives we have had the situation arise when we spouted off something and knew instantly that we wished we had never said what we said..... Thank you for the use of nes mon by Mark T. Munn |
By JLR
Seemingly, it always happened to Peebles McGee and his partner Ralph Shorts, 2 police officers. Known, as Plainsvilles' most seasoned detectives. Rain, gusty winds and cell phones that never seemed to stop ringing, set the stage, for what looked like it would be another long night.
The call came in about the time that Peebles put his fork into the slice of his favorite cheesecake. As Peebles started talking, Ralph, without waiting for a nod of approval, pulled the cheesecake over to his side of the booth. Ralph started eating the dessert as Peebles began taking notes about a dead body reported on the Eastside. The caller informed him that uniforms were on the scene and the coroner was enroute.
With the call complete, Peebles looked at his partner with great disgust, realizing not one bite of his favorite dessert remained. Getting the bill settled took some finagling. Pebbles wasn't about to pay for the food he did not eat. Frank tried to explain, that as a result of the call, the dessert would have just sat on the table uneaten, and asked: "so, what's the big deal?”
Arriving at the scene, with wind whipping sheets of rain across the pavement, the two officers ran up the stoop and entered a turn-of-the-century brownstone. Following the voices into the kitchen, Peebles and Frank found the coroner's cameraman shooting photos of the dead body with its head stuffed into the gas oven. The air had the distinct smell of natural gas that was fading slowly from within the confined area.
As the coroner was processing the body, McGee and Shorts began looking around the kitchen for any logical evidence. The most reasonable thing would be a note because this seemed like a clear-cut case of suicide. However, no note was located. Peebles started toward the hall connected to the kitchen, the coroner stood up and said, "Man, I never would have thought this could happen," stopping Peebles in his tracks. "What's up? asked Short, who was still processing the kitchen drawers, as Peebles came back into the kitchen. The coroner put his gloved hand to the side of his head and started shaking it as if feeling a sense of disbelief.
As everyone in the kitchen was waiting for some statement from the coroner, time could have been running backward before the coroner uttered his next words. "When I first arrived at the scene," the coroner started to explain, "I was sure that this was a pure, open and shut case, of suicide." But on further examination, the coroner discovered the deceased clearly had intended to light the pilot on the gas oven. The unstruck match is still in his hand. The victim did not successfully get the pilot light lit because he has been bitten by something on the face repeatedly. "My guess is the bites appear to be that of a viper," the coroner said. "Obviously, we will need to run the screening for deadly toxins, but my guess is a seriously bad snake is loose in this house."In wrapping things up, the coroner said, "I think everyone should be cleared out and this place must be sealed tight and a search begins for this killer."
Peebles and Frank felt stumped that anything could bite someone and kill them so fast that a match couldn't be struck to light the pilot light. They wanted the toxicology report Stat, so they could write up their case notes and finish processing the crime scene if it was a crime scene.
On Tuesday, the coroner's office called with the results, and sure enough, the report revealed that the victim had indeed been bitten by a blue coral snake (Calliophis bivirgata). The report reflected that these snakes are from South East Asia. They have a venom that's so powerful, that the venom from a bite can trigger all of the victim's nerves to fire at once. Thus, instantly trigging full-body spasms, paralysis, and quick, horrifying death.
So now, McGee and Short had a real problem on their hands, they have a potential serial killer slithering around a large brownstone on the Eastside looking for food. Just how many victims are within the ring of fire? They also needed to find out how the victim, Phan Nguyen, who recently immigrated from Saigon, got this snake into the country.
| Author Notes |
I normally am reluctant to write short stories, but the thought of writing something with a bit of a twist felt compelling, so here is a go at it. enjoy or not.......please let me know, thanks,
my thanks for the use of "Its the Eyes" by booklotto on FanArtReview.com |
By JLR
Through-out history, especially in the Celtic tradition there have been persons called "Anam Cara." This phrase, Anam Cara is the beautiful Celtic phrase which loosely translates as 'Soulmate.' 'Anam' is the Irish Gaelic word for 'soul,' 'cara' translates from Irish (Gaelic) to friend. Hence, one could refer to the literal meaning as that of soul friend.
Soul friend doesn't merely refer to the union of a couple of acquaintances; instead, it signifies a unique and exceptional bond between any two people. A best friend, any family member, and certainly your lover could well be your soul friend, your Anam Cara.
Since the beginning of recorded history, Anam Cara is a known complement to the Celtic people. otenan early start of this bond would be that of a midwife. However, there are also distinct similarities drawn from many cultures. A relationship in which two people deeply are drawn, like magnets, to one another.
So it was, for our two souls to have naturally experienced our paths crossing, 38 years ago. My wife has been my soulmate from the very first time I set my eyes upon her. I distinctly remember telling myself, "I feel as I have known you somehow!"
Preciously, 13,140 days (36 years) + and counting, the number of days that I have the profound satisfaction of being married to the best women of my life. Now, anyone who reads this is going to say, "yah right women, ha!"
In truth, in thirty-six plus years, my soulmate has presented me with many women contained in one earthly vessel. I can't imagine a day that I would choose to have it any other way. In a respectful, fully charged and sometimes quiet lifetime, I have been witness to every facial emotion I believe a human being has both in the egoic sense, as well as a spiritual mind. Indeed, some faces are most welcomed others not so much, but the fact remains, I have been present to every aspect of my life mate, my soulmate's quirks, foibles, and exquisitely beautiful qualities.
By way of reflection, my bride was one of those exceptionally well-dressed, business professionals in the 1980s. Her substantial business presence, tailored clothes, and a powerful and professional presentation skill set. Okay, yes! She was smart, gorgeous, with a college degree, she owned her PR agency, and all this came packaged with very shapely legs and curves in all the places! We met during a business meeting, where she was presenting an industry marketing spread, that fell under my domain. I had been married and failed in that marriage returning from Nam in the 1970s, and I wasn't shopping. She, too, had been in a problematic marriage, and it also was not the journey that she was willing to travel any longer. Neither one of us was on the prowl.
Long story short, after two years, our business meetings turned into business lunches turned into business dinners to finally our first official date. I remember we both looked at one another on that dinner date, and nearly at the same instance said, "I don't believe in marriage." We both chuckled at this coming from both of our mouths at the same moment -- two years later, on the date of our first dinner date we married. We both knew we were destined to be traveling partners at this time.
She has always been a sharp and engaging conversationalist. She has been a dynamo in the C-suites during her career. Complete with all the peculiarities of breaking through the glass ceiling. Then knowing the precise time to chose to leave on her terms. She laughs at the most straightforward things and can shed a tear at the look of a dramatic sunset. She has and remains to be a sexy woman.
