Oops 🙊, I wrote a story using the words and punctuations. I give myself a big fat F (first one in my entire life) for missing the ‘Re’ part of re-create, and not checking the Roman numeral. Now, I am on empty…
I thought you may have seen it. I posted it this morning for a period of about 5 minutes or less, re-read the directions to check my work, then quickly deleted it. I pictured you saying to yourself; what the heck is she doing. Had a hot chocolate with extra marshmallows to drown my embarrassment.
Wait! I think there is some sort of a penalty box. Not sure if Adam has specified, I created my own. Off to sit in the snow bank on the corner, hot chocolate in hand.
I remember the day I came home from work and both my children were standing shamefaced in front of the marble coffee table, shattered—struck by their faces: shattered. The tabletop was simply, cleanly broken in half like my heart now. Ben had told Sarah that they should clean before I came home from work. They'd tried to lift this heavy piece of marble that lay on two steel sawhorse stands. The marble, a treasured piece because it came out from the top of my grandmother’s high boy. My mother had saved it after my grandmother died, had given it to me and both children knew how much I treasured it. There it lay. There we stood. Ben explained, cried. “Don’t,” I said. Not once but twice. I took them both in my arms and thanked them for trying to help me. And there he stands now: the man/child, the son I lost who tried so hard. There he stands. And here I sit in the break, in the shatter that hit me.
Ha! I will go easier on myself, I am not the lone person standing in the corner facing the wall. I am still proud of my story, sans the correct instructions. Coloring outside of the lines, so to speak.
I know, I already received an F, but I wrote it, so here it is.
Once I heard this song on the radio, I can never un-hear it again. I turned up the volume while seated in the passenger’s side, on a country road in Anywhere, Vermont. I cried, along with my husband. Paul, like me, he heard it years ago, only now, somehow with age, comes a keener understanding of the metaphors we call life.
“A cabinet maker's son”, who chose a different road than his father’s. Words don’t carry the same meaning as they did 30 years ago. Closer to out of time, than ‘all the time in the world’. While my heart sings with his, we both know all too well, the truth of the soothsayer’s hit—a gorgeous tribute, a sad tale. Now I am solemnly wistful whenever the song plays on the radio. Dan Fogelberg, struck down by cancer, gone too soon.
”If I could have only written one song in my life, it would have been 'Leader of the Band' because of what it meant to my father and to me — there was no way I could quantify that or even explain it."
RIP, Dan. I hope you’re sitting on a cloud playing guitar, while your dad smiles a rainbow.
You only received an F from yourself. I am on business travel and it’s little morning to night but I will give your writing the attention and care you have given mine. Stay tuned.
And tell all the other students should you “see” them, no grades are coming back until Sunday when my co-authors and I “publish.” How exciting!
Oops 🙊, I wrote a story using the words and punctuations. I give myself a big fat F (first one in my entire life) for missing the ‘Re’ part of re-create, and not checking the Roman numeral. Now, I am on empty…
Hahaha! I wasn’t tracking on your note. I even asked myself if you had inadvertently posted a comment to someone else! No harm, no foul.
I thought you may have seen it. I posted it this morning for a period of about 5 minutes or less, re-read the directions to check my work, then quickly deleted it. I pictured you saying to yourself; what the heck is she doing. Had a hot chocolate with extra marshmallows to drown my embarrassment.
I struck my son only once. He cried out, “we don’t hit.”
Same as mine but with the exclamation first!
Aha! Take two!
“We don’t hit” he cried out. I only struck my son once.
So Adam…did I win a cookie?
You won’t know until next Sunday. 😝
“We don’t hit” my son cried. I only struck out once.
Psss’t: you missed a word. Pour yourself a cup of hot chocolate with one extra marshmallow per your usual.
Oh crap! I did! Ok, trying again.
Wait! I think there is some sort of a penalty box. Not sure if Adam has specified, I created my own. Off to sit in the snow bank on the corner, hot chocolate in hand.
"We don't hit" he cried out. I struck my son only once.
Best I can find...
Did she do it?
Shhhhh
I remember the day I came home from work and both my children were standing shamefaced in front of the marble coffee table, shattered—struck by their faces: shattered. The tabletop was simply, cleanly broken in half like my heart now. Ben had told Sarah that they should clean before I came home from work. They'd tried to lift this heavy piece of marble that lay on two steel sawhorse stands. The marble, a treasured piece because it came out from the top of my grandmother’s high boy. My mother had saved it after my grandmother died, had given it to me and both children knew how much I treasured it. There it lay. There we stood. Ben explained, cried. “Don’t,” I said. Not once but twice. I took them both in my arms and thanked them for trying to help me. And there he stands now: the man/child, the son I lost who tried so hard. There he stands. And here I sit in the break, in the shatter that hit me.
I am honored now by a SECOND piece of micro fiction! See Lor’s! Clearly I’ve made this too difficult.
Ha! I will go easier on myself, I am not the lone person standing in the corner facing the wall. I am still proud of my story, sans the correct instructions. Coloring outside of the lines, so to speak.
I I didn’t get to acknowledge your work before accidentally hitting Post there. Here were the sentences that jumped out.
*
“There it lay. There we stood. Ben explained, cried. “Don’t,” I said. Not once but twice.”
Stay tuned.
Tuned! You can do it!
I know, I already received an F, but I wrote it, so here it is.
Once I heard this song on the radio, I can never un-hear it again. I turned up the volume while seated in the passenger’s side, on a country road in Anywhere, Vermont. I cried, along with my husband. Paul, like me, he heard it years ago, only now, somehow with age, comes a keener understanding of the metaphors we call life.
“A cabinet maker's son”, who chose a different road than his father’s. Words don’t carry the same meaning as they did 30 years ago. Closer to out of time, than ‘all the time in the world’. While my heart sings with his, we both know all too well, the truth of the soothsayer’s hit—a gorgeous tribute, a sad tale. Now I am solemnly wistful whenever the song plays on the radio. Dan Fogelberg, struck down by cancer, gone too soon.
”If I could have only written one song in my life, it would have been 'Leader of the Band' because of what it meant to my father and to me — there was no way I could quantify that or even explain it."
RIP, Dan. I hope you’re sitting on a cloud playing guitar, while your dad smiles a rainbow.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KmG8qnGReGQ
You only received an F from yourself. I am on business travel and it’s little morning to night but I will give your writing the attention and care you have given mine. Stay tuned.
And tell all the other students should you “see” them, no grades are coming back until Sunday when my co-authors and I “publish.” How exciting!
Aye, aye,sir ! Safe travels.