Gregory Josephs's Blog, page 6
August 14, 2017
Surfacing
At last, I’ve come up for air. Oh, how sweet it tastes! I’ve felt my lungs burning—bursting with the spent carbon dioxide of a summer of toil—and here, finally, is my grand exhale. And as I float here on the other side of my recent travails, I know this long, hypoxic journey was worth it. It didn’t go exactly as I’d planned, but sometimes we just have to hold our breath and trust we’ll make it through.
June 20, 2017
I Won My Own Planet (Sort Of)!!!
Coming into this week, I expected a lot of things. Receiving an award wasn’t one of them. I expected to be tired. I expected to be stressed. It’s the first week of the annual summer day camp I oversee, and faced with thirteen-hour workdays from now until the beginning of August, I expected to put my writing on hold.
June 15, 2017
Snails or “Thirty-Seven Gallons of Terror”
Swallowing hard, I caught the scream rising in my throat and replaced it with a terrified gasp. From the vantage point on his green micro-fiber throne, Prince Luca opened one yellow eye and glared accusingly as I stepped backward. Deciding I was in no real danger—and that my interruption of his sleep could be forgiven—he stretched and rolled onto his back before closing his eye again.
June 12, 2017
How To Become an Accident(al) Farm Hand
Call it the butterfly effect. Call it whatever you like; sometimes life’s seemingly insignificant twists and turns carry a big impact. If you’d told me two years ago I’d be spending one day a week on a farm, I’d have said you’re crazy. But accidents happen, and sometimes they result in pounds of tomatoes and enough sweet potatoes to last until spring.
June 8, 2017
Fifty Words for Rain
It is rumored that the Eskimo had fifty words for snow—you know, a word for the big fat flakes, and for the little tiny ones that don’t amount to much, for the driving blizzards and the gentle, sound-muffling windless storms. I have not independently verified this, but I’d like to believe it’s true.
June 5, 2017
To Be Seen Amongst the Unseeing Millions
Ryan hesitated a moment as he felt the cold metal of the knob press against his palm. Beyond the glass door he watched the sky—a perfect, dull, uniform grey—and wondered if he should go back downstairs for a jacket. No, he needed to feel this. He needed to feel something. Bracing against the wind that awaited, he opened the door and stepped out of the cupola into the brisk afternoon.
June 1, 2017
The Siren Song of Nostalgia
Hey, have you met my friend Nostalgia? She’s the one over there at the corner of the pool; the one with the pretty face and that sultry voice. She likes to swim, and if you’re feeling kind of blue—hell, even if you’re feeling pretty great—she’ll invite you in for a dip. She’s pretty persuasive, so if she starts talking to you, I hope you’ve got swim trunks on.
May 30, 2017
Horseshoes in the Dark
The silhouette appeared against the cobalt sky for a brief moment before announcing its arrival with a muted thud on the grass. A pair of smartphone flashlights flicked on, searching the lawn; there it was, embarrassingly far from the stake, even by our meager standards.
May 25, 2017
Beds in Boxes and the Stress of Anticipation
“Wait,” Brian said as he turned the key in the ignition. “What do you mean it comes in a box?”
May 22, 2017
Eternity in Seventeen Minutes
“Can you just lay here a minute?” I asked.
