one word~automatic

it’s automatic for me… to wake up, sit on my sofa, sip my coffee, read a bit, then face the rest of the day. it’s automatic for my spouse to talk during this time, nudge me to do some odd chores she thinks need doing and i feel are find left alone. i have my agenda–and she has one for me. the twain do not meet.

so, i changed my agenda a bit. now, when i’m sitting sipping reading, if she forgets that change, and falls back on giving me her version of my day, it’s automatic for me to back hand her across the face. i’ve found it makes my life far more enjoyable in a variety of ways.

One Word~Scarves

the idea of scarves had never crossed her mind in the past.  she'd seen them, crayon shades on display on vendors tables in every corner of the city.  cashmere, cotton, sheer fabric, long, short--each kind was represented and shilled by men with strange accents, willing to bargain a little if the day was right.

scarves filled a drawer in her dresser now.  they covered her bald head, her thin shoulders--draped and tied to hide the worse of the disease and it's equally horrific cure.  she was glad for them, for the warmth, the rich colors--the sense of beauty she sought in a world of needles, therapeutic poisons and pain.

FlashDrive Online

Walter Conley has put out another ezine full of amazing photography to go along with the short pieces from writers I admire more than I can say.

Have a look.  

One Word~Success

She’d had a life long relationship with food and its colors--it defined her moods, her place in the world, her status with life.  Joy was something covered in chocolate...it was a taste of which she’d never grown fond.  Golden roasted chicken, cooked long and slow, surrounded by bright green vegetables served on a deep blue plate heralded a time of prosperity and luck.  Ah, but, it was the foods in the white palette that gave her creative success in cooking, its shades comforting and familiar.  She'd awake deep in the night,  finding her way around the kitchen by the light of the gas ring on the stove....she knew proportions by heart, never hesitating as she moved to boil and stir and bake.  Bowls of cream of wheat, varieties of rice in main dishes or deserts, tapioca pudding, grits topped with an egg....oh, and potatoes! Potatoes boiled then smashed with the skins still on, potatoes scalloped with thick cream...potatoes baked until they burst, rich with sour cream and swiss cheese; each of these helped hold off the black.

She seldom thought back to the hours she’d spent as a child, made to kneel on raw rice or grains, for transgressions real and imagined.  The memories surfaced when she’d absently scratch a rough patch on her knee, and find a small grain of rice or a bit of corn meal had worked it’s way to the surface--she put them aside, in a special jar, planning the pudding she’d make one day....using those pieces, sugar, cream and hate.