Happy 75K to me!

 Happy 75K to me!

 

This weekend I hit a milestone, 75,000 views on my blog, http://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com.

Big whoop. Yeah, I know. In the real world, that amount is nothing. 

Just checked in on a few sites I like to browse through pretty regularly. One favorite political podcast already has 173K views on a bit they published just an hour ago. A two-day-old trendy late night television pundit’s post has double that amount.  And little ol’ me? Shucks. I’m over the moon that I’ve gotten a comparatively teeny 75,000 hits over the course of a whopping dozen years. 

But in truth I’m shocked. Somebody out there reads my stuff! I’m blown away that ANYone reads my stuff. I don’t write about popular subjects. My writing is often clunky and could certainly use a good editor. I don’t deliberately solicit views by advertising brands. I just write about what I feel like writing. That some people like to read what I write is incredible to me. I’m grateful. Thanks!

That 75,000 is more than I ever thought possible. 

It’s not like I started writing this blog hoping to make a splash on the global literary community. Wasn’t expecting any views, quite frankly. I started this blog because I wanted to become a better writer and figured one way to get better at writing was to practice. I wanted to write everyday but I’m lazy about lots of things. Saying in public that I was going to blog every day was a way to hold myself accountable, to make myself write. 

I wrote my first blog post over a dozen years ago, July 29, 2012. https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2012/07/ready-set-slog.html

Since then, I’ve written another 174 entries. Some are good. Some are bad. Some are awful. I’m okay with that and fine with you being all judgy if you want to be. I’m just trying to figure things out. I’m not perfect. I don’t pretend to be. Okay sometimes I DO pretend to be – kinda like faking it until you make it? But I usually end up flat on my face when I try to be someone I’m not. So most times I try to just be me. I’ve got a lot to work on, and that’s okay. It’s the work that matters. Just like it’s the journey that matters. 

Speaking of work, here are some stats that show that sometimes I put in the time and sometimes I don’t.

That first year, I wrote lots of posts -- 29 days in a row. I wrote another dozen posts in 2012. 

In 2013: 22 posts. 

In 2014: 40.

In 2015: 13.

In 2016: Only 2. I was engaged in a lot of other writing that year. I was in my second year of working on my Master’s of Fine Arts in Writing, and in addition to working full-time and juggling often-overwhelming family responsibilities, was reading tons of books and scholarly articles every month and was also generating and editing scores of pages of writing every month. 

In 2017: Only 5 posts. It was a bad year. One of these days I will write about it in more detail. This Anne Lamott quote comes to mind when I think of doing so: “If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”

In 2018: 6 posts. Started off the year prepping for another year of grad school so spent most of January to May doing all the requisite reading, writing, editing. This was in addition to full-time work and nearly full-time care of loved one. Rug got pulled out from under me (sudden family member illness) days before the writing residency, which was on another continent, was set to start. That setback, along with some others, did a job on me. The last thing I felt like doing was thinking.

2019 to August 2022: Nothing. I was still finishing grad school work and still caring for loved ones. Thinking about those times now, I guess marathoning goals were taking precedence over writing.  Plus, I was having serious trouble concentrating. Grieving had a lot to do with that, I guess. Running a bunch of marathons was easy in comparison to putting words on a screen. 

2022: Two very small posts. 

2023: One post, celebrating my retirement from teaching. Kept it pretty vague and brief. Not sure I can write about my professional experiences with any sort of distance yet. I worked with some great people. But also, there were idiots. Idiots everywhere. One day I’ll write about my experiences. But not yet. 

Here’s my retirement post where I did NOT go scorched earth. One of these days I will though. It’s a goal. https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2023/07/teaching-302-years-13-lyrics.html

 

2024: 9 posts. Slowly starting to make my way back to the keyboard. 

2025: 35 posts. Maybe this is what a comeback looks like? 

 

Blogger, the medium I use to publish, has pretty much gone clunky and is heading toward obsolescence, kind of like AOL, which I also still use. I’ve tried switching email servers so many times. But my entire life gets mailed to an AOL address and changing to the gmail and other accounts I’ve set up over the years gets too complicated. If I want a bigger audience, I should probably say good-bye to blogger. If I’m going to start writing more, this is something I need to consider. 

