Stormy Weather

“When it rains…”

“…It pours!” My friend finished my sentence loudly and with tons of feeling.

We’d both been having a rough couple of weeks: those types of weeks when nothing seems to go right and when everything closes in on you. The domino effect of bad luck had invaded our lives, and we were in one of those dreaded funks.

Looking back, the things that were bothering us weren’t really all that bad. They were simple things, the bumps and turbulence that life hands you sometimes…just to make sure you’re still paying attention. It’s those kinds of times, those kinds of bad days and frustrating moments, that make the good days that much better. It’s important to keep things in perspective, to not get bogged down in the bad, and to always appreciate the good.

It’s easy to say all that now, looking back, having watched a week of devastation on the East coast from Super Storm Sandy, having heard about the countless tragedies affecting those around us, tragedies much worse that the simple problems I had been facing. But even those facing tragedies and bad days today will surely have a brighter tomorrow…that’s just the ebb and flow of life.

And I sincerely hope that that’s also the ebb and flow of government and the future of our nation. Let’s face it, y’all; America is in one of those funks I described earlier. Our nation is having a “bad day.” We’re still the greatest nation in the world, but the beauty of America, the beauty of freedom and democracy, there’s been a shadow cast on it lately.

We used to be united; a country full of opinions and differences but that was ultimately cohesive: a team, a family. We’re not united anymore, though. Opinions and differences that were once respectively shared now only seem to tear us apart; the politicians leading us jump on those differences, highlighting them, driving the wedge between us further and further down.

The last few weeks have been a blood bath. Television, Facebook, Twitter: everyone’s been abuzz with election commentary and mudslinging. On Facebook and Twitter alone, I’ve witnessed countless personal attacks over whose voting for whom and whose opinion is “right.” Friends fight with friends, and the division between us is driven even further.

But like I said, maybe this is just a funk, a rough period for America. Maybe one day soon the economy will turn around and relieve some of the stresses Americans have been feeling. Maybe one day soon politicians will reach across the aisle and join together on making important changes. Maybe one day soon we’ll be a great nation united once again, with respect and love for each other and all of our freedoms.

On Tuesday, I will vote. I will exercise my right and freedom as an American citizen. I will do so among countless fellow citizens, citizens who may not be casting the same vote as I but for whom I have nothing but the utmost respect. On Tuesday, we have a chance for a new beginning, no matter who is elected. We have the opportunity to start fresh and come together once again. We will vote for different candidates; we will never see eye-to-eye. But we will always remember that we are a nation, a nation of diversity and unity that has the potential for greatness.

Stormy weather will pass, and the sun will shine once again.

Author's Note: This was written in response to The Lightning and the Lightning Bug's prompt "Storm." Hope you'll join us!!

My Dearest Ms. Austen

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My Dearest Ms. Austen –

I hope this letter finds you well. Of course, you are dead, so I’m not really sure how “well” you could be. But for a dead writer, I do hope you are well. I hope your eternity is full of ink and quills and social situations to poke fun of.

To start, I would like to comment on a hero from my favorite of your beloved novels, one Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. Good God, woman, could you have created a more perfect man? You might already know this, but countless readers have lusted after your Mr. Darcy…particularly when he’s portrayed by Colin Firth on film. Yummy.

But I digress. Thanks for the high expectations. No woman deserves less than a passionate, stubborn, very-nearly-insulting, and intelligent man like Darcy, and no woman should settle for a man who brings forth less passion within her. I have my own irritating and adorable Mr. Darcy, and I wouldn’t trade him for the world.

More important than the dead sexy and very real Colin Firth or the dead sexy and very fictional Mr. Darcy, I would like to mention the nature of your words and your storytelling ability and how both of these things heavily influenced the direction my life has taken.

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As a little girl, I loved to read and be read to, not unlike many children; however, as I grew, I found that my passion for words stretched far beyond just reading them. I had a writer’s heart: first kindled in a grade school poetry competition, catching fire in an eighth grade reading of The Diary of Anne Frank, and consuming my soul in high school with the works of Hemingway, Lee, Steinbeck, Fitzgerald, and, a favorite, Ms. Jane Austen.

