Terrific Tuesday, Writers Group

Terrific Tuesday

The day began with a downpour. Around mid-day I checked the mailbox–nothing yet. I glanced toward the horizon and my heart did a happy dance. Just beneath the thick grayness stretched a band of brilliant blue. As the day progressed, blue prevailed in the battle, pushing back the source of darkness that hung heavily overhead. 

This Tuesday is special–writers group! I love these people! I never considered myself a writer, but accepted their invitation years ago–with the lure of cookies. I thought they said cookies. Now I’m pretty sure they meant KOOKY. Yes, I fit right in! Early on, I could hardly keep my voice steady when asked to read aloud. But this is a safe place. The masks are off. Writing comes from deep within, souls laid bare, and no one is judged. It’s a wonderful journey of discovery, and I enjoy traveling with this merry band of strangers who became friends. 

I have no new bird pictures this week, but I do have this not-so-perfect picture of a fluffy squirrel. I liked how its light-colored eye ring shows up in the shadow. How can I resist that cuteness? Here, take all the sunflower seed–I’ll even toss in a few peanuts for you. 

I hope you have a lovely day! 






KPC Writers Group–Gone With the Wind

That doesn’t mean our group was carried off by some great force of nature, nor does it mean we’re going to write “Gone With the Wind.”  Margaret Mitchell already took care of that–and she did it quite well! Last month we were treated to the PBS video-biography of her life. The title of her book was the prompt for this month’s writing exercise. 

The offerings, penned, and read by some of our members at tonight’s meeting, were astounding. We have many talented writers, yet when it comes to sharing our work how often we hear, “I don’t want to have to follow that act!” We try to measure our worth against others. 

Our fearless leader steps in and gives us “The Talk.” She confirms us, that each of us has a unique voice. Not everyone likes the same things, has the same experiences, or communicates in the same way. There is room for everyone. 

With that in mind, I bring my humble offering to share with you (since I don’t have another post prepared). 

There are so many distractions from which to choose, one for every purpose, and sometimes, two. Or more.

I like to do my creative writing on the computer, typing just above the yellow flashing light for Windows Calendar in the task bar. Eventually, the flashing bar piques my curiosity and I check to see what else it is that I’m NOT doing. The laundry needs attention; dinner requires a quick stir; hungry birds, fed; and maybe I should take a couple pictures for the blog while I’m outside.

Now, where was I…Oh, yes, working on the writers group assignment. The jingle announces new email—and I ignore it. For a minute. Ok, maybe it was only thirty seconds.

And you know what else? I haven’t checked Facebook ALL DAY! I wonder what my friends and family are up to. I—MUST—RESIST—temptation, before those writing ideas escape through the hole in my head and are gone with the wind. Oops! Too late. 

What do you write? And, why do you write? 







Writers Group Prompt, April 2012

Our prompt for April was to write about something that washed up on the beach.

Image courtesy Bing/public domain

It was one of those days. Who invented the snooze button, anyway? Alarm clocks are not so user friendly when the user is half asleep. Thelma peered at the numbers that told her she was going to be late for work, again. She shuffled to the bathroom where the harsh light reflected the toll the years had taken on her body. Laugh lines, frown lines, she had them all. Even in places no one laughs or frowns. Apparently, she needed more ‘belly laughs.’ She sighed and ran the brush through her hair, and decided she had better call work to report her expected late arrival. Only this time, her boss told her to take the rest of the day off, and they’d talk the next morning. “Oh, I’ve gone and done it now,” she thought.

The urge to crawl back in bed was strong, but Thelma knew that would solve nothing. It had not worked in the past. She pulled on her capris and tank top, and opted to visit the beach, maybe the salty air would clear her head and revive her lagging spirit.

She unfolded the sand chair and balanced it on the shifting sand where the waves and shore collide, and plopped down. She felt as washed up as the bits of broken and battered shells surrounding her. Out of desperation more so than a prayer, she sighed, “Lord, what am I going to do?”

There was a lot of activity at the water that day, boats, jet skis, paddleboards; and tots building castles at water’s edge. Her eyes glimpsed a man on a paddleboard, who seemed to be coming straight toward her. As he neared, she realized he wasn’t on a paddleboard. She didn’t know it yet, but Help was on the way.

