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  • TK Camas 00:01 on 31/01/2019 Permalink | Reply  

    DWP No. 031 

    Objective

    FREE WRITE

    Don’t know; don’t care.

    p.s. the Daily Prompt Pledge | February | begins right away tomorrow!

    Pledge HERE and/or RSVP on Meetup!

    as always, use [ brackets ]  here on WordPress to bring my attention to questions.

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    • Mary 01:31 on 31/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      To Angeliti, Don’t Forget the Milk

      I don’t know and I don’t care-
      Thor is in his underwear.
      Kinda stinky
      Kinda white-
      you could say they’re kinda tight.
      Watch him move to Dancing Queen-
      Man, that boy can make a scene!
      But he stinks from head to toe
      I would rather kiss Monroe.
      He’s so hot and quite the dandy
      Makes me think of cotton candy.
      But he,too is kinda stinky
      Sucking on my tiny pinky
      Whining whining every day-
      Dear Lord, make him go away!
      I don’t know and I don’t care
      If you gots no underwear
      Just be sure to wipe the seat-
      Hunchbacks are so very neat.

      Hey-Close the door behind you!
      Were you raised in a barn?

      Liked by 2 people

    • TK Camas 09:58 on 31/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      Never does he ever care, and worse, never does he ever KNOW. It was around this time that his husband’s fury sparked into a tiny flame. “What do you mean you don’t care?” his husband demands. “It’s about us. It’s always about us. It’s about the deep rooted hatred toward men like us.” “Yea,” he responds, “But I don’t care.” His husband sighs at his general apathy, but then realizes that perhaps the apathy is more specific. “We’ve existed since the dawn of humanity. You know how I know this?” his husbands starts. “Sure, how?” his snorts. “Cause we’re written about in that fucking Bible. Men have been enjoying themselves in a homosexual capacity for ages, and we only know this because of how specifically wicked the treatment toward gays has been … since forever … like forever ever,” his husband shouts, nearly through tears now. He lowers his head in shame. “No, don’t fucking feel ashamed, Love. Just, you can’t not care,” his husband soothes. “I don’t care because I don’t want to,” he pauses for a moment; “I can’t care cause it’s just too fucking much sometimes … all the time … every single fucking day sometimes.” “Yea,” his husband responds. “That’s why we have to care. If we don’t care about our own rights and our own humanity, how can we expect others to?” “Maybe,” he retorts, glum.

      Liked by 1 person

    • Donnie 16:01 on 31/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      I don’t know and
      I don’t care
      (because it makes no difference)
      You don’t know and
      You don’t care
      (because it makes no difference)
      You cried and
      I cried
      (because it mattered)
      I hid and
      You lied
      (because it mattered)
      We don’t know and
      We don’t care
      (because it makes no difference)

      Like

    • etmoseleyc 21:20 on 31/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      Like flash bangs they went off and violently peppered the space around her head with noise and commotion. The people about threw themselves at each other desperately, flailing out in a last-ditch effort, clawing out at whatever they could get their greedy mitts on without any care for life or limb.

      But the taste was with her now, and she was immersed. The creature of her attention was leashed firmly with the flavor that now coated her interior, and she would be slave to it as long as she remained conscious.

      Like

  • TK Camas 14:48 on 30/01/2019 Permalink | Reply  

    2019 Daily Prompt Pledge | February 

     

    #WRTGPRAC is hosting the FEBRUARY Daily Prompt Pledge!
    Objective:
    • To complete every single Daily Writing Prompt through the month of February.
    • To actively participate online with other writers (not every day, but most days).
    • To surrender to the process, which will inevitably bring forth all of the psychological issues you have regarding yourself as a writer.

     

    Fee:
    • FREE  —> if you simply want to challenge yourself and participate! (feel free to Donate HERE).
    • $15 —> if you want your progress tracked in order to receive the February Badass Badge upon successful completion of each post on each day its posted! (please PLEDGE AND PAY through PayPal or Meetup)
    Schedule:
    • Week One – Continuous Storytelling
    • Week Two – Free Writing; Two-Day Challenge
    • Week Three – Add-On | Character
    • Week Four – Three-Day Challenge; Make-Up Day; Free Writing

     

    Online Office Hours: Wed-Sat 9-10 AM & 10-11 PM

    PAY &/or RSVP on Meetup to PLEDGE!

     

    See you online!

     
  • TK Camas 00:01 on 30/01/2019 Permalink | Reply  

    DWP No. 030 

    Objective

    FREE WRITE

    Bathe

    use [ brackets ] to ask questions.

     
    • Mary 08:15 on 30/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      “Boys and girls, today’s verb is bathe. Can everybody say bathe? No, not babe. It’s bathe! Hear that long ‘A’ sound? That’s right- ‘A’ says its name. It’s athe! Very good!

      Now what words rhyme with bathe? Dave? Steve? Maeve? Stave! What an excellent vocabulary word!!

      Now let’s conjugate bathe. Oh, this is so much fun!!

      I bathe. He she it bathes. We they bathe. Wonderful work!

      Now let’s do it in the future tense! I will bathe.they will bathe. He she it will bathe w
      We will bathe and they will bathe.

      Woo who! Look at you guys!

      No how about conjugating in the past tense? I bathed. You bathed. He she it bathed. Do you hear the..?.”

      At that point Cicero began singing his favorite tune from Puccini, and the crowd roared.

      Liked by 1 person

    • TK Camas 16:49 on 30/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      Bathe? Bathe, you say? I only bathe twice a week and never on a Wednesday, darling.

      Like

    • Donnie 17:05 on 30/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      …and I wanted to bathe. There were countless reasons why I would enjoy a bath. Love of hot, warm water. The release of tension and the relieving of pain in my neck. The little bit of crust on my eyelid from the antibiotic ointment. The way I would simply feel more awake after thirty minutes spent in the tub….and because I’m listening to some sultry, bluesy, jazz right now, I’m also thinking off tub tricks. Love tub tricks.

      But the truth is I have just become inexplicably aware of exactly what is missing from my life. There is only one thing missing and it isn’t warm water or tub tricks (get that all the time). Here it is:

      I need my own little pigs. That’s it. Just need pigs. 🙂

      Like

    • Craven 19:15 on 30/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      One of my earliest memories is taking a shit in the bathtub when I was in it with my brother. My brother held the turd up to my dad and said, “look what Craven did.”
      “GET THE REST OUT!” My father yelled.
      That’s about the end of it. I have earlier memories, like sticking my finger in a socket and getting shocked. When I went to tell my mom about it she didn’t turn from the TV and said, “I always told you not to do that.”
      I question the legitimacy of the memory because my mom was the other kind of mother most of the time, overly concerned and overbearing. Nonetheless, that’s the memory I have.
      Another really early memory is of a dream where I was in love with a girl and had to move away. I was really sad and repeatedly said her name as I freeze-framed and credits rolled up the dreamscape. Then I woke up sad.
      “GET THE REST OUT!” My older brother backs me up on that one.

      Liked by 1 person

    • etmoseleyc 21:14 on 30/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      Perhaps an “r” had fallen off the end, and it was really “Bather” in full. Or something longer and more aristocratic, like “Bathenshire”, or “Bathelithk”… just a little lisp joke… okay never mind. It was all really decrepit and rundown – the stone letters all broken apart and crumbling away like dried bark off a withered stump. Despite it’s time being past, the whole, ancient structure loomed overhead nonetheless, blotting out half the sky and casting a cold, monolithic shadow over the whole town square.

      Liked by 1 person

    • Madeline Mendiola 22:40 on 30/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      This act, to bathe, almost inevitably draws upon the warmth you feel in your belly when an act of service is performed for one who is loved dearly. I never think of the phrase “to bathe” and see myself routinely, thoughtlessly rinsing suds out of my butchered hair, into my shut eyes, and off of my body. No one is ever truly present in the shower. To bathe is an action so thoughtful and intimate, it can only occur with someone there to demand your presence. You can bathe a child. You can bathe a lover. You can bathe your elders. Anything else seems, well, obligatory, and therefore insignificant.

      Like

  • TK Camas 00:01 on 29/01/2019 Permalink | Reply  

    DWP No. 029 

    Objective 

    FREE WRITE

     

    It was a recipe for success.

     

    use [ brackets ] to ask questions.

     
    • Mary 00:22 on 29/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      It was a recipe for success. That’s what they all said. It was foolproof advice, the 7 Commandments for leading a happy fulfilled life and fun- filled life: Pretend you have your act together. Pretend everything is right with the world. Whistle while you work. Keep the sunny side up. Let your smile be your umbrella. Whistle a happy tune. Try try again. Don’t let the bastards bring you down. But when I looked in the mirror the only thing I knew was that I was lying, the façade like dried up peanut shells I kept cutting until the sadness finally poured out, stained Band-Aids rusty with grief.

      Liked by 3 people

      • TK Camas 08:53 on 29/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

        Okay … okay … you’re definitely getting somewhere. I’d suggest that you write down that incredible last sentence as a launching point for a story wherein the reader doesn’t know about the 7 Commandments.

        Liked by 1 person

        • TK Camas 08:57 on 29/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

          But don’t give the people what they want! Give us what YOU want to give! Ignore her, she’s cray.

