The long benches were apolstered in rough pink, a deep pastel. I passed my grandmother the tiny spiral notebook from her purse, a grid of dots already drawn.
(more) side by side.
The parts of the sermon I caught, I'd ask Gramma Franny if it was true, everyone standing up in lines like that, drinking blood.
"Noo, its just grape juice." (less)
you have up to 300 words. what will you say?They used to put Post Toasties box tabs in their shoes when they walked a hole through the bottom.
But Grandma never knew she was poor.
She felt the Grapes of Wrath was just a tad bit dramatic.
We sprawled, faces to the mats as Margaret described the whole of the needle. The whole is a tiny point along my spine, between the shoulder blades on whichever side I'm stretching to itch-- now I can't stop thinking about it!
(more) Strangers catch me threading one arm through the bent elbow bridge of the other, ass in the air. I pause in door ways, pressing the corner over the rib of knots on the writing side of my spine. (less)
The wind was hot but the hill was down, so in a flew to a bay that warned road users to "lock your boat, or away it will float!"
It seemed odd at the time, until I began to ride up with other side of the steep valley(more) wall. I was greeted by a horizon of massive wind turbines, gawking at me with their great white arms, spinning full speed ahead.
I'd made it up the hill side, with all the gusto I could feign. But the wind.
I stopped pedaling and straddled my simple machine for a moment, watching the long grass whipping in my direction. It felt as if all the energy on the plateau was directed straight at me, I was pulling it all in and against me. The sun glinted of lake Erie, the glittering offended my wind burned eyes.
So it was there I set my bicycle down, dropped with no regard for the cheap review mirror strapped to one handle bar, or the fragile derailleur, or the contents of the saddle bag the thing slouched across. My trusty steed.
The grease of the chain stuck to last night's beach camp site. I'd given up cleaning off the sand as a rushed to pack up at dawn before the ranger strolled by and inquired about my reservation.
I walked to the base of a turbine and took my shoes off in the shade. I laid on my back and watched the arms whir as the wind blew over the top of me. (less)
"Can you play me a song? Its my birthday!"
"Sure, whats your name doll?"
No way, your names not Darling Bell--
It is! I'll prove it.
(more) Well, your name is Darling Bell, but its not your birthday. (less)
dull headache and dry nostril that has me reminiscing of the bed I slept in as a child
the back of my mother's hand
her weight on my bedside
constant hiss off decades old humidifier
that head-cold sleep that allows one to witness both her dreams
and the day light(more) seeping in through the window shade (less)