My Quiet Place

In the mornings
Just before the house awakes
A hot cup of coffee in hand.

This is my quiet space.

A Sunday drive
Down country roads
Trees ablaze in fall splendor.

This is my quiet space.

In the wee hours
Children nestled snug in their beds
The cadence of a snoring husband nearby.

This is my quiet space.

In the living room
Absent of little handprints
Red couch and golden floor warming me.

This is my quiet place.

In the bed
Pillow soft and inviting
When at last my thoughts are put to rest.

This is my quiet place.

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This week we asked you to write about your quiet place. Where is it? What does it look like? What happens there? Our word limit was 200.

Once Upon an AOL

Write on Edge

“You’ve got mail!”. The instant greeting to overeager social computer butterflies the world over made famous through a sweet romantic comedy titled so originally “You’ve Got Mail.” Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan had the inside scoop on using the internet to find love. Some people found new hobbies through the once bigger than Facebook online service called America’s Online.

There were groups to be found for everything you liked, from hooking up with the local yokels, to learning the ins and outs of Paintshop Pro. You could plan your wedding on such sites as The Knot while designing your own tags with a group like PSP Friends to guide you. PSP Friends…if only I knew then how much more than just paintshop tips I received. It paved the way for building and maintaining online friendships before forums became popular.

Her name was Shadowy Wolf Eyes, also known in the real world as Anna. She took me in under her wing, teaching me all the tips and tricks that would help me do the designs I do today, hour after endless hour in chat. We would talk about my daughter, her illness, her parents, my family. We would discuss ideas and new ventures much like my online best friends and I do now. We would eventually begin our own online PSP group together called Shadows of Heaven. We made plans to do business together as our knowledge expanded and my experience grew. She led me to poetry sites, boosting my self-esteem, particularly in regards to writing, as needed. Ours was a true and happy friendship, though we had never met face to face.

All our plans died one day when my computer failed. Not in a position to afford a new one, and a lack of transportation to get to places where I could pop online long enough to retrieve the information I needed to keep up with her outside of the internet, we lost touch.

Today, I have tons of people I refer to as friends, and most of them I have never met face to face. This is something that began in boredom many years ago, I went several years missing, and now I simply could not live without.

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Concrit is always welcome. Thanks for reading.

For the Love of Mice

His time in my life was brief but memorable. It was one week during my 10th summer I spent at his house on a trip with the angel that existed in the earthly form of my bus driver. His undying attention to me and only me, his jealousy when I turned my attention to his sisters, turned my dour and dreary world into sunshine.

I can still remember the warm softness of the homemade quilt under my fingers as he raced into the dollhouse replicated attic bedroom his sisters shared with me one very early morning. I remember the sun dancing kisses across my face through the dormer window the bed I was sharing was positioned in. His twin sister sat up briefly, her arms stretched to the ceiling, then reached down to the floor. A shoe found its way from her hand to his chest as she told him to get lost and let us all sleep.

On tiptoe he and I became inchworms creeping back down the stairs, suppressed giggles threatening to explode at any given moment. I didn’t know why he was so excited, I only knew that I wanted to share this moment with him. I followed him into the kitchen.

“I want to show you something,” his voice whispered, still squeaking in that not yet a man way.

He led me to a small space between the refrigerator and the counter. He pulled a mousetrap from between it, where a sandy brown ball of fur had been caught in its jaw. Shrieks filled the house.

“Ewwwww!! Get it away!! Gross!! Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!!” My feet ran into the next room before my voice did, the mouse mere inches behind me. Three minutes and a hurricane later, his mother stepped out of her room. Another giggle emerged as she grabbed him by his hair, the only part of him she could catch, and he stopped.

“Donovan Emerson Manning! Stop chasing that girl with that thing and take that dead mouse OUT OF MY HOUSE right now!”

He was the first and only boy to ever show me his undying love with the gift of a dead mouse. There would be more boys in the years to come, but none of them ever touched my heart or turned my stomach in quite the same way.

Write on Edge

This week we asked you to write about a person from your past…but the story had to include YOU.

In 600 words or less.

I’m having a bad day. Give it to me anyway. I can take it.

RemembeRED: I Do

I set out on a narrow way, many years ago.

