tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70564126829024109662024-03-13T21:22:15.099-07:00And Lucy Writes!Writing.... a place where I can hang out and make up my own stories.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05541776489302692674noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7056412682902410966.post-68997147367962465432013-06-12T19:44:00.002-07:002013-06-13T10:03:52.025-07:00A Practical Token of Love<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The soft overhead light helps make the basement corner warm and cozy as I sift through boxes of memories. Opening a shoebox I find a couple of letters addressed to me from a young Henry, a postcard, an old flashlight and some batteries. The 1941 postcard is unused with a picture of a lake and a large rustic cabin. On the back of the card is a cheerful description of summer living and golf at the Bonnie Oaks Resort in Vermont. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I settle down in the old faded brown easy chair and thought back to the summer of 1941. That summer I was one of the student nurses at the Vermont summer camp. It was to be a reward, a treat, to get out of the humid, stifling city and make some money while using our newly trained nursing skills. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I open the letter from Henry. In the letter he explains how he sent me a flashlight because he was worried about me in the dark. He then in great detail wrote down how to change the battery and even taped a spare light bulb inside the box it came in. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Tears sprung to my eyes. I remember when I got this package and how badly I acted. The other girls had already received care packages filled with Cadbury milk chocolate, red and white striped packages of Beechnut gum and packets of Planters peanuts all of which the girls shared. Now it was my turn. I had gotten a package from Henry and the girls gathered around to watch me open it. I was excited to share my treats with them. I tried to hide my embarrassment and disappointment when I opened the package and found the flashlight. The girls had tried to be polite but the wisecracks were sitting on their lips waiting to be sprung loose. Yet this was my Henry to send me a flashlight. A practical and no nonsense token of love to his city girl in the woods. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>Todays story is inspired by a prompt given by the folks at <a href="http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/">www.trifectawritingchallenge.com</a>! Stop by to read some amazing talent!</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/light?show=0&t=1370382897" style="color: #1f2bad; text-decoration: none;">3</a><a href="http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/light?show=0&t=1370382897" style="color: #1f2bad; text-decoration: none;">: a source of light: as</a><br /> <a href="http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/light?show=0&t=1370382897" style="color: #1f2bad; text-decoration: none;">a : a celestial body</a><br /> <a href="http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/light?show=0&t=1370382897" style="color: #1f2bad; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"> b : candle </a></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05541776489302692674noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7056412682902410966.post-85754440331648213352013-06-08T21:47:00.002-07:002013-06-08T21:48:40.951-07:00Love at First Sight<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">His deep brown eyes locked onto mine and my heart clutched with a longing that refuse to let go.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Trembling with a desire so strong I got as close to him as I possibly dared to and whispered softly in his ear that tonight he was going to come home with me.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">And with that he wagged his tail, licked my face and we've been together since.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It's been a while since I've participated in the Trifecta Writing Challenge! I sure did miss you all and it's good to be back!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Now this weekends challenge was to write a complete story in three sentences. Stop on by and read some wonderful, amazing stories.</span><br />
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<a href="http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com</span></a><br />
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<a border="0" href="http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><img src="http://i1132.photobucket.com/albums/m573/SeekingBlog/Picture11-1.png" /></span></a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05541776489302692674noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7056412682902410966.post-29426139690042924712013-03-21T09:46:00.000-07:002013-03-21T09:46:11.861-07:00Belly laughs of magic<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Grandma's giggles had transformed into cackles of hilarity instantly infecting the rest of us sitting at the dining room table with laughter. Maybe it was because it was the end of a Christmas day or maybe it was the bubbly white sparkling wine she sipped at all day but we saw a giddy side of our stoic and reserved Grandma us kids had never witnessed before. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">What was so amusing to Grandma was the red and white aerosol can of whip cream she held in her hand. She was doled the task of squirting each slice of pumpkin pie that had been set in front of us. The notion of holding the can upside down and pressing the nozzle to allow a stream of fluffy sweet cream spurt into a dollop of white sweetness was a novelty new to her. As she went around the table her spontaneous laughter grew into belly laughs with every<i> pfffftt</i> she created from the tap of the can.</span></span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JXqBSqWpu4A/UUs27GbmI8I/AAAAAAAAAbo/iJJwjztreGo/s1600/pumpkin+pie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JXqBSqWpu4A/UUs27GbmI8I/AAAAAAAAAbo/iJJwjztreGo/s320/pumpkin+pie.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">For a young girl like myself the moment was magical to have so much fun erupting in my family over a simple can of whip cream. She got to my younger brother, perched at the far end of the table in his high chair, and carelessly squirted my brother in the face rather than the pie. Commotion broke out as Grandma stood there horrified as the rest of us were howling and snorting with laughter pointing at my brother covered in white foam while he was bawling and rubbing his eyes smearing the white goo from his face into his hair. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">That was forty years ago and Grandma has long since passed away. Yet at every holiday dinner I keep a red and white can of Redi-Whip on the dessert table to bring keep the magical memory alive. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>This post inspired by the awesome folks at <a href="http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/">www.trifectawritingchallenge.com</a> </i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>Todays word is </i>Infect. <i>Be sure to stop by and read some infectious writings!</i></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05541776489302692674noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7056412682902410966.post-27465246571389650912013-03-10T11:11:00.003-07:002013-03-10T11:11:37.150-07:00Heart of Stone<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Give it here", she asks gently. His trembling lips give away his false bravado, pleading eyes searching for truth in hers. Holding his breath he opens his hand exposing the fiercely guarded stone. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>This post inspired by <a href="http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/">The Trifextra Challenge!</a> This weekend the challenge is to write using the word "stone" in less than 33 words. Be sure to stop by and read from amazing trifectians!</i></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05541776489302692674noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7056412682902410966.post-41130019611376738942013-01-04T11:05:00.000-08:002013-01-04T11:05:03.078-08:00Self<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It is comfortable to know only the familiar outer layer.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Yet if we press </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">through the underlying crimson shield of emotion, feelings and thoughts we find the warm inner core where self lies. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>The Weekend Challenge....</i></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #2e2d2d; font-family: Cardo; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">On to the weekend challenge. As you'll recall from your elementary science class days, the structure of the earth can be divided most simply into three sections: core, mantle, crust. Here's a diagram.<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 1px 1px 5px; background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-color: rgb(236, 236, 236); border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; border-left-color: rgb(236, 236, 236); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 1px; border-right-color: rgb(236, 236, 236); border-right-style: solid; border-right-width: 1px; border-top-color: rgb(236, 236, 236); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 1px 1px 5px; color: #5c5c5c; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 5px; padding-left: 5px; padding-right: 5px; padding-top: 5px; position: relative; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AFMzs2mz3og/UOabWHu6PwI/AAAAAAAAAF0/6zkNGNbzK0Y/s1600/ID-10028908.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #1f2bad; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AFMzs2mz3og/UOabWHu6PwI/AAAAAAAAAF0/6zkNGNbzK0Y/s320/ID-10028908.jpg" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 0px 0px 0px; background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; border-width: initial; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 0px 0px 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; position: relative;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12px;">Image courtesy of Danilo Rizzuti / FreeDigitalPhotos.net</td></tr>
