the would-be writers guild » Writers

Sinking Sunsetsby feature writer, Hello Sky

Tiffany — Tue, 18 Apr 2006 20:41:20 +0000

Sunsets sink so slowly – but in an instant they’re gone. And what once blinded, yet held spellbound, my eyes now rest gently behind the jagged mountains, illuminating the silhouette of yet another horizon. Leaving, long after it is gone, florescent residue on the tips of the clouds … ever changing the sky the deeper it falls.

So it seems are the times, and things, of my life. Heartache lasts for eternity, but in a moment – tears are dry. Even the exuberance and delight of never-ending ecstasy ultimately wane. The last petal eventually falls from even the loveliest and enduring of blooms. The fullness of high tide always ebbs. And in time, a cocoon tucked tight for what seems too many seasons, will one day open and unfold the beauty of flight.

What makes me stay and watch and wait?

I stay – because I know the cocoon will open, and the sun will sink, and fallen tears will dry.

I watch – because I know I’ll be left with a new horizon filled with the richness and color only light can bring.

I wait – because I know that the farther it flies, or sinks, or falls, the more clearly beautiful the sky becomes.

Original poetry by feature writer, Lindy Lou

Tiffany — Mon, 10 Apr 2006 17:56:35 +0000

It’s Right There

Going through old photos

An old Kodak yellow folder,

Photo-sized.

We were at Big Bear Lake

In the San Bernardino Mtns.

My sister and me

Standing by the old family car

Fiddling with something

Not facing each other,

Must have been told,

“Look over here.”

But we weren’t looking,

Intent instead on whatever it was

In our hands.

That’s not the point.

The point is, we look so

……ordinary.

Two ordinary kids.

How could it be?

We weren’t even very cute.

We didn’t look all that intelligent.

Just standing there in our

Plaid flannel shirts over tee shirts

And our jeans

Fiddling with something.

Who could ever know by looking

We were so alive.

Rainbows and storm clouds,

Fantasy and fear,

Longings and anger,

Dreams and disappointments,

All inside us,

Bursting inside us

There was so much more

To being us.

I am looking at us for the first time.

Just two ordinary kids.

I never knew we were so

Ordinary.

