Posted on

Wed’s Word and a little poetry: The Barista

Every Wednesday, on Writing Under Pressure, you’ll find a post based on Today’s Word (from Wordsmith.org). Past essays, poems, or flash fiction pieces can be found under Wednesday’s Word on the sidebar to the right.

Today’s word:

orison. noun. A prayer.

This week, the theme on Wordsmith.org is that there is no theme. Words rise from the pages of the dictionary at random. And, a word that means prayer could lead anywhere.

*****

The Barista

The alarm woke Lucy
From a sweet dream
Where she walked
On the beach,
Hand in hand,
With that handsome Barista
Who worked
At her favorite
Cafe.

His dark curls glistened in the sun.
She gazed into his eyes.
Her knees began to buckle.
He caught her
By the small of her back
And he smiled,
Not concerned
That she was older
By a decade, at least.

He leaned in for a kiss…

“Dear God,” Lucy sighed,
Then, she rolled out of bed.
“I’ve got to stop reading those books.”

In the mirror, she saw
Mostly hair.
A brown mass
All askew
And ready
To fight.
She brushed
And she teased
And she tried to tame.

“Jesus,” she said,
“I surrender, already”
And she raised her hands
To whatever!
Her hair
Had won.

She walked
To the corner
In quiet meditation.
Practicing
Her order
For the Barista.

Cafe latte, please.
Why yes, two percent.
You remembered,
How sweet.
My number?
Oh, Lord.
Of course.

In line for the counter,
Lucy studied the pastries.
Be subtle, she thought,
Don’t act desperate, she prayed.
But, she couldn’t
Forget
The dream.

The order began.
The latte,
The milk,
And then,
“Your card?”

He asked! she thought.
“My card,” she said.
So sly, this man.
Then, she paused
And fumbled,
And rifled
in her purse
For something
What was it?

“Your card,” he said.
“To punch,” he pointed
To the sign that promised
Free coffee to those
Who frequent
the shop.

“Dear God,” she sighed,
Her face bright red,
Her knees both weak.
“I have got to stop reading those books.”

*****

He’s missing the dark curls, but here’s the World’s Best Barista. Coffee, anyone?

[tweetmeme]

Posted on

Writing is Looking Back and Moving Forward

Goodbye summer.

This week, I return to my day job after a summer-long hiatus. I don’t like change, so even a slight shake-up of routine sent me straight to my journal the other day.

As I scribbled down all my anxieties, I realized that the entry I wrote was all too similar to the one I wrote in May – when my day job ended and my summer promised two kids at home – all day – and absolutely no routine. The list from May to August differed in a few details, but the big question remained the same: When will I find time to write?

One thing’s for sure, I’m a consistent worrier.

It’s the endless plight of any writer with a day job or a mother writer with kids. What I’ve found though – in looking back on the last few months – is that as much as I worry about not having time to write, I still end up with a stack of essays and stories in the end. Too bad those essays or stories have little to do with the “big one.” I’ve tucked my novel draft and notes under my arm and carried them from room to room with me all summer. They even traveled with me on vacations. But, I’ve pushed through only a few more pages of that draft.

Still, I’ve been writing, even when time was tight. And, that’s better than not writing at all.

In considering my slow-moving novel, I thought of Jan O’Hara’s recent post on Writer Unboxed where she mentioned wise words from Donald Maass, heard at the RWA Nationals:

If possible, resist the push to rapid production. A good story well told means an audience willing to wait. Reward their loyalty with quality.

Maass’s words do little to ease my worries that I will oversleep tomorrow and show up late (or worse – unshowered) for first day back at work. But, his advice reminds me that writing is simply moving forward — inch by inch, page by page.

Looking back from May to August, I see small steps in progress and moments of synchronicity, when little burning bushes signaled that I can be (and am) a writer. In spite of tight schedules, posts were written, stories were submitted, and connections with other writers were made.

I can view my day job as a  burden that takes me away from writing (though that paycheck and health insurance lightens the load). Or, I can see it as an opportunity: new routines force me to schedule more succinct writing times.

I did it once; I can do it again.

What inspiration have you found in looking back on your writing?
[tweetmeme]

Posted on

Wed’s Word Flash Fiction: Irene

Every Wednesday, on Writing Under Pressure, you’ll find a post based on Today’s Word (from Wordsmith.org). Past essays, poems, or flash fiction pieces can be found under Wednesday’s Word on the sidebar to the right.

Today’s word:

irenic. adjective. Promoting peace or conciliation.

Sometimes, it’s the etymology of a word that sparks an idea for a story; other times, it’s the picture that accompanies the definition.

From Greek eirene (peace). Eirene/Irene was the Greek personification of peace.

*****

Irene

Irene wasn’t always a peacekeeper. It wasn’t until she had her horde of children that she realized she had to learn to mediate or fall to pieces.

“Horde” seemed a bit harsh of a word, she thought, especially on the good days, when the hours sailed by smooth and they all said “please” and “thank you” and “can I have a turn when you’re done?”

But, today – all week, really – had not been smooth. Irene walked circles around the house, clearing up misunderstandings, working negotiations, and ceasing altercations in progress.

At six years old, Rosie was the oldest. But, today she regressed to a three year old. After breakfast, lunch, and dinner, Rose folded fast into a lump onto the floor. Each time, she refused to speak.

“Your words, Rosie,” Irene said, exasperated. “You’ve got to learn to speak up for yourself. I can’t help you unless I know what you need.”

Turns out, it was something about the way Margaret looked at her.

Michael and Michelle had no problem using their words. All day, they fought over who got more of anything and everything: oatmeal, crayons, and space on the couch. Irene did her best to ensure absolute equality between the two of them. She packed a measuring tape in the pocket of her khakis, along with a pad of paper and a pen, and measured and marked down exact numbers and inches.

Little George turned ugly when Irene least expected him to, so she kept a close eye on him. He’d go about playing in peace until Margaret walked by. Then, he’d dive at her with both arms, grab whatever toy she held, and break out in a serious tug of war.

“Little George!” Irene shoved her arm in the middle of a fight over a red-headed doll. “You don’t even like Strawberry Shortcake!” He let go of the doll long enough for Margaret to scurry down the hall.

Little George cried.

“Honey.” Irene put her arm around him. “Why would you want something you don’t even like?”

“Because, she has one and I don’t.”

That night, when Irene sat down to watch TV, the news flashed a photo of a UN soldier – his face haggard, his eyes flat, his shoulders slumped. Irene knew that look.

“I quit,” she told her husband when he finally made it home from work.

“Quit what?”

She was washing her face. She turned to him, her face covered with foam.

“This whole mommy business. I quit.”

He laughed. She didn’t.

Continue reading “Wed’s Word Flash Fiction: Irene”