fiction

The Train Game

Sally13 Comments

The first time it happened they were playing The Train Game.

Alistair and his brother, Duncan, had made up that game. They would stand on the knoll to watch the train go by. As they caught glimpses of the people in the cars, one would shout, “Two boys and their dad!” Then the other one had to make up the story of what they were doing on the train. Going on vacation, going to visit their mother in prison, going to crazy Uncle Freddy’s house. The longer they played, the more absurd the stories became.

If the train was long enough and the stories short enough, they could each tell a few. They would laugh as they tried to outdo the other.

On this particular day, though, Duncan saw the little girl at the same time as Alistair. He shouted, “Girl with big eyes and frizzy hair!”

Alistair was silent.

“C’mon! It’s an easy one,” said Duncan.

Alistair looked pale and sweaty.

“Are you okay?” Duncan asked.

Alistair shook his head, slowly, confusedly.

“I saw her whole life in her eyes,” he finally said.

Duncan dropped it.

A few days later they were playing the cloud game, which involved finding pictures in the clouds.

“A dragon,” Duncan shouted and pointed.

“A horse running away,” said Alistair, pointing.

“Little girl with frizzy hair,” Duncan said.

Alistair gasped. His face went white.

“Her life is painful,” he said.

Later that week, Alistair saw the girl in real life.

This is my submission to the Unicorn Challenge — a challenge with only two rules: 1) no more than 250 words, and 2) use the photo for a prompt.

Don’t ask me what the story means. I don’t know. I admit, though, that I saw it in the clouds.

fiction

A Dip in the Pool

Sally10 Comments

“Are you sure that nobody is home?” Barbie asked.

Ronan nodded. “They are gone for the day. Those potted plants shield the pool from view anyway. We run to the pool wrapped in our towels. When we get there, we can throw them on a chair and dive in.”

His roguish smile gave her the courage she needed. “Let’s go,” she cried, and took off running.

Unfortunately, her towel fell off partway across the lawn, but she ran naked the rest of the way. Ronan picked up the towel and set it on a chair before he jumped in the water with her.

They splashed and swam in the nude. Barbie giggled the whole time. Ronan felt alternately giddy and guilty. He couldn’t believe she had agreed to it.

In the end, nurture won over nature. His strict upbringing led to the utmost respect for Barbie. Although myriad other scenarios ran through his mind, when they got out of the pool, he handed her her towel, wrapped his own around his lower half, and they ran back to the house to get dressed.

The next day, Ronan’s mother said to him, “I need to talk to you.”

Ronan paled and waited for her to continue.

“You know we’ve been setting up security cameras inside the house and around the property,” she said. “We have cameras facing the back lawn and the pool…” she said.

Ronan felt nauseous.

“… that don’t seem to be working. Could you try to figure out why?”

This is my contribution to the Unicorn Challenge. It’s an easy challenge: no more than 250 words and use the photo as a prompt.

poetry

Jewelweed

Sally15 Comments

I have feelings which are quite complicated
Regarding Touch-Me-Not or Jewelweed
Whether weed or flow’r can be debated
It’s both, not either-or, I will concede
After the blossoms, green pods seem to plead,
Touch me, touch me. You know that you want to.
One small touch, a fun explosion indeed!
Seeds fly out. The cycle begins anew.

I’ve been spending a fair amount of time weeding the jewelweed from the gardens. It’s my own fault. I introduced it.

One day, years ago, I was out for a walk with my children and one of them discovered that if you touch the pods on these plants growing by the path, they would explode. We all stood there for the longest exploding seed pods. It was so much fun. Finally, I broke off some stems with pods attached intact and brought them to my parents’ house.

The rest is history.

I’m weeding jewelweed — which, I have to say, is a most satisfying plant to weed. Its roots are shallow and let go of the soil so willingly.

Not like dandelions — which require that dandelion digger with a forked tip to attack the roots.

