Rionna Morgan's Blog, page 6

Winning A Piece of Montana!

April 2012 - Winner!!                                                                                          
Congratulations to "The Secret Writer!"

Very mysterious, yes. But very friendly and fun as well.

The Secret Writer has won a beautiful hand blown glass piece from Aspen Hot Glass in Corvallis, Montana.

My new friend, The Secret Writer is described in the following fashion:

"I suppose this is always the hardest part, telling you a bit about myself. Where do you start and finish, being the quiet and modest type of a person that I am! My real name is Calum and I live in the UK. I
started writing when I was fairly young, but have only started to write seriously over the past number of years. I have written and had published, quite a few articles for a variety of newspapers, journals and corporate websites. I also write and publish book reviews and run a literay blog known as 'The Secret Writer'. I have always enjoyed reading and writing. My reading interests vary from historical fiction to the classics and also poetry! In reality I would read from most genres if a certain book particularly attracts my attention!"

I am sure Calum would enjoy having visitors.  I've included a link here for you to do so!

http://www.thesecretwriterblog.blogspot.com


Thank you, The Secret Writer for entering to win your lovely Piece of Montana!!

All the Best,
Rionna Morgan


For those interested, another drawing will be held at the end of May.  This month's featured business is again, Aspen Hot Glass.  They are an amazing family!


(Visit my Enter to Win link for more information on Aspen Hot Glass and future drawings).







Source: sonshyne.com via Rionna on Pinterest

Remember the Lipstick

Source: Life Lessons from a Rodeo Queen
[image error] Lesson #1


I have learned that no matter what wild thing is going on in my life, if I pause and put on a bit of decoration, a bit of lipstick, I feel more beautiful...


I have four children ranging from 19 years old to 19 months.  Sometimes all I can do in the morning is manage to brush my teeth and hide my hair under a large-toothed clip.  And, honestly, that's if I'm lucky.


I put on my yoga pants fully intending to go through my much loved routine, but alas, no yoga for me.  I try to find socks that match in my daughter's drawer because she's forever taking mine.  


I rarely get to drink the coffee or the tea I so meticulously make in the morning.  By dinner time, it is just sitting on the counter, lonely, where I left it at 7:00 a.m. so I could chase Miss Molly around the living room.


By 3:00 p.m. when it's time to pick up my other daughter from school, I'm a frenzy of activity, trying to find my shoes, because the tiny one walked off with them.  I stop to look in the mirror on my way out the door and see my hair has come loose from it's hurried early morning imprisonment.  Of course it did!  Why wouldn't it.  


I love going to town looking like a scarecrow with too much straw for hair and mismatched socks wearing my husband's sandals because they were the only shoes I could find!


But, I know that my secret weapon is in my car, waiting for me.  It's a simple shade of red; a lip stain that brushes on my lips like a refreshing tonic.  I take a second only to pull down my visor, crane my neck to look in the miniature mirror where only my lips are visible.  I apply the lipstick and smile.  


My lips are pretty.  My lips are kissable.  I feel beautiful.  

Just a Little Longer

They had nothing to say to each other.  The time for any speaking had already passed.  Now here they were, at the end of all things.  In the dim light of the hospital room, the wife curled her fingers around the quiet, cool ones of her husband.

She couldn’t see beyond the tears.  There was nothing to see as it was.  They had walked all the paths of their life together and instead of looking forward to the new path she’d take without him, she looked back.

There had been the greatest of joys.  The births of their children, the giggles they made as they learned to walk and run and play.  The pride they felt together when they saw their children step out onto the path that they would walk, leading them to the futures in their lives. 
 
There had been the greatest of adventures.  Standing on the Cliffs of Moher looking out across the world, feeling the winds of the ages fiercely blow across their faces.  Jumping, shrieking from an airplane, soaring on the currents, falling towards the earth, landing always together in the arms of each other.

There had been the greatest of sorrows.  Saying goodbye to the dearest ones, their parents, their friends, even a child.  The dark, cold nights standing hand in hand by the graves, wishing to hear their voices just once again.

She knew she couldn’t go on without him.  She knew there be no good found in tomorrow if she tried.  Her friends had faded with time and distance.  Her children had children of their own.  The lonely house on the hill was all that waited for her. 
 
She crawled up on the bed beside him.  Her body shook with pain.  His last breath, he’d taken, yet she searched for warmth in vain.  Couldn’t I just close my eyes and drift away with him?  Can’t we travel that next journey together.  It hasn’t been that long.  Won’t you come back and take me with you.  Wait for me.  I’m coming.  

Yet, she looked up and in the saddened shadows of the room saw a drifting, glowing magic surrounding his earthly form.  He smiled that blessed smile, the one that had coaxed her heart into loving so many years ago.  “But don’t you remember, we promised to see other again.  In the next life, in the next journey, I’ll be there waiting for you.  At the rising of the moon, at the setting of the stars, I will be there.  We will meet, we will remember, we will love and live again.”  

“Okay.  Okay,” she said.  “Just a little longer.  I’ll stay just a little longer.”

RED

It was the red that made her do it.

The rebellious red of her toenail polish--the color she wore the day she slammed the door on her father’s yelling voice and slipped into the driver’s seat of her souped-up red corvette.  Leaving a rooster tail of red Oklahoma dirt flying as she pulled out of the drive.   

The loving, strength red of her mother’s ruby ring wrapped around her finger.  The only remnant she has of the rosy memories of her childhood before her mother’s death.

The ripping pain, shredded life red of the blood soaking her shirt.  Her rebellious nature, her stubborn will had made him mad again.  And this time--the only time--he’d hit her.

She tucked her babies safe in their seats and started the car.

She went back in to finish what he started.  She pulled a box of matches from the cupboard.  She struck one and let it fly.

She could hear the red flames crackle as she walked away.

At the first red light, she made a plan.  Her long blond hair would turn to red.  She’d find a new town, a new life, a safe place for her babies.

Looking into the rear-view mirror, she trembled a bit as the red fire truck flew past, sirens blaring.  Her babies were safe.  Their soft red curls formed halos around their heads as they slept and dreamed the easy dreams.  She smiled and pressed the red of her lipstick against her mouth.  

Artists of the Written Word

"Every word you write is a decision.  The more decisions you make, the easier they become."
                                                                                                   --Paul Raymond Martin    
So true!  I know I have sat for hours looking at my screen, walking the paths around my home, gazing into the mirror, brushing my teeth--all while searching for the perfect word--not the right word--the perfect word.  It is the perfect word we all want.  We want the word that shows in just a few syllables the picture in our mind.
We are artists of the written word.  The perfect word is our paint brush, our crimson, our canvas.
Good luck to us all as we journey in search of the perfect morpheme.