Velvet Verbosity

I couldn’t have said it better myself. In fact, I’ve never been able to articulate this as eloquently.

With love,

The thing about “irrational” fears is that THEY COULD HAPPEN, so they’re not totally irrational, right? So, when I fear that I’m going to fall over dead, without warning, from a brain clot and I won’t get to say good-bye to my children or clean my house and burn my journals before I die, that’s not irrational, right? RIGHT?

C’mon, I know you got more. Spill ‘em.

With love,

Good day Internet. I’m writing today from my favorite local cafe. A vegan sweet spot with orange walls, giant windows, a clanging open kitchen, and friendly people. I made myself comfortable in my favorite red corduroy lounge chair with ottoman. It’s hard to describe, but it is comfy as hell. A couple of (approaching) elderly women were sitting at a table nearby when they noticed me settling in. One smiled and said, “Wow, that looks comfortable!” I smiled back, “it is”.

Then we were suddenly connected for a moment, falling into the roles of grandmothers and a young(ish) woman. They asked me if I would like them to get me anything before they left, “a sandwich or something?”. I laughed. “No thanks”, and then sank deeper into the red corduroy, letting the sun warm my smiling face.

This week, Sleep Deprivation Ninja wins the favorite spot for the 100 word writing prompt and challenge, “Faster”. His whole writing style absolutely captured the increasing speed of our culture. Witness his mastery:

The neon-synth populous drinks elixir made from rainforest frog saliva. It carries our fantasies to fruition upon the lamp-lit phosphorescence we call dreams, visions, sacred moments of inhibition. We dance to the music of the modern mystic, the digital shaman, broadcast bright, symphonies of light, binary beeps and photon pulses. Tune in, zone out, dig it. It’s all abstractions and mental mischief, merging our ideas into syncopated steps. Adrenaline pumping, skin touching, blood rushing, it all blends in and bleeds out faster and more furious until finally it crashes into a frenzied crescendo and POP.

We have become a singularity.

Crazy stuff. Be sure to check out these other great submissions!

• Sassy Mama Bear
• The Night Blogger
• Melissaz
• Patsy
• Christa from Sweden (a newbie, be sure to give a warm welcome with comments!)
• LouCeel
• Ash
• Secret Agent Mama
• MommyCosm
• Lost in the Bozone (another newcomer!)

This week’s word comes from the name of this swank little cafe:

Evolution

With love,

Sometimes I fear falling down a flight of stairs…even when I’m not near any stairs.

What about you?

With love,

I pull up at the gas station, cell-phone glued to my ear.  My mother is on the other end and we are talking about “family”.  Not our family, the general family, the sense of family.  In front of me, as though a collective hologram of the idea of family, is a road family.  They stand around a motorcycle sporting a double-seater side car complete with cover.  They tow a trailer of belongings behind them.  The father wears his long black receding hair in a ponytail and a silver feather earring in his left ear.  It reminds that I’ve never known the guy’s rule for which side the earring goes on.  He also wears black jeans, a black leather jacket, black boots, and a black stoop in his shoulders.  Some weight has ridden him there.

Mother is wide and wise, sitting on the curb eating Triscuits and spray-can cheese.  She wears a blue bandana over her blond, braided hair.  Their two girls hover around the motorcycle, clad in overalls and sporting teeth too large for their faces.  The look is complimented by eyes magnified by glasses.

I wonder where they are going.

Yesterday morning I woke up and, I am so not kidding you, my power was out, my car was dead, my laptop was dead, and my brand new iphone was giving me an error message that it needed repair. Is this some kind of message that I should just go back to camp?

Anyway, this week I’m picking a favorite. That’s right. I’ve just upped the ante round here. This week’s Velvet Verbosity 100 Words Favorite is Sandy’s piece over at Momisodes. I’m partial to it because I’ve stood in those very same shoes. The destination was different, the place was different, but the mental and emotional experience just the same. I think you’ll agree, it’s also a perfectly balanced piece of writing.