Blogger keeps some neat stats but nothing personal. I can’t see who reads my posts. So, if like me you stalk old friends, neighbors, crushes, frenemies and are hesitant about reading my stuff because you’re worried you’ll leave a trace of yourself and get me wondering, no problem. I don’t get your personal info. So read my stuff if you want. I won’t know it’s you. 

I won’t see your name, but I will see what country you’re from. In total, my writing has been read in over 40 countries, and on every continent but Antarctica. I think that’s wild. 

Most engagements? The United States, no surprise, is #1. Singapore, for some crazy reason, comes in second, followed in order by these locales:  Hong Kong, Brazil, South Korea, Vietnam, France, Germany, Russia. 

I wonder how many of the numbers represent actual people. There’s a good shot that many of these views are bots. I check my blog stats maybe twice a day or so. I can see in real time what country is viewing my work, what post the reader is opening, and what time the post was viewed. It’s easy to tell bots vs. human. When the bots are active, I’ll get hundreds of views in an hour, for example. But in most cases, I see those views inch up one, two, five views at a time, which tells me real people are at least glancing at my words. Thank you, if you happen to be one of them.

Here are my top ten posts for now. The one I wrote after the Boston Marathon bombing is the top view-getter. I agonized over that one. I remember at one point I’d written about ten pages on what the Boston Marathon meant to me. I deleted all of that, ending up with what I think is something a bit vague, disjointed, and cringy. Oh well. 

The other posts are about running certain marathons --  Chicago, San Francisco, Hartford, Boston 2014, or are on being a lone caregiver to elderly parents. That latter subject? OMG. Still recovering. 

As a writer, I like to look back at my pieces because I get insight into what I do well and what I need to work on. Writing is humbling. Warts and all, here are my biggies. 

https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2013/04/boston-saved-me.html

 

https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2013/03/a-different-kind-of-workout.html

 

https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2015/10/chicago-i-do-believe-in-you-and-i-know.html

 

https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2016/01/2016-hello-big-c.html

 

https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2017/01/three-marathons-and-baby-breakdown.html

 

https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2015/07/i-left-my-quads-in-san-francisco.html

 

https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2015/09/the-other-side-of-normal.html

 

https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2015/03/going-for-run.html

 

https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2016/02/dear-framingham-heart-study-thanks.html

 

https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2015/04/remembering-boston-2014-part-2.html

 

I took writing for granted for a long time. It hit me a few months ago that this is an outlet that I still need. It was mid-August and I was headed to the airport for a three-week trip to Australia that would culminate in running the Sydney Marathon. I was a jittery mess. Couldn’t keep my thoughts straight. Wasn’t sure why. I’ve been to lots of countries and run lots of races. I’d never felt so out of sorts as I did that day at the airport. I could not keep still. My head was running a mile a minute. I paced up and down corridors. 

Spur of the moment, I popped into one of the terminal stores and bought a writing journal. Starting in the airport while I waited to board, and nearly every day of the trip, I wrote. Pages and pages. I wrote about my mother and father, my cats, my kids, the sights I was seeing, the food I was eating, the smells, conversations. I wanted to capture everything. I rose at dawn and with my words tried to capture the sunrise, the flora, fauna, the excitement, dread, joy. My trip roommate told me something was happening to me. That I was on the verge of something new. 

I don’t know about that, but I left Australia with marathon #98 done and new perspectives on lots of things. Thinking back, some of my favorite times involved sitting at a corner table in some anonymous hotel café, with a cup of coffee, a pen, some paper, and breathing in the world around me. I’m glad I bought that journal. I needed it. 

Similarly, I’m glad I’ve had this opportunity, for years now, to share my words. Grateful too that some of you kind souls take the time to read them. Wondering what the future will bring and looking forward to new opportunities, writing and otherwise. Forward continues to be a pace. Until next time, thanks for everything. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thoughts on driving to, through, and in Snowachusetts

 

Random thoughts driving from Mass. to Iowa in the days after Thanksgiving 2025. 

On Turkey Day in central Mass, learned that the Midwest, Iowa in particular, was due for a double-digit snowstorm on Saturday, exactly the day I’d be driving in that area. 

Friday. Chomping at the bit. Spinning my wheels. All the idioms for feeling restless, waiting around, accomplishing nothing. Updated weather reports showed that, in addition to blizzard conditions in Iowa on Saturday, northern Indiana and the roads outside Chicago were under a winter weather advisory on Sunday. What to do? Leaving Saturday would mean decent roads until my halfway point that night in Ohio. But then on Sunday the second half of that day's 600- mile drive, could be dangerous. 

