The recent rains have knocked down so much of the snow...thank heavens! Even the messy, brown mud is welcome.
I used to hate Mondays when I had to go to work, but now I love them because I get to go to my Monday Morning Writer's group. As I've mentioned before we write from prompts. I'm going to put on a couple of short writings I did with the prompts. If anyone else out there is a writer maybe you could put what you wrote from them under comments. We usually have 8 minutes in which to write for each prompt.
The Secret Life (Prompt)
I lie upon the garden path and discuss soil amendments with my broccoli and water requirements with tomatoes.
I place crystals among the herbs as directed and send love to all.
It keeps me sane to sit beneath the flowering plum and laugh with Buddha.
I talk with Esmerelda, the fairy watching over the lettuce and tell no one of my discussions with the water sprites.
I revel in the world beneath the one we see, immersed in its' joy and help. Perhaps beneath is not the right word. It is beside the everyday world walking hand in hand unbeknowst to most.
I hug the pine tree hanging close to the edge of the river bank, worried that the day will come when it will topple down the slope into the water, but that fear is not a part of its' consciousness and it comforts me.
Capers in the Churchyard (Prompt)
Perhaps I have spent an inordinate amount of time in churchyards which I consider includes cemetaries.
When I was 7, my best friend, Sonja Carmichael, lived in a ratty old house with a monkey and a parrot who had bitten off her mother's right pinky finger. I later considered it karmic because the mother made her extra household monies by wrapping a clean hankerchief around puppy's tails and biting them off thus saving their owners a large vet bill.
But, I digress. Behind Sonja's house was the town cemetary. She and I would gather our dolls and head to play house among the gravestones. We would double dare each other to step on graves taking the chance that horrible things would befall us for such desecration. Little girl's laughter would fill this hallowed spot as we chose which grave we would step on next, taking into consideration age and sex, usually choosing old men on which to bestow our feet.
My Jr. High School was directly across the street from another town's cemetery. In seventh grade, I was in love with Brad, whose real name was Foster and who had a metal plate in his head from hitting it on a diving board so hard that it removed a portion of his skull. He said if anyone ever punched him on that metal plate, he would die. It made my love for him that much stronger. He would put his hand in mine and lead me into the cemetery where, crouched behind the largest gravestone we could find, we would hug and kiss all lunch hour. Ah, to once again, want that more than food.....