Or Japanese knotweed which require lots of oomph and a shovel with a serrated edge. Even then, it’s still everywhere.

So it’s a win-win to have jewelweed. It’s fun to seed and fun to weed.

If only it wasn’t everywhere.

This is my response to the W3 Challenge this week. The Poet-of-the-Week, Murisopsis (Val) gave us the following parameters for our poem:

  • Theme: ‘Seeds’ ~ literal seeds, figurative seeds, seeds of love, hope, fear, war… you choose!
  • Form:‘Huitain’
    • One 8-line stanza;
    • Rhyming: ababbcbc; 
    • Syllabic: 8 or 10 syllables per line.
gratitude

TToT — June 30

Sally7 Comments

I looked back and saw that I haven’t done one of these (Ten Things of Thankful) since March! Yikes! Here we are on the brink of July!

I won’t bore you with my excuses. I’ll just tell you ten things (in no special order) for which I am thankful.

I got a new hip!1 I think I’ve mentioned it elsewhere in posts, but not in a thankfulness post. I am truly thankful for the wonders of medicine. I reported for surgery at 6 AM on May 21, was taken into surgery at 8 AM, have very fuzzy memories of them getting me up to walk on my new hip at I-don’t-know-what time, and was home by 2 PM. Tomorrow I have my 6 week check-up. It’s all so amazing.

I have a new granddaughter!2 Little Polly was born a little over two weeks ago. She’s pretty wonderful. She is more wonderful than a new hip, and that’s saying a lot. Parents, sister, and Polly are all doing great.

My sister came to visit!3 She stayed ten days to help me sort and organize stuff in this house. It was really nice to spend time with her. We talked. We drank wine. We went to visit some of my kids and all my grandkids (Polly included). We drank wine. We ate at favorite local restaurants. We drank mimosas. We got together with our brothers. We drank wine. We also sorted and organized stuff. I am so so so thankful for her visit.

I went to a Celtic Fling. Wait, wait — let me back up. I went to a graduation.4 My last child in college graduated back in May. I’m so proud.

Now I have 8 children who have all graduated from college AND are working in their chosen field, which leads me to…

    I went to a Celtic Fling.5 The lovely graduate pictured above was a theater major in college. She got a job at the Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire working in production. I went to see her this weekend where she was managing one of the stages. First, I LOVE Celtic Music and sat through three sets at her stage. Second, I loved seeing my daughter at work.

    The college graduation was pre-hip surgery. I was so worried about driving to Virginia on my own — but my oldest daughter offered for me to ride6 with them. A fair amount of that ride was spent in the back seat with my granddaughter, Willow.

    Willow was so much fun. It turns out that she loves the song, “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” When she got antsy in her car seat, we would sing and she would be happy.

    Also, during this interim of TToT posts, I witnessed Willow’s first visit with the Easter Bunny.7 I think it says a lot that she was not even remotely intimidated by a 6 foot tall rabbit.

    I’m thankful for the birds8 whose songs I hear every morning. Mr. Robin tends to dominate the chorus.

    I’m thankful for blogging challenges9 like the Unicorn Challenge or W3 which usually get me to write at least twice a week. Such nice people. Such talented bloggers and poets. So much encouragement.

    Lastly, I am thankful to you, dear readers10, especially when you post comments. I don’t always respond because I feel so overwhelmed with… hmmm… gratitude? Undeservedness? Bashful humility? I don’t know what to call it, but I know that it leaves me speechless.

    So, thank you.

    fiction

    Secrets

    Sally9 Comments

    “You know what’s wrong with America?” George frequently said. “Storage Units.”

    His wife, Suzanne, listened, nodded and mentally added closets, attics, garages, and barns. Specifically, barns full of stuff, not hay and animals.

    In attempting to clean out her parents’ home so it could be sold, her brother’s room was off-limits.

    “Keep away from my stuff,” he growled, but he never came over to clean it out.

    George whispered, “It’s the dead body.”

