The Way Through

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    The Way Through

    By Rebecca Olivia Jones

    Fears change over the years

    Never being good enough

    The youthful drive for perfection

     

    The impossible

     

    Competition and proving myself

    The best daughter

    The best dancer

    The best singer

    The best at all attempts

     

    Not possible

     

    Time has mellowed anxieties into a soft pillow of joy

    Fear now is the walk toward unknowing

    A loss of self

    The fading memories of life’s struggles

     

    I witnessed Mother’s decline into helplessness

    The night wanderings

    The frightening hallucinations

    Her ultimate vanishing

     

    Will I vanish, too?

     

    The slow breaking of synapses

    Unable to make decisions

    Thoughts like ghosts

    The fear of losing control over choices

    Existing in a continuum of uselessness

     

    I also watched my father’s vanishing

    But he held on

    Giving until his music stopped

     

    Perhaps, the only way through the fear is beyond thought

    Beyond the unknowable

    Accept what was

    Hold faith in life as it is

    Trust loved ones living

     

    And love the ones who have vanished

     

    Rebecca Olivia Jones is a playwright, singer, dancer, composer, choreographer, director, and always a poet. In 2021, Rebecca collected her poetry and lyrics, accompanied by beautiful photography into a memoir, Beachsight, available on blurb.com.

    Rebecca has a B.A. in Creative Writing from New College of California. She is also a mother, grandmother, sister, and a seeker. She lives in San Rafael, California with her long-time boyfriend and their cat.

    Rebecca teaches singing lessons via zoom; enjoys hiking, gardening, cooking, reading, and writing.

    She is an advocate for the Alzheimer’s Association.

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    The Smell of Old Leather, the Scent of Cigars

    Karen FitzGerald

    Every so often Georgia would pull out that tin cigar box her Gramps gave her some 75 years ago. Imagine—75 years she’d been hauling that old tin box around, moving it from the family homestead to her college dorm, to that sweet pensione in Italy in her 20’s, to the little garden apartment when she and Gitulio married. Good gosh! And how many other moves in her 85 years had there been?

    But, here she was, in Happy Valley Seniors’ Residence with her tin box from Gramps, about to open it for possibly the last time in her life; open it to retrieve the cherished item inside —her very first diary.

    Her arthritic hands wrestled with the lid of the container while a thought crossed her weary mind. Surprisingly tight this lid on such a worn-out tin. But it did finally give way to the beaten and battered, leather bound book within.

    The gold, etched letters in beautiful cursive writing that spelled out the word “Diary” were pretty much all worn off, but that did not distill the thrill, the wave of emotion that swept over her as she ran her hand across the cover. And that precious lock of gold—OK, only tin, really, but to the ten-year-old Georgia, it was pure gold that lock, and she still had the key! Imagine. And the entire contraption worked! The key and lock and binding all in order, as were the words on the pages that she hastily, excitedly scribbled out 75 years ago.

    Not even the urgent screams of sirens penetrated her tender thoughts in lifting the book from the cigar box. Do I smell cigars? The smell of leather? Really? After all these years?

    She inhaled deeply, took it all in—the smell drifting through her memories. She thumbed through the first pages of her first diary, the first words of her very first, private thoughts. 

    When the firemen broke down the door, the smell of gas was overwhelming. There they found an old woman sitting, peacefully, head down, chin to chest, a soft smile on her face, a worn-out book in her hand.

    * A wonk is a person who takes an enthusiastic or excessive interest in the specialized details of a particular subject or field, immersing oneself in the subject matter.

    Karen FitzGerald, founder of Think I.N.C. (Thinking Innovation, Not Consulting), professional trouble-shooters in business and organizational management, is transitioning from business management wonk to full time writer.

    Karen is a prior board member for a variety of organizations: The Sonoma County Public Library Foundation, National Women’s History Project, Living Room Center (a day shelter for homeless women and women with children). She is a Finance Committee Member for Interfaith Shelter Network.