Ms. Austen, you are just one of my many literary heroes. Your words are just a few of the words that have touched me and molded me as a writer over the years. I collect characters and phrases from you and others, tucking them away like pieces of sea glass…to be used later, shining and sparkling again in my own words and worlds.

And so I dream of you, of having an ounce of your talent, of wielding a quill and a pot of ink as cleverly as you do. I dream of writing words that move millions, that leave a legacy, that still have life centuries after my death.

And of course, I dream of Mr. Darcy…

Sincerely and with great respect,

Ms. Kathryn Ross

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This letter was hand-written for the Lightning and Lightning Bug prompt: Letter Writing Campaign. We were charged to write a letter in 700 words or less to someone we'd never met. I was inspired to write to one of my literary heroes. 


Which of your literary heroes would you write to if given the opportunity? What would you say?


If you'd like to join the Letter Writing Campaign, you have until Wednesday to linkup. Hope to see you there!

My Valentine to Blogs

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Dear Blogs,

I began my affair with you over a year ago now; hard to believe so much, and yet so little, time has passed since that fateful day.

I was a cynical and suspicious fledgling writer. You were foreign to me, a vague concept in a transforming world taken over by social media. I had toyed around with you before, teasing with the idea of starting a relationship with you, but something always stopped me. The fact that I didn’t quite understand you? Perhaps. A lack of courage? Most definitely.

Blogging meant putting myself out there in a way I never had before. It meant sharing feelings I had never shared. It meant revealing a dream, to myself and to others, that I didn’t quite believe in.

I was a chicken. In typical Katie-form, I wondered what everyone would think, agonized on how others might see me. I worried that I wasn’t a good enough writer. I doubted that I had anything to say that people would want to read. But I didn’t let any of that stop me. I saw value in writing a blog. I saw that it might help me improve my writing, that it might help me gain a little confidence.

You’ve given me that confidence; you’ve helped me to improve. Because of you, I now write almost daily, and looking back on posts even from as little as a year ago, I see how I’ve grown. Selfishly, I would jump into this relationship a thousand times again and never regret a moment for how you’ve changed me, for the insight you’ve given me on myself.

But you’ve been so much more than even that. Through you, I’ve made dozens of friends, friends whom I cherish and have made true connections with. I stupidly forget this gift you’ve given me sometimes, the gift of friendship and insight and connection. I tend to overlook these little things that make you so great.

Little things like reading an extraordinary and touching story, bravely shared through friendship and love.

Little things like laughs shared for a great causes and a unique wit, both of which will leave you wishing you could get together with those fellow bloggers and go out for drinks, in a totally non-stalker way.

Little things like communities and friendships built on common interests and transcending barriers like age and location to provide support and encouragement in so many ways.

Little things that let us all know we aren’t alone, in our thoughts and ideas, in our fears and insecurities. For every experience or feeling I have, you’ve shown me there’s someone else out there with a similar experience and almost the exact same feeling.

Little things like witnessing unbelievable passion and love through the eyes of a mother, who said without fear just what I’ve wanted to say all along.

Little things like learning about someone else’s culture or viewpoint, learning that something we may have judged before or misunderstood isn’t so different from us after all.

Little things like witnessing the brilliance of a writer as she grows and fearlessly dives in, reaching out for a dream that is reaching right back for her.

These little things all make up my experiences as a blogger, as a lover of blogs. They are why you make me smile, work harder, and devote much of my free-time to my passion. I couldn’t possibly list the many people and words who have touched me through you, but I did want to devote at least a few of my own words to the difference you’ve made in me and in my life, my perspective, and my  writing.

Thank you, blogs, for being so much more than I ever thought you were.

With love,

Katie

What are some of the things that make you love blogs and blogging?

Author's Note: If you have the time, I encourage you to take the time to click on the links above. They are just a few of the many people and posts that have touched me as a writer and a blogger. I hope they can touch you in the same way. Oh, and this is by no means a complete list of the people and blogs who have influenced me and left me speechless. I wish I could name them all!

