simplicity
Bio
Stories (117/0)
The Closest Stranger
Predictably, on time, the key is in the lock of the front door. The small click of the light switch turning on. The splash from the release of the shower handle being turned. Then his labored gate, from years of work. He stands just a little less straight than I remember. Looking at an old picture on the wall and then glancing my reflection in the window is the only way I notice how much we have transformed. I don't feel much older, just sitting here. I notice at times challenges, but never chalk them up to old age.
By simplicity10 months ago in Fiction
The Unspoken Salute
It's been a long day. Of course I forgot I'd said I'd be responsible for dinner tonight. As I pull into a parking spot, in what feels like the farthest spot from the front, I realize I'm in no mood to do this. I'm already here though. The next mistake I new I was making, was going in without a plan or a list. I was deciding on dinner depending on what I saw and what's on sale. Lately, it has felt like I need a loan to accommodate groceries and the gas needed to get them. I do delivery at times, but it's frustrating when things aren't delivered. Tonight, I couldn't risk it. I get out of the car with my reusable bags prepared to go shop. I feel smart that I remembered my bags, until half way to the front door I realize I have left my phone and wallet in the car. Typical, I think as I make my way back to the car. When I get to the car, a person is parking right next to me. Tires on the line. Leaving no space between our cars. They hit my car with their door as they get out. Sheepishly, they glance at me and say sorry. Checking the spot, it seems fine. I growl to myself, People. Taking a deep breath, in and out, I start the journey in again.
By simplicity10 months ago in Fiction
The Story In It. Top Story - September 2023.
Writing began for me after I received my first lock diary. The kind children get at school book fairs or prizes at school carnivals or raffles. That is where I got mine. It had a cheap lock with a small key that opened it. The cover was white with little colorful heart's all over it. The pages were white with black lines, but the edges of the pages were gold. I would write in it when extremely happy, sad or mad. I could say it all, get everything out. Next, I started writing random ideas related to music or movies. Things I saw out in the world or interesting tidbits I heard. Those were my first legitimate writings. My later diaries would house compilations of poems mixed in with daily happenings. My grandmother wrote in a journal/Diary every night, almost religiously. As a child, I think I mimicked this. Later, I respected it for the process and record I could revisit. Possibly, I often thought, others could even find meaning in the writings after I was dead and gone. After all, we all hope to leave our own unique mark in the world, however small or insignificant. However, I consider one short story my first real story. I will share it below.
By simplicity10 months ago in Writers
Hop, Skip, and Jump Away
Time passed like a flip book. I'm always on the move. The world seems wide open and full of possibilities. Exhaustion is my way of life. I'm living somewhere between a Dream and a Nightmare if you average it out. I bustle from home with my boyfriend, to school, to volunteering, work experience hours, work interviews, and jobs. I'm beginning to buy into life again. I do all the cheesy things people do. My energy can feel bigger than any room, with a smile just as big. Going out is a regular weekend activity, we have perfected. I'm like a doll that can dress up for any occasion. My clothes give me confidence in rooms I feel unprepared to be in. I hate being stared at, but the contradiction is ignored for now. I'm oblivious because for the first time I feel put together. There are so many problems, but when you're busy they are easily brushed aside for another day. After all, I have living to do. It is the modern roaring 20's. We were unapologetically uncouth by classic proprietary standards, as we would drink, dance, and socialize into the morning hours of the weekend. Then sleep in past 10am as our bodies recuperated. The times felt larger, grander in a way, than they probably should have. I'm young with an unrealistic view of the future.