    Karen recently dusted off her M.A. in English which she achieved with a Master’s Thesis on language centered theories of human behavior (1994).

    Over the last several decades, Karen has been rejected by obscure presses and prestigious publishing houses alike. Ever the optimist, except when not, she moves forward, undaunted, with pen, dictionary, and a sizable inventory of Wite-Out correction fluid in stock.

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    Just Looking

    By Ken Delpit

    What’s in a look?

    Quite a lot, actually. Consider looks in their simple verb forms, for instance.

    The meanings range from imperatives to advisories to admonitions to out-and-out warnings.

    Look away. Look up. Look over there. Look down. Look around. Now, look here! Look sharp! Look out! Look at you!

    Or, consider the noun forms. As with its cousin verb forms, noun looks span a range of meanings, from complimentary to critical to probing to mysterious.

    Let’s take a quick look. That is a bad look for him. They kind of gave me a funny look. We need to take a deep look. Now, that is a good look for you. I was left speechless when she gave me that look.

    Or, consider “ing” forms to describe appearances and states, from transitory to reputational to habitual.

    Looking tired. Looking confident. Looking like a winner. No thank you, just looking. Looking surprised. Looking smug and haughty. Looking like you’re enjoying yourself. Looking Good!

    In short, if you find yourself stranded on a desert island, and you have only a few words at your disposal, you could survive pretty well if “look” is among them. Well, that and a solar-powered satellite cell phone.

    Thank you, Ken, for this fun take on the word look.

    Ken Delpit has been writing for quite a while, that is if you count computer programming and technical documentation as “writing.” Since leaving those professions behind, Ken has discovered an exciting new world of creative writing. He is now giddily exploring new devices, such as adjectives, subtlety, mystery, and humans with emotions and feelings.

    Aternatives for the word look, from Daily Writing Tips:

    “Look, it’s perfectly acceptable to use the verb look, but don’t hesitate to replace this fairly ordinary-looking word with one of its many more photogenic synonyms. Many of these substitutions come in especially handy when it comes to finding one word to take the place of look-plus-adverb or look-plus-adjective-and-noun, as the definitions demonstrate.”

    1. Blink: to look at with disbelief, dismay, or surprise or in a cursory manner
    2. Browse: to look at casually
    3. Consider: to look at reflectively or steadily
    4. Contemplate: to look at extensively and/or intensely
    5. Dip (into): to examine or read superficially
    6. Eye: to look at closely or steadily
    7. Fixate (on): to look at intensely
    8. Gape: to look at with surprise or wonder, or mindlessly, and with one’s mouth open
    9. Gawk: see gape
    10. Gawp: see gape (generally limited to British English)
    11. Gaze: to look steadily, as with admiration, eagerness, or wonder
    12. Glare: to look angrily
    13. Glimpse: to look briefly
    14. Gloat: to look at with triumphant and/or malicious satisfaction
    15. Glower: to look at with annoyance or anger
    16. Goggle: to look at with wide eyes, as if in surprise or wonder
    17. Leer: to look furtively to one side, or to look at lecherously or maliciously
    18. Observe: to look carefully to obtain information or come to a conclusion, or to notice or to inspect
    19. Ogle: to look at with desire or greed
    20. Outface: to look steadily at another to defy or dominate, or to do so figuratively
    21. Outstare: see outface
    22. Peek: to look briefly or furtively, or through a small or narrow opening
    23. Peep: to look cautiously or secretively; see also peek (also, slang for “see” or “watch”)
    24. Peer: to look at with curiosity or intensity, or to look at something difficult to see
    25. Peruse: to look at cursorily, or to do so carefully
    26. Pore (over): to look at intently
    27. Regard: to look at attentively or to evaluate
    28. Rubberneck: to look at in curiosity
    29. Scan: to look at quickly, or to look through text or a set of images or objects to find a specific one
    30. Skim: see scan
    31. Stare: to look at intently
    32. Stare (down): to look at someone else to try to dominate
    33. Study: to look at attentively or with attention to detail
    34. Watch: to look carefully or in expectation
    35. Wink: to look at while blinking one eye to signal or tease another person

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    Claudia

    by Nona Smith

    We held our wine glasses up and tapped their rims together. Clink.

