Happy Monday, dear readers! I hope everyone had a great weekend!
As another week gets underway, I’ve got an announcement to make! I’ve moved to a brand new blog! I just felt it was the right thing to do and the right time to do it. You’ll still find the same types of posts as before (but now in a new and pretty cool place-if I may say so myself!) plus more of my writing.
Here is the new address:
http://thewordpirate.blogspot.com/
I hope you’ll join me!! (Pretty please…)
Valerie
A length of antique satin, snipped from the bolt, is fastened in slithering folds around fiberglass-pins gliding easily into visions of my genius.
Fake flesh, pricked.
“OUCH!”
This mannequin is much too realistic.
Ah, apparel design classes. Those poor mannequins suffered many brutish attempts on my part to make lengths of fabric do my bidding. I hope mannequins have forgiving natures.
The weekend challenge This weekend we want you to give us 33 words (exactly) that include among them at least one example of onomatopoeia. When looking for a good page to link to in order to help describe the device, we stumbled upon our very own Apoplectic Apostrophes' post on literary devices. Check it out if you need help remembering how onomatopoeia work.
Picture source.
Her voice. Still the sweetest music I’ve heard in more than 17 years. She’s holding an open catalog, pointing to an item on the page. “I saw this, and thought of you!” Her words buzz with excitement, as I take the catalog and see for myself what she’s found. The Thinker’s Thesaurus. “It looks like a cool book!” she offers. “I bet it would be helpful to have when you are writing.” Of course I agree. Of course I buy the book. I don’t even read the reviews. They don’t matter. I buy the book because every time I look at it I’ll be reminded of what an incredible daughter I have.
As if I needed reminding.
And yet, if I had to try to quantify my love for this child, would every blossom on every tree that ever bloomed, is blooming, and will bloom be an adequate expression of the immeasurable?
Page 312 has some really great suggestions.
This piece was inspired by the lovely photo prompt this week over at Write on Edge.
I won’t deny that sometimes I have the sense of humor of a five year old. I thought this “Hose Water” water bottle was extremely funny, both for the way it gently pokes fun at more expensive bottled water, and the fact that when I was a kid, and a thirsty kid at that, refreshment was as close the nearest outdoor spigot.
The best thing about this bottle is that part of the proceeds go towards helping provide clean water to families in India, where the lack of clean water is nothing to joke about.
I found my bottle here:
http://www.modcloth.com/shop/kitchen-gadgets/h2omg-bottle-in-outdoor.
Like a glass of water tipped into the ocean vanishes, our youthful shoulders touch only for a moment.
A masquerade of closeness.
The golden hour light illuminates my smile, while the hurt of your indifference hides in the shadows, just beyond the edges of the frame.
A lifetime in black and white, spent chasing after your affection, comes down to this:
We are blood.
And nothing more.
This piece of fiction is inspired by this week’s prompt at Trifecta.
1
a (1) : the fluid that circulates in the heart, arteries, capillaries, and veins of a vertebrate animal carrying nourishment and oxygen to and bringing away waste products from all parts of the body (2) : a comparable fluid of an invertebrate
b : a fluid resembling blood
2
: the shedding of blood; also : the taking of life
Remember:
This week's word is blood.
Photo sourced from the internet.
Edith felt like singing. It was good to be home, she rejoiced. Safe in the bosom of her tiny apartment. After the events of the evening, it simply wasn’t possible to overstate the relief she felt at being back in familiar surroundings.
Ethyl’s invitation of a week ago, asking Edith to attend a party she was hosting in honor of Olive, the bride-to-be, sounded exactly like Edith’s cup of tea. A recipe exchange, from the description of it, featuring a dish called beef cake. Edith enjoyed recipe exchanges, and considered herself to be something of an expert in the kitchen. She would take along her metal recipe box, she decided, with plenty of blank recipe cards in case some of the other girls forgot to bring their own.
As the party got underway, though, it became apparent to Edith that she alone had come prepared to discuss ingredients and cooking tips. Furthermore, when Edith cleared her throat and practically shouted above the din of living room conversation to inquire whether beef cake should be filed under Main Dishes or Desserts, she hadn’t expected everyone to find her question so uproariously funny. Thankfully, for red-faced Edith, hoots and whistles trumped laughter as the spotlight shifted away from her and onto the newest arrival-a young man dressed in a modest piece of fur and beating wildly on his chest. And what a chest! Inexplicably, Edith realized she was growling.
