Friday, April 18, 2014

Back to Life

via Jake on Flickr
Winter finally takes its leave and exits at everyone's satisfaction, erasing the feeling of blue so common with aching cold bones. All creatures welcome the warming temperatures that envelope them all in long-awaited comfort.

Smiles spread across the lips once used to blow warm breath across freezing fingers not buried in mittens. Layers of clothing are shed when the sun peaks out from clouds and greets gloomy creatures who not so long ago sang the blues and cursed its early setting.

The horizon meets a clear azure umbrella of sky to greet the wakening animals. Nature is renewed in the country, with a robin’s egg being laid in the nest and baby to hatch soon enough. She’d welcome her offspring as if they were royal.  

Deep brown soil hosts a stirring of plant life ready to spring upward and break through its crust. The bachelor’s-button flowers impatient to spread their cornflower blooms and wave across the grain field so long dormant over the season past.  

The slate of evening falls at last, and twilight’s periwinkle and pink hues crawl across the sky as if a Navy ship could set sail over the ocean-like waves. Midnight arrives.  

*The Woven Tale Press weekly prompt was blue, so I used all the shades of blue and associated words (those in bold) I could remember - just for fun!

(photo used w/permission)

Thursday, April 17, 2014

Cleo's Revenge - unedited

Who the hell was he, as a self-professed “dog person,” to smart off about her cat? He knew nothing about them, and a cat had never been known to like him either. Cats can sniff out the haters, you know. One particular torty she had used to get into the purse of anyone who came to visit, sniffed out their chewing gum or something, and pull things from within those confines. She’d warn her suitors how that little Tortoise Shell girl stole wallets. Some of them didn’t get the joke, which served as a good litmus test of their compatibility.

This particular feline-adverse fool had no cat sense. He watched the lovely calico go about her casual ways - lounging in a cozy ray of sunlight that crept in through a gap in the blinds - with no unnecessary hurry in her step. An aged cat leads a well-deserved life of luxury, but his scornful look proved he didn't approve. 

Cleopatra’s long orange, brown and tan hair and white stripe running the length of her nose, mixed with that look of intent longing when hungry, bore into her owner’s soul. She swooned as the cat wound in a figure-eight around her ankles.

The woman’s last boyfriend didn’t also experience the same attraction to Cleopatra. He had a cute face but a cold and ugly heart. If Cleo couldn’t chip away at his icy soul with her saucer-like eyes, than nothing could reach him. He was a lost cause.

Proof came when he asked why she was so lazy. Lazy? Cats are inherently sedentary when they get old. Cleopatra’s sore old bones and instinct tell her to nap throughout the day if no one is home.

Unless another kitty companion is with them, no other conceivable activity is worth their effort.  Especially not the expectations of an otherwise disinterested human who provides no sustenance, under-chin scratches or catnip. Someone like him simply doesn’t matter in the leonine world.

Cleopatra tried to warm up to him by bumping her head on his shoulder and rubbing her cheek against his shoe as he sat on her owner’s couch. She meant to leave her mark on him, just a little oil from her skin to make sure he knew it was her house and he was only a guest.  The disgust in his glare dripped off his face and onto her shiny coat, almost tainting its beautiful sheen. She felt dirty with his disdain and retreated to a corner to groom and rid herself of his condescension.  

He questioned her owner, “Why does it just sit there?” She huffed in reply and spat, “It? Her name is Cleopatra. You could at least say her.”

Ignoring the answer, he further inquired, “Why doesn’t it run around like a normal cat? It should pounce when you try to play with it.” Lip curled with displeasure, his unspoken hatred was obvious.  

Cleo was aghast to be left in that beast’s care when her owner went out of town for a whole week and left the cat at his apartment. He had grudgingly agreed to care for her but made no promises to scoop the litter box or pay her any attention whatsoever.

The jerk had no tolerance for a grimalkin such as her. He’d stomp in her direction and say, “Scat! Get out of here, cat!” He clapped his hands and shooed her away. He had no idea his downfall was imminent. She had plans for his undoing.