              “Do you know why that’s done?” Claudia asked.

              “I have no idea,” I said.

              “The French began the custom centuries ago. It’s to make us appreciative of all five of our senses.”

    Claudia had a treasure trove of that kind of information.

     “Ahhh, les Francais; ils savent tout,” she added.

              She spoke three languages fluently and had enough vocabulary in others to find bathrooms in foreign countries and order wine in restaurants. Born in Germany and well-travelled, Claudia had European sensibilities and a sophisticated sense of style. Her hair was cut by a Sassoon-trained stylist, she wore only Italian-made shoes, and the walls of her dining room were painted Chinese red, seasons before that trend appeared in Architectural Digest. She owned a few expensive, elegant gold pieces, but most of her jewelry was purchased during her travels from local artisans or at art fairs at home. It was this we bonded over.

              On her first day working as a travel agent at Trips Out Travel, I admired her earrings: thumb-nail size, straight-back chairs, crafted from black metal. Definitely not gold, but certainly expensive. Something she might have found in a museum gift shop.

              My compliment caused her to tuck a strand of red hair behind her ear and caress her earlobe. “I found them in Taormina. I had to sort through all that cameo crap they sell there before I found anything interesting.”

              Claudia had opinions. Very firm opinions. About food and clothing and what was worth spending money on. Her generous smile drew people to her; her sharp tongue sent them away. She possessed a quirky, wicked sense of humor and had a flare for the dramatic. She’d once been married and had a son Adam she adored, but when I met her, Claudia was living alone in a one-bedroom gem of a house secreted into the Berkeley hills. She took her cockapoo Milo, a yappy attention-grabbing dog, with her almost everywhere. And Claudia was devoted to the game of What If… What if you weren’t a travel agent; what else would you be? What if you didn’t live in this country; where else would you like to live? What if you knew how to play a musical instrument; which one would it be?

              Milo was not with us the afternoon we dined at our favorite dim sum restaurant in the City. We’d already polished off a bamboo steaming-basket of shrimp dumplings and a platter of al dente Chinese broccoli with oyster sauce when Claudia nodded to the waitress rolling another dim sum-laden trolley towards us. “We’ll have the shu mai and the pork buns,” she said with authority.

              We held our wine glasses up and tapped their rims together. Clink.

              “What if,” Claudia began, “you were on Death Row and going to order your last meal; what would it be?”

              I don’t recall what I answered, but Claudia’s answer came quickly and definitively. She waved her chopsticks over the bountiful table. “This is what I would order.”

              Late the next morning, Adam called. “It’s bad news. It’s Mom. She died yesterday.”

              “Oh, Adam,” I said. Tears sprang to my eyes.

              He continued to speak, “… alone in the house … Milo was with her … brain aneurism …”

              I heard his words, vaguely, but the picture in my mind was of Claudia, her chopsticks held aloft, pronouncing the dim sum her last meal of choice.

    “Claudia” by Nona Smith is one of the featured pieces at the Artists’ Co-op of Mendocino, Traditional and Contemporary Fine Arts 2021 Ekphrasis X Exhibition, where writing is paired with visual arts. You can see the artwork inspired by “Claudia” and the other winning entries at 2021 Ekphrasis X Exhibition.

    Ekphrasis: Art describing other art. Writing is paired with visual arts.

    Nona Smith is the author of Stuffed: Emptying the Hoarder’s Nest and numerous short stories, humorous personal essays, and bad poetry. She was a long-time board member of the Mendocino Coast Writers’ Conference and currently sits on the board of the Writers of the Mendocino Coast and is editor of the club’s annual anthology. Nona lives with her patient husband Art and two demanding cats.