    The dead body became a running private joke.

    The dead body became the reason her brother, who hadn’t lived in that house for decades, kept the door to his bedroom locked.

    On the news one day Suzanne heard about bodies discovered in a storage unit. It made her stomach twist inside. Someone complained about the smell. When the unit was opened, there they were, rotting. Maybe George was right.

    Finally, the realtor was scheduled to come look at the house so it could go on the market. The room had to be opened.

    Suzanne fiddled around with the ring of skeleton keys until she found one that worked.

    The room was mostly empty. A dusty dresser. A dusty bare bed. A dusty desk

    Dust was the predominant feature in the room.

    She opened the closet, though, and gasped. It was packed full of red prom dresses.

    Oh, the secrets her brother had kept. She wanted to tell him that it was okay.

    At least there were no dead bodies.

    This is my submission for the Unicorn Challenge. The rules are easy — no more than 250 words and use the photo as a prompt.

    Alzheimer's · dementia · poetry

    Dementia

    Sally12 Comments

    It follows nobody’s rules
    But makes up its own
    Every day
    Which, for my mom,
    Happened to be Sunday

    Alzheimer’s is
    Soup cans in the wrong cupboard
    Flour in the sugar canister
    Lipstick on the eyebrows

    It’s marmalade on lasagne
    And hot dogs

    Forgotten names
    Remembered faces
    (Sometimes)

    But that poem that she memorized
    In 5th grade
    And still can recite
    (Come, listen, my children and you shall hear…)

    That dogged determination to get to church
    Because it’s Sunday
    (which it isn’t)

    That desire to prepare food
    (with marmalade on it)
    And serve it to family
    And guests

    That’s my mom
    Who battled a disease
    That followed nobody’s rules

    This is my submission for the W3 Challenge this week. We were challenged to read and draw inspiration from Poet of the Week Bob Lynn’s poem ‘What Remains’ — which you can find if you follow the link to the W3 page.

    Two further requirements were as follows:

    Requirement 1: Poetic Device

    • Your poem must prominently feature metaphor as a central device. Like the dandelions in the inspiration piece, use metaphorical imagery to explore themes of persistence, belonging, growth, or survival.

    Requirement 2: Required Phrase

    • Your poem must include the exact phrase “nobody’s rules” somewhere within the text. You may use it as written, or incorporate it naturally into your poem’s flow and structure.

    My mom had Alzheimer’s. She died in 2015. She was the inspiration for this blog — hence the name “Hot Dogs and Marmalade.” I still remember the day, during her marmalade phase, she served that to my father and me. It wasn’t that bad.

    Life · poetry

    I Am Lost

    Sally7 Comments

    A song to the tune: Beecher (aka Love Divine, All Loves Excelling)

    I am lost —
    Oh, can you help me?
    To the airport I must go —
    I don’t know
    What language you’re speaking
    Yet, to you, I tip my chapeau
    You are one who knows this landscape
    I am sadly ignorant
    Yet, I trust you
    To be honest
    With this poor itinerant

    I am lost —
    Oh, can you help me?
    I don’t know which way to turn!
    Status quo?
    Or major adjustment?
    It’s so hard for me to discern!
    Do I take some easy way out here?
    Do I battle through some strife?
    Someone, please, tell me what the way is
    To steer safely through this life!

    I am lost —
    Oh, can you help me
    Find the way to where I should be?
    Life for me
    Is so confusing
    Do I make choice A or B?
    C does really have some merit
    D — I have ruled out thus far
    Making choices
    (Can I share it?)
    Is so very hard for me

    This is my response to the Unicorn Challenge. It’s easy-peasy, right? Except when it’s not. Write no more than 250 words and use the photo for a prompt.

