...you may have noticed that this page doesn't get updated all that fast. Or often.
Sorry.
This was originally intended as my creative writing blog, and lately, I haven't been feeling all that creative. If you want to read something that's updated more often, check out my other blog And then there were three...
I look forward to seeing you all there...and yes, I hope to resume writing soon. :)
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Not a story, sorry..
...but a recipe. :)
It's cold here and Yule is upon us, so enjoy this recipe (courtesy of EatingWell) and hopefully, my creative writing muse will come back next year. ;-)
Flemish Beef Stew
Happy Yule, and brightest blessings upon the New Year :)
It's cold here and Yule is upon us, so enjoy this recipe (courtesy of EatingWell) and hopefully, my creative writing muse will come back next year. ;-)
Flemish Beef Stew
Happy Yule, and brightest blessings upon the New Year :)
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Beads
The following is the second post in our creative writing blog roll. The prompts are: a library, something or someone French, a river, and a glass bead.
--//--
Genevieve likes the library. It's calm and mellow and full of books she can't yet read. But that's the point, she supposes, of the visits to her family in Provance, the family that keeps hoping she'll speak French like the rest of them do. She was born in America and the first thing she thinks of when she thinks of a river is the Mississippi, not the Rhone or the Loire...and about the only French she remembers are her grandmother's cradle songs, not something that comes in handy for general conversation. She's taken French in high school, but it's not the Provencal dialect they teach, and even in class, she's ashamed to admit how little she knows of her family's tongue.
But she keeps trying. Every summer, her parents send her to her aunt's and every summer, the words come a little easier. Then it's back to life in Chicago where the only French she uses is the croissant she orders from the bakery on the corner. And in the necklace that her aunt gave her, the necklace of colored glass beads, each one strung on a summer's memories of lavender fields and sibilant vowels.
So she gets her coffee and her croissant and toys with the necklace and thinks that next summer, she'll be able to read the books in the library.
--//--
Genevieve likes the library. It's calm and mellow and full of books she can't yet read. But that's the point, she supposes, of the visits to her family in Provance, the family that keeps hoping she'll speak French like the rest of them do. She was born in America and the first thing she thinks of when she thinks of a river is the Mississippi, not the Rhone or the Loire...and about the only French she remembers are her grandmother's cradle songs, not something that comes in handy for general conversation. She's taken French in high school, but it's not the Provencal dialect they teach, and even in class, she's ashamed to admit how little she knows of her family's tongue.
But she keeps trying. Every summer, her parents send her to her aunt's and every summer, the words come a little easier. Then it's back to life in Chicago where the only French she uses is the croissant she orders from the bakery on the corner. And in the necklace that her aunt gave her, the necklace of colored glass beads, each one strung on a summer's memories of lavender fields and sibilant vowels.
So she gets her coffee and her croissant and toys with the necklace and thinks that next summer, she'll be able to read the books in the library.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Wednesday Morning, 2am
What follows is the first prompt in our creative writing blog-roll. The prompt is: a blue car, a man named Dominic, a clock, and the time of 2:00 (am or pm.)
--//--
Wednesday Morning, 2am
Sheila does things at odd times now that Dominic is gone. Some nights she can't sleep and it's just a lot easier, and safer too, to click on the TV instead of popping a sleeping pill and trying to ignore the clock on his side of the bed.
Dominic's been gone for six months, three weeks and as of Wednesday morning at 2am, four days. He has another five months to survive before he can come home, something she very carefully doesn't think about. If she counted the exact days and weeks, she might never stop asking if she'll ever see him come through that door. He'd enlisted the day after 9/11 and she'd married him a month later. Now he was gone again and she had their boy David to take care of.
David was six now and long ago stopped asking when Daddy was coming home. Dominic had been gone much of his short life and he knew that Daddy would come home when the Daddy came home. Anything else, he didn't ask about...and Sheila kept the news off the TV when he was around. Sometimes she thinks that's more for her benefit than David's. After all, if there was anything to know, Dominic would tell her. Or the Army would.
And Sheila had his letters. They always closed with the line, "You haven't sold my car yet, have you?" It was their own private joke---Dominic's blue car (he called it the blue bomber, Sheila remembered) was a thing of ugly metal grace that only a true car buff could love. He'd joked that he'd make a lot of money if he just put a new engine or a better transmission or new tires on it. Sheila had smiled. "Or you could just shoot it and put it out of its misery," she'd laughed and Dominic had turned the water hose on her, soaking her down to her shorts.
Sheila makes some tea and cradles the warm cup in her hands. The cup is chipped and cracked in some places, something she should have thrown out long ago, but can't. It was the first thing they unpacked as they moved into housing as newlyweds and Sheila can't bear to let even that cracked, worn cup go. It's chipped in places but it's survived the moves from base to base to base and so, Sheila thinks, has she.
She glances at the clock. Wednesday morning, 2am.
--//--
Wednesday Morning, 2am
Sheila does things at odd times now that Dominic is gone. Some nights she can't sleep and it's just a lot easier, and safer too, to click on the TV instead of popping a sleeping pill and trying to ignore the clock on his side of the bed.
Dominic's been gone for six months, three weeks and as of Wednesday morning at 2am, four days. He has another five months to survive before he can come home, something she very carefully doesn't think about. If she counted the exact days and weeks, she might never stop asking if she'll ever see him come through that door. He'd enlisted the day after 9/11 and she'd married him a month later. Now he was gone again and she had their boy David to take care of.
David was six now and long ago stopped asking when Daddy was coming home. Dominic had been gone much of his short life and he knew that Daddy would come home when the Daddy came home. Anything else, he didn't ask about...and Sheila kept the news off the TV when he was around. Sometimes she thinks that's more for her benefit than David's. After all, if there was anything to know, Dominic would tell her. Or the Army would.
And Sheila had his letters. They always closed with the line, "You haven't sold my car yet, have you?" It was their own private joke---Dominic's blue car (he called it the blue bomber, Sheila remembered) was a thing of ugly metal grace that only a true car buff could love. He'd joked that he'd make a lot of money if he just put a new engine or a better transmission or new tires on it. Sheila had smiled. "Or you could just shoot it and put it out of its misery," she'd laughed and Dominic had turned the water hose on her, soaking her down to her shorts.
Sheila makes some tea and cradles the warm cup in her hands. The cup is chipped and cracked in some places, something she should have thrown out long ago, but can't. It was the first thing they unpacked as they moved into housing as newlyweds and Sheila can't bear to let even that cracked, worn cup go. It's chipped in places but it's survived the moves from base to base to base and so, Sheila thinks, has she.
She glances at the clock. Wednesday morning, 2am.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Welcome to Brighid's Musings
Welcome, all. This is my blog for creative writing and related musings. Sit back, have some tea, and relax a while.
Blessings,
Krista
Blessings,
Krista
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