"Reaching" #FridayFictioneers #FlashFiction

I'm not sure how many times I've said this, but I thought this week's photo prompt by Madison Woods was her most challenging yet. Often, when I'm too challenged to write a story, I'll write haiku instead, which is what I did this week. And often, my haiku is a metaphor for life.

If you'd like to read other flash fiction tales about the photo, click here. As always, feel free to leave links to your blogs with your comments!

Reaching

Barren branches reach

toward heaven each winter

waiting for rebirth.

Secret Saturday - 2/4/12: "Closet Secrets"

Well, I'm a day late with my new feature, "Secret Saturday," because the Internet Squirrels quit running at the farm yesterday. But, now that I'm back in the virtual world again, here we go:

I love secrets. I love to hear them, and love to tell them . . . to the right people. I see secrets as tidibits, juicy morsels of information that bring us closer to each other.

So, I decided to start a new feature, "Secret Saturday," where we can all share a little secret. It doesn't have to be a big secret, just anything we might not already know--about you, about history, about the world. Share a secret from your childhood, if that feels safer. Or a secret recipe. Or, what the heck . . . give us a whopper.

In Broken Dolls, when my character, Sachiko, finally reveals who she "really is," she writes this haiku:

A porcelain mask

Once broken, but now removed

My true face revealed

We can all remove our masks, even in tiny ways. It can be fun, but it can also be freeing. Share something with us . . . anything. And feel free to share a link to your own website or blog, too.

By the way, did you know that on average, a woman can only keep a secret for 32 minutes? Read about it on the Huffington Post. Click here.

THIS WEEK'S SECRET:

When I was a young teenager, I had a secret place where I went to write things that I didn't want anybody else to know. But today, I'll take you with me, back to my house on Coolidge Street in California . . . to my bedroom . . . into my closet. There, behind my hanging clothes, I would write on the wall. Yes, the wall, where I wasn't supposed to write, which made my secret place all the more delightful, all the more mine.

Of course, as a young teen girl, most of what I wrote was who I had a crush on:

J.M.

+

R.R.

But I also wrote down my dreams, wishes and other things I thought people would think silly if they knew. I wished my parents would not argue. I wished we didn't have to move to Japan. (That wish came true, but now I wish we had moved there -- an experience lost.)

I wrote down my anger about things I couldn't outwardly be angry about, like every time I wanted to scream at my mom for grounding me.

After I'd written what I held inside, I moved the clothes back in place, and my closet held my secrets safe. When it was time for me to leave home, I took a big, pink eraser, shoved the hanging clothes aside, and erased what I'd shared in my secret world.

I don't know if anyone ever knew about that tiny place where I spilled my heart, but I suspect not. I was a typical teenager with sisters and a brother, and that information was too valuable not to use as ammunition against me in sibling battles. None of my co-combatants ever used it against me. So, either they never found it, or they had bigger hearts than I gave them credit for.

Telling Tuesdays 12/13/11

Telling Tuesday. Reminiscent of those days in school when I looked forward to seeing what everyone brought to show and inspired by an article on WriteToDone.com, called "How to Show (Not Tell): A Writing Lesson from John LeCarre."

It is one of the best articles I've seen on the rule all writers know--show, don't tell--because it doesn't just tell us how not to tell, it shows us some of LeCarre's very own examples.

" . . . descriptions can set the scene, convey the inexpressible, and turn the reader into a witness, instead of remaining a mere bystander." -- Mary Jaksch, author of the article

Each week, I'll give a "telling" prompt, and invite you to show us, to make us a witness, not a mere bystander.

This week's prompt was inspired by a passage in a book I'm reading, Life of Pi. Here's the excerpt:

     Richard Parker has stayed with me. I've never forgotten him. Dare I say I miss him? I do. I miss him. I still see him in my dreams. They are nightmares, mostly, but nightmares tinged with love. Such is the strangeness of the human heart. I still cannot understand how he could abandon me so unceremoniously, without any sort of goodbye, without looking back even once. That pain is like an axe that chops at my heart.


So, here's this week's "telling" prompt. What can you "show" us?

She was sad when he left.

Here's an excerpt from a story I wrote several years ago (Voices, Volume I, High Hill Press, 2008) about a couple and their sailboat called "Haiku":

     He pulled away from her driveway with Haiku in-tow, leaving her feeling as empty as her now vacant garage. Sadness hovered like a gray cloud when a realization fixed itself in her heart - a realization as clear as the 800 pound gorilla that stood in the corner, its arms crossed in mock satisfaction.
  
  Their dance was nearing an end. Like the sailboats she'd watched on San Francisco Bay, their souls had moved toward each other, but never touched.
  
  And sailing Haiku wouldn't change anything.
  
      Her bed is empty
      Train whistle cries far away
      She hugs her pillow.


I'm looking forward to reading your "show" part of show and tell!