Six Sentences

There's this blog I adore aptly called Six Sentences, which asks "What can you say in six sentences? That's it, that's the only rule. Say what you want; it must be six sentences long. Here's one from me:

A Man in a Bar

I fought the urge to punch him. I wanted to forget the rules, and just whack this man. I wanted to punch his face. His ruddy, fat-cheeked, pock-marked face that for the past hour whined incessantly about how much he wanted to just start over. He hated his childhood, his father, his broke down Cutlass, his wife who left ten years ago with their three-legged greyhound puppy and his inability to hold a job. I hated him.

Story twist

I love the young minds in my house. Megan, 8 and Jordan, 9 are creative and uninhibited with their writing, letting their words flow without pause. Writer's block is not in their vernacular. They both write songs and stories that always impress me. Tonight we decided to write a short story together. We each took turns penning two to three sentences. The story took on a life of its own with each voice and at times the voices were struggling to be heard first or loudest. It was freeing to just let them dictate without trying to control the story's direction. It was a nice opportunity to write strictly for fun with two of my fav peeps! Enjoy!

Skylar's Pigs
By Jordan, Megan and Cheryl

Skylar woke slowly stretching her long skinny legs as far down the bed as she could. She wiggled her toes in the cool part of the sheets and smiled, suddenly realizing that today was the day. 

Skylar jumped up excited, rushed to the window pushing back her white fluffy curtains and peered down to the pig sty below. She knew that today was the day she got more pigs on her farm. She made her bed quickly, grabbed her blue robe with pink polka dots and ran down the stairs to her older brother’s room and pounded on the door shouting, “Today’s the day! Today’s the day! Wake up Matt!”

Skylar loved living on a farm. She loved the smells, she loved the sounds but most of all she loved the pigs. And today her favorite pig, Lucy, was having her babies. To have little piglets on the farm again made Skylar want to jump for joy.

She was also really excited to get her very own piglet. Skylar thought baby pigs were so cute. She loved their cute little snouts and their curly silky tails. 

Then all of a sudden she heard a loud knock on the front door. She ran to the door, slung it open hoping it was her parents. Standing before her however, was her best friend, Amber. Friends since they were three, their six-year friendship had its fair share of highs and lows. 

Amber hated everything about farm life. She never understood why Skylar was so obsessed with those gross little pigs. All Amber wanted was for Skylar to grab her swimsuit and join her at the community pool. But Skylar was in a pig frenzy!

“I’ll go to that stupid pool when pigs fly!” said Skylar. 

“You really love pigs, don’t you?” said Amber, rolling her eyes. “Why don’t you just forget about those little piglets. After all, I am your best friend.” 

Skylar looked at her long and hard. Then she said in a shrill voice, “I will never forget about those little piglets! They are the cutest things in the world!” Then she shut the door, breathed a deep sigh of frustration,  spun on her heels and walked with determination to her brother’s door once again.

This time she didn’t even bother to knock. Matt was splayed out across his bed, his large feet hanging off the edge and his head buried beneath his pillow. The room smelled of dirty socks and too much cologne. Skylar loved her brother but couldn’t understand why he was such a mess. She decided it must be a teenager thing. 

She grabbed a hold of his feet and pulled as hard as she could but couldn’t budge him. So she jumped on the bed until he woke up. Matt woke up startled and threw his pillow at his annoying little sister. He got up knowing if he didn’t his sister would just keep on bugging him.

After being butted out of her brother’s room, Skylar walked to the kitchen and found a note on the fridge. The note said:

Dear Skylar and Matt,

We will be gone for a little while. But we will be back at 10 a.m. Before we get home, eat breakfast, make your bed, get dressed and brush your teeth. 

Love,

Mom and Dad

Skylar looked at the time. It was already 9:45 a.m. so she went to the fridge got some milk, went to the cupboard, got some cereal, a bowl and spoon and quickly made her breakfast. 

Shoveling in the Frosted Flakes as fast as she could she then ran back up the stairs still chewing her last bite. It wasn’t even 10 a.m. yet and she felt like she’d run three races. All of this running around and excitement was making her sweat. She threw off her robe and nightgown and hopped into her jeans and threw on a T-shirt. In her bathroom she managed to brush her teeth and hair simultaneously. She made it back downstairs just as the clock chimed 10 a.m.

