One prompt, five people.
After teaching creative writing for 25 years, it still amazes me how a group of writers can take an idea and beautifully run with it in such different directions.
Susan Donnelly
The People of the Other
Village
They hand out sweet
smelling lilacs in January;
dance exotic sambas,
pressing their bare feet
into drifted snow,
leaving prints
that look like the face
of God –
or at least the face of
some non-judgmental god
who smiles gently at
everyone –
the beggar, the thief,
the lost and the found.
Dawn breaks a little
earlier in the land of Them;
it illuminates hills and
plains;
golden dustings of faith
gather in gutters
and near the corners of
widely opened eyes.
There is always some
reason to rise –
a rainbow, a hungry
neighbor,
a mewing calico kitten,
a day like any other day,
dishes to wash in warm
water,
bills to pay, floors to
sweep, footsteps to follow.
These people of the
other village quilt blankets
from scraps of worn work
shirts, fabric softened
by sweat and washing and
love -
the stitches are tiny
heartbeats. No one is too old
for a comforter pieced
by caring hands.
These people of the
other village, they know
not
“special." All is now. All is here.
These people of the
other village live inside us.
They are the mirror of
our better selves.
Susan Donnelly, a retired teacher, writes poems, walks her dog, paddles her red canoe, grows tomatoes, and breathes deeply; all practical skills in the autumn of one's life. She lives in Portland with her husband and labradoodle, Cocoluna.
*
Linda Ann Fraser
White Rabbit Bookstore
Small coffee/tea bookstore
Quiet, like a library
Bookcases line walls
and are placed at angles
among shelves of gifts
and journals.
A café in the front.
The soft clink of cups on saucers
as some come for breakfast.
A young man's fingers lightly
click on a laptop keyboard
as he drinks black coffee
while working on his project.
Some older ladies eat sticky
pastry and drink their tea while
quietly discussing their latest
poetry find.
A woman chooses some books
and is heard saying as
she leaves, “Preppy Snobs”
as she runs out
banging the door shut.
Linda Ann Fraser
Feuds
The Hatfields and McCoys
The Irish and the English
How do these feuds begin?
If you read history, it is usually
someone wanting to grasp more
than his share.
Property, horses, pigs, land,
could be anything.
Yet, like Romeo and Juliet,
you find not just bloody conflict
but juicy love stories.
A couple who sees beyond the
petty grievances of old debts
and short-sighted anger.
The lovers look up at the
moon and embrace.
The moon looks down on them
and all with equanimity.
Linda Ann Fraser’s interest in poetry and writing began as a high school senior in Ellensburg, Washington. Early marriage and raising three girls took a toll on writing but creativity thrived as she sewed for her daughters. After the girls grew up, sewing merged into cloth art dolls and drawing. She thought the dolls needed stories. When grandchildren wanted family stories, she found Linda Ferguson’s writing class.
*
Hariana Chilstrom
The Other Humans
The other humans
Those big people
upstairs
Those people who shouted
and slammed doors
who seemed, at such
times,
to forget we existed—
We the four offspring
We the basement dwellers
We the trouble makers--
since that was all we
seemed to be—
since their complaints
and castigations were constant
since we hardly knew
them otherwise—
We, in defense
We in defiance
We in desperation
Became whisperers
Became liars
Became sneaks
who created what we
could
from creatures falling
into basement rooms
from leftover party
drinks and food untended
from chocolates and cold
cream and turpentine.
And the house we shared
became a battlefield
of our evasions to their
volleys of anger:
Where the hell have you been?
Why did you embarrass us like that?
What makes you think you’re so smart?
And our bedrooms
became bomb shelters,
muffling shouts beneath pillows and blanket forts
became hidey-holes,
stashing food against the night’s locked kitchen door
became secret shelters,
hiding fallen creatures and precious things prone to theft.
And we learned
that only big people
were allowed anger and
blame
were allowed to take
what they wanted
were allowed to breach
boundaries most parents respected.
And we, in defense,
created secret worlds
And we, in defiance,
tore down their secrets
And we, in desperation,
began to tell our secrets.
Hariana Chilstrom is a science educator and visual artist
who is passionate about pollinators and other (mostly spineless) creatures. She
has written for the Pacific Horticulture Journal, several natural history
associations, and the Seattle Aquarium. Many of her current creative
non-fiction pieces have been spawned by experiences on city buses.
*
Ron Smith
I Loved to Learn
Freedom, Early
improv,
Zoom, 1/21/2023
The eight-a.m. buzzer buzzed, we scrambled for our desks,
All lined up in rows, east to west.
Of grade-school I recall blackboards and erasers,
And our liberty-loving teacher, 'Sadie' Kaser.
She hadn't carried a gun, or fought overseas,
But Miss Kaser, pedagogue of grade-three,
Hated Communism, dictators and tyranny.
"They are enslaved, but we are free,"
Declared 'Sadie' Kaser, pedagogue of grade-three.
She opened a small red book upon her desk,
Then quizzed us what we'd eaten, and if we'd gotten rest.
"What did you have for breakfast?" she asked Candace
Sutter.
"Why, teacher, I had waffles, hot-cakes, syrup, and
butter."
"Ah, Candace," said Miss Kaser, "such a mistake,
You should have had fruit juice and corn flakes."
Now, soon, maybe by ten, you'll be drowsy,
With attention wandering, and penmanship
lousy."
She placed a mark against Candace, in the red book,
And resumed her interrogation with a sour look.
"What time last night did you retire?" she asked a boy
named Ken.
"You know, Dad's a nightly preacher, so I was up until
ten."
Said 'Sadie' with a frown, "You're Up Too Late!"
And gave Ken a demerit, with decision, with haste.
"Now, people, let's go watch a film in another room,
Line up single file, no talking, or gum chewed.
They are enslaved, but we are free,"
Declared 'Sadie' Kaser, pedagogue of grade-three.
RGS
Ron
Smith has
been playing drums and been in bands for as long as he can remember. His
attempts at songwriting led to prose. He loves reading fiction, history and
biography and specializes in writing short fiction. His favorite book is Thomas
Mann's Buddenbrooks. He shares a Woodstock cottage with numerous
musical instruments and hundreds of books, vinyl records, and CDs.
*
Linda Ferguson
Dancing with Myself
They
are dressed in skirts
– purple skirts –
how strange!
How can they work?
Or do they?
Maybe they have servants –
or slaves!
Here, we wear pants
in sensible earth shades.
We chop and haul. We plant
seeds and grow new trees. We
think of everything.
And how do those other
people spend their days?
Dancing, of all things!
See how their skirts
twirl about their knees.
Not at all like me, who
gets the muck shoveled
and the porridge bubbling
while they go like this:
Forward, forward, round and round, hands up, cupping clouds,
sway, sway, sway.
Very pretty
pretty easy
easy enough
for me to try
and still have time
to toss the slops
sweep the floor
shake the rugs –
but
first, a bit of color
might be nice –
not purple (purple
is too much) –
but a little blue
could be alright
(if no one here sees?)
I could wrap
some cloth around my hips
like this, and then take a step
and another –
oh –
swish, swish –
my skirt is a bird
with wings dipped
in exotic ink
Is this how the other people feel?
Hush, hush,
perish the thought!
Everyone knows
they are nothing
like us, and your
porridge on the stove
is about to burn.
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