Kelly Garriott Waite's Blog, page 2
February 14, 2014
Dimes Tossed by Strangers
When Professor Dunleavy suggested it three weeks ago, not one student raised his hand. But extra credit sweetened the deal and William Jackson volunteered.
His parents worried, as parents do. What was this fool professor doing, sending their William to live on the streets of Washington, D.C. for seven days and nights?
William reassured his family: It would be a good experience. He would do well, he reasoned, to live a week on nothing but his wits.
Dunleavy drove him to the depot. “You bring anything?”
“Nothing.”
“Cell phone?”
“No.”
To read more, click here
His parents worried, as parents do. What was this fool professor doing, sending their William to live on the streets of Washington, D.C. for seven days and nights?
William reassured his family: It would be a good experience. He would do well, he reasoned, to live a week on nothing but his wits.
Dunleavy drove him to the depot. “You bring anything?”
“Nothing.”
“Cell phone?”
“No.”
To read more, click here
February 13, 2014
Before Jogging Northeast
I started in my son’s room.
I started in my son’s room because I didn’t want to start in the master bedroom: Thin floral paper at least fifty years old grips the walls. The crack above the whistling radiator runs parallel for the length of my arm before jogging northeast, like a hand curved upward.
I started in my son’s room because his room has always been the room of hand-me-downs: dresser and bed and a nightstand painted blue.
I started in my son’s room.
I started in my son’s room because I didn’t want to start in the master bedroom: Thin floral paper at least fifty years old grips the walls there. The crack above the whistling radiator runs parallel for the length of my arm before jogging northeast, like a hand curved upward.
To read more, click here.
I started in my son’s room because I didn’t want to start in the master bedroom: Thin floral paper at least fifty years old grips the walls. The crack above the whistling radiator runs parallel for the length of my arm before jogging northeast, like a hand curved upward.
I started in my son’s room because his room has always been the room of hand-me-downs: dresser and bed and a nightstand painted blue.
I started in my son’s room.
I started in my son’s room because I didn’t want to start in the master bedroom: Thin floral paper at least fifty years old grips the walls there. The crack above the whistling radiator runs parallel for the length of my arm before jogging northeast, like a hand curved upward.
To read more, click here.
February 12, 2014
This Good and Gentle Earth
She whispers her secrets to the sand, digging beneath desiccated surfaces with a discarded scallop shell. She digs deep to where the sand has lost all independence. Here, each gleaming glass-like grain becomes one grey mass which she can extract by the handful.
She buries her feet. Pats the sand tight all around. Her toes feel mother ocean's heartbeat, that ever-present pulse. That constant, nagging beat calling her wave children home.
Eventually, they must depart, evaporating one drop at a time, gathering into clouds, brothers and sisters merging and moving as one, going wherever the wind takes them.
To read more, click here.
She buries her feet. Pats the sand tight all around. Her toes feel mother ocean's heartbeat, that ever-present pulse. That constant, nagging beat calling her wave children home.
Eventually, they must depart, evaporating one drop at a time, gathering into clouds, brothers and sisters merging and moving as one, going wherever the wind takes them.
To read more, click here.
February 11, 2014
Semi-Permanent State
FEBRUARY 11, 2014 BY KGWAITE@GMAIL.COM
Semi-Permanent State
Ida stands at the window, hands tucked into the back pockets of her Levi’s. “Look at those icicles.” She turns. Her husband hunches in his easy chair, neck curved. “Seventy-three of them, slippery sharp like a row of dragon’s teeth.”
Frank sighs and shoots what appears to be an obligatory glance through the glass before returning his attention to the phone in his hand, jabbing at the screen with a thickened index finger. A window of light reflects off each lens of his glasses.
“Not that I believe in dragons. Although I could deal with a bit of heat from a dragon’s mouth just about now, what with the deep freeze we’ve been living in for…how many months now?” She extracts her right hand from her pocket and begins accounting for the time, laying out her thumb and settling November firmly upon it like an accusation. The remaining fingers are assigned their own month: “December…January…February…Four months. We been frozen up for four months.”
To read more, click here.
Semi-Permanent State
Ida stands at the window, hands tucked into the back pockets of her Levi’s. “Look at those icicles.” She turns. Her husband hunches in his easy chair, neck curved. “Seventy-three of them, slippery sharp like a row of dragon’s teeth.”
Frank sighs and shoots what appears to be an obligatory glance through the glass before returning his attention to the phone in his hand, jabbing at the screen with a thickened index finger. A window of light reflects off each lens of his glasses.
“Not that I believe in dragons. Although I could deal with a bit of heat from a dragon’s mouth just about now, what with the deep freeze we’ve been living in for…how many months now?” She extracts her right hand from her pocket and begins accounting for the time, laying out her thumb and settling November firmly upon it like an accusation. The remaining fingers are assigned their own month: “December…January…February…Four months. We been frozen up for four months.”
To read more, click here.
February 10, 2014
Equator
You headed east. I, west.
Every step doubling our distance.
Halfway round the world, we met, eyes questioning.
You stepped from the path, altered your course slightly north.
I continued west, remaining true.
