Happy struggles now. Depression is assaulting her, but she’s fighting back. Happy reminds everyone that it’s okay to share her joy and good feeling. Happy wants people to go outside and walk in nature, to turn off the news and stop worrying about who is running things. Happy says, “I’m okay.”
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Donald needs an intervention. He needs a fourth grade teacher with a death stare to stand beside him all day long and give him the look whenever he needs it. And he needs it a lot. Can someone please get him a fourth grade teacher of his very own?
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“She’s the bomb,” he said.
“Is that good?” I asked.
“Yeah, like the best. You know. Awesome.”
“Okay. So why don’t you ask her out?”
“Grammy, people don’t go out these days.” He waved his hands in the air at my crazy idea. That seemed like a big loss to me, but maybe whatever the kids were doing instead of going out was as exciting as going out used to be.
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It was her first Christmas alone. She was a survivor when everyone else in the family was gone. Tom and Janet from work invited her over for Christmas dinner. Staying home for a good cry sounded better, but she forced herself to go. The first thing she saw when she entered their apartment was a tray full of fudge and divinity and powdered sugar covered cookies. Just like her mom always made at Christmas time. She . . .
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“Love you, Babe,” he texted. He shoved his phone in his jacket and got out of his car. A car driving way too fast roared up behind him. He was afraid it would hit the older woman and the little girl ahead of him. He saw an arm holding a pistol extend from the window. He yelled, “Gun, get down,” at the woman and leaped for the arm. He grabbed hold as all his weight dropped to the ground. He heard bones break and the gun fell beside him. The car roared away and he struggled to see the license plate.
Please use the open space below to share your first 50 words on the topic “babe.”
“Be brave,” she said. “Be who you are,” she said. “You belong here,” she said.
I listened, but I didn’t feel brave. I am proud to be who I am, but I’m not a brave fighter, not a porcupine about my right to walk down the street or enter the same department store as you.
How do you “be brave?”
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The word what is misused lately. It’s part of “what the hell” or “WTF.” It should be part of something like “What do you mean?” asked in a friendly and open way. It shouldn’t shut people out, it should bring people in. So, what were you saying when I interrupted?
Please use the open space below to share your first 50 words on the topic “what?”
I was trying to explain it. But he walked into the kitchen and turned on the water. “I can’t hear you,” he called back, “the water’s running.” The truth is, he didn’t want to hear. My version of the truth didn’t fit with his – his didn’t fit with mine. We’d been arguing for months and neither of us could understand what the other was saying.
Please use the open space below to share your first 50 words on the topic “I can’t hear you.”
It was an ordinary day in the park. I was sitting on a bench in the sunshine, reading “The Museum of Extraordinary Things.” A group of about 20 young people walked down the path, humming “Dance Me to the End of Love.” They set up in an open space, formed a semi-circle and began to sing in earnest. I put my book down and listened for almost an hour. They sang nothing but Leonard Cohen songs. When I got home I learned he died. I felt like I’d been in the park of extraordinary things.
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She was a skinny little thing. She wanted so much to be big, strong, tough. No matter how much she ate, she just couldn’t reach her goal of 50 pounds. Finally, when she was almost to her 7th birthday, she hit the mark. She pumped her arms and cheered. Her therapist, who helped her climb on the scale at every therapy session, cheered along with her. I gave a couple of whoops and the nurses nearby came over to give her high fives.
Please use the open space below to share your first 50 words on the topic “50 pounds.”