Call upon me in the day of trouble; I will deliver you, and you will honor me.
Psalm 50:15 

KPC Writers Group Prompt Aug. 2011

Our prompt this month is:
“You’re walking down the street when someone calls your name . . .” public domain

Kelly packed her lunch, grabbed her purse, and headed for the bus stop. The sidewalk was a bit crowded, as usual, with commuters bustling to and fro. Kelly heard someone call her name. She turned to look behind, but saw no familiar face coming toward her. She decided there must be another Kelly in the vicinity. She pressed on to reach the bus stop before the bus did. She didn’t need the aggravation of missing it on top of all the other things going on in her life right now. Just ahead, she caught sight of the elderly gentleman who walks his dog in this area each day. He always has a ready smile for anyone daring to make eye contact. Only today, she didn’t see the dog. His usual smile was a bit cloudy.

“Stop and ask about the dog.”

“I might miss the bus.”


His eyes caught hers, and she couldn’t help but stop and inquire as to the whereabouts of his walking buddy. He told her the old dog had a seizure yesterday, and didn’t recover. At the sight of his watering eyes, she couldn’t contain her tears. She squeezed his hand for a brief moment, then excused herself and was on her way.

She arrived at the stop the same time the bus did. “Perfect timing,” said The Voice. She smiled.

There was a vacant seat next to the woman she sat by the previous day. She was a kind lady, one who had asked the right questions and had Kelly spilling her guts. She started to apologize for dumping on the woman, but her seatmate took her hand and said, “Honey, I’ve been praying for you. Today my prayer is that you will hear God’s voice directing your every step.”

Kelly smiled brightly, and knew this was going to be the best day of her life.

KPC Writers Group prompt-July 2011

The prompt for this month is to tell about a fire started or put out. 

Svadba tabuľka

Down, and almost out, Joe accepted his friend’s offer of a catering job. The fete was booked by Mrs. Vandenburg in hopes of raising support for another of her pet projects. Before the failure of his business venture, Joe would more than likely have been on the guest list, but not now. No, instead, he would be a servant, rather than the served.

The crew arrived early and everything was in place before the guests breezed in. As the room filled with the air of pretense, Joe caught a glimpse of Mrs. Vandenburg’s daughter, Elizabeth. The fluidity of her movement as she mingled among the banquet guests washed over him and left a desire unlike any other. It was just a tiny spark, a glint she saw when their eyes met. She could feel his sweeping gaze as she turned to greet yet another attendee.

Elizabeth was used to it, the attention from men. Her mother ingrained in her at an early age she could have any man she wanted, being graced with the familial beauty, charm and of course, money; and she had found this to be true, if only for a little while. As a debutante, she was smitten with the attention and fell hard, only to find her heart shattered into a million jagged pieces. Somewhere in the healing process, the pieces of her tender heart had become frozen together.

As she made small talk with a guest, a question volleyed back and forth across her mind, “Why did that caterer look so familiar?” She was trying to place where she might have seen him without staring at his angular features that tended to attract the eye.

When another guest approached the young man in question and shook his hand, she immediately knew who he was! How different he looked in the humble attire of a server. She couldn’t help but sneak a peek occasionally; he carried himself with such dignity. As dessert was served, she felt warm breath in her ear, asking, “Coffee?”  She turned her head to peer into those eyes full of warmth, and her heart melted.

Writers Group Prompt for June 2011

I’ve taken the Writers Group prompt for June and decided to try my hand at a story told in dialogue only.

He Should Have Listened

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times!”

“Did you say something?”

“See? You never listen to me when I talk to you. Neither does your brother, Raymond.”

“Did you call me?”

“No, I was telling your sister that neither of you listen to me.”

“But I just did. So you weren’t telling the truth.”

“Wow, you just knocked him into the middle of next week!”

Writers Group, May 2011: I Blame My Mother

Google image:

I Blame My Mother

It’s her fault, y’know; that we turned out like this, my brother and I. Under her influence from the day we were conceived, we had no choice. Throughout the formative years, our stay-at-home mom molded and shaped us, day after day after day. She didn’t even drive like the other moms for Pete’s sake, we were captive, unable to escape her grasp.

As children, we didn’t know we were “different.” Until we started attending school, that is. Interacting with others our age, it became clear that there was something wrong. They weren’t like us.

But we had each other, he and I, at least, until he brought a girl home to “meet the parents.” They liked her. He liked her. She liked him. They got married.

A few years passed, and after observing our family, she made a profound statement: That it wasn’t just my brother and I who suffered from this unknown syndrome, in fact, it was an inherited trait from our mother! We were aghast.

But little did SHE know. It was NOT an inherited trait; for now, she too, suffers from a warped sense of humor. Yes, my mother had honed her skills and affected everyone she came into contact with.