~
This was written for this week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge:
This week we’re asking for exactly 33 of your own words about love gone wrong. But we’re asking that you not use any of the following words:
love
sad
tears
wept
heart
pain
Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+
To read more of my posts, click here.
Every step doubling our distance.
Halfway round the world, we met, eyes questioning.
You stepped from the path, altered your course slightly north.
I continued west, remaining true.
~
This was written for this week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge:
This week we’re asking for exactly 33 of your own words about love gone wrong. But we’re asking that you not use any of the following words:
love
sad
tears
wept
heart
pain
Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+
To read more of my posts, click here.
February 7, 2014
The Bells of St. Brigit's
Tugging at that thin filament at the edges of my brain, leading me through the maze of old paths and connections, reintroducing me to myself and my life, like a baby glancing himself in a mirror, they ring.
My ears focus. My eyes touch darkness. I clear my rusted throat. "The bells of St. Brigit's are calling tonight."
She screams and drops a purple plate. "Dad's back!" She rushes over the fragments of our shattered, scattered lives.
Blue tears leak from her eyes. I smell her sadness.
To read more, click
My ears focus. My eyes touch darkness. I clear my rusted throat. "The bells of St. Brigit's are calling tonight."
She screams and drops a purple plate. "Dad's back!" She rushes over the fragments of our shattered, scattered lives.
Blue tears leak from her eyes. I smell her sadness.
To read more, click
February 6, 2014
Chasing the Sun
Even with keeping the heat at sixty-four degrees and stiff-legging it around the house in long underwear and jeans, this month’s gas bill is a shocker: Three hundred and eighty dollars.
During the day, I follow the cats around the house. They chase the sun as it moves from room to room, picking out a warm spot on a couch or on a shelf upon which to curl up.
But evenings, when the sun has gone down, we gather in my office: a room with two walls of bookshelves and a set of windows that extends along a third. A window seat, with built-in cabinets beneath, runs the length of those windows. And it is here that the pup sits, growling at squirrels or passers-by, while the older dog, too frail and too large, besides, to get up on the seat, exhales on the glass panes, leaving them dotted with mist.
To read more, click here.
During the day, I follow the cats around the house. They chase the sun as it moves from room to room, picking out a warm spot on a couch or on a shelf upon which to curl up.
But evenings, when the sun has gone down, we gather in my office: a room with two walls of bookshelves and a set of windows that extends along a third. A window seat, with built-in cabinets beneath, runs the length of those windows. And it is here that the pup sits, growling at squirrels or passers-by, while the older dog, too frail and too large, besides, to get up on the seat, exhales on the glass panes, leaving them dotted with mist.
To read more, click here.
Hung in Tatters
It hung in tatters above her.
What, you want to know. What hung in tatters? And the her referred to here. Who is she?
She.
Everywoman.
Every.
Woman.
To read more, click here.
What, you want to know. What hung in tatters? And the her referred to here. Who is she?
She.
Everywoman.
Every.
Woman.
To read more, click here.
February 5, 2014
Mistakes
Izza scratched at the scab on her knee. “Man was a stranger here. Looked out of place, all wide-eyed and knees knocking as he walked down the rutted street in his suit and tie.”
Nora nodded, encouraging her grandmother to go on.
“Children in torn jeans played on tilting front porches. Dingy whites clung to backyard clotheslines. His father had refused us sidewalks; in a way trapping us permanently in this ramshackle development.”
“The Estates,” Nora said.
“Man sold promises and dreams.”
“But he didn’t sell houses.”
To read more, click here.
Nora nodded, encouraging her grandmother to go on.
“Children in torn jeans played on tilting front porches. Dingy whites clung to backyard clotheslines. His father had refused us sidewalks; in a way trapping us permanently in this ramshackle development.”
“The Estates,” Nora said.
“Man sold promises and dreams.”
“But he didn’t sell houses.”
To read more, click here.
February 4, 2014
Considering the Trees
If you time it right, if you get that old Christmas tree to the curb on time, the city will pick it up. Haul it away in the back of a salt truck and turn it into compost. Most of the trees get picked up this way, but a man has been spotted ’round here, stepping from his Cadillac, considering the trees curbside, occasionally selecting one and wrestling it into his trunk. But that doesn’t happen too often.
What can happen is that people are late. They miss the cutoff, don’t get their tree to the curb early enough. And so there it sits, poor miserable tree, once cherished, now a thing to be disposed of, accumulating a layer of salt and snow, putting up with the indignity of prodding dog noses, under constant threat of being mistaken for a fire hydrant.
Here and there, these leftover trees are scattered, the trees not picked up by the city or by the man in the Cadillac.
To read more, click here.
What can happen is that people are late. They miss the cutoff, don’t get their tree to the curb early enough. And so there it sits, poor miserable tree, once cherished, now a thing to be disposed of, accumulating a layer of salt and snow, putting up with the indignity of prodding dog noses, under constant threat of being mistaken for a fire hydrant.
Here and there, these leftover trees are scattered, the trees not picked up by the city or by the man in the Cadillac.
To read more, click here.
Kelly Garriott Waite's Blog
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