Instead of driving to Ohio on Friday, I stayed back in Mass. Staying until Saturday was a given. But then what? 

Could have gone shopping. Should have gone to the gym. I have little memory of what I did that day. It’s a blur of stress, anxiety, and rechecking weather apps. 

I recall strolling the main drag of my town, which is quiet in winter and nonstop noise and bumper-to-bumper traffic in summer. The storefronts were dressed in their quaint holiday best – copious lights, gold and silver garlands, pine trees decorated with lobster traps, clam and scallop shells, starfish, bows, bells, anchors, and other ornaments. The crowds were sparse this cold and gusty day.  Guessing all the shoppers were at the mall down the road, a place I avoid except in the direst of circumstances. 

In one Main Street store, the owner asked that bland, polite question: “How are you?” Instead of responding with a mundane grunt or “fine thanks,” I explained my dilemma. Should I take a risk that the meteorologists are wrong about the weather two days from now,  and depart for Ohio the next morning? This could mean on Sunday driving through the plains of Indiana and Illinois with a winter weather advisory in effect. And in those states, what does a winter weather advisory even mean? In Mass, these advisories come and go so swiftly, they rarely impact my travel plans. But in other states, I just don’t know what to expect. 

Do I play it safe and stay in Mass yet one more day? Wait things out? 

This kind human listened like she’d known me all my life. I’m guessing she was bored and hadn’t talked with anyone in ages.  I was the only other person in her shop. She said what I already knew to be true, but I guess needed to hear: “Why take a risk like that if you don’t need to?” 

At sunset I drove to the neighborhood beach and from the driver's seat studied how the dense band of white cloud that filled this section of sky for as far as I could see changed everything about the colors and feel of this relatively small patch of earth. Instead of the usual bright oranges and pinks on the horizon, everything was gray, dull, flat, but astoundingly still beautiful, just in a different way. 

I used both hands to push open the car door, the wind fighting me every step of the way. Ventured just a couple of steps from the parking lot onto the sand, salty winds whipping at my face and clothes, heightening every sense. Was just close enough to the water to see the waves were frenzied, tumbling over each other in ferocious rumbling clusters, grabbing at the sand, ripping at the earth. No discernible rhythm, just nature doing its thing.  If the wind hadn’t kept trying to flatten me, I’d have stayed there entranced, for hours, I think. 

Saturday. I know I did something. I don’t remember what, exactly. I remember driving to a bunch of local beaches. Took some photos. Breathed in the salt air and wondered if there was a way to memorize that phenomenally cleansing feeling of Atlantic cold piercing your skin, permeating  your lungs, tingling your blood. 

Wondered, as I often do, if the reason I love the ocean so much has anything to do with the fact that my Irish forbears  lived for centuries relatively near what modern tourism calls the Wild Atlantic Way. Perhaps there’s some genetic component woven deep into our family DNA that requires regular, appreciative inhalations of briny air so that we can flourish.  

Sunday. Hit the road early.  Finally. Caffeinated, with insides literally aching to get moving. Seriously, the acid reflux symptoms were relentless that morning. Roads in MA – awesome. Roads in NY fine until frickin’ Buffalo. Snow squalls while driving from miles 450 or so to 600, fatigued, burned out, were not fun. Could have stopped. Should have stopped. Didn’t. Reason? Non-refundable reservation at hotel in Ohio. Stayed slow and steady with hazards on for much of that time but sped up to my usual five miles above speed limit once weather cleared as I entered Ohio. 

Cleveland was a highlight. Though it was too dark at that point to see the beautiful waters of Lake Erie, a sight I always take pleasure from, the holiday lighting of the city skyscrapers did not disappoint. On the drive out to Mass the week before, the little kid in me got to giggle at the ingenious feat of engineering that magically transformed two ginormous, grim buildings into one devilishly comical turkey. Heading west, those same buildings were lit up to create the illusion of a jolly, twentyish-story tall Santa, bedecked in red stocking cap and jacket. What a phenomenal gift to kids of all ages trekking the mean highways around that city. 