Yes, it was good to be home, and a batch of butterscotch brownies would be just the ticket for blotting out all disquieting memories of the party. Besides, Roscoe liked butterscotch brownies. Dear, steady, dependable Roscoe-promising Edith a secure future with his full-time job as a revolving closet salesman. She really should thank her lucky stars…
As she reached for her recipe box, her mind began to wander-leopard clad thoughts wrapping themselves in tantalizing visions of Tarzan. So masculine. So wild and untamed. And so unlike Roscoe. She felt guilty, but she couldn’t help herself-and her fingers, poised over the neat bundles of categorized recipes, ignored Cookies and found the blank cards instead.
Beef Cake. She just might need to expand her repertoire.
Please go here to read this week’s fun prompt!
Once upon a time, I lived with Helen, my grandmother. She liked to tell stories, especially when we were gathered around the dining room table-her recollections of the past seeming to follow most often on the heels of coffee and cake, or a nice ham. After she passed away, I was lucky to inherit not her dining room table, but her desk, where she’d often sat, writing letters or paying bills. I like to think her spirit still resides in that desk, the ancient worn surfaces of wood and brass guiding my thoughts as I write my own stories.
On my laptop…
I think my grandma would approve.
I’m linking up with my friend Melissa, today-writing about the place where I write.
With a sigh she sits down at last, in his chair, covered in a plaid that doesn’t go with anything else in their living room. The chair that despite her protests he insisted on getting-and she insisted on nicknaming Sore Thumb. She is bone-weary, but proud of herself. She has survived another day without him.
She holds his letters with timorous hands, reminding herself each time her eyes trace the handwritten pages that she mustn’t cry and smudge the ink. But as words on paper throw wide the door to anguish, tears slide down her cheeks.
Wrapping her arms around herself, she slouches her body into the comforting softness of the plaid that never will match anything in their living room. A sore thumb. A constant reminder of him. She is glad.
This week's word prompt is:
DOOR
1: a usually swinging or sliding barrier by which an entry is closed and opened; also : a similar part of a piece of furniture
2: doorway
3: a means of access or participation : opportunity <opens new doors> <door to success>
Oh Dolores! What a fun mannequin you are! You painted your toenails! I won’t need painted toenails when I wear my new shoes!
Aren’t they cute? They have roses and mermaids on them and they remind me of tattoos! I found them after I looked for shoes just like my friend Renae has. (Hers are really cute too!)
What’s the matter now? Are you pouting, or is the sun in your eyes? You’re pouting? But the shoes are mine-and I don’t think they’d fit you. Besides, you have the blue anchor shoes. And while we’re on the subject of your wardrobe, it’s good to see you back in your sailor dress again.
And Dolores, I just made this bag! It has palm trees on the outside, and a tattoo print lining on the inside-and genuine bamboo handles and vintage buttons! Will you model it for me?
Please?
I’ll even give you a tattoo if you cooperate! I just got a brand new set of felt tip markers!
Oh Dolores. You really should learn how to play poker. You’d be a natural…
Happy Friday, dear readers!
Here’s wishing you green grass and dandelions, blue skies and warm lakes, and your favorite tennis ball…
Have a good weekend!
Thirty-seven years.
37 years, since she’d said I do, and folded herself up and put herself away along with her wedding dress and veil. 37 years of making beds, and doing dishes. Cooking oatmeal and darning socks.
And now, as she was about to hang out the laundry, she was mulling over Marvin's words. What he’d said at breakfast while raising his coffee cup to her in a mock toast.
“Emma, after all this time, you’re still as dependable as a Maytag washer!”
He’d said it after taking a swig of the Folgers she’d poured for him. Snorted in amusement at his own wit. She was so mad she’d wanted to spit in his mug.
Emma looked across the length of empty clothes line, and then at the basket piled high with wet clothes. The poles at either end of the line were already sagging, as though the mere thought of the weight of all that washing was too much to bear. She knew the feeling.
Dependable.
A dictionary full of words and that was the best he could do. It was the best he could do because he didn’t really know her. Not the way she’d hoped, 37 years ago, that he would want to know her.
