4 Line Poetry - Volcano

Marc's Daily Writing Practice - 4 Line Poetry

The exercise:
It's four line poem day once again. This time around your topic is: the volcano.

Score another one for Mother Nature.
Marc:

They feel safe, it's been so long
Since I have woken;
But they've forgotten - I sleep
With one eye open.

Mine:
Mother nature & Human nature-not so different.....

Deep inside my belly, my core
Rumblings of red hot anger ascend;
I erupt, spewing molten words of bitterness
And subside into the gloom and darkness of guilt

Salynne ©2010

4 Line Prose - The Best Medicine

Marc's Daily Writing Practice - Friday, April 16, 2010

The Topic for your 4 Line Prose this week is: the best medicine.

Marc's:

Good afternoon everyone, and thank you for making time in your busy schedules to join us.

We here at Jester Laboratories have some very exciting news to share with you today. What you are about to see is the culmination of twenty years of lab testing, field research, divorces, great leaps forward, and soul destroying setbacks.

But we are all in agreement that it was worth every sleepless night to reach this moment when we are finally able to say: Ladies and gentlemen, we are proud to present to you… Laughter in a BottleTM

Mine:

Curled up in a big comfy chair with a hot cup of tea sitting on a side table.
Jane Austen’s Pride & Prejudice sits open on my lap.
My eyes see words but my mind takes me into a world of refinement, beauty, and simpler times.
The very best medicine for a stressful life.

Salynne ©2010

I AM a Self-Published Author

On Friday I was able to attend an excellent workshop sponsored by the Writers’ Union of Canada and Canadian Heritage entitled: Secure Footing in a Changing Literary Landscape.

This professional development symposium for writers was so inspiring for me that I have barely been able to sleep since attending. Deborah Windsor, the Union’s executive director, discussed authors’ contracts which was informative and helpful if you are considering going the route of getting a traditional press to publish your work. Information from authors Betsy Warland and Ross Laird outlined the huge changes in the literary industry. What really fired me up was the information they gave on the innovative digital and Internet opportunities that are out there for people to take advantage of. The world-wide web has spawned new pathways and creative venues for publishing and it means re-thinking what we are currently doing and how to take advantage of the constant barrage of new technology.

The entire publishing industry has been turned on its head and many of the long-established bastions of literary production are now publishing, not manuscripts that have been submitted in the traditional way, but books based on what people are reading on the Internet. A good example of this is the book/movie Julie/Julia; another case in point is Ree Drummond, The Pioneer Woman whose successful blog created such a stir that a traditional publishing company offered her a cookbook contract.

The most gratifying point for me was Ross' comments about self-publishing. He profiled several authors who have become very successful selling their own work and explained that the days of vanity publishing "shame" are now over. For those of you who don't know what I'm talking about, self publishing has been viewed as derogatory often implying that the author is only printing their book out of vanity and that the work would not be commercially successful enough for a traditional publishing house to take on. Curse the fellow who invented the term. Many companies, including the Writers Union of Canada now offer printing on demand and this is allowing authors, who have stories to share but who may not have been able to get a traditional press to look at their work, to become very successful. Did you know for example that if an author in Canada sells 5,000 books they are considered a best selling author? With the world wide market of the Internet available that it not such a difficult feat.

Those points all brought tears to my eyes. I wanted to stand up and shout the proclamation, "My name is Susan Greig and I AM a self-published author. I had four books sell in a bookstore & now my books sell all over the world on the Internet!" As detailed in my previous blog the Batten Disease Association approached me in 1995 and gave me funding so that I could self-publish my book, Forever Special Friends. To tell, the truth I've always been ashamed of this and have felt that I was somehow not a "real" author. I put in my profile that I was published but it felt like a lie. People from all over the world have sent me wonderful letters of appreciation for FSF all of which I have denigrated and discounted only because of the spectacles of shame that I have been peering through.

On Friday, Ross helped me throw away those lenses; I saw things in a new way and there will be no going back. I will proclaim off the roof tops and eventually a new website that Forever Special Friends is an amazing resource for families who are battling a disease that will take their children away from them. To think that we started out with a print run of 5,000 books and I have less than a thousand left. Within a few years I will be a best selling author! It may have taken me fifteen years to sell the first 4,200 books but I can guarantee the last 800 will fly off the shelves in comparison.

