From Our Writers

People Always Lie

The following is used by permission, written by Writers in the Grove member, Paula Adams, and published in the Fullerton Observer.

To Jonathan:

I love your column in the Fullerton Observer, but I got a surprise bump in the first line of your mid-September column: “I look at the picture of the boy LAYING lifeless … ” What?!

I realize the lay/lie thing is a common error (except for foreigners who usually know more of our grammar than we do), but we expect the media to do better, which it usually does.

Anyway, you need a word with your proofreader: “Lay” in the present tense requires an object – unless you’re a laying hen. Thus, I lay the book aside, and in the words of that grammatically confusing prayer, ” … I lay me down to sleep.” Without the object, we lie down to sleep, Goldilocks is lying on the bed, cats lie napping in the sun, and we lie low when there’s trouble.

Of course, our beloved English language changes the rules in the past tense (sigh), but just remember:

When stretching out for a nap in the present tense, people lie.

PEOPLE ALWAYS LIE, (sigh again).

Sincerely,
Paula Adams

– – – –

Dear Paula:

Great letter. I’m not lying to you! May we print it? I’ll lay you 8 to 5 that the editor will like it. Cheers!

Jonathan

Given the Answer

The following is based upon the NaNoWriMo prompt, The Answer is Blue, and written by Writers in the Grove member, Ann Farley.

Question, if you will, the sky,
at turns sapphire, robin’s egg, pink-gray
glistening like scales down a salmon’s side,
shifting with the wind and rain, sun and moon.

Question the ocean, a lake, this small pond
reflecting an opalescence, shimmering,
or suddenly so flat it pulls you in deep,
just a trick of light, playing into the dark.

Question the eyes of a newborn
searching for focus, watery wash of pigment,
unaccustomed to all this brightness,
delicate orbs that deepen and set in time.

Question those favorite jeans of yours,
washed and worn beyond softness,
a sort of ready comfort rarely found;
at their very finest just before the fray.

Question, even, your own sweet mind
and its tenuous tether to your heart,
a relentless tugging, calling for change,
those low places you go to sort it all out.

Question all of it, again and again.
Keep quiet watch, for the answer is blue.

October 22,2015

Dancing in Water

The following was written by Writers in the Grove member, Lorelle VanFossen, inspired from the Prompt: Palindrome Meets Pantoum.

Giggles and grins
Droplets tinkle and fall
Sun flashes gold
Hands windmill
Droplets tinkle and fall
Splashing diamonds
Hands windmill
Dancing in water
Sun flashes gold
Dancing in water
Giggles and grins

The Vacation

The following was written by Writers in the Grove member, Bev Walker.

His friend said kindly, “Why don’t you take a vacation, some place quiet.”
So he did. He went hunting. A walk in the woods would be just the place.
He was going along when all of a sudden a giant jumped out in front of him.
The hunter quickly bellowed like a mating alligator, a terrible sound.
The sound scared the giant so bad he flew up into the nearest tree.
There, sitting on a limb sat a real live dinosaur eating a kumquat.
The giant scared the dinosaur so bad he dropped his kumquat.
It hit the hunter on the head knocking him out cold.
The giant jumped down from the tree, grabbed the kumquat for his breakfast and ran away.
Just as the hunter was coming around, the dinosaur jumped down from the tree,
grabbed the hunters red hat, (his ears were cold), and took off after his kumquat.
The terrified hunter immediately called a policeman
reporting there was a giant running loose in the woods
who could turn himself into a dinosaur! He’d seen it himself!
They could spot him because this dinosaur was wearing a red hat!
Policeman kindly said, “Why don’t you take a vacation friend, some place quiet.”

Have No Fear and Watch Out

The following is from Writer in the Grove member, Patti Bond.

As I was walking to a nearby Plaid Pantry to get a coffee and some other things I heard something to my left. It was a squirrel it was moving at a fast pace.

It quickly went up the utility pole, but as I came closer the squirrel came back down, and stayed there looking at me. I said hi and it just stayed there not moving, just staring at me for five minutes. I was thinking and he was thinking that I wasn’t going to be mean to it.

The squirrel finally turned around and went up the pole, and I resumed my walk. After visiting the Plaid Pantry, I cut through a park and I saw quite a few squirrels. One gray squirrel ran up the tree and a brown one quickly came running down.

The grey one said to the brown one, “You are in my territory!” and forced him to leave. I looked up the tree grinning and saying ha ha I won while he was sitting glued to the branch just watching the brown one. The brown one ran across the path. He tried to go up another tree, but the same thing happened. He ran into another grey squirrel. He was thinking how this can be what luck I’m having. I spotted another squirrel in the tree watching the others, then all of sudden they all disappeared.

I spotted the dog roaming around under the trees. What bad luck for the squirrels.

What an adventure seeing five squirrels. One of these days I will have a camera with me, so I can take a picture of the squirrels. I will sit at a picnic table quietly like a cat waiting for a mouse and click the camera when I see a squirrel. Instead of eating it, I’ll just click the camera. Then I’ll think to myself I finally accomplished my goal to be closer to nature.

Letters Written, Never Meaning To Send…

The following is from Writers in the Grove member Ann Farley. It is inspired from the Prompt: Writing Letters You Might Never Send.

Write a letter I wouldn’t send?

Did that once, wrote a letter to a college professor, and I intended to send it, but the tone was snarky. I knew if I mailed it, I’d never hear from her. Put that letter in an envelop, but stopped short of a stamp. Stuffed it down in the couch cushions to give it time, give myself a little distance, reconsider. Perhaps rewrite it entirely.

