Things and Whatever

 Road Trip a short story by  Stephanie S. Sommers Childhood memories are dim things when one has gone a handful of decades past them. Details become faded and are not made clearer with concentration. There are times when it seems that those very memories are actively evading discovery, like they might be wild animals scurrying through the underbrush, not belonging inside anyone’s head. These are the reasons that I doubt my own experience, that I wonder if what I will swear is a real memory of events is in fact fanciful stories a child told herself long ago. I’ll let you decide.   I was seven or eight years old when this happened. What I know for certain is that I was with my parents and we were transporting our car on a flatbed. I have no idea why our car wasn’t running and I probably didn’t know even then, nor would I have cared. I do know it was a Cadillac bought second or third or fifth hand because we were not a family that routinely owned luxury items. It was dar...

  Parade Day A short story by Stephanie S. Sommers It was cold that morning, it always was in November, though some were milder than others. This particular morning was just brisk enough that a jacket was a welcome addition to the wardrobe but not so cold that it induced pain or distraction. There was plenty enough distraction with all the holiday revelers anticipating the day full of celebration and shopping and joy. The sidewalks were crowded as they always were, but even more because of the parade that would start soon. He checked his watch and realized he would have to hustle to thread his way through the growing crowd to get to his desired watching location. It wasn’t far now, maybe a few blocks, but with street vendors and extra bodies filling in the concrete and spilling onto the asphalt, it might be a struggle. If he was honest there were unseen struggles as well. He did his best to ignore those memories and twinges of guilt. It should get easier as time passed, but he ...

  I recently made a set of bookmarks for a friend (and sent some to other friends) and I just realized (as I was in the shower where I contemplate creative endeavors where there is no paper, pen, typewriter, or other means of remembering clearly what I was thinking as I rinsed shampoo from my hair) that I didn’t put pretty ribbons or cord or other dangling bits on ANY of those bookmarks. I did not realize until now that I don’t much like the dangling bits on bookmarks I actually use. This led to a whole rabbithole of memory(ish). As a kid I had tons of pretty bookmarks with satin ribbons and cord and stuff hanging off them. I tacked some to the wall or on a bulletin board or taped them in scrapbooks. I didn’t use them in books because I was afraid I’d lose the pretty dangling stuff AND because I was (and still am) a complete klutz. I catch the ribbony bits on stuff and then the bookmark gets yanked out of my book and BAM the polar opposite of KEEPING MY PLACE. So I didn’t put bit...

 Dood Srsly, I dreamed I was living in an apartment made of the top floor of an old Victorian mansion (Do they call them Painted Ladies anywhere but here?) and it was leaking, like, so much leaking that the rain INSIDE was falling as fast as the rain outside. The house was white with green trim (much like the ranch house I spent most of my teen years in which BTW didn't leak) and it had a huge yard and garden. The guy who came to fix it was kinda flirty which was strange, and he may or may not have actually owned the house. Nobody lived downstairs. There were Evangeline Oaks all around the outside of the yard and garden. I am dreaming of living in a leaky house in NOLA, I guess. WTF.

 I was challenged (?) to write something spooky and creepy so that is what that last thing is and I hope I will have more stories soon as there are three more picture prompts coming, woot! I am also trying to keep it to 2000 words or less and we all know how NOT EASY that is for me, I am a wordy bitch. Ha. Also maybe I can get some art posted, will have a think about that.

  My Dear, I am not at all sure when I will be able to send this letter. The postman has not come for the last three days but the grocer assures me that these delays are entirely normal. He is a delightful man, the grocer I mean, and he is always smiling and speaks slowly so I can understand and smiles so big whenever I learn new things. He has two small children who run around the shop, always followed by the wife who has a perpetual expression of patience on her face despite the scolding tone she uses on her young. I am not always sure what she scolds them about, perhaps the pilfering of a ripe pear from their father’s stock or some other infraction out of my sight. He is always indulgent to them allowing the small treats they take with a smile. I found the loveliest paper pinwheels the other week in a small market stall some blocks away. I bought a few and stopped in the grocery and asked if I might give them to the children. The boy took the red one and the girl took the gree...

 Here is a place for stuff and things I make or write or whatever, yay!