The Sign Post

     Clara and Joy had been best friends for several years, since they met in middle school. Clara's life was normal. She had a family, went to school, had friends, and, ultimately, did not stand out much. In fact, Clara was often known by those she hung around with, rather than who she was. One might expect that it would mean she hung out with some popular people, but they would be wrong. Her friends were nice people, often falling into the nerd or geek category. 

    Joy was the exception to this rule. In fact, Joy was nothing like any of Clara's friends. Joy was short, very short. Joy's family life was difficult, at best. Joy was smart in her own way but had a lot of learning disabilities. School was easy for nearly all of Clara’s friends and extremely difficult for Joy.

          Home and school were not the only ways in which the lives of Joy and Clara, and her other friends, differed. Joy never complained. Her situation was not easy, to be sure, and she just took it in stride. Each day, Joy took as a chance to start anew. She was a happy person who tolerated teasing quietly, embraced laughter and opportunities to have fun when they arose, and never spoke badly of anyone. Not even those who might deserve it.

          Clara and her other friends laughed and enjoyed every day, but they had their days when they complained about school, teachers, friends who were not there to defend themselves, and parents. Often, Clara forgot that Joy’s life was pretty hard, and she would whine and rant about her parents and how they wouldn’t buy her something or wouldn’t listen to her over some trivial matter.

          Joy’s life was so different from hers that Clara often forgot that what she thought was important, might not be so to Joy. But Joy always listened and laughed or nodded her head. She was an only child but seemed to understand the burdens of having siblings. Her parents were not great. They were abusive and had substance abuse issues, but Joy seemed to understand Clara’s problems with her own, loving parents.

          Clara soon came to realize that Joy just did not like to be confrontational and to bring up how lucky Clara was to be so loved and wealthy of family would be too much for her. So, Clara began to watch out for what she said. She did not want Joy to feel bad. If Clara felt frustrated at home, she would think, “Joy has it worse.”

          This came up once when they were outside one summer evening and the sky was clear and full of stars. They had been walking Clara’s neighborhood and stopped at the park to look up at the night sky. Joy was blind, see. Clara often forgot that despite Joy wearing these glasses on her face that made her eyes look huge. It was often the cause of many people teasing her. Still, it was just one more thing that Joy never complained about. It just was.

          So, while they were out, enjoying the summer night, Clara and Joy lay back on the grass and looked up. “Look at all those stars!” Clara exclaimed. It was a perfect night for stargazing.

          Joy was looking upward and said, “I can’t see them. What do they look like to you?”

          It was not said harshly, but Clara felt as if her heart were stabbed. Of course, her friend was blind. Of course, Joy could not see them. For the first time since they met, Clara felt a pang of sympathy and pity for her friend. How could one go through life not being able to see the beauty of the stars? “Uhmm…” Clara had no idea how to describe them. “They glitter with light. Sort of like an asterisk.” Clara knew this did not even begin to come close to a proper description of the stars.

          Joy took a minute to put her hand into her fanny pack and pull something out. “I have a monocular,” Joy told Clara. “Point it to a star for me?”

          Clara had never seen a monocular before. She knew what binoculars were, of course, but not a monocular. She waited for Joy to put the monocular over one eye and then Clara sort of pointed it upwards for her. “There.”

          After a minute, Joy smiled and said, “Wow! That is beautiful!” She offered her monocular to Clara, “You try it.”

          Clara put the monocular to her eye. It worked just like a pair of binoculars, but only went over one eye, enlarging everything in the distance. She looked up at the sky and tried to find a star. “What did the stars look like to you?” she wondered.

          Joy sighed happily, “Like a beautiful light. I can’t see it glittering, but it was beautiful.”

          To Clara, the stars she looked at here like hyphens of light in the dark sky. “I see them like a hyphen with this,” she told Joy. “Do they look like that to you?”

          Joy shook her head, “Nope. Like a bright light in a dark room. The shape is not distinct for me. I just see the light.”

          Thinking back on that night, Clara realized it made her appreciate her sight. She also began to wonder if everyone saw things the same way. If she saw the stars as glittering asterisks, maybe no one else did. What if it was like that for everyone? Wouldn’t that be something?

          Clara and Joy’s friendship was normal. Despite the incredible differences they had, Clara never treated Joy like she was different. She was, but Clara often forgot that Joy was blind and short and had this horrible home life. They were just two girls, hanging out together. Which is how Joy ended up smacking right into a sign at the mall.

