Monday, March 24, 2014

Write Edit Publish, Through the Eyes of a Child

Greetings all, it's time for another flash fiction story for Write... Edit... Publish entitled, Through the Eyes of a Child. I can't tell you how important this blog fest is to me. Each month we are given a challenge and if we choose to participate we create a story that will stretch our writery skills. I am often making a choice to remain in my chosen genre or go beyond. For this flash fiction piece I am going beyond. I hope you will visit all the writers and perhaps you will choose to participate as well. If you do you are most welcome. To visit the other writers and read their stories go here.

The very nature of flash fiction is short. We are allowed 1,000 words or less.

Through the Eyes of a Child

Mama sings to me. In the morning it is always a song about sunshine and waking up to a new day. During bath time she sings about bubbles and frogs until I giggle. I like to sing with her. After the special book at nighttime, Mama hums a tune until my eyes grow heavy and I sleep. Papa doesn't sing, he yells.

When my friend Tommy comes over we play dinosaurs on the living room rug. I can hear Mama singing while she cooks supper. Papa loves spaghetti and I do too. Tonight I can smell the garlic bubbling in the sauce while I play with Tommy and Mama sings.

Mama came into the living room. "Supper is almost finished and your father is almost home. Time to pick up and for Tommy to go home."

I wanted to pout. My lower lip started to stick out.

"Come Joey, you're a big boy now," Mama said.

I knew better than to complain. Pouting didn't work with Mama.

"Come again tomorrow Tommy," Mama said and watched him run home. He lived next door.

I put the dinosaurs in the toy box.

"Wash up and help me set the table." Mama returned to the kitchen while I used soap and water and had fun splashing the sick until it was wet all over even on the mirror. I heard Papa come in. His big voice bellowed, "What's for dinner?"

"Your favorite," Mama said. She didn't sing after Papa came home. He didn't like it. I ran into the kitchen but Mama had already put the plates out.

I climbed into my booster chair. Mama put my bowl of spaghetti before me. I loved sucking the noodles up until they hit my forehead. Giggling I did it again.

Mama smiled at me. Papa frowned. "Stop that," he said.

Mama sat across from Papa. He looked mean tonight.

"I hate spaghetti," Papa said and picked up his plate, throwing it at Mama. She ducked and it splattered on the wall behind her. Noodles dripped from a picture frame. Papa stood. "No surprise in this marriage," Papa said and turned the table over. My bowl of spaghetti landed in my lap. I started to cry. Papa hit the wall with his fist and made a big hole. I ran to my room and hid under my bed. My legs shook while things broke in the kitchen.

That night Mama had black and blue spots all over her face. My tummy hurt bad so she laid down with me and hummed until I slept.

In the morning after Papa left Mama cried. She packed some clothes for me in her suitcase. I got to ride in a cab. Tommy didn't come over to the motel room but I still played dinosaurs on the floor. We had McDonald's for supper and Mama sang to me about the spider going up and down the drain pipe. I like it better without Papa.

500 Words

This is a fictional story and isn't about any person I know and isn't intended to represent anyone in particular. Abuse knows no nationality, no race, no gender, no religion. Abuse is rampant and our children suffer. Stop the abuse.

Copyright 2014

Let me know what you think. All critique allowed.

Thursday, March 13, 2014

Just wondering

I'm thinking about doing the A - Z Blog Challenge in April. I need to challenge myself to write more so my theme would be ridiculous paragraphs. What concerns me is my health. Do you think I would be forgiven if I missed visiting folks if I get sick?


Wednesday, March 5, 2014

ISWG Emotions and Characters

Today is another addition of the insecure writer's support group or ISWG, brain child of Alex J. Cavanaugh. To read other post go here.

In am a writer. I lay claim to this title by right of my abilities and talent and by the fact that I have written and are still writing. If you are reading my post you are probably also a writer. Why? What drives us to write?

Excellent questions but I'm not going to answer them this time. Rather I want to talk about emotions, both mine and my characters. Some people don't care much about characters. But for me it is the characters that drive the story. If I'm going to invest my time in writing or in reading I want to have interesting characters.

In case you don't know, I am too honest and haven't hidden the fact that my personal life has been difficult and continues to be a challenge both medically and emotionally. I believe this very fact is what makes me a good writer. I have experienced so much sorrow and disappointment coupled with triumph and joy. So in light of all this I am going to make a little fun with a few emotions.

Can you guess the emotion, the health, or the attitude?

1. My gray shades have all turned black.

2. What's the point of trying?

3. I need a nap.

4. Arrgue

5. Interrupted by meaningless tattle.

6. The T.V. is on all day.

7. Pain...pain...go away.

8. Did you see that? Or that? Or what about that?

9. I heard this, because someone said that, because I did this, because, I don't know why.

10. What the heck am I supposed to do now?

The bottom line is that we all have things happen whether we are clear headed, rattled brained or in pain. Sometimes we are all the above. Dust yourself off and type away anyway.