There are so many other things that I learned and have to work on but sharing them with you will have to wait for another posting. You can also look forward to some new announcements about my plans for my new author website and an up and coming entrepreneurial venture that I've been working on.

Cheers,

Salynne/Susan
©2009
(sorry no photos today--I cannot get them to upload-must be a problem with the site-will add later!)

Doing the Grind-The Olympics

Today I was able to attend my first Grind Writers group although the location turned out to be a different because of the Olympics. I met a number of other very creative individuals and was very inspired by each of their stories. Some people are just trying to add more writing into their lives, several are working on books and one writes for a living. It is my hope that I will be able to attend regularly.

We started with a 15 minute free-write on the prompt The Olympics and this was my offering.

For some people the Olympics must be everything. They'll go to a number of the sporting events, their hearts will swell when they hear the national anthem and someone from our country gets gold. Twenty years from now they'll say to their kids, "Remember when the Olympics were on and we did this or that.."

In contrast I find that my life is never defined by these big events and that I remember them in the context of what I'm doing or where I am. Thirteen years ago I was sitting by my daughter as she lay dying in a children's hospice and while watching TV a newscaster came on to explain that Princess Diana had died. Over the next few days people took flowers to the British Consulate & because there were so many of these expressions of grief they started taking bouquets to old folks homes and places like the hospice. I arranged vase after vase and filled every room including my daughters with them. Two weeks later when she had died I threw out all of the fading blooms in a symbolic gesture. That is what I really remember about the time when the Princess Diana tragedy unfolded.

Last week, when the world was glued to their TV's or standing in the streets of Vancouver, waving and cheering on the Olympic torch as it made the final leg of its journey I sat across from my girlfriend in a local chemo treatment room. She sat on a leather recliner with her arm outstretched on a tray while poisonous chemicals ran into her veins. I looked around the room at all of the other people there for treatment; young and old sat there, proof that cancer doesn't discriminate.

The TV was on and some people watched the event, others were too distracted by the book they had brought or were sitting with their eyes closed. Suddenly the news broke through and it was announced that a young man doing a training run for the luge had died. Everyone in the long line of chairs seemed to come out of themselves, the staff stood still and we all turned our eyes to watch in silent horror as the fellow careened down the chute and flew off his sled into a pole. Involuntary sounds of shock and dismay passed from every person watching.

The room was dead quiet and no one moved for a time but then the nurses began checking chemo bags and IV's, machines started beeping and we were all pulled back to the reality of what was happening in the room. My friend tugged on her hat, pulling it lower to hide the fact that her hair was starting to fall out again. The gentleman two seats over looked up at his chemo bag, sighed and grimaced, clenched and unclenched his hand and shut his eyes. Another young man adjusted his Ipod and turned back into his world of music and song.

It occurred to me then that every cancer patient in that room was like an Olympic athlete fighting for the gold; Remission. Others, like myself, were there to cheer them on in their struggle. Some will win and their lives will carry on and some sadly will not. And twenty years from now when I'm talking to my children about this time I know I'll have a different view than many others. "Remember when my friend was going through Chemo and the Olympics were on?"

Salynne ©2009

Info on Grind Writers: The Grind Café Writers' Group - Vancouver
Meets every 2 weeks (alternating on Saturdays and Sundays) at the Grind Gallery Café, 4124 Main Street @ King Edward Ave (25th Ave). 10 am to 12:30 pm. Writers of all ages, stages, genres, genders, orientations & outlooks are welcome. We write at every meeting, so bring pen & paper or your laptop. Occasionally we do move the venue, so please email before you come to your first meeting, or if you have any questions, email Margo - wonderwords@shaw.ca.

The Write & Wrongs of Free Writing

On Wednesday when our C&W Closet Writers Group at the hospital meets, it oftens takes around fifteen or twenty minutes for everyone to arrive. This was the case this week and so we all worked on a "Free Write" while waiting to get officially started.

