Last week I attended the second of the poetry and flash fiction Leisure Learning classes at McNeese. At the Tuesday night poetry class Connie had us free write from memory about a time we got away with something. I remembered the swimming lessons at the lake on Shell Beach Drive when I was about five. The instructor told us we'd be going under the water the next week and get a shell from the bottom and show it to the class when we came up. I stewed about it all week. Even offered to stay home and pick the strawberries. If anyone has ever picked strawberries they know how desperate I was. It's not that I was afraid of the water. Just didn't like going under at that time in my life. Five years old, for crying out loud. At any rate, I got my shell and showed it to the class. But - I didn't go all the way to the bottom for it. And that's all I'm saying about that. After I read it out loud for the class, Connie said it worked great as a flash fiction piece, so I'll use it in that class for this week's assignment.
Next we did some poem sketching from Sandford Lyne's excellent book, Writing Poetry from the Inside Out. From several groups of four words each I chose one with the following words: icicles, poor, roof, beauty. I ended up with a haiku. Here's my attempt.
Icicles melt the
beauty of the roof into
a pudgy puddle.
For the non-poets among us, a haiku is a Japanese form with three lines and a syllable count of 5-7-5.
For the FLEX YOUR MUSCLES writing prompt see what you can do with those four words. Maybe you can get a longer poem or even a story out of them.
Monday, June 25, 2012
Monday, June 18, 2012
Someone once called me a professional student. Maybe it was because after graduating from high school in 1954 it took me the next fifty years to finally walk down the aisle and receive my Masters degree in English. That's right. Got that puppy in 2004 at the tender age of 67. Unfortunately I won't be around to join my fellow grads from the class of '04 when they get to sit down at the front in their golden robes in 2054. Be that as it may, that education is something I wouldn't trade for anything in the world and it's something no one can ever take away from me.
And guess what? I'm still at it. Last week I made my way out to McNeese not once, but twice. Poetry class on Tuesday and Flash Fiction on Thursday. I've been seriously blocked since the first of the year. Hadn't written anything new since January. I left Poetry class with two poems and Flash Fiction class with one very short story. Got my mojo back. These are Leisure Learning classes, so there's no pressure to do anything. I have two excellent mentors. Connie, a retired teacher, is the poetry instructor, and Rachel, an MFA grad student is our fiction teacher. We only have three in the poetry class, but that's okay. Quality, not quantity. We have a few more, maybe eight, in the fiction class, but still quite manageable.
So go ahead and call me names. I'm going to keep at it as long as the old brain lets me.
P.S. If you do the math you can even find out how old I am. I don't do math. I'm an English major.
FLEX YOUR MUSCLES
Writing Prompts
Anthony Burgess suggested taking a page from a dictionary and seeing if the words on the page can build up a scene or a description.
And guess what? I'm still at it. Last week I made my way out to McNeese not once, but twice. Poetry class on Tuesday and Flash Fiction on Thursday. I've been seriously blocked since the first of the year. Hadn't written anything new since January. I left Poetry class with two poems and Flash Fiction class with one very short story. Got my mojo back. These are Leisure Learning classes, so there's no pressure to do anything. I have two excellent mentors. Connie, a retired teacher, is the poetry instructor, and Rachel, an MFA grad student is our fiction teacher. We only have three in the poetry class, but that's okay. Quality, not quantity. We have a few more, maybe eight, in the fiction class, but still quite manageable.
So go ahead and call me names. I'm going to keep at it as long as the old brain lets me.
P.S. If you do the math you can even find out how old I am. I don't do math. I'm an English major.
FLEX YOUR MUSCLES
Writing Prompts
Anthony Burgess suggested taking a page from a dictionary and seeing if the words on the page can build up a scene or a description.
Monday, June 4, 2012
The Oner
Preacher Hebert was a oner. "Preacher" was a nickname he picked up in grammar school, and it followed him through his long, diverse life. Will Rogers once said he never met a man he didn't like. Preacher went him one better. He never met a man who didn't like him. As the years passed more and more of his friends, coworkers, and family members said goodbye to this world.
"There won't be anyone left to see me off," he often joked. He would have been surprised at the steady stream of condolers on visitation night and the standing-room-only crowd in the chapel the day of his funeral. There were plenty there to "see him off." Wife, children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, former coworkers, hunting and fishing buddies, seven siblings, and assorted extended family. And friends. Lots of friends of all ages. The eulogies went on for quite a while.