In case you didn't notice I have two e-books available. The Treasures of Carmelidrium, an epic fantasy and The Magic of Windlierwoods. Just click on the link below the picture of the book on the side-bar to buy and please remember to leave a review. Thanks, Nancy

Wednesday, February 5, 2014

IWSG What's in your glass?

Wednesday, February 5, 2014

The first Wednesday of the month is time for the Insecure Writer's Support Group or IWSG, started by Alex J. Cavanuagh. I missed last month partly due to a new computer, a lap top, which I've never had before and subsequently, a big learning curve. To read other submissions in this blog fest or hop or whatever you want to call it go here.

I've been thinking about the over used cliche, Is your glass half....and you know the rest.

Most of us reading these posts are writers in various genres. When we begin a new story we also develop characters for our stories. How much of this cliche do you consider? Is your character a pessimist or an optimist? How does their glass affect the other characters and the over all tone of the story? What about your own life? How do the people you interact with on a daily basis affect you and therefore, affect your writing?

My mother is 92 years old and has dementia. An interesting phenomenon that occurs with this illness is that the happy memories are brought into clearer focus for them. This means that if there is a memory that may have previously brought out some other emotion, it may be (not always) that the person will remember only the good. Why am I telling you this in reference to the glass thing?

When I was a child a teacher switched me from my left hand to my right hand and gave me a learning disability. I wasn't learning. The school wanted my mother to institutionalize me. She taught me phonics and spent a lot of time with me so that I was able to overcome this problem. From my mother's perspective this was a terrible thing and stressed her out a lot. She used to say quite often, "There's something not right with Nancy." I heard that so much that I was held back by those words as much as I was held back by my learning disability that really went away as soon as I could read.

In this case, my mother's half empty glass affected who I became as an adult. On the one hand, she was there for me, but also her attitude limited me.

Recently when I went to visit her she said, "When I told the doctor what they (the school) said about you. (Inferring that the school thought I was mentally disabled.) He (the doctor) laughed. He said you were a brilliant child."

I am 62 years old and I have never heard this before in my life. What a difference this would have made to my self esteem and confidence if I had been told as a child that I was brilliant instead of something was wrong with me.

I strongly believe that when we interact with others we need to bear in mind what we do and say. Likewise, do I want a half empty hero? Or one who may face obstacles, may even stumble, but comes out a better person for it. It's okay to scar your characters, but as a reader, life is hard enough without ending in quick sand.

Of course, you may totally disagree with me. I'd love to hear your thoughts so please leave a comment.

Monday, December 9, 2013

Christmas Traditions, Write Edit Publish blog hop

Hello everyone. Merry Christmas, Happy all other Holidays. I can't remember them all so I'll say Happy to all and hope you don't mind.

I am posting this flash fiction piece for Write...Edit...Publish early because I've had so many computer issues I'm afraid to wait. I'm on the old, old computer which is slow, slow. I had to buy a new mouse yesterday and I may have to buy a new keyboard. I absolutely need to buy a new computer but I'm not sure when that will happen. Enough said.

Here is a true story from my childhood. We are supposed to post this on the 18th so I will remind all of you to come back and go the link so you can enjoy everyone's post. It's not too late to write your own story, poem or show pictures etc.

Christmas Elf

The distinct smell of turkey floated through the entire house. Soon our relatives would arrive. Dad made Hot Toddies while mom worked to create our traditional Thanksgiving meal. My brother and sister watched Massy's Thanksgiving Day parade. I entered the kitchen and saw my mother pull the turkey from the oven and base it. She'd started the meal early, before the rest of us got up. I volunteered to help. Now looking back I must have gotten in the way since I was only five. Mother was never cross though, she gave me a small project.

I turned and looked up and there in his bright red outfit was the Christmas elf. He sat above the door on the wood that hugged the frame. Our Christmas elf moved mysteriously, from one door to the other, watching us to be sure we were good before Christmas and sent a report back to Santa. It never occurred to me to wonder why my friends didn't have a Christmas elf, I just thought we were lucky.

The mysterious movement of the elf created a reason for the three of us, my brother, sister and myself to scurry over the entire house looking for him. I would stand below the door for hours talking to the elf and waiting to see him move. On Christmas Eve he ended the vigil by perching in the tree. On Christmas day he was always gone for the year because he left with Santa.

One summer my mother was looking through her junk box for something, I don't remember what it was. I was sitting next to her. There in the box was the Christmas elf. I grabbed him and declare. "The elf!" Quick as a wink, my mother swooped the elf from my hand and said. "He flew out the window." Naive and trusting I ran to the window but the elf was gone.

Now as I remember my childhood, I think the Christmas elf was my favorite thing.

"Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night." quote from The Night Before Christmas by Clement C. Moore.