Because Easter is drawing near by feature writer, Lindy Lou

Tiffany — Wed, 05 Apr 2006 04:21:34 +0000

Wednesday morning was clear and somewhat cooler than the preceding days of August. I fixed a big breakfast to sustain our two sons who were leaving for Island Park to spend their last few vacation days with friends. I was careful not to wake Leon until breakfast was on the table. He stayed home from the shop to attend his aunt’s funeral, and after months of sleep depravation, sleeping in was a welcome benefit. By the time we left home, we were cutting it close.
We found a parking space by the sidewalk and hurried around to the front door of the mortuary, hoping to make it to the viewing before the doors closed for the family prayer. Aunt Lillian, Leon’s mother’s sister, had passed away on Monday at age 92. That leaves only Aunt LaFaun, who must be nearing 90, the one remaining sibling in a family of 6 girls and 2 boys. These are good women. We have had more contact with Aunt Lillian than any of the other aunts on his mother’s side, and we had mentioned several times in the last two or three weeks that we should visit her. Then last week we had word that she was at Draper Rehab on 1300 East and about 10600 South. She was comatose for about 2 weeks before she died.
Leon’s niece, Jennifer Park is also on 1300 East at Health South, going through rehabilitation therapy after a brain aneurysm caused bleeding in the left side of her brain. We had all been together for the 4^th of July. We had visited with her and taken pictures of her and our daughter April, who is about nine months younger.   Jennifer was very pregnant. She gave birth the next day to a healthy baby girl. Four days later, on July 9^th, she collapsed while nursing her baby and the world as she had known it for the past 32 years was forever changed.
We left a church social a little after eight last Saturday night. We drove past our subdivision, up 7800 South toward 1300 East. “Are we going to visit Jennifer or Aunt Lillian?” I asked. “I’m not sure. I’m just heading in the right direction for both,” he said. “If we visit Jennifer, let’s just stay for 10 minutes and then we can see them both,” I suggested. There was a new deck of cards on the seat between us, still wrapped in cellophane. Last time we visited Jennifer, Leon asked if she would like to play a game of cards and she seemed interested. Because of an infection in her tracheotomy we had to wear masks, gowns and gloves on that visit, so he bought a new deck of cards to minimize the risk of introducing any new germs. “It’s too late to start a game of cards,” I said, as he turned into the parking lot of Health South. “Besides, we aren’t going to stay long enough.” We left the cards on the seat.
Jennifer brightened when she saw us. We understood why when we realized she was using her voice for the first time since her trauma. The trach was healed and no gowns were required. It was hard to understand what she was saying, but we caught a few phrases. She responded to us with gestures, expressions, and occasionally with words. Before we knew it an hour had passed. Too late to visit Aunt Lillian.
As we walked through the mortuary doors this Wednesday morning, we were relieved to see the family still gathered in the room across the foyer where Aunt Lillian was most certainly watching over her remains. It was a rather noisy gathering.   Mostly Aunt Lillian’s posterity. As her son Jay said later during the service, this was a celebration of her life, not a sad occasion. She had lived a full life, had been faithful to her covenants, and left a family that was following her example and raising their children to do the same.
Her only daughter, Eva Jean, sang Aunt Lillian’s favorite song, “I Walked Today Where Jesus Walked.” As she sang those words, I noticed again the handicapped girl that I had noticed her earlier at the viewing. She was probably around 12 to 14 years old. She was now sitting across the aisle and in front of us in the mortuary chapel.. She obviously felt close to Aunt Lillian, who would have been her great-grandmother, and she would be one of 36 great-grandchildren. She was deaf and spastic. She was animated in her responses and her comments, which were not understandable to those who were not acquainted with her. I saw a family resemblance in her father, though I had never met him. I saw something else in him as well. While the lyrics to Aunt Lillian’s favorite song were being sung, he traded places with her mother on the bench, to take his turn signing and controlling this precious daughter’s behavior as best he could. He put his arm around her and held her for as long as she allowed. He looked into her eyes and signed answers to her questions. He firmly signed his displeasure with her outbursts, but never left her side; nor did he take her out. I thought to myself, here is someone who “walks today where Jesus walks”.
In truth, Aunt Lillian didn’t need a visit Saturday night, I decide, nearly as much as Jennifer did. Maybe she could even see the end of her journey, and the beginning of what lay beyond. Jennifer wakes each morning not knowing the length or even the destination of her journey here; only the need to take the next step. How very alone she must feel when the lights are turned down at night. To walk with Jennifer, or with the great-granddaughter of Aunt Lillian, or with anyone who needs us, I decide, is to walk where He walks.   I send my love silently through the space between us to great-granddaughter and her parents. “I walked today where Jesus walked, and felt His presence near.” Eva Jean sings the last line of the song and I silently say an amen.

Video Games for Women by feature writer, Anita Goodman

Tiffany — Tue, 21 Mar 2006 17:01:41 +0000

I decided that too many video games are aimed toward boys and men. They spend countless hours eliminating their aggressions with a keyboard or game control paddle (I was going to say “joystick” but I know that there are some of you with dirty minds who would totally misunderstand what I was trying to say.) Well I’ve decided I need to make my own video game. This one is just for women. It will be called *PMS Avenger *. The hero will of course be a woman. However, this won’t be no “Laura Croft Tom Raider” chick in some kind of stretchy-black-lycra-lingerie outfit. (How the #@!! is she even supposed to fight bad-guys with a wedgie all the time?) You can choose from one of the following 3 characters:
Break-Out Brenda – She sports some cute jeans, layered T-shirts, and THE cutest boots that she bought today just because she felt like it. Unfortunately, she also sports huge red welts on her chin–a gift from the freakin’ hormone fairy that she has tried to unsuccessfully cover with institutional-strength foundation.
Pudgy-Pooch Patricia — Patty, who normally wears a healthy size 14 pair of pants, is seen in the game wearing size 24 sweat pants and a pullover hoodie that says in bright white letters, “Hand over the Chocolate and No One Gets Hurt.” Her cute strawberry blonde hair that normally caresses her sun-kissed face is pulled back in a ponytail.
Gritchy Gretta — 21 days out of every month Gretta is gracious and gregarious. But when that special feeling comes upon her on day 22 she doesn’t feel quite herself. She wears her stretch-jeans with the top button undone and a baggy T-shirt to accomodate her now size 48-D boobs (which are only 36-B the other days of the month).
The object of the game will be to gather as much chocolate as possible without being swallowed by your stretch pants. You will have to pass through many challenges–each level being more difficult. Some of the challenges will be:
“Men-Who-For-Some-Strange-Reason-Can’t-Keep-Their-Yappers-Shut” Level The nice smiling evil male character that you will encounter will try to break you by tossing out phrases such as, “Oh, is it that time of the month again?” You will have to defat the beast by throwing witty phrases at them such as, “That has nothing to do with you being a jerk.” You defeat the level when the male character hands over the bag of Doritos he’s hiding.
“Forget Diamonds, Advil is a Girl’s Best Friend” Level In this level you have to go to all the drugstores and gather Advil before it’s sold out. Be careful–if you don’t hurry and get it in time your character rolls up into a little ball in the corner of the living room and whimpers softly.
“Give me the Freakin’ French Fries” Level This is a treacherous level where your character has to get to the end of the level without busting out of her clothes. Every turn she makes she will be met by Ice Cream, Potato Chips, French Fries, Pretzels, and maybe even a Salt-Lick. She’ll have to use her PMS-Avenger gun and hollow-point bullets to blast her way out before the seams on her stretch pants bust-out at the thighs.
So–my sweet sister–is there a market for this game? Any suggestions?–send ‘em quick. I think I’ll work on it tonight as I lie around like Shamoo the Whale, sipping my Diet Coke and popping back Ibuprofen like candy and licking the wrappers of my potato chip bag.