          Liked by 1 person

    • Donnie 00:31 on 29/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      I really like your ending here, the turn was both subtle and a little jolting.

      Liked by 1 person

    • TK Camas 09:08 on 29/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      Not that it matters to you, per se, but it matters, and it matters because—I’ll have you know—it was quite the success. Everyone arrived; everyone ate; the cake was fantastic; everyone left, and I was swimming laps on the roof by eight o’clock, pee em, which put me in bed around ten. Who celebrates birthdays anymore, as adults?

      Like

    • Mary 09:46 on 29/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      I like the pee em part the best.

      Liked by 1 person

    • Donnie 14:52 on 29/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      Was it a recipe for success? He was forty four years old and he was a sad broken man. His father had died ten years ago, and though he kept trudging on, he always believed that he was going to be happy to die.

      His father had been a distant army infantry soldier and it had left Michael dreaming of nothing other than joining the infantry when he grew up. She had asked him once what he liked to do when he was a child. He had looked at her incredulously and said, “Really? GI Joes.”

      He had figured it all out. He was going to join the infantry, thus forging a bond with his father that none of his six siblings had. But he was going to college first because obviously it is better to be an officer than a grunt. Of course he already knew so much about his nations wars, that history was an easy major choice.

      That was the recipe. Get an education. Serve your country for twenty years, move into central intelligence and retire with a hot, much younger wife and undeniable social status. Everything about his plans had seemed reasonable. Other than being quite the man whore, Mike had always been one of those pretty solid people. He had grown up believing most of what he was taught without questioning it. He fully expected everything to go as planned.

      Then he entered the army. In the first six weeks of boot camp he fell two stories off a ladder when the man trying to get through the window kicked him in the face. If he’d taken time to get heal it would have set him back a full year and caused him to repeat it, so he tested through cracked ribs and a slightly displaced, very painful right femur. He passed and spent the next ten years living in fields (infantry does not get tents), eating horrible food out of packages that he thought was ok and knowing that if there was a gas attack he would use one of his men (supposedly the weakest link) as a canary to figure out when it was safe for the rest of them. He knew he was picking the soldier that bugged him the most and not the weakest link. He hated himself before he started serving as a war criminal in Guantanamo. protecting the water boarders and torturers. That of course was his opinion of what he had done. After ten years he retired as an Army Captain and started applying for those security jobs.

      To this day he believes he was always passed up due to having been poor and not knowing which fork to use. I’m sure that did not help, but I think it was his lifestyle choices that stopped him in the end. You can’t fuck that promiscuously, drink that much, literally shoot men for shitting in the woods, become conscious and work in government security. It was a recipe for disaster.

      Like

      • TK Camas 16:11 on 29/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

        [ for future reference: I found this site where you can easily copy and paste your words to see the word count and character count. I won’t ever care about character count here, so just look for the WORDS on the indicator to the right of and below the box where you’ll input your text. ] https://wordcounter.net/

        Like

    • Mary 20:51 on 29/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      Thanks!

      Like

    • etmoseleyc 22:40 on 29/01/2019 Permalink | Reply


      “And it will be just like white powder?”
      “It will BE white powder… Pure Ormus. Then we’ll bond it to salt and use that cold press to hide it in ice for the journey – we’ll probably have at least a few interested parties on our tail before we even get to the pier.”
      “And then?”
      “And then what? What do you mean and then? Then we disappear over the horizon in the wooden hull of our unwitting savior… Do you know what we’ve just made here?”
      “Uh… yes.”
      “This seal is a Rosicrucian cross, it means you’re in over your head and now we need to get out of here. But you better believe we’re taking every last little speck of that white powder with us.”

      Like

    • Craven 05:03 on 30/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      Get up every morning and practice. You’re told it’s a recipe for success. But sometimes it’s still not good enough. Disappointing. You wonder if you’re wasting your time. If you should have put your efforts into something else. You feel like you’re running out of time. But still you do it because it’s the only thing you’ve ever done well and that’s only because you kept doing it. It’s an unhealthy cycle.

      Like

  • TK Camas 00:01 on 28/01/2019 Permalink | Reply  

    DWP No. 028 

    Objective

    You’re a Detective. You know nothing. But something happened.

    Ask FIFTEEN QUESTIONS regarding the prompt.

    If you’re really ambitious, answer FIVE QUESTIONS that other “Detectives” have asked.

     

    Is everyone having fun?

     

    p.s. to those of you who participate here … I will post February’s Meetup schedule at 10 AM today. there is a max capacity of ten (but the space holds fifteen). if for some reason, the group fills up before you get a chance to RSVP and you know 100% that you will attend, add yourself to the wait list, and I will sneak you* in there.

    *this is an exclusive circumstance for participants here on this site.

     

     

     
    • etmoseleyc 10:20 on 28/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      Are you aware of what happened here this morning?
      Approximately what time did you all arrive here?
      Who was the first person to show up?
      Do you come here regularly?
      How come your schedule today was irregular?
      Has anyone left the area since you’ve been here?
      Did you see or smell anything unusual before, during or after?
      Did you realize anything else was occurring while you were all having fun?
      Did anyone unfamiliar approach you while you were here?
      What can you tell me about anything strange that you heard?
      Are you aware that this is a public space you’re in?
      Why have you started drinking so early in the day?
      Do you know anyone else here who can corroborate your story?
      Are you planning any trips out of town in the near future?
      Can you provide your address and phone number on this paper?

      Liked by 1 person

      • Craven 11:40 on 28/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

        DTTC (Don’t Talk To Cops)! I like the smell anything unusual part. Some many questions from so many questions.

        Like

    • Craven 11:20 on 28/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      When did you first see it?
      Did it react to you?
      Was it transparent or more solid?
      Did you feel an evil presence?
      I know it scared you but did that seem to be it’s mission?
      Does it always come in that form or does it take on different ones?
      Have they said the names of anyone who lives here?
      So, you’re whole family has seen them?
      Are they trying to communicate something?
      Have tried blessing or anointing the house?
      What about smudging?

      Why are you here?
      How many are you?
      What do you want?
      If we give you that will you leave?
      What will it take for you to leave?

      Do you have a place you can stay tonight? This might take a while.

      Liked by 1 person

      • Craven 11:43 on 28/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

        I got so wrapped up in the conceptual question part that I forgot everything else about the prompt.

        Liked by 1 person

      • TK Camas 15:26 on 28/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

        Yes, there was definitely an evil presence … like what those, uh, called?, those lady witches that worship the Devil!

        Despite my fear, no, it did not seem to be the mission of this … evil … to scare me. I think that … oh, well don’t mind me, sorry.

        Oh, sure, yea, of course it takes all different forms, namely, that of um … I don’t really know how to say this … but it’s … you know … the lady bits … variations on the … flowering genitalia.

        There’s only one name I care about and that’s Mickey. But no, that’s not the name of anyone who lives there. I don’t think.

        Oh, no, no, no. No one in my family dare see anything and say something about it. Sorry, did you think that I KNEW something about whatever went on here? Oh, dear, I’m sorry. I just walked by about five minutes ago. What happened?

        Liked by 1 person

    • Mary 14:04 on 28/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      Detective Questions
      1. Do you believe people are basically good or basically bad?
      2. Is matter reality?
      3. Which comes first- tge peanut butter or the jelly?
      4. Can you finish the phrase: 6 foot 2 and eyes of blue, Gucci Gucci Gucci____?
      5. Where were you on the night of the 27th?
      6. Why is it that you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink?
      7. Why is the sky blue?
      8. Why is it that equally qualified women make $.79 to every dollar earned by men?
      9. Which pant leg do you put on first-your left or your right?
      10. What grade did you get in ninth grade biology?
      11. How are you?
      12. What is the meaning of life?
      13. Is Charlie Brown really a spy for the Mafia?
      14. What is the square root of 563?
      15. Do you believe in magic in a young girl’s (or boy’s) heart?

      Answers to ETMOSELEYC’S QUESTIONS

      1. Anything unusual happen here? Answer: Just the usual hassle of the coffee line with I could never get my order straight. It’s tea. Plain tea.
      2. Smell anything unusual? Answer: I smell fear
      3. Realize anything else? Answer: No one was doing long division. That WAS the assignment, ya know.
      4. Know this was a public space? Answer: I thought it was my teacher’s living room.
      5. Notice anyone unfamiliar? Answer: The Rotor Rooter Man.

      Liked by 2 people

    • TK Camas 15:20 on 28/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      “Alright, now remember these … um … questions, and answer them as quick as you can, you hear? Great. Oh-kay, one, What exactly were you trying to accomplish? Two, Who the hell is that guy? Three, What did the little dog play? Oh, shit, no. Not that. Number three, Where or where did the little dog play? Shit! Uh, sorry, yea, I didn’t mean to scare you. Uh, num. ber. FOUR, How long have you know your ‘friend,’ Sarah? Five, Who was there when you were there? Um, six, Did you intend to light the pool on fire? Seven, Why oh why did the little dog play? Fuck! I’m so sorry. Excuse me, seven, or eight? Oh, yes, thank you, eight, Can you recall whose idea this was at the beginning? Nine, Why did you think that that was a good idea? Ten, Do you know who the neighbors are? Eleven, What can you tell me about the little dog? *big, long, deep sigh* I am so … so very sorry. Enough about the dog, like, am I right? Okay, twelve, When did the little dog first want to play? God-fucking-dammit! THIRTEEN, Who knew that you were supposed to be here? Were you supposed to be here?, fourteen. And finally, I’m getting the hell out of here, Where’s the nearest greasy-spoon-type diner?”

