Town Square Writers Group →

Nice article, by Amy Maginnis-Honey, in today's Daily Republic Newspaper about a recent Vacaville Town Square Writers Group meeting my dad and I attended.  It was our first meeting and we had a great time.  Come join us!  

As the article states, the group meets from 1 to 3 p.m. Wednesday at the Town Square Library, 1 Town Square Place, Vacaville. For more information, email Lucke at bylucke@aol.com.  

Oh . . . in case you were wondering, my quote was a little off.  What I was trying to convey was that, "I've never hated [vs loved] a book for longer than a day".  Meaning I eventually find at least one positive thing I can say about any book!

Mind Ramblings

This is a random free write taken from my writing journal from October 15, 2013.

"You must be out of your mind, writing a story like that," he declared fiercely. The other young man looked sideways at him and grinned. "So you found me out, then."

The first young man, a tall, impressing figure with flaming red hair did not appear in the slightest amused.

"You are a fool, Jim," he muttered bitterly, half under his breath, "You will lose everything."

The second man, only slightly shorter than the first, with dark brown hair and eyes the color of a hurricane, only chuckled. "Not everything, David. Not everything." The hurricane-eyed youth turned from his cynical red-headed partner and walked to the window. The bubbled and warped glass panes of the ancient building distorted the scene of the bustling street below. The two-story brick building stood at the corner of one of the busiest streets in Chicago. Cars with blaring horns shuffled their way around the building, while a tired thread of pedestrians weaved its way up and down the narrow sidewalks.

David stared at his enigmatic companion in unabashed disgust. Jim had an eerie way of freezing almost perfectly into a statuesque form when he was concentrating, wild grey eyes studying the scene before him. David had always hated those eyes: they could dissect you almost completely in a matter of seconds. Jim's brown suit jacket was unbuttoned and pushed back so that his hands could more comfortably rest in the pockets of his matching brown suit pants. Jim never took off his suit jacket. David's own grey suit jacket rested over the back of the wooden swivel chair at his desk, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, tie hanging in a loose condition about the neck. The longer David watched Jim, the more agitated he grew. Finally, David demanded rather savagely, "What in the name of all that is good and holy do you mean by that?"

Jim's head swiveled to look at the furious redhead in surprise. He smiled at David slowly. "Not the important things, David. You never lose the most important things."

Jim had never seen David in such a state. "What are you talking about?" David exclaimed angrily, "You'll lose your job, your house, car . . . to say nothing of your dream. What of being that great reporter you always wanted to be?"

Jim held in a laugh. David was such an excitable— and distastefully obvious man. David abstained, for some unknown reason, from even trying to conceal his jealousy.

Jim shook his head. "No, I wanted to be a good reporter."

"That's the same thing."

Jim cocked his head as he studied David. "You fail to understand the significant difference between great and good. I wanted to be a good reporter— a good man. Honest, trustworthy. Leave greatness to President Roosevelt. I wanted the world to finally get truth after so many trillions of lies. And now, they have it— a tinsey little part of it, but it's one step closer to liberation. Ignorance is slavery, David. I wanted to free people from that hopeless bondage." Jim opened his mouth to speak again, but stopped short, thinking better of it. David never understood these things. Jim looked down in defeat, shaking his head, then raised his head again to stare David straight in the eyes. "I want to make a difference."

"Well you've done that," David conceded bitterly, glaring, "This is all they'll talk about for months."

Jim smiled crookedly and let out a short exhale, like an attempt at a laugh.

"That's what you wanted, isn't it?" David realized. Jim said nothing, turning back to the window, the crooked grin still pestering its way into his facial features.

Challenge of the Day (For Susie)

Write a short excerpt that begins: "Once upon a time, Susie was my best friend."

Once upon a time, Susie was my best friend. She was kind and caring, and always made me laugh. One day, we decided to go on an adventure.

"C'mon!" Susie called, already halfway across the lawn.

"Coming," I replied, slinging my purple backpack full of supplies over my shoulder as I ran to catch up. We crossed the front yard of my house and strode down the sidewalk, carefully to avoid the cracks. At the end of the street, there was an empty lot and behind it, the beginning of the forest. We'd played there often together, making up games of cowboys-and-indians, or else orphaned prairie girls, but we always allowed the forest a wide berth, as we'd been instructed all our lives; no good came to those who entered that forest. But today was different. Today, we would plunge into that dangerous temptation: adventure.

"Water bottles?" Susie asked.

"Check."

"Flashlight, compass?"

"Check, check."

"Candy bars, Reese's?"

"Check!"