          The two girls had gone to the mall to hang out. Mostly, Clara wanted to go to the bookstore and Joy was eager to go with her. After a quick trip into the bookstore, they decided to go to the cafeteria and get something to eat before catching the bus back to Clara’s house.

          They were walking by the stores, talking about everything and nothing at all. They were laughing and nearing the escalators when Clara saw the sign on the post coming up. She glances to Joy who was using her cane to sweep the area in front of her for obstacles. “She’ll see the sign,” Clara told herself. “Her cane will hit it in a sweep in a moment.” She considered warning Joy about it anyways but decided not to. “Joy will see the sign when her cane hits it,” she reminded herself.

          Except, Joy’s cane swept right over the sign’s base and before Clara could say anything, Joy walked face-first into the sign. *CRASH* “Ow!” Joy yelped in surprise and pain. She was short enough that the sign hit one side of her face, from nose to cheek and from forehead to chin.

          Clara grimaced and blurted, “Oh gosh! I am so sorry! I should have said something!”

          Joy was holding her face a moment and Clara was happy to note she was not bleeding or bruised. Still, she felt very guilty for having said nothing. Suddenly, without warning, the whole situation felt funny to Clara and she burst out laughing. “I’m sorry!” she blurted amidst laughter. “That was hilarious!”

          Joy looked up towards her friend and swung her arm, stilling holding the cane, right across Clara’s upper chest.

          “Ow!” Clara blurted. She put a hand to her chest and looked at Joy, horrified. Joy had never said or done an unkind thing ever!

          Joy snorted, “You deserved it for walking me into that sign!”

          The girls stared at each other and then both broke out into hysterical laughter. They continued to the cafeteria, each one rubbing a part of their body that hurt while comparing notes. Even Joy started laughing about how absurd it was to walk face first into a random sign. She laughed about her cane missing the sign and Clara debating whether to tell her about it.

          And Clara? She ended up with a red mark across her chest for a day or so, but it was worth it. She did not speak up when she should have and then she laughed at her friend’s pain. It was not on purpose, of course, and Joy realized this. They really were just two normal girls who happened to be best friends.

 - Andrea Miller ( 02/16/2021 )

Writer's Block

     Ellen sat in her chair, staring at her laptop screen, waiting for inspiration to hit her. She knew how this was supposed to work. She was supposed to sit her butt in a chair and type. Type a thousand words every day is rule number one. Write for fun is rule number two. Rule number three is to just start writing, no matter what. Just start typing or moving a pen across the page and see what happens. Didn't she learn that in her writing class in high school? In college? Online? The rules seem so simple.

    So why was she wasting her time today with the same exercise she has tried all week? What would be different today? Every day, for the last six days, she had sat in her room at the end of the day, waiting for inspiration. One day, she just started typing and ended up with a jumbled mess of letters. She deleted them. They were nonsense, not even words. The next day, she wrote random words, hoping her subconscious would fill in the blanks. Nothing.

    Each day, she tried something new. One day, she decided to write something she was grateful for. Another day, something positive. She just did not like what came up. She didn't like what she had to show for her efforts. Was she doing something wrong? 

    The screen just stared back at her. The white glare of its blank screen tormented her, teased her, reminded her of her failure to write anything. She glared back at it, determined to show it who was boss. Her fingers splayed over the keys, each digit in its proper place. She learned to type a long time ago so that she could write papers faster. No two-finger typing for her!

    Her fingers lay upon the keys and tapped gently. Nothing came to mind. What was she supposed to do? Why was it that all day long, she would think about things to write about, feel the inspiration, but the moment she sat down nothing happened? 

    Ellen jumped up from her chair and paced her room. The crazy thing was, as a teenager, she used to draw and write in notebooks every day. It wasn't even her idea, but her best friend's. Her friend was an amazing artist, and she would draw these great stories. Ellen decided that it would be fun and just bought a few notebooks and began to draw and write her own stories. Nothing amazing. She didn't have the artistic talents of her friend, but she enjoyed the process. She was never at a loss for subject matter or inspiration and she carried her notebook with her just in case inspiration struck her. It went with her to school and home and when she went to a friend's house. 

    In high school, her English teacher encouraged her to write. Her teacher never held back criticism but was always positive and supportive. Yet, Ellen remained insecure of her own work. Was she any good? She would hide her work in a drawer, hoping her parents would respect her privacy. Eventually, her father gave her a computer for her papers at school. She used the computer to do her schoolwork and, also, to write stories. Stories she never finished, just like her notebook stories. 

