I’m about to try something that scares the hell out of me.
I’m frightened of the potential for failure, and I’m frightened of the possible repercussions of success. With over fifty-plus years of living under my belt, I’m familiar with many proverbial forks in the road.
The forks don’t surprise me anymore. I’m prepared to suffer the consequences headed my way, good or bad. Even so, reinventing myself as a writer is a crazy idea at my age, unless it works and then I’ll wonder what took me so long to get here.
I’ve got 42,000 words written to date…
My subconscious searched for a solution, or at least a welcome distraction. Compelled to glance up, I saw her sitting dead center in the bedroom doorway, gazing with solemn interest at the scene unfolding in the room. Her stance exuded an air of calm confidence, an inner strength and brevity found in knowledge.
Tabbey was one of those reclusive cats found cowering under the sofa or hidden in the bowels of a closet. A crouching blur caught by the corner of your eye, darting into the shadows leaving you to wonder if the image was of this world or another.
Cat’s fur to make kitten britches. Do you want a pair?
Two little sentences equivalent to a conversational slap in the face. A lingual jolt to snap you out of your train of thought.
Pulled from the dusty back section of my filing cabinet of memories, my mind opens a folder marked Childhood to hear these nonsensical words spoken in my Dad’s voice. The ethereal sound is followed by visions of puzzled expressions on the little faces peering up at their role model for answers to a myriad of questions.
A diversion made of ordinary letters and syllables. The perfect…
The clock’s second-hand kept ticking with a steady, unaltering rhythm. Heart rates increased with each tinge of panic infiltrating the bloodstream. All the while, time marched on with no interest in current events.
Well after midnight, our household was awakened. Each of us grabbed by the collar and yanked out the door of tranquility by the forceful hand of a loved one in distress. Exiting the blissful realm of dreams, we landed in a moment of crisis.
It was the early 1970’s. I was only about 6 years old and had not yet experienced an asthma attack firsthand. My calmness…
Troubled dark clouds fill my head. Lulled to sleep each night by thunderous weeps as raindrops of sadness soak my pillow. Looking for a pocket of joy in a coat of sadness worn for too many migraine filled months.
Joy is a forgotten pleasure. My mind stretches in desperation to grasp the flickering remnants of happiness that grow weaker, more distant.
Joy disappears into the dark void of despondency. My will surrenders, collapsing into a heap of useless flesh melting into a remote corner of abandonment.
The steady rhythm of breathing suggests life continues. Lost in the battle, I lie…
The sun was shining on the little house on 5th Street. Even though cartoons were playing on the television inside the house, the playground de jour was the front yard. The 60/40 mix of grass and weeds was encroaching onto the uneven rectangular sections of sidewalk cutting through the yard.
Cowboys and Indians, cops and robbers, kicking a ball around, riding a tricycle along the sidewalk expressway … I do not remember what we were playing.
The imagination of a child is far more powerful than midlife memory.
Mom burst out the front door, interrupting our creative thoughts with reality…
“Tammy Cullou! And how are you?”
The old farmer’s sing song voice greeted me with a smile each morning during harvest, in a small Oklahoma town along the custom combining trail. With less than a decade under my belt, any adult could be labelled old and location was of little consequence to summertime play.
I have never known the proper spelling or meaning of cullou; if there is a meaning at all. The simplest answer may lie in the arrangement of letters creating the necessary number of syllables and rhyming with the word ‘you’. …
The voice resonating from old black and white photographs commands attention. Yellowed by age with edges worn down by the vestiges of time, these windows to the past contain an earnestness not found in today’s studio portraits and urban alley photo shoots.
Our ancestors were not pretending. Strong and steadfast, the eyes looking out from time battered photographs contain a depth of living that would shatter the delicate psyche of today’s version of humans, myself included.
Sifting through a box of old family photos, I find solemn pictures of Maggie before she and I knew each other. Her neatly coiffed…
Life is not so much a circle as a grotesque, misshaped circuit of ups and downs and around the bends. Gentle curves and peaceful straightaways blindsided by the occasional sharp turn until we return to the place of origin.
My circuit began on a cool Wednesday in February. The high temperature hit 41 degrees that day, though the gusty winter winds would have added a biting chill to the air.
My apprehensive arrival into the world was inconsiderate of others’ time. The doctor had planned to have a day off that day. …
I sense a smile on the face of fate today.
Sunshine radiates through the atmosphere adding warmth to the crisp autumn air, balancing the brisk breeze to a perfect temperature. Changing seasons bring a peaceful contentment as time moves forward with discipline and familiarity.
I pulled into the driveway of the cute little senior housing fourplex my Mom calls home. The sidewalk strolls past a favorite diner for the local hummingbirds and onto a cozy two-seater sized porch with a perimeter of traditional white railing.
She has never been sentimental about where she resides. A fact much appreciated by my…