Tag Archives: true love

fat duck flying

I Hope

I hope you never die.
I hope no one ever has to lose you
With the exception of me.
I hope the sky is always blue
For you
(Unless you like gray).
(In which case I hope it’s gray).
I hope your kids grow up in a garden with a pond.
Yes.
A duck pond.
But the ducks will not migrate
Because I know you’ll overfeed them
And they will be too fat to fly.
I hope you have lots of them.
(Children, not ducks).
(Well, ok, ducks also).
(But especially children).
They will make you laugh
And you can explain things to them-
The way things really are-
Not the way people like me would have them believe.
Tell them unicorns aren’t real.
Tell them cats don’t know how to type or read.
Explain to them the laws of Physics
At an early age so they can not fit in at school.
Don’t give them a false sense of pride.
They find out sooner or later.
We all do;
When it’s too late to go back and change where we’re going
Because we didn’t know who we were.
But you are different.
That’s why I hope you never
Have to
Go away.
That is, with the exception of,
From me.

fat duck flying

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lawn chairs and yellow rose

Flatulence, Free Writes and the Porpoise of Life

Recently I was visiting a couple of friends at their house when the husband farted.
“Did you just fart?” asked his wife.
“Yes. That’s what people do.”
“I love you so much!” his wife exclaimed.
OK. That is really not the reaction my husband would get from me.

But lately I’ve been going to groups I find on meetup.com and one of them is a free write group, coordinated by Amy Robinson.
About twelve of us meet at a coffeehouse or book store and she gives us writing prompts.
I don’t spend time with any of them outside of the group, but writing with someone connects you to them in a different way.
It is as if you are letting them into your house, your personal space, but a space you will never be able to move out of.
When we share our writing with someone, we are opening the doors to our souls.
“Come in! Come in! This is what I think. This is who I really am. Critique me. Love me. Drink up my feelings and feast on my opinions.”
Especially free writes. I mean, all of that’s unedited.

At the group, when someone reads a piece, the others give positive feedback.
The prompt last Saturday was to write about something that is a big deal to one person but no one else cares.
Well I improvised a story about a girl who thinks she wants to kill herself because the guy who used to stalk her no longer goes to the place where they once met.
After I read it, a long awkward silence ensued. Finally I said, “OK…”
A couple people were nice enough to hurriedly come up with positive comments but they were just being polite.

So when we write a lot, some of our writing can be “farts” so to speak.
I’m not saying my story was. I personally found it to be very funny. Like an inside joke that only I got.
But I’m sure now and then I’ve blogged stupid things.
I just think if someone can read you that way, if they can overstay their visit and never want to leave… maybe the girl in my story wouldn’t kill herself.
Maybe writing’s enough of a reason to keep on living.

Coming North by Ave Valencia

Coming North

This is the story of a girl who fell in love.
Hard.

Everything she ever wanted in a person, she found in one man- without even looking.

He was serious, responsible, witty, knowledgable, respected, hard-working, just, good-looking and an heir to profit- everything she wasn’t.

They had things in common: chess and Casablanca, theater and church, even vegetarianism. But ultimately it was their goals that brought them together.

They married between purple mountains and a turquoise mediterranean sea on a warm summer morning and moved to a far-off deserted castle the very next day.

Together they worked the harsh rebellious soil til it gave fruit. Date and plum blossoms began to bloom everywhere sunlight fell. The birds returned. They sang for her.

The years passed and they had not had children. This was irrelevant to her but one day a mid-wife checked the now-woman’s belly and told her she was barren. The woman was only momentarily disturbed, for she lived in a placid bubble of serenity. She had a calico, a German Shepherd and a lamb named Noah.

But her husband had no such bubble.

One day a horse-cart rode up on the side of the road and a traveler gave the man a letter. The man read it every day by the fireplace for six months before finally telling his wife that his grandmother was ill. They must move back to tend to her.

“Why can’t she move here with us?” asked the woman. “After all, she is from around here. I bet the country air would do her good.”

The man’s countenance had grown cold and rigid over the last six months, only she barely now noticed it.
“We are going back.”

The woman cried but silently now for she perceived her opinion made no difference.

When they arrived at Grandmother’s house, the woman tried to get along with everyone but she did not feel she was really a part of that family. Having no land to sow, she took to studying, but books can be an expensive hobby. Grandmother quickly regained her health and started boarding all sorts of young single men to help with the rent. But she continued to split her family’s cost of living with her favorite grandson.

The woman knew not what to do. On the one hand, she had no money. She managed to get a relatively “normal” job where she quickly learned to delegate her tasks to her handsome co-workers. But she did not have peace.
She no longer knew her husband. He seized to live for her.

Then came a pleasant surprise, for it turned out the woman was carrying twins.
She kept the pregnancy to herself, afraid her husband would take it the wrong way. But of course eventually the twins were born. They were two tanned baby girls with brightly colored eyes, bearing much resemblance to her. Only they both had tails.

“What is it that you have done, Wife? These cannot be mine!” exclaimed the husband.
“Oh but they are! Believe me! No one else’s could they be!”
This argument went on for years and years during which time the girls grew beautiful and intelligent while their parents (for the husband was, in fact, the biological father) grew further and further apart. At one point the man stopped believing in love altogether- not moral love, for this story isn’t about conventional love, but affectionate love.

The woman was lonely and by way of turning down various real suitors, she began to have conversations with imaginary ones.

“How was your day today Honey?”
“Again? Don’t waste your thoughts on that.”
“You are with me now.”
“You are right, we should go there In the summer, but I bet it’s more fun in the winter.”

At first her daughters didn’t notice. When they would hear her she would pretend to be singing. But eventually one said to the other, “Who is mom talking to?”
And the other replied, “To herself.”

From then on they grew anxious around her and encouraged her to stay inside, afraid she would embarrass them. They were a lot closer to their father by then.

So the woman took to writing and every time she picked up a pen and paper, this is how she’d end:
“I use you. I cannot see without you. You are my North.”

No one ever read what she wrote and upon her death- for she died of sadness- her letters were cremated along with her body. But somewhere in the world there is a soul who will live a happy, productive life because she evoked a final prayer for him on her deathbed:
“…He was my north.”

Coincidentally for WordPress Daily Prompt: Unconventional Love

Oreo Cookie Header by Ave Valencia

Oreo Count

One Oreo cookie

To make the pain diminish.

Two Oreo cookies

To make it nearly finish.

Three Oreo cookies

To make it disappear.

Four Oreo cookies

To make believe you’re here.

Five Oreo cookies

Six-Seven-Eight-Nine-

Ten Oreo cookies

Forever-ever mine.

Oreo Cookie Header by Ave Valencia

Beloved Cookie Header

Oh Beloved Cookie

Oh Beloved Cookie,

This cannot go on.
For you see, I belong to another-
And I am but a pawn
At the mercy of someone else’s game.
Oh Beloved Cookie,
-’tis a shame!

And yet, here I lay
Dunking you in my milk
One last time
As I nibble away.
Pretty crumbs-
I am sorry.
It is I who should
Crumble to pieces,
Not you.
My Beloved Cookie…
Your love
Was better than Reese’s.

Beloved Cookie by Ave Valencia

Cupcakes Drawing

Cupcakes Cupcakes

Cupcakes, cupcakes everywhere.

Cupcackes, cupcakes in my hair.

Cupcake nuts and cupcake batter-

Cupcakes raw and cupcakes-fatter-

I love cupcakes and I know

Cupcakes love me from the dough.

Cupcakes Drawing