Over 3,000 miles away, the plane descended upon dry, hilly terrain. She swiftly maneuvered her 3 suitcases through the congested arteries of the terminal; everyone scattering off to some adventure. Naivety sped the pace of her feet towards an exit, nearly as quickly as her thoughts. Anxiety. Fear. Determination. All fought for attention in her frontal cortex. No car. No map. Not a friend within three time zones. This was not part of the itinerary. Yet this was precisely what she needed. Just 3 bags and a seed of fortitude, ready to grow and flourish in a fresh new world.

There were, as always, some really interesting pieces submitted. It’s not easy picking a favorite! Here are the links to all the other Fresh 100 word pieces. Hope you all get a chance to check out these other writings. Well worth it.

• Sleep Deprivation Ninja
  
• Sassy Mama Bear Writes
• Susan at West of Mars
• The Night Blogger
• Melissa at Taking What is Left
• LouCeel
• Secret Agent Mama
• Patsy (Ramblings from “While You’re Up”)
• Mommycosm

Now, for the next challenge. After having all my electronic/mechanical devices fail in one fell swoop, I was reminded of how much we depend on these tools to live the modern lifestyle that requires so much multi-tasking and organization and speed. It made me think of that book by James Gleick. The title:

Faster

With love,

Two, no THREE posts in one day. Internet, don’t be overwhelmed. Surely I can’t keep up at this pace. I just wanted to get caught up and after 300 hours twenty minutes moderating spam comments for after-school porn, viagra, and cialis, I felt the sudden need to do something that would restore my faith that the internet is not populated solely by lonely, desperate white guys that ain’t got no “fly”. What better way than to get cracking on the Pillar post?

In preparation for my new plan to start choosing my favorites to post in full, I’m going to start off this post with my favorite newcomer of the week. Maybe I’m biased because he’s a Ninja, and everyone knows ninjas are cool. Maybe it’s because he has the coolest header on his 100 Word Challenge. Or maybe it’s because he’s self-proclaimed “sleep-deprived”, and while I no longer have small children, I have teenagers and dude? that’s worse. I’m just sayin. They NEVER sleep. Anyway, welcome to Sleep Deprivation Ninja and his giddily creative endeavor.

Shooting from column to row, clad in the absence of light, I leap and crawl through the fortress of the Infinite. The reason is a mystery even to me. But I must continue down the never ending corridor of pillars, further into the darkness. The only indication of progress is the decaying light from whence I came. Soon, every direction looks the same and soon, like the light vanishing behind the vast colonnade, my mind becomes dark and uncertain. Now, in a moment of vertigo, I know my purpose. Squatting in utter darkness, lacking direction, I meditate in peace.

Oh man, you see? This is why I keep this blog and slog through comment spam. Thanks Sassy Mama Bear. I hope this is a story about your man and not just a fairy tale.

Pillars of the Heart
He stood proudly
Waiting for her
A long aisle
Keeping them apart.

How he loved her
How beautiful she was
How wonderful he felt
Knowing she would be his.

The music started, his heart fluttered
A tear glistened on her cheek
As a smile touched her lips
She stepped closer.

She looked down the aisle
Grasping her father’s hand
He had always been her support
Soon that would change.

The man waiting for her
Looking so strong
Had won her heart
Was now to take her hand.

He would be the
Hero of her heart
The rock beneath her,
Forevermore.

~ Penelope Anne Bartotto
July 25, 2008

Another recent return from a camp with hundreds of kids. Susan, ain’t it just grand? And hey, you’d probably be surprised to know that at a Buddhist family camp, we raise flags and do drill too. Our drill song? “I don’t know but it’s been said, setting sun is made-o-lead. I don’t know it’s been told, Shambhala sun is made-o-gold. Sound off, Ki ki so so, Ki Ki…SO SO.” The kids love it.

Sixteen flagpoles stand outside the dining hall in two rows: three and thirteen. Five hundred campers gather by the thirteen, hustling to get there first and earn the honors. The other three, they’re for the staff. Full uniform. Attention, marching, parade rest. Ceremony. You know the drill.