He was in my life from the day I was born until the day he died. I observed nearly every phase of his life. Early on I remember those dark Cajun looks--the curly hair, the laughing eyes, the pug nose that is a strong familial trait of the Heberts. Tall and solidly built, he had an athlete's fluidity of movement. I remember his hands--so big they could hide a baseball, strong enough to skin an alligator, yet with a touch so delicate he often bested his sisters, so I'm told, in a game of jacks. The dark curly hair grayed and thinned over the years, but the laughing eyes were there until they closed for the last time in his ninety-second year. December 8, 1999. Twenty-three days before the new century.
He excelled in all sports, but his passion was baseball. He was amazed he could actually get paid for doing something he loved so much. But when it was time, he hung up his cleats and went on to the next phase of his life. He never tried to relive the past through his children. Of the five of us, only two showed any real interest in sports, but that was fine with him. He always supported us in everything.
His retirement years afforded him the opportunity to pursue his other passions. He hunted ducks in the fall and winter. Spring and summer was the time for fishing and gardening. He skinned alligators during gator season and read "shoot-em-ups" when the weather was too bad for anything else. His talents extended to the kitchen as well, where he could whip up a mean gumbo. We were often treated to fried filleted fish, French fries, and fried okra followed by our mother's blackberry cobbler.
A snapshot shows him sitting in his pirogue in a quiet backwater of the Calcasieu River, an old man fishing, his face shaded by a battered baseball cap. A stranger might be surprised to know he'd been equally at home on the pitcher's mound in St. Louis, San Diego, and Pittsburgh. That snapshot is only part of his story. He was in my life a long time, and I regret he's no longer a part of it.
FLEX YOUR MUSCLES
Writing Prompt
See what you can do with this:
A person who refuses to fit in and an asteroid heading toward Earth.
(Taken from The Storymatic)
"There won't be anyone left to see me off," he often joked. He would have been surprised at the steady stream of condolers on visitation night and the standing-room-only crowd in the chapel the day of his funeral. There were plenty there to "see him off." Wife, children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, former coworkers, hunting and fishing buddies, seven siblings, and assorted extended family. And friends. Lots of friends of all ages. The eulogies went on for quite a while.
He was in my life from the day I was born until the day he died. I observed nearly every phase of his life. Early on I remember those dark Cajun looks--the curly hair, the laughing eyes, the pug nose that is a strong familial trait of the Heberts. Tall and solidly built, he had an athlete's fluidity of movement. I remember his hands--so big they could hide a baseball, strong enough to skin an alligator, yet with a touch so delicate he often bested his sisters, so I'm told, in a game of jacks. The dark curly hair grayed and thinned over the years, but the laughing eyes were there until they closed for the last time in his ninety-second year. December 8, 1999. Twenty-three days before the new century.
He excelled in all sports, but his passion was baseball. He was amazed he could actually get paid for doing something he loved so much. But when it was time, he hung up his cleats and went on to the next phase of his life. He never tried to relive the past through his children. Of the five of us, only two showed any real interest in sports, but that was fine with him. He always supported us in everything.
His retirement years afforded him the opportunity to pursue his other passions. He hunted ducks in the fall and winter. Spring and summer was the time for fishing and gardening. He skinned alligators during gator season and read "shoot-em-ups" when the weather was too bad for anything else. His talents extended to the kitchen as well, where he could whip up a mean gumbo. We were often treated to fried filleted fish, French fries, and fried okra followed by our mother's blackberry cobbler.
A snapshot shows him sitting in his pirogue in a quiet backwater of the Calcasieu River, an old man fishing, his face shaded by a battered baseball cap. A stranger might be surprised to know he'd been equally at home on the pitcher's mound in St. Louis, San Diego, and Pittsburgh. That snapshot is only part of his story. He was in my life a long time, and I regret he's no longer a part of it.
FLEX YOUR MUSCLES
Writing Prompt
See what you can do with this:
A person who refuses to fit in and an asteroid heading toward Earth.
(Taken from The Storymatic)
Monday, May 21, 2012
Jack-the-Clipper
In the year 1888 the Whitechapel district of London was being
terrorized by a brutal serial killer preying on prostitutes, who are among the
most vulnerable among us. The unknown murderer was called Jack the Ripper.
Other nicknames included "The Whitechapel Murderer" and "Leather
Apron." He was never apprehended.
Some fourteen years later, in 1914, New Orleans had
its own version of the miscreant who was running around the city terrorizing
schoolgirls, albeit not as brutally. The following report appeared in the New Orleans States:Three New Orleans girls have fallen victim to Jack-the-Clipper, who
was abroad Friday, snipping the plaited locks of young schoolgirls.
Many other girls were said to have lost their hair, but are suppressing
it because of the resultant unpleasant notoriety. Superintendent
Reynolds has detailed special officers to watch for the miscreant,
who has been operating mostly on street cars and in moving-picture
theatres.