Her owner arrived on Friday afternoon to find Cleopatra cowering under the dining room table. After rising slowly to her mistress’s call of, “Here, kitty kitty,” wise Cleo limped slowly to the woman’s side and emitted a pitiful, ”Rorrrwl” in greeting before releasing a heavy breath and sinking back down on the carpet. The woman quickly scooped her from the floor for closer examination. Another pathetic and seemingly painful mewl elicited exactly the reaction she’d hoped.

The woman gasped, “Oh, you poor thing! What has he done to you?” She cradled the old cat gently in her left arm as she crafted a Dear John letter to her boyfriend with the other hand. It read:

“I don’t know exactly what happened to Cleopatra, but you’ll remain forever unforgiven in my heart. You are truly a monster, and I never want to see you again!”

Upon returning home, he was at a loss for what could have caused such a mysterious breakup.  He was perturbed at the ingratitude, having read the angry note just before he found the small brown gift Cleopatra left him on his pillow.   

(This was the initial version of a Studio 30+ prompt with a much shorter word limit.)

Tuesday, April 8, 2014

Along the Big Muddy

The first remarkable sight was a multitude of tiny amphibian carcasses smashed flat and turning gray on the pavement of the bridge. Apparently the frogs all swam for their lives and wound up here, albeit higher ground, only to be run over by cars prior to travel over the river having ceased. State authorities closed the thoroughfare when the Great Flood of 1993 became bad enough to threaten traffic on the old cantilevered truss bridge on that stretch of Missouri Highway 41. 

Farmers' fields were swallowed by the raging currents and crops decimated by the rising water level. It was a record-breaking amount of rainfall, an incredible deluge, and the flood level reached a peak not seen in 50-odd years according to locals. A spot of dry ground could scarcely be found in any direction looking from the overhanging northern shore of the Missouri River.

A frightened buck swam the river for all it was worth, instinct directing the animal farther away from its human enemy but only to an inevitable death among the depths. Mature deer in those parts might fall to a hunter's rifle in November but not drown in June. Onlookers gasped to watch the wide-eyed animal make such a rigorous effort leading to its own ultimate demise. 

Breached levees meant water eventually reached all the way to the platform. No entry, no egress. Cars were rerouted from the short passageway with no ferry access or service available, some trips lengthening to 50 miles. Resident numbers in surrounding communities was relatively small but affected nonetheless. That stretch of road was a fraction of the 30,000 square miles flooded that season, yet anyone without a boat and a vehicle parked on the other side doubled or tripled the daily commute.

The summer months drifted into fall, with the rainfall being span similarly long, with lives changed for the time being. People rallied to fill sandbags in hopes to keep the tide at bay. Everyone was warned to vaccinate against tetanus if slogging through the murky flood waters, and Anhueser Busch sent in canned water to drink during the boil order, as the potability of submerged wells couldn’t be trusted. Their fortification efforts were thwarted.    

photos by James McCray
The Mighty Missouri pulled similar tricks in the past, and people who lived anywhere near the river bottoms knew to expect the unexpected. Other vivid mishaps in the not-too-distant past lived in the memories of those who resided there for any length of time. Farmers braved the floodplain and rolled the dice every planting season, at Mother Nature’s mercy, and just waited for the channel to pour from its banks and obliterate months of their work. Their livelihoods submerged.

Other tragedies befell those shores before. The current’s force took swimmers in its powerful grasp, pulled children to their deaths despite signs warning of the powerful undertow and swimming being prohibited. Bodily remains were never found, likely swept away to the ocean in tiny fragments, prefaced by a parental torrential downpour of tears.

Another 20 years passed before tragedy struck a visitor to the area. Upon stopping for the night, a paddler succumbed to a heart attack following a leg of the Missouri River 340 race, which commemorates the Lewis & Clark Expedition, in the summer of 2013. Exhaustion and heat were the least of the man’s physical challenges at the end of his life journey just after dropping out of the contest. Another death along the river's banks.  

When looking nature in the eye, humanity’s comparative insignificance is obvious. No personal strength can match that severity. Natural forces overwhelm mere people, as if they were tiny, four-limbed creatures that can meld into the roads’ asphalt on passageways they've built across the great plains and water traversing the planet.   

