Tag Archives: prose

Bits and Pieces After the Martyr Dies

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Mrs. DeDeo rarely steps away from the classroom. Today she is needed across the hall for a moment. A moment is all Dwayne needs. He leaps to the front of the room body-blocking the chalked letters we’re supposed to copy into our marble notebooks.

With a spoon from his pocket, Dwayne excavates boogers while singing how he likes mowing down squirrels. We don’t believe him. Mrs. DeDeo returns. Dwayne begins mercy yowling. The fear in his voice chains John the Baptist between my ears. Imprisoned in one of Herod’s palace cells, John prays to receive Jesus’ blessing.

The following morning John will lose his head to dawn’s early light.

(I find joy in sharing bits and pieces of my childhood truths here with you. These memories make me smile – even the sad and odd ones. My inner-child lives as a constant reminder of humility and perseverance. Of kindness and compassion.

Each of our childhoods lingers near, our memories like shadows to embrace, to reshape, to share, to delete, to run from, to run toward…)

My flying squirrel was created with Tombow markers and Prisma pencils. I think he’s a few years old now.

Thank you,
am:)

The Day I Stopped Believing in God

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Thirteen birthday-attendees ride the little train through the painted tunnel and scream when the tunnel turns oil-black. Afterward, the animated girls leap onto the spring-loaded playground.

I fix eyes on the ponies dusting-up the ring from the perch of a bouncing rooster. After a few minutes, the birthday girl’s mom, Mrs. Bee, leads us over to the ring. I take Parochial-school position for biggest girl — end of the line.

Each time a young handler instructs the next rider how to safely mount, my heart leaps. I bound up the wooden stairs when my turn arrives. Butterbean’s handler wears a cowboy hat. His broad teeth shine like the sun. His slim eyes are eclipsed by his hat brim.

Those darkened eyes look me over. Out the sunlit mouth, a question trots out, “What do you weigh?”

I haven’t yet perfected the art of the lie. The truth sinks me 20 pounds above my classmates.

The cowboy’s teeth vanish behind a cloud of smirking lips, “You’re too big to ride this pony.”

I swallow the screaming. I reverse-off the podium.

My cheeks brighter than the eyes of giggling classmates and the red balloons bubbling beside Sally’s birthday cake, I clod, head down, praying for my early death.

Today, I no longer believe in God.

(Misty of Chincoteague – painted when I was 13 – I remember being quite proud of this acrylic work thinking at the time)

I hope for those of you who celebrate Thanksgiving that you had a beautiful holiday. I had 24 family members in my home, and we had a wonderful day. Today, the little girl who was turned away from a pony ride, is heading to the gym. Later, she will run her three miles when the sun warms the land a tad more. She is always running, trying to stay just ahead of the little sad girl.

am:)

Gifting Pony Love

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Every library Friday, I check or attempt to check-out the illustrated book, Pegasus as retold by Nathaniel Hawthorne. Belephron astride Pegasus, the mighty pair battling the Chimera, the pearl-winged horse nuzzling little children.

Sometimes the school librarian says, “You’re not giving anyone else a chance to read this book. Do you think that’s fair?” And Pegasus is taken from me.

On the days I’m permitted Pegasus, the over-sized book holds steadfast beneath my arm like I imagine Jesus carrying his cross.

One Saturday following a library day that I wasn’t given Pegasus, my little sister’s friend tells me how much she loves horses. I see the pony-love in her eyes. I give her my only two Breyers’ horses because I don’t want them separated.

I love horses more than anyone. And now, I have no horses all over again.

Ah, the memories that long ago made me sad, make me smile today:)

(Black and white drawing of my Breyer’s Paint Pony done when I was 13.
The Pegasus book I lived with as a child, I own at 61.)

A Bony Cat and a Bowl of Milk

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Too many mornings spent waiting. My Converse forever damp from crossing the neighbor’s lawn. Daily curb squatting since noticing the bony cat. Cereal bowl sloshing in my hands.

Finally on this damp morning the bony cat sidles near, laps up the Fruit Loop milk, then she bites me and sprints away.

I’m tiptoeing home to wash the blood off my thumb and to hug our German Shepherd who’s never bitten anyone except the paperboy but that was the day he tossed a Community Life at her head.

(Pictured here: back row left to right- my wise older sister Virginia, my baby sister Dolores sitting on Uncle Robert’s lap (mom’s brother), Grandma Gulli (mom’s mom), my other wise older sister Grace holding onto Tima, our beloved family dog, front row- my little brother Vito, I’m squatting in center. and our baby brother Robert in bouncy seat)

Snorky’s Sandlot

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Snorky’s brown belly and back end are married together by a band of hamster white. His whiskers twitch and his tiny hands fondle food like Play-doh.