Important warning? by feature writer, Lindy Lou

Tiffany — Mon, 20 Mar 2006 17:29:48 +0000

TIME IS RUNNING OUT!!!!

That’s what it read. URGENT NOTICE! URGENT NOTICE!

Pretty ominious for a subscription renewal.

This is the best part:

To: Gift Giver

From: (get this) Vice President (name withheld)

Your gift subscription to National Geographic KIDS magazine will expire with the next issue. That means….(drum roll here, no wait, JAWS music is more appropriate)…. (Warning: the following content may be too intense for sensitive readers)

a: No more photos of crocs, cheetahs, and robots…

b: No more short takes on science, history, and humanity…

c: No more stimulating games, puzzles, and collector’s cards.

Don’t disappoint your young friends [don't miss the implication here]! …I can only promise that (magnanimous offer, which by the way, is the same offer as always) if you respond immediately. Act now!

Get a grip, Mr. VP, the check was in the mail yesterday! But even though I was aware that I had not lost my standing with my grandchildren, or with the broader populace (heaven forbid they ever hear how close we came to a stunted, ill-informed, under-stimulated posterity), my heart rate increased as I contemplated the full impact of my decision. No more crocs? It’s too much to dwell on. I must put it behind me and just be grateful for a new day, which I’m pretty certain will bring it’s own share of “croc” in the morning mail.

Original Poetry by feature writer, Frieda

Tiffany — Fri, 17 Mar 2006 16:42:08 +0000

Standing Under A Tree
born on 10/29/89

Standing under a tree,
the damp air of the park fills my lungs
with each breath,
making my chest
heavy.

The musty smell of the wet leaves
on the ground
causes my nose to
twitch.

As raindrops trickle down my face
tickling it,
I catch the glimpse
of an old womans
stare.

Sitting on a bench,
her wrinkled, leathery knuckles
are firmly gripped around
the handle of a tattered umbrella
tilted over
her.

Her stare waves
at my curiosity
and draws me
near.

The closer I come,
the once happy pigeons
dancing around her feet
scatter
warning others of my
arrival.

I peer into her
dark, sullen eyes,
they have no invitation for
me.

Slowly, I pick up my right
and place it on the ground
as my left instinctively follows
in the pattern
and I pass on by her,
now, with no
direction.

Original Poetry by feature writer, Shannyrannyrooner

Tiffany — Mon, 13 Mar 2006 22:18:04 +0000

One Day

One day, not so long ago,

I sat on an airplane

Waiting for it to taxi

To the runway

To take me away

For ten days.

I thought to myself–

No, I wished to myself–

Or maybe I secretly, selfishly

Prayed to God

That the plane would

Take me away

Forever.

That the crash would be quick

And do its job

By consuming us all

In a fiery grave.

My eyes filled:

A daily shower

To keep them clean.

A baptism

To purify them

Of this fantasy,

This sin.

And as they cleared,

As the holy water seeped into

The peanut napkin

Where the red and blue

Of the Delta name

Darkened,

My head cleared too.

For a moment.

Ten days would suffice.

On a Friday Night

I sit as his guest

On his couch

And listen as his grown children

Play.

These would-be vegans

Full of falafel and love and Daiquiri

Ice,

Playing a Mozart piece

And a spiderman video game

And a CD of a band who would

never dream of selling out.