The many faces of moods projected by a large percentage of these are great traits. However, more than any of these, my soulmate is the salve on my injured ego. My wife comforts the wounded shadows that sneak out from under the covers; my soul mate knows instinctively when just a touch, not words are a soothing balm. She has been by my side when my broken body needed mending. She has gripped my hand when my parents, brother, and both sisters have died. She has been my material girl and Brinks Armored truck when the boy's toys syndrome snuck out. She has been a spiritual guide when I lost my focus on the divine. She has allowed me to say no, as a complete sentence. She has been my social counterweight when I would rather be alone. She has been my most trusted critic. She has been the most trusted friend.
| Author Notes |
I believe in living a life completely, in doing so, can never be achieved by being alone. We were designed to have a life mate. A Soul Freind, who will always, always have your back and the one person other than God who knows, knows everything.
The four-leaf clover is an extraordinary find, while not uniquely a lucky one; however, a metaphor for certainly finding just one in a lifetime to keep. |
By JLR
| Author Notes | The human vessel is a fragile thing...thankfully it does have the capacity to mend. |
By JLR
She was born to be the sweetest dog a family could ever want. Short in stature, long on love.
Rey came into our home to be groomed and trained for therapy dog training eight months ago. Rey was at the time we purchased her a two-year-old English Lab, yellow with a butterscotch stripe down her spine. Rey was too short to be in the AKC ring as a show dog, our fortune!
We had the perfect setup for her home. As we brought her from the breeder across our state, we knew she was going to be a car traveler. Arriving home, she had full use of an acre of land where she could freely roam. We hired a great trainer to work with my wife, who was going to be Rey's handler throughout the training and therapy dog program.
It is a strange thing with dogs, Rey immediately adopted our tranquil home, she took to her crate for sleeping with ease, and it still surprises us that she doesn't bark. As we have had her interfacing with other dogs, Rey has presented herself as a very tolerant and friendly sentient being. One thing any dog lover knows is that silly twisting of the dog's head when you are locked eyeball to eyeball, and you find yourself wondering, is this animal trying to learn my language? Rey has that funny little cocked head, and her ears will lay back and stare right back, and it seems as though we are in some cosmic dance.
Two weeks ago, my wife and Rey tangled. They were going to the front door. However, my wife was using a walker, having had hip replacement surgery -- Rey, short in stature and hefty fifty-five pounds.
My wife crashed, broken badly. Rey, unfortunately, is being re-homed.
299 words
| Author Notes | Sometimes life happens that prevents the perfect plans and changes have to occur that are outside of our control and we suffer in volumes with the feelings of loss. But hard decisions must always include the welfare and health of our beloved animals, we will miss Rey, but she will thrive and that is most important. |
By JLR
| Author Notes |
Define Soul contest; 150 words can be poetic or prose
Word Count: 132 Our souls are embodied by the all Powerful, the great I Am. thank you for the use of Hands of Love by jgrace |
By JLR
Dear God,
As I near my seventieth-year in this human vessel, it is at times, such as this, that I wonder why, what, when?
You know, as I do, that many a time, far too many for me to want to remember, I have failed to embrace all that I have come to believe in your Presence in my life. My egoic lower self often tends to rule my thinking, acting, and behavioral day to day activities.
There has been a period on my life that I know with all that I believe to be Holy and True that your Grace pulled me from a "dark night of the soul" period and thirty-eight years later I still know that your Presence and involvement pulled me out of a terrible downward spin.
I have not been kind to this body that you planted my Soul deep into my heart. The breaks, tears, sprains, pains, and two open-heart surgeries have more than convinced me that You had been present. Without question, I am convinced that You were active, as my Divine Physician, giving guidance and assurance to my earthly physicians that I was a soul worth saving.
So, I come back to my question. I wonder why, what, and when? I have read, and I believe that we all have some purpose of fulfilling in this body, on this plane at this time we are alive.
Since I have retired, I have had a second open-heart surgery that the doctors told my wife and me that it was a high-risk operation. I have been very committed to centering prayer, Lectio Divina. I am active as a hospice volunteer and attend a church that fits with my world view as a spiritual seeker of truth and acceptance with a healthy dose of God's grace as the foundation.
The last operation was successful and still as involved in doing what I think, and I feel we are doing the right things -- to pay it forward -- I find myself faced with the recent trauma of my wife falling and being broken and needing to be surgically repaired and moved into a rehabilitation center. So, I sit and question why her, why now? I have placed before You the question, what am I supposed to hear, learn, listen for from You in this test? Still, I hear no answer!
I am not questioning that this event was something, You could or could not control. That, in my opinion, is not your Purpose in my belief system. What I question is the timing, the result of having to put everything we have been doing, that we thought were good works, on hold for several months. We are in the autumnal time of our lives, and I fear time is running through the hourglass at a pretty fast rate or so it seems at times such as these. So when will I know that I am doing God's purpose? Is the lesson in the waiting? Is the answer in not asking why? Is the reason for the timing to fulfill your purpose?
Isn't it just like me to be seeking these answers? I feel strongly that my faith is not in question because of these events. I am resolved more actively to be at your feet in a prayerful petition to hear your still small voice whisper the words Peace, Acceptance, and yes ask that Your Grace be once again on my heart and in my Soul.
In Excelsis Deo!
| Author Notes | A faithful believer's lament about life and its bumps along the way. |
By JLR
I remember as I sit here fifteen years later, just as though it was the morning after these events, that I knew there really are ghosts.
We had driven a 10-hour drive down from Washington DC to Savannah. Using a vacation rental service, we elected to stay at a fully-refurbished early 1900s farmhouse bordering the Savannah River.
We arrived with the setting sun around 5:45 PM and did our customary walkthrough, selecting a bedroom for the family stay. Our two kids, their spouses, and our four grandchildren were flying into Jacksonville, Florida, the next day to drive up and join us.
My wife and I unpacked the car and got the food into the refrigerator, and I lit a log fire in the massive hearth to take the seasonal chill off the air. Around 8:00 PM, as I poured my wife a glass of Chardonnay, and was walking back into the great room, I heard what sounded like a rattling of chains. I stopped, looked back over my shoulder toward where I thought I heard the sound, but saw nothing.
I just shook the experience off and sat by my wife on the floor near the fire. As we were chatting about the anticipated arrival of the kids, suddenly, a strong, musty seaweed smell enveloped the room and a massive gust came down through the chimney and filled the space with smoke and light ash particles. This, of course, rattled my wife, Bonnie. She was up off the floor in an instant and bolted to the front door. Once, twice, three times she tugged and pulled at the door, which seemed to jam, and would not budge for her.
That really set her screaming as she squealed, "Get this door opened, now!"
I ran toward her. Bam! The door flung itself open, nearly popping off the hinges. This event startled both of us, and we looked at one another, peering out of doors into the pitch-black yard. We literally felt frozen in place and waited in anticipation of something else to suddenly unsettle the now very silent entryway and hall.