This was written for The Lightning and the Lightning Bug prompt: Valentine. 

Motherly Meltdown

I won’t lie. This week’s A Flicker of Inspiration prompt had me stumped. I don’t like it when prompts stump me. In fact, I get down-right annoyed when that happens. In typical badger fashion, I growled and groaned around the house this weekend, as I wracked my brain for a story to tell. 

The prompt challenged us to write an "It's Not What It Looks Like" scene. A scene where a colossal misunderstanding leads to something funny or drives the plot in some way.

I thought about it. And nothing came to mind.

Not a thing.  

And then, as it so often happens with these sorts of things, an idea fell into my lap. Thanks in part to some home improvements and my parents being over for the weekend. I’ll explain that at the end.

Behold, an actual response to the most challenging prompt I’ve faced:

Motherly Meltdown

It couldn’t be true. It wasn’t true. Not her baby. Not her sweet baby girl. Never.

But it was true. The evidence was in her hands.

Sarah’s body shook as she stared down at the tiny plastic bag. Tears filled her soft brown eyes, and she surrendered to the tragedy of it all as they began to fall in great drops, dampening the tiny bag and her shaking hands.

Emily had always been such a good child. Quiet, sweet, never a moment’s trouble to her or her father. She supposed she’d just been hiding this secret life from them all along. The sneaky little minx.

Sarah stood up abruptly, let the small bag of pot and clean pairs of panties she’d been putting in Emily’s underwear drawer fall to the floor. A glance around her daughter’s perfect purple room made her anger dissipate and the nausea creep in. Emily still had teddy bears for God’s sake. Show jumper trophies and ribbons lined the shelves along her ceiling. A poster of that ridiculous-looking Justin Beiber hung over her bed.

She was just a little girl. Fifteen-years-old. A baby.

And yet, not a little girl or baby anymore. If she could smoke pot, she was neither.  Sarah’s head spun as images of Emily danced before her eyes.

Emily as a black cat at Halloween, at every Halloween since she could crawl. “What do you want to be this year, baby?” “A black cat!” “Again? Hadn’t you rather be a princess or maybe even a witch?” “No, I wanna be a black cat!”

Emily as a graceless ballet dancer, wearing a plush airplane costume and sticking out hopelessly amongst her fellow dancers on stage.

Emily as a bookworm and excellent student, bringing home a report card with straight A’s and begging for ice cream as a reward.

Emily as a pot-smoking hipster with a lip ring and pink streaks in her hair….but wait, Sarah was getting ahead of herself. Still, the lip ring and pink streaks were sure to follow. After all, her daughter was a delinquent drug user now. There was no telling what would follow.

Suspension from school. Pregnancy. Jail time.

Emily’s life was over. And, thus, so was Sarah’s.

The other moms from Bunco would pass down their judgment harshly. She would be shunned from the Bunco table, cast off into a cruel, Bunco-less world.

Her church friends would pray for her, then shake their heads behind her back, tsk-tsking to themselves and wondering where she had gone so wrong. Hell was a certainty.

Nosey and vicious co-workers would lament about Sarah’s situation in front of their boss. Bossman would then call her into his office on a Wednesday and tell her that she’s fired for being such a horrible mother and for having such a pot-smoker of a daughter.

The media was sure to get ahold of the story, and once they did, unwanted fame would follow. She would cry as Oprah admonished her actions on an ugly orange couch. She would wince as her name and face were flashed on Inside Edition and Entertainment Tonight.  The Bad Mother.

Sarah’s spiral into madness was reaching its crescendo, when Emily bee-bopped into the room. “Mom, hi!” Her voice was spunky, sweet, not at all what Sarah imagined the voice of a gruff, pot-smoking hippy would sound like. A second wave of nausea hit her, as another imagined nightly news headline scrolled through her broken mind:

Pothead Daughter of Ruined Mother Adopts Fourteen Pot-Bellied Pigs, Marries a Gang-Banger, and Moves to a Commune.