Those flagpoles aren’t merely for flags. They’re the first ceremony for many of the Scouts, and the gathering spot used by all. While not in the center of camp, they are its centerpiece, the pillar from which all else spins out. Find those flagpoles, and you have found your way back to camp.

Speaking of family….thanks Lceel. You’re a gem.

We have built this thing over many years. It started small. And slowly things were added to it, building it up and making it stronger and tougher. Things we enjoyed together. First dates and long walks and babies and holding hands and total devotion. The Big Red Boat and New Smyrna and Jamaica and England. Together. And things we have survived. A stillborn baby and accidents and heart problems and lost jobs and lost friends. All of these things, and more, go into what we have built. This tower of strength, the pillar this family is built on, this ‘us’.

Lessa, I don’t know what it is, but I can’t C&P from your site. The following has been transferred by hand, so if you find a mistake, take it up with management. Nice piece.

Her hand slid over marble, exploring with sensitive fingertips. There had to be something, some minute imperfection that even sight - had she any - would miss. It was there, some roughness from the rub of the chain, some tiny crack in the perfection of the pillar - she would find it.

There. There it is. So small that no one would ever notice, as those with sight are often the first to pass over such imperfections, and miss them completely. It is there she will concentrate, and that tiny little crack will lead to freedom.

She is patient.

She will prevail.

It’s amazing the power some of you pack into 100 words. Whew Angelgal.

He hurried home after an intense village meeting. Pulling his collar up against the cold, he saw the shivering old lady lying in her spot on the corner. He thought back to the talk at the men’s retreat about getting back more than you imagined when you give. He stuck his hand in his pocket and dropped the coins he found in her cup. When she heard the jingle, she opened her eyes.

“How far the great do fall,” she whispered, her eyes glistening.

He fell to his knees, placed a hand on her shoulder, and wept with her.

“Mother.”

Ha! Brilliant Wandering Author. (By the way, there are good reasons to actually click through to the original posts as there are often anecdotes, explanations, and other added fare that I don’t include here.)

The Pillar

Gawen sweated and struggled, setting each segment in place, but finally the pillar stood, alone in barren sand. By day he lived in the hidden chamber of a cave nearby. The pillar served as he’d planned, a spot travelers could find again. Some hoped to avoid tax collectors, others didn’t like bringing all their cash into the city. By night, Gawen crept out to dig it up. In three years he had enough to buy Morgan’s freedom, pay their passage to Albion, and secure their future.

The archaeologist scratched his head. “Who put this here, and why?” He never learned.

I know all too well the “Bridezillas” Melissa speaks of here. My mother is a florist, and my brother a wedding photographer. I hear the stories. I’m just wondering why I never got a Divorce Cake?

“Wasn’t she a picky one? She was a Bridezilla if there ever was one.”

“Amen to that. ‘I don’t want to see a pillar out of place on the cake’ Good grief.”

“What is it lately with these brides? So many of them today spend more time planning the wedding than the marriage.”

“I’ll bet you that she doesn’t put half as much effort into the marriage as she has for the wedding. We’ll be seein’ her here for one of those ‘Divorce Cakes’ in three years.”

“You’ll have no takers on that one, Marie. I don’t take sucker bets.”

In a sudden turn, JM at Fiction Scribe veers away from Mr. Frank Talbert and offers us, instead, a fictional glimpse into history. (P.S. thanks for trying to help me out with Mr. Linky JM.)

Athena reached up and caressed the marble pillars, beautiful, cold, silent witnesses to a time long past. They had stood so proud and tall then, when they represented the beauty of current design instead of remnants of history. But even then they had been cold. Watching their fellow pillars fall under the violence and malice of those who could never truly understand the world.

With sigh and a final gentle caress, she left them – resisting the urge for a more intimate gesture.

But alas, her brothers and sisters were waiting for her. More relics, pillars, of an age long gone.