Then, in the faraway background, out of the doorway, we saw what appeared to be a candlelit lantern that seemed to be swaying back and forth but we were unable to see a figure holding the lantern. Then we heard it... three simple words in a somewhat commanding voice, "Leave! Leave NOW." These words were being spoken at first by a single voice, and this voice was not coming from out of doors but behind us and up the spiraling stairway to the upper bedchambers. Just as we turned around to look up toward the second floor, we both heard the distinct rattle of chains and what sounded like the striking of an old sailing ship bells. At the toll of the third bell, we then listened to what we thought were three distinct voices repeating the same ominous words. "Leave! Leave Now."
Bonnie looked at me with sheer terror in her eyes and bolted to the entryway table where we had laid the car keys and said, "we are out of here"! I was right behind her, as we hit the car at the same time literally visibly shaking, I said, " did you hear what I heard?" She just sat in the passenger seat with all of the color gone our of her rosy face, unable to utter a word.
We got back onto I-95 headed south to Jacksonville, FL.
We drove to the airport and while waiting for the family's flights to arrive, spent time to find a new rental on the beach. I contacted the rental agency and said we had left all our belongings at the farmhouse. We explained to them that we had a terribly frightening experience and would pay to have our belongings packed and shipped back to us.
We told them our tale and the agency then told us that the old farmhouse had been purchased from a family estate and the farmhouse had been vacant for 75 years when they bought it to refurbish the property for rental purposes. The court records showed that the last known persons that were on record living at the farm were three old-time stevedores who were found dead. The court records referred to two murders, one suicide. We were the first group to rent the newly refurbished farmhouse!
I know now that we do not rent any properties that are newly refurbished and older than 20 years. Our thinking is, perhaps we will never have a repeat performance. Now for the kids, we were not about to tell them about our mysterious evening at the farmhouse because we didn't want them to think that we were losing it! We simply said we didn't think the grandsons would like the farm and thought perhaps the beach would be a more suitable vacation spot.
Whew! Believe you me.....there are ghosts!
| Author Notes |
A ghost Story entry.
Stevedore: The primary job for a stevedore is as a loader working in a ship's cargo hold below deck. Stevedores attach and position straps, cables and hooks on the boxes or cargo containers. Thanks for the use of Sail Away by LittleBogie 007 on FanArtReview.com |
By JLR
Lingering in bed knowing the bones will surely ache upon my feet hitting the hardwood floor. Six AM, I saunter across the house, stopping at my trusty Keurig to get a blast of caffeine to start revving the old engines.
At 8:00 AM, I take a cup of joe to the wife, give a kiss on the forehead. I layout the physical therapy and occupational therapy appointments and one doctor's office follow-up.
Lunch is a grab n go along the way. Home again, open the mail, start dinner, eat. Finish the Netflicks program. Hit the rack, read a bit. Sleep.
word count 100
| Author Notes |
A typical day in 100 words.
Thank you for the use of Sunsets are for Lovers by pfemd on FanArtReview.com |
By JLR
I am a child of four years rarely do I remember any family outings. But I remember this one. I feel the bright shine and warmth of the sun. Mam has a picnic blanket tossed onto the grassy bank. She is unpacking the bread, jams, and sausage. I hear the shrill sound of Millie, my small 15-month-old sister being held tightly in a wrap beside my again pregnant, Mam. Da is at the end of a long dock with a fishing pole dangling in the deep, dark blue water.
The lake is calm, I can't see a wisp of a wave. Da motions to me to come to his side. I cautiously look back at Mam then out to the end of the dock. I shuffled my feet onto the pier. Each step moves the boards to and fro. I feel a deep concern that there is no railing to hold onto.
I finally work myself to Da's side. He looks at me with his typical frown and glares hard into my eyes and says, "Well lad, today you're going to learn to sink or swim" and quick as a I can blink my eyes, he grabs my right arm and leg and tosses me out over the water and off the dock into the lake. I floated just a bit, and then, in a flash, I feel myself going under as I watch Da, walk away. I feel such terror! My mind reels about whether he really means for me to "sink or swim." I felt the tension in my arms and legs as I begin to shuffle my arms and kick erratically.
I manage to stay afloat, and my splashing in the water serves, little by little, to bring me closer to the dock. Exhausted, I finally grasp a half-rotten rope attached to the dock. I use it to pull myself up onto the dock. The heat radiating from the planks gradually heals my shivering from the fear and the cold. No amount of heat from the sun, however, can cure my shivering of the stark realization that I will never trust Da again.
I am a child of five, we have just come out of a harsh winter. The spring rains have been drenching. I lay awake at night, hearing the deep raspy cough of my newborn brother, Shaun Stephen. On a Saturday morning, I am doing my regular chores. I empty the pee pots and bring peat into the firebox to keep the chill-out. The morning is filled with a freshness in the air when suddenly, I hear this horrific, death curdling scream coming from inside the house. I know I must get the chores done before Da comes back in from the fields to eat his morning meal. But curiosity overcomes me, and I find a container to stand on and peer into the bedroom window where Da and Mam sleep. Mam is holding Shaun in her arms, where he lies limp and lifeless. Mam sways back and forth with tears streaming down her face, bouncing onto the baby. She suddenly sees me staring in. She shakes her head and yells through the window, "Go to the pub and get your Da! He didn't come last night, tell him his son is dead."
I am a child of six, 1956 is a bitterly lousy year. Lambs die weakening the flock, potatoes fail. The farm is mainly failing. Da is seldom sober, and when he does come home, his labor is shoddy and far too little to put food on the table and comfort in our home. Mam and Da go at each other and fight physically with little regard for the eyes of us children.
The final fight happens on a frigid and wet spring day when Da, drunker than I had ever seen him, hit Mam so hard that her skull cracked, and blood covered her face. I grabbed a log from the hearth and swung, again and again, hitting Da with all my might. Divorce didn't exist in Ireland in 1956 unless you were living separate and apart for periods totaling four out of the last five years. So it was that Mam's Da sent us funds for Mam to take Millie, LaRae and Ira and me to sail across the ocean to America.
I am a child of eight -- Ms. Benner, my fifth-grade teacher -- asks me to see her after school after the spring break. I am concerned! I can't figure out why she wants me to stay late? I just know I am in some type of serious trouble. As we begin talking, Ms. Benner says, "Jimmie, do you know how talented you are?" Frankly, I was stumped, I cannot get to where she is coming from, so I say, "I don't understand what talented means." Ms. Benner tells me that I have shown exceptional skills in math and science and that I test the highest in the school in all my subjects.