I listen

Beside their father who

I have fallen in love with yet again.

He softly snores,

Then opens his eyes and says with a smile,

“This is my favorite part,”

As he points to the piano

Where his son plays with quiet confidence.

The spirit of this old house

Plays in my heart.

I drink it in

Yet take nothing as I leave

To sleep in my empty house

Where the empty beds of my own children remain unmade

As they sleep,

Full of probable pizza and root beer,

At their father’s.

Our lives divided.

I listen.

And I hear in my mind

My oldest child’s response

When asked by her teacher

The color of her parent’s car

“Blue,” she says.

She doesn’t say silver.

At 2

At 2:28 a.m.

On October 20, 2005

I ask my brain to turn off

To get some sleep

(my body needs some)

But instead it fills itself

With a poem

Or maybe an image

To which this overly active wide awake brain

Assigns words

Beautiful words

That need to be captured

An epiphany

In a couplet

That will change the world

(my world)

Once I write it down

But somewhere between my bed and the computer

(which is off)

It fades away

I try to hold on

To keep it in my brain

But all that remains now is

My pulse

Playing between my ears

Teasing me

Like the final spasm

After great sex

My poetry is out there

Floating around with other lost brain waves

For another to discover

For another to epiphanize

For another who keeps a pad of paper

And a pen beside her bed

Just in case her brain fills with a poem

Silent Night

Snow falls slowly

As the streetlight-orange glow

Finds a space

Between the conventional curtains–

To edge through

And share its dim tinted light

With me

And my new love–

Whom I have loved for months

Without seeing.

I see her now;

Her perfect profile at my breast

For the first time.

And in spite of my

Exhaustion,

Or perhaps because of it,

I am more awake than ever–

Keenly cognizant

Of my enhanced heart.

Some things in life

Are beyond description.

Even the best of poets

Are unqualified

To humanize some feelings

By giving them words.

This is my silent night.

These are my kept

Deep-down emotions–

Cherished for a few mid-night hours

After the agony,

The ecstasy

Of the emerging,

When our cord-connected bodies

Divided.

She is

No longer me,

But forever mine.

Original Poetry by feature writer, Lindy Lou

Tiffany — Fri, 10 Mar 2006 23:11:00 +0000

Terminal Marriage

My friend of 25 years is in crisis.

I’ve known there was trouble,

But they’ve been through it before.

Somehow it is worse this time.

Terminal Marriage

She’s tired of it. Who can blame her.

He’s full of himself–always has been.

But for a good little while we thought

We really thought he was growing up–

Growing out of himself.

Evidently we were wrong.

It makes me think about my mom’s death.

Am I going to hear soon that their marriage is over?

No going back? It isn’t going to get better?

Will it be that awful, bleak, finality, without another chance?

But to be terminally married and endure this suffering

With no end in sight; maybe that is worse.

My mom ended her life.

My friend is about to end her life as she has known it

For 34 years. At least I can cry with her

And hold her hand.

Stolen Identity

A second grade teacher asks for a raise of hands

Who believes they can run to the office with this note

And be back before I can count to 50?

All hands shoot up

A snicker is heard as Anthony whispers to Jon

A few eyes and then many turn toward Ali

She blushes as her chubby arm is lowered

Jeremy is immersed in his work

Head bent, hand and eye in perfect sync.

The form of a bear, standing on two legs emerges

Full of life and fury.

Satisfied, he places his drawing carefully in his folder

And then in his backpack for the next days deadline.

“Jeremy, I’m dissapointed in you,” his teacher said.

“You can’t expect me to believe that is your own work!

Try again.”

Hurrying against the coming light

Melissa smoothes the covers of her bed and straightens the pillows.

Her clothes were hung and put away before she fell asleep.

She dresses silently in her mother’s favorite of her outfits

In the dim light from the bathroom window

She brushes her hair and smoothes it with her small hand.

Silently she tip-toes to her mother’s bed and waits.

Quiet as she is, her mother wakes with a start.

Missy, what are you doing up so early?!

Get out of here and let me sleep! And change your clothes!

That’s too nice to wear on play day.

Why don’t you do something right for a change?

What are you thinking?

What are you thinking Ali?

What are you thinking Jeremy?

What are you thinking Melissa?

What are you thinking Anthony? Jon?

For crying out loud,

What are you thinking, teacher?

What are you thinking, mother?

For crying out loud,

What are you thinking?