*This post was prompted by the word RIGOROUS at The Woven Tale Press.

Friday, March 21, 2014

In God's Name (re-post)

In light of an infamous death in the American headlines yesterday, below is an appropriate re-post of something I wrote last year. The world is a little less hate-filled today.


robbplusjessie – flickr creative commons
Such a lovely summer afternoon generates a wonderful mood, with the breeze blowing and clouds diffusing the heat as they drift in front of the sun. Folks gathered there instead glanced around at each other in stunned bereavement, their eyes glazed over with grief. The cemetery. No one should have to spend an amazing day like that at a funeral.
Friends of the deceased young man milled about behind the line of family members at graveside. Fellow service members weren’t able to attend the hometown memorial as most of them were still at their duty station. Others from his until were still hospitalized from injuries they’d sustained in the IED explosion. His were too serious to survive and snuffed out his life at a mere 27 years.
A procession of motorcycles ran along the entire block of lanes surrounding the section of cemetery where he’d be buried. Bikers presented a formidable show of force, a seemingly impenetrable shield surrounding the gravesite, and Sergeant Miller’s family was glad to have the friendly strangers there. Especially burly ones who embodied such strength.
Having their protection made the Millers feel safe in a situation where no such assurance should’ve been necessary. Their son had given his life for his country — the ultimate sacrifice — yet his loved ones and friends had to restrict attendance to only those individuals truly paying their respects. Unfortunately, others arrived who were anything but courteous.
A short motorcade of them tried to pull up to the plot unnoticed in their dented-up vehicles with Kansas license plates. The first car, a faded yellow, late-model Chevy Caprice, came to a stop, and a small man emerged from the front passenger door. His hubris preceded him through an arrogant smile that slithered across his face. He was short and thin, with cheekbones threatening to slice through his transparent skin and dingy blond hair that had grayed into the dull color of metal. Removing a straw cowboy hat, its plastered ring still encircling his head, he waved the Stetson in a broad swoop before him. The gesture seemed a rallying cry to his troops.
The legion of followers emerged from their vehicles — station wagons with small children and teenagers, as well as trucks and SUVs with adult passengers — lifting their block-lettered signs from within. Every last one of them had a message to deliver from the Westboro Baptist Church. They wanted the world to know their congregation’s purpose.  The group, like their leader, believed this funeral needed to be protested. It was their purpose to interrupt a calm, quiet goodbye to a young United States service member in order to purport their mission of hatred.
Signs read, “Thank God for Dead Soldiers” and “Thank God for IEDs.” Others read, “God Hates Fags” and “Fags Die God Laughs.” Funeral goers saw the yellow and black signs emerge in the hands of school-aged kids, and their wails of sorrow grew louder than before. The church members seemed unfazed and urged their children forward to form a parade line. Adult faces, like that of their conductor, glowed with vitriol and indignation, whereas the little ones’ seemed perplexed and anxious. Prods from their elders kept the tiny minions moving regardless of their stilted steps.
A cacophony of motorcycle engines broke through the increasing volume of discord on both sides of the cemetery lane, those on the lush green lawn and others holding harsh placards on the hard, cold pavement. The bikers gunned their motors and moved in between the two factions, revving their bikes to declare their purpose – keeping the unwelcome visitors away from the funeral. An over-sized American flag billowing from the lead motorcycle blocked the church leader’s face from the sight line of dead soldier’s family.
As the driver of the first bike lowered his kickstand, he removed his helmet and approached the man standing defiantly with his cowboy hat in hand and trying to whip his followers into a frenzy. A twisted expression and too-large dentures accentuated his ghoulish features and emphasized the monster he truly embodied, but he seemed to shrink as the leather-vested gentleman neared him. No one else could hear the few words expressed at such close range to the bilious little man, but the congregation recognized his signal for immediate retreat. They all turned, hustled the children back into the cars, and withdrew from the scene in haste.
The clamor faded into the distance, and appreciative cheers of funeral goers eventually settled down, too. The motorcyclists escorted the stymied Westboro bunch out and blocked any chance at re-entry so the burial ceremony could proceed as originally planned. An overhead row of cumulus clouds fully dispersed, and only the harmonious summer songbirds accompanying the eulogy remained to be heard.
One more disgraceful disaster averted … unfortunately, so many more to come.  frifriwri250
*This post is being submitted for The Friday Fright Write at Cheney’s blogGiving Up The Ghost. She prompted participants to “write about the scariest creature you can imagine.”