      Liked by 1 person

    • Donnie 18:05 on 28/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      I’m going to ask you a bunch of questions that might seem easy to you, will you please just answer them?
      What is your name?
      What year is it?
      What is the month?
      Who is the president? No, you don’t have to say his name.
      What day of the week is it?
      What time is it?
      How old are you?
      What is your gender?
      Do you remember why you are here?
      Was anyone else with you?
      Why didn’t they stay with you?
      How did you get here?
      Is there someone we can call for you?
      Who am I?

      Liked by 1 person

  • TK Camas 00:01 on 27/01/2019 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: music   

    DWP No. 27 

    Objective

    Watch “Monophobia” by DEADMAU5 (optional as the genre may not be preferred by all)

    Respond to the following lyrics:

    Inside my head, there’s a little place left for you
    What do you know?
    What do you know?
    And all I want is to find out what you’re going through
    What do I know?
    Maybe this silence is dangerous

    Inside my head, there’s a little place left for you
    What do you know?
    What do you know?

    And feel what’s inside you
    I wanna come over
    And see what you’ve found
    See if you’re hurting
    After tearing me down
    It’s the rain of denial

    It’s the way that you’re faking
    All the tears in your eyes
    Feel like I’m in slow motion
    Tonight

    And all I want is to find out what you’re going through
    What do I know?
    Maybe this silence is dangerous

    I wanted to hide
    Now, I just wanna find you
    And feel what’s inside you
    I wanna come over
    And see what you’ve found
    See if you’re hurting
    After tearing me down
    It’s the rain of denial

    use [ brackets ] to ask technical questions within the comments

     

     

     

     
    • Donnie 02:35 on 27/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      How do I say this so that you absolutely get it? So that you see it in all of it’s kaleidoscope of popping color bursts? deadmau5 is terrrippyee.

      Liked by 1 person

    • Mary 06:53 on 27/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      How many times do I need to say it? You don’t get it and you never will.

      Like

    • Craven 10:51 on 27/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      Ugh! This is the absolute worst song to hear right now. The lyrics are exactly where I’m at after ending a 2 year relationship. I feel lost heartbroken and wonder how they’re doing. I want to talk to them which I can do but mostly I just want what we had back. I’ve also been having a huge existential crisis. I just want to quit writing. That’s really all I want to do. Quit and find something that I can do well and enjoy. I feel like one of those party casualties dancing in the video, a metaphor for my writing life only, at least, they seem like they’re having fun.

      Liked by 1 person

      • Madeline Mendiola 11:04 on 27/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

        I’m so sorry you’re going through this. It’s strange grieving the lost relationship of someone who is still alive.

        Liked by 1 person

      • etmoseleyc 11:45 on 27/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

        If I may interject a defense of the innocent:

        “Casualties”, they are, in some way, sure. But their body language, to me, reads like they’re fully committed to the moment, full-heartedly invested in the raw, personal expression they’re exuding, not merely having fun. Nothing dances like that that doesn’t want to. Plus,in their defense, no (capital P) Party could stand on its own without at least a few such “casualties”, or rather, “Pillars-of-circumstance-in-casualty-costume” – necessary components of a healthy, worthwhile Party.

        Like

    • Madeline Mendiola 11:02 on 27/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      Lately, I’ve been focusing on my relationship with myself and this sounds like a very familiar conversation we have. I often miss myself deeply.

      Liked by 1 person

      • etmoseleyc 11:28 on 27/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

        I’m sure your self misses you, also. Do your conversations often turn into arguments?

        Like

    • etmoseleyc 11:04 on 27/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      Welcome back! Everything is still here with me. I mean, I’m here in this place, and now you’re here with me. Well, you remember my place. It’s all just my stuff, don’t worry. And I’m fine. Okay, okay. I’ve kept a few extra things laying around that kind of remind me of you, but it’s fine! I’m here with all my friends, have they introduced themselves to you yet? They started rolling in after you left, and we’ve been talking a lot about what happened. We all decided that I’m going to be fine if I just keep pushin’ on and don’t worry about what anyone else thinks of us. And the rest of us will be here to keep me company if I ever start to feel lonely, so you don’t have to worry about that either.

      I must admit, I have been thinking about you a little bit. I know what you said, but the memories of you have been helping me cope with all of this, so I don’t come apart at the seams and spew all the different colors of myself all over the walls of this old estate. Could you imagine!? You remember my old place, right? Did I mention I am having some house guests? But don’t worry, they’ll be no bother. They’re only interested in takin’ a load off and keeping the beat going. I asked the elderly gentleman with the unicorn horn about their presence and he politely spelled out “PROLIFERATE” with some delightfully colorful cubes on the pool deck. Now, I’m no genius, but I know what a suffix is and I’m certainly not foolish enough to misconstrue the combination of “PRO”, “LIFE”, and “RATE”. So I’ve taken a more relaxed open door policy regarding the matter.

      By the way, why have you stopped over?

      Like

    • TK Camas 14:33 on 27/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      Monophobia, defined as, the fear of a singular perspective, being regarded as single-minded, fear of seeing the world through only one, single perspective, through the self, fear of existential entrapment inside one’s own mind/self. Imagine what this must do to a person?

      Like

  • TK Camas 00:01 on 26/01/2019 Permalink | Reply  

    DWP No. 026 

     

    Remember, there are no right answers.

    There are no better answers. There are no bad answers. There are only personal interpretations that you’re brave enough to share with the world. We’re all here for all of you. If you need some encouragement, ask. We’re beginning the last week of this thing!

    Also, the expected length of responses is a mere few sentences unless otherwise specified.

    I don’t have the luxury of not reading.

    Thank you all for chugging along with me! I appreciate the camaraderie like you wouldn’t believe!

    p.s. use brackets, as always, to direct my attention to a [ question ].

     
    • Mary 00:40 on 26/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      I really really really love to read. I have to read. To me, reading is like breathing. It’s urgent and urgency, static and euphoric. It is my sleeping pill, my addiction, far better than hot sauce, more fragrant than peonies, my babysitter, my family, my reality, such exquisite sustenance. Reading is not a luxury. It is as normal as onions, as simple as water. I dated a guy once who did not read. He had never read a book; he saw no need to read. He was a contented nonreader. He told me so one day while cuddling on the couch. Ahh, Interesting, I lied, and soon dumped him.

      Liked by 1 person

    • Craven 10:38 on 26/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      It might be ironic, but I don’t have the luxury of not reading. Not seeing art or, at least, images. I’m overwhelmed, constantly, bogged down and distracted but stuff I feel forced, triggered and manipulated into reading before clicking something else. God forbid, I don’t close a window from the night before or after doing might writing prompt, I might fall into a hole of clicking and gawking and reading of things that have add no value to my life. It makes me anxious, self-loathing and sad. The information age is the writer’s hell.

      Liked by 1 person

    • Mary 10:42 on 26/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      I like your use of the words ‘ self-loathing’. It helps to emphasize your frustrations.

      Like

    • etmoseleyc 12:14 on 26/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      It is a curse! A poisonous curse, I tell you! How I long for the day when the gravity of words no longer enslaves my attention, and I may finally pass through the world in the blissful ignorance of my own mental devising. If I am forced to ingest another litany of billboards trying to convince me of my need for a new cologne or skin moisturizer I’ll thrust the bloody knife into my own damn eyes and get the whole fucking thing over with.

      Liked by 1 person

    • Donnie 16:28 on 26/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      It was in the middle of college, as a highly ambitious double major (chemistry and women’s studies) who did triathlons on the side, worked and was a single mom to two daughters, that I quit reading. As it was, I only slept four hours a night and I could fit in no more. Twenty years had gone by, a total of six children have come and grown (always a single mom), and I didn’t even remember that I liked to read. I knew that I had, I knew that as an extremely neglected child, I read a book every day (I was kept outside, nothing else to do).

      So I’ve been in Seattle for three months, haven’t found work yet and always wanted to write, or thought I did. So one day, I’m angry, pissed, fed up with the lack of employment and I decide, “Fine, I’ll be an artist and a writer if I’m not going to get paid anyway.”.

      That was about four weeks ago and I started scrambling to learn everything I could about being a writer. The most important idea I came across was that if you want to write well you will have to read. So I started reading again, I wasn’t really happy about it, I just thought it necessary. But now, holy wow, I love to read. I remember, I always loved reading. It’s like discovering a long forgotten treasure.

      Because I am a writer, I do not have the luxury of not reading. Fortunately for me, it is one of my favorite things to do.

      Yesterday, I got my first writing job. I am a ghost writer.