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<br />Give us 33 words from it. Interpret the prompt however you wish--literal, metaphorical, or somewhere in between. If you would like to use the image on your own blog, you must properly credit it.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05541776489302692674noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7056412682902410966.post-54940609200667123502013-01-03T11:14:00.003-08:002013-01-03T13:49:48.771-08:00The Moment of Freedom<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mq4ox9Y-UMM/UOXXgoS5MNI/AAAAAAAAAX8/YoJ3-luVPBU/s1600/iStock_000000381401XSmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mq4ox9Y-UMM/UOXXgoS5MNI/AAAAAAAAAX8/YoJ3-luVPBU/s320/iStock_000000381401XSmall.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #606060; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, Palatino, 'Palatino Linotype', serif; font-size: 22px;">“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.”</span></td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Annie turned and put her hands up to the side of my face, her hands warming my cheeks as the frigid salty harbor mist of January swirled around us. A gesture so unexpected from the green eyed, timid woman I met only twelve days ago as our ship set sail from Queenstown. A ship full of immigrants with dreams carefully packed up among the meager and priceless life possessions stuffed in battered trunks and worn-torn satchels. Twelve days ago I left Ireland for adventure, for something more than being a village farmer that can no longer survive on what the land was no longer providing. Annie professed to me one dark stormy afternoon as we huddled with the other passengers durning rough seas that she was running away from a country that had persecuted her family for what they believed in. She was running away because she was afraid of not being able to be herself. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Jack, we did it. We are here in New York City. This is the start of our new lives!” </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Yes, Annie, we certainly made it” I reply as I brushed back the red fiery hair from her face, her green eyes sparkling with excitement as the Statue of Liberty stood by solemnly proud welcoming us to a new beginning and kissed her forehead.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I struggled to smile back as I realize that I will soon have to let her go. Moments later the ship is in dock and the gangplanks set in place. The ships crew and the immigration stewards are shouting orders. Annie and I shuffle with the others, many struggling with their bags down the passageway. I take Annies hand as we walk down the wooden planks and squeeze it gently as together we step on American soil. A single moment shared only by the two of us. A moment of freedom and of new beginnings. No words are said as I let go. No words are needed as we go our separate ways.</span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">************************************************************************</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>It feels good to be writing again! My goal for 2013 is to write more! </i></span><br />
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<a border="0" href="http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://i1132.photobucket.com/albums/m573/SeekingBlog/Picture11-1.png" /></a>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>This weeks <a href="http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/">Trifecta Writing Challenge</a> is....</i></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #2e2d2d; font-family: Cardo; line-height: 21px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/survive" style="color: #2a2aff; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank"><b>survive</b></a><br /><br />1: to remain alive after the death of <he is survived by his wife><br />2: to continue to exist or live after <survived the earthquake><br /><a href="http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/survive" style="color: #1f2bad; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">3: to continue to function or prosper despite : withstand <they </a></span></i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #2e2d2d; font-family: Cardo; line-height: 21px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/survive" style="color: #1f2bad; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">survived many hardships></a></span></i></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05541776489302692674noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7056412682902410966.post-34094501562739202432012-11-29T15:20:00.001-08:002013-01-03T11:06:00.293-08:00The Wedding<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">This week's <a href="http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/">Trifecta Writing Challenge</a> is the word....</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #2e2d2d; font-family: Cardo; line-height: 21px;"><a href="http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/hollow" style="color: #2a2aff; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank">HOLLOW (adjective)</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #2e2d2d; font-family: Cardo; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #2e2d2d; font-family: Cardo; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span><br />
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<span class="ssens"><strong>:</strong> having an indentation or inward curve <strong>:</strong> concave, sunken</span></div>
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<span class="ssens"><strong>:</strong> having a cavity within <span class="vi"><a <em>hollow</em> tree></span></span></div>
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3</div>
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<span class="ssens"><a href="http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/hollow" style="color: #1f2bad; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><strong>:</strong> lacking in real value, sincerity, or substance <strong>:</strong> <span style="color: #1122cc;"><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">false</span></span>,<span style="color: #1122cc;"><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">meaningless</span></span> <span class="vi"><<em>hollow</em> promises></span> <span class="vi"><a victory over a weakling is<em>hollow</em> and without triumph — Ernest Beaglehole></span></a></span></div>
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4</div>
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<span class="ssens"><strong>:</strong> reverberating like a sound made in or by beating on a large empty enclosure <strong>:</strong> muffled</span></div>
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<span class="ssens">As always we are to use the third definition of the word.</span></div>
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<span class="ssens">The Wedding</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">An empty hollow feeling came over me as I stood on the altar with the rest of the wedding party and watched my sister, the bride, float down the aisle on the arm of my father. The day seemed like a fairy tale because every seemed perfect.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">From where I stood I could see my mother in the front pew, head held high basking in the glorious day. An event that had reached A-list status as this was the most talked about affair of the summer. Her eldest was about to give her hand in marriage to one of society’s finest. </span></span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-q087ruk5beM/ULftIfIjrQI/AAAAAAAAAVg/A529tUYLmfw/s1600/tattooman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-q087ruk5beM/ULftIfIjrQI/AAAAAAAAAVg/A529tUYLmfw/s200/tattooman.jpg" width="133" /></a><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">As my sister stepped onto the altar and the groom took her hand I could see it in her eyes. Confusion and bewilderment. Others would assume it was nerves or excitement however I knew the truth. The truth was that she didn’t love this man. A late night confession fueled by copious amounts of white zinfandel and chocolate revealed that she was in love with another man. An artist rather than an entrepreneurist. A man who is covered in tattoos, wore shorts and flip flops rather than the man with the crewcut, brooks brothers shirts and docksiders. A lover who set her soul on fire and made her feel truly alive rather than a compulsory union of bank accounts and lineage. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The organ music had come to a halt and the guests settled down on their pews. The pastor asked the couple to join their hands and face one another. My sister looked down at her own hands. Then she looked into the eyes of the man she was to marry and shook her head from side to side. I held my breath as she took a step backwards and I exhaled as she turned towards me. I held out my hand for her to take, and together we walked down the aisle, ignoring the confused mumbles and whispers and we headed out of the church. And headed towards real love.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05541776489302692674noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7056412682902410966.post-25260082475778837042012-11-01T16:47:00.000-07:002012-11-01T16:47:07.071-07:00The sounds of her homeland<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It's been too long since I've participated in the Trifecta Writing Challenge! </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">This week the challenge is the following....</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #2e2d2d; font-family: Cardo; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><a href="http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/whore?show=0&t=1351508540" style="color: #1f2bad; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">WHORE</a><br />1: a woman who engages in sexual acts for money: prostitute; also: a promiscuous or immoral woman<br />2: a male who engages in sexual acts for money<br /><a href="http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/whore?show=0&t=1351508540" style="color: #1f2bad; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">3: a venal or unscrupulous person</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">Please remember:</span></div>
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<li style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-indent: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Your response must be between 33 and 333 words.</span></li>
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<li style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-indent: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">You must use the 3rd definition of the given word in your post.</span></li>
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<li style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-indent: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The word itself needs to be included in your response.</span></li>
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<ul style="background-color: white; color: #2e2d2d; font-family: Cardo; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0.5em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 2.5em; padding-right: 2.5em; padding-top: 0px;">