Then she says, "Look, I know that things are pretty tricky for you around the other boys in the school." Her words that followed were words that stayed with me right to this very day -- "Never concern yourself about anyone else when you are bringing your very best efforts forward. Try live every day in a place of curiosity and exploration. Do as you always do, and that is your work. Pay no attention to people that tease and ridicule you." Then she simply said. " I want you to always come to me, at any time, for any reason, even if it is just to talk. You will be just fine, and I am pleased to be your teacher."
I am sixteen, no longer a child -- I'm just about to finish my Junior year in high school. I am frustrated with the acne and the constant growing pains I feel in my joints. I have just taken a real job that starts when school is out in June at the Veterans hospital on the grounds crew. Things are going well. I just sat for the entrance exam to West Point, and the high school counselor was talking about some college classes I could take in my senior year. I came home from visiting friends on a Friday, after a Latin toga party.
It is about midnight, and as usual, I am taking my bath in our only bathroom. My mother taps on the door. I can tell she is drunk. She needs to use the facility. Then she walks in undressed. I turn to face the wall away from the commode. She does her business, and she is leaving, I think, suddenly, she is in the bathtub behind me.
I am very anxious and embarrassed that my privacy was violated. The situation turned ugly. As she began to fondle me. What happens next makes my life fall into a deep crevice. I try to go into a corner of my mind and shut out all sensation, noise, feelings. I lose any sense of time. But at some point, I cannot take it and bolt out of the tub and run from the bathroom wrapped in a towel -- I feel so filthy, so ashamed, so outraged, and just empty. I can't stand to look at my mother the next day. Nothing was ever said, but that night, I ended my relationship with the woman who birthed me.
I carried this secret with me for seventeen years into adulthood. Three years after the death of my mother, standing at her gravesite, I had a long angry, honest, sobbing purging of this secret event. I was motivated by my therapist to do this and at the same time to ask God to forgive her for her transgression so that I could put down the monkey on my back and move on!
| Author Notes |
Non-fiction memoir to be added to my Non- Fiction autobiography. This is being shared, in order that others who have been scarred and carry the wounds of incest know that walk not alone, regardless of gender.
Irish terms: MAM - Mother DA - Father Thank you for the use of "Old Stone Through The Branches" by gloryg on FanArtReview.com |
By JLR
The sudden plummet downward while being twisted and spun this way, and that, was by itself, enough of an experience for one day, one person. However, through the surprising tumultuous descent, nothing was more confounding than while I started out as a Priest of middle age; at the bottom of the rabbit hole, I was a young Nun of twenty.
| Author Notes |
60 word Dash - A complete story.
Would you dare to follow? by cleo85 on FanArtReview.com |
By JLR
We all have moments when we suddenly realize an event that is just starting to happen that is monumental in proportion could be life-ending. Near misses are everyday common occurrences. Things like that truck losing a load on the freeway, just moments after you had passed it. The speeding car going through a red light and instinct tells you to stop and you did so. Or perhaps, your instincts are on alert when you sense someone is going to "take you on a ride". When moments like these occur, how common is that we turn to some Divine entity and make a small gesture of acknowledgment, today wasn't your last day. Here are just a couple of these moments from my past.
The day started out a very sunny day in mid-June, 1995. Quite usual for the sun to be so full in the San Francisco Bay area in the early morning hours. I was on my weekly "going out of town" business trip with a stopover in San Diego then later in the week to Phoenix.
I settled into my seat on a Boeing 727 and waited the typical 20 minutes for the plane to be boarded and prepared for take-off. As the head flight attendant was making her final announcements, the Captain came onto the intercom and introduced himself, somewhat unusual before the plane departs the gate. The Captain proceeded to introduce himself. He begins, "Good morning folks, I am the First Officer, Sean O'Neill, and in the second seat is my daughter Kelly O'Neill-Conner. Personally, this is an exciting day for me. United Airlines management has arranged this crew assignment for me today. This is my last flight, after 30 years in the cockpit, and this flight is my daughter's maiden voyage as a newly qualified 727 pilot. So, sit back and enjoy your ride down to San Diego this morning. The weather is clear all the way down the coast, and it is a picture-perfect day for flying." To this end, there was rousing applause from the cabin about this unique and poignant moment for the two pilots, father, and daughter.
For those who have not flown in and out of San Francisco International (SFO), the landing strips and cargo areas are built on a man-made body of land that extends out and over the tide flats of the San Francisco Bay. The Bay extends to the south down to Palo Alto and to the north into Napa Valley. The airport has two parallel runways. When you fly into the SFO airport, you typically descend over the Bay, and you can easily see water as glide onto the runway. When you depart SFO, you usually take off to the North, and then the planes take a hard banking turn to the left toward the peninsula and the Pacific Ocean.
We finally push back from the gates, and the plane slowly rolls into the queue to take-off. Today we are lucky, we are number 7 in the line, and we sit back for that moment of moving onto the runway. I could see out the window, as the sound of the hydraulic motors ran the flats downward to create lift. My feet felt the tension as the pilot had set the brakes, and the co-pilot increased the thrust. The three engines came to life with a whirring sound that can be mind-numbing as they scream out the strain to move this 70-ton aircraft into the air.
We start rolling down the runway, gathering of speed, feeling the body of this lumbering aircraft get the lift flowing under the wings. Just feeling the front wheels start to lose the grip on terra-firma, the pilot suddenly, drastically cut the engines off and lunges hard on the brakes. Everyone was thrown forward with a jolt, and the unexpected forces were straining everyone against the seatbelts. For the first time over too many flights to even begin to count, I grabbed hold of the armrests and white-knuckled my grip, with the thought, "My God, is this how its going end?" The plane then made a strained, but noticeable left turn with what seemed a full force of lift-off speed onto a side runway and then came to a final stop moments later.
Everyone was quite visibly shaken and was looking deer eyed at one another at what was an obvious very close call to something not ordinary. The pilot came onto the intercom several moments later. I sensed the tension in this voice, as he said. "Ladies and gentlemen, I am so deeply sorry for this event that just took place. Just at our rotation speed for lift-off, a 747 heavy came directly into our takeoff air space, and we had to abort our take-off to avoid a collision." The inbound flight from Japan was in the wrong landing alignment, and ATC did not catch this incoming flight error on their approach until the very final seconds."
"This is an extremely unique event," he continued. "we will circle back around and get you headed to San Diego at our earliest opportunity."
I know that I was not alone with the distinct awareness that God was in that cockpit that day!
My other ride stays memorable every time I look at the scars on both of my legs. At the time of this incident, I was 15 years of age. As was often the case when I was done with my chores, I was out of the house and often riding an old single gear bicycle with a well-worn saddle seat.