    When she got to college, she took the computer with her. She wrote more unfinished tales. Eventually, the computer ended up back at her parents' house and in her father's care. He called her one day, a rarity. "Honey, I found all these files on your computer. I thought they were for your writing class, but none of them are finished," he told her.

    Ellen was momentarily horrified. Should she be embarrassed? Should she be livid that he violated her privacy? "Did you read them?" she asked him, still unsure how to react. For the moment, she was calm, realizing her father seemed curious.

    "I read a few," he offered her. "Just enough to see what they were about." He paused and Ellen wondered if he would comment on her work. Would he like it? Would he hate it? Would he make fun of her sad efforts to write?

    "Oh," was all she could offer. "What did you think?" This was so important to Ellen. Why? She had spent so much time writing and hiding her work. Why now did she care? Perhaps, because he had taken some of the choice away from her. He didn't call and ask her if he could read them. He just read them to see if they were... What? Worthy to keep? Necessary files? Important files?

    "They were interesting, but none are finished," he told her. His tone was even and thoughtful. No judgement. Just like her father, really. He was always careful to not judge, but to ask questions. "I was hoping you might want to finish them. I'd like to read them." 

    What?! He wanted to read them? Ellen was now unsure what to feel. Her heart was racing. Her mind was curious. What would he think? What might her mother think? No, best not to go there. But what would her father think? And friends? What if she let a few of them read her work? Of course, she would have to finish something first! "I don't know," she finally answered her father. "I think I lost interest. I get ideas to start and then I don't know how to finish it." 

    Her father was silent a moment. "Perhaps," he began, finally. "I should save these for you, and you can come back to them when you're ready."

    "Sure. Thanks," Ellen said. 

    The conversation was years old, but still fresh in her mind. Ellen remembered hanging up the phone and going right to her new computer and typing up the start of a story. A story she never finished. She looked back over to her laptop. The screen still glared white back at her, the screen empty, waiting for her. 

    What if she wrote about that? About her father's faith in her, in his interest? What if she wrote a story about his curiosity in her work and his lack of judgement? It was a strange phone call, but it was not dramatic or tense. Not really. The only tension came from herself. 

    Ellen returned to her chair at her desk and looked at the blank white screen. It did not seem to be glaring at her anymore. Her fingers rested upon the keys of the keyboard. She took a deep breath, inhaling for several seconds and then exhaling all her fears and doubts. She closed her eyes and repeated that deep breath in and that long exhale out. Suddenly, her fingers began to move, and a story began to unfold upon the screen.

- Andrea Miller ( 02/15/2021 )

An exercise in brevity...

Have you ever had a desire to write or do something, but, the moment you make an effort to see that urge satisfied, the ability seems to escape you?

I feel this urge to get something out. I feel a need to be creative, but I am not sure how to see either of these things through. Is writing the way to do it? Should I be painting? Crocheting?

What form will my creativity take? How do I find it?

I wonder if others go through this. It seems that I know so many people with creative talents who love what they do from the moment of first creation to the completion of it. Yet, I find myself grasping for  a stress relief mechanism.

How does one find this, I wonder?

Smoke, Fog, and Haze - CW #7

  The forest is little more than dark green pine needles poking out from inside the gray fog that blankets the world this morning. There is no visibility beyond my own hand, maybe a few feet beyond. I know trees exist there. I know the ground continues on. But I walk carefully, afraid that there may not be solid ground when I put my foot down.
  Sounds creep their way to my ears, eerie in the inky gloom that prevents me from seeing their source. The haze acts like a mirror, but with sounds, I can't tell which direction they come from. It is a strange thing, to know you are encircled by trees yet feel as if some ghost may come out and get you within a moment.
  Smoke would be preferably, its source known - fire. Yet, that, too, would be as worrisome. Where would I go? From which direction might I find safety if I cannot see beyond the blackness?
  I am frozen, unable to go forward or backward for fear of what may lay ahead. Will I find treacherous footing or solid ground? Will there be a good friend waiting or a large beast wishing to sup upon me?
  A decision must be made - to stand still and do nothing is to surely perish...

Dragon - Creative Writing #6

  My heart begins to race. I can feel it. That can't be good, when you can feel your own heart racing as if it might fly out of your chest, right? That's a description they use in books to help you understand how bad a situation is, yes?

  My eyes see the problem and my brain takes it and runs with it.