Two days later I looked for that letter, tore the couch apart, got belly-flat on the floor looking for it.

Gone. It was gone.

Asked my husband if he’d seen an envelop in the couch, and sure enough, he had. Found it, put a stamp on it, put it in the mailbox a day or so ago.

Well, damn.

Maybe, I thought, maybe the tone wasn’t so bad. But I knew it was, and there was no pulling it back. I never heard from that professor again.

Never wrote a letter I wouldn’t send again, either.

Not worth the loss.

Baker City Wildfire

The following is written by Writers in the Grove member, Patti Bond. She often shares her memories and memories with us.

There was a wildfire near my grandparents’ house this weekend. I heard them telling us to stay away from the fire. But there are too many memories in these homes.

The red house on street, number 2706, is where my dad lived with his three sisters, my Aunt Kathy, Aunt Gayle, and Aunt Marilyn. Unfortunately, or fortunately as the fire threatened, Aunt Marilyn is no longer with us. That’s not the only memory at risk from the fire. My mother grew up in Baker City, the place where her biological father left her with her mother alone, just the two of them.

My mother was very active in theater and drama, and she loved Rainbow Girls. She was also very smart, skipping the third grade as she grew up. She and her mother, Zelene, moved several times, finally meeting Herbert Kelly and marrying him, giving them a place to settle in Baker City. Dave and I spent many years traveling to these homes visiting grandparents. I can remember hearing Daddy say that as long as the grandparents were alive, we were going to Baker City for Christmas. Grandma Kelly would greet us upon arrival every time saying “I hope Old Man Winter would give us a break.”

There are just too many memories in the houses up there, near the fire. Many are pleading for access to their homes to collect their precious memories before the wildfire consumes them. So many legacies remain, and wilt in the hearts of the many people who’ve lived in those houses, including my family.

They say the fires were started by lightning, normal for eastern Oregon. If I had unlimited resources, I would work day and night to save the livelihood and memories of my family’s heritage.

Please Lord put out these fires. Protect our memories and legacy in Baker City.

From the Prompt Cavort

The following poem was inspired by the prompt called “Cavort.”

Cavort

A shoe found near the front door
The well-worn t-shirt just a few paces later
What was left of Stinky, the favorite bedtime blanket,
was tossed casually amongst the weeds
at the edge of the lane
With holey jeans and unders discarded
The six year old dances buck-naked
in an unexpected summer rain.

Unlimited Health and Resources Were Available – Who Would I Be?

The following is by Diana Lubarsky, one of our active and prolific members. It is in response to the prompt, If You Had Unlimited Resources.

Spiral of clock.With all the funds I’ll ever need in my pocket, and health and conflict gone, I see myself shedding the skin of survival mode. I slip my thin, healthy young woman’s body from my yacht onto a kayak and paddle gently across the tepid Caribbean waters under a perfect blue sky. A gentle sun warms my back. No longer in survival mode, I am free at last to write of stars and sun, mountains and ethereal beauty; the sights I’ve been privileged to see; the God woven fabric of life.

But soon, I am bored. Inhaling beauty all day is like eating only sugar. My stomach aches. My gaze focuses beyond the magnificent harbor where I lounge, toward the teaming city; a place of dreams and despair, of fortunes lost and lives gambled.

At night I leave my silk shawl behind, scrub my face, don sackcloth, and enter the gates of the destitute. This is where I belong. Birthing babies, bandaging wounds, bringing hope … neck deep in sweat and blood.

Although the majesty of mountain peaks and orchestral music sing to my heart, the first cry of a slimy new born taking its first breath in my arms replenishes my soul.

I have learned, wealthy or not, I am a healer.

Too Big for the Bike

The following was inspired from the prompt, “The Novice.”

Child bicycle with training wheels and flowers in the spokesHe was too big for the bike. Knees splayed awkwardly outwards, feet slipping off the pedals, hunched over the handle bars determined to hang on, the bike pitched from side to side, training wheels bent up so far, they didn’t touch the ground. It was time. Time for the training wheels to come off. Time for the big boy to ride a big boy bike.

It was two years past the growth spurt that should have graduated him up from his purple and pink bike, red plastic ribbons hanging in a tattered shower from the ends of the white handle grips, purple metal showing through the torn plastic. The plastic flowers, once carefully woven in and out of the wheel spokes, were bend and faded, flapping against the support bars with every pass.

His face puffed fiery patches across his pale cheeks as he struggled for speed along the long driveway. He leaned into the curve of the circular drive and a training wheel grabbed the pavement. He lost control and went down hard. Tears welled up but he gritted his teeth, rose up, and straightened himself and the bike.

“Kiddo,” I called as gently and evenly as I could. “Those wheels are hurting more than helping.” I stayed still on the path to the house, toes even with the edge of the pavement. It was the furthest away he allowed me to be, watching his every movement. “Maybe it’s time to take them off.”

His head whipped around and his grip turned white on the handle bars.

“No!” He twisted the bike around and stomped toward me. “I need the wheels!”

“Looks like they are getting in your way.”

We looked down at the training wheels, little tread left on them. He’d insisted that the wheels remain tightened as an extra braking system, keeping his speed under control, and his fear. Two years of abuse had locked up the nuts rather than loosened them. The tread was worn in even patches, making the wheels blocks not circles. The metal extension brackets were pointed more to the sky than the ground, twisted and scarred from too many crashes. (more…)