It was a Saturday in mid-Summer. I frequently took a long and rigorous ride up to Mount Saint Michaels situated high on a bluff overlooking northeastern Spokane. Mount St. Michael had been a landmark in the Pacific Northwest for more than eighty years. From 1916 through the early 1980s, it served as a training ground for candidates for the Catholic priesthood. The ride up the winding 17% grade to Saint Michael's was a physical effort, leaving me thirsting for a refreshing drink of water from the spring at the grotto on the grounds. I spent an hour or so sitting at various outcroppings overlooking the vastness of Spokane below. As I began my descent down the winding paved road, I was aware of the gathering of speed as I approached some of the tighter switchbacks that had to be navigated going down. I thought I was in control of my downward pace until I came to one of the more steep and tighter turns, when suddenly, without any forewarning, the front wheel of the bike simply snapped, literally, into several pieces. The prongs holding the front wheel embedding right into the soft pavement and threw me onto the roadbed head over heels. Then rolling multiple times right off the road over the edge down a 20' embankment, with the wind knocked out of me and road rash from knee to foot and shoulder to fingers. I lay dazed for several minutes raging in pain. Once I got my wits about me, I started feeling around for any protruding bones or evidence of blood soaking the ground. Finding none, I look up skyward and literally said, "Thank you, God! I am still alive and in one piece."
Getting myself and the mangled bicycle back home is to be another story.
| Author Notes |
True life events. God moments that make the mystery of life more poignant
Thanks for the use of The Mercy Seat by jgrace on FanArtReview.com |
By JLR
It has been said, "war is hell in Kodachrome," as was the case one dark and dreary night.
I thought I saw a silhouette that stood out in the faint moonlight. Instinctually, I grabbed a scope and slowly moved toward the area where the profile was.
Suddenly, a mind-numbing scream! I froze in place, then, without expectation, a blast of fiery flames filled the night sky.
With the flames lighting the darkness, clearly, there was not one silhouette, but dozens! The enemy was advancing, the sentries were unaware. An assault was being mounted. Through the night, the battle was fought.
| Author Notes |
100 Word flash fiction.
Thanks for the use of "Walking The Dog" by El-mundo on FanArtReview.com |
By JLR
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Life in the time of a pandemic is not how I thought I would be bringing in my seventieth birthday next week. Virtually, self-quarantined, and doing what I imagine every other red-blooded American is engaged in, reading and watching everything that comes across our screens, doesn't set aside the angst and concerns about what next?
Just like every day for the past three weeks, I find myself getting up, grabbing a cup of coffee, and sitting at my desk and reading through the latest news that comes overnight. Just to realize that the information seemingly is becoming starker.
There have been so many anticipated events that, for me, were of great importance that have been canceled or moved to web-based participation in the past two weeks, and this makes me feel sad. It is this social distancing that makes me realize just how much I am a hugger and what that has meant to me throughout my lifetime.
Perhaps, this need to fill the void in my childhood of not being nurtured enough or it is the result of my sincere, compassionate heart that I have this constant tendency.
As a prayer Chaplain at our congregation and as a hospice volunteer where hugging has been a welcomed, kind gesture, this pandemic has curtailed these fulfilling activities, which exacerbates the further sense of isolation that I am now coping with.
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Then there are the geographic facts we endure with four grandchildren and daughters, sons, daughters-in-law and son-in-law living in a region that is severely hit with this pandemic and the trepidation we feel for our loved ones too far away to hug.
Then, in all honesty, I am ashamed of my fellow Americans! The scenes that I have witnessed with people fighting over toilet paper! Toilet paper, people! When the world event began to unwind, seemingly so did far too many people's common sense and brotherly love began to unravel. I genuinely want to believe that there is a conventional fiber that weaves throughout all Americans. That somehow we all have goodness in each of us and GOD I don't want to lose this long-held belief. Coupling this with what is to me, a ridiculous and self-serving turn of events of those who are running out and arming themselves with guns and rifles and so much ammunition that the suppliers are having a difficult time keeping up with inventory. People? Shame, shame on all of you!
Fear is enough running amok throughout every household and then we have added you to the equation; this out of control panic buying and over arming of homes, to what end? Can anyone explain this?
What would it be like, if people would think about the neighbor next door who might be sight challenged, in a wheelchair, homebound, the thousands upon thousands of people shut in and now isolated from the outside world in nursing homes? If people who are so self-centered could just put the brakes on and think about the larger picture, perhaps we as a society could see an outcome from this Coronavirus pandemic each of us standing a little bit taller, a little more like a proud American.
Hope! Yes, I hope for people to adhere to the wise council coming from the experts to stay at home, do some spring cleaning, read a book, watch movies. Pray, yes I know it is not a PC thing to say, but if we have ever needed GOD to intervene now, it is the perfect time to invite him into your lives and pray for healing globally.
In closing, I am a hugger. I am sending a huge virtual hug and rest assured, working together we can beat this bug!
| Author Notes |
A prosaic commentary on the coronavirus pandemic.
Thank you for the use of Photo by Marco Bianchetti on Unsplash |
By JLR
The door slammed, echoing down the long hall. Certainly isn't the first time, and I bet you a plugged nickel, it sure won't be the last.
I find it hard to recall the exact time when all this brouhaha started. What is clear in my mind is that it was at the intersection between our being able to talk or just begin simply to fall into a screaming match that collided, when the phone rang that day.
With a vivid landscape of memories, I can see her holding the old landline to her ear, just as I looked into her eyes, I saw the pain searing like hot coals sizzling a raw steak on a hot grill grow across her face.
She crumpled, like a throw-away paper towel, right onto the floor as the telephone careened off the table to the carpet and land by her side.
Rushing over, I picked up the handset and put it to my ear and heard the voice on the other end repeat, "Hello, did you understand, your son has been in a car accident, he is alive and en route to Saint Luke's, in Spokane. How soon can you get there"?
John Jon had left for college to play football. He and his teammates began two-a-days at WSU in Pullman, WA two-weeks ago. The hospital told us that he had been taken by air ambulance to St. Lukes from the scene of a two-car collision on the interstate just outside of Ritzville. A police officer said upon our arrival, "The car John Jon was in traveled over the center line and collided with an oncoming vehicle. Two people were dead, at the scene, John Jon, was a passenger.
We found John Jon in ICU with head and neck trauma. The triage nurse told us please come with me. He told us the surgeon would be in to see and asked us to wait in a private room just off the ICU unit.
By this time, we had been up for nearly 18 hours. Getting the phone call in Bellevue, WA, at 7:45 PM, we threw a couple of changes of clothes into an overnight bag and hit 1-90 headed to Spokane, a typical five to six-hour drive.
I had decided to drive because I was concerned about not being able to have a phone call come in if we tried to fly over.
It was very fortuitous that we did drive because the hospital and surgeon needed to get our permission to proceed with the emergency surgery due to the head trauma and swelling on the brain that needed to be surgically released.
