Another World


PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bulltot

Moira loved the castle ruins.  She  often escaped to the grassy inner courtyard to daydream for hours.  She never felt lonely.

At 15, her daydreams became as reality.  She saw ladies draped in flowing silks. Gentlemen were not so fine, appearing  in rougher dress for hunting or war.

One man always appeared. Tall;  dark, unruly hair; eyes the color of a stormy ocean.   He gazed at her, wordlessly beckoning.

At 21, she returned. In the afternoon, she sat on the grass and dreamed.  Just as the first stars appeared, he came. He offered his hand. She took it, with no regrets.



(A note from the struggling author:  As this story unrolled, the words and pictures  flowed like water from a spring. I decided to let it come, and I have to say I loved the story as I wrote it then. However, It was 170 words. It felt like cutting out my heart, but 70 words  are gone and I have followed the rules. I’m not unhappy with the result. I think the story is the same at its core–you just have to use a little more imagination!)



It’s for Kids


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It’s always been pretty easy for me to memorize–until the last ten years or so. I’ve been learning Bible verses and passages since I was about five, and those verses have never left my memory. I could recite whole chapters, but most of those are also pretty foggy now. However, if I go back and read them again, it all comes flooding back.

I memorized Psalm 23 for summer Vacation Bible School when I was about 8. That one, I can still say.

Of course, if you put something to music it’s going to be easier to remember–for me, at least.  There are dozens of very old TV advertisements that I can still sing, word for word. Remember this one?


Well, those were the good old days.  I can still memorize if I really work at it, but it never used to be work. As a junior in high school, I got the lead in the class play.  That’s the play that was turned into My Fair Lady. I had very long speeches, and I think I was in every scene. Lots of memorizing, but I had no trouble with it.  Maybe that’s because it was just so much fun.
One thing I can’t remember, and never could, is telephone numbers.  Good grief, I have to stop and think about my own!  I got a new cell phone earlier this year, and had to change my number for the first time in about 15 years.  I’m still struggling to get it right.

True Beauty


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LeeAnne was quite enamored with her own reflection. She found dozens of reasons  to go past any reflective surface, where she paused to admire herself and make sure everything was as it should be.

She was a pain in the neck. Those who had the misfortune of having to live with her and watch her intense love affair with herself were thoroughly fed up. Something needed to change. Her mother, who had watched LeeAnne’s growing fascination with herself, was convinced that Lee understood as a newborn infant that she was unusually pretty.  Maybe that was because so many people told her so.  It wasn’t long before she would lower her eyelids over her violet eyes and allow her dimples to wink off and on in response to some stranger’s awe of her great beauty.

Little brat. She used her appearance whenever she could to avoid doing chores she found distasteful, beneath her dignity as the reigning family beauty.  How she pulled it off was a mystery to everyone.  She never screamed or threw a temper.  She just smiled her entrancing smile and walked away, and someone else would end up doing her work.

One day, the rest of the family had a meeting without their queen. She wasn’t informed. What they decided was to remove every mirror from the house; to cover any shiny surface that could reflect Lee’s image. No window was to be left uncovered after dark. They even went through her handbag while she was in the shower, removing her mirror. They removed the visor mirror from her car. They were ruthless and thorough.

The day after the Mirror Project was completed, there was a mighty wail coming from Lee’s bedroom.
“Where is my mirror?  WHAT?? There’s no mirror in the bathroom!  Wait, who took the mirror from my purse?  I’ll call the police!   How can I get ready if I don’t have a mirror?”

While she grieved over the loss of her own reflection, the rest of the family ignored her. Mom, Dad, older brother and younger sister all went about their business as if The Queen were not there.

Her sobbing and crying having no effect, she resorted  to threats. “I’ll move out!  I’ll get a place where I can have mirrors on every wall!  In fact, the walls will BE mirrors!  How could you do this to me? What have I done to deserve this?”

Running her brush through her hair, she dressed quickly, grabbed her face kit, and ran out of the house. The drive to her job was tedious–no vanity mirror in the car.

Shoving her way through the revolving doors, she ran to the women’s bathroom to finish her beauty routine and was horrified to find—-you guessed it—NO MIRRORS!  She even dared to peek into the men’s room.  No mirrors there, either.  No mirror in her desk drawer, no co-worker who would loan her one.

Her day was ruined.  She had no idea how she looked, and it was all she could think about. At lunchtime, she raced to the nearest department store’s cosmetics department, knowing there were always mirrors there.

But not today.  The sales girls just looked at her blankly when she asked for a mirror.

“I must be dreaming,” she thought.  No one could possibly have removed mirrors in all her usual preening places.

What she didn’t know was that the people in all those places were just as sick of her narcissism as her family was, and they had happily agreed to remove mirrors.

Not one single person told her how pretty she was that day.  No one commented on her shiny hair, her beautiful eyes, her dimples, her radiant smile.  She was just like everyone else.  It was horrible.