A quickening breeze whispered through her hair. Tickled her legs and flipped up the hem of her dress. Took her by the heart and lead her into an ecstasy that dared her to remember-to remember when she was young.
Thirty-seven years is a long time to be married. Longer when the person you are married to doesn’t know you at all. Doesn’t know that memories of what might have been and longings for what could be, blow in on a wayward wind.
The wayward wind is a restless wind
A restless wind that yearns to wander
And she was born the next of kin
The next of kin to the wayward wind
This piece was inspired by one of my favorite Patsy Cline songs, and this week’s Trifecta prompt.
1
a : a state of being beyond reason and self-control
b archaic : swoon
2
: a state of overwhelming emotion; especially : rapturous delight
3
: trance; especially : a mystic or prophetic trance
Photo credit here.
I have to confess that the flavor of my town seems a little bland at times. It’s not that I don’t like where I live-it’s just that I’m used to where I live. So imagine my delight this weekend when I was presented with a refreshingly unusual entrée of discoveries.
Friday afternoon we took Kona and Willow to one of our most frequently visited trails, and this little garter snake was literally hiding in plain view. Lethargic from the cold, he was not in any hurry to vacate the patch of sun he’d found and scurry away. Garter snakes are a common species but I still find it thrilling to see one. In addition, they don’t often put themselves on display like this to allow for such close observation.
I spotted this cow in a pasture as we were en route to the trail. I wish I’d gotten a picture that more accurately put these three animals into better perspective-but the Holstein is huge!! At least a foot taller at the shoulders than the other two! I’ve seen many a cow in my day, but never one this big…
It’s not my intent to ridicule this fellow, bless him-but the waistband of his pants was just above his knees! The expression “gravity defying” comes to mind…Thanks for the giggle, kind sir!
I struck gold at Goodwill-or silver, I should say. I found this vintage silver plate palm frond napkin holder for $5.99. When I searched online to learn more about it, I found one just like it that recently sold for $47! I really feel like a pirate now!
And my favorite discovery? That the first stalks of rhubarb were ready for harvest! Amy and I picked enough for a rhubarb crisp, and the rest, as they say, was delicious history!
I hope all of you had a wonderful weekend, and that you have a wonderful week too!
Wanted.
One ticket back to the 20th century.
Being transferred to the new millennium was supposed to be a promotion, but now that I’m here, I’m lost.
I need to register a complaint.
Who’s in charge?
This weekend Trifextra is asking for exactly 33 of your own words plus the following three words:
So 33 of yours plus 3 of ours means that everyone will have a 36 word response this time around.
As star crossed dreams of a Veronese garden wedding wilt away, she mourns, tears glittering her cheeks.
He's crept over to her with such quietude she doesn’t notice him by her side until his voice teases her from her sorrow. “Juliet, I’ve got a surprise for you.” He holds out his hands, revealing several packets of flower seeds and a cake mix.
“I don’t think we should put off getting married just because of a silly old family feud, do you?”
Her eyes travel from the gifts he’s brought her, to his eyes, where they settle, full of questions. He makes his case.
“We already have everything we need-each other. But for the sake of tradition, I got you flowers and a cake, too. They’re sort of implied, for now, but I’m optimistic about our future. What do you say?”
Glitter turns to diamond.
“I do, Romeo.”
My inspiration this week was this prompt:
“It was not the thorn bending to the honeysuckles, but the honeysuckles embracing the thorn.”
The quotation is from Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë:
I found this huge vintage chiffon beach cover-up at Goodwill for just under 2 pieces of eight. ($1.99) The colors and graphics are so luscious I wish I could walk among those palm trees and wiggle my toes in that sand I’m not planning to swim any time soon, so for now, instead of draping this beauty across my prow, I’ll drape it where I can admire it-like across the back of my sofa.
These cowrie napkin rings were a lucky find indeed! As they are made from genuine shells, each one is unique. Do pirates use napkins? Probably not. But I do. This set of eight cost just under 3 pieces of eight! Yo, ho, ho!
When we visited the Oregon Coast a few weeks ago, I tried to reread this book on my computer. Now there are some things you just don’t do-like drink Dom Perignon from a plastic cup-and reading a digital version of Treasure Island falls into that same category. When we got home, I hunted the seven seas (ahem, the internet) until I found this suitably old copy complete with palm trees on the cover. I love this book! When Robert Louis Stevenson penned his classic in 1883 he included much of the quintessential pirate speak we know today-and I only had to surrender five pieces of eight (plus a small fee to have it delivered to my port) to make it mine.