Aww Sandy, great post on Pillar. I think it’s why many blog. Oh, and she apologized for posting late. (blink blink) Does she not know who she’s dealing with here?

A domain. Just one minuscule place in the vast World Wide Web. Nothing fancy, mainly words and photographs, all weaving an intricate tapestry modeling my thoughts. Some sections are delicate, too fragile to fully unfold. Some bound beautifully, creating vivid, brilliant memories. Others tangled, a mess, and loyal friends often gather to offer words of support. Some days the process feels too weighty to continue. But mostly it has become a stress ball rolling out tension, an indiscriminant ear always listening, a blank canvas awaiting strokes of creativity. This blog is one vital pillar sustaining the heaviness of my sanity.

Another exceptional piece from the Night Blogger. Get out! You are so not a high school student. At least not in this universe. Nope, too smart.

Soft, slow, icy as snow, it falls to the ground like a kiss.

Green, vibrant, lush, it springs from the earth with defiance.

Sparkling, clear, undulating, it whispers so loudly in silence.

Grey, gloomy, morose, it cradles the Earth in a humid embrace.

Grand, stately, towering above, it rules with a splinter and leaf.

Shaken, fallen, brown, it lies on cold concrete and dies.

Tall, marble, solid, this pillar, a symbol of eternity’s end.

Orange, golden, yellow like stars, it rains a million puddles of light.

 

Quiet, so quiet, alone in the world, it sits with a shiver and weeps.

 

My newly faithful Ash…you have to appreciate this guy’s writing and open heart.

Like tendrils of mist, erasing, forgiving, her voice curled around the pillars of the courtyard and filled the spaces in between. It was careful and gentle, neither tentative nor demanding. He could feel it seeping into the chinks in his defenses, loosening stones and threatening to topple his carefully built walls. That frightened him more than anything. He wasn’t sure he was ready for a love that threatened his defenses.

“SHUT UP!”

But she continued unfazed, unabated, as if to say, “I love you too much to give up.” He sank to his knees, weeping for he knew not what.

Mr. Lady is one smart, funny dudette who I am proud to include in my list of participants. When she wants to turn her hand from snark to serious writing, she does so seemingly effortlessly.

Torn from her home, forced to flee, she gathers her strength and runs forward towards her future. She presses on through the dark night, blind, led only by faith in what is possible. She is told to forget, to forgive, to move on. Yet, the harder she runs forward, the more she finds that she must stop and look behind her for a moment. The only way she can see where she’s going is to remember where she came from.

The only way we go forward is to, on occasion, look back. And no one’s turned to salt just yet.

Oh man, I think too many wives know too many husbands sorta just like this one. (Not I, Rodius, his CHARACTER!) Damn internet.

He’s a stand-up guy, a pillar of his community. He’s a professional. He always replaces the divots at business meetings. He shakes hands with his pastor Sunday mornings. He wears pressed polos and khakis to the grocery store Sunday afternoons. He wears brightly colored lycra jerseys when he rides his bike. He prefers ones with Italian words silk-screened. He tells people how they wick away moisture. But sometimes, just sometimes, in the dead of the night, in the quiet glow of a flat-screen monitor, he burns with desire and shame, watching strange, hungry, male tongues lick strange, nyloned, female toes.

Don’t forget, the next challenge is

Fresh

Post ‘em here.

With love,

With love,

Evening Internet. As I was rudely interrupted by the closing of the cafe I was in the other evening, I’m back to finish posting the Treasures 100 Word submissions. (If this is your first time visiting, please see http://velvetverbosity.com/100-words/ for information about the 100 Word Challenge.)

Another victim newbie to the VV 100 Word Challenge…welcome Melissa! A cute piece that makes me think of a pink-cheeked, mischievous grandmother. Just the kind I plan to be.

I walked into the room, and placed the box my grandmother had asked me to bring on the table.

“Sit, sit.” She said.

I did. She was quite good at building the suspense here. The box gave no clue as to what could be inside. I could have sneaked a peek, but that would have been rude. If she had something she wanted to share with me, I could be patient.