      Liked by 1 person

    • Mary 16:41 on 26/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      Congratulations! ‘Way to go! I would love to hear the process you went through to obtain the position.

      Like

    • TK Camas 20:24 on 26/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      With forty-eight books left to read this calendar year, I can’t afford to not read over the course of a single day. No matter the day, no matter what else is going on, I gotta get a few pages in, real pages, not that fake reading that the internet demands. I feel as though I read all day every day without ever reading anything even remotely interesting or … exciting. A thing to get excited about, now that’s something I can get excited about.

      Liked by 1 person

  • TK Camas 00:01 on 25/01/2019 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: discussions   

    DWP No. 025 

     

    OBJECTIVE

    Please participate by sharing your thoughts and/or opinions and/or theories and/or philosophies by answering Mary’s (yes, our very own Mary) following question:

    What is PLOT?

    please use [brackets] to distinguish between [questions regarding the prompt] and your writings.

     

     
    • Donnie 02:32 on 25/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      I think of the plot as the umbrella which covers the entire story. Nothing happens under the umbrella which works against the overarching plot. There might be sub plots, but they are actually there just to enhance the plot by either introducing tension or fortifying the plot by standing in contrast or conformity.

      Liked by 1 person

      • TK Camas 09:17 on 25/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

        Hmmm…but what IS plot. Perhaps try not to use the word plot as we all scrabble to try to define it.

        Liked by 1 person

        • etmoseleyc 14:58 on 25/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

          Isn’t plot just a thing (word) that points to a thing (thing). Plus, I used that word nine times in my verbal vomit. Do I win?

          Liked by 1 person

    • etmoseleyc 12:48 on 25/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      As a (specifically) screenwriting practitioner, I constantly pace around the idea of Plot as being a reflective evaluation of “what happens” during the course of a narrative. Sometimes, Plot is the unfolding of happenings that are “seen” by the reader or viewer, and sometimes it is the “implication” of happenings unseen that contribute or constitute the Plot. Either way, for me, the concept of Plot is a verbal tool used to describe and analyze a narrative that you have already experienced (through creation or external exposure), but it cannot be manufactured directly. “Plot” emerges as a byproduct of the unfolding of reality, real or fictional.

      Personally, I treat it more like a Schrödinger’s cat and take a stance in defiance (albeit somewhat curiously so) of opening the box. Analysis of Plot and Creation of Plot are two diametrically opposed sides of the same paradoxical coin: The former, a top-down, verbal, active process; the latter, an emergent, non-verbal, passive process. I have no reason to open the box and realize the murder of one of them so the other may stand alone. Meanwhile, while I direct my attention towards the construction and exploration of other things, Plot always finds a way to grease its nimble little fingers and secretly stick ’em up the keisters of everything Time leaves in its wake without anyone forcing the issue.

      Perhaps Plot likes it better that way… in the shadow. And if you try to shine a light on it and leash it up along with you, as an indentured servant, it pulls itself apart at the seams and leaves you trudging alone with a well-intentioned noose around a heavy, frayed bundle of paper strips and scraps of anxiety.

      Liked by 1 person

      • Mary 18:29 on 25/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

        Interesting post. I would like to learn from you as screenwriting is something I have never explored. Suggestions for resources? Thank you!

        Like

        • etmoseleyc 23:28 on 25/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

          I actually don’t have any screenwriting resources I could recommend. I figured it out on my own and started making movies before I ever went to film school (where I’m sure I was at least semi-resistant to any screenwriting education that may have contradicted whatever pompous fantasy I had about my own abilities.) The past number of years I’ve just continued on writing scripts on my own as a hobby (hopefully building a body of work to cycle into production in the future?) and tweaking my script styling and technique to whatever suits my own personal fancy, and clearly without oversight, so it’s likely I’m not much good for a formal education on the matter myself, nor do I really feel comfortable selecting the name of some script writing book from my past arbitrarily, because none come to mind as being of much use and there’s certainly no reason I’d be motivated to steer you down some random ideological alley I’ve never been down myself.

          You can, however, check out imsdb.com (the script-centric little sister of imdb.com, the ubiquitous movie info database) and just search for your favorite movie and see if the script is available to view or download for free. Chances are, it will be. If you like reading your favorite (or new!) movies in script form, then I’m sure you’ll have new answers to ascertain other than helpful resources.

          The script is a means to an end, not the final product itself, so manufacturing a literary device to convey the yet-intangible final product, while also giving latitude for the creative mastery and technical expertise of each individual crew member who will interpret the script and digest it into something sensory that is greater than the sum of its parts, no matter how simple or sophisticated the concept, kind of feels like writing a different language to me. So I guess from that standpoint, I’ve always found the best way to learn a new language is through practice and exposure, no matter how humiliating it is to get intensely and violently educated by some sweaty Korean grandma for somehow fucking up eating soup.

          Like

    • TK Camas 17:25 on 25/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      … like train tracks through a story if you’re a passive observer. *shrug*

      Liked by 1 person

    • Mary 18:24 on 25/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      Please read this one. Siri doesn’t understand my accent half the time, and then as soon as I post I see all of these errors!!

      In my opinion, plot is the series or collection of events in a story or a novel. But even that explanation I stumble over which is why I raised the question with TK. I’ll get ideas for a story or novel and several things might happen: A. I get bored. B. I paint myself into a corner. C. I do both. For some reason I stumble over plot quite a bit.

      What I’m doing now is rereading simple favorite books from childhood such as Harriet the Spy which, as 5th grader, really inspired me to be a writer, in order to teach myself about plot and to get a grasp on how authors reveal characters. I don’t know about you guys, but I learn best through examples. To me, I find it helpful to start with the simplest of stories such as The Very Hungry Catapillar by Eric Carle as a vehicle to better understand plot. When I wrote the first draft of the coming of age novel for my first NaNoWriMo I sketched out a very rough list of what happens in each chapter. It helped me figure out what to write about the next day, to keep track of what I DID write about, and kept me going so I didn’t constantly do 1-3 above.

      But I have so much to learn and the biggest thing is getting myself out of the way. Perhaps some of you feel the same way. I’d love to get your thoughts.

      Like

      • TK Camas 08:35 on 26/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

        You have an inkling. You don’t know what it is, but it’s something. A sentence rises out of the fog of your subconscious and brings to your attention the perfect string of words … “She makes a beeline for the shelf.” Why?, you ask yourself. Well, I don’t know. What is she doing there? I don’t know. Another sentence rises … “Hot oozing, something drips onto her head … anger.” Oh, okay, she’s angry. Why is she angry? I don’t know.

        Two days go by.

        Another sentence rises … “The thought of being alone here perusing the stupid fucking shelves of a bakery that over charges on items that taste like shit! makes her want to weep in the aisle, in front of a store full of strangers, but she’s not crazy.” Oh, okay, well what the fuck is wrong with her? I don’t know.

        A week later.

        etc. etc. etc.

        Liked by 1 person

    • Craven 00:16 on 26/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      A plot is the thread that keeps a story together. It doesn’t have to be a good or strong thread, but to have a good or strong story it must be.

      Liked by 1 person

    • TK Camas 08:34 on 26/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

  • TK Camas 00:01 on 24/01/2019 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: make up day   

    DWP No. 024 + make-up day 

     

    In a paragraph, as a character of your own making, introduce yourself to the group.

     

    Optional Make-Up Day Objective

    • Submit (as many or as few) past DWPs that you’ve missed along the way either from joining late or any other viable excuse.
    • INCLUDE the PROMPT at the top of each corresponding submission.
    • Also, don’t forget to complete today’s prompt!

     

     
    • Mary 07:05 on 24/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      #3 Does purple rhyme with circle?

      Of course it does. The larger question is does circle rhyme with purple? Will the short’ U’ sound in purple equal the short ‘I’ sound in circle? What happens if they marry? What will their children be called? Will they hyphenate their names? And, what about Naomi?

      #4 You dumb things down for men but show all women your true power.”

      He glared at her. “ Why is that? What are you trying to prove? Is that selfishness or condescension? Do you think you will get rewarded for pitying the male species? Are you insinuating that men can’t handle toughness? How dare you choose, to label, to judge? Now drop down and do 50 pushups the girly way. And no cheating by doing full pushup, ya hear? “

      #24 Meet Mary

      I’m a New York girl with a passion for hot and spicy food(mostly vegetarian with a tad Pescatarrian) travel, my dogs, writing, reading, and teaching, and baking. I love the smell of the musicals and I’m learning to swing dance. I have an Airbnb where I spoil my guests. I completed NaNoWriMo two times. I got my start as a writer at age 7, a deeply moving poem using the words ‘there’and ‘where.’Wanna hear it sometime?

      Liked by 1 person

      • TK Camas 13:32 on 24/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

        [No worries … this formatting is perfect. ]

        Like

      • etmoseleyc 22:11 on 24/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

        Pleasure to meet you, Mary. I’ll go ahead and speak out of turn here by assuming I’m on the same page with everyone else in asking this singular critical question: Was your second NaNo book a sequel to the first?

        Like

        • Mary 22:48 on 24/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

          Thank you for asking. My first NaNoWriMo book was a coming of age novel. The second was a practical how to guide and being the best Airbnb host/cookbook. Both are sitting in my computer. I need to get them out, revise revise, revise, and send them out.