Monday. Promising start. Looked like this last 630 miles would be a breeze. Congratulated self on problem-solving skills. Yes, I was the smartest person in the world for putting my safety first and postponing for two days the drive back to the Midwest. Looked like I’d even get my rental – yes, a rental that I’d never driven in snow -- which added another layer of stress to the whole drive, back to the agency not only ding-free and clean, but with time to spare. 

After the expected non-descript drive through what was left of Ohio, Indiana slapped me with some serious disaster movie vibes. Absolutely the right call, taking that Sunday winter weather advisory seriously. The highway median was littered with the sobering detritus of the high winds and no visibility weekend storm. Saw too many wrecked vehicles on the median strip, still waiting to be towed. Most alarming was a jumbled-up van, doors open with seats and luggage spilling out – all I could picture were the frightened children who’d been inside, hurting and crying as they were removed from the vehicle -- and two eighteen-wheelers with beaten-up cabs. 

The Chicago gauntlet, normally for me the worst part of the trip, was a breeze. The crazy SUV drivers who normally wreak havoc on this six-lane swath of racetrack were nonexistent. The truck drivers were almost too polite. There was the occasional need to drive uber defensively, as sheets of snow flew from trailer truck roofs onto the roadway, but otherwise things were progressing more smoothly than I’d ever experienced in the two dozen or so times of driving here.

It all went to hell a few hours later. Illinois and its sparkling, snow-sprinkled fields started morphing into a hellscape of fog and random patches of ice. None of this was in the weather apps. I wasn’t prepared but told myself I’d be fine. I’m an experienced New England driver. I slowed down to the bare minimum allowed on this highway. I tried to not think about how much additional time this would add to the trip. Forward is a pace. 

I know how to drive in snow. But I also know that when it comes to ice, all bets are off. Ice is not nice. Even driving slowly, and maintaining a distance of at least four car lengths, I had to hit the brakes more than once, when speedier drivers, obviously oblivious to the dangers of driving on semi-glazed roads, decided to pull within a car-length in front of me. 

I fishtailed too many times, hit the hazards, and watched cars continue to drive at top speeds while I maintained as much distance from everyone as I could. There were wrecked vehicles everywhere. 

Finally, with still three hours left to drive, I pulled off the highway into a rest area.  Called the rental agency and told them I’d be a day late returning the vehicle. Started researching local hotels then looked again at the weather apps. Each one said that this area was only going to get messier, but if I survived the next twenty miles, I'd have smooth sailing the remaining 160. 

Randomly had a big panic attack. Hit the rest room and splashed cold water on my face. Paced. Plopped my worn-out body into a restaurant booth. Closed my eyes and tried to doze. Pulled out my phone and played some New York Times games. Practiced Duolingo. Paced. Splashed more cold water on my face. The panic attack subsided. I headed back to the vehicle, determined to drive down the road to the sketchy hotel there and stay the night. Then talked with some fellow travelers who’d just pulled into the lot. They had driven from where I was headed. They said the roads ahead were fine. The weather was clear. There were sanders everywhere. 

I got back on the road and immediately got stuck in stop and go traffic due to an accident. Then did the marathon thing: Take it one mile at a time. Long story short, things got better. I made it back in one piece. No dings. No drama. On high alert the whole time, sure. Didn't sleep at all that night because it took forever for the day-long adrenaline rush to dissipate. But was safe, somewhat sound. 

Back now in a land of wide-open spaces. Today,  the sky is banded in clouds. Fat flakes have been hitting the ground for hours now, painting the cornfields in shades of grayish white. It’s good to be off the road, safe and warm. 

People often ask me how I do it. How do you drive for so long? The short answer. I just do. Lots of people do, I think. Certainly, I see license plates from so many far-off states and Canada too. It’s not like I’m the only one out there.  

Usually, the drives are a little boring. This drive was not. It’ll be a few months before I take this route again. The weather should be better. The snow will be gone. I’m glad for the break. But boy oh boy, I miss that ocean. 

 

 

 

 

FlashNano25 Day 28: Mornings

 FlashNano25 Day 28

Prompt: Write a story that includes a bizarre ritual

 

Mornings

Morning wake-up means hitting the snooze button three times: 6:45, 6:54, 7:03, then bolting out of bed at 7:12. Next comes coffee, always two cups. The first one, savored, is taken at the kitchen table while reading the important news of the day which consists of comics, obituaries, court records, and if time the local headlines. The second is gulped while making the bed, rifling through the closet and drawers for anything that looks clean and unwrinkled, finding two shoes that match. 