“The greatest treasures I have are in this box. Shall we have a look?”

And as she opened up the box, a look of pure joy crossed her face.

Dear Ash first posted a piece about his sweetheart, but something crashed behind the scenes and he came back with this new entry. Two virtual chocolate bars for Ash!

He slammed the gate shut with all of his strength. The clang reverberated in the empty space, echoes seeming to gain strength as if the cold, stone walls amplified them. He held his hands to his ears to keep them out. He felt like he wanted to cry. He only wanted to protect himself – was that so wrong? “Fool,” the stones seemed to cry out. “You only protect yourself from love!” Silence. Interminable emptiness. Could this be true? He dared to begin to hope. In the quiet of that hope her voice began, o treasured voice, to sing a lullaby.

Secret Agent Mama is going to be stalked by a Secret Assassin Mama if she doesn’t stop being so talented! Just kidding, I love you SAM, and you know it.

Sometimes we search for them,
As if they were buried deep,
Out of reach.

Sometimes we wish for them,
As if they were helplessly lost,
Beyond our reach.

Sometimes we call out for them,
As if we are urging them back,
Well within our reach.

These gems we seek,
These prizes we desire,
These desires we warrant,
They are all attainable.

In a smile; a photograph.
In a song; a melody.
In a kind word; an endearment.
In the world; a stockpile

We just need to look.
We just need not to look.
That’s when we will find them.
T R E A S U R E S

Ok, here’s the plan until I have time to futz with Mr. Linky. Since the number of submissions just keeps growing and growing, I can no longer post every piece in full here. Starting with this week’s challenge, Fresh, I’m going to choose 1-3 of my favorites and post only those in full, with links to the rest of you.

Back later with the posting on Pillar!

With love,

I give up…for now, on Mr. Linky. I haven’t the time to fuss with it, even though that time will save me tons of time in the future. Sigh. Just when I think I’ve attained some level of technical acumen, some simple program comes along and boggles my brain.

So now I’m just going to crank out and catch up. Two weeks ago the challenge was Treasures. What a powerfully packed word that is! Let’s see what my readers conjured up.

I’m beginning to think we may be witnessing the unfolding of a major writing talent in Night Blogger.

Oppression. It bears down, making fine trembles run up bare flesh in virulent waves of heat. Blankets lay heavy as she lies alone.

She’d been wrong.

It was a joke. Share a bed, leave with a number in the hope of future one-night stands.

Then the offer.

Before, she was a slave to menial family life. Now–she’s a worker with ambitions. A different mask for every day.

To escape becoming her mother, only to end up powerful but ultimately alone. To throw away the love she’d been offered only to realize in the end there is no greater treasure.

From one writer to the next, a common theme is shared. Family, love, love of family as a treasure. It makes you wonder why it is still a question in anyone’s mind. Here is Renee Daniel’s moving contribution.

The woman gently blows dust from the book as her daughter watched in quiet anticipation. They snuggled onto the couch and she slowly opened the cover, pointing to the first picture. “This is your Grandma.” The little girl sighs with awe “She was so pretty Mama.” The woman smiles pointing to the next “And that’s your Grandpa.” The little girl giggles. “He has hair!” They move through the book, each page a tribute to the long happy life. The little girl stands admiring the other binders lining the shelf. “Are these more treasures?” The mother nodded, tears in her eyes.

I’m so tickled to have Sandy from Momisodes joining us.  With this piece she challenges us to guess…Fact or Fiction.  Head over there to tell her what you think.

Every day she carries them with her. Intricate details of him covered in a fine layer of dust. Familiarities in a passing stranger begin to tug gently. Uncovering the slight nuances time had obscured.

A heavy, left-handed snap of his finger to a tune; a quick side-glance while holding back a crooked smile; brilliant half moons at the base of bitten nails.

Stunned. The moments catch her off guard. Each memory flickers, stealing a breath. Her plexus slow as her mind struggles for clarity. She remembers. All the secret treasures they shared. Safe. Where no one else can find them.