Oh, the horror!

Gathering all of her remaining composure, Sarah bent down, picked up the small bag of pot from among the pink panties strewn on the floor, and met her daughter’s beautiful blue eyes. But before she could open her mouth and begin the never-ending trail of curses that she would lay upon her daughter, Emily interrupted.

“You found Yuki’s catnip!” She chirped, snatching the bag from Sarah’s limp hand and running from the room in search of her obese tabby cat.

With jaw slack and mind still racing, relief trickled in, and Sarah sighed, comforted by the thought that she wouldn’t have to live in a Bunco-less world after all. 

As I said, this story was inspired by my parent’s visit to our house over the weekend. They helped us put up tile in our kitchen, and at one point, my Mama fumbled through my junk drawer (can't write those words without a shout out for Dawnie, you'll know what I mean :) oh, and VISIT HER BLOG, you won't regret it) looking for a marker to mark the tile with. In that junk drawer is a tiny bag of catnip that closely resembles another substance.

Thankfully, my Mama didn’t quite react like Sarah, but I did wonder what must have gone through her head at the first glance of that bag…

This was written for A Flicker of Inspiration prompt: "It's Not What It Looks Like." If you haven't already, check out this fun and engaging writing community by clicking the button below:

Birds on a Wire

Well, here we are again. 

Yep. 

What should we do today?

I don't know. 

Should we fly over to that fence?

Sure.

Well, here we are.

Yep. 

Can't see as much from down here. 

Nope. 

But it is a little more comfortable than that wire. 

Yep. I guess so.

That crow sure is loud over there. You'd think he'd keep it down so that mockingbird couple doesn't come after him again. Some birds never learn.

Nope.

You think the mockingbirds will hatch a nest this year?

Don't know. Guess we'll find out soon enough.

After last year's disaster with that cat, you'd think they'd take a year off. 

Guess that's their business.

Maybe. I'd just like a little peace and quiet in the neighborhood for a change. With their constant chattering, I can barely concentrate on what I'm doing. 

Yep.

I sure wish that crow would shut up. Should we fly back to the wire do you think?

Up to you.

I like being able to see what's going on. You can't see anything from down here.

Nope.

Well, here we are.

Yep. 

You see anything we can eat? I'm kinda hungry.

Nope.

Is that a french fry in the middle of the road? Oh, I love french fries. Should we go down and get it?

Up to you.

I think we should. There haven't been many cars yet. I think we'll be safe.

Watch out!

Ah!

Let's go back!

Well, here we are.

Yep.

Guess we shouldn't have gone down after all. 

Nope. Probably not.

I just really like french fries.

Yep. Me too.

But I guess it's not worth it.

Nope. Probably not.

Betcha that crow will go after it. Mark my words. 

Yep. Guess he probably will.

Crows have all the nerve.

Yep. They sure are brave.

Brave!? Ha! They're just stupid. Flying down to the middle of the road to get some dumb french fry. Like they don't have any sense at all. No wonder the mockingbirds chase them.

Yep. Guess you're right.

Of course I'm right. I'm always right. So, what should we do today?

I don't know.

Should we fly over to that fence?

Sure.

Author's Note: Our task at Lightning and the Lightning Bug this week was to write a story using only dialogue. Come join us by linking up and checking out our fantastic community of fantastic writers!

 

Obits

Author's Note: For The Lightning and the Lightning Bug's Dare to Share link up this weekend, the theme is "Loss." I wrote the poem below a few years ago, inspired by the Dave Mattews' song "Gravedigger." 

