Memoirous

A new story is up on the home page of Gay Flash Fiction . When I was fifteen a prophet came to my church. What I really wanted was for her to speak over me, a laying on of hands. I came at this piece many different ways through the past 5 years. I always knew I wanted to do it, but each time—in such a small space, in so little words—I was never sure who was speaking. Of course the protagonist doesn’t exactly know either—that’s why he/she needed a prophet, someone to tell them exactly what they needed to know. You see it isn’t always clear. Please read and share the link with others. It’ll be up for a week before being archived into the blog. THANK YOU. ALSO another acceptance. This piece is a reprint, In Her Garden, which will be at Penny Shorts a British on-line journal. I will definitely let my readers (both of you) know when it is posted. Again, thanks. Really. "laying on of hands" ceremony in the Pentecostal Church of God

Well it's FRIDAY. And I don't have a clue as to what to write--or even prompt YOU to write. Except I had this idea. A collaborative letter between me and my friend of over 40 years (of course we were infants when we met, more about this later). I tried to think the other day about WHEN DID WE FIRST MEET. So together Jane Jarrell McSweeney and I put this together (some edits to protect the innocent). ME Meeting Jane When did we first meet? I believe I first met my friend Jane at a Young Life event downtown, in the city. If one can imagine: the idea of downtown Dayton sounding cool, exciting, the high life. I couldn’t wait to attend. It would start at the YMCA pool and perhaps end at Chris’ (the college age women’s leader) house for an overnight. I think we were also planning on having a late-night treat at Frisch’s Big Boy Restaurant. They had a hot fudge brownie cake to die for. I remember doing baby laps in a half-size pool the temperature of Nome, Alaska and being

Waves: A Confluence of Women's Voices If you’re a woman writer or artist, you’re invited to submit. There are no restrictions as to subject matter and form (other than the necessary word/line limits). We are open to all kinds of work. Along with your creative work in any genre, including artwork, we welcome additional submissions from women who attended the 2015 Retreat Waves Discussion Series, and we’d like to suggest that anyone who has applied for the Gift of Freedom consider submitting some portion of her application. Submit thoughtfully, and check our website for more inspiration as the wave grows. We are hoping for a mix of established and new voices for this anthology, featuring Maxine Hong Kingston. Hear more about Diane Gilliam's vision as editor here . You may submit unpublished or previously published work. If you are submitting we would be glad for you to invite women writers who have be

How do the professional writers, the ones making money, the ones writing for television—how do they come up with their material? They mine it from everyday life. The other day I was eating lunch and listening to a podcast and the person being interviewed, a writer for a couple popular TV sitcoms talked about the Monday morning writers meeting. This was when he was working on Everybody Loves Raymond. First thing the head writer would say was: What happened this weekend? So the men and women around the table would talk about family matters, misunderstandings, household chaos—the mundane. And, it worked. It fired scripts, kept a show running for 8 seasons. Surely from your crazy/boring life comes a tidbit/germ you can render into a story or incorporate into a longer narrative. Often I will draft half-done stories, knowing there is something missing. A piece to the puzzle that I must wait on. This seldom comes as true inspiration as much as paying attention. If I think wha

Our six senses is one of the easiest pathways to memory. According to Mary Karr, the sense of smell is one of the oldest. “ I had a friend who is a neurologist say that it's the oldest sense -- the primary sense is smell. Animals can smell changes in territory. Even one-celled amoeba, who have no brainstems, can smell. So much feeling is attached to it .” Currently I am reading Karr’s The Art of Memoir and she is hitting all the right notes. So many questions new memoirists struggle with are covered in her book. Here is where you can link to for an interview about the book: http://www.splendidtable.org/story/mary-karr-memory-is-what-you-can-smell-touch-and-taste A few years back I wrote a piece called Sense of Smell which was included in an anthology based upon small memories (what I call flash memoir) “Sense of Smell” Spring 2012, IMPACT: A Collection of Short Memoir The piece emerged simply from standing at a corner waiting for the light to change. Spring ti

A couple new acceptances: "Summer of the Seventeen-Year Locust" will be published in the summer issue The Vignette Review . And an untitled piece in an upcoming issue of Gay Flash Fiction , publishing quality fiction for over 6 years!   And a couple of close calls, 2016 is feeling good so far!  the cicada lifecycle

And a time when you just cannot bullshit. An acquaintance of mine, not really super close, but we know each other professionally just got a diagnosis that has shattered me. Selfishly all I can think of is me. You see we are about the same age, same everything, yet she has early Alzheimer’s which I think is a real bitch. We aren’t even Facebook friends, and I went to her profile and looked up pictures. That smile, that face—it will slowly fade. Those plans for travel, the books she was going to sit down to write, future weddings. They still may happen, except she might not be involved, or if there peripherally, and the memories one should hold dear—those will disappear. I think of myself in the middle of mid-life, middle-aged, and the very idea of Alzheimer’s freaks me out. Losing memories, losing time. It changes everything. The shared bits and pieces, the memories that make us uniquely us, gone. Right now I am in the midst of planning a thousand-mile bike trip from the to