For those of you who have never heard of the term "Free Write" before, it is a popular and contemporary "no rules" excercise. There is no write or wrong way to get your words on paper. You are given a word prompt and you are free to do with it as you wish. Your mind is allowed to go in whatever direction it wants, you can write prose, poetry, create a list of associated words, whatever strikes your fancy; the idea is to put down whatever pops into your head. I guess if there are any rules it is that you just keep writing and don't stop to criticize, change or agonize. You can set a time limit or write until it feels like its time to stop. For specific detailed instructions check out:
http://www.wikihow.com/Freewrite

We chose the word "Compass" because one of our members, whose keys were sitting on the table, carries a small globe compass on her keychain. My offering was short and to the point. I stopped writing not because the time was up but because it felt right to do so.

Compass
Backpacking in the woods,
The direction of my life,
Taking steps forward, taking steps back.
I watch my 17 year old daughter struggling in that place between childhood and adulthood. She doesn't know where she is going, what she wants to do after school.
As a parent I want to give her my compass, my beliefs, my set of values but in the end she will create and choose her own. I have tried my best to guide her and be there for her while she finds her way but she is on her own journey, her own path.

Other members wrote on a similar theme-the direction of life. Some did not. Some wrote prose, some wrote poetry, and some wrote word lists. Every single piece was unique and wonderful.

Between now and next week we have the assignment to write on another prompt: What is the first thing that comes to your mind when you hear "Shanghai"? I'm looking forward to a jaunt over to my local Starbucks for some writing time with this one and to hearing what everyone else comes up with at our next meeting. What comes to your mind?

Salynne ©2010

The Discipline of Writing

I admire anyone who has the discipline to write every day. It was my hope that through this blog I would make that commitment and follow through. As you all well know that hasn't happened. During the past month I've done a lot of re-thinking about the expectations I hold for myself and the reality of my life.

Part of my "problem" is that I have so many projects on the go that I feel pulled in all directions, this blog being one of them. Last week the leader of our writing group sent us all a blank Goals and Inventory Sheet and I filled it out almost immediately. Having had a week to think more about it I've revised it slightly. My motivational guru, Brian Tracy, says that written goals with a deadline have more likelihood of being achieved and since I am a person who responded clearly to such in the past I thought it worthwhile to post them for everyone to see. Public accountability will no doubt spur me on to achieve what I set out to.

What are your goals as a writer?

Short Term Goals (3-6 months) Deadline-April 31, 2010
1. Submit two articles for publication (paid or unpaid).
2. Write my blog consistently-whether its every day, every second day, every third day.....(decision pending).

Long Term Goals (6 months – 1 year) January 31, 2010
1. Flesh out my BCCH Mystery novel (that's right I'm writing a mystery novel).
2. Start typing the manuscript for my BCCH Mystery novel.
3. Work on and flesh out my Mom’s book (uncertain...I've determined that I've suffered several anxiety attacks while working on this and so it may have to go on the back burner for a while however I will keep it on the list).
4. Start typing out the manuscript for the huge group of commentaries that I've written called The Writing Group Chronicles (this covers my journey since joining the BC Children's Hospital Writing Group; I'm actually surprised at how much material I have-it will be interesting to check the word count once it is in manuscript form).


Writing Inventory
What kinds of writing do you do on a regular basis? (course papers, lab reports, correspondence, e-mail, research papers, fiction, poetry, plays, etc.)
Short Stories; fiction; novels; At work I write tons of emails and correspondence.

What is your favorite kind of writing? Why?
Fiction. I love that I get to step into other peoples lives for a few minutes. I get to figure out what makes others tick and learn what makes me the same or different from them.

Describe yourself as a writer using 10 adjectives.
Sporadic, enthusiastic, insecure, raw, positive, emotional, solitary, creative, willing, inspired.

What is your biggest challenge as a writer? What kinds of critiques have you received from the professors, friends, and other readers?
My biggest challenge is finishing something. Negative critiques are that I’m too wordy and tend to be superfluous. Positive critiques come from seeing people moved by what I’ve written, whether they're reading it or as I’m reading it.

What is your greatest strength as a writer? What do other people normally praise about your writing style?
That I’m honest and open about things people might not normally talk about. I mean really, who else has written a blog about the Little Known Stress of Getting a Pedicure or The Zen of Doing Laundry ?!