Dora Leigh Rex

Born 1948 on a Sunday in July

Was a terror from birth

Causing complications wherever she tread

The day she died

Was a relief to her surviving three sons:

Jimmy, Lewis, and Al

A Tuesday in February at 51

From complications due to too much corn whiskey

And fried chicken and not enough reasons to live

Her services took place the following Friday

To an empty house

Emanuel Sanders III

Manny to his friends

A sight for sore eyes born on the fifth of February

In 1976 to Mr. Sanders and his whore

A Madam from Queens with beautiful eyes

And a killer smile passed along to her baby boy

Manny to his friends

A joy to all

Died at 3:00 a.m. last Wednesday

A shame, a down and dirty shame

About the Cancer that ate away

Until Manny wasn’t Manny anymore

Baby Girl

With her soft blonde curls

Born and died within minutes

Of her short sweet life

Too much inside to take

Her mom didn’t care, not a mom at all

Just a victim of the times

Bleeding her booze and snorting her cocaine

Hating her life and that man who knocked her up

On a Saturday night flight

To oblivion where her baby girl is now

Happy and laughing a sweet baby girl laugh

Jon Winston Ivory

Killed thirteen people between the day of his birth

January 1, 1923

And his death

January 2, 1973

Fried to a crispy medium in the chair

Of little circumstance to those who hated him

To those he killed because he could

So Governor Warren killed Jon

A little revenge with an audience of fifty

Bloodthirsy witnesses waiting fifty years

For Jon to die

Jackson

No one knew Jackson or that his name

Was Jackson until he was dead

Died on a snowy day in December

No one knows for sure

A human popsicle that everyone ignored

For days on end until Old Mr. Guthrie

Happened upon poor Jackson

Hiding out beneath his cardboard haven

Hiding from death and hunger

Always knocking at his door and saying,

Jackson, you’re a tragedy that everyone ignores

Mattie Bell Krauss

A hundred and one

Died in her sleep

Her husband hasn’t cried yet

But waits now for his turn to go

With a curious little smile on his face

And a warm hug for his little girls

Not little anymore and sobbing over

Mattie Bell who lived the quiet life

In the best way

And died a quiet death

Now just waits for Bill to join her






If you love to write, consider checking out The Lightning and the Lightning Bug! It's an online writing community, where you can share your fiction, poetry, and nonfiction and connect with other writers. 

Ice Cream on Sundays

When I was growing up, my parents had a Sunday night ritual for our family. It wasn’t much; it wasn’t extravagant or exciting, but it was special to us. In fact, it’s now one of my most beloved childhood memories. During this time, our family didn’t have a lot of extra money to spend, but my parents made sure my sister and I never felt this difficulty. They made sure that the adventures we had as a family outweighed material possessions.

One adventure was that Sunday night ritual of a weekly trip to Dairy Queen. I can still remember sitting in the backseat of our van or in between my parents in my Daddy’s little red truck and relishing the anticipation of a chocolate-dipped cone. We’d always go through the drive-thru. My Daddy would always order us the same ice cream, and I would always enjoy every little lick.

My husband Jeremy and I decided to go out for ice cream last Sunday night, and I was reminded of this special time with my parents, reminded that having a lot of money and a lot of things is nothing compared to having each other and maybe an ice cream cone now and again.

It was pretty late Sunday evening, and as we pulled up to Sonic to get our treat, I was slightly amazed at the number of people in the parking lot, also enjoying a Sunday night indulgence. I smiled as we enjoyed our ice cream and wondered if there were any children there visiting, lapping up the time spent with their parents and the special pleasure of a simple ice cream cone.

I certainly hope so.

In a time of smart phones, social networking, great advances in technology, I think we sometimes forget simple pleasures such as this. I think sometimes we get so caught up in what we have and what we don’t have that we miss out on some great moments in life, moments that even money can’t buy.  I sometimes lose sight of those moments myself.

In fact, I’ve often thought that I may be the very last person in the world who doesn’t own a smart phone or an iPad or even an iPod. I think of myself as being kind of behind sometimes, feeling like the rest of the world is speeding by me with all the latest technology, the best cars, the most beautiful houses. Thankfully, when these thoughts arrive, I usually put them to rest pretty quickly. Because I am blessed with so much more than the latest gadgets or the best clothes or cars, I am blessed with love.