We waited, what seemed like an eternity, for the doctor to arrive. When he did, this neurosurgeon was accompanied by an orthopedic surgeon. They began to paint a pretty stark picture of John Jon's condition and informed us that the next 24 hours were going to be pivotal. So far, it was too early to tell how he will respond.
I looked over at my wife and could see her face ashen white, her eye sockets were beet red, and her overall appearance looked like a limp rag. I tried to hold her, but she simply struggled away and pounded her fist into the palms of her hands.
Then she let it rip! I told you, "John Jon should not have gone across the state for college!" But no, you had to have your way. You said over and over, "It will be good for him to get some distance from home. He'll grow-up faster, and he will become his own man living on campus sooner. We don't need him coming every weekend to have you do his laundry."
"Tom, he had two full-ride scholarship offers, Seattle U and WSU she screamed. Then said, He could have been home, not in some stupid car on a freeway six hours away. It's your fault! It's your fault!"
I walked away, feeling the world around me spinning out of control. Lost, trying to find the words to provide comfort and encouragement to my wife. As I walked past the ICU doors, I heard that awful, code blue, ICU stat, code blue, ICU stat. One hour later, the doctor came out of ICU, words didn't need to be uttered, the slump of his shoulders, the hanging down of his head, and the short shuffling feet told us what we never wanted to hear.
The graveside service was somber, his high school, and college football teammates decked out in all manner of dress. There to pay the last tribute to John Jon. Both his high school and college football head coaches gave terrific testimony to the character of a man that JJ brought to the team and that he would be long-missed.
So much happened so quickly. How am I ever going to find the words to ease her pain? Then, wondering, with the doors slamming shut ... is the door on our marriage shut? Feeling hopeless, one moment, your whole world vibrates and spins with such negative forces that no one hears even the echo down the hall from a door slamming shut.
word count 820
| Author Notes | FLASH FICTION word count 824 |
By JLR
All the warnings began months before January 1, 2000. From deep in the halls of congress, everyone was secreting the news of the new "Utopia" that was simply going to transform the American landscape, from every domicile, state by state.
The telltale, all-encompassing word, was transformation.
It began with those with the least of material possessions and ended with the news trending one-percenters. Everyone provided a specific date to come into the transformation office...to be reassigned.
At the stroke of 1 PM on June 1, 2000, the process of transferring
all material possessions took place. The transfer was complete before the day was out.
Slowly, household by household, those with the least moved lock, stock, and barrel into the utopia of those who had "it all."
They traded economic places.
With wealth now transformed, however, the outcry was deafening from those who had gotten new material possessions.
"What taxes?"
150 words
| Author Notes |
Tale from the 3rd Millennium
Write a fictitious story (150words) that portrays the world as we know it since 2000 so future generations get a sense of these times. The topic can be anything. Provide a title. Thanks for the use of money from google |
By JLR
Sometimes I feel like...a person who has suddenly awakened from a mystical long sleep.
As I open my eyes to this present state of senseless police victimization and misuse of
force, followed by the out-of-control violent protests and those raging protesters coming from who knows where, I wonder what has happened, how have we retrograded so far in race relations.
These angry mobs, whose destructive behavior ruins the health and welfare of their very own neighbors and businesses that will likely not be able to recover, seem to come from another planet, with no clear, educated awareness of the cost for the advancements they are destroying.
It seems like it was just yesterday that I watched with a deep and compelling sense of hope, as Dr. Martin Luther King delivered a speech to a massive group of civil rights marchers gathered around the Lincoln Memorial in Washington DC on August 28, 1963.
Thirteen years old and a white kid, growing up in a conservative, Washington State community as I heard and saw a man deliver a clear and concise message was a transformative time for me. His speech is still, to this date, one of the most venerable addresses of any leader in my lifetime.
His dream of equality, opportunity, eradication of injustice was supported with visions, that blacks and whites could sit down and talk across the table, and speak honestly and openly about what it is like to be in my shoes. His dream encompassed the words of the preamble to the Constitution of the United States, hoping that one day America would rise and live out the true meaning of its creed "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."
His dream included the significant towns of the South and those of the Northern inner cities. Dr. Martin Luther King was dreaming that one day, these cities would allow all children, regardless of color, to live in a nation where they would not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.
He dreamed that "in states like Alabama, with its vicious racists' politicians, one day, you could see little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers."
Today, in the here and now the politicians who order police departments to stand down, while the destruction of police stations, city halls of governance, sacred monuments, and stores ransacked and depleted of their inventory, then burned to the ground, should be openly ashamed and voted out of office.
Dr. King, I believe, would be saying No! This is not how to do it. He warned in his speech
"not to drink from the cup of hatred, not to be guilty of wrongdoings." He preached to protest on the high plane of dignity and discipline. Remembering the words, as if I heard them today, "We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. We must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force."
One line in his speech has lingered in my mind now for fifty-seven years, "We cannot walk alone." Yet, I see that we have such a great division in our country. This division creates a deep separation because we label everything--everyone based on color. Every person, every political party, and during the election cycle, every state color labeled. Therefore, we are herded by the system to walk more and more in isolation; to walk alone more and more.
Sadly, I feel I am getting too old to see a change in our American landscape, not because I have given up on Dr. Kings' dream of a better America. What I fear is, we have so many polarized groups, where no lives matter, no opinions matter, no change matters, if things do not meet "their expectations." These independent groups, who call themselves protestors even though they use weapons of bricks, gasoline, fists, and feet, and some carry guns and knives, iron pipes, and acid laden bottles defacing property, maiming innocent people, plundering, burning and even killing.
More sadly, the media, as a twenty-four-hour, greedy money machine will do everything they can to replay, hour upon hour every agonizing angle of the horrific scenes on all sides of the issue to do one thing, keep people glued to their stations so they can garner more advertising dollars.
Sometimes, I feel like you just need to follow the money! It takes an overwhelming amount of dollars to fuel the riots, rebuild destroyed businesses, to conduct funerals for all those needlessly killed, regardless of color! It takes money for politicians to grab more funding for this and that program not because they think they work, but because they will catch more votes, to stay in office and stay in power and control the taxpayer's purse.
Sometimes I feel like...a person who would be better off going into some mystical long sleep.
| Author Notes |
This Sentence Starts the Story
Write a story or paragraph that starts with the sentence: Sometimes I feel like... Your story must start with the sentence above. You may add additional words only at the end of the phrase. You have the option to put it in quotes (for dialogue) and to change the punctuation at the end. But do not change the sentence in any other way. The story can be about anything but start with the phrase above. Creative approaches are welcomed but the contest voters will be aware of the challenge made here to begin your story or paragraph with the sentence provided. My thanks for the use of Image from pixabay.com/johnhain-352999 |
By JLR
The woman had sat beside me on the two-hour flight. Catching me on the central walkway, she tapped me on the shoulder. Turning, I looked into her deep blue eyes with a look of surprise on my face.