If you could change one thing about your writing or your writing process, what would it be?
That I could be a more consistent writer. I would write every day and accomplish something on one of my current projects every day until each one is done.

Although today is February 2 I think that on the first of each Month I'm going to schedule a blog that will detail what I have done to accomplished on my goals. If I do that at least I'll have one blog for the month done!

Salynne ©2009

Therapy for Archaeologists

On Saturday I checked out The One Minute Writer and found the prompt to be Archaeologist. My thoughts first turned to Egypt and far-away places but then I started thinking about what I have spent the last week doing--digging deeper into the places in my soul. The concept struck a cord and I decided to combine that into a little therapy session for myself--it actually worked wonders and I think I saved myself several hundred dollars!





Therapy for the Archaeologist

“Ok,” my red-haired therapist said, “Let’s dig a little deeper. How did you feel after your daughter died?”

“The emotional pain was so intense that I thought I would die. In fact, my heart started physically hurting. My doctor did a lot of tests but in the end it proved to be anxiety,” I said, tears welling up in my eyes.

“It’s not uncommon for parents who’ve lost children to go through physical symptoms. In reality, you had a broken heart, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” I sobbed. “It was so broken. It just laid there in pieces, until I came to see you.” I looked at her through the distortion that the tears in my eyes created.

“And over the time we spent together you picked up those pieces and put them together. I don’t know if I’ve used the analogy before but you were like an archaeologist who finds the remnants of a very precious vase. He picks up the pieces up carefully in his hands and over time glues it back together until it is whole again. It was hard work then to fit together and mend your heart but you did do it.

“It’s true, Angie,” I sniffed. “ I did put things back together, but it’s been ten years and lately I feel as though the glue holding everything has come apart, and I don’t know what to do."

“Well, you are archaeologist of your life. If something precious like your heart has fallen apart into pieces then you need to pick those pieces up carefully in your hands and very tenderly brush off any dust or dirt. You need to spend time and focus on putting things back together. It sounds as though this would be a good time to focus on you and treat yourself with care and gentleness.”

I nodded and looked down at the remnants of the shredded wet Kleenex in my hand. “When I was going through the worst of it I used to get up in the night so I could be all alone and write. I would write for hours, about what was happening in my life, how I felt about it and what I was going to do about it. Those moments were a commitment to take care of myself and they helped me sort things out.”

“So it sounds like maybe you need to do some writing again then?"

I sat quietly and thought for some time before I spoke. “Yes. I have been writing just not that kind of writing. I’m working on a lot of projects, some short stories I want to submit to magazines and I’m even labouring on two novels; but I think the problem is that I’ve stopped writing things about me, just FOR me. I need to write for me. I like the analogy you used—it’s like I should take a shovel and dig down into the dirt to find those parts of myself. Writing sorts out the pieces and helps me make sense of them and put them back together.”

“That’s a really great observation and I think something a lot of people could learn from.” Angie looked at me and smiled. “Our time is up for today, would you like to book an appointment for next week?”

“Let’s make it a month,” I said, my tears starting to dry. “I’ve got a lot of sorting and putting things together to do.”

“Ok, well the session today will be $500.00; will that be cheque or credit card?”

“Hmmmm...would you take a couple of old beaten up relics that I found while cleaning out my garage? It’s mostly some of my husband’s stuff from his school years and according to him it’s pretty precious.”

“Ha,ha” laughed Angie. “Just remember you may be the archaeologist but I’m the therapist. How did you want to pay?”


Salynne ©2009

Winter Doldrums, Grief and Onions

It seems that this time of year and I don't mix very well. The winter doldrums have set in; the weather is blah, its seems to me to be dark twenty-four hours a day and I'm feeling down and exhausted. Over the past two months I've also had some heart palpitations which it turns out have been anxiety attacks.

Some of you may know that this fall I committed myself to editing and compiling stories from the time period that my daughter Brenna was alive, with a goal of having a finished manuscript by spring. Writing about and dealing with that time period is not helping matters and/or causing a lot of my current anxiety issues--writing this book is proving to be much harder emotional work than I thought it would be. Members of my writing group (part therapy group :) suggested that I blog about what is really going on and how I feel consumed with thinking about my daughter and why; they suggested that being open and honest about it all will in itself help me lessen this feeling that I'm blocked by sadness and going in one direction only.