I have moments of sitting on the front porch as the sun falls below the horizon. I own a scruffy little vegetable garden that produces the juiciest tomatoes, the most beautiful yellow squash, and the hottest Cayenne peppers. I covet time spent with my husband as we argue over Jeopardy or our differing taste in movies and books, as we cherish a home-cooked meal with turnip greens and cornbread. I greedily hold on to the sheer beauty of a roof over my head, air conditioning cooling our rooms, lights illuminating our lives. I’m blessed in little ways that are amazing and overwhelming and huge.

I may not have the latest smart phone. Heck, I may not even have a smart phone. And I may not drive the best or most beautiful car. I don’t have a big-screen television or a blu-ray player or even a DVR. My clothes aren’t designer, and my shoes aren't even the least bit chic. But I am undoubtedly blessed in hundreds of 
ways, not the least of which is ice cream on Sundays.




Author's Note: I'm linking this post up with a weekly Dare to Share Link Up with the Lightning and the Lightning Bug Writing Community. This community is for experienced and new writers alike, a supportive place for you to share your words. The Dare to Share Link Up is a weekly link up which has a new theme each week. You can share any kind of post in this link up, be it fiction, non-fiction, or poetry...you can share an old or a new post. I encourage you to hop over to the Lightning and the Lightning Bug and check things out! You'll not only find a place to share your work, but you'll also find some great reads. 


I'm also linking up with Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop for the first time. This week's prompt was: "The Simple Things."

Mama Kat's

Jar Full of Sorrow

Flicker of Inspiration Prompt #1: Lightning or a Lightning-Bug

Write a blog post that focuses on either lightning or a lightning-bug. This post can be fiction, memory, or poem. Let these words and images carry your post to its destination.

Word Limit: 800

"Jar Full of Sorrow" 

Genre: Fiction

At seven years old, she was a murderer. The thought kept repeating in her head like a bad song. She couldn't stand herself. She couldn't believe she had been so childish, so foolish. Looking down at her tiny hands, she felt the weight of the world on her shoulders.

She stood on the wide front porch of the house she loved, a slip of a child with an unkempt pony tail, dirty clothes, and scraped knees.The sun was just beginning to rise over the horizon, a new day approaching, the world spinning on in the face of her sadness and self-disgust. It was mocking her, casting its light and shadow over the life and death that surrounded her.

A tear snuck down her dirty face, exposing a trail of pale skin. She hated crying, but the overwhelming sorrow she felt was taking over. She crossed her skinny arms over her chest and hugged herself. The jar stood at her feet, its lid sitting askew atop it.

She heard the screen door open and shut behind her, its creak stretching out and breaking the silence of the summer morning. She felt the hand clamp down on her shoulder, a solemn reminder of the gravity of her deed. How could she bare to look up at him? How could she face anyone ever again?

"Livvy." His voice offered some comfort, but she refused to take it.

Her arms tightened around herself, and the tears flowed freely. At their onset, the hand pulled at her shoulder, and suddenly, she found herself in the warm embrace of her father. "You didn't mean to." He whispered, his hand clumsily rubbing her back. "It was just an accident."

An accident, yes, but a costly one. The price was down by her bare feet in the bottom of the jar, a jar that had been full of light and life only the night before, a jar that was now only full of sorrow. The memory of chasing the lightning-bugs across the yard, catching each of them in her carefully cupped hands, and dropping them into that pretty class jar, was eclipsed now by the enormous feeling of remorse.

She imagined the tiny light inside them blinking, fading, blinking, fading. Fading, fading, until it was finally gone. The sobs wracked her tiny body, and the morning sun rose higher and higher in the sky, while her father held her on that pretty white porch, with that pretty glass jar down by their feet.

She was seven years old, and this tragedy would be only her first taste of sorrow.


Author's Note: Surprisingly, I struggled with this prompt. It's surprising, because I have so many lovely childhood memories of catching lightning-bugs. I could have chosen any of them and put them into words, but somehow, that didn't seem to be quite enough of a challenge. I always associate lightning-bugs with happy feelings: perfect memories, the beginning of summer, long nights playing outside with my friends. I wanted to challenge myself and tease out some sadness and tragedy with the word lightning-bug.