by Jenn on August 23, 2008
He stared out the window, considering the cloudless blue sky. From the bed in his third-story hospital room, he could see the tops of the trees in the parking lot below swaying softly with the light summer breeze. He wished that he could return to the marina, hose down the decks of his small vessel, and point its bow toward the San Francisco Bay. He would sail out to sea, allowing the wind to carry him and his boat in any direction it wished for as many days as he had left on earth.
He sighed deeply as he shifted his gaze back to the I.V. pole from which hung several plastic bags containing clear liquids. Three separate tubes carried the substances from the bags to his veins. He winced as he moved his left arm. Looking down, he noticed that a new bruise had developed where the nurse had unsuccessfully tried to reinsert the needle earlier in the day.
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by Jenn on August 9, 2008
“Another one,” she said matter-of-factly.
“What? Who?” Karen shrieked through a loud yawn. “Oh, man, I really wanted to get through the summer without going to a another freakin’ funeral!”
“Huh? No, no . . . nobody died.”
“Then what are you talking about?” Karen mumbled, still half-asleep.
“You obviously haven’t read today’s newspaper yet,” she replied. “Go get it. Look at the ‘Birth Announcements’ on page eight. I’ll get another cup of coffee while you do.”
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by Jenn on August 8, 2008
Welcome to the Just Write Blog Carnival, featuring a diverse and information-packed collection of articles about the various aspects of writing. Be sure to convey your appreciation to the participants by joining in the discussion at their respective sites and submitting their work to your favorite social networking groups. Enjoy!
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by Jenn on August 3, 2008
When Chloe saw Susan walking toward her, she felt some relief and took her first deep breath of the morning. Positioned at the entrance to the mall’s large, centrally-situated cafe, she watched Susan navigate the throng of window shoppers.
Chloe could not remember a time in her life when she had not known Susan. They met when Susan’s family moved into the house down the street from her family home in the summer of 1974. They were both three years old and immediately became fast friends. They attended the same local public schools until they selected different colleges and found themselves separated for the first time in their lives. They remained close, though, visiting each others’ campuses on weekends and spending breaks together back in their home town. When Susan married, she served as the maid of honor and was thrilled when Susan asked her to be the godmother to both of her children. And when she divorced, Susan moved back to their home town to raise her daughters in close proximity to her large family.
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“Tell me again why we’re doing this.”
He took a deep breath and considered his response. He resisted the urge to be flippant, recognizing that sarcasm, at this particular moment in time, would only further upset her. Without turning to look at her, he took her hand firmly in his and squeezed it reassuringly.
“We’re doing this because we love each other,” he whispered calmly and resolutely. “I’m right here beside you, you look beautiful, all of our family and friends are here . . . ” he let his voice trail off, afraid that reminding her of all the people gathered on the lawn just a few yards outside the vestibule in which they were standing might set her off. After a brief pause, during which he could hear her breathing remain somewhat shallow, but steady, he continued. “Look at the sky. And the water. It’s a perfect day. Just for us.”
“I love you. You know that. We don’t need to do this, though,” she said quietly, her teeth slightly quenched. “We could go upstairs and change. And then come back down and just have a big party.”
“We could,” he said slowly and deliberately, continuing to hold her hand tightly. “But that’s not what we really want.”
Silence.
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Welcome to the July Bookworms Carnival, the monthly event that strives to build and unite a community of bloggers through their mutual love of literature.
This month’s theme is “Relationships” and the participants in this edition have provided thoughtful, articulate, and honest reviews of books focused upon that topic:
Dewey presents One Whole and Perfect Day at The Hidden Side of a Leaf , a review of Judith Clark’s 2008 Printz Honor book by the same title. He enjoyed the characterizations, but takes issue with the narration style.
SmallWorld Reads presents a review of one of my all-time favorite books, To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee at SmallWorld Reads. Savor the quotes she shares . . . they will make you want to read the book again and again, as she has.
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She entered the reception area, and warmly greeted the young woman stationed at the front desk.
“Hello, Angie,” she said. “How’s this semester going?”
“Great. My classes are hard, but I love my professors and I’m learning a lot,” Angie enthused. “They’re doing an art project right now.”
“Thanks,” she said as she initialed the logbook, noting the time — 3:15 p.m. Luckily, she did not have any parent-teacher conferences, teachers’ meetings or other obligations today, so she was able to leave school immediately after dismissing her students, tidying up her room, and posting tomorrow’s assignments on the blackboard. She glanced at the clock and smiled slightly as she resolved to prepare pork chops for dinner that evening. She was looking forward to a leisurely Thursday evening at home with her family.
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“So how does it really feel to be a published author?” Dana asked, as they lounged on the grassy lake shore. The mid-day sun was warm and a soft breeze occasionally rustled the water’s surface. The sky was a perfect mixture of the kind of searing blue tones that young children use in crayon drawings and randomly-scattered, soft, thin clouds.
“I’m not a published author yet,” she laughed in response.
“O.K. Fair enough. You’re a purchased author,” was Dana’s jolly retort. “I want to know all the details about how it feels to know that your novel is going to be on the shelves of all your favorite bookstores . . . all over the country, no less . . . in just a few . . . weeks?”
“I’m not sure exactly how long it will be,” she explained. “They said it should be a few weeks, but their lawyers are pouring over every word, checking all of my research. So it depends on how long that process takes to complete.”
“Blood-sucking lawyers,” Dana snorted. “Why do they have to be involved in publishing a novel, anyway?”
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“So have you set a date yet?” I asked my mother a few weeks ago when she informed me that she was remarrying.
I had mixed feelings about her announcement. My father has been gone for nearly three years now. He was ripped away from us so suddenly and unexpectedly that from time to time, I still experience the shock and disbelief that I felt on that horrible day when I heard my mother’s barely audible voice on the phone and knew that I had to get home as quickly as possible.
He awoke early that day, as was his custom. He loved to take Sadie, our beloved springer spaniel, for a walk each morning before eating a light breakfast and heading off to work. My mother always preferred to sleep a little later each morning, so it was the sound of dishes shattering followed immediately by a loud thud that jarred her awake.
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“Come on in and make yourself comfortable,” he said warmly, gesturing toward the west side of the large, sunny room where a couch and two chairs separated by a small table were arranged casually in a semi-circle. “Sit wherever you’d like,” he continued as he picked up a manila folder from the desk on the far wall and sat down in the large, overstuffed chair in the middle of the room facing the other furniture.
“Thank you,” she said softly, selecting the wicker chair with the seat cushion, as he made a mental note of her choice. She had picked the most uncomfortable seat in the room. The one that would require her to sit virtually upright during their entire time together since it offered the least lumbar support and made squeaky, squishy noises when its occupant squirmed in a vain attempt to find a more suitable position. However, it was deliberately placed most directly across from and in line with his chair. By the time she returned next week, the chairs would be rearranged to facilitate his observation of whether she will pick the same chair or the chair in the same position relative to his.
“You’ve been across the street a good while,” he said. “I saw you there when I arrived for my first appointment this morning. That was more than two hours ago.” He studied her expression.
“I arrived early,” she responded, squirming in the chair in a futile effort to get comfortable.
“Did you forget what time the appointment was?” he probed.
“No,” she said declaratively, without expounding.
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