They've also encouraged me to start writing about the process of putting this part of my life onto paper and that has proved to be very good advice. Since our group on Wednesday I've been penning like crazy about what has been going on while I'm writing the book and the reasons why I need to take myself on this difficult journey. It's been twelve years since I became a bereaved parent and although I thought I was doing "well" I've learned that term is very subjective. There are different layers of grief which are often compared to the layers of an onion; you peel off one but there is always another under the surface. Sometimes you get "blindsided" by grief, it pops up unexpectedly. In this case I've opened the can of worms myself and after my experiences over the past several months its very clear that when you purposely dredge up things from the past and allow yourself to feel some of those tragic feelings again it can take a heavy toll. I'm determined to press on but I have to start taking better care of myself, give myself breathing space and let others know what I'm going through.

On top of all of this hard emotional work I've been doing, last weekend I felt that I had to attend the memorial of a fifteen year old boy. His mother and I have done volunteer work together at Canuck Place Children's Hospice, and although I'd only met her son once, out of respect for her I went. When I arrived there were over a hundred people there but the first thing I did was search out the faces of the others in our Canuck Place group. They, like me were also bereaved parents and felt it important to attend. The plan was that we would sit together and support each other.

In the end I did not sit with my group preferring to stand in the back to let the large number of arriving family and friends have seats. There was also the part of me that hoped that I could escape early. The memorial itself was emotional but I was not particularly moved. What struck me the hardest and made me the most sad was watching the faces of the parents in my group. The pain on their faces was so evident and I knew this sorrow was not just for our colleague but for themselves and for every other parent who has lost a child. I could see them remembering the last moments of their child's life as our friend talked about her son and that they fully understood and remembered days of numbness afterwards which helps you to be brave and get through the memorial. Being a writer I am an observer, a watcher, almost a voyeur into other people's lives. On this occasion though, it wasn't so much that I could place myself in others shoes or read on their faces the gaping hole the death of a child leaves in their hearts; I realized that the pain on their faces and the sorrow in their hearts was only a reflection of what was in my own.

Salynne ©2009

More Character Names

A week or so ago I was flipping channels and noted that mystery author Phillip Margolin was being interviewed on the book channel show called Mystery Ink. Host John Moore asked Phillip how he chooses character names and he indicated that he is well known for opening the phone book and blindly putting his finger on a name; he uses it either as a first or second name and continues the process until he has the character named.

Phillip has also become known for auctioning character names wherein he will use one of the winners names for a person in his latest novel. He makes no promises as to the type of character and he said that it can be disappointing for the auction winner. He gave an example of how he felt he did not make a winner happy after he used one of the person's name for a rather unsavoury balding, overweight, lawyer, which was nothing like the person who won the auction. Friends too have requested to be written into his books and on occasion he says he bows to the pressure.

I've continued collecting names; one in particular came after driving through New Westminster and seeing ads for the upcoming election. Fin Donnelly is a real person running for office but I've put his name into my character list along with a note that he is a real person and that I should use his names seperately. Either way both Fin and Donnelly are interesting names.

Here are some of my latest acquisitions:

Ashland
Winspear
Norquay
Lavinia
Violet
Jane James
Zepharia
Milton Frederick Thomas Gonzola
Vernon Lester
Maxine
Della
Opal
Inez
Verna Ramon
Melba
Elnora
Delmar Sherman
Alyce Loretta
Florine Alva
Casimir (this is a boy's name not a last name)
Junius
Harrell Dorman
Duhamel
Salois
Inigo Montoya (one of my favorite characters from The Princess Bride!)

Salynne ©2009

It's Just Plane Inspiration

Marc's Daily Writing Practice-October 16

Completely inspirational, especially since I'm in the middle of planning a trip to New York in November.

http://daily-writing.blogspot.com/2009/10/friday-october-16th-2009.html

The exercise:
This week's Four Line Friday Prose starter is rather random... but that's never stopped me before.
So here you go: overheard on a plane

Marc's Prose

Hey Babe?"
"What is it now, darling?"
"Have you seen the kids recently?"
"They kept interrupting my beauty sleep so I told them to go play outside."