    Her writing is featured in many anthologies including The Write Spot: Musings and Ravings From a Pandemic Year. Available at Gallery Books in Mendocino, Rebound Books in Mill Valley, Book Passage in Corte Madera, at Amazon, and through your local bookseller.

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    Today’s Sparks is a pantoum.

    Barbara’s Braid

    By Karen Ely

    Weaving strands of amber honey

    Over, under, around and through

    Silky locks of shimmer sunlight

    Plaited patterns, three by two

     

    Over, under, around, and through

    Brush strokes cultivate the threads

    Plaited patterns three by two

    A tapestry of golds and reds

     

    Brush strokes cultivate the threads

    Silky locks of shimmer sunlight

    Plaited patterns, three by two

    Weaving strands of amber honey

     

    Karen Handyside Ely was born and raised in Petaluma, California. She delights in difficult crossword puzzles, the Santa Rosa Symphony, and traveling with her husband, James.

    Karen has been published in The Write Spot to Jumpstart Your Writing: Discoveries, The Write Spot: Reflections, The Write Spot: Possibilities, The Write Spot: Writing as a Path to Healing, and The Write Spot: Musings and Ravings From a Pandemic Year.  All available at Amazon and your local bookseller.

    Discoveries is on sale for $6.99 at Amazon for a limited time.

    Writers Forum hosts Saturday afternoon writing for the month of October 2021. Free on the Zoom platform.

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    Ascension Garden

    By Stacy Murison

    The first time, you drive by yourself. You have some idea you are going there, but are still surprised that you know the way, without her, through the turning and turning driveways. Left, left, left, left. Park near the rusted dripping spigot. The wind blows, unseasonably warm for November.

    You bring the candy bar, her favorite, the one from the specialty chocolate shop, the one with the dark chocolate and light green ribbon of mint. You try to eat yours, but instead, stare at hers, unopened, where you imagine the headstone will go and sob without sound while the wind French-braids your hair just as she would have, and that’s how you know she is here.

    She is still pushing cicada shells off white birch trunks with her toes, dancing around pine trees with roses garlanded in her hair, singing of her love of tuna and string beans, of percolated coffee, of lemon waxed floors, of gelatin molds, of cherries, of lilacs, of chicken soup, of kasha, of home sweet home, of you.

    “Ascension Garden” was published August 16. 2021 in River Teeth, A Journal of Nonfiction Narrative.

    Posted with permission.

    Stacy Murison’s work has appeared in Assay: A Journal of Nonfiction Studies (where she is a Contributing Editor), Brevity’s Nonfiction Blog, Every Day Fiction, Flagstaff Live!, Flash Fiction Magazine, Hobart, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, River Teeth, The Hong Kong Review, and The Rumpus among others. 

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    Chuckstable

    By Lynn Levy

    Dana cracked her gum and then smoothed it against the roof of her mouth. She pushed her tongue through, making that all-important thin membrane that would become the bubble, and Bobby watched, thinking that the gum made her tongue look as pink as the boa she was wearing. Which was saying a lot.

    There was no explaining, really, why Dana was wearing a boa at all, but Bobby knew her better than to ask. Dana had on a boy’s tank top, cut-off jeans, and Goodwill Kiva sandals with one of the straps broken. She also had a scab on her left knee that grossed out the toughest kid in the neighborhood, and a thin white scar on her right arm from the time she’d fallen out of the big old oak on a dare that she could climb higher than the boys. The bone had stuck through, but Dana didn’t cry. After that she made her own rules, and nobody stopped her. If she wanted to wear a pink boa to catch snapping turtles, that’s what she did.

    Dana blew the bubble and popped it, and used her tongue to pull the broken film back into her mouth.

    Bobby pushed his old safari hat down over his forehead, hoping the shadow would hide his eyes. If Dana caught him staring, he was sure he’d shrivel up and die, though he wasn’t sure why. He wasn’t even sure why he was staring, actually, it was just that over this last summer, somehow Dana had gotten really … interesting.