Bending down, she placed her bags on the ground. Rising, she put her hands on my forearms and silently whispered, "I am going to kiss you."
She then puckered her ruby red lips, gently pushing her moistened jewels ever so firmly on my waiting lips. Her soft, but urgent kiss pressing tenderly, affectionately, consuming me.
No words were spoken, we parted ways.
| Author Notes |
100 Word Dash Topic: A first kiss between strangers.
Let's take flash fiction to the extreme. Can you tell a complete story with just 100 words. If so this is your opportunity to shine. |
By JLR
I love the awe that built up with more and more excitement as you heard a choir sing in harmony. How alive you felt, how at One with all that surrounded you. Everyone in your world expected so much from you. Instinctively or simply because you thought there were no options, you set ambitious goals. You were determined; not just to get good grades but to ace, everything, make the team. It did not help that you started school early and were two-years younger than most.
You deserved, but seldom, if ever, had Mum or Da tell you that they loved you.
Jimmie, I wince when I reflect on the many times you heard, "Quit your crying, or I'll give you something to cry about." I see in your face, the void that these insensitive tirades caused, the confusion, the lingering hurt. I hear your soft whimpers at night when you had a stomach-ache but didn't dare to say anything for fear of being ridiculed. I listened to you in the brace of frustration, voiceless, with so little care or recourse. Feelings got stuck, festering inside, affecting so much...
Jimmie, you never acknowledged that you felt abandoned when Mum left Dad. I know you did. You carried that into your adult relationships. You had to experience anew how her leaving affected you. You had to give a voice to all the pain you stuffed down.
Jimmie, you didn't deserve to be pushed so hard, not then and not now as an adult either. Allow yourself downtime. For too long, you were stressed about not doing enough. You couldn't enjoy time with your kids. You were preoccupied with work."
Life goes on...relationships with my loved ones improved. Weaned myself from being an overachiever, I no longer consider slowing down a weakness.
In retrospect, the most profound conversations I have had with myself, and where possible with others, were those where I would say, "I forgive you.” Far too many years came and went where I could not offer forgiveness. Holding onto shame and regret was so destructive.
The frank conversation that I experienced beside the gravesite of my mother, whose funereal I avoided, about the pitfalls and damage, the hurt, ending with "I forgive you," was healing.
Years later, reflecting on Mrs. Judd singling me out in front of my classmates to motivate me to be one of those that made it off the welfare rolls, I said, "I forgive you. Thank you for taking that risk with me, Mrs. Judd."
I am so grateful today that my inner child never gave up. We got through tough moments with strength and perseverance. I have said to my inner child," I thank you for your efforts to protect me." It was work to juggle so many painful memories. "I respect you, my Inner Child. You don't get any judgment from me."
As a young person, I was simply wired to outperform, to overachieve, to meet someone else's standard, to be "perfect." I was demanding and cruel to myself. No matter how well I did, it wasn't quite good enough. But I did the best I could at the time, and my inner child did, too.
We are still doing the best we can. I give us credit for this. When I let go of perfection, the fear of failure recedes. Today, I allow myself to play. I appreciate the beauty of fully experiencing how things unfold.
Today, I invite myself to be just good enough, and that is awesome!
| Author Notes |
For this contest, write about an event in your life. Everyone has a memoir. Not an autobiography. Too much concern about fact and convention. A memoir gives us the ability to write about our life with the option to create and fabricate and to make sense of a life, or part of that life. For this writing contest, write about a piece of your life!
Thanks for the use of to be or not to be by Renate-Bertodi on FanArtReview.com |
By JLR
The brakes were engaged without ever once touching the brake pedal. Saddled with a mysterious, unseen bug that if caught could kill me.
March began the canceling of all things near and dear,
making it clear, I was no longer stronger than an unseen bug
that could be transmitted by the closest I loved.
So a two- year process culminating in a graduation, a personal life long goal
of achieving something chased by not caught - canceled.
Two grandsons high school commencement celebrations, canceled, such a sad
commentary on the celebrations of life subverted by an unseen bug.
Hospice volunteers sitting on the sidelines as homebound and nursing home resident
talk through the windowpane, touching canceled.
Summetime music festivals, county fairs, neighborhood bar-b-ques - canceled as
lingering effects even stopped the nations jets keeping people locked at home
with signs - STAY AWAY.
The over the top - church stopped, no room, just zoom, praying into a
vast space - not feeling attached to the human race.
Canceled, the new norm - the perfect storm, the bug unseen,
just makes me want to scream I am not going to be canceled anymore!
By JLR
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| Author Notes |
Epitaph
Write an Epitaph (maximum 6 lines)- funny or serious- it's up to you. Begin with the classic phrase:' Here lieth.....' Thanks for the use of photo from: "https://unsplash.com/@charlesdeluvio? |
By JLR
The human condition of "free will"
always provides everyone the ominous
gut-wrenching sensation that perks
to the surface when we allow
our innate self-talk to scream,
"You are such a failure."!
Or worse, you are called out by
a coach, teacher or, God forbid - a parent,
or that person you so often try to charm,
your significant partner in life...
"You are such a failure," always
is quite persistent, as it
reverberates in our inner ear,
fail...u...are! Like an echo
bouncing off the tallest peaks.
But, let us examine this closer!
Take off those rose colored glasses!
Deeply sink into the situation,
like stepping into a bottomless pit
of quick sand!
Ask oneself, did I at that moment lose strength?
Like a seal around a tire on a rim,
that allows the discharges
the air.. now, I call that failure!
Or, perhaps one could surmise that you
were near fading or dying away, failing
as we say?
Unlike a human heart that comes to the
untimely point where it stops functioning normally,
could it be possible, under any circumstance,
that you would thoughtfully,
stop functioning normally.?
No, of course not!
Oh, one could go on and on and on about
such a word as this, however, should we mindfully
think of other words those same meaning verbs:
such as; break, break down,
conk (out), crash, cut out, die, give out, stall.....
All falling into the same bucket, called failure!
Surely, we must then realize, no one truly can be a failure!
Especially, when someone is without question
doing theirlevel best to put their best foot forward.
Sure banks fails, seals fail, hearts fail, marriages fail,
bridges fail, rockets fail...
but, truth be told, us humans at times are just unsuccessful!
| Author Notes |
Contest: Write a free verse poem about failure. No rhyming patterns.
|
By JLR
I think that seeing someone dead when you are noticeably young has a profound effect on how you begin to learn to process how death affects oneself. Observing other people around an end-of-life event, especially if the deceased person is family, can be quite a revealing event to support this fact.