For crying out loud.

Crying out loud.

Crying out

Loud.

My perfect kingdom by feature writer, The Bishop’s Wife

Tiffany — Thu, 09 Mar 2006 21:53:28 +0000

IF I were Queen, my kingdom would be tranquil, with trimmed green grass and shrubs, white picket fences, soft breezes that smell like floral bouquets, birds (not magpies) softly singing in the morning and children playing softly by themselves, servants waiting on my every whim . . . . . . WAIT a minute, I am the Queen of my kingdom and it’s nothing like this!

My kingdom is expanding at its boarders each year – not in its physical structure, but in the “court subjects” sense. The poor castle is in constant need of repairs due to the knights continually jousting down the hall ways and in the Queen’s court. Of course, the jesters don’t help much when they throw hard objects at the knights to gain their attention from time to time. The ladies of the court are continually plagued with a bad epidemic . . . . . PMS. There are periods of time when all the Ladies of the Court would do anything for their kindred, but then there are times when not even the Queen herself can tolerate the heat.

The King is loyal to the kingdom and the Queen; however, lately he has been on short weekly campaigns to a warmer climate south of our boarders. He brings home tales of his journey’s and experiences and talks about the people in the foreign land of California. He tells us about the wealth of this new land and the interesting experiences within a beautiful white castle. He tells the court he is tired of his travels and is ready to stay home in his own kingdom.

While my experiences of being Queen in my kingdom wasn’t exactly how I dreamed it would be when I was a young princess, there is very little I would change if I could. While the grass and bushes are not green but brown, my royal subjects are honorable and still love to visit the Queen’s court often. The small children, while they don’t always play softly by themselves, are more precious to the Queen and King than any worldly treasure. Thank goodness for my own kingdom and not anyone else’s.

Super Powers by feature writer, Anita Goodman

Tiffany — Tue, 07 Mar 2006 17:11:25 +0000

Since the time my 6 year-old nephew could talk and say the word “buzz”, he has been fascinated with superheroes. Buzz Lightyear was the first, followed by Batman, Spiderman, The Incredible Hulk, Batman again, Superman, and the one he made up called “Love Man” (which is my particular favorite.) Love man had his own costume that included a cape and apparently he could fly and was really nice and loved everyone.

One day as Love Man was flying back from a trip to the bathroom at my house had forgotten to zip his pants up. His dad, trying to teach his son the social graces casually in his most parental voice said, “I think Love Man should remember to keep his zipper up.” All the adults in the room burst out laughing much to the embarrassment of my straight-laced accountant brother-in-law and confusion of my nephew.

I asked Joseph this week if he could have any super powers in the world what they would be. Without hesitation, he said “cool ones”. I was looking for something a little more specific but he didn’t have time to elaborate because he immediately began flying around the room. He did one really big jump and insisted that he flew the whole length of the couch cushion. I decided that Joseph and I have a lot more in common than I thought. I realized, for instance, if I could have any super powers–it would be “cool ones” and the top of my list would be flying.

One of the earliest dreams I can remember was about flying. Soaring over the neighborhood and all it took was a running start. I still dream about flying. I never need any equipment–I just happen to be able to fly. Sometimes I simply raise up into the air, sometimes it takes a leap and then it’s mostly like swimming only not in water, and sometimes it’s more like little floating leaps like when you see the men walking on the moon.

When I was about 4 or 5 years old I dreamed of another super power. Well, it really wasn’t a super-hero but it was a super power none-the-less. I wanted to be a genie like Barbara Eden in I Dream of Jeanie. I had learned in primary that if I wanted something I should pray for it. We had family prayer and I said my prayers at night but I had never really prayed for something I really wanted. But THIS I really wanted. I felt nervous like Joseph going into a grove of trees trying to be full of faith. I went to the only secluded place I could think of–the bathroom. I closed the door and sat on the closed toilet seat. I folded my arms and closed my eyes and said in the most sincere voice, “Heavenly Father, please make me a genie.” Afterward, I opened my eyes, refolded my arms “Jeanie style”, blinked my eyes and nodded my head. Nothing happened–absolutely nothing. I must not have prayed hard enough. So I closed my eyes even tighter, folded my arms harder and prayed again asking Heavenly Father to make me a genie. Again I folded my arms stiffly “Jeanie style” and blinked and nodded my head. Nothing happened. I was not a Jeanie. My first praying outloud experience was a bust. I guess you can’t pray for super-powers.