  Work. So much to do. So little time. Report cards. Lesson plans. After school events. Test, re-test, small groups. Programs. Meetings. Meetings. Staff Development. Desk is a mess. Boards look bad. Haven't changed anything on the walls. What do I focus on? Going home early for a change. It'll be there tomorrow, screw it.

  Home. Family. Husband. Child. Dad. Mother-in-law. Mom. So much to do, so little time. Where to go? What's first? What do I do?

  Fun. Rest. Relaxation. What are these things? Vacation? *scoff*

  Dentist. Drilling. Drilling. Noise, sharp. Turn the music up. Choking on tongue, but not. Tongue's touching my teeth. Brain insists my tongue is touching my teeth. Brain insists my tongue is choking me. Breathe. I'm breathing. Tongue is still choking me. This is not possible. Can' break through with the logic. Stuck. Tears. Heart beats faster and faster. Chest heaves. I'm choking. Gagging on the mold in my mouth. No, I'm not. Yes, I am. No, I'm not. They wouldn't keep working on me if I was choking. What if they can't tell? They can tell. No they can't. Yes, they can. No, they can't.

Panic. PANIC. It's sudden, unrelenting. Logic-defying. No control. No sense.

  It's a strange sensation, thinking logically and knowing something - I mean KNOWING - and still be unable to see your way out of it.

Panic. Anxiety. It is standing in a room of garage, holding a trash bag, and not knowing where to begin.

Panic. It is standing in a clean room, organized, and not knowing how to pull things down to get at the desired object.

Panic. It is your heart racing without you exerting yourself.

Panic. It's being unable to stand for no reason and suddenly being terrified of being stuck.

Panic. It is frustration. Rage. Mountain vs Mole-hill and the mountain is winning.

Panic. Unable to breathe despite having the ability to.

Relief: Suddenly feeling like the vise on your chest is gone. LIke your brain can put order to the chaos swirling about.

Panic: Standing in the center of a hurricane where all is calm, watching the swirling mass around you and knowing you are trapped and unable to change this.

Relief: You remain standing and all is quiet. There is no hurricane. Never was.

Panic: A dragon that breathes its deadly fire upon you and consumes you.

Dollhouse - Creative Writing #2

I hid under my kitchen table, waiting out the earthquake.

I moved in a week ago and my realtor said NOTHING about earthquakes. Ok, I didn't ask, but who would? I mean, an earthquake now and then, fine. This is California, after all. Earthquakes happen. But every day? Multiple times a day?! Yesterday there were four. The first one was slight, barely woke me out of bed. But the others were terrible! My dishes fell out of their cupboards, my dog fell down the stairs to the first floor... I had a mess to clean up, let me tell you!

Every day, earthquakes. The entire house shakes from the first floor up to the attic. It always starts the same, too. All of a sudden and then everything lifts and flops and jumps around. The couches and TV, the bookshelves and tables. Everything! Yesterday, I fell out of my bed when it began! I know I said the first wasn't bad, and it wasn't, but the second one was HUGE! At least a nine on the Richter scale! They are all like that, most of the time. 

So, now, I'm back under my table, hands over my head and neck, facing away from my windows and dishes. I'm terrified. My heart is beating so fast it feels like it's going to burst through my chest! My dog is somewhere, likely fallen on his side, again. Silly dog. He's always at the top of the stairs when these quakes happen. 

Ahh, finally, the quake stops. I carefully get out from under the table and look at the damage around my home. The cupboards are still closed, dishes are intact. My chairs are topsy-turvy and my dog is on his side by the stairs. Right. I've about had enough of this. My realtor needs to be fired!

... Wait. Did you see that? Oh. My. Gosh! I think I saw a hand! A huge, giant hand! 

I race to the window, hiding behind my curtains. They're red plaid and I can just see out from behind them. It's reaching into my house!!! It.... it.. oh no. Spot! RUN SPOT! 

Wait... it turned spot upright and ... oh no, where's it taking... Oh.. he's on the top of the stairs now. The hand is fixing my house up. It is putting chairs upright, the tables, my bed... Everything. My heart is definitely beating out of its chest. 

It's coming for me now! Where can I run? It's blocking my only way out!!

Oh, no! It got me! It's holding me.. carrying me up and up and... 

... lying me on my bed. This.. is so very weird. Ok. I'm going to stay here and rest. I can take a hint. 

The hand is leaving now. The earthquake is returning. It's gentler now, though. 

I think I'm going to just stay in my bed awhile, get some rest. My heart needs to calm down. 

And I need to rethink this move. A house with a giant living nearby?! 

I don't think so.