Thursday, February 27, 2014

The Beauty of a Woman BlogFest III

This post is part of August McLaughlin’s Beauty of a Woman blogfest. She suggested writing an encouraging letter to your least favorite body part. Her blog and other entries can be found at  

not me
Dearest Loathsome Midsection of Mine,

You crept up on me so stealthily that I hardly recognize you. I can’t say that I like you very much, if the truth be told, but I’m sure you really don’t care. You’ve changed, and I don’t like the transformation. Years ago, you were practically unnoticeable when I unveiled you in only a bikini top, cut-offs and flip flops during summertime and wasn’t embarrassed. Perhaps that was simply adolescent naivete of someone fooling herself.

So many things in my life are different now. Age and slower metabolism is taking its toll. Bad habits have ingrained themselves, no matter how innocuous they seemed at first. Yes - I know I need to give up sugar, pasta and Diet Coke. Bagels are not kind to me. Chocolate is not my friend, regardless of how good it tastes at that moment.

Don’t even talk to me about the gym, damn you!

You honestly deserve some credit. You held my baby while his body and mind developed, while my “advanced maternal age,” as they called it, did me no favors. My son was nestled safely within my body while he waited to face the world, and his is the greatest gift of my life.  

While I owe you thanks for accomplishing that herculean task, I’m still fighting against you. A metamorphosis took place after the doctor performed a c-section and later a hysterectomy. It’s not his fault, though, because hormone changes (or the absence thereof) necessitate lifestyle changes. Knowing that now doesn’t make me fit in clothes any more comfortably until I do more about it. I need to be healthy enough to see as much of my son’s life as possible.

That’s why I go to yoga class even when I don’t feel like it. I glare at you in the mirrored wall while I try to stifle all the negative self-talk going on in my head. Giving you the stink eye does no good. It’s funny how I feel so much better afterward, although my brain played tricks on me and said I could skip a day because I was too tired or had something else to do. Becoming even more active could bring about the weight loss I want.

Ultimately, the way you look is not the sum total of who I am. You are a part of my physical self but not who I am as a person, a woman, a mother. My family and friends see the real me, not just the size 6 I used to be or the size 10-going-on-12 I am now. My stomach, waist and hips do not determine my beauty or my worth.

How I live and how I love are what make me beautiful. So I’ll continue to try to convince myself of that fact and not suffer over days long gone. Funny, I don’t remember if I was happier back when I looked different. I can only worry about being happy now, and you can’t keep me from it.



P.S. I just ate a fun-size Butterfinger and loved every second of it. 

(image via

August encourages us all to share our thoughts on beauty, and comments are welcome below. How do you define beauty? What makes you feel beautiful? Any thoughts to share on this year’s fest overall?

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

out to lunch

 the painful truth

No one has probably even noticed that I haven't posted here in months, as my following is small. I fully realize my relative web insignificance. It's humbling but true.
I do wish I was more diligent about my "Thanks, my friend" effort I had somewhat persistently pursued for about a year. So many amazing women deserve recognition, and I regret I haven't continued to give them kudos here. My life is rich with amazing women I have the privilege to know, and I hope to get back to blogging about them. 
In the meantime, I have been fervently pursuing efforts at fiction writing over on katy brandes writes. The main impetus is an online writing community called Studio 30 Plus, where weekly prompts give me the motivational push I need. 
I am trying to "find my voice." It was a great pleasure to have a line from one of my posts , "a semi-permanent state of self-medication," used as Studio30+'s prompt this week.
Many posts are out-takes from my '70s childhood with fictional spins on them. Sometimes I get a tad serious and sprinkle in some social commentary. Being from the Midwest, I can't help but also throw in what I hope is a little colloquial humor.

Any which way I spin it, I am having a ball trying to mix it up and improve my fictional skills (take that how you will). Meeting other bloggers, especially other avid readers and book reviewers, is one of my favorite things about shredding the blogsophere.  