My Offerings
Interesting conversations overheard while sitting on the tarmac:

"So do you think the airline has people listening to everything we say?"
"You mean like if I was to whisper the B word, the plane would end up grounded?"
"What do a mean, the B word?"
"BOMB, you idiot!"

"So you definitely turned off the iron."
"Yes, I think so."
"You think so, but you're not sure?"
"Well, if the house burns down it will mean new clothes, new furniture, new everything and I'm good with that."

"Hi, I'm Jim, what's your name?"
"I'm Sarah."
"Single, married, divorced, on business, or looking to have a little fun?"
"Married, going to visit family, four months pregnant and throwing up all the time."

Only 18 days and I'll be on a plane myself!

Salynne

Four Line Friday Pose - Do you Remember?

Four Line Friday Pose from Marc's Blog.
Do you Remember?

September 11, 2001
Our eight year old daughter came into the bedroom and said, “Daddy, there’s something wrong with the TV, the same thing is on every channel.” My husband got up and I laid there half asleep. I jumped out of bed and walked to the living room when I heard, “If you’re just joining us we are seeing the World Trade Center and it appears that a plane has crashed into the building.” As the horror before us unfolded over the next hours I felt that I should cry but instead I could only sit there numb, mesmerized by shocking disbelief.

Salynne ©2009

Daily Writing Practice - The Deadbeat

Thanks again to Marc for my inspiration today:
http://daily-writing.blogspot.com/

Alrighty, today I'm going to provide you with the first line of your poem or prose and then you get to take it from there. Sound good?Okay, here it is: The streets were thick with fog...Go!


The Deadbeat
The streets were thick with fog and Phineas wandered aimlessly. He drew his thin wool coat closer and his gnarled arthritic hand tried to hold the collar closed. Stupid, crap thumb that couldn’t bend to hold anything, bugger arthritis, and now he was faced with this confounded damp mist. None of it made life any easier.

It was a typical English side street lined with brick row houses and if he squinted he could make out a succession of off–duty black taxi’s sitting at the curb. It was early in the morning before the majority of people got up but it really could have been any time of day because the pea soup murk imprisoned any chance the sun had to proliferate its rays. The roads were empty and the city was relatively quiet although Phineas could hear the murmur of traffic from one of the major arteries several blocks away. His eyes scanned the pavement below and watched his own black shabby shoes taking step after step. He looked up.

The glare of the computer screen burned his eyes. The typed words on the paper captured what he had been seeing in the world that inhabited his head this morning. It was now 4:30 am and Phineas realized he’d been sitting at the computer for at least an hour. His body clock had gone out of whack several weeks ago and it seemed that he was waking up every morning around 3 o’clock. Sometimes he was able to turn over and go back to sleep, other times when he could not settle he got up so as not to disturb his wife and went downstairs to the office to do work or to write.

This morning when he’d finally gotten up after tossing and turning for what felt like hours he decided he was going to start a novel. It would be great; he had the outline, plot and characters in his head. He’d obviously been writing and typing for some time, but where had the time gone? Had he been walking the foggy street for all of that time? Had he drifted off to sleep sitting in front of the computer and dreamed what he had seen. He closed his eyes and put his fingers onto the keyboard.

When he opened his eyes again the fog was still there and he was continuing to walk down the middle of the deserted street. His footsteps did not echo but each stride created a dull thud that was swallowed by the weight of the grey mist. Inside of his jacket the newspapers that were carefully folded and packed to stave off some of the frigid damp that would irritate the rheumatism in his left shoulder shifted slightly.

A sudden searing pain stabbed him in the chest and he felt his left arm go limp and numb. What was going on? Staggering slightly Phineas put his right hand onto the boot of one of the cabs on the side of the road. He needed to find a place to sit down and rest. Yes, rest would be a good thing. He tried to kneel down slowly but his arm gave way and his knees slammed into the edge of the sidewalk and he toppled forward. Fortunately, his reflexes seemed to kick in and at least he got his gnarled hands down in front of him. After his body slammed into the pavement his head made a rather slow gentle decent to the smooth, cold hard cement. His eyes closed and he lay still. The crushing pain in his chest was now like a vice grip and his breath came in short gasps.