Her parents were right on time. They all went out to the pig sty where Lucy was pacing around her piglets. There were 5 baby pigs there. They were all cuddled together. They almost looked like a donut.

They were so cute, Skylar didn’t know which one she wanted. When she looked over she saw her brother, his black hoodie covering most of his face. When she looked to her other side her dad looked a bit cross because he was sad he wasn’t there to see the babies being born. But her mother was crying tears of joy and smiling a big fat smile.

This was one of the happiest moments of Skylar’s life. How wonderful she thought to live on a farm and get to raise pigs.

The End

autobiographical self-deprecation

self-deprecation: Disparagement or undervaluation of oneself and one's abilities


I had lunch with a dear friend today. We delved deep into our psyches, diagnosed our problems, discussed Hemingway, mountain climbing and the importance of whipped cream, while simultaneously taking pictures of my three-year-old and making sure her precious Dora episodes never ran out on my iPhone. . . multi-tasking at its best.

At one point our conversation turned to me and my writing. I have, as of the past week, committed myself to writing again- to exercising the severely atrophied creative muscles in my head, heart and soul. The crux of the conversation was how much a writer should borrow from themselves, their experiences, their relationships, their feelings, their life for the fictional narratives they pen. His argument was that he would find a story borrowing heavily from my own life pretty darn fascinating. My argument was that nobody really is interested in someone else's life. We all find our lives way more engrossing then we think our friends, much less perfect strangers, ever would.

I am 33, I have two children, a failed marriage, some stories to tell that may pique your interest for about 10 pages. But to devote an entire story arc to my life would be mundane at best. As an example, and on a much simpler platform, I cringe when I update my Facebook status knowing that my "I actually made it to the gym today" or "I love peanut butter" proclamations are never pondered for more time than it takes to read the words, if they are even read at all.

Our society on a whole is quite obsessed with putting it all out there for other people to digest, however. Is it because we want people to know we are really living? If we refrain from Tweeting, posting, blogging, emailing, uploading the photos to prove we were there then are we really living? Or worse, will others think we are boring?

I will confess my need for validation. I started this blog to write, to produce something and call it my own. My deep, dark secret though is that I hope to be read. Not for notoriety... for connection. And I believe that to be important since all of us are participating in our relationships largely from in front of a computer screen or cell phone-- reading emails, texting, and scouring profiles on social networking sites. Our connection with each other is so heavily dependent on the written word... I want mine to be read because in essence my words are me.

From Nothing we can create Everything

Merriam-Webster defines 

NOTHING as:  not any thing : no thing 

and

EVERYTHING as: all that exists

We must start from nothing to achieve everything. Everything is always there. Nothing only exists when we empty ourselves of the labels and loosen that strangling grip we allow our past to have on us.

If we say we are guilty then innocence is not possible.

If we say we are stupid then intelligence is not possible.

If we say we are a liar then honesty is not possible.

I say everything is possible because I am nothing...

"From within or from behind, a light shines through us upon things and makes us aware that we are nothing, but the light is all."
-- Ralph Waldo Emerson

"I used to believe that anything was better than nothing. Now I know that sometimes nothing is better."
-- Glenda Jackson

and the originator of these thoughts in my mind tonight is the author of the following quote: 

"One creates from nothing. If you try to create from something you're just changing something. So in order to create something you first have to be able to create nothing."
-- Werner Erhard

Goodnight! I must now find the nothing behind my eyelids... so sleepy...

CW

There's a word for that

Uxorious: Extremely submissive to one's wife. 

I am in awe first of all that there is even a word for this concept. Not to say I will opine about it... I am just marveling at its acuity. There is actually this 4-syllabled word for our use, to neatly wrap up the fact that some man out there will do anything for his wife at her command.

And there's more...

Check out this link to other interesting words that may be just what you are looking for when you need to talk about someone's well-toned buttocks, or your fear of the color purple...Interesting Words