    While he watched, she took a couple of quick lithe leaps across the flat stones, until she was in the middle of the creek, cool water riding over her feet, making the creek surface a different shape right there, two smooth glassy bumps that no longer looked like feet. Dana crouched and looked down into the water. She let her fingers dangle just below the surface, the current drawing little wakes around each one. She didn’t seem to notice the ends of the boa dipping into the creek, the feathers shrinking with wet.

    Bobby jumped a little when she squealed. “It’s a big one!” she called. Then, annoyed, “Are you gonna come help me or what?”

    Bobby ambled over to the creek bank as if he was just himself, instead of how he felt, like he was someone meeting Dana for the first time and shy because of it. He’d known Dana since their Mommas had let them play out in front of the trailers, in undershirts and no pants.

     “What do you want with them snappers, anyway?” Bobby asked.

    “I wanna put one in Duane’s outhouse,” she said. “On accounta what he said about Chuckstable.”

    Chuckstable was Dana’s dog and the love of her life. He was also the ugliest thing God ever put together. What Duane had said was actually pretty funny, but didn’t bear repeating unless you liked the taste of soap.

    “His Pa finds it, he’ll just kill it,” Bobby said. Dana looked up at him, squinting. The light caught her eyes, and the browns and greens flickered just like the creek bottom.

    “Ya think?” Dana asked.

    “Uh huh,” Bobby said.

    Dana sighed, and leaned forward, reaching into the water to stroke the turtle’s shell once, carefully, from behind. Bobby noticed the way the knobs of her spine pushed against the tank top, and had the weird thought that she’d be safer in life if she had a shell too.

    “You’re right,” she said, standing. The wet ends of the boa came out of the water and clung around her knees. “But it was fun to think about.”

    Originally published in The Write Spot to Jumpstart Your Writing: Discoveries, print version available for $6.99 for a limited time at Amazon.

    Lynn Levy’s writing has also been published in The Write Spot: Possibilities and The Write Spot: Musings and Ravings From a Pandemic Year. All available in print ($15) and ereaders ($3.49) at Amazon. E-reader available with Kindle Unlimited.

    All the Write Spot books are also available through your local bookseller.

    Lynn Levy lives in Northern California with her husband, an endless parade of wild birds, and one dour skunk who passes by nightly. She and the skunk have an understanding.

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    Journey

    By Pam Hiller

    The first leg of our trip to Nashville began with a Thursday afternoon flight. As Jon spent the three hours attending to job details on his laptop, I found myself increasingly staring at cloudscapes from my window seat. Snow covered mountaintops appeared to float on a sea of white clouds. Sunset over New Mexico’s red rock formations astounded with light, shadows, reflections, as earth and sky interacted. Dusk’s purple light soothed west Texas plains where vein-like rivers flowed. The night sky, increasing lightning flashes on the horizon, thrilled as our plane was diverted from Dallas to Wichita Falls.

    A question began emerging in my mind and heart. I felt myself a part of the grandeur, the immense mystery I was observing. On the other hand, it was apparent that an individual life is literally invisible in nature’s vast scale. Does a single human existence really matter?

    Saturday afternoon we attended a ceremony naming our former high school auditorium after a beloved drama teacher. City officials presented a declaration from the mayor declaring it Kent Cathcart Day in Nashville. Two former pupils gave speeches describing this man’s profound impact in teaching students to dare living authentically. Approximately half of the people in the audience were students from his first theater class in 1972 through his last class in 1999.

    Once the speeches ended Kent sat in a brown leather armchair on the stage, a fatherly figure sharing his thoughts and observations. Amid the laughter and memories, he expressed a few simple statements about his faith, in a way as a public school teacher he hadn’t before. He told us that every morning before teaching he would attend an early morning mass. He spoke of allowing one’s active life to lead to a place of silence where God could be heard. He emphasized that whatever spiritual path one followed making room for this silent space was an essential component. As in our youth, we listened spell-bound.