It took about a week for her to get the point. Because she had no mirrors in which to admire herself, she began to see other people. She even started conversations with her co-workers, asking them about their boyfriends, husbands, children. There was a softening in her eyes that made her truly lovely, and not just beautiful. Even at home, she no longer spent her time on her hair and makeup. Instead, she enjoyed conversations at the dinner table with her family, who behaved as if this was normal.

She had lots of time for introspection, and she decided she wasn’t very pretty at all.  She was so full of herself and her appearance that she hadn’t bothered to acquaint herself with aspects of her character that needed some attention.

The day she went to her family and said, “I’ve been horrid, haven’t I?  How did you put up with me?  I’m so sorry!”  was the day the mirrors began to reappear. Lee was surprised to see her reflection in the bathroom mirror, but she didn’t pause to admire herself.  She brushed her teeth, washed her face, and went to bed. Less than five minutes, compared to her usual hour.

As she grew older and age began to leave traces on her face and skin,  she welcomed the changes. The only regrets she had were over the waste of her first 20 years, which had been spent in front of a mirror.

She only wished that her family had “cured” her sooner.

Not a Poet


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I’m not much good at poetry. When I was 12 or so, I thought I was going to be the next Emily Dickinson.  Truth?  Not happening.  My poetry always winds up being sappy, trite, and boring. That’s okay. I can still admire Emily and others who words tickle my poetry gene.

I did make an effort here on Word Press some time ago.  I think it’s all I have, so here it is (we had been challenged to write our own 14-line sonnet)

Sonnets are not my poetry style.

If I try to be serious, you’d just have to smile.

I’d be better at something Suessian,

Or even Mother Goosian

Than  writing something erudite

Though I should try with all my might.

Already I’m stuck for something to say

To finish this poem for the 14th day.

I could write reams of prose on most any topic,

But my poetic flair is rather dystropic.

Don’t bother to look; I created that word.

It’s what happens when I’m writing something absurd.

So now I will bid you all fond farewell,

And  go to my room, and sleep for a spell.

And there you have it. Now you know why I am not, and never will be, a renowned poet 🙂




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Here’s an interesting video for you scientific types:




There sure is a lot of cool information on You Tube, but the kind of magnetism I first thought about was the magnetism I observe between people.  I was very aware of that mysterious draw when I first met Terry. There was an instant pull, and neither of us resisted it too much.

Sometimes this same magnetism works between two people who become very good friends. There are some people you just feel drawn toward, and the feeling is often mutual.

So what creates this mysterious pull between two people? There are all kinds of theories, including biological reactions, visual attraction, or even a spiritual connection between two people. There are those who believe in love potions and magic spells. Some would like to reduce it down to simple biology, but that doesn’t explain, then, why a girl who sees dozens of nice guys every day in school is romantically attracted to just one of them, and not the rest.

Have you ever wondered, as you walk through a shopping mall, why an absolutely gorgeous young woman is hanging onto the arm of a skeevy-looking guy?  Surely she could have her pick  of buff, handsome gym rats–but there she is, with a dude who has chains hanging off his baggy, torn, falling-off jeans; whose armpit hair is in plain view; and who seems oblivious  to the Miss Thing who clearly adores him. I doubt her parents as as impressed as she is.

Of course, you see the other side as well. A handsome, neatly dressed guy shepherding a girl who has her tongue split at the end, who is wearing  studs and chains and rings in every conceivable place, and who has colored her hair in stripes  with all the colors of the rainbow.  Really?  I don’t know.  Maybe she’s fun, but I have a hard time getting passed her snaky-looking tongue.

Well.  I don’t think I’ve accomplished anything important here this morning, which is perfectly all right with me.



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I tried, really tried, not to look up the etymology. After all, we know what the word means. But I couldn’t resist it,  and I discovered that there’s  subtle undertone here that needs exploration.

The word dignify comes from the Latin dignus, which meant to make a person SEEM worthy.

Well now. That lends our prompt a whole other layer, because of one little word: Seem.

When I was doing my practicum toward my master’s, I did a school year in a local hospital’s rehab program. Part of my job was to record a patient’s progress–or lack thereof.  My mentor taught me to  write up my notes with words that leave some wiggle room, because sometimes things can change rapidly  in helping folks who are disabled through surgery, such as a knee or hip replacement

Example:  I once wrote “The patient is much stronger today.”

No. That’s an absolute statement, and leaves no room for change. I should have written “The patient SEEMS much stronger this morning,”

This is not done in an effort to deceive; rather, it is to allow for possible regression, which happens fairly frequently, especially among the older population.

So how does all this apply to the word du jour?

Simple.  If I dignify (make worthy) my behavior, I am making it seem as if I’m a dignified person.  Sometimes I truly am dignified. I know when to behave with dignity, and how to do it.

But I’m much more likely to see the humor in any situation than I am to see the dignity.