Phineas opened his eyes. The computer screened glowed, his fingers still sat on the keyboard. He read the words on the page. “The crushing pain in his chest was now like a vice grip and his breath came in short gasps.” His eyes moved to look around the office but his hands remained motionless; he was looking out of his eyeballs but it was a physical impossibility to get his limbs to move. He was imprisoned by his body.

The gripping agony in his chest throbbed rhythmically; he could hear an erratic heartbeat in his ears. He looked at his lifeless numb right arm and started to feel a rising sense of panic. What’s going on? Am I having heart failure or what? This doesn't make sense, how can I be dying? It’s my character that is dying, not me.

He shut his eyes to block out the light and felt the damp cool surface of the concrete on his cheek. Looks like I’m snookered. I’m homeless, alone, and I’m going to die right here on the street. Well, what did it matter really? After he’d lost his job, his wife & family and then his apartment he’d been going from shelter to shelter and had only a fortnight ago found a cardboard box which he dragged to the atrium of a local church. He was rather surprised to have woken these past mornings as he fully expected that he would become just another statistical displaced person who died from hypothermia.

A heart attack was not something he’d counted on but everybody had to go sometime and he guessed it was his time. It would only be a few minutes now, he calculated, before his heart would cease its crazy, irregular palpitations and everything would stop. Nothing would matter soon; not the age of his body, the damp, the cold, the trembling in his hands or the holes in soles of his shoes. He felt his consciousness slipping and the bright light of the computer hurt his eyes. Slowly everything started going black whether his eyes were open or not.

The last thing Phineas heard was a piece of machinery coming to life. Now, was that the sound of one of the taxi’s starting or the cooling fan of a computer? Then again, did it matter?

Salynne ©2009

5 Line Prose - Tied Up in Knots

My offering for Mark's Friday 4 Line Prose....

Having pressed the doorbell Jim stood on the porch, hands trembling, causing the corsage held between his two sweaty palms to shake. A dog began to bark inside the house and as the door began to open, his eyes moved from the knob to the classic beauty standing before him. His stomach felt tied up in knots and when he swallowed he wasn’t sure if it was his lunch coming back up or his Adams apple getting stuck in his throat. There must be some mistake, he thought. Her SeniorsDatingNet.com profile said she was seventy-two but she certainly didn't look a day over sixty-five.

Salynne ©2009

One Minute Writer Prompt: Odd Tree

http://oneminutewriter.blogspot.com/

Today's Writing Prompt: Odd plant

If you could plant something non-living and make it grow (such as planting a dollar and growing a money tree), what would you plant?

Even before I read the other comments I knew my answer and then Jeff said what I was thinking.

Jeff D'Antonio said...
Love. I know that's corny and obvious, but if there's one thing this world needs more of, it's love. If we could plant some in the ground, add a little water and make it grow, just think about what a beautiful world this could be.

Salynne said.....
I'm with Jeff. If we could eat the fruit of Love and have that emotion become an integral part of our being what a different earth we would live on and what better people we would all be.

Salynne ©2009

Eskimos and Rainbows

Marc's Daily Writing Practice. He's written for 400 days and that inspires me!
Here is my comment and story that was inspired by his prompt Eskimos and Rainbows.
Be sure to check out his poem too!
http://daily-writing.blogspot.com/

Marc-Congratulations on 400 days! You're an inspiration to those of us who hope to get there ourselves.

Your prompt totally inspired me the moment I read it and I knew instantly that I had to write down a story based about something that happened in my childhood. Funny though how your poem is not far off from my experience and perhaps its a coincidence but today I'm supposed to painting my bathroom instead of writing.....Hope you enjoy...


Emily was four and a half years old. Clad in her puffy little snowsuit and sparkly fuchsia skidoo boots she looked like a miniature pink version of the Michelin man. Her pink scarf wrapped around her head so that only her eyes showed and she toddled rather walked from the front door of her home towards the snow fort she and her older brother had built the day before.

In Emily’s mind she was not Emily, the little girl who lived at 242 Gladmoren Park in Regina, Saskatchewan. She knew where she lived that was for sure. Her mommy and daddy were so happy and proud that she could recite her address and on normal, everyday days, she was Emily who lived at 242 Gladmoren Park in Regina, Saskatchewan. Today though was a special day and she wasn’t Emily at all; she was Anuk the Eskimo living at the North Pole.