          Like

        • TK Camas 09:15 on 25/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

          Perhaps start posting bits and pieces of your books when the prompt is relevant to them?

          Like

    • Donnie 16:47 on 24/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      Hi y’all my names Amos Stykman and I am a dy’ng breed. I’ve lived all my life in Lebanon, Kansas. Always got by and don’t put no stock in much book learnin. and the fact you aint heard of it just goes to show what a stupid waste of time education is. In the greatest country in the world, Lebanon, KS is the very center of the lower 48. That there, for all purposes done proves that I and all my neighbors are at the very center of the universe. Thats 204 of us and we is lived here all our lives. Thats the kinda history ya get when you follow our Lord and Savior and you can count on the fact that it ain’t never been done by a bunch monkeys, I didn’t come from no animals. Yep, all my life the good Lord been taken care a me.

      Liked by 1 person

    • TK Camas 18:22 on 24/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      Hi! My name is Dei, and I am a small, about one-and-a-half or, two centimeters tall celadon pig figurine. Typically, I spend the day perched upon whichever surface my keeper decides requires a bit of luck on any given day. Fortunately, my keeper has a partner who also is a keeper. My keeper’s partner’s lucky pig’s name is Ji. We are partners in our life, and honestly, I think that Ji would be upset that I am even introducing myself to you all today. But that’s fine; he generally stays offline. So, what else can I tell you? Well, I suppose when we’re not perched upon a surface we are stowed away for travel. When traveling by air, we are stored together in a small felt pouch. By train, our keepers typically store us together in one of their pencil cases. And by boat, we usually ride in the breast pocket of the male keeper’s coat or jacket or pants or shorts, depending on the time of year. We’ve traveled very little by car, but we have seen a lot of different countries and places. Mostly, though, we sit on a desk, whisper and make wishes and watch our keepers do whatever it is that they do on here. Oh, the lady keeper’s waking up. We’ll check in on you all again later to give you more deets, if you want. Later!

      Liked by 2 people

      • Madeline Mendiola 20:51 on 24/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

        This is just the sweetest thing. I love that the figurines call them “keepers.” I want to know more about the keepers. Why do they travel so much? Are the figurine’s emotionally attached to their keepers?

        Liked by 1 person

    • etmoseleyc 19:18 on 24/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      from: etmoseleyc@gmail.com
      to: etmoseleyc@gmail.com
      date: Jan 24, 2019, 5:23 PM
      subject: [Writing Practitioners] Notepad Enticement – 2nd attempt (What’s it’s name?) [Reproduced verbatim]

      “Hello.

      Three months ago I became acquainted with a man (though I have never met him in person, for reasons I hope you soon understand) who just suggested I introduce myself, here, to you. Apparently, I am to leave my personal details on this pad here, the one on which he left me this suggestion, and at some later point he’ll deposit my notes into some sort of “internet” creature that will display me to some other humans that live inside of it… or something like that. I don’t really understand how he explained it, but it’s been some time since another real person has reached out to me for anything, so on this paper my self shall I submit, and if nothing ever comes of it then I’ll have been once again reassured of the weight of their promises.

      In my time, I’ve gone by many names, but for now you can just call me Dune.
      I have a condition which I must forewarn you about.
      It is a condition which prohibits me from having any personal contact with people.
      Ever since I can remember, I’ve never seen a person who wasn’t sleeping. At first I thought the whole world was just lazy and lethargic.
      Then I thought they were sick.
      Then I thought they were dead.
      Then I found out that after I leave a place, then return to it days or weeks later, there is always ample evidence that life has gone on in my absence, and in full force, no less. So I’ve come to believe it is my condition that finds me locked in the center of my own isolation. I mean, it is my approach, my very presence, that causes this reaction in other people. I first became aware of this condition 31 years ago. I cannot remember before then.
      But as far as people who share my condition go, I’m just an average guy, I guess. Surely I can’t be the only one like me, and surely there must be some standard deviation of personality types, and I certainly don’t feel like an extremist in any regard. So, I assume that most of the rest of them are all like me in most respects. And from the looks of everything on this side of the mirror, the other side of life that goes on when you are all sleeping, it very much feels like I am just like all of you, too.

      So, there you have it. I’m not sure if my acquaintance will ever “poster-link” this note, or if I’ll ever hear anything back, but I am certainly flattered by the invitation nonetheless.

      Best regards and sweet dreams,

      Dune “

      Liked by 2 people

      • Madeline Mendiola 20:46 on 24/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

        I absolutely love this concept! It grabbed me right away. I would love to read more about Dune’s living conditions.

        Like

        • etmoseleyc 22:07 on 24/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

          Ya, I would really love to know more about his living conditions, too! Hopefully that’s not the extent of my usefulness as his vessel … :-/

          Like

    • Madeline Mendiola 20:42 on 24/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      Hello, there.

      My name is Doris Langley. It’s so very nice to introduce myself to all of you, as I have no interest in the decrepit bags of death aimlessly wandering around my building. How one can participate in “bingo” and play at fulfillment is beyond me. We, truly, have nothing in common. My godforsaken, ungrateful grandchildren have placed me here to die like a withering Daffodil.

      I am 86 years of age and that seems plenty to me. I was born in San Francisco, St. Mary’s Medical Center, in 1933. Lord, how I miss that city. Especially the 50’s. We simply made things happen. What a beautiful era for art and political activism. Oh, the joie de vivre! I smoked grass with Ginsberg in Dolores and shared rye with Kerouac in Vesuvio. Not to boast, darling, but I was fairly well-known in my time. Us beatniks loved life and devoured it with every second. I never did like that Janis Joplin or any of her hippie friends that followed.

      Anyhow, I attended the San Francisco Art Institute from about 1951 to 1954. I dabbled in acrylics and sculpting and, dare I say, watercolor which I discovered almost immediately I was terribly dreadful at. All in all, I found my true passion was photography. My photographs have been displayed in galleries from California to Pittsburgh.

      I have three useless children who only speak to me when they need money and four grandchildren of whom I’m certain are plotting my demise. I’ve never been married. Thank the man upstairs for that. I’ve had lovers across the decades. Currently, I’m having a bit of fun with our handsome UPS delivery man, Ronald. I will continue to eat life and pray it eats me back no matter what hellhole my kin insist on incarcerating me in.

      Well, enough about me. I look forward to hearing from you all soon. It’s been a pleasure.

      Tata!

      Liked by 2 people

      • TK Camas 09:23 on 25/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

        What a fun and whimsical voice, despite the age! Says a lot about Doris. I want to meet her…unless she’s you from another era?

        Like

  • TK Camas 00:01 on 23/01/2019 Permalink | Reply
    Tags:   

    DWP No. 023 

    PLEASE READ THE FOLLOWING INSTRUCTIONS FOR WEEK FOUR | DAYS ONE & TWO

    Instructions:

    • Please use TWO days to complete 1,000 words of writing.
    • Attempt to submit 500 words on Tuesday (No. 022) and 500 words on Wednesday (No. 023).
    • You will have until midnight on Thursday to submit your work before the Comments Section closes.

     

    WEEK FOUR | DAY TWO of TWO-DAY PROMPT

    Use 1,000 words to describe a picture.

    p.s. if you need to leave an actual comment about a question you have or whatnot, please use [brackets] to get my attention. this way, I can easily distinguish between your needs as a person versus your submissions as a writer.

     
    • Donnie 00:11 on 23/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      I did not take this picture nor have I ever gazed upon it without finding it riveting and interesting. I believe I would like this picture without having any background knowledge at all. However, this picture was taken on February 22, 2017 and I remember everything about this day, I was there. This was eviction day at Standing Rock.

      There are four people in the picture, all of them walking away from the camera unaware of it’s presence. Of these four people I have just met Tammy, 2nd from back and Tim Scott at the very back of the line. The person at the front of the line, heading into the fray first, is my youngest child Taylor, she is 22 years old and if she has ever feared anything, she hasn’t told anyone. Right behind Taylor is Joshua Scott, Tim Scott’s nephew and the young man who is destined to become a serious boyfriend to my daughter. Taylor, Joshua and I have driven out from Seattle together. We are all here to document the actions of the protestors and the government and to freely offer humanitarian aid.

      The icy blue, smokey haze of the image is so predominant that it makes you think of Instagram filters. But there are no filters in play, this was the smoke of fires set by the soon to be displaced (protestors, not natives). The icy blue haze was due to.., well, it was just that bone chillingly cold. I cannot help but draw correlations between the starkness of the picture and the history of our Nations First Peoples.

      It is more accurate to say that the land is covered in ice than in snow. The ground is hard. The trees are spaced like graying hairs on the landscape and even the lone weeds are isolated from each other.

      In this picture the medics team is descending from what is a gravel road, down into Oceti, they descend between a fire burning on their left and one of the few remaining tipis on their right.

      This event was one of the precursors of “fake news” allegations under our present administration and of course both sides contended that honesty was theirs. For the most part, the water protectors and Natives told the truth. The fire in the picture was undoubtedly set by a protestor, our government was not setting fires. Our government was actively trying to invalidate the concern for the land shared, by the water protectors and Natives by spreading rumors of environmental damage caused by the camps.