<li style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-indent: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">You may not use a variation of the word; it needs to be exactly as stated above. </span></li>
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<li style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-indent: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Only one entry per writer.</span></li>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Be sure to visit <a href="http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/">www.trifectawritingchallenge.com</a> and join in the fun!</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Maggie could hear the merriment a block away as she walked towards the Corner Tavern. It was getting darker sooner and already the gas lamplights were lit. This could only mean that the revelry will be starting earlier and earlier as the evening starts sooner. Maggie glanced inside the bar as she passed by. She saw young Irish girls, the same age as her, looking like strumpets and whores, their faces heavily powdered and their lips stained a tart red giggling like school children eating up the attention of the drunken lowlifes and card-sharks. Human wrecks make for good company. Everyone in their wanted something from each other and would lie and cheat to get what they wanted. Maggie knew this all too well from the old country. The country she sailed away from to start a new life in America. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">In the dark alley behind the bar is the entrance to the staircase leading up to her flat. She opens the door and runs up the wooden staircase, unlocking her one room apartment and quickly shuts the door behind her, hoping that no drunkard has followed her. As she undressed and laid down on her cot, the mattress so thin she could feel the wires underneath, she listens to the sounds of debauchery going on below her and into the street. This was the tradeoff she paid for having her own place rather than sharing a tenement with other women new to this country. She craved the solitude and the privacy and this was what she could afford for now on her meager pay.Truth be told, Maggie also craves the sounds of her homeland, a place she ran from yet the homesickness tugs at her heart. She drifts off to sleep and the squandering and boozing continues late into the night. </span></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05541776489302692674noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7056412682902410966.post-4140647921435117422012-10-06T09:56:00.000-07:002012-10-06T09:56:12.467-07:00Someday never comes.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7ZG9-MmvRMM/UHBhBfFJzRI/AAAAAAAAAPY/qdogb4tOCWM/s1600/IMG_1813.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7ZG9-MmvRMM/UHBhBfFJzRI/AAAAAAAAAPY/qdogb4tOCWM/s320/IMG_1813.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">His dreams and ambitions taped to his soul start to curl and yellow as they hang forgotten. The fire once in his belly doused by liquid courage. Someday never comes inside these walls.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>This post inspired by the weekend Trifextra at <a href="http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/">www.trifectawritingchallenge.com</a></i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>Hop over there to read amazing stories! </i></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05541776489302692674noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7056412682902410966.post-27477767509600052552012-09-21T15:27:00.001-07:002012-09-22T09:32:08.109-07:00A baby's blanket<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-34UOm10HKxo/UFzoaUCRU2I/AAAAAAAAAMs/q7sVU29dq-s/s1600/iStock_000012471676XSmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-34UOm10HKxo/UFzoaUCRU2I/AAAAAAAAAMs/q7sVU29dq-s/s320/iStock_000012471676XSmall.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Weaved with love</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">Skeins of pastels weaved with love.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">A blanket of quiet care and warmth.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Later to be packed away</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">in a blink of an eye</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">as an heirloom to be cherished</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">for future generations.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #2e2d2d; font-family: Cardo; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><i>This post inspired by <a href="http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/">www.trifectawritingchallenge.com </a>! Today the challenge is to describe something that is three different things at the same time. Oh, and do it in 33 words. </i></span></span></div>
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<a border="0" href="http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://i1132.photobucket.com/albums/m573/SeekingBlog/Picture11-1.png" /></a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05541776489302692674noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7056412682902410966.post-42118656210687848652012-09-12T09:59:00.000-07:002012-09-12T10:06:46.850-07:00Walk of life<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ESgydqoL31U/UFC63YBdE9I/AAAAAAAAALw/95zevhcgLkA/s1600/75927943687958568_upkaun23_f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ESgydqoL31U/UFC63YBdE9I/AAAAAAAAALw/95zevhcgLkA/s320/75927943687958568_upkaun23_f.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">So many have walked before us. Scattered lives of young, old, male and female. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">All walks of life. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Those who have travel through life in heels, boots, flip flops and sneakers during dark gloomy cold days confident that days of warmth and sunshine will follow.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">We must continue the journey to show those walking behind us the way. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">To keep life moving. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>This post inspired by Visual Dare at <a href="http://anonymouslegacy.blogspot.com/">Anonymous Legacy</a>! </i></span></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05541776489302692674noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7056412682902410966.post-17148536197225147612012-09-10T19:03:00.002-07:002012-09-10T19:03:09.255-07:00Grammy's Football Mania<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It's<a href="http://www.caramichaels.com/"> #MenageMonday</a>! A perfect way to start off the week! Thank you Cara Michaels for giving me some inspiration today....</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Grammy came out of the side door sporting her ancient NY Giants cap crushing her white newly permed hair as we pulled up into her driveway.</span></div>
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“Randy! Charlie! Are you ready to get this football mania started?”<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“Sure am Mrs C!”, Charlie exclaimed as he gave my grandmother a bear hug.”This is the only spot in town to watch the game!”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“ Hi Grammy, I leaned in to peck my grandmother a kiss on her soft, wrinkled cheek, her blue eyes twinkling with excitement. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Charlie set up the soda’s on the small dining room table leaving room for the hot wings and meatballs. Bowls of chips and pretzels are already set up on the living room table. The flat screen tv, a Christmas gift from my parents, is already tuned in to the pre-game show. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">As I head back out to the car to grab the potatoes for potato skins I see Grammys nosy neighbor sitting on her porch watching as her eyes glare at me. “Grammy why didn’t you invite your neighbor? She seems pretty angry out there.”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> “Oh her. I tried to but she refuses to come. Apparently she’s a Dallas Cowboy fan.”</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05541776489302692674noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7056412682902410966.post-61955775407772874232012-07-27T18:07:00.000-07:002012-07-27T18:09:14.013-07:00A handwritten note.<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Chaos swirled about me as I woke up on the hospital gurney, my head fuzzy and my vision obscured by the noisy oxygen mask on my face. Nurses in green floated around my body, poking and prodding, in a well practiced waltz all orchestrated by the doctor standing at the foot of the bed. The tempo changes and the energy in the small steel colored room drops to a less frantic pace. The doctor well satisfied with his performance rattles off a list of instructions to his dancing companions standing beside me and leaves to lead another performance behind another curtain. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“What happened”, I asked as a friendly faced nurse as she pulled the mask from my face. “I don’t remember anything”.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">My question was answered by my sergeant who walked in. A man who felt more like my dad than my supervisor. A pissed off look on his face didn’t give away the relief that I can see in his yes. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Amanda, you were shot in the arm”. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Doctor says you are one lucky gal and you are going to be okay. The bullet grazed your upper arm in such a way that it just caused a bloody mess but no permanent damage done. Only harm done is that you will have a scar about the size of a quarter to brag about”. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The happy juice dripping from the IV bag into my arm was starting to chase away logic as I fought to keep my eyes open. Using my good arm I pointed to the hook on the wall where my kevlar vest hung next to my bloody shirt gross in contrast to my gold badge shining bright. With slurred speech I asked him to give me the letter tucked in the inside pocket of the vest . All cops keep something there to protect them if the gun and bullet proof vest can’t. Some have pictures of their families or dog. Rosary beads and prayer cards are popular. I have my mama. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Get some rest, that is a direct order. I’ll be back and please don’t get into any trouble”, Sarge barked. He squeezed my foot on the way out. “Good job kid” he mumbled in a controlled voice shaken with relief and pride. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I opened the letter written to me a month before I graduated from Police Academy. My mother had written it the night before the cancer robbed her of seeing her only daughter graduate. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>Amanda, </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>As you go out to serve and protect your job is to treat everyone you meet with kindness and fairness. Do justice right. My job as your guardian angel is to protect you from harms way. I have your back so don’t ever be afraid. Now girl, go out there and be the best you can be. </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>Love, Mom... your guardian angel. </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I clutched the letter as I drifted off in a vicoden induced slumber knowing that mama is watching out for her little girl. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">This post inspired by Write On Edge </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">- </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #5c5c5c; font-family: helvetica, 'Trebuchet MS', arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 22px;"><strong style="font-weight: bold;">A stand-alone scene, fiction or memoir, in 500 words or less, involving a handwritten letter</strong></span><br />