She bent down and crawled through the entrance of her frosty little home. The room was not large but big enough to fit her and her ten year old brother, John. They had spent almost the entire day yesterday burrowing into one of the large snow banks at the edge of the yard. John had smoothed the inside of the igloo fort, created a couple of stools for sitting on and had even poked a stick through the wall to create a small window. Today John was at school which made Emily sad because she wasn’t old enough to go there yet. “Next year”, mommy said. “You’ll go to school when it is fall time and the leaves turn orange and red.” It wasn’t fall time today, Emily thought. This was winter because there was lots of bright, white snow and there were no leaves on the trees and that meant that John was at school and she had to play by herself today.

The sun shone boldly through the little opening and illuminated the all white décor of her North Pole home. Emily perched herself on one of the stools and then with her mitten clad hand reached into her pocket, clasped the hard irregularly shaped object within and slowly drew it out. Her grandma’s rhinestone brooch lay in her palm. Grandma had given it to her for her dress up box and she had told Emily it had magical powers. Slowly and very carefully so as not to drop her precious cargo she moved her hand into the beam of light.

Sparkling jewelled colors burst around the room; rainbows of blue, green, red and purple splashed everywhere across the walls, the floor, across Emily herself. The colours danced and moved covering every surface. Anuk the Eskimo’s eyes sparkled as brightly as the colours surrounding her, her lips parted in a smile and her head titled back as she laughed in delight at what a clever little girl she was to paint her igloo in magic rainbows.

Salynne ©2009

Childhood - The One-Minute Writer Prompt

Today's Writing Prompt: Childhood

http://oneminutewriter.blogspot.com/

Complete this thought: "If everyone had grown up the way I did, this world would be..."

just as interesting a place as it is now. We all have different inherent qualities as well as learned behaviors and each of us reacts to circumstances and events differently. I came out of childhood with both strengths and insecurities. Experiences that energized and pushed me could have caused someone with a different disposition grief and anguish. Something that was overwhelming for me may have made another person rise to the challenge. It makes me appreciate the incredible variety of humankind all the more.

Salynne ©2009

Two Haiku Tuesday on Saturday

Just a quick piece of work written on Two Haiku Tuesday last week-be sure to check out the blog. Theme for this week - The Doctor's Office.

http://daily-writing.blogspot.com/

A flu brings me here
Waiting to see the Doctor
“It’s nothing, relax!”

Built up in my mind
Never something that is benign
Could it be cancer?

Salynne 2009

One Minute Writer - The Hardest Work

One Minute Writer Exercise

What is the hardest work you've ever done?

In my case, holding the hand of my beautiful eight year old daughter as she took her last breathe is the hardest and most painful “work” I have ever done. Several years later I stayed in the hospital with my dad supporting him and my mother during her final days. The nurses asked me, How is it that you can do this and be so calm? I told them, “I’ve been on this road before and I’m glad I’m here for my mom but nothing can compare to walking this same road with your child. Nothing.

Salynne ©2009

One Minute Writer-Prompt: Bed

The One Minute Writer
http://oneminutewriter.blogspot.com/

Monday, June 22--Today's Writing Prompt: Bed

Linda Evangelista said she wouldn't get out of bed for less than $10,000.
What makes you get out of bed each morning?

My offering:
Life is worth living, life is precious. My daughter should’ve been 20 this past weekend and I should be the mother of two living children and not just one. Every day we get out of bed we celebrate and honor the lives of all those who couldn’t.

Salynne©2009

Four Line Friday Pose on Saturday

I was inspired by another blog today-Daily Writing Practice by Marc, a Vancouver writer.

The exercise:
Four Line Friday Prose: keeping count.

My offering:

She falls down on her knees and rams her shaking hands into the crevices of the couch. Angrily she tosses the cushions on to the floor along with the crumbs and crayon. “Something, anything, please”, she screams silently as tears slide down her face. Sitting on the floor she looks into the kitchen at the calendar. Keeping count…day 7, drug free.

Salynne ©2009