This morning I found Snorky curled into a frozen smile.

I will bury him in the sandy cemetery below the clothesline where our underwear already hangs in sad-mouthed shapes.


(Some childhood memories dig in like hamsters on spinning wheels-my siblings and I had quite a sandlot)

Heartbreak

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Beside the bright berries of the mountain ash, the bird’s eyes are dull. His heart — races. Will this be the creature I save? Into its parched mouth, I administer a drop of water. The frail ribs expand up and down like a bullfrog’s throat. The dull eyes go glassy. The breast stops flying.

My small sweating hands wrap the limp bird in tissue. I dig out a hole and bury the tiny thing beside the tree. Tears fall. The ground turns moist. I mutter a child’s prayer for things I don’t understand. The morning sun shifts. The ground has nearly dried.

Should I stand beside this grave for the remainder of my life—




This piece is dedicated to my children

3,000 Pieces of Candy

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‘Tis true – we dwell in a ufo-embracing town – the kind that breathes Halloween – aliens, creatures, princesses and all – in every deliciously macabre direction

Armed with 3,000 pieces of candy, we’re ready for the costumed onslaught.

Happy Halloween
Be safe
Be smart
and remember – over-sugaring doesn’t make us sweet;)
kindness comes from within

am:)
(featured above – my little pumpkin kid – a great dancer who can pirouette atop any pumpkin)

Helen’s Flight

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I leave my husband, daughter, homeland, and slip away in the dark shroud of night.
The orange-red glow of the moon is veiled with clouds, Artemis’ hand already at play in this.
My own hand wraps around Paris’ fingers, my heartbeat is the phantom of Menelaus’ footsteps behind me. The ship waits at Gythium, water lapping its sides, gentle like my fingers stroking Hermione’s face.

wind whispers
a crow caws
Apollo’s triumph

We board the ship, my feet numb like ice. My skin smells of the salt-spray of the sea, the night air,
the heavy-wine scent of the watching gods – I know they are there, have known since Paris sent that knife-gaze into my heart. His hand cups my face, the thief coveting his prize. We raise anchor, and sail with the dawn.

the sharp horizon
a knife across the sun
blood in the water

—Caroline Hron Weigle

This gorgeous poem was written by the lovely Caroline Hron Weigle. Remember her name – she is an up and coming historical romance writer.

I painted the piece above a few years ago. I’d never given much thought to her name before – now she has one.

I hope you’re all doing well.

annmarie:)

Never-Nearly

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I’m honored to have my story “Never-Nearly” published by 101 Words, a site dedicated to the art of creating a color explosion with a few pigments.

Pencil sketch done a few months ago of my dear talented artist/writer friend, Clayton Buchanan, with his son, Baird.

“About 101 Words

In the early 2000s, I saw a local newspaper ad soliciting 101 word stories. For some reason, I was drawn to the idea and submitted a few stories. I don’t remember if they got published.

The limitation concept stuck with me, and I started 101 Words in December 2005. In those early days, I only posted my own stories and a few from friends. I didn’t open it up to the public until 2007.

In November 2014, I decided to go all in and turn 101 Words into something special.

My vision for 101 Words is a comprehensive ecosystem and community that can support writers, editors, and readers. This vision is a work in progress, and I hope you stick around to watch it grow.

— Shannon”

Thank you for stopping by.
AnnMarie:)

going backwards ain’t how growin’ goes

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blue grass blew up under there, landed there, over there
you see, look here bled blue on this over here
so they sang over there, banjo’d blues ‘round those mountains
got a banjo too, but no bluegrass livin’ in these olive eyes
listen here, do you hear the weary sky humming da blues
below her womb, flesh ‘n bone spawning bitter gods
swelling wellsprings of madness
manic rivers drying, warm water shattering man-walls
cause he be screwing the planet ‘n mother earth be pissed

don’t we know, going backwards ain’t how growing goes

great grandpapa’s mighty oak just felled by climbing fire
man ‘n his man-guns knocking things ‘neath blue-blue sky
no seed sown with lead, no gilded heart embraces love 
listen here, do you hear the weary sky, how she hums da blues
she be blue, oh, so blue hummin’ above —
this mankind of ours screeching and scratching below

don’t we know, going backwards ain’t how growing goes


this piece inspired by a newly black-topped parking lot
here’s to looking up at the sky – still blue – still lovely
am:)