Content: mother

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I'm not your ordinary grandmother, but before you read this please know I have one extraordinary daughter and two grandkids whose major flaw seems to be that they are little boys!

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I was speaking with a friend and she mentioned something about her mother. It made me catch my breath. This poem has been formulating since.

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FINAL DRAFT. √ This one is going to be a chore to convert to visual script form. With emotions this complex, I'll need to rely on symbols and thingy metaphors in action. Any visual reference suggestions are appreciated (a picture tells a 1000 words, etc). Three scripts are nearly finished. Nine more final draft short stories coming soon.|| Originally entitled: Somewhere in the Neighborhood of Love. Thanks - måx ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈

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I wrote this just as a little happy birthday salute to my youngest child.

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The chase and executing of Bin Laden.

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This is the second novel in a series, designed to stand alone as well as be a sequel. The FBI in Lubbock are hot on a terrorist trail and need extra help with a separate investigation involving the death of a young woman in the witness relocation program. The SAC calls San Fran to get Boston back to find out who murdered the paid companion of an elderly widow living in the middle of nowhere on a ranch named Spurlock. A private jet brings Boston, along with Skip, back home not only to find out who murdered the victim but to change the coroner's ruling from suicide to murder. To save the FBI money, Boston decides he and Skip will stay in his family's palatial home for the duration of the investigation. He didn't expect the decision would bring up old memories and open old wounds....

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Blue Lotus Rising is the story of Neelkamal, the divine daughter of the Mother Goddess Devi, raised by a simple couple, who may be poor in material riches, but shine with a treasure trove of high ideals and moral values. It is the story of little Neelkamal or 'Blue Lotus' through the trials and tribulations that she must face and emerge triumphant in her quest to find herself and her true love.

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One of the hardest things in life for me has been learning that I must choose who I have in my life in order to improve my life experience. It can be very painful lesson when applied to the people to whom we are indebted for an upbringing. Regardless of what they may be like as human beings, its a tough call to free yourself from abuse, or pain when it involves letting go of someone who was present in your life as a child, or even as an adult. Blood relation or not, separating yourself from someone who mistreats you can be the hardest bond to break, emotionally, socially, or ethically. This piece explores the painful realities of a parental relationship that required a severing of bonds to recover from. Tell me what you think, and forgive me if its rather harsh, The struggle to survive that home was challenging, and it took years for me to release the person in question. This piece is about ten years old, but I pulled it out, reworked it, and now here it is for your consideration.

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This letter recently came into my possession. I hope you enjoy.

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This is a (short) short story I've been working on for a writing class I'm taking this semester. Any comments welcome.

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this is the story of Ana's troubled mother, Szuszanna, a hungarian girl who marries a wealthy american businessman. her daughter Ana, of course, is the main character in my novella "It's Ana, Just Ana" i appreciate any and all feedback. should these two stories be coupled into a 2-part novel? so far, it's got more of a romancenovel-ish feel to it, but i'd like opinion on that as well. thanks, and enjoy!

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How would it feel? Can we really imagine the depths of guilt and mourning?

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Hope this generates a smile or two. Familiar territory about strained in-law relationships. All comments are appreciated.

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Is Ana just a self-pitying teen, haunted by the memory of her dead mother and sister, or is there something more serious going on? I appreciate all comments and feedback.

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Sometimes we just have to write. Nothing terribly important nor worthy of much comment. This is for my grandson Hayden age six. He has such an imagination. I can see him having this conversation. Again.. pure fun for me. Nothing more

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I have been reading Memphis Trace's works and I thought I'd try my hand at stream of consciousness writing. I realize that it's going to be hard to read. But I had fun writing it.

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Any feedback is welcome, love or hate the work...

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No feedback required... Unless you want to join me in rejoicing the memories, or have just realised how important you are...

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Okay...I crawled into a hole in January and I'm finally digging out. I hate winter! Why the hell am I not in Hawaii? Anyway, I decided I had to get back on the horse and write SOMETHING. So, this is a Carroll-esque, totally nonsense, stream-of-consciousness poem. No apologies. Yes, it rhymes loosely, and no, my dear, I don't give a damn if there is an exact pattern! Gnash and tear away if you feel you must. I hope it at least makes you smile.

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For all those duty bound. I wrote this piece 26 years ago. Kathy still has Beau. Any comments welcome.

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This was an article I wrote for my column in our local newspaper for Mother's Day. My mother had a million little sayings for her children that have always made me giggle, but this one has a special place in my heart.

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Kiel Thrice-Loved reunites with his mother, and expresses his dissatisfaction with her captors . . .(To avoid confusion the squad leader has been given the name Carillon.)

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A poem for my mother who was strict and wouldn't let me date!! Written as if I were her! Any kind of feedback is welcome.

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A Tale of the Loved.

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This is an essay about my mother and every other woman raising a family in the 70's.

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A strange note sends a mother and son on a journey of discovery.