      In truth, there was a massive conservation effort which was being led by highly trained Veterans volunteering their time so that the environment would not be hurt. In a camp of 300 to 500 people which sprung up overnight with no water or facilities, sanitation was critical. Composting toilets, recycling and two clean kitchens were put together. This kept everything maintained for day to day living. Everything changed as the eviction approached and people had to move.

      There was rain and a bit of a thaw the previous week so in addition to hard frozen ground there were now quicksand style mudholes preventing many vehicles from being able to leave. When you think of cars on the reservation, think about a lot of 70s and 80s. They were stuck, people just lost their cars.

      There were 20 to 30 army Veterans with trucks there everyday to dismantle, recycle and haul off trash. They were doing this on their own dime, no cost to the government at all. Day after day, government contractors and officials blocked them from cleaning up. Once everyone was gone, they put it all into a big pile, got the photo shoot of the mess left by the “environmentalists”, set it on fire with no thoughts about contamination at all and they were able to do that for TWO BILLION tax payer dollars. Back to the fire in the picture, everyone on the ground knew what was going to happen and that taking care of it well was not going to be allowed, some people burned their own piles.

      Tipis like the one on the right side of the photograph had covered the open space there but at this point in time everyone who could get out was pretty much gone. None of the Natives ever had any intention of disobeying the law, they had tried to make the law work for them. With that having failed they were planning to hold prayers up to the end as a peaceful statement of disagreement. The deadline was 12 noon and at that time they would begin to walk out of the camp. We knew that they would be walking in the cold for almost a mile before they could reach help and we were allowed to give humanitarian aid. Tribal leaders met with Governor Burgum in North Dakota to address these concerns; there were very young children, elderly disabled people and the mile they had to traverse, all uphill, all of it. We knew that frostbite was a real danger. The Governor and other officials agreed. They set up a neutral zone, just above the camp, on the road, and gave the medic teams permission to drive in with vehicles load people up and take them to the Medics tent.

      It was the right thing to do. Unfortunately, they didn’t do it after all. As the evictions started proceeding, Jacqui, another medic and I started to drive down to the neutral zone to get people that needed help. Someone on the government side had forbidden it after all and told us we could walk down there. We explained the need again, of course, and pointed out that it would really slow down our ability to get people out of the cold any faster if we were walking with them. The guards shrugged their shoulders. I don’t know who was responsible for breaking the promise made to the Tribal leaders, but once again, our government lied to them, made promises to them and broke them, again. All of the government officials who weren’t actually breaking the promises themselves, they knew who was and they din’t have the moral fortitude to speak up.

      At the back of the clearing, to the left of the tipi there is a little wood and stick building. It is the juxtaposition of White culture and Native culture. The tipi borrows the land, the wood and stick building claims the land. The tipi will be moved hundreds of times with each peice being used for other things when it just isn’t a tipi anymore. The wood and stick structure will stay in one place and become obsolete, and unwanted, it becomes someones trash to deal with. I was listening to a water protector on the eve of the eviction talking about how this was the beginning of a new community center school and library. I sat there not saying a word. LaDonna Brave Bull Allard phrased it humorously and accurately when she said, “It’s like they are little colonizers, they can’t help themselve, it’s like it’s in their DNA.

      Liked by 1 person

      • Madeline Mendiola 20:59 on 23/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

        It’s so tragic yet also interesting to read your firsthand experience at Standing Rock. Thank you so much for sharing.

        A comment about the writing: I loved when you wrote of how even the weeds were isolated. It was a beautiful way that you were able to connect the tone of the setting to the struggle experienced here.

        Liked by 1 person

        • Donnie 01:45 on 24/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

          Thank you so much. After the eviction I stayed and served on the reservation for another 16 months and it has effected me on so many different levels that I am only beginning to be able to process it now. I got back to WA in July and moved to Seattle in Sept.

          Liked by 1 person

    • Donnie 00:14 on 23/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      {I’ve never counted words-how do I know? tricks?}

      Like

      • TK Camas 08:42 on 23/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

        WC: 1187

        Copy and paste your writing into a word or google doc and then use the TOOLS tab to open the drop down menu, and you’ll see the option for Word Count. A little window will pop up to give you all sorts of statistical info about your document, word count, characters, etc.

        Liked by 1 person

    • Mary 05:59 on 23/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      But I digress. I really loved French with Mr. Crystal. One of the things that he always did with us was share French culture. He made us Bouillabaisse and Crepes Suzette. And he shared the art of the Louvre with us, this class of hicks from rural Long Island. The Mona Lisa was part of the art he shared. And I knew some day I’d see it.

      I expected Mona Lisa to be enormous, at least 6 feet. I expected it to be heavily guarded. I expected it to be filled with color and shades of meaning. I expected it to somehow speak to me, to remind me of Mr. Crystal’s admonishments to not be provincial country bumpkins. I expected to gasp from the sheer enormity of seeing THE MONA LISA, that bells would ring and carolers sing, and I would meet Mr. Right and all would be Right With the World.

      But none of that happened. The picture is small, maybe 2.5 by 4.5 feet. It is in a room that is heavily guarded on a wall by itself. It is plain. You are in this room with perhaps 150 other people, all vying to get a good shot with their cameras, with their phones, with their selfie sticks. It’s hot and crowded. People jostled each other and didn’t apologize. I craned my head, all 5’4”, trying to see over the tops of tourists., and slowly pushed my way to the front. And there she was. The majority of color used in the painting was brown. If Crayola ever added it to their 144 Color Box Extravaganza, the gift you always hoped you’d get for Christmas, this would be called Blah Blah Brown. The model’s skin was the color of heavy cream with a slight brown cast to it. She was not a pretty woman, at least not to me. The background was drab and brown. I like brown. But not like this. The Mona Lisa seemed homely and shy, whoever this woman was. She struck me as a bit proud that she was chosen to be Leonardo Da Vinci’s model. I also caught a bit of coyness in the slight turn of her mouth and the way her eyes looked down as if she was shyly flirting with the artist.

      The picture underwhelmed me. That’s it, I thought? This is the Mona Lisa, a small blah picture on the wall of arguably the best museum in the world? Yes, her eyes were fascinating as if the artist stuck a Kodak print there instead of bothering to paint them. But the picture did nothing for me. After 30 minutes I left.

      I found my bike still locked securely on the chain link fence just outside the Louvre. I slowly biked along the Seine and noticed an informal dog party in some grassy area, dogs and their humans enjoying a late day romp. I hopped off and leaned again the fence, soaking up the scene, so happy to be alive.

      Liked by 3 people

      • Craven 18:30 on 23/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

        The Mona Lisa can’t be anything but disappointing. I had the same experience. I like the way you describe the brown and the crayons you used to describe it. The last paragraph was appropriate yet unpredicted.

        Liked by 2 people

        • Mary 21:02 on 23/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

          Thank you! I wanted to try to return to the idea of something giving me joy which is what I first described getting around Paris by bike in the first section and then to see this really depressing picture and get revitalized by jumping back on the bike and watching something so ordinary as people and dogs playing together

          Like

      • TK Camas 13:18 on 24/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

        WOW. The comments I mentioned that I had in our email … you’ve resolved them beautifully. If you don’t mind sharing your experience with writing this particular piece (if you did it in two sittings), I would love to hear all about it. I especially love the second and third paragraph description of your expectation versus the reality of the situation. Do you think there’s a larger story in there … a philosophy of sort? In those two paragraphs?

        Like

        • Mary 16:56 on 24/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

          I didn’t see your comments. I’d love to get them as this is definitely a draft of a draft of a draft. I cranked it out all at once because I knew I would be too busy to do it on day two.

          Like

    • TK Camas 13:46 on 23/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      And then it was Silence’s turn to get to work on them. Framed in a deep cherry rests the stapled canvas slathered in paint depicting the scene of a small girl child seated cross-legged upon a deep Persian rug looking out toward the viewer, at something small on her left shoulder. In front and to the right of her, a kneeling male figure postured in a gesture of pleading or curiosity looks harmless. With only the back of his head depicted, knowing what he thinks remains impossible. They both exist within the confines of what seems to be the depiction of an attic space in a typical, early 21st-century, American home. From the top left corner of the frame through the depiction of a large window in the background, to the bottom right corner, a beam of light slices the canvas into triangular thirds. Flecks of glitter shimmer all over the top as the last gesture the artist made. Dark, the space is made entirely of light.

      Gently looking back at him, she continues, “If I leave, you will no longer exist.” He sits back onto his butt. “What?” “If I leave now with the ladybug, you will no longer exist.” “Why? How?” She takes a deep breath in. “Just tell him,” the ladybug insists with a slap to its forehead. “Silence,” she orders as Silence swoops in and lifts the ladybug out of the hole in the roof. She returns her attention to him, “You’ve been summoned here for the purposes of … education.” “From where?” “When,” she answers. “Where’s Wen?” he asks. “No, from when is what you want to know,” she explains. “What?” he asks again. She takes a deep inhale and a slow exhale, “Never mind.” “No, what. You have to tell me. I don’t understand,” he pleads. “It doesn’t matter. You won’t remember,” she states. “Remember what? This? My life?” standing now, he nearly screams. “Yes,” she states as a matter of fact. And with that, she makes green.