It is not thought that any hair dealers are guilty, for the tresses were
slashed but a few inches from the end, while the guilty parties had an
opportunity of cutting off two or three feet of hair.
One week later the same newspaper reported this story:
unmentionable thief who has been cutting off hair, New Orleans girls
have come to realize that they wear wealth on their heads. Not only
that, but they are taking great pains to guard it.
A chattering group of school girls boarded a car Thursday at the
corner of the Sophie B. Wright High School. Thick braids of black,
brown and golden hair hung down their backs. As soon as they had
found seats, giggling stopped long enough for them to reach round
with the trained precision of a comic opera chorus and bring their
braids to the front and tuck them carefully in the front of their coats.
One whose hair wasn't long enough to reach worked with her
refractory curls until she had them all safely tucked from sight in
the crown of her hat.
His fetishism apparently satisfied, Jack-the-Clipper disappeared as suddenly as he had appeared on the scene. However, during the years 1921 to 1923 a new epidemic cropped up. Bobbed hair was coming into fashion. This new evildoer invaded boudoirs and lopped the tresses into rough-cut bobs. It should be noted here that the victims were all young women who wanted nothing more than to be "thoroughly modern," but who had been forbidden to adopt the new style by old-fashioned parents or husbands. Perhaps feminism was alive and well in the earlier part of the last century. And maybe Jack-the-Clipper was a convenient scapegoat .
I found this charming little story in Gumbo Ya-Ya: Folk Tales of Louisiana.
***
FLEX YOUR MUSCLES
Writing Prompt:
What is the worst thing you would do if you knew you could get away with it? Write about it.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Southern Writers Magazine: A Review
Fiction. Nonfiction. Poetry. There's something for everyone in the May/June issue of Southern Writers Magazine. While I was paging through it I ran across some names familiar to me.
Jessica Ferguson, past president of the Bayou Writers Group in Lake Charles, Louisiana, of which I am a member, spotlights Louisiana writer Vicki Allen. She is the author of four books, two of which are on reading lists at local Louisiana high schools.
James R. Tate, a member of BWG, is in the Good Reads by Southern Writers column along with his book, Blood Bias, a thriller set in Texas.
Sherry Perkins, current president of the Bayou Writers, interviewed Viggo Mortensen about his poetry. Yes. Aragorn himself. When he's not running around Middle Earth he's writing beautiful poems. Check out the interview on page 22, where he dispenses advice for aspiring poets.
Several other articles caught my eye. There was advice on when to use the word "that" and when to leave it out. Something I've long struggled with. Book Proposal Boot Camp by W. Terry Whalin had excellent tips. C. Hope Clark tells you how to build your platform. Are you ready to start your memoir? Check out Kimberly Rae's piece, Your Story, on page 27.
There are quite a few other informative articles inside. I would say you need to get your own copy and look them over. You'll be glad you did.
Jessica Ferguson, past president of the Bayou Writers Group in Lake Charles, Louisiana, of which I am a member, spotlights Louisiana writer Vicki Allen. She is the author of four books, two of which are on reading lists at local Louisiana high schools.
James R. Tate, a member of BWG, is in the Good Reads by Southern Writers column along with his book, Blood Bias, a thriller set in Texas.
Sherry Perkins, current president of the Bayou Writers, interviewed Viggo Mortensen about his poetry. Yes. Aragorn himself. When he's not running around Middle Earth he's writing beautiful poems. Check out the interview on page 22, where he dispenses advice for aspiring poets.
Several other articles caught my eye. There was advice on when to use the word "that" and when to leave it out. Something I've long struggled with. Book Proposal Boot Camp by W. Terry Whalin had excellent tips. C. Hope Clark tells you how to build your platform. Are you ready to start your memoir? Check out Kimberly Rae's piece, Your Story, on page 27.
There are quite a few other informative articles inside. I would say you need to get your own copy and look them over. You'll be glad you did.
***
FLEX YOUR MUSCLES
Writing Prompts
Write a story or poem using these words:
Chimes
Thunderhead
Fade
Swirl
Winged
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Death Be Not Proud
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou'art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy'or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
John Donne
Joshua Shane Reeves
September 15, 1986 - April 14, 2012
Gone too soon, but never forgotten.
Beloved grandson, son, husband, father, brother, nephew.
Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou'art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy'or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
John Donne
Joshua Shane Reeves
September 15, 1986 - April 14, 2012
Gone too soon, but never forgotten.
Beloved grandson, son, husband, father, brother, nephew.
Monday, March 19, 2012
The Loup-garou
I wrote a short story, "Sidonie and the Loup-garou," a couple of years ago in response to a class fiction assignment. What in the world is a loup-garou, you may ask. An ancient evil who's been running around the swamps and bayous of Louisiana since the arrival of the French Acadians after the British kicked them out of Canada. The loup-garou came along for the ride and has been here ever since.