When Stephen James died at age 3, I knew something terrible had happened. The event itself was swift. We were, as children, pushed away from the body. After young Stephen was interred, he was never talked about, reminisced about, longed for by anyone in my family. He just simply was there never more.
My first personal tear duct emptying, bone-crushing death, was that of my grandfather, John Frank, twelve years later. He was my John Wayne!
I was in the Army, training at Ft. Sam Houston. During a training session, one mid-day, the base chaplain came in. The chaplain informed me that my grandfather was quite ill and had been hospitalized and not expected to live.
My commanding officer gave me a seven-day pass, I did not make it in time. It crushed me that he died alone. I could not be by his side.
His funeral, was held in a Catholic memorial service and attended by ninety people. Those attending were his friends, past co-workers, neighbors, church members, and hospital volunteer associates. None of my immediate family attended. I sobbed throughout his service and at the burial site. I did not know if I could cover the loss I felt. I felt that sense of loss that day viscerally over the years. This man was the mentor who gave me his best as I was growing up. He was a living example of doing the best you can in all things. Now, he was gone. I needed to find a way to come to grips with my loss.
I could author a book about death on and in a battle-field environment. While, at the time, you are functioning robotically you are always aware of the smallest of details. Every after-action recovery effort, troop ID tags had to be recovered, even if nothing else was recoverable. I know this sounds harsh. But it is, in fact, so! In training, it was drilled into our skulls, always, get the "dog tags." I lost my first patient, a young farmer from Dayton, OH. He died of multiple internal injuries with severe internal hemorrhage; he had taken a mortar straight into his abdomen - he was better off letting go than hanging on.
I saw miracles both allowing one to live and gracefully allowing one to pass over in incredible ways.
Having personally had two near-death experiences, I can share the following. On one occasion, I do not question that I had the clear and very palpable sense of coming to a place of intense peace, calm, pastorally lush.Being aware and focused on a white light that blazing white in the distance, was so inviting. I felt a tug to just get up and walk ever so comfortably forward toward this attractive light. As quickly as that light appeared, it extinguished, and just as suddenly, I was back in a severely broken body.
The more recent episode was a little over eight years ago. I had a near-fatal heart attack. I physically lost three days from the moment I passed out, then finding I was recovering in an ICU unit at Mission Hospital. I was here one minute and gone the next instant into a very calm, peaceful space during this event. I felt nothing. I heard nothing. Again, I saw this white light off in the distance. But it seemed as though there was a long passageway that was on an upward slant. On this occasion, I walked onto the passage feeling myself leaning upward to the path. Then I suddenly turned around and snap I woke-up in ICU.
This dying stuff also happened figuratively as I died to my old life of self numbing with booze when I was thirty-five. This is such a blessing! Taking the twelve steps released me from shackles that bound my ability to feel, see, touch, hear all the truths. It opened-up opportunities that were always so near and yet so far away. My first ninety-days had been a God-given grace moment.
I did die from my old life. I honestly buried that person, that shadow, who so consumed me for too long. I find it hard to explain the joy, the celebration to have never had an inkling to want to have an alcoholic drink after that. I honestly died to that other person in those earlier years. That shadow that so consumed me for too long.
I do enjoy fond memories and have a wonderful idea about friends and family who have died!
I believe that everyone who passes on are little spirits that can steer me along the path of life. Still, on occasion, I sit and ask my grandfather a question or two. Or tell him where my heads at on something and just stop and listen deeply. I have had good friends pass, and I do the same on occasion. Calling out their name and say, "hey ----- I sure miss you!"
I ask, "what do think _____ is doing today.?
We are all still connected even after someone passes. So, I know more will be realized by all of us when it is our time to cross over.
| Author Notes | A Non-fiction personal commentary about death |
By JLR
Disaster can strike around every bend on Highway 1, known as the Pacific coastal highway in California.
This narrow, winding two-lane road is often filled with campers, cars, motorcycles, and logging trucks. The summer months can be the worst, especially on hot days and vacationers with short tempers.
I was working with a young sales rep heading to his customer in Crescent City at the northern-most stretch of this scenic highway.
Traffic was light for that time of year. We were about 30 miles from our destination when a group of bikers came up behind us and hurtled by at speeds far beyond the speed limit, but more importantly, beyond safe limits with the limited visability, as the typical morning coastal fog drifted up and away from the nearby ocean.
Within a matter of minutes, we came to the site of a crash scene. There were ten bikers in various crashed conditions scattered on a bend in the road. As we pulled as far off the road as we could, it appeared two bikers had bailed off the bikes before their machines hit an oncoming car. Other bikers had taken extreme evasive maneuvers in which they also lost control and crashed. All but the two who bailed off their bikes seemed to be in far less trauma.
The two bikers who bailed were physically clinging to branches on two giant redwoods just downslope from the highway. Surprisingly alive, scratched-up, safely rescued.
From that day forward, I never wanted a motorcycle!
| Author Notes |
An Unexpected Rescue In 250 words (not including the title), write about an unexpected rescue that proved to be life-altering.
Thanks for the photo by https://unsplash.com/@dmey503? |
By JLR
Putin fell asleep, exhausted, worrying about failure. His failure, that this self-possessed power monger feared would padlock the gates of heaven closed. Knowing Hell could be his destiny, he fitfully tossed about. He envisioned President Kamala with her Dalmatian puppy strolling across the White House lawn eating skittles. Feeling smug with this scenario, Vladimir suddenly saw the form of God sitting astride a white horse draped with the Ukrainian flag. God pointed toward a fiery pit. There a common tyrant stood, none other than the Nazi, Hitler crushed, pouring Russian vodka slaving over the flame. Putin's visions then turned quite grainy.
| Author Notes |
101 words using these required words: heaven, destiny, God, horse, Putin, Ukraine, slave, grain, Kamala, Dalmatian, puppy, eat, Nazi, vodka, crush.
thanks for the use of Nightmare On All Streets! by seshadri_sreenivasan on FanArtReview.com |
By JLR
Joe Brandywine, affectionately called "Cups" by his patrons started up his grill at 4 AM.
He had owned his own diner for a decade. The location has served him well.
Cups had always been an agreeable sort. Modeling a friendly attitude toward everyone,
until the gang showed up on his corner last month.
Today, his storefront was blown out by bullets from a passing car. Cups lost control.
Visibly shaking, he ran out the shattered door to have a full-blown confrontation with the gang.
Until he saw the wounded gang members. He called 911, then hung his head and wept.
| Author Notes |
100 Word Dash
The story can be about any subject you wish, creative approaches are of course encouraged. All stories must have the following: Main Character, Setting, Conflict, Resolution. thanks for the us of Red Rose Diner by meg119 on FanArtReview.com |
By JLR
| Author Notes |
Storm Approaches
Write a short story where a storm is approaching. Minimum length 700 words. Maximum Length 4,000 words |
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