I just began My Life on the Road by Gloria Steinem. The Prelude made me cry when I read this line, “. . . inside each of us has a purple motorcycle. We have only to discover it – and ride.” (My dream has always been a Vespa.)
Then I read the Introduction and found the page I photographed above. In honor of Gloria Steinem, who has been my lifelong inspiration, we will no longer have comments. We will have an open space for your story on every page.
First 50 Words - Prompts for Writing Practice 
Here’s my story – and I’m sticking to it: “I’m a contemplative activist in the area of Spirituality of Solidarity; a Futurist; a dyed-in-the-wool educator; an old woman burning with a life-long desire that we humans come to “feel profoundly joined with everything that is” (Francis of Rome); someone who hasn’t forgotten we’re all made of dust. Having said all that, I want to add something from above. I’m also already “hooked on the revolutionary act of listening to others.” Dialogue of this type is the groundwork of human solidarity.
In this world of modern technology, people have become adept at the impersonal aspect of hearing and not really listening. Focusing and mindfulness alludes a big portion of our society. People are not as courteous and considerate as before, and it seems that with each new generation these fundamental values are given less and less importance. You hear about road rage, intolerance, human trafficking, innumerable waves of violence, senseless killings, etc., etc. When does it all stop?
Dialogue is becoming a lost art. The advent of texting, Instagraming, Twittering, Facebooking and all the other social media platforms (that I may not even be aware of) is a mishmash of play-by-play personal scenarios that certain individuals are involved in. I wonder how much time these same people have to interact with others in the real world. Isn’t better to enjoy what surrounds you and to engage in conversations with others as opposed to documenting every little detail? It has become a world of “I.” What could be more descriptive of this concept than the word “selfie?”
Claire, I loved reading your post. As a teacher and parent, I could not agree more. I ask your permission to hang up your writing on our school bulletin board.
Naomi, as a teacher you possess the capacity of influencing your students. It’s a noble profession. My husband is a teacher, too. Thanks for your comment to my post. I certainly give you permission to post it on your school bulletin board. I’m honored by your request. Thanks again.
“Sit down. I will tell you a story.”
All would comply,forthwith.She wouldn’t scream,or shout.She never needed to.One withering look was enough.
After that she took an eternity to chop her betel nut,wipe her mouth off,and then would start.
Tales that were so strange they could have emerged from the Arabian nights.
But every word was true. She said so and we believed her.
Of talking dogs who reminded you of missed meals. Of aeroplanes so huge, and so many, they darkened the skies ( Second World War).Of austerities and hardships.Of festivities and plentiful harvest.A beloved brother,deaf-mute, who walked into the sunset,never to come back.
Heartwarming tales of love and gut wrenching sagas of loss. Of lush green forests, denuded to dusty, barren fields, Of Gods and their wrath, of nature’s fury and benediction.
She unfolded her life,night after night,and we followed her eagerly, like pups, scared to lose the sight of her. Through decades and years,harvests past.
She raised broods of children,and each one of them flew the coop,telling her that they would return,to hear more nighttime stories.
But she knew better.
Smiling her wrinkled smile,she watched them soar in the sky,never to return.
Till one day,clad in the crisp white and red bridal saree,she touched her Snow White head to the threshold of her much-loved home ,and bade good bye,to her brood and barns,and cows and fields,to the hearth and the kitchen,and herself soared into the sky,unfettered.
by the way i liked your concept. first 50 words.! short and sweet.
Eve, year 3016
Today, In class, our instructor told us stories about our ancestors. I was told that GBW (God Be Willing), was once an acronym that was amicably used in their chats. I find it ironic how a reference to God became the abbreviation for the Great Bacterial Wars that followed a century later. Man’s hatred and cruelty knew no boundaries. If you ask me, I think everyone was just too darn greedy and stupid! I guess the other old meaning was more appropriate (Good Bye World).
So here I sit, writing to I don’t know who, half a century after the final GBWs, living in a post-apocalyptic world inside this boring little colony. My name is Eve. Today is my sixteenth birthday and I have to stay stuck within a towering iron fence so I can be protected, they say, from all the evil spooky things that linger beyond.
Naomi, I really liked your post. The dystopic imagery has a very eerie quality to it.