By simplicity11 months ago in Chapters
The Politics of Friendship
What is friendship in an environment of economics History is just a different date with evolved problems As we sit on the same hills of our ancestors, looking for the resources to grow our hill into a mountain Built primarily by information Not so free as we all believe What can you share, a stall-tactic while searching for a better offer Diplomacy in public found in a handshake and a smile While hidden deals act as the bonding, cementing friendships So like a school bell calling us from recess, we stop playing around We have not all forgotten our readings Lord of the flies dressed up and disguised, as a new play Behind friendships diplomacy As swashbuckling children morph to bushwacked professionals Whatever happened to just because Because The scientist just blew it up And the historian could find no peace or reason The economist went solo, until he could budget others in The librarians and lawyer's couldn't find the time, like the simple housewives, but their statuses were not aligned What is friendship in an environment of the modern world When family members in the same field staunchly disagree, on even how to feed our young Maybe friendship is Things to look at to adore to gain comfort or support those of survival or a common interest those we can champion look eye to eye those we pity but can understand Those that make us laugh and at least, not cry So friendship is a point of view maybe an attitude I'll sit on my hill and you sit on what ever size yours as long as you dont bother me and I wont bother yours Call it friendship With a wave sealed with a kiss We'll throw a handful of dirt every once in a while Just to help another On the way to growing their hill to a mountain Unless that mountain can be taken or better, Given
By simplicity11 months ago in Poets
Ode to the Laundry Hamper
Bushel hamper, wickerwork, hamper basket Far from your days as a case or casket Southern born Who knew your purpose would out grow the fruits, veggies and grains who used you as just a basket 1897, on your way, Sears and Roebuck answered those who asked what can task-it A beautiful receptacle for the dirty, disheveled work clothes we disown Built-in, hidden, or a moveable facet 1966, Sears and Roebucks catelogue moved from a simple ad to a three page packet In all shapes and sizes, often padded with baking soda or litter to hide the smell of our worn To me you are no less important than anyone living in my hamlet A welcomed collector, a teacher who taught my dog to pick up socks for a biscuit the fastest The one on my side, in cahoots, keeping things organized in my cleaning, leaving me fresh and reborn Far from your days as a case or casket
By simplicity11 months ago in Poets
Beautiful Child A Beautiful Book
"The inability to forget is far more devastating than the inability to remember", said Mark Twain. I believe this to be the case. The inability to forget is a memory that makes a home in you. It pulls the strings of your mind and heart for better or worse. When something pulls at both the heart and mind it becomes a part of your soul.
By simplicity11 months ago in BookClub
Ode to My Laundry Hamper
Bushel hamper, wickerwork, hamper basket Far from your days as a case or casket With southern roots Who knew your purpose would out grow the fruits, veggies and grains who used you as just a basket 1897, on your way, Sears and Roebuck answered those who asked what can task-it A beautiful receptacle for the dirty, disheveled work suits Built-in, hidden, or a moveable facet 1966, Sears and Roebucks catelogue moved from a simple ad to a three page packet In all shapes and sizes, often padded with baking soda or litter to hide the level it's contents pollutes To me you are no less important than anyone living in my hamlet A welcomed collector, a teacher who taught my dog, my baby, to pick up socks for a biscuit the fastest The one on my side, in cahoots, keeping things organized in my cleaning pursuits Bushel hamper, wickerwork, hamper basket Far from your days as a case or casket
By simplicity12 months ago in Poets
Poseidon's Gift to Elizabeth
Elizabeth put her ear to the shell. A sigh of relief escaped out of her lungs stemming from a pit in her stomach. As she sat in the empty dark room, kneeling humbly over her treasure she still felt the wonder she had felt that first day. After a few moments with her eyes closed she had transported herself across miles of land to her old home, her childhood home. Where the sea had been her lullaby each morning and each night. A creak from the old bones of the house snapped her back to awareness. She took her conch shell and buried in the back of her wardrobe in her sweater storage drawer. She definitely wasn't ready to share it. She closed the wardrobe door, stopping briefly to allow her feelings of eternal gratefulness to wash around in her. How she missed Poseidon.
By simplicity12 months ago in Fiction
Poseidon's Gift
Elizabeth put her ear to the shell. A sigh of relief escaped her lips as she sat in the empty dark room, kneeling humbly over her treasure. After a few moments with her eyes closed she had transported herself across miles of land to her old home, her childhood home. The sea was her lullaby each morning and each night. A creak from the old bones of the house snapped her out of it. She took her conch shell and buried in the back of her wardrobe in her sweater storage drawer. She closed the wardrobe door, stopping briefly to allow her feelings of eternal gratefulness to wash around in her. How she missed Poseidon.
By simplicity12 months ago in Fiction
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