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<a border="0" href="http://writeonedge.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://writeonedge.com/wp-content/images/button.jpg" /></a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05541776489302692674noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7056412682902410966.post-78858042698442670702012-07-22T14:11:00.002-07:002012-07-22T14:12:04.234-07:00Taking a leap<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Everyone expects me to play ball. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Colleges begging me to play for them.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Don’t disappoint the person that matters most” my mama says. “Do what’s right”.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Therefore I am going to art school. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i>This post inspired by the great folks at <a href="http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/">www.trifectawritingchallenge.com</a></i></span></div>
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<a border="0" href="http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://i1132.photobucket.com/albums/m573/SeekingBlog/Picture11-1.png" /></a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05541776489302692674noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7056412682902410966.post-86961026375844008642012-07-16T20:25:00.002-07:002012-07-16T20:27:14.095-07:00Sweet Chilling Thrill<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Men were talking in voices lowered to a whisper as women with ashen faces silently started to break down camp and prepare the covered wagons for our westward journey to a new home land. Not quite a man but beyond being a boy I am tasked to tie down the tarps for the traveling party using the tying hook to secure down the flaps. Everyone felt the uneasiness in the air save the children and the pretty old daft lady who rambles to herself. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">A sweet chilling thrill went through me as I overheard two leaders talking. They had discovered the bones I left behind. They couldn’t keep the screams of pain and barking mad howls heard in the night a secret but they will the bones. The men spoke of how unusually clean the bones were on the newly killed game. What spooked them most were the footprints. Prints of a human barefoot that transformed into what looked like a large paws similar to a large dog. When the men walked away I hopped down from the wagon and washed the mud from my bare feet in the stream wondering if the moon was full again tonight.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">This post inspired by<a href="http://www.caramichaels.com/defiantlyliterate/2012/07/16/menagemonday-challenge-week-39/"> Cara Michael's #menagemonday</a> and by <a href="http://www.creativecopychallenge.com/">www.creativecopychallenge.com</a> ! </span></span></div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05541776489302692674noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7056412682902410966.post-81128504155751855812012-07-06T09:42:00.002-07:002012-07-06T09:42:31.046-07:00My friend, Raggedy Ann<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Doodads” was labeled on the side of the brown box stored way in the back corner. I pulled the box out having no recollection of what was in it, or what possibly could doodads be. I tugged at the top flap and the box opened easily under the yellowed tape revealing my blue and gold high school yearbooks that were lying on top. My maiden name stamped on the cover seems so unfamiliar to me. I lift the books out and underneath were other mementos of long ago. Dance tickets, a couple of horse-show ribbons, and a small softball trophy. Underneath is an old ratty sweatshirt from middle school. Junk really. I start to put it all back in the box when I see the orange yarn peeking out from underneath the sweatshirt. I pull the sweatshirt aside and there she is. My oldest friend that I had abandoned years ago. Raggedy Ann.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I throw everything back in the box and bring the old doll inside from the garage. We sit down on the couch as I struggle with waves of excitement of finding my childhood treasure of guilt for leaving such a memory forgotten in a box. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I look at her as she stares back at me with black button eyes and that permanent smile stenciled on her face. The type of smile that you can’t help but smile back. I start to examine her as one does with a newborn. Her orange moppy yarn hair is still in tact attached to her dusty face her pink cheeks mostly faded. Her flowered flannel dress is faded but still in good shape covered by her now gray apron. I look closer at the hem of the apron and find the chocolate milk stain from a long ago mishap. I pull her dress up and find what I am looking for. The words “I love you” stamped on her chest outlined with a heart. I trace my finger along the heart just like I did many times. A heart that soothed many fears and gave a little girl many nights of comfort. A heart that reminded me every day that I have a friend no matter what. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Feeling a little foolish at the age of forty I start to hug my old friend. My face in her dusty hair, while holding onto her cotton filled hand. The years of comfort and friendship in such a well-loved doll came back to me instantly. “I love you too” I whispered to my dearest friend. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Today's post is inspired by <a href="http://www.awriterweavesatale.com/2012/06/29/sandras-writing-workshop-hop-3/">Sandra's Writing Workshop</a>. Please visit her blog and read some wonderful writing! </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b> Daredevil crosses Niagara Falls on tightrope</b></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">All day crowds had been lining up along the Suspension bridge that connects America to Canada over the Niagara River shutting down the passage way for carriages to pass. Families lined up along the top of the gorges held back by fences. Picnics were set in the grass as children ran around, getting impatient as the day wore on. Today is the day the famous daredevil Charles Blondin is to cross over the Niagara River on a tightrope. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I met Blondin earlier in the winter during my off season as the Ferry Master. I spend the winters in the ferry house making repairs to the Maid of the Mist, the tourist steamer which carries vacationers across the river and close to the majestic waterfalls. She is my pride and joy and as head skipper I spend all my time making sure she is in top condition. Blondin was spending two weeks in the rooming house adjacent to the pub I frequented and it was there that I met his acquaintance. I thought him a fool at first, listening to his tall stories about how he was going to cross the Niagara on a tight-rope. Too much liquor I thought a first but the man was consistent in his story over his nightly lager.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> A rope-dancer is how he described himself as he talked about his family heritage of being acrobatics. An odd fellow I thought to myself watching this short man, with bright blue eyes and tussled blonde hair talk about his vision with such confidence. This man actually thought he could do this. When he learned of my occupation he said to me, “Jack I will make you a wager. Tonight I will buy you a bottle of lager. On the day I cross over the Niagara I will stop midway and drop a line down to your ferry with which you will attach a bottle of lager to it and I will drink it up on the high wire.” I chuckled to myself as I drank the ale he just bought for me. This man is clearly estranged from reality.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">So here it is six months later and he obviously plans to go through with this stunt. I look up from the helm of my ferryboat and c</span><span style="font: normal normal normal 12.1px/normal Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px;">an</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> see the cable strung across the gorge with guy ropes attached about every 20 feet and secured to the boulders to prevent the main cable from sagging. It looks like a huge spider had been caught between the gorge of the Niagara. I can see people lined up all along the Suspension Bridge and crowds gathered along the edges of the cliffs. I overheard someone say that 10,000 people traveled here today by train and carriage to watch this spectacle. I pull a bottle of lager out of my coat pocket and place it down next to the steering wheel post. Just in case. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Dignitaries from both Canada and America were starting to board the shiny clean Maid of the Mist. Men and women dressed in their finest being assisted by the ships crew as everyone made their way up the gangplank. The ladies carrying parasols to protect themselves from the waterfalls mist and the late afternoon sun. Musicians played in the inside cabin and a lavish spread was set out. Benches are set up on the front deck for perfect viewing of what is to become quite an acrobatic feat. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">On the half hour we set sail. I headed towards the magnificent falls first before circling around to the cable. I never get used the roar of the falls as sheets of water fall down over the gulf forcing clouds of mist into the air. Even in late June, the water feels cool as it touches my skin. The view all eclipsing of beauty and power. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">As I look up on the American side of the cable I could see a flutter of activity. Blondin was easy to spot as his shocking blonde hair and acrobatic pink tights gave him away. I turn the ferry around and head towards the center of the river not too far from the tight-wire. I idled the ferry a small distance from the wire to give my passengers the best view. “This is crazy”, I muttered under my breath as I steadied the engine. “All these people gathered around to watch an idiot plunge to his death”. The passengers turned away from the view of the falls and began taking their seats on the benches. My crew tending to their every need as they refreshed drinks and poured fine wine. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Shortly before 5 o'clock as the sun was starting to set, Blondin with the help of his assistants started his walk across the cable from America to Canada,holding a balancing pole about 25 ft across. Even though it was impossible to hear anything above the roar of the falls, I felt a hush fall over the crowds as Blondin started his stroll on the wire. The passengers watched from the deck their eyes glued to the strange man as they crane their necks upward. He walked with the same confidence he possessed back in the pub that night. Unstoppable. Fearless. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It took him about ten minutes to make it to the Canadian side. When he leaped onto the land the party on the boat cheered. I clapped and shook my head in amazement. Facing the American side, Blondin waved from the cliff and then hopped back on the cable to stroll back . He looked so graceful under a sky streaked with pink and red made by the setting sun and the crushing sounds of the waterfalls behind him. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">At the midway point he shocked the crowd by lowering his body onto the rope, straddling his legs on both sides while keeping the balance pole steady across his knees. He seemed to have been pulling something out of a side pocket. I grabbed the looking glasses I kept hanging in the wheel-room and focused on Blondin and see that is is unraveling a cord and letting it dangle down towards the river. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Oh for heavens sake. I don’t actually believe what I’m seeing.” Boudin is pointing right at me and is motioning for me to bring the ferry right under him. He then lifts his hand up to his mouth motioning that he is ready for a drink. He remembered the wager! I steer the boat right under him and he is lowering the rope down. The spectators have no idea what he is doing but I know. I call for the senior crew member to take over in the wheel-room, grab the bottle of ale and climb up to the roof of main cabin. From that point I grab the dangling rope, and I secure the bottle to it using a sailors knot. Blondin still sitting in his position pulls up the bottle, uncorks it and gulps it down! The crowd was stunned as I stood below and laughed. Boudin was a very odd daredevil all right and he sure did know how to put on a good show!</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">He stood back up and strutted his way back to where he started from. THe whole stunt took about 30 minutes. A stunt that many men, women and children witnessed that day and would talk about for years to come. For me, every time I sit in the pub and have a glass of lager, I just have to laugh and shake my head. </span></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05541776489302692674noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7056412682902410966.post-11309782014900911962012-06-13T17:29:00.000-07:002012-06-13T17:36:13.299-07:00This day in history - June 13, 1805<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> <b>June 13th, 1805 - Meriwether Lewis and other companions of the Lewis and Clark Expedition become the first white men to discover the Great Falls of the Missouri River</b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">We heard it before we saw it. An unmistakable roar of water filling our ears and getting louder as we are getting closer. We have finally found the great river falls the Indians had warned us about during our winter with them at Fort Mandan. Many evenings the Mandan Indians had drawn on the dirt what we were up against. Those drawings did not in any way prepare us for the majestic wonder of the land we were about to see. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Captain Lewis and his dog, Seaman are steps ahead of us while myself and Silas Goodrich follow along with York, Captain Clark's black slave. Our purpose was to find these great falls as well as to determine if the Missouri River did indeed continue on towards the West. Captain Clark decides he will stay back on the river with the rest of the expedition and waits for word from us.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> Earlier this week we had come to a fork in the river and it was unclear which direction to take. Making the wrong decision would be fatal to the expedition and failure was not an option. President Thomas Jefferson had commissioned Captain Lewis and Captain Clark to explore and establish a river route to the Pacific Ocean. A journey to the unknown that no other white man had ever taken before. Jefferson took personal interest in the members of what he called the Corps of Discovery. He made it clear that the explorers are to be educated men who are proficient in botany, zoology and as well as astronomy. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">appointed by Jefferson because I am an accomplished cartographer. I compile and sketch maps.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> He insisted that all members journal their personal observations and describe in great detail their findings. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">We hike on and the sound of the thunderous water got louder and louder. So loud that the earth felt as it was vibrating. Plumes of what looked like smoke rising up into our view ahead dancing in the horizon. The sounds were unlike anything we had ever heard. Lewis stopped and waited for us to catch up. When the four of us caught up to the Captain and his dog, I look ahead and am enthralled by what I see. The noon day sun is shining down in such a way vibrant colors are weaving in and out of the rising sprays of water. We continue on towards the sound and mist and scramble down a hillside. We walk through a short grove of trees and into a small clearing and stop short. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The sight before us is of remarkable splendor and one that will always stay with me to the end of my days. Before us is a sheet of water the width of the mountain. Rolling cascades of water flowing over the cliff of the mountain beating the bottoms edge. The noise is so great we cannot hear each other shout and the spray of the water covering us in a drizzle like rain refreshingly cool on our hot sun baked skin. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I am in awe of the natural wonder in front of me and pull out my sketch pad and colored pencils from my haversack. I sketch the waterfalls onto paper for Thomas Jefferson to see but I can do it no justice. The beauty is too great to transpose onto paper. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>It should be noted that York, Captain Lewis's slave, is the first black man to see the falls. As far as Seaman, the dog, he too might be the first dog to view the falls as well but tough to say since dogs weren't good about keeping observations at that time in history! </b></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05541776489302692674noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7056412682902410966.post-45950281611843689922012-06-08T11:45:00.001-07:002012-06-08T12:23:42.636-07:00To the moon<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">Confused I sit down at the desk and look down at my open notebook. I know it was empty when I went to sleep last night. I remember going to bed frustrated because I couldn’t find my writing muse. Maybe I’m just fooling myself was my last thought as I drifted off to sleep. Maybe I don’t have it in me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">"Go ahead and find your writing self" my husband said as he handed me a gift certificate to this beautiful inn for my birthday after I shared with him my dream of becoming a writer. "Take a week and just do it. I want you to do this for yourself." </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Yet this is my handwriting as I turned the pages of notes. Confused I keep reading.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">The change in night breeze disturbed my dreams waking me up. The light of the moon poured into my room illuminating my desk, as the breeze flutters my papers scattering the notes of my novel that I’m secretly writing. The ocean waves pounding onto the surf as if trying to send a message. I push the covers off me and sit at the desk staring out onto the beach. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">As I go to set the papers back on the desk I see her on the beach, the full moon lighting her up. I saw her earlier today but from a distance. I remember her because she was dressed in a cape of sheer silvery material and the suns rays were bouncing off it. She stood out among the tourists camped out on the beach and the locals wandering up the the surf walking their dogs. When I look outside the window now I see she is wearing the same tunic but it is off her shoulders. The muscles of her shoulders and upper arms reminds me of the Olympian swimmers I watched on TV. She keeps dipping her toes in the water and then stepping back just as she was doing this afternoon. She is staring out over the ocean as if she is waiting for a signal. What is she waiting for I wondered. I sit at the desk mesmerized watching. We both are staring out at the moon. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">Suddenly a large shadow appears in the horizon. It is moving fast and is getting larger. The shadow gets closer. The woman is continuing her dance of dipping her toes in and stepping back but at a faster tempo and is now staring at the shadow getting closer. All of a sudden the shadow is in front of her, and that’s when I see it. At first I thought it was dolphins but then I realize it’s a school of women, swimming as graceful as dolphins, their golden hair disappearing into the water as their rainbow luminescent fins come up and into the air. Suddenly as the moon was in direct line of the horizon the shadow turned, the woman on the beach threw off her cape and walked with confidence into the water, joining the others. She dives into the water with her golden hair fanning the water’s surface until it disappears and her rainbow fin appears. She joins the others as they swim to the moon. When the shadow disappears I lay back on the bed, the breeze has died down and the ocean is still. The silence almost deafening.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">I look up from the notebook as I finish reading the words. A warmth envelopes me as I realize maybe I have found my writing self. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;"><i>This prompt comes today from <a href="http://writeonedge.com/">Write on Edge</a>. We were to write a story using "to the moon". </i></span></div>