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Does duty preclude a young girl coming of age? Where is the line drawn between common sense and public opinion? Feedback welcome

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"I Know You By Heart" takes an extended family through the death of its matriarch and then through the formalities of the mourning period. This premise seems very mundane I suspect, but no doubt you know from experience, that no mourning period for anyone, or any family is like any other. All members of all families have unfinished business, hidden scandals, fearful secrets that create unwitting behavior. Each character provides harsh but horribly true information revealed for the first time. In “I Know You by Heart,� all of these elements float about uncontrolled and the family appears to run amok. As adults, we have learned that reasonably responsible people often respond to crisis in irrational ways. This particular family grieves, begrudges, punishes and begins to love again over time.

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This song is dedicated to my recently deceased mother. I wrote it as a testament of my grief and despair. I plan to rewrite this as a traditionally metered ballad some day. As usual, ANY and ALL feedback is appreciated and desired, so please take a bit more time and review while you view.

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Lya Agoba is Nigerian for Grandmother...

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This is a story about my mother who died two years ago. I had a difficult time writing this and Whatta spent a great deal of time helping me improve it. Thank you, Mitch.

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This is the first draft of The Erstwhile Hearts Guild Chapter 3. This story is coming to me sort of haphazardly,(hence no Chapter 2 yet) but I take it with me everywhere. Any feedback is helpful. Thank you in advance

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This is a story about the relationship between tragedy and necessity, and the changes we make to keep breathing.

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Chris began to question the wisdom of this trip. The familiar crunching sound of tires on the gravel driveway gave away her surprise arrival. She had planned to arrive undetected, take a look around at her former life, and if necessary, leave undetected. As she pulled up to the once-white, house with the slanted front porch and broken screen door, she was at once joyfully nostalgic and severely repulsed. Before Chris could turn off the engine and step out onto the gravel and oil driveway, Ma was already waving from the window in the big bedroom upstairs. Chris shook her head when she notice Ma wearing the same faded red, pansy-printed house dress she was wearing exactly one year before on Easter Sunday and likely every other Sunday for the last thirty years or more. The hem of this dress must have been re-sewn by Ma’s plump hands a hundred times or more and the buttons were a mere rumor, replaced by multi-colored diaper pins. Even without seeing it now, Chris could describe each frayed piece of the fabric, not only because she seen it in her mind whenever she pictured Ma, but because she’d spent so much time as a child, hiding from the world on underneath it. They met inside the house, at the bottom of the stairs and greeted one another the way they always had. No “I love you,� or “good to see you.� No touching moment and definitely no embracing, just right to the business at hand – avoidance. “Lawd chile, I ain’t know who dat was pullin’ in my driveway all fast.� Ma said, barely stopping at the foot of the staircase. “Uhn, uhn, uhn. What you doin’ wit’ ya hair now?� “All that money, - cant you pay somebody to do something with that hair?� Chris sighed. “It’s called the natural look Ma, and I did pay somebody to do this.� Uhn, we’ll you done thrown dat money away. Look like a natural mess to me. I’ put a pressin comb on it fo’ ya fo’ free.� Ma laughed. “Lawd have mercy, now I got to go upstairs an’ put some clean sheets on dat bed. Go on out back and say somethin’ to Dad.� Chris walked through the old house, through the dog’s room on the back porch and out into the back yard where Dad sat atop his ancient, red, riding mower, mowing and drinking what was almost surely corn liquor, wrapped in a brown paper bag. “Hey there, Lil Bit, what you doin’ here? Dad slurred. “You done drove all the way from New York City to help me cut all this grass.� All morning, Chris sat in the kitchen with Ma snapping peas, peeling potatoes and soaking greens. “You listen here girl, now I ain’t gonna have none of that mess you pull last year at my Easter table, you hear me?� Ma warned. “What’s past is past.� “Now, ya Mama an’ them comin.’� “Again, Ma, she is not my Mama� Chris said. “Well, she carried ya ‘round in her fo’ nine mont’s di’nt she?� Ma exclaimed. Chris started, “Ma, but she never did nothing for me….� At this, Chris was immediately shocked by her improper language, and how easily it came back to her. “She my daughter, and yo’ mama, an’ this is my house and I say she’ comin’ here to have Easter dinner wit’ us, now you just keep ya mouth shut if ya aint got nothing nice to say, hear.� ‘Ma, if she brings him again, I can’t sit at the table and act like everything is ok.� Chris explained. Ma fidgeted. “Don’t you say it.� Suddenly, Chris felt possessed. “What, Ma, that he raped me and my Mama was too high to do anything?� Ma looked around for something to hold on to and settled on a bag of flour on the. Ma said, “Don’t ya talk with dat nasty mouth in my house girl, now, I jus’ ain’t gon’ have it.� Brushing flour off her dress, Ma quietly demanded, “Now make yourself useful and go set the table.�

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