In the world of blogging there’s a first time for everything.   Lessa, who joined by following JM here, posted a fun piece but her blog didn’t allow me to cut and paste!  So here’s the link: http://snippets.gonfalon.org/?p=12   If you haven’t visited her already, please do!

JM at Fiction Scribe takes us further into the character of Frank Talbert with this piece.

Frank Talbert didn’t have much to live for. He’d lost his dog to his ex-wife, his ex-wife to the solicitor for her mother’s estate, his house to the solicitor, and his three fish died two months ago of natural causes.

He contemplated this as he rode the train home and ended up nearly missing his stop. Hurrying out the door, he crashed into a woman who had stopped just outside to look in her purse.

“Sorry! I, uh, let me help… I - ”

She smiled at him, dusting herself off, and then held out her hand. “Hi, I’m Treasure.”

I actually just recently met a woman named Treasure myself.  Really.   The Wandering Author gave my heart a squeeze with this one, particularly since my own precious kitty, who I thought was better started coughing alarmingly again tonight.  It really scares me because we really really don’t have the money to bring her to the vet.  Wonderful warm sentient beings cats are.  Thanks Wandering Author for reminding us.

Treasures

Stacked banknotes,
Stock certificates,
Bonds.
Paper reminders,
Promises easily broken.
Elusive, illusory wealth.

Finely-wrought gold,
Diamonds blazing purest fire,
Carven jewels,
Rubies, emeralds, sapphires.
Ivory graved in darkest ink.
Oddly stamped coins,
Heaps of silver,
Mounds of gold.
Ancient statues,
Clay vessels
Shaped by artisans long dead.
Bits of rare jade.
Solid, enticing.
Treasure.

Words,
Scribed, printed
Engrossed.
Meaning traced
On paper or parchment,
Bound, captured,
Shelved, available.
Storehouse beyond measure
Brimming,
Wisdom, imagination, thought.
Priceless heritage.

Curled shapes,
Furry flanks,
Whiskered muzzles,
Wide bright eyes
Glowing mischief, love.
Velvet paws,
Purring breaths,
Living cats.
More precious than everything.

Allison, a relatively new face around here, is having a lot of fun with the 100 Word Challenge.  Great!  Because that’s what this is about.  Here’s her piece.  It reminds me of a story I heard on This American Life (gawd I love Ira Glass and his almost annoying voice.).

Sitting quietly, she surveys everything she owns. The top of the box on her lap nearly falls off in her hand. She gingerly removes and sorts the box’s contents—these pictures here, those letters there. Of days gone past, only sepia pictures and yellowed papers are left. Some slip by unnoticed, mingling with the leaves when blown by the wind. In turn, a smile and a frown move across her streaked face. Finally, she holds two pictures and two envelopes from the bottom to her heart—her real treasures. Her body silently shakes as she curls under a tattered quilt.

Susan…oh Susan.  Hehe.

Every time I try to write something for this week’s prompt, what I wind up with is too long. This is leading to the pleasant swelling of scenes I intend to post on this blog, treasures saved up for a day when inspiration runs low. But it’s also leading to the unpleasant problem of not having anything worthwhile this week. Since I took last week off, I really want to be able to play along this week, especially since I’ll be out of town for the next two weeks, which will make playing hard, as I’ll have no Net access…

I love love this one by Lceel.

How is it you should measure a man?
Do you measure him by his job? By the money he makes?
Do you measure him by his standing in society?
Or do you measure him by the things he has accumulated?
The trophy heads on the wall? The horsepower of his car?
Or is it maybe the cleft of his chin, the steeliness of his gaze?
Do you measure him by the length of his belt or the lack of hair on his head?
There’s a way to measure a man that won’t prove false.
Measure him by what he treasures.

Oh crud.  The cafe I’m at is closing.  Back tomorrow with the rest of the entries.   And, to get your gears-a-grinding, this week’s word is

Fresh 

It’s from the cafe menu.

With love,  VV.