      Liked by 2 people

    • etmoseleyc 14:30 on 23/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      And suddenly, without any real awareness of what the fuck just happened, I find myself here, apparently, at another time but in the same place, waffling hard and rewinding myself through any unsubstantiated opinions or painfully arrogant positions I may have taken before, now that I am achingly aware of what may have been the most marvelously diamond-in-the-rough-y type opportunity imbibed from yesterday’s drink of events: an authentic chance to engage, really ENGAGE, with a prime example of what has always elsewise been just a flippant idiom! These sorts of opportunities can’t possibly come around all the time (Can they?) and look what I’ve made myself do! – cavorting about the pages in my ridiculous court jester breeches trying to dust all off those pesky chips off the shoulders of my words, how could I not have foreseen my own toes wiggling under the leather as I slowly and calmly set the sights, polished the barrel, loaded my shotgun and took aim at the rascally pair of feet beneath me? I suppose this all serves me right, at least considering (this part, in fact, I’m not so ashamed to admit) I’ve always been one to make sure that there’s at least one mildly “deviant” pseudo-troublemaker occupying all the marginal, gray areas that surround and perpetually infiltrate most social circumstances, even if that meant it had to be me (but especially if that meant I was somehow bequeathed the opportunity to invisibly finagle the fine circumstantial details of some other unknowing volunteer so that he or she may unwittingly participate in my juvenile schemes as my projected representative.)

      Now it must certainly be (and I’m quite sure so as to not be mistaken in this vein, for I can feel the suffocating psychological weight of it entirely now, and thankfully it’s I that has been chosen to shoulder this burden and no other lesser individual) that all of this has indeed been some sort of manipulative literary test meted out to painfully bore into and extract core samples of my psyche and scrutinize them for who yet knows what demented purposes! And I suppose that all of you’ve been giddily revelling in your mutual complicity this whole time, always aware of the spotlight and colluding amongst yourselves to coordinate your movements and ensure the corralling of my self, my innermost, spiritual identity, that I’ve been so forthright and generous in sharing with you, firmly ensconced (or glued! As I’m sure you’d have it…) as the joke, opposite the head.

      Fine. Have it your way. Don’t forget to pick up all this trash and kill the lights before you sink back into my imagination.

      Liked by 3 people

    • Donnie 15:48 on 23/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      [Final draft: You can see the picture on my blog if interested]If Bleak Were A Picture: The Eviction at Standing Rock

      I did not take this picture, nor have I ever gazed upon it without finding it riveting and interesting. I believe I would like this picture without having any background knowledge at all. However, this picture was taken on February 22, 2017 and I remember everything about this day, I was there. This was eviction day at Standing Rock.

      There are four people in the picture, all of them walking away from the camera unaware of its presence. Of these four people I have just met Tammy, 2nd from back and Tim Scott at the very back of the line. The person at the front of the line, heading into the fray first, is my youngest child Taylor, she is 22 years old and if she has ever feared anything, she hasn’t told anyone. Right behind Taylor is Joshua Scott, Tim Scott’s nephew and the young man who is destined to become a serious boyfriend to my daughter and a good friend to me. Taylor, Joshua and I have driven out from Seattle together. We are all here to document the actions of the protestors and the government and to freely offer humanitarian aid.

      The icy blue, smoky haze of the image is so predominant that it makes you think of Instagram filters. But there are no filters in play, this was the smoke of fires, set by the soon to be displaced (protestors, not natives) mixed with bone chillingly cold air. I cannot help but draw correlations between the starkness of the picture and the history of our Nation’s First Peoples.

      It is more accurate to say that the land is covered in ice than in snow. The ground is hard. The trees are spaced like graying hairs on the landscape and even the clumps of lone weeds are isolated from each other.

      In this picture one of the medic teams is descending from a gravel road, down into Oceti, they descend between a fire burning on their left and one of the few remaining tipis on their right.

      This event was one of the precursors of “fake news” allegations under our present administration and of course both sides contended that honesty was theirs. For the most part, the water protectors and Natives told the truth. The fire in the picture was undoubtedly set by a protestor, our government was not setting fires. Our government was actively trying to invalidate the concern for the land, shared by both the water protectors and Natives by spreading rumors of environmental damage caused by the camps.

      In truth, there was a massive conservation effort which was being led by highly trained Veterans volunteering their time so that the environment would not be hurt. In a camp of 300 to 500 people which sprung up overnight with no water or facilities, sanitation was critical. Composting toilets, recycling and two clean kitchens were put together. This kept everything maintained for day to day living. Everything changed as the eviction approached and people had to move.

      There was rain and a bit of a thaw the previous week so in addition to hard frozen ground there were now quicksand style mudholes preventing many vehicles from being able to leave. When you think of cars on the reservation, think about a lot of 70s and 80s. They were stuck, people just lost their cars. They walked out of camp on eviction day with what they could wear.

      There were 20 to 30 army Veterans with trucks there every day to dismantle, recycle and haul off trash. They were doing this on their own dime, no cost to the government at all. Day after day, government contractors and officials blocked them from cleaning up. Once everyone was gone, they put it all into a big pile, got the photo shoot of the mess left by the “environmentalists”, set it on fire with no thoughts about contamination at all and they did that for TWO BILLION tax payer dollars. Back to the fire in the picture, everyone on the ground knew what was going to happen and that taking care of it well was not going to be allowed, some people burned their own piles.

      Tipis like the one on the right side of the photograph had covered the open space there but now everyone who could get out was pretty much gone. None of the Natives ever had any intention of disobeying the law, they had tried to make the law work for them. With that having failed they were planning to hold prayers up to the end as a peaceful statement of disagreement. The deadline was 12 noon and at that time they would begin to walk out of the camp. We knew that they would be walking in the cold for almost a mile before they could reach help and we could give humanitarian aid. Tribal leaders met with Governor Burgum in North Dakota to address these concerns; there were very young children, elderly disabled people and the mile they had to traverse, all uphill, all of it. We knew that frostbite was a real danger. The Governor and other officials agreed. They set up a neutral zone, just above the camp, on the road, and gave the medic teams permission to drive in with vehicles, load people up and take them to the Medic’s tent.

      It was the right thing to do. Unfortunately, they didn’t do it after all. As the evictions started proceeding, Jacqui, another medic and I started to drive down to the neutral zone to get people that needed help. Someone on the government side had forbidden it after all and told us we could walk down there. We explained the need again, of course, and pointed out that it would really slow down our ability to get people out of the cold if we were walking with them. The guards shrugged their shoulders. I don’t know who was responsible for breaking the promise made to the Tribal leaders, but once again, our government lied to them, made promises to them and broke them. Again. The government officials who weren’t actually breaking the promises themselves, they knew who was and they didn’t have the moral fortitude to speak up.

      At the back of the clearing, to the left of the tipi there is a little wood and stick building. It is the juxtaposition of White culture and Native culture. The tipi borrows the land, the wood and stick building claims the land. The tipi will be moved hundreds of times with each piece being used for other things when it just isn’t a tipi anymore. The wood and stick structure will stay in one place and become obsolete, and unwanted, it becomes someone’s trash to deal with. I was listening to a water protector on the eve of the eviction talking about how this was the beginning of a new community center, school and library. I sat there not saying a word. LaDonna Brave Bull Allard phrased it humorously and accurately when she said, “It’s like they are little colonizers, they can’t help themselves, it’s like it’s in their DNA.”

      Liked by 1 person

      • TK Camas 17:20 on 23/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

        [ i will delete the earlier post then? ]

        Liked by 1 person

        • Donnie 01:58 on 24/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

          Yeah, I just thought we were supposed to do it in two days so I posted the final draft on the second.

          Like

        • TK Camas 13:20 on 24/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

          No probs. I’ma go ahead and keep it so that you can keep Madeline’s comment 🙂

          Liked by 1 person

      • Craven 18:24 on 23/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

        I really like the way you bring this all together in the end.

        Liked by 1 person

      • TK Camas 13:22 on 24/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

        I will echo Madeline here and say, Thank you for sharing as well. This was deeply meaningful and yet, you were still somehow able to set your emotions aside and capture the scene in a very pragmatic sense.

        I especially loved your descriptions of the people in the photo namely, “my youngest child Taylor, she is 22 years old and if she has ever feared anything, she hasn’t told anyone.”

        Liked by 1 person

    • Craven 18:19 on 23/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      It’s the witching hour. As the resident insomniac, I’m doing nightwatch on the late shift. I have a U-lock in my lap, an improvised weapon, as I sit on a camp chair talking to an older woman, her hair gray except for the purple she’s died her bangs. Beside her sits a baseball bat. We’re guarding the back entrance to the camp, Occupy ICE. It’s in an industrial nowhere. Not far away another watch is set up. In my top pocket is a walkie-talkie but there’s some assurance that the other watch is just a shout away. I hate this part of the night. After 2 when the bars close is when the Proud Boys and neo-Nazis will drive through. They’ve already been through twice tonight. So far they’ve pulled guns, but mostly they’ve squealed off, doing a few manly donuts to have us know what’s up after we hit them with spotlights, the bear mace and bats we have at the ready but have yet to use. The blinding light has served us well. The peckerwoods who’ve rolled through are scouts there to scope the place out. If they don’t feel intimidated they’ll bring the numbers and there’s no telling what will go down. So far they don’t know how many we are or what we’re capable of. We want to keep it that way.
      It’s Grandma Dee that notices Maggie has been walking around all night, a blanket over her shoulders.

