Monday, February 27, 2017

Tuesday Tales Coming Up for Air

Ahoy Fellow Fathomers! It's time for Tuesday Tales.



A group of writers gather together and give our interpretation of a specific word prompt each week. Once per month, we even write to an image.  You never know what you might encounter when you get inside our minds. This week our group writes to the word- air.  This will be an excerpt from my new WIP for a new romance contemporary, What the Storm Didn't Take.

Enjoy!~



Mom’s cookies, Conner’s unwavering loyalty, our friends’ devotion, Garrett’s memorial…that did it. I finally started to cry. Excusing myself quickly for the truck, I needed privacy. The present was a heavy place to be in, the memories- both good and bad were incredibly suffocating.

It’s been a year, it doesn’t seem possible. You’ve been gone a year, and I’m carrying this grief around like a fifty pound sack of feed. It’s heavy, so heavy, but, I can’t put it down. I haven’t gotten where I need to be.

Why does it feel like such a burden? Nothing about you should be a burden. You were my husband, we have a family. I wish I could shake this hefty sorrow, but, it just won’t let me be. I gulped trying to take in some air.

Mom knocked on the truck window. I sat inside, letting the vents blast me with relief.

“Are you okay, honey?” She asked as I rolled down the window.

“I’m fine, just a little overwhelmed.”

Mom surveyed the work we’d accomplished. The orchard was looking awesome. “You’ve got so much support, Rachel. Everyone loves you so much and wants to be there for you. I’m glad you aren’t mad I asked some of our friends to help.”

“When will I stop being sad?” I felt like a little kid again, asking when the hurt would go away. Mom was supposed to know all the answers. Now, I was a mom and it terrified me that I didn’t know it all yet.
 
Please visit us at our main site for more interpretations of air  Tuesday Tales Main Page

Monday, February 13, 2017

Tuesday Tales...Ahh, it's Valentine's Day- Are you in the mood for love?


Ahoy Fellow Fathomers! It's time for Tuesday Tales.



A group of writers gather together and give our interpretation of a specific word prompt each week. Once per month, we even write to an image.  You never know what you might encounter when you get inside our minds. This week our group writes to the word- love.  This will be an excerpt from my new WIP for a new romance contemporary, What the Storm Didn't Take.

Enjoy!~













When I was younger, I couldn’t wait to fall in love. Love as I saw in the movies or on TV, you know a devilish, yet compassionate rogue who couldn’t get enough of me. His soft side always glistening in wait just below a steel surface exterior. To most folks he’d appear as a warrior, or maybe a scoundrel biker, gritty, his heart lined with sandpaper.
I’d know the truth.
That was my husband, the hopeless romantic who made me believe men were kind and compassionate, as well as rugged and protective. He brought my imagination to life in wonderful, astounding ways. When we argued, it was passionate and determined, before we stopped to practice empathy, attempting to see the other’s side. You see, we respected each other enough to know we had strong intelligence and even differing opinions had some common ground from which we could understand each other. We grew as human beings because of our differences and our many talks under the midnight moon, or the warming sun. I became a better person because of him. How often do folks say that? How often do we credit the ones instrumental in our lives? We can’t selfishly believe it’s all us on our own merits. We have folks who shape us, force us to take the leaps which become bounds of amazing miles.
My husband did that for me.
My husband is gone. He died and I don’t know who will be that coach for me now. I feel so lost. I’m afraid I’m stunted and will never recover and what will that mean for my son?



Please visit us at our main site for more interpretations of love  Tuesday Tales Main Page
 


 

 

Monday, February 6, 2017

Tuesday Tales and Heavy Metal


Ahoy Fellow Fathomers! It's time for Tuesday Tales.



A group of writers gather together and give our interpretation of a specific word prompt each week. Once per month, we even write to an image.  You never know what you might encounter when you get inside our minds. This week our group writes to the word- metal.  This will be an excerpt from my new WIP for a new romance contemporary, What the Storm Didn't Take.

Enjoy!~









“Did you ever wish your heart was made of metal?” The feeling of cold steel in the center of my chest remained a gloomy reminder of the loneliness and emptiness. Hollow, like the center of an oil drum, my heartbeat even echoed sadness. Thump, thump…pause thump… there, it started again. Maybe my heart would stop.


Maybe I should stop thinking that way. Fuck all these maybes.


“You mean like the tin man in Oz?”


Seriously, did she not remember the tin man had no heart? He was the lucky one. “No, the tin man needed a heart, big difference. He should’ve been grateful.” Why does anyone need a heart? I’ve learned the heart leads to more pain than happiness. I’m not sure I’d ever be at peace again.


“I was trying to envision a comparison, I’m sorry. No matter what I do, nothing ever helps you. Honestly, I don’t know what to say that won’t upset you.” Her face flushed, her eyes welled with tears bubbling her normally calm expression.


I felt like an asshole. “I’m sorry, mom, I’m being ugly. I just don’t know what to do with all…this” I waved my hands around my body, trying to exacerbate my crumbling wholeness. I’m sure it was visible to anyone, it had to be.


“I don’t know either, sweetheart. I’m your mom and should fix your pains, all your scrapes and bruises. I can’t tell you how much it hurts that I can’t make you feel better.”


My attention abruptly shifted from my broken heart to my mom’s. Empathy became a cruel assignment in humanity. I took on not only my heartbreak, but, my mom’s heartbreak too. She crumpled like a dandelion in my hot, tightly squeezed hand. How many times had I given her dandelions? Skipping across the yard in the spring, the grass under my toes, those bright yellow weeds disguised as flowers seemed a perfect gift from a six year old to my mom.  I never noticed how short they lasted from the time I picked them, until I gave them to her. Suddenly, the act of picking wildflowers and weeds became a cruel and unnecessary punishment to both human and earth.
Please visit us at our main site for more interpretations of metal  Tuesday Tales Main Page