Next comes the part where you pack your lunch and the gym bag for after school. This takes up most of what is left of the pre-work morning. Must have the right running socks, bra, top, bottom, plus an energy bar, two bottles of water, a peanut butter sandwich, a yogurt, piece of fruit. By now it’s 7:44. Departure time needs to be no later than 7:50 or you’ll be late. 

Morning ablutions. Can’t forget the important face washing, hair brushing, and if there’s time glance at least once into the full-length mirror. Students are brutal if you show up to class with your sweater on inside out. 

It’s 7:48 and for once in your life you might arrive to work early. 

But then there’s the searching for keys frenzy. So you rush around the house, pocketbook slung over one shoulder and book bag hanging from the other, arms full with coat, sweater, gym bag, and water bottles which fall to the floor at least three times and each time you bend to pick them up something else falls, like your wallet, or apple, or a pen or three. 

Where are those keys?

Kitchen counter? 

Top of microwave? 

Bathroom sink? 

Bureau? 

Sock drawer? 

Front table?

Front walk? 

Still in the ignition?

Still in the front door?

Litterbox? 

Pockets?

Have you been holding them this whole time?

7:58 and you’ve found them in one of the above places. 

You have seventeen minutes to get to work but there’s 30 minutes of traffic. The entire drive, you curse yourself for being undisciplined, forgetful, disorganized. 

You know all the short cuts and make it to work with one minute to spare. 

You’re relieved. You swear that tomorrow will be different. But then the self-satisfaction kicks in. Why change? You beat the clock. You’ll beat it again. 

 

FlashNano25 Day 17: Served

 FlashNano25 Day 17

Prompt: You are served something unexpected for dinner 

 

“Here’s your dinner,” she said, as she placed his plate at the head of the dining room table. 

She left the room, heels clacking. 

He was expecting the usual Thursday night fare: two steamed hotdogs, a half can of beans with molasses, a side of homemade piccalilli, two squirts of ketchup, and a couple of slices of generously buttered brown bread fresh from the oven. 

“What’s this?” he said, holding up the fat business envelope that lay on the faded Corelle instead.  

She reappeared, dragging behind her two suitcases. 

He asked again, his voice more strident now. 

The luggage thunked as she descended the carpeted stairs. She stopped at the front door, opened it, and pulled the bags behind her. 

“Where are you going? What are you doing? What on earth is going on here? For God’s sake, Millie, get back here. Answer me.” The plastic centerpiece shook as his hand slapped the table. 

From the front yard, she called to him. “Come on out and see.”

Still holding the envelope, he emerged onto the front stoop. 

His luggage was at the curb, next to a Yellow Cab with exhaust spilling from the tailpipe. 

With Millie was their neighbor, Sue. He’d told Millie to stay away from that woman, a bad influence, one of those civil rights lawyers. Mouthy. Opinionated. Had a Mondale for President sign on her front lawn. 

Straightening his tie he approached, his polished Oxfords clomping on the cement sidewalk.

Sue held up her hand, indicating for him to stop.

“You’ll want to look at the documents,” she said.  

He clenched his fists and wondered who was watching from behind the curtained picture windows of the other split-level homes in the cul-de-sac.

Millie stepped back and opened her mouth as if to speak. Then she shook her head. Biting her lip, she linked her arm through Sue’s and walked around him back toward the house. 

“Read the notes,” Millie said. 

“See you in court,” Sue said. 

The front door shut. The lock clicked. The deadbolt snapped into place. 

FlashNano25 Day 19: 19 word story

 FlashNano25 Day 19

Prompt: Write a 19-word story

Persistence or This is Some Bullshit

I came, saw, failed. 

Fivepeated.  

This is some bullshit. 

So stop.

Months, ready yet?

Weeks, set? 

Day? Yes, go. 

*A favorite Resident Alien quote

FlashNano25 Day 18: It hasn't snowed for 213 days

 FlashNano25 Day 18

Prompt: It hasn’t snowed for 213 days

 

The room is always quiet. 

The murmurs constant. 

The monitors – they beep.

The air – how I long for fresh pine breezes or the perfumes of lilacs and roses or even the grit of car exhaust. Anything is preferable to this processed stuff sanitized with soap, rubbing alcohol, medications.