    Life is a struggle. I know, I know — this only happens to me. But it happens to me a lot.

    poetry

    Ring around the Rosie

    Sally11 Comments

    Sorting through lives
    Letters and photos
    Trinkets and baubles
    What once was important
    Is no more
    The poignant priorities
    Tyrannies of the urgent
    Become nothing but ashes

    Ashes, ashes
    We all fall down
    While holding hands
    Clinging, connecting
    Laughing, crying
    And supporting one another

    The W3 prompt this week is write a quadrille—a 44-word poem with no required rhyme or meter — on “what remains.”

    Poet of the week Sheila Bair has been caring for her mother with dementia, which is, indeed, the fading away of a person. I watched my own mother disappear that way.

    This week my sister is helping me sort through the stuff that remains in the house. So many letters and papers and objects that hold memories are here. We hold them in our hands; we feel the moment for which they existed; then, it’s decision time. Save? Recycle? Gift to someone else that they, too, might hold it for a moment?

    fiction

    Bird’s Eye View

    Sally8 Comments

    “This monitor taps into city cameras and cameras we’ve placed,” he said. “Yes, we have a camera on the roof of this building.”

    He moved to the center screen. “This one shows what the gull is ‘seeing.’ It’s looking through its eyes.”

    The woman remarked, “Lovely view.”

    He smiled. “This last monitor is a city map that shows the gull’s location.”

    She nodded.

    He gestured at the controls — a joystick, keyboard, mouse, and a stylus and screen. “The gull can be maneuvered using all of these. Flight, direction, speed — all here. There are built in sensors so it won’t fly it into a fixed object like a window or building. If we want a photograph, it will be from gull’s eyes’ perspective. Just tap here.”

    “Who actually operates all this?” she asked.

    “I do. I’ll warn you, though — it’s pricey,” he said.

    “Money is no object,” she replied.

    He smiled. “In that case, let’s get started.”

    She pulled out a paper. “This is our address,” she said, “and this is where he works. I want to know everywhere else that he goes.”

    He studied the paper and nodded.

    “Can the gull look into windows?” she asked.

    “We’ve had success with first floor windows. The gull can usually perch or walk outside,” he replied.

    “That’ll work,” she answered. “I’m especially interested if he goes into stores.”

    “You think he’s seeing someone in a store?”

    “Seeing someone?!” she scoffed. “I want to know what he’s getting me for my birthday!”

    This is my submission for the Unicorn Challenge. The challenge has only two rules: 1) no more than 250 words, and 2) must be inspired by the photo prompt.

    I think my bird spy camera could adapt to the locale. A crow would do well in rural America. Or the ubiquitous robin, although they are nowhere near as brazen as a gull or crow. Pigeons might do nicely in most cities. I may be on to something, right?

    poetry

    Understanding

    Sally21 Comments

    This is my response to the W3 Challenge this week, which basically is to write a poem and then feed it into http://www.spoonbill.org/n+7/, a site which “replaces the nouns with another one a bit further on in the dictionary. No AI involved.”

    So — I wrote a Triolet in response to the vitriol on the news. There’s a HUGE part of me that wishes people — not politicians — could sit at the same table and listen to each other.

    A triolet is a poem of eight lines, rhyming abaaabab and so structured that the first line recurs as the fourth and seventh and the second as the eighth.

    My original:

    I sit across the table from
    One whose thoughts veer far from mine
    “Tell me, friend — why so glum?”
    I sit across the table from
    Someone wounded by the scrum
    I listen, hear the counterline
    I sit across the table from
    One whose thoughts veer far from mine

    The Spoonbill version (with a few tweaks to make it fit the poem structure)

    I sit across the tangle from
    One whose times veer far from mob
    “Tell me, future — why so glum?”
    I sit across the tangle from
    Someone wounded by the scrum
    I listen, hear about your job
    I sit across the tangle from
    One whose times veer far from mob

    _______________

    New word for me, which I think I love because it so suits the situation:
    Counterline: A secondary melody that contrasts with the main melody and is played at the same time.

    Listen. Really listen. Can you hear both melodies?