So, until further notice, please find me over on that other platform. Thanks!

Thursday, October 17, 2013

The Caretaker

via Magic Ketchup on Flickr
A faint whiff of Vicks VapoRub drifted across the stale room as her Mistress exhaled heavily and dispersed the scent. Even a cat could sense the thick medicinal smell. Moogie, a long-haired Calico, lay on the rocker’s seat next to the bed and lifted her head to sniff, sniff, sniff the air as felines are apt to do.

Moogie was originally called Mookie, regardless of being a female, after her favorite baseball player who’d helped the Mets beat the Red Sox in that “Buckner Play” during the ‘86 World Series. Her Mistress hated Boston. One of her favorite memories was listening to ball games on the radio back before her hearing failed. With her slurred speech following the stroke, nurses thought she called the cat “Moogie” instead of “Mookie,” and it had stuck.

Now the Mistress spent most of her days reading the paper, even though she may not remember what news she’d read minutes after setting it down on the night stand, or slowly rocking in the chair her late husband had built out of oak boughs. Moogie spent many afternoons on her lap in front of the window, resting in a supine position enveloped within an irresistible splay of sunlight. Her Mistress’s gnarled fingers still endlessly stroked the cat and immersed them both in joy. Such happiness had been hard to come by since the Master’s death several years prior and the failing health of her Mistress after that aneurism somewhat incapacitated her. Regardless, they still had each other.

The attentive companion realized a sudden absence of the sharp vapor aroma and crept from her perch on the rocking chair and onto the resting place of her Mistress. Moogie padded softly across the bird’s-nest patterned quilt, ironically named for the only other place the cat would rather be than with her beloved Mistress. The cat stepped gingerly to ascend the woman’s body and onto her regular nesting spot atop her chest. But her ears immediately perked up, as something was amiss upon her arrival there.

Moogie noticed the lack of a rhythmic tempo, the normal rise and fall usually present when she sunk into repose, and how the body of her Mistress seemed flat and absent of breath. The night nurse was in the other room and, unfortunately, had no way to know if anything was wrong. A growl emerged from Moogie’s throat at the possibility of that woman not paying attention.

Magic Ketchup on Flickr
She sprung into action and leapt into the hallway to gain the nurse’s attention. Of course, the lazy woman sat with a pile of knitting in her lap in front of a static-filled screen in the living room and her head lolling onto the back of the sofa. The white noise emitting from the television muffled any sound from the adjacent bedroom where her Mistress might lay dying.

Forming a tight figure eight around the dozing woman’s legs, Moogie intently rubbed on her calves and mewed as strongly as possible to rouse her from slumber. She ambled onto the sofa when those caresses seemed too slight to do the trick and alit on the back of the couch beside the nurse’s head. Moogie positioned herself strategically by the woman’s ear to let out a yowl loud enough to stir poor Mister, long since six-feet-under. The cat mustered all she had, for an aged being such as her, to wail at top volume.

It wasn’t actually the caterwauling that awakened the nurse but an annoying tickle from Moogie's long, white whiskers and a perpetual tinkle of the round bell hanging from her red collar that did it. The nurse bolted upright and rose to her feet, frightfully aware of her dereliction of duty. “Silly, cat,” she said. “What are you doing ... trying to steal my breath?”

As she strode toward the bedroom, the nurse called, “Missus, are you alright?” There was, of course, no answer. No stirring whatsoever came from within the confines of the room. A startlingly loud snort broke the silence just as she reached toward the Mistress to check on her odd state of still reticence, and the nurse let out a heavy sigh of relief. In her twist to find a comfortable position, the Mistress made several other snuffling sounds indicative of her persistent sleep apnea. The nurse retreated to her knitting once she’d pulled the mussed coverlet back up to her charge’s chin.

Already back up on the bed, Moogie wound her body in several circles before settling down once again at her Mistress’s side. She closed her still sharp green eyes and lost herself once again to repose amidst the familiar yet calming current of menthol breezing past her whiskers.

*This post was prompted by tinkle at Studio30Plus.