Sometimes there are grunts as they shift me from back to left, from left to back, back to right. 

The blinds are always open and from my pillow I see a narrow strip of sky above the encroaching roofs of this foreign metropolis. 

When they brought me here after the surgeries after the accident during the squalls after the party following the hours of meetings, phone calls, endless ennui, and the office banalities that once seemed so important, the sun was strong, the nights starry. Or at least that’s how it seemed. 

One day fades, blue, gray, black. The machines tick.  Another day begins. 

Sometimes there are clouds. Sometimes rain.  Sometimes there are faces that say we did this, and we did that and they show me pictures of beaches, babies, and once a photo at the mountain where they say we skied just days before the awful crash during that storm that came out of nowhere, the last of the season. But hopefully we’ll be on the slopes soon. Politely, they include me in this.

Supine, I blink and attempt to nod as breath whooshes through my tube, this two-bit piece of plastic pinning me to this prison, purgatory, half- life.

If I could speak, I would say I know better. The time for miracles has passed. It hasn’t snowed in 213 days. 

 

 

 

NanoFlash25 Day 12: The errant charge

FlashNano 2025

Day 12

Prompt: You find an unexplained charge on your statement 

 

The first time you read your credit card bill, the unexplained charge didn’t register. Maybe because it’s a little overwhelming, this pile of magazines, envelopes, catalogs, postcards, and ads, cascading edge to edge on top of your kitchen table. 

You are energetic enough to work full time and hit the gym five days a week but apparently haven’t yet figured out how to gather the life force you need to take those simple, mindless really, steps to retrieve your mail from your association mailbox five houses away more than two or three times a month. 

You read through the bill again, but the extra charge still doesn’t register. Nothing registers, not the electric bill, water notice, pizza coupons, leaflets from four different gyms telling you why they’re the best and if you’re truly serious about losing that weight, gaining that muscle, staying young forever, you won’t ignore them.

None of it sinks in because you’re remembering the real reason why you avoid the mailbox, dread that small walk. 

It’s easy to drive by the mailbox and those houses, particularly that house. You do it every day, three four times a day. You’re protected by metal and glass. You can turn up your music, pretend to sing along. Simply stare straight ahead because you ARE driving after all and should be focused on the road.  

But when you walk it’s just you, your legs, arms, skin, with only the flimsy protection of your wool sweater, cotton jeans, as your panting breath whispers hurry hurry hurry, your key fumbles with the mailbox lock and finally after what seems like hours but is maybe five minutes you stumble home, holding your mail tight to your chest because. . . 

What if an envelope drops, creating the unthinkable opportunity as you retrieve it, for that neighbor to harm you, the neighbor who is a grandfather with children and grandchildren who visit every weekend and play football with him in the street in front of your house. Who cuts his House Beautiful lawn four times a week and hoses down his Architectural Digest front porch on Sundays. Who complained to the association about you once because when you watered your lawn, rivulets formed in the gutter, harming no one and nothing but he didn’t like the way it looked. Who when you first moved in you used to shovel out after snowstorms, until you noticed that when he was the first one out in the morning pushing his mega snowblower he’d take care of all your neighbors and stop short at your property line and turn his machine around, even that time it snowed two feet. Who hosts neighborhood parties that you’ve never been invited to in his garage, and who has a Confederate flag pinned to the wall next to his big screen television. The neighbor with the flashy red sports car that he only drives in summer, and the truck on oversized wheels, with the bumper sticker that says, “Your body my choice," and the other: “Celebrate Diversity” which has pictures of six – you know it’s six because you’ve memorized that horrifying, stupid sticker -- six different kinds of rifles. 

How can you be expected to notice that suspicious credit charge right away? How can you be expected to focus on anything other than how soon can you sell this place and other thoughts related to your own survival, when every time you visit the local supermarket, jog on a nearby trail, and even walk to your mailbox a paltry five houses away from the safety of your own home you’re facing the fact that your very right to life hangs in the balance, dependent upon the whims of others and how they choose to act?

 

 

FlashNano25 Day 11: A magical story

 FlashNano25 Day 11

Prompt: Write a magical story

 

The day after the Election 

In the dark hours after the polls closed, the land was silent. While many slept the deep sleep of the ignorant, content and calm, those attuned felt the tremors, the inexorable shaking giving heed of what was to come. 