I’ve always heard it talked about, but last week in an effort to put off a bit of writing I needed to finish I fiddled on Facebook and came across a link to David Foster Wallace’s timeless commencement address, “This Is Water.” I always thought I knew what it was about, but this time came away with new impressions. Now we all know these kinds of speeches can be extremely cheesy. Or if not cheesy then extremely boring. And if not extremely boring, then drudgery, the thing you need to sit through in order to get to the next thing. Life. Debt. A job? Your future. Out to eat with family, friends, your girlfriend/boyfriend/the person you are about to split from. The promised road trip, European vacation, summer of freedom. Grad school. But what struck me the most was that Water was Life. The thing one can easily overlook, dismiss, become so used to that it is taken for granted. Just like water for a fish—yet so essential. Ordinary life is just that—life. The stuff we sw

My neighbor down the street is a hooker. She even has business cards she hands out. Happy Hooker. She crochets beanies and caps. My neighbor down the street is homeless. She sleeps in a tent under the viaduct and people drive by and leave food for her on the sidewalk. Late at night creeps honk as they speed by, the loud horn echoing off the peeling cement walls. She rarely gets a good night’s rest. Yet every day she is up and knitting, sitting in the coffee shop or else in a lawn chair in the park, waiting for customers. She customizes her orders—though she reserves the right to refuse service. Let me know if you’d like Linda to make you something. http://oddlovescompany.com/about/     photo by Stacy Rupolo, http://chicagoreporter.com/a-community-out-in-the-cold/

This one goes into the column of—What Was I Thinking, not so much a question as a statement. As a teenager I loved playing tennis. I had a wicked backhand—a two-handed one like Chrissy Evert. And, since I could never find anyone to play me, I was constantly challenging myself, hitting a ball off the wall of the elementary school down the street. I’d scoop and dive for the long shot, recover and return the volley back to me. It was actually a bit pathetic. I was desperate to play but could never find a partner. Something that happened regularly that was a blessing and a curse was that I’d lose my ball on top of the roof. There was always the ball boomeranged off the wood or handle, the off-shot that went bonkers. I found a way to scale the wall (though in my memory I can’t recall how it was possible. There were no fences etc to give me a head or foot up. And, the wall was perfectly flat. Go figure.) Once on the roof I’d be rewarded not only with my own ball, but sev

Sometimes we have to write in a flash--because it's Friday, because there isn't always a lot of time, because the kettle on the stove will soon blow and you have to clean up and get the kids off to school. Sometimes there is only enough time to flash. The Daily Dash to Flash. Last week (Fridays is my submit day)(which you would learn about if you purchased my eBook 365 Affirmations for the Writer that carries with it tips, prompts, and other handy ways to be encouraged, get organized, and WRITE). Anyway, I was submitting last week and saw a call for The Daily Flash and sent in two 50-word flashes I'd composed for another journal but which weren't taken.  And, in a flash! these were accepted.  All this to say: today is the day to flash. Ready, set, go. And, if you haven't ordered 365 Affirmations for the Writer --here is a snippet to tease you. May 1 A Lonely Business On the other hand, I mean, that is what writers have always been supposed t

Check out Firefly Magazine (a Journal of Luminous Writing), issue 6 Where I have a new story out: Marathoner  It was the fall he was running 50 miles a week. In the morning he would get up in the pre-dawn dark and step into his shorts. Those nylon shorts felt like the hand of the devil on his ass, so cold and so clammy, but he always wore them, knowing that after the first mile he’d warm up. He pulled his grey Northwestern sweatshirt on over the T-shirt he’d slept in. Katie would still be asleep on her side of the bed. Before slipping out the front door, he laced up a pair of Adidas, the goosepimples on his hard thighs standing out like Braille. The sun still not up yet.   March 31, 2014 by @cpplunkett

As a child I was anxious, prone to a wild imagination. Upon hearing news of some catastrophe half-way around the world, I would immediately assume it was happening here, happening now, going to happen to me. Impending doom. Maybe this is the result of too many fairy tales where girls were always the victim. Or perhaps this was the actual fallout from the Cold War—to be ready for any eventuality. I remember one night hearing on the radio about a volcano erupting. I could imagine liquid fire pouring out of the mouth and down the sides of the volcano like icing on a cake, pulsing and ebbing ever closer. I could hardly sleep. In fact I was so terrified I sprung from my bed and opened the door and ran outside into the night. It took both of my parents to convince me that this eruption, this volcano was thousands of miles away. I soon learned to brace myself for earthquakes. I practiced ducking and covering, diving under a wobbly card table. My classroom at school would ofte