According to the old folks a loup-garou is a man-wolf who walks around upright on two legs. He, or she, has large red eyes, a pointed nose, shaggy hair, and long, sharp nails. Cajun children grew up with the warning "Be good or the loup-garou gonna get you" ringing in their ears.
The Cajun loups-garou differ from the Hollywood stereotype, who are often portrayed as loners, solitary outcasts. The Cajun loup-garou is anything but. They love to party. They can dance all night just like their human Cajun counterparts. They hold their balls at Bayou Goula during a full moon and also on the night of St. John's Eve, June 23. This is the night they gather from throughout the Delta for a gigantic convocation.
FYI: to ward off an attack throw a bayou bullfrog at a loup-garou (they're terrified of frogs), or sprinkle salt on the creature and their fur will catch on fire.
Following is a short scene from my story:
She stood there a moment, squinting into the blackness. Red eyes stared back at her. She couldn't move. She heard a mewling sound, like a cat in pain. She realized the sound was coming from her.
Denny. I've got to get to Denny. He'll take care of me. And I've got my frog. Papa Leon always said the loup-garou was scared of frogs. He promised me. If I can just get to Denny's house.
She whirled and sprinted toward the pasture, fueled by adrenaline and secure in the knowledge she had the fastest time on the track team in the hundred yard dash and the high hurdles. The fence loomed ahead of her. It didn't take long to make it over the wooden rails, and she looked for the porch light's welcoming beam ahead.
It wasn't there.
She could see the muted blue of a television set from a window, but the porch light was out. She kept running.
Just make it to the house. Denny would be waiting. She didn't know if those red eyes were still behind her. She sure wasn't going to stop and look. She wasn't going to stop until she got to the back door.
Sidonie had to go over another fence to get into the back yard. The blue water of the swimming pool gave off an eerie glow in the moonlight, mirroring the giant white orb in the glassy surface. She skirted the edge of the pool and skidded to a stop at the door.
She grabbed the doorknob and pulled. Nothing. She yanked harder. Several times. Where was Denny? He was supposed to be there to let her in.
She turned and backed against the door, clutching her frog to her chest. The red eyes emerged from behind the pool umbrella. Hairy hands reached out. She shoved the frog at him. He snatched it away.
According to the old folks a loup-garou is a man-wolf who walks around upright on two legs. He, or she, has large red eyes, a pointed nose, shaggy hair, and long, sharp nails. Cajun children grew up with the warning "Be good or the loup-garou gonna get you" ringing in their ears.
The Cajun loups-garou differ from the Hollywood stereotype, who are often portrayed as loners, solitary outcasts. The Cajun loup-garou is anything but. They love to party. They can dance all night just like their human Cajun counterparts. They hold their balls at Bayou Goula during a full moon and also on the night of St. John's Eve, June 23. This is the night they gather from throughout the Delta for a gigantic convocation.
FYI: to ward off an attack throw a bayou bullfrog at a loup-garou (they're terrified of frogs), or sprinkle salt on the creature and their fur will catch on fire.
Following is a short scene from my story:
She stood there a moment, squinting into the blackness. Red eyes stared back at her. She couldn't move. She heard a mewling sound, like a cat in pain. She realized the sound was coming from her.
Denny. I've got to get to Denny. He'll take care of me. And I've got my frog. Papa Leon always said the loup-garou was scared of frogs. He promised me. If I can just get to Denny's house.
She whirled and sprinted toward the pasture, fueled by adrenaline and secure in the knowledge she had the fastest time on the track team in the hundred yard dash and the high hurdles. The fence loomed ahead of her. It didn't take long to make it over the wooden rails, and she looked for the porch light's welcoming beam ahead.
It wasn't there.
She could see the muted blue of a television set from a window, but the porch light was out. She kept running.
Just make it to the house. Denny would be waiting. She didn't know if those red eyes were still behind her. She sure wasn't going to stop and look. She wasn't going to stop until she got to the back door.
Sidonie had to go over another fence to get into the back yard. The blue water of the swimming pool gave off an eerie glow in the moonlight, mirroring the giant white orb in the glassy surface. She skirted the edge of the pool and skidded to a stop at the door.
She grabbed the doorknob and pulled. Nothing. She yanked harder. Several times. Where was Denny? He was supposed to be there to let her in.
She turned and backed against the door, clutching her frog to her chest. The red eyes emerged from behind the pool umbrella. Hairy hands reached out. She shoved the frog at him. He snatched it away.
*
My advice? Stay away from Bayou Goula in June. If you must travel there take a burlap sack full of live bullfrogs and a gallon-sized salt shaker.
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