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<a border="0" href="http://writeonedge.com/" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><img src="http://writeonedge.com/wp-content/images/button.jpg" /></span></a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05541776489302692674noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7056412682902410966.post-2601034732499871822012-06-07T15:54:00.000-07:002012-06-11T08:24:53.918-07:00The Great Fire of Seattle - Revised<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b>The Great Seattle Fire was a fire that destroyed the entire central business district of Seattle, Washington June 6, 1889</b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">June 6, 1889</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">“Good Morning Jack. It is going to be another scorcher today.”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I looked over and see Hugh, the resident school custodian sweeping the front terrace taking refuge in the morning shade of the balcony above. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">“It sure is Hugh. I’m beginning not to believe you folks when you tell me that each day starts with fog here in Seattle”, I half-heartingly joke with him as we both looked towards town and Elliot Bay beyond. Wooden barges line up along the waterfront as they were being loaded up with lumber. Railroad cars being pulled by a team of oxen with fresh cut pines keep the supply to the sawmills coming. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">“It’ll be back. Don’t you worry. I hope so anyway. I do miss the morning fog burning off like it does. It reminds me of the clarity each day brings. Never mind the fact that my morning chores around here are much more comfortable in fog rather than heat”, Hugh replies. He is always looking on the bright side of things. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">“Well take it easy Hugh. I’m heading into town for a bit”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">The heat wave has been the talk of the town for days. The wind blowing in from the north pushing the fog away leaves temperatures running hot all day. I do confess though that I have been enjoying waking up to seeing Mt Rainer in the distance. I recently read an interview in the the<i> Seattle Post-Intelligencere </i> that a fellow named John Muir, climbed the mighty mountain last year. In the interview he says the view from top is beautiful but that Mt Rainer is best appreciated from below looking up. I'll accept that fact being that I am not much of an adventurer myself. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Heading towards town I am glad that I decided to do without my coat today. I thought about it this morning as I was buttoning up my black vest and rolling up the sleeves of my white strached shirt and decided to put it aside for today. I do need to replace the old threadbare jacket but I better hold off on this expense for as long as I can. As an academician I don’t get much of a stipend but I feel rich being compensated in other ways. As a recent member of the teaching staff here at Territorial University I know that the school is struggling on funds. Past years have forced them to close the doors, turning away those who want to further their education. I really do have all I need. A small dormitory is provided for men like me who teach here. Right now there is only three of us. Together we teach Latin, mathematics and philosophy. From time to time prominent scholars from San Francisco or Portland will come and provide a semester long course in orienteering, astronomy and other specialized subjects. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">As I head downtown I stroll along Spring Street from Fourth Avenue. I enjoy looking at the magnificent wooden homes built along here with the local timber. The homes are built on a graded hill looking yonder to the harbor sitting in a row like birds perched on a fence. The house on the corner is my favorite, Dr. Bagley’s grand Queen Anne mansion. The lawn and garden beds are well manicured and the fancy spindle work on the balconies always appears as if the paint is still wet it looks so clean. I continue down the street making eye contact with the horses tethered to the wooden posts with carriages attached to them, patiently waiting for their day to start. I walk past the Allen residence. While Alexander Allen lives on Mansion Row, his home is the most modest of them all. One would think the manager of Seattle Dry Dock & Shipbuilding could have a house as grand as the Doctor’s but he does choose his priorities differently. He gives his money to the Arts as well as to the University. I know this because recently I was the recipient of theatre tickets donated by Mr Allen. My colleague and I enjoyed a fine show several weeks ago at the Frye Opera House. A treat indeed. On the porch sits his daughter on a stool in front of an easel. She is engrossed in her paint palette and furiously stroking the canvas with a brush. I do not call out to her as not to disturb her. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I cut over to Second Avenue and dodge an electric streetcar. I am still not used to sharing the streets with them as they are new to Seattle. Newfangled streetcars, a brain child of Frank Osgood, that are hooked to the overhead electric cables and run by on board motormen. The cars are always occupied by women who do not want the bottom of their petticoats to be covered in mud. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">My first stop this morning is the Puget Sound National Bank located in the lobby of the Occidental Hotel to deposit my semester pay. The marble lobby is dark and pleasantly cool feels good. A brief respite from the heat. I then move on to the cigar shop located down closer to the waterfront. I want to pick up two cigars. Hugh and I have gotten into the habit of sitting on the steps of the University at night, looking at Mt Rainer in the light of the moon, and smoke. I enjoy listening to the old mans tales and I believe he enjoys the company. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">With the two cigars safely stored in my shirt pocket snuggled underneath my vest I head over to the wharf. When I first explored the waterfront months ago I got easily lost. The piers, docks and berths are all connected by boardwalks creates a maze of it’s own. At first I used landmarks such as the Crystal Palace Saloon, Russell's Bakery and other businesses built on the wider planks of the boardwalk until I got my bearings and have it figured out now. Today I am going to treat myself to a lunch time meal of fish and chips and an ice cold lager at the barroom inside St. Elmo’s Hotel. St Elmo’s is a questionable establishment in my mind. I have heard of late evening brawls and other shenanigans but I never pay much attention to such talk. St Elmo’s fish and chips, wrapped in newspaper, delicately fried just right is all I’m interested in. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> After my noonday meal I walk past the Lowman and & Handford Stationary and Printing Co. I should stop in here and check on the status of the textobbk I ordered but the heat of the day is starting to get to me. Looking up at the sun’s position in the sky I am going to guess that it is about two o'clock in the afternoon. Perhaps a nap would be the best way to beat this heat and now is a good time to start heading up the hill back to the campus.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Something is wrong I ghought as soon as I hear the school belling ringing from it’s belfry. The sound of the ringing bell is alarming. The bell is only rung when school is in session, or to alert ships in Elliot Bay that land is near in extremely thick fog and those two scenarios are impossible. I instinctively turn around and immediately see a bellow of smoke coming from where I had just come from. The downtown was on fire and I could see from my vantage point that it was spreading and growing into a huge inferno. The buildings downtown are completely made of wood feeding the fire into a frenzy. Fire Engine Company #1is on scene working fervidly. I start running down to the center of town, as well as other business men, clerks and everyone else who is aware of what is going on. As I get closer the thick smoke starts to burn my eyes and the intense heat feels like it is physically pushing me back, like a bully in a schoolyard fight. Wind whips the flames carelessly about causing wreckage in it’s path. Buildings are quickly destroying in front of my eyes. In the midst of such chaos however the pulling together of humanity is keeping a somewhat calm order. Bucket brigades are being set up as lines of men are passing buckets of water from the bay to each other to assist the efforts of the Fire Engine company. It is clear that their resources are failing quickly. Apparently it wasn’t thought out at the time of inception that wooden water pipes would probably burn in a fire. Water pressure is failing and the water hoses are useless. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> I feel a huge crash behind me and watch the Frye Opera House come tumbling down.This is unbelievable and it feels so unreal. I feel it though. I smell it. I hear it. It is real. I snap back into reality and help a young woman and her child with their belongings. The barges have dumped their load of logs into the water and are taking on board passengers and whatever they can carry. Once on board the plan is to push out and push out to the far side of the harbor. Once I get the young mother and her child on board I run back through the maze of wooden planks, sparks dancing about my feet and one actually landing on my shirt sleeve burning a small hole. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I run back towards Third Avenue where I could see a flurry of activity even through the smoke. Men are shouting that every available bucket of water is to be poured onto the courthouse. An enormous effort ensues and the building was spared as the fire moves on towards skid row. Through the roaring din I can hear explosions. Barrels of booze being ignited someone explains to me. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I continue on with the work efforts doing what I am told by those who seem to know what to do. What seems like only minutes has turn into hours. I do what I can to fight the blaze. It was impossible to see that the sun had actually gone down when the Sheriff and his deputies ride about on horses. They are making an announcement that a curfew is now set in place and all citizens are to return to their homes. If their homes are not intact they are mandated to seek shelter of some kind. All saloons and other establishments are to be closed until further notice. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I head back up the hill for the second time todayThis time I feel defeated. Somewhat frightened. I just watched my newly adopted city burn down. Right in front of my eyes. I can’t believe that the buildings I visted just this morning is now just a pile of rubble and ash. How did this happen? </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">There is no sign of Hugh as I walk along the path to the back dormitory. Exhaustion takes over the minute I enter my room. I quickly peel off my smoke stenched vest and shirt and toss it to the chair. In doing so the forgotten cigars fall to the floor. I am sitting on the edge of the bed and bend down to pick them up. It seems so long ago when I bought these. Was it really just this morning? Surprisingly they survived the day, unlike the shop they came from. I lie back and close my eyes. I fall asleep with the cigars in hand. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">This story inspired by<a href="http://sandrasfiberworks.blogspot.com/2012/05/having-taught-fiction-writing-for-years.html"><span style="font: normal normal normal 14px/normal Cochin; text-decoration: underline;"> Sandra's Writing Workshop</span></a>! This is my first ever entry. Thank you Sandra for your words of encouragement and giving me courage to jump into the writing world! Please everyone... go and check out her webpage and join her workshop! </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05541776489302692674noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7056412682902410966.post-68279008638563658032012-06-07T11:00:00.002-07:002012-06-07T16:46:16.559-07:00The next day<br />
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I'm participating in Week #30 of the <a href="http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/">Trifecta challenge</a> using the following prompt.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #2e2d2d; font-family: Cardo; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/new" style="color: #2a2aff; text-decoration: underline;">NEW</a> <i>(adjective)</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">: having recently come into existence<br />2 a (1) : having been seen, used, or known for a short time (2) : unfamiliar </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> b : being other than the former or old<br /><a href="http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/new" style="color: #1f2bad; text-decoration: none;">3: having been in a relationship or condition but a short time <new to the job> <a new wife></a></span></div>
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I used the challenge to continue the story I had written yesterday regarding <a href="http://andlucywrites.blogspot.com/2012/06/great-fire-of-seattle-revised.html">The Great Fire of Seattle 1889.</a></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I head down towards the center square along with the restof the distraught citizens. The smell of smoke mixing with the burnt wood smell blows in the gentle breeze. I notice that the leaves of the trees are dusted by the gray ashes of the remains of lost businesses. Horse and carriages are lined up along the grassy park. Men still wearing soot stained shirts and women holding their petticoats up to keep from getting muddy are milling about. Everyone sharing their own version of yesterday. Many exhausted, including myself from actually fighting the fire as best we could. It was apparent from the destruction that the attempts were futile. The crowd is gathered sitting on makeshift benches made of wooden planks and a mock podium set up front with Mayor Moran, Acting Fire Chief James Murphy and the Sheriff</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">“Ladies and Gentleman “ the mayor shouted. “Let’s begin”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">“We are here today to speak to you about how the great city of Seattle will rebuild following yesterdays epic fire as well as some details that have come to light. The fire was started at the cabinet making shop of Vincent Clarmont on Front Street. An apprentice by the name of John Back was heating a pot of glue over a gasoline fire. The glue spilt over and quickly ignited the wood shavings that were covering the floor. I asked Mr Clarmont how could such a disaster happen he stated that Mr Back was new to woodworking. He had apparently just arrived by rail from Portland earlier this week and was penniless and in need of a job. This morning his whereabouts in unknown.” Murmurs vibrated through the crowd as some shook their heads in disbelief.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">The Mayor continued. “Due to extraordinary efforts by you fine citizens, no life was spared. The tragedy lies only in the lost businesses and let me assure you we will rebuild immediately. Seattle will continue to be fine proud city she is."</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I smiled as the crowd cheered.</span></div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05541776489302692674noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7056412682902410966.post-91834182245921973082012-06-05T23:27:00.001-07:002012-06-07T14:37:52.440-07:00This day in history- June 6, 1889<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><b>The Great Seattle Fire was a fire that destroyed the entire central business district of Seattle, Washington June 6, 1889</b></span></div>
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June 6, 1889</div>
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I woke up to another hot day. This sure is unusual weather for Seattle. The heat wave has been the talk of the town for days. While the breath-taking view of the mountains in the distance are grand, the wind blowing in from the north pushes the fog away leaving temperatures running hot all day. I was taken back on how I missed the morning fog that Seattle is known for. The morning fog always burned off reminding me of the clarity each day brings. I must confess though that this morning I did enjoy waking up to Mt Rainer in the distance. I had just read an interview in the the<i> Seattle Post-Intelligencere </i> that a fellow named John Muir, climbed the mighty mountain last year.In the interview he said the view from top was beautiful but that Mt Rainer was best appreciated from below looking up. I'll accept that fact being that I am not much of an adventurer myself. </div>
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I finish dressing and grooming for the day. I think I will do without my worn out coat today as I button up my black vest and rolled up the sleeves of my white starched shirt. I did need to replace the old threadbare jacket but was holding off on this expense as long as I can. As an academician I don’t get much of a stipend but I feel rich being compensated in other ways. As a recent member of the teaching staff here at Territorial University I knew that the school was struggling on funds. Past years have forced them to close the doors, turning away those who wanted to further their education. I really do have all I need. A small dormitory is provided for the men who teach here. Right now there is only three of us. Together we teach Latin, mathematics and philosophy. From time to time prominent scholars from San Francisco or Portland will come and provide a semester long course in orienteering, astronomy and other specialized subjects. </div>
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It’s about 10 am when I walk out of the dorm and follow the path to the front of the main building. </div>
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“Good Morning Jack”</div>
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I looked over and see Hugh, the resident school custodian sweeping the front terrace taking refuge in the shade of the balcony above. </div>
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“Another scorcher I’m afraid” he commented as we both looked towards town and Elliot Bay beyond. Wooden barges lined up along the waterfront as they were being loaded up with lumber. Railroad cars being pulled by a team of oxen with fresh cut pines keep the supply to the sawmills coming. </div>
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As I head downtown I stroll along Spring Street from Fourth Avenue. I enjoy looking at the magnificent wooden homes built along here with the local timber. The homes were built on a graded hill looking yonder to the harbor sitting in a row like birds perched on a fence. The house on the corner is my favorite, Dr. Bagley’s grand Queen Anne mansion. The lawn and garden beds are well manicured and the fancy spindle work on the balconies always appears as if the paint is still wet it looks so clean. I continue down the street making eye contact with the horses tethered to the wooden posts with carriages attached to them, patiently waiting for their day to start. I walk past the Allen residence. While Alexander Allen lives on Mansion Row, his home is the most modest of them all. One would think the manager of Seattle Dry Dock & Shipbuilding could have a house as grand as the Doctor’s but he does choose his priorities differently. He gives his money to the Arts as well as to the University. I know this because recently I was the recipient of theatre tickets donated by Mr Allen. My colleague and I enjoyed a fine show several weeks ago at the Frye Opera House. A treat indeed. On the porch sits his daughter on a stool in front of an easel. She is engrossed in her paint palette and furiously stroking the canvas with a brush. I do not call out to her as not to disturb her. </div>
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I cut over to Second Avenue and dodge an electric streetcar. I was not used to sharing the streets with them as they are new to Seattle. Newfangled streetcars, a brain child of Frank Osgood, that are hooked to the overhead electric cables and run by on board motormen. The cars are always occupied by women who do not want the bottom of their petticoats to be covered in mud. </div>
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My first stop this morning is the Puget Sound National Bank located in the lobby of the Occidental Hotel to deposit my semester pay. The marble lobby is dark and pleasantly cool, a brief respite from the heat. I then move on to the cigar shop located down closer to the waterfront. I need to pick up two cigars. Hugh and I have gotten into the habit of sitting on the steps of the University at night, looking at Mt Rainer in the light of the moon, and smoke. I enjoy listening to the old mans tales and I believe he enjoys the company. </div>