Like others of her kind, the woman startled by this shifting of the firmament, awoke from sleep and threw off the covers, panting, sweaty, heart palpitating to a beat so insistent she had to wonder if this was to be her end. 

Bits of the dream but not dream --in truth reality that had pushed her into consciousness, came back in flashes. The sunny start to the day, then too soon dark clouds, dissipating optimism followed by stark predictions and finally the realization of what this all meant, for her, her daughters, women everywhere, their children and beloved ones, and her body knew, finally in understanding, demanding consciousness and forthrightly calling her to arms. 

She checked her phone, which confirmed what in her soul of souls she now candidly knew, once dreaded, had earlier trustingly naively thought impossible. The beast was king, elected to the highest office in the land by a hate-filled, uneducated mob who, too lazy to research the facts which were obvious and overwhelming, and too self-centered to consider the general good which when taken into account always lifts them all,  would soon find themselves, like her and the others who’d stridently repudiated his profoundly demented clarion call,  were also destined to suffering unto his unbending, murderous will unless something someone was brave enough to say that no, this is not who we are. 

He of the cloven hooves, goat horns, forked tail, smells of death, decay, fetid bowels, engorged devourer of young women, murderer of innocents, was now supreme ruler of all. Like the rest of her kind, she knew immediately, like breathing, hearts pounding, hopes crushing, what would come next if she stood by and chose passivity.  

More manipulations, blaming, outright lies, and the deaths of multitudes, at home and abroad. A repetition of history because already, first he came for the outliers, the ones on the fringes, those deserving the most of open hearts and arms. Thoughts and prayers? Useless against this onslaught of unspeakable, detestable, reprehensible evil. 

 Action. Yes. That was it. Action called. 

In her heart of hearts she conjured the words, timeless and true that would calm her soul, gird her heart, and carry her forth from this day hence: If not me, then who. If not now, then when. 

Because her words spoke truth they were carried forth into a stream of other like words and the waters followed forth, gathering energy and becoming waves that crashed into rivers forming worlds of oceans that opened into the vast universe that is the collective consciousness, the infinite, blazing light from which all humankind is born. 

Their words echoed throughout the galaxy

If not me, then who. If not now, then when. 

Now a battle cry. 

If not me, then who. If not now, then when.

From within her and the others a great courage grew and with it the determination that the present circumstances would not suffice and would not sustain the life they all deserved. 

This is not who we are. This is not who we will be. We will go forth. We will succeed. 

These lone beings rose up and joined their counterparts. From across the lands, mountains, oceans they united and marched, hearts and arms opened wide, their anger a force for good, for right, infinite humanity. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FlashNano25Day10: Happy wife, happy life

 FlashNano25

Day 10

Prompt: Write a 5-minute (or less) flash play

Setting: Elevator of swanky retail store

Characters:

TFS: Twenty-something female shopper dressed in designer clothing, flashy jewelry, high heels, overburdened with shopping bags. 

FC. Fifty-something female cop, in uniform. 

Random bystander. Dressed in regular streetwear.

Three police, in uniform. 

 

TFS is talking into cellphone, held in one hand while from other dangle several large shopping bags labeled with high end designer names.  She enters elevator and presses button. Door starts closing. 

TFS:  OMG it’s the cutest outfit. Top. Pants. And THE best jacket. (Pause) Please. I’m so worth it. You know what they say hon, happy wife happy life. (Giggles)

Door opens. FC enters, faces TFS, who, ignoring her, hits button again. 

FC (even tone): Ma’am. Excuse me. Ma’am. 

TFS (turns away): Of course I got accessories. It’s not an outfit without accessories. (Pause) Just some earrings, a necklace, two bracelets and the cutest leather belt. Got my hair did too, just for you my love. How cute is this? (She strikes a sultry pose, takes a selfie, sends it.)

FC is louder now: Lady. Lady. LADY!

TFS (obviously frustrated) into phone: Hold on a sec. Some THING here is bothering me. 

(To FC): WHAT? 

FC (all business): You need to come with me.

TFS (flips hair): As if. Who do you think. . .

FC: (puts hands to hip, where handcuffs dangle) Ma’am. Now. 

TFS: (Into phone): Oh my God it’s a mall cop. A mall cop is trying to talk to me. Can you believe it? Too funny, right? 