All our necessary gear accounted for, we turned together to stare into the depths of the woods. Were we ready for this?

"Ready as we'll ever be," Susie decided, reading my mind. Grasping hands, we stepped forward, holding our breath, and passed through the trees. It was dark in the forest, darker than I'd expected. I waited for my eyes to adjust to the lack of light, then let out my breath slowly.

It was beautiful.

Green vines wound and twirled up ancient tree trunks. The tree giants, weathered and wise, stood like Greek columns holding up the forest roof. Wildflowers danced around the forest floor, a carpet of delicate celebration. Light was scarce, but here and there, thin streams of gold shot through the dense ceiling of leaves and branches to light up the secret beauty of the world below.

"We. . . we did it," Susie breathed. All the children of Royalville fantasized about the treasures that might be hidden in the recesses of those woods, since they had first learned of their being forbidden to enter it. But we had done it. Finally, we were here.

"It's perfect."

D-Day 70th Anniversary

I would like to share my "Remembrance at Normandy" poem today in honor of the 70th Anniversary of D-Day.  Please re-post and forward so others can be reminded of the sacrifices of those who have served.

Challenge of the Day

Water blurred the pavement. Clouds blurred the sky. Condensation blurred the car windowpanes. Fatigue blurred my thoughts. It was only four o’clock in the afternoon but it felt like midnight. Four o’clock . . . that meant it had been—hmm, let’s see . . . five hours on the road so far. Or wait—this should be Eastern Time, now, not Pacific Time. Three hour time difference. So that would make it two hours? No, that couldn't be right. . . I groaned internally, and decided I should start my own system of time. By Megan Standard Time, we had officially been on the road Way Too Long. And we still weren’t even to Boston yet. This was going to be a long drive.

Even if I had wanted to move, it still would have felt like the world’s longest car ride. Funny how things always take longer when you hate them. I tried not to hate moving. Wasn’t easy, though. It was just much too easy a thing to hate. The hassle, the frustration, the good-byes. The more we moved, the less we seemed to own—as if Cynthia was preparing to move on to the next place right when we got there, and subconsciously refrained from obtaining new things we would only have to pack up. So it wasn’t so much the packing and unpacking that I hated. It was the good-byes. There are only so many good-byes a human being is programmed to handle. After reaching that threshold, you can’t make any more. So you stop making friends that you know you will one day have to say good-bye to. And that makes a person lonely.

Especially a twelve-year-old person with one living relative: a very probably actually insane Aunt Cynthia.

You couldn’t tell it just by looking at her. She looked about as boringly normal as you can get: short brown hair, going grey and dull brown eyes with contact lenses stuck in them. She talked little and sometimes stared blankly ahead for hours on end. She never appeared to have a job, yet we always had food on the table and a roof over her heads. Sometimes I pretended the explanation for this was that she was secretly an out-of-control criminal robber, just to make her more interesting. That wasn’t a very convincing explanation though, because she never seemed even remotely suspicious or crafty, and besides which, she was afraid of everyone but me.

Sometimes I wondered which of us was doing the raising: me or her. Cynthia had adopted me when I was four, after my parents and grandmother where killed in a car crash. But sometimes it felt like I was the one who was meant to raise her. I was the one who did the errands. Every place it is essential for a successfully balanced and healthy American citizen to go— grocery store, post office, bank, you name it—Cynthia was afraid of. Cynthia cooked, did the housework, and drove, and that seemed to be the extent of her capabilities. When a soapy plate slipped and shattered on the floor, accidentally cutting her toe, she shrieked and would not stop crying until I ran and got Band-Aids from the bathroom and cleaned off the blood. Even then, I was the one who had to sweep up the broken plate and finish washing the dishes, while Cynthia went to bed.

Perhaps I should be grateful that Cynthia demonstrated such generosity and caring by adopting me. But one cannot help feeling at least a little bitter when one has had to look after one’s supposed caretaker for the majority of one’s scrambled and lonely existence on this planet Earth.

“Megan,” Cynthia said abruptly, startling me out of the disgruntled wanderings of my thoughts.

“Yes?”

“Where is Boston?”

I looked sideways at her from the passenger seat. “Massachusetts. Why?”

“We’re in Colorado.”

“So keep driving.”

And we did. But we never got to Boston. I didn't know if I was more relieved or infuriated. Cynthia hadn't known Boston was on the other side of the United States. Even if she had, it wouldn't have mattered. We ran out of gas halfway through Kansas. And money. As if my life couldn't get any worse. Now stuck in Kansas with no money and no way out, we sat and stared out at the rain together.