“Pretty is as pretty does.” Did your mom use that one on you? Mine did. It was meant to encourage kind behavior. Maybe it even worked, since I turned out to be pretty decent and not a sociopath. But it never made be believe I was pretty. In fact, being pretty was never one of my aspirations. Maybe that old expression bred that into me as well.
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The email was a blur. She blinked several times in a effort to focus her eyes. She took her glasses off and looked at them to be sure they were the right glasses. Yes. She put the glasses back on and peered at the screen. Still a blur. She walked to the window and looked out. Yes, she could see out the window. In the kitchen, she tried reading the stuff stuck to the frig. Yes, she could read that. It was a sign, an omen. She was not supposed to go near the computer today.
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Wouldn’t it be nice if you got push notifications from your muse? GO WRITE SOMETHING would appear in an alert box right before your eyes. You couldn’t do anything else until you’d written something and could X out of the alert box. Of course, once you get started you can’t stop, so you’d be writing all day. Where do I sign up for that alert?
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I, I am latent, I am dreamed,
I am unearthed.
I lie here fallow, waiting.
For the opening, the permission
The cord to cling to that will
Pull me forth.
What do I need to be born?
I need open, open, open and out
Into the sunlight.
Say yes to me.
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Neat but dirty. That describes my house as well as my desk. Everything is neatly organized, no deep piles in sight. But there’s dust over everything but the keyboard. The papers I’m using show marks of momentarily placed hunks of chocolate, rings from icy water-coated glasses, scribbled reminders and the odd math problem.
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“Thanks for inviting me,” the email said. It followed with, “Will it be okay if I bring my music? You’ll love it!”
That’s what happens when you invite your boss to something. You have to say yes to whatever he wants. So I said yes.
Turns out his music was all Glenn Miller and WWII songs. On cassette tapes. I told him I didn’t have a cassette player, but he spotted an old boom box in the basement with . . .
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The rain was unrelenting. Even on the high ground where Steffi lived, there was standing water and her basement was oozing, leaking. She frantically carried everything she could to the 2nd floor. In the basement she grabbed up all 7 of the children’s baby books, her grandmother’s quilt from the back of the sofa, photographs off the walls, and Terrance’s game machine.
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Those people who live across the street – in that house with green shutters – go to church on Saturday. I forget the name of that religion. I’ll think of it in a minute. Anyway, the lady who lives there won’t speak to her brothers and sisters or her parents because they don’t believe in her religion. If you run into her out by the mailbox or somewhere, she’ll invite you to her church.
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When everyone talks about wishing Friday would hurry up and come, I just nod and keep quiet. I hate the weekend. I’d rather be at work, in my cheerful cubical with its images of islands and palm trees, than running Saturday errands for my mother. She . . .
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Thursday Anderson was her given name. There was really no good way to create a nickname out of Thursday. Thur sounded stupid. So she went by the name Mac, a name she gave herself in 3rd grade after reading a book with a character by that name. She thought when she turned 21 she might change it officially. She hadn’t told her mother about her plan to officially stop being Thursday. When . . .
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