      “Are you OK, Maggie?” She asks.
      “I can’t sleep,” she says, “I was sleeping in the queer tent, but I’m scared they’re going to go after that tent first.”
      It’s easy to find the Queer Tent because it’s spraypainted on the outside.
      “C’mon, you can sleep in the tent I’ve been using.” I clean all my stuff out of a two-person tent that reeks of feet and make a bed of the padding and sleeping bags that were in there when I got there.
      “I have to leave in the morning, so you should take over this one,” then I give her a big hug, something I’ve never done before, “I’ll be back in a few days.”
      “Lies, Lies,” she mumbles sleepily.
      When I get back to the night watch, my arms full of my own bedding, Seth is talking with Grandma Dee. My arms are full of my own bedding and things. I throw them down angrily, and storm away.

      “Is this pissyness?” I hear her say over my shoulder. I let her think so, rather have her think it’s more camp drama, an immature temper-tantrum, maybe. That I’m so moved by Maggie’s fear, her inability to ask for help right away, that anyone should fear going to sleep in a tent marked queer lest they get jumped in the middle of the night. I can’t have them see that I’m crying. I walk a few yards away and pull myself together. I can’t have Grandma Dee or nightwatch see that I’m crying. Not tonight, not while shit’s real and could pop off at any moment.

      ***
      “MAGGOT!”
      “BOOTLICKER!”
      “YEAH, YOU! UP ON THE ROOF WE SEE YOU!”
      “YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF? THAT WHY YOU’RE ALL THE WAY UP THERE?”
      After a long night, I wake to the same thing every morning. The sun shining into the tent before it gets hot again, the rising heat and the sound of occupiers heckling the guards. It happens every morning like clockwork before nine ‘o’ clock when they start rolling in. I like to lie in the tent listening to it, before I get up and start the day.
      The occupation is on a thin slice of lawn. The grass, usually, watered by sprinklers, has all died since Occupy set up camp, turning a hay-colored yellow. It’s an ugly, industrial wasteland. The ground itself is toxic, poisoned by arsenic. The water itself is poisoned. It’s sobering that we don’t have to drink it like the prisoners inside. To occupy is to expose yourself to this arsenic.. Us, the guards, the prisoners, we’re all exposed to the poison in the ground. It’s a superfund site. There’s little life anywhere. Just a square mile of warehouses interlaced with railroad tracks. Along this long stretch are tents and tarps we’ll hide under when the sun comes up. It’s been reaching 105 degrees and we’ve got no shade.

      Regardless, the spirits are high. Heckling the guards is a great morale booster. Namecalling is memetic, maggot and bootlicker seem to be the favorite things to shout at them. This whole thing might be useless. It’s hard to believe we have chance of abolishing ICE. We probably don’t. We’ve out here in the middle of nowhere doing this direct action and nobody really seems to know. The media hasn’t covered it and if they have it’s usually just to talk about how dirty we are because we’re shitting in buckets. It all seems so futile, but like many here, this isn’t about winning, it’s about fighting because it’s the right thing to do. We all know it’s a losing battle but one that must be fought. To heckle guards is a small redemption. And it feels good. It feels good to watch them jump out of their cars and scurry inside the prison with their heads down. It feels good to see the visible shame in their shoulders. The way they look at the ground. Many of them have stopped coming to work in uniform, instead, packing them in briefcases and changing inside. In a couple hours it will unbearably hot, but for now we got guards to heckle. It’s a small redemption but we’ll take it.

      Liked by 2 people

      • Madeline Mendiola 21:08 on 23/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

        I really love how so much of the setting description in the daylight comes after the very honest and frightening reality of what the nights were like. Thank you so much for sharing. The emotion is raw and I appreciate this very much.

        Liked by 1 person

      • Donnie 02:05 on 24/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

        I really liked this piece, it seemed like a very honest, realistic description of camps.

        Like

      • TK Camas 13:26 on 24/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

        Your ability to create a tactile sense (defined as your words trigger sensations in my brain that actually make me feel the surroundings you describe) through your writing is quite enjoyable. I wonder what a futuristic genre of this sort looks like.

        Like

    • Madeline Mendiola 20:48 on 23/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

      All of space and time was covered in a haze of blue. Fog hung heavy over the trees, begging to rest. Countless spires of conifers lined the cascading hills that were forever falling into the bottom of the lake. This place is holy.

      This is where sky and earth and water hold one another, blending bodies and blurring intimacy. The sun holds no weight here, under blanket of grey and chilled fingertips. Everything is imperfect as it was meant to be. The curves of mountains show jagged hip bones and sharp elbows. She is not awake nor is she sleeping, but somehow somewhere in between. There is a silence in the way rain falls and birds chirp and crickets sing when there is no one there to hear it but you.

      Wind rolls over the surface of the lake that shimmers wildly in the fading, white light. The closer you are to the water, the darker it becomes, giving you a glimpse of depth like a person who is too afraid to say it aloud but you know its truth anyway. Far off, the shore swells into the mud and the twigs and lost branches, asking them to come home. There is a frantic and subdued urgency in the way the water moves. There are no waves, but soft ripples. It seems as though the hills are resting the weight of their body on top and the lake is desperately trying not to show how bad it actually hurts.

      Infinity is a place that doesn’t exist anywhere and also exists everywhere. This is infinince. The sky is weightless but dense with itself in its purity, as if trying to kiss the cheek, that soft place just under the eye. Woven through the treebanks, exposing itself as soft and fragile. Resting like fingertips tracing lips. The feeling is in the tenderness; gentle enough to trust but not too afraid to touch. The trees stood like tickled skin in its affection.

      Everything is damp, glistening. Nothing is untouched.

      In the middle of the lake, at the end of the dock, three figures stood with their backs to me.

      Silhouettes of gazing and awe, thick wool coats, trousers and boots. They are perfectly still. They are creatures who are both wildly alien and simple enough to be organic. The tallest stands on the right with his hood on. The others, covered in headdresses of scarves. Some may think it seems important to see their faces to glean a feeling, but it is seen in the way they turn their backs. There are times when it is more important to keep eyes fixed like lens on glory. But we all know, pictures are false deities like blurred memories and faded feelings or not wanting to wake up from a dream and forcing yourself back to sleep. One could almost feel sorry for picture-takers, silent photographers. There’s always more than one way to die.

      The dock croaks with the gravity of age. The dark word is darkened the way a woman’s hair does in the shower. It is slicked with longing, homeward bound with soaking legs just like the twigs. It begs the question; what is the honest difference between a branch, a twig, a pillar? Part of it rooted in the bottom of the lake, a moss-covered baby cradled in the wintry chill of the water. The planks slope side to side, begging to be anything but stable or secure.

      A buoy rests far off in the distance, rhythmically bouncing with the rolling underbelly of the lake.

      There is so much one cannot see in this particular photograph. The frenzied flock of birds, fraught with roaming, that passed moments before. Their faces. The way their mouths rested slightly agape, unaware of how visible their breath is. How she began to cry and then laugh. How he had accidentally drugged her with a spliff on the side of the road, thinking it was a cigarette. How, the night before, she thought she had fallen in love with a stranger in a bar. How three scratched and clawed their way back onto the dock when the fourth swam the length of it.

      In the midst of winter, the darkest of figures began to strip himself of his clothing. He jumped first. The others followed. Counting to three, running and falling, pointed toes joining with the pillars of the dock to blur bodies in the lake. This, however, I am sorry to say, is not documented because they were living. Just as the dock and the fog and the twigs and the trees. A part of everything, finally.

      Four people stood, shivering.

      Liked by 3 people

      • Madeline Mendiola 20:49 on 23/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

        This is definitely under 1000, but it was the most I could do for now.

        Like

      • Donnie 02:12 on 24/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

        You are a really visual, descriptive writer. You paint pictures evrywhere. I find the story interesting and easy to read.

        Liked by 1 person

        • Madeline Mendiola 19:44 on 24/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

          Thank you! Sometimes my own writing feels foreign to me. Like I’ve read it over and over and I start to lose the image, so it’s nice to hear how others feel about it.

          Liked by 1 person

      • TK Camas 13:31 on 24/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

        All I can honestly say is … when can we write together? The imagery, the syntax, the defined rhythm (read here with such deliberate patience), it’s all just gorgeous. “… darkened the way a woman’s hair does in the shower.” Yes, I see it!

        Liked by 1 person

        • Madeline Mendiola 19:42 on 24/01/2019 Permalink | Reply

          Thank you so much! I also can’t wait to write together and create our small, sweet community. I really appreciate when you comment on my work.

          Like

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