A Song Or Two

 (Written for Friday Fictioneers)

Photograph by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Photograph by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

My dearest pink cheeked lady

You make me go Boom! Bang! Pow!

My heart drum rolls every time I behold you

You are an inspiration to my musical chow.

~~

If you are the pluck, I am the string

If you are the rhythm, I am the tune

If you are the piano’s white, I am the black

For you my love, I’ll even jam on the moon.

~~

You complete the harmony of my unmelodious life

I wonder if you would like to be my wife

We’ll make songs of love and despair

If the neighbours complain, we just wouldn’t care.

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Mix Salad

(Written for Weekly Writing Challenge : This week’s challenge is to use the aid of an unreliable narrator in telling your story)

“C’mon Jenna, hurry up with my tea, will ya?”

Old Ma hollered down the hallway. Tess shivered. She hated the Thursday of every week. For it meant it was her turn to serve Old Ma for the day – breakfast, mid morning snack, lunch, high tea, dinner and everything in between. The torture was unbearable. Snide remarks, occasional slaps and the volley of curses – she seemed to bring out the worst in that horrible woman.

“Lost in thought again, are you? Are you making fanciful plans of going to Hollywood? Or is it the yatch trip with that despicable boy Jerry? C’mon you daydreaming cow, do you think I have all day to sit and wait for a stupid fluff like you?”

“‘Not that you have a choice,” Tess sighed. She knew Fanny had set the wooden legs afire on purpose. Which meant Old Ma was confined to her room all the time. Fanny was such a lovable girl –always up to some mischief! She always had this twinkle in her eye, as though life was a big joke to her. “Someday I would like to be as fun as her,” Tess thought ruefully, walking out with the meal tray. Shivering from head to toe.

On top of the staircase, she was glad Nyla took over. Nyla had always been good to her. Whenever Tess was in trouble, Nyla would be her saving grace. That girl seemed to worship the old woman. There was a sort of reverence in her eyes that was definitely not fake. She knocked the door and quietly entered Old Ma’s room.

“What a mess this place is,” thought Zenia. She made it a point to leave the room spic and span, and yet every morning the room looked like it had been struck by a hurricane. “What have you done this time Beth?” Zenia sighed. It was true that no one petrified Old Ma more that Beth, but this was getting out of hand now – if not checked in time, she would probably end up killing the old woman. “Not that anyone would be upset about that,” Zenia grinned. She was glad to not be on the receiving end when Beth was in her full blown fury – those angry red eyes would make even the most brave hearted cower in fright.

Old Ma placed the tray on her lap and looked up, not sure who to expect today. Her eyes immediately softened and she clutched the pretty girl in front of her. “Marion! Oh thank heavens it’s you! I’ve missed you my baby. Don’t leave me. Please don’t. The others…the others…they are you but just…just not you.”

“I know Ma, I’ve missed you too.” Marion smiled at her mother. She stared out of the window enjoying the moment…not knowing which one of the others would take over her mind next.

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Criticism never kills

(Written for Daily Prompt – Tell us about the harshest, most difficult to hear — but accurate — criticism you’e ever gotten. Does it still apply?)

 p20121127-095213“Writer? You want to be a writer? Where has that sprung from? Can you even write?”, Dad asked me incredulously.

This was a question, yes, but it stung me as though judgement had been thrown in to my face. But then again, I knew better than getting miffed with Dad. I had not shared a word of what I wrote with my parents, or anyone else for that matter. So obviously, I couldn’t expect a better reaction when I told my parents that I wanted to be a writer – a copywriter specifically.

Mom gave me a look which said “There goes my daughter with one of her harebrained ideas which she won’t see through till the end…again!” She suggested I get a regular job (in line with the masters degree in marketing I possessed) and then write as a by-the-way thing. I stood my ground.

I wanted to be a full-time writer.

But then, my parents’ reaction forced me to question my career decision again. Did I have it me to be a writer? Would I stick with this choice? Did I really possess the kind of imagination that might interest people in reading my writing? Luckily for me, the strangling question of will I earn enough? never occurred to me. I sought creative satisfaction over material comfort. I’d rather be happy with my limited amount of money than be rushing through a round-the-clock job that leaves me with no mental peace.

That was the last time, however, that I questioned my choice. And thankfully, neither did my parents.

Today, I’m glad I took that step and listened to my heart. I’m glad I made friends with words. I’m glad I’m doing fairly decently in my chosen field.

And it feels so nice when I see Dad sharing a piece written by me on Facebook 🙂