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With the two cigars safely stored in my shirt pocket snuggled underneath my vest I head over to the wharf. When I first explored the waterfront months ago I got easily lost. The piers, docks and berths are all connected by boardwalks creates a maze of it’s own. At first I used landmarks such as the Crystal Palace Saloon, Russell's Bakery and other businesses built on the wider planks of the boardwalk until I got my bearings and have it figured out now. I decided today to treat myself to a lunch time meal of fish and chips and an ice cold lager at the barroom inside St. Elmo’s Hotel. St Elmo’s is a questionable establishment in my mind. I have heard of late evening brawls and other shenanigans but I never pay much attention to such talk. St Elmo’s fish and chips, wrapped in newspaper, delicately fried just right is all I’m interested in. </div>
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After my noonday meal I had planned on stopping by the Lowman & Hanford Stationary and Printing Co and check on the status of a textbook I ordered since I was in the neighborhood but I am going to head back to the dormitory instead. The heat is starting to get to me. Looking up at the sun’s position in the sky I guessed it to be about two o'clock in the afternoon. Perhaps a nap would be the best way to beat this heat. </div>
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I was climbing up the hill, nearly at the grounds of the University, when I heard the enormous school bell ring from it's belfry. The sound of the ringing bell was alarming and right away I knew something was wrong. The bell is only rung when school is in session, or to alert ships in Elliot Bay that land is near in extremely thick fog and those two scenarios were impossible. I instinctively turn around and immediately see a bellow of smoke coming from where I had just come from. The downtown was on fire and I could see from my vantage point that it was spreading and growing into a huge inferno. The buildings downtown are completely made of wood feeding the fire into a frenzy. Fire Engine Company #1 was on scene working fervidly. I start running down to the center of town, as well as other business men, clerks and everyone else who is aware of what is going on. As I get closer the thick smoke starts to burn my eyes and the intense heat feels like it is physically pushing me back, like a bully in a schoolyard fight. Wind whips the flames carelessly about causing wreckage in it’s path. Buildings are quickly destroying in front of my eyes. In the midst of such chaos however the pulling together of humanity is keeping a somewhat calm order. Bucket brigades are being set up as lines of men are passing buckets of water from the bay to each other to assist the efforts of the Fire Engine company. It is clear that their resources are failing quickly. Apparently it wasn’t thought out at the time of inception that wooden water pipes would probably burn in a fire. Water pressure is failing and the water hoses are useless. </div>
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I feel a huge crash behind me and watch the Frye Opera House come tumbling down.This is unbelievable and it feels so unreal. I feel it though. I smell it. I hear it. It is real. I snap back into reality and help a young woman and her child with their belongings. The barges have dumped their load of logs into the water and are taking on board passengers and whatever they can carry. Once on board the plan is to push out and push out to the far side of the harbor. Once I get the young mother and her child on board I run back through the maze of wooden planks, sparks dancing about my feet and one actually landing on my shirt sleeve burning a small hole. </div>
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I run back towards Third Avenue where I could see a flurry of activity even through the smoke. Men are shouting that every available bucket of water is to be poured onto the courthouse. An enormous effort ensues and the building was spared as the fire moves on towards skid row. Through the roaring din I can hear explosions. Barrels of booze being ignited someone explains to me. </div>
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I continue on with the work efforts doing what I am told by those who seem to know what to do. What seems like only minutes has turn into hours. I did what I could to fight the blaze. It was impossible to see that the sun had actually gone down when the Sheriff and his deputies rode about on horses. They are making the announcement that a curfew will be set in place and all citizens are to return to their homes. If their homes were not intact they are mandated to seek shelter of some kind. All saloons and other establishments are to be closed until further notice. </div>
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I headed back up the hill again, this time feeling defeated. Somewhat frightened. My newly adopted city burning behind me. The buildings I visited just this morning now just a pile of rubble and ash. There is no sign of Hugh as I walk along the path to the back dormitory. Exhaustion takes over the minute I enter my room. I quickly peel off my smoke stenched vest and shirt and toss it to the chair. In doing so the forgotten cigars fall to the floor. I am sitting on the edge of the bed and bend down to pick them up. It seems so long ago when I bought these. Was it really just this morning? Surprisingly they survived the day, unlike the shop they came from. I lie back and close my eyes. I fall asleep with the cigars in hand. </div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ULBrNaHbF4k/T874OC4REPI/AAAAAAAAAG0/h0eSyhyCZig/s1600/Writerswkshop2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ULBrNaHbF4k/T874OC4REPI/AAAAAAAAAG0/h0eSyhyCZig/s1600/Writerswkshop2.jpg" /></a></div>
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This story inspired by<a href="http://sandrasfiberworks.blogspot.com/2012/05/having-taught-fiction-writing-for-years.html"> Sandra's Writing Workshop</a>! This is my first ever entry. Thank you Sandra for your words of encouragement and giving me courage to jump into the writing world! Please everyone... go and check out her webpage and join her workshop! </div>
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<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05541776489302692674noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7056412682902410966.post-51502096686140588082012-06-02T20:36:00.000-07:002012-06-02T20:36:14.403-07:00It wasn't the first time<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It wasn’t the first time for me. Paralyzing screams filled my ears giving me a sick pleasure. Twenty eight seconds and what seems like a lifetime of fear, terror and excitement. Again I ride the Kingda Ka rollercoaster.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">This weekend's Trifecta Challenge is to write a 33 word story starting with the words "It wasn't the first time". Be sure to stop over there and read some amazing entries! </span></span></div>
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<a border="0" href="http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://i1132.photobucket.com/albums/m573/SeekingBlog/Picture11-1.png" /></a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05541776489302692674noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7056412682902410966.post-84781761689289362822012-05-31T13:37:00.003-07:002012-05-31T13:43:33.145-07:00Decay<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“See this here? This is dry rot. This tree is ruined.”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The kids gathered around. “Ewwwww... that’s gross”. The boys were fascinated and started kicking at the fallen tree trunk.The underside, roots and dirt clumps were exposed as the once mighty tree laid on it’s side. Chunks of wood eaten away by decay. If you looked closer you could see where the fungus had eaten away the insides. A white trail of a sponge like substance had found it’s way to the trunk’s inner core and starting eating away at it’s goodness. Obviously left unattended for years, with no recourse or treatment on getting better the tree collapses. There is no more goodness to keep it upright and standing. It’s foundation wrecked. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The kids had scampered ahead. We were done with the botanical part of the zoo and now onto something more exciting ..the lions. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I held back and let the kids run ahead without me. I took them to the Springfield Botanical Gardens and Zoo because I needed to get outside of my head. I needed a distraction. I needed the kids to not need me today. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Last night was bad. Paul came home and the arguing started almost immediately. We argued about everything and about nothing at the same time. When our words took us nowhere we moved on to the silent treatment. Pretending that we just don’t care. I went to bed alone and tried to sleep. Sleep that was difficult because my brain and my heart were engaging in their own battle. A battle of shattered thoughts and broken dreams. He slept on the couch and was gone when I woke up this morning. A routine that is now the norm.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I looked at the tree with a familiar sadness. Looking at the decayed, rotting tree I saw my marriage. Something once strong, towering upwards toward the sky has now crumpled down to the ground falling into ruin. A marriage left unattended for years and is now in ruin.</span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i>This post inspired by the folks at <a href="http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/">Trifecta</a>. Be sure to stop by there and meet some awesome people!</i></span></span><br />
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<a border="0" href="http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://i1132.photobucket.com/albums/m573/SeekingBlog/Picture11-1.png" /></a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05541776489302692674noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7056412682902410966.post-42506848937506303992012-05-26T19:25:00.002-07:002012-05-26T19:25:57.539-07:00Trifecta Challenge/33 words<br />
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<span style="font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">33 words? And in a poem no less? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">How is a newbie like me suppose to get this?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">Ahhhh this is hard I must confess.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">Ahhhh and yes I found my bliss!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Post inspired by the <a href="http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/">Trifecta Writing Challenge</a>! </span></div>
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<a border="0" href="http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://i1132.photobucket.com/albums/m573/SeekingBlog/Picture11-1.png" /></a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05541776489302692674noreply@blogger.com4