To FC: Sweetie a good moisturizer would do wonders for that crepey skin. (Continues talking into phone, ignoring FC) 

FC (hits emergency stop button): Ma’am this is serious. Ma’am listen. Ma’am. (Loud enough so person on phone can hear) Ma’am. You left your stroller in the accessories department. We’ve been looking for you for two hours. You need to come with me. 

TFS (looks at her bags, her surroundings, then into phone): It’s nothing, hon. These people.  . . (Her voice trails off as she listens on phone). 

TFS: Honey, you know better than to ask me that. Of course, the baby’s here with me. Give me a sec to deal with this mess. I’ll call you back. (Phone clicks off. Turns to FC) They couldn’t watch him for TEN minutes? God, these people are useless. Accessories department you said? (She hits a button on the elevator display.) Let’s go then. Wait until my husband here’s about this. 

FC: Ma’am, the baby’s downtown at the station. You get one call. If it’s to your husband, so be it. 

(Elevator door opens to three other uniformed officers. All four escort TFS out.)

TFS: (Angrily): Do you know who I am? Wait until my husband hears about this. 

Random bystander, watching her: What an entitled bitch. 

FC: Yeah, I think we do. 

 

 

 

 

  

 

Flashnano25 Day 9. I won the lottery

Ick this feels uncomfortably awkward and disrespectful to folks struggling with substance abuse and/ or mental health things. Plus it's just badly written. 

This whole flash nano thing is about stepping out of comfort zones. And sometimes stepping out of comfort zones means writing ick. Next time, fail better.  For now, I carry the shameful burden of self-conscious  ick on my shoulders. 

Flashnano25

Day 9

Prompt: Start with the end

I won the lottery. Not being a smart ass here. I’m not talking about a one buck scratchie. I’m talking big stuff. Yeah. The fifty thou for twenty years. It will be life for me, the way things are going. Not complaining. Just being real.

I know what some folks are saying. That I have no right to the money. Fuck that shit. 

Listen, wait. Don’t walk away, okay? 

I got the ticket fair and square. Not my fault that the loser who bought it didn’t double-check. Who doesn’t double-check?  An ungrateful asshole that’s who. And you know, he littered. He crumbled it up.  Dropped it in the parking lot right outside the packie like it was nothing. Believe that?  Right next to his fancy ass Lexus. Fancy ass Lexus. I want a fancy ass Lexus. 

Yeah, I got his license plate. One of those vanity ones. Hard to forget. No, I’m not telling you the license plate. I know you people can trace these things. 

I may prefer my refreshments in liquid form, that is true. Doesn’t mean I’m stupid. Not at all. Not one bit stupid. 

And it’s not like he signed his name to the thing or anything. I signed mine. So, you know, finders keepers. 

What will I do with all that money? I’m not giving you any of it. Don’t even ask. Don’t even. 

Maybe buy a house. Get a coat.  Donate some. 

Huh. Who am I kidding. Donate some my ass. 

Though there’s this soup kitchen. You know? Down near St. John's? They’re real nice even when I’m, how shall I say, under the weather. They treat me normal, like a human. With dignity like. I used to have dignity you know. Did you know that? I did. 

Maybe I’ll talk to the soup people. Maybe I can help them. Maybe they can help me.  

Here, you want a sip. Want some? It’s good, really. Warms me up just right. Don't worry it's not the hard stuff. Doc at the free clinic. You know the free clinic in the valley. Says the hard stuff will kill me. So now I drink this Mad Dog mostly.  You know Mad Dog? Burns like a sonofabitch. I mostly drink it. But sometimes I have the hard stuff too. You can have some if you want. I got money now. You can stay. I’ll get more. No. Okay you gotta go. I know. You go. I'll be here. I'm always here. 

Except when I'm at the soup place or the valley or once my son came and took me out to Olive Garden. You know Olive Garden. All you can eat at the Olive Garden. That was fine. Fine times. I gave him the lottery ticket. He's going to get cash for me. Get me set up in a nuity. An uity. Annuity. Coming back soon. Real soon. Waiting here so he finds me soon. This is where we met. He told me to wait here. So I do. I wait here. 

Geez it’s cold out. So cold so cold so cold. Alone and cold. So cold. 

Hey you. Yeah, you. 

Want a sip? C’mon. Really. It's good. Not the hard stuff. Just the Mad Dog. You know Mad Dog? 

Hey, did I tell you? I won the lottery.