    Post celebration several former classmates met at a nearby home. We talked late into the night describing adventures (and misadventures) connected to time we spent in our home away from home, classroom S-01. As the evening progressed it became apparent that each of us had felt seen, attended to by Kent, in ways that deeply affected us both as teenagers and adults.

    So, to return to my question—does a single human life matter? What I experienced that weekend is that each life radiates outward in circles we can’t possibly imagine. While I still felt awed by the unknowable mystery of it all, I also felt more grounded in the feeling that the integrity of each person’s actions is important. We all contribute to the world in ways that are obvious, and in ways we may never know.

    Pam Hiller draws upon the storytelling traditions of her Tennessee childhood as inspiration for her writing. She has been blessed with a mother, relatives, and friends who know how to tell a good tale. Book-filled libraries have provided her with endless sources of wonder and interesting thoughts to ponder. It is Pam’s wish to write from the heart, from life experiences that influence her changing sense of being alive.

    Originally published in The Write Spot to Jumpstart Your Writing: Discoveries, on sale for $6.99 for a limited time at Amazon.

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    Water

    By Susie Moses

    All summer long I yearn to be in water.

    First choice – A freshwater lake, cool and clear, minerally, soothing to the skin. Quiet, still. Maybe at times a whitecap or two, but no big waves, just gentle undulations, giving the swimmer a sense of massage. A tickle of weedy underwater growth against a foot, a small fish swishing by a shin. Avoiding the mucky bottom. 

    Second choice – An East Coast ocean, edged by wide white sandy beach stretching for miles along the shoreline. Sweet breezes, bright white pelicans in formation against the stunningly azure sky. Watching them drop like stones into the waves to spear a fish each had been keeping an eye out for.

    Venturing into the water as it laps onto the hard sand, toes tickled by the searching wavelets propelled by the incoming tide. The zing of the chill, a thought of recoiling immediately overcome by the desire for immersion, the feel of the briny liquid fully enveloping the cranium.

    Muffled underwater sounds create a sense of otherworldliness, a retreat from the cacophony of life above the surface—squealing toddlers, mothers’ warnings: “That’s far enough!” Squawking seagulls, shouting teens as they hurl frisbees at one another. Momentary peace—but only for as long as a breath can be held.

    Third choice – A small river, where I found myself last weekend, immersed in green water flowing between old beech trees, tulip poplars and sycamore arching above the waterway, gnarled ancient roots exposed along the eroding muddy bank.

    I lie prone in the water above the massive rocks that pave the river bottom, face skyward, reveling in the flight of the great blue heron soaring overhead as it traces the path of the flow. I hang on to a silty stone to keep from being swept downriver as I feel the steady pull of the moving stream. The shore is rocky where we emerge and retrieve our beach chairs, wedging them amongst stones, a bit of a wobble inevitable as we balance them on the uneven surface as best we can, and splay ourselves out to dry off in the sun’s strong rays.   

    Did I say this was number 3? At that point, lying in the bracing liquid caressing my body, hot sun warming my upturned face, my hair pulsating with the water’s movement, taking in the wonder of the great blue making its way upriver, I think it simply can’t get any better than this.

    Summer at its finest.

    Nestled in a body of water far from human development, noticing an iridescent blue dragonfly waft about. Noting a doe and her fawn far downstream crossing to the other side. No sign of another person for miles, save the one dear friend who floats nearby.

    This is nirvana. Cool water, clear light, brilliant sky.

    Nature. Respite. Peace. 

    Susie Moses is a generative writing junkie, enjoying the process and dreaming of actually doing something constructive one day with the piles of papers and notebooks she has accrued, that are spilling out of closets and off shelves and out of drawers. 

    But for now, just getting words down on the page is an accomplishment and a delight. She spent the year of Covid in Marin County to be near her daughters, but has returned to her beloved Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia, at least for a while.

    You can read Susie’s dream of living in a cabin in a forest, by the edge of a lake here.