Until next time-I wish you some happy plundering of your own!
I just wanted to announce that I’m donating the purchase price of this bag to the Salvation Army to help them in their effort to aid victims of yesterday’s tragic bombing at the Boston Marathon. You can read more about this bag here. Like a different bag? The offer stands. For the next bag I sell, I’ll make a $50 donation.
She’d posed the question five minutes earlier. It had to be asked. The wedding was less than a month away.
“Should we call the whole thing off?”
He frowned. Deep creases formed above his brow, and his demeanor suggested a teacher on the brink of patience exhausted, trying to enlighten an imbecile.
“Unless you’re willing to come around to my way of thinking, I don’t see any other course of action.”
She appraised his appearance-the crisp crease in his wool gabardine trousers, the precisely folded square of silk in his breast pocket and his flawlessly shined shoes. A paradox of her own wrinkled rayon frock and haphazardly upswept hair that threatened to escape from its pins.
His arms were still crossed. A barricade to compromise that exposed the lower edges of his shirt sleeves, and she noted his cuff links. Not the simple brass monogrammed fasteners she’d given him, but the smart gold and mother of pearl cuff links he’d purchased for himself.
There was nothing sentimental about cement.
She violently stamped her foot, loosening a brown sugar strand from the nest atop her head.
“Now Ginger! Control yourself!”
“Tomato!”
Her face wore the color of conviction as she turned to leave the room-and him.
“TOE-MAY-TOE!”
You like potato and I like potahto,
You like tomato and I like tomahto,
Potato, potahto, tomato, tomahto!
Let's call the whole thing off!
-Fred Astaire
On to the one-word weekly challenge where we ask for a 33-333 word response to the third definition of a given word. If you need a refresher, click here for more information on how to play. Be sure to check that you've used the correct definition this week!
color (noun)
1a : a phenomenon of light (as red, brown, pink, or gray) or visual perception that enables one to differentiate otherwise identical objects
b (1) : the aspect of the appearance of objects and light sources that may be described in terms of hue, lightness, and saturation for objects and hue, brightness, and saturation for light sources
(2) : a color other than and as contrasted with black, white, or gray
2a : an outward often deceptive show : appearance <his story has the color of truth>
b : a legal claim to or appearance of a right, authority, or office
c : a pretense offered as justification : pretext <she could have drawn from the Versailles treaty the color of legality for any action she chose — Yale Review>
d : an appearance of authenticity : plausibility <lending color to this notion>
3: complexion tint:
Hard boiled eggs.
Ladles instead of spoons.
Short grass, and an Olympian’s feet.
If only victory was won so easily.
It’s not a given that I hit the wire first.
But I might.
Trifecxtra's challenge asks for exactly 33 of your own words inspired by the following quote from the book you could win in the WBN giveaway. Good luck!
“It's the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life interesting.” ― Paulo Coelho, Alchemist
I submitted my story!! And the possibility that I might soon be a genuine published writer is so exciting I can barely sit still while I type this!
It seems like it was only yesterday that I started this blog. My goal was to create a platform where I could promote my Etsy shop. Nothing more, and nothing less. Never in a million years did I imagine I would discover a love of writing, and that I’d try to take that love to higher places.
Win or lose, I’ve taken a chance-something I’d never have done without the encouragement of all of you. And that, in itself is an accomplishment.
Thank you-each and every one of you!
Valerie xx
At some point, in other centuries, dunes of sand, and sands of time have erased what was, leaving what remains. A shadow. A shell. A memory.
For this reason, she likes to come here, finding beauty in the abandoned. The forgotten. The lost. It takes a special person to appreciate such beauty, and she likes to think she is a special person.
The grains of sand must number in the millions. Even billions. And in this potential, she finds hope. Out there, in the world that has wounded her with indifference, the number of souls must also number in the millions, or billions. And maybe-among those millions and billions-there is one person, who just might realize that she is special too.
I wrote this piece for this week’s Write on Edge prompt inspired by the photo and also the words abandoned beauty. I’ve been working like crazy to finish my short story for consideration in the next volume of Precipice-and I’m almost finished!!