Hoping I would find true love, along the broken road…

One by one they entered the room, white satin baskets filled with pink rose petals, meant to decorate my path, held by the littlest girls, all blonde, all pink and blushing. A satin pillow, clasped in tiny hands, danced off somewhere to the left, weaving its own path to the baskets ahead. One by one they stepped, hair carefully coifed, bouquets secured treasures within their fists, sure steps that I would soon be following.

Others who broke my heart, they were like Northern stars,

Paving me on my way into your loving arms…

The little window gave teasing glimpses of the path I would soon take. Black jacket over charcoal gray pants, scratchy face smoothed, a smile patched in exactly the right place of his darling face. A rugged angel, a knight in plain armor, the unlikeliest of men, captured my heart. Father’s strong arm wound with mine, his steady steel calming my quivering one. One step at a time, one gentle tear escapes, one from mine and one from his.

But you just smile and take my hand

You’ve been there, you understand

Tears traced beloved lines. Forgotten vows finally spoken.  A look, a glance, a tender kiss, a captured moment between  husband and wife. Five long years of waiting, over in a blink, a laugh, a child’s sneeze.

This much I know is true

Hands clasped, together, as one, we began life over again. He, me, and two little clones. A love like no other, proof dreams do come true.

God blessed the broken road that led me straight to you.

For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health. I do.

This week’s memoir assignment was to write about  a time rhythm played a role in your life without using the word. Maybe it’s a time that you danced to a special song. Maybe it’s a period of your life during which the days were marked by a distinct pattern. Or maybe it’s a time that you couldn’t catch your breath because life just kept coming at your randomly. Let’s see if you can convey that rhythm using your writing.

Did I do it? Concrit always appreciated.

RemembeRED: Amazing Grace

Crap. I have run in my stockings. Not only am I now mortified, crawling on my hands and knees from class to class, but I have to suffer a run in my hose too. I knew I should have played hooky today.

“Everyone is gathered here this morning for the auction of the Senior Class slaves. Bidding will start at $5.00. Highest bidder wins.” Principal Perdue’s* voice bounced from the microphone. “First up we have Lori Sims. Onedollaronedollarwhobidsonedollaronedollar! TwodollarstwodollarswhobidstwodollarsTWOdollars! Fivedollarsfivedollarsfivewhobidsfivedollars? Fivedollars! SOLD!”

My heart sat in my lap. Waves of sickly sweet ran through my veins. I did not want to do this, but I had no choice. “You have to show a united front if you want to plan your own Senior trip this year” had been drilled through my skull since we were told we had a chance to go somewhere different this year. I had to do this, period. Hopes floated to the paneled ceiling that someone would buy me as my turn to be auctioned came up.

“Stephanie Graves, come on up. Who’ll give me one dollar for Stephanie? Onedollaronedollaronedollarwhobidsonedollaronedollar? Anyone? Just one dollar and Stephanie is yours for the day. Onedollaronedollar.”

Whispers swirl like fudge in vanilla ice cream. My classmates are talking to one another. A hand goes up, joined by three other hands. I eat my eyebrows.

“Sold to Sara, Lori, Sherri, and Angela.”

I sit. Heaviness fills my lap in the form of books. My first task had been assigned to me.

“You will crawl on your hands and knees to every other class today.” Doom speaks. “Carry our books to our lockers when you aren’t crawling.”
“Is that it?”

“For now.”

Laughter. Stares. It’s hot down here on the floor despite the cool air from the vents I encounter. Giggles heard. My eyes meet my nemeses, standing there waiting and smirking. Prayers for a hole to be swallowed by go unanswered. Hand over hand, knee drag after knee drag, I make it to class. A hand hangs before my eyes, reaches out, helps me stand. Daggers of gratitude are sent out.

“We have five minutes left to the day,” the homeroom teacher says.

“Wait! We have one more job for Stephanie.” Doom speaks. “Stand on that chair, in the middle of the classroom, and sing Amazing Grace.”

No, no, no. Heart meets feet.

“Amazing grace…”

“Louder.”

“How sweet the sound.”

“Louder!”

Throbbing where my nose should be.

“That saved a wretch like me…”

Giggles.

“I once was lost, but now I’m found. Was blind but not now I see.”

Full on laughter.

Snap my ankle says as I leap to the floor, my eyes threatening to flood the carpet. I run out of the classroom, down the hall, to the bathroom.

At least I didn’t have to crawl anymore.

*All names changed for privacy.

This week’s assignment was to write about an embarrassing moment.

Concrit is ALWAYS welcome.