Wednesday, November 28

The Price of Beauty

Our car speeded along the empty highway like a long, red, endless brushstroke on a canvas of black. Dirk, with his hair slicked up into the faint appearance of a mohawk, commanded the steering wheel with just one hand. The other was occupied with me.
“So, where is this party?” I ventured, pushing his hand away. He pinched my cheek, but then found a new place for his hand.
“Do you know where Edge-Long Beach is?”
“Babe, that’s an hour away!”
“You don’t want to go? We can turn back.”
I pouted but clenched my teeth, remaining stone silent. He was right, as usual, a fact that was beginning to prod at me.
“I thought so.” He turned up the music and simultaneously tuned me out.
Without his attentions, I concentrated myself on introspection. Was I ready to play my part tonight? The mirror wasn’t even necessary for me to check. My mascara was flawless and the sequined mini-dress I wore was perfectly tailored. But though I had the looks, I wasn’t sure if  coaxing myself to coyness was a possibility tonight. Surely beauty and feeling beautiful has a price.


Thursday, November 22


     There are so many reasons to celebrate life- a plethora of pleasant circumstances beg my appreciation. From the minuscule to the grandiose, everywhere I look is an occasion to give thanks. I thank God for my mere existence, and then I thank that He has blessed me with more than just the bare basics.
     My life feels like a fairy-tale. I am alive. I am well. I am loved. What more can I ask for? And yet, it is all there. I own my own car with working air and heater! My place of residence, sunny southwest Florida, is the envy of many. When I go to work each day, it is with enthusiasm and pleasure. Tell me what profession is more worthwhile than one in which you impact the life of a child? 
     Yes. There is much that gives me joy and much that I am thankful for. Now, on this reflection I pray that I may only pay it forward. That thanksgiving will not make me a stingy scrooge clinging tight to all my blessings, but that it will inspire in me the desire to give. 

Wednesday, November 21


There are times I sit alone
and drink in
the silence of my apartment
many hours of many nights
are lost to a lonesome plight
but then
there's together
on the sofa
in the bed
like a single drop of water
to a land that's parched with thirst
our sentiments are joined in desperation
there is no need for talk
what thoughts travel through our minds?
let us sit until we coalesce
the night
is turning slowly
I feel the brink of dawn
here you are
my love
take this thing I hold before you
a window cannot stay open
all day long.

Thursday, November 15

The Calculus Teacher

           Trudy Pyrez adjusted her horn-rimmed glasses for the millionth time. She tugged down on her skirt slightly and pulled up on her blouse a bit. Why hadn’t she worn the trousers? Wasn’t a skirt too feminine and femininity a sign of weakness?
It was 8:02 and class began at 8:00 am sharp.  She turned the door handle to room 3-101 and walked to the front of the room setting her notebook on the wooden table. “Good morning. My name is Ms. Pyrez and I will be your calculus teacher this year.” Her voice was strong, betraying none of the fear that gnawed at her belly. 15 high school seniors, all male, stared back at her. “Let’s take attendance, shall we?”
There was some whispering and a few guffaws until finally, a husky ginger interrupted her attendance taking. “Miss, how old are you?”
Her face flashed red. “Twenty-two,” she shot back. More whispering and now—was that whistling?  Ms. Pyrez sighed, put down the class roster and reached into her notebook. Out came a lavender colored paper with faded writing. “Ok, everyone. Now listen up. Before we begin exploring the world of calculus I would like to see where everyone is with their math skills. Please take out a piece of paper and solve this equation.” She placed the paper under the document camera and projected it onto the board. The students groaned but got to work nonetheless.
Ms. Pyrez weaved her way through the room, hands clutched behind her back. A slight lilt adorned her step. She smiled to herself. Yes. This indeed has possibilities. 

Written for Theme Thursday

Sunday, November 11

Verdun, 1917 by Felix Vallotton

I write this note postmortem
My sincerest apologies to the survived
The wind was blowing wildly as was apparently my mind

The commencement was unremarkable
A simple switch of light
But then it began catching
And here you are tonight

We're mourning for a forest
With a cacophony of shrieks
My sorrys cannot remedy 
The strike cast carelessly

Written for The Mag