When my mother died five years ago, my sister and I arrived at the funeral home for the viewing well ahead of the scheduled time.  We checked to make sure things were as they should be when the funeral director, a young man who seemed quite nervous, asked us to please sit down.  He had something to tell us, and he hoped we would understand.

Mom’s body wasn’t there yet. The coffin my sister had chosen had to be shipped from Denver to Grand Junction, He was so embarrassed to have to tell us that he and his team would get Mom’s body into her coffin the minute it was unloaded from the truck, but the truck had a flat tire somewhere along the route.  It would be late. So very sorry.


As the poor man spoke, my sister and I had trouble controlling our mirth and behaving with dignity. When he said the fatal word late, we lost it. Completely. funeral-bcYou’d be surprised at how much funeral humor there is out there


Mom was always late!  Dad had teased her for years that she would likely be late to her own funeral, and now, here she was–fulfilling that prophecy.  I think she was watching the whole scene and enjoying a good laugh, sitting on some cloud holding Dad’s hand. I think she was enjoying the joke more than we were!

The poor guy finally regained his dignity, and Mom’s body was ready for viewing about 20 minutes past the published starting time.

In Time

Sorry, folks.  I wrote this post on the wrong one of my two  blogs, and I seem to have lost it in the effort to re-blog it here.  I’ll see if I can find it.

Linda's Bible Study


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I do apologize.  I meant for this to be posted on my writing blog, not on this one.  That’s what happens when you don’t double check. So I’m going to re-blog this on my other blog, and then I’ll delete it from here 🙂

From the Merriam-Webster online dictionary:

synchronize (v.)Look up synchronize at Dictionary.com1620s, “to occur at the same time,” from Greek synkhronizein “be of the same time,” from synkhronos “happening at the same time” (see synchronous). The transitive sense of “make synchronous” is first recorded 1806. Of timepieces by 1879. Related: SynchronizedsynchronizingSynchronized swimming is recorded from 1950.

The prefix syn means united, acting, or considered together; thus the name of the once popular boy band, ‘N Sync that got its start in 1995.

Chronos was the Greek god of time.  Interesting, always, where…

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Camping Vignette


PHOTO PROMPT© Jan Wayne Fields

“Terry!”  Linda whispered, but he didn’t even twitch. Louder: “TERRY!”


“Shh! Whisper!  There’s something out there!”

“Oh good grief! There are dozens of other campers out there. Go to sleep.”

“Can’t. Need the bathroom.”

“Take the flashlight.”

“NO! You have to come. I’m scared!”

“I’m NOT going into the women’s bathroom!”

“Just stand outside and wait.”

“You’re not going to let me sleep, are you?”

Tearfully: “I have to GO and I’m SCARED.”

“All right, all right. Just–you’re choking me, for Pete’s sake. Let go so I can get up. City girls. Good grief.”









Aging and Lurching


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Remember Lurch from The Munsters?  Spooky shows were popular back then:

Image result for Lurch from The Munsters

But he’s not the subject of this post–just the first thing that came to mind.

This one’s all about me.  My back pain causes some balance problems, which is why I keep my cane handy.  Without it, I tend to lurch from side to side, and people would likely think I was intoxicated.

It’s quite embarrassing, really.  See, you never truly expect to grow old. You don’t think about your body beginning to disintegrate, your bones crumbling, and your balance being affected. That happens to OLD people, which of course means OTHER people.

I turned 70 last month. Still having a hard time wrapping my head around that.  I don’t mind, really.  It’s just that I didn’t know that 70 would come packaged with some “old people” ingredients 🙂

I’ll be having surgery tomorrow morning to fuse my right-side sacroiliac joint. We did the left one back in January with great success, so I’m hoping my tendency to lurch will soon be a thing of the past.  At least for a while.

Give me Solitude!


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Solitary.  Some people dread solitude.  It can be awful. Prisoners who are put in solitary from some crime or misbehavior find solitude, used as a punishment, to be less than welcome.

Even little children can experience solitude as a punishment. I’ve used it, but only in small doses, and to get my point across to a recalcitrant child. And never, ever would I lock a child in a closet or other dark, enclosed place.  That’s not discipline. It’s torture.

Image result for child alone on his bed

A person who seeks other people, who needs company and activity in order to restore his batteries, is said to be an extrovert.

People like me, who crave solitude and quietness in order to recharge, are said to be introverts.

I’m not sure about that. There’s a line somewhere that gets blurred for me. Most people who know me would say I’m a “people-person,” and that’s usually true.  I enjoy people. I don’t mind striking up conversations with strangers if the occasion requires it.  But I find, as I grow older, that I truly crave my solitude. I guard and protect it. I won’t answer the phone when I don’t want to be disturbed. I need that complete quiet and alone-ness to regain my equilibrium so that I can return to the land of the living with composure, and even with a welcome for the people who cross my path.

This is true especially in the early morning. Don’t talk to me. Don’t require anything of me. Leave me alone. Let me have my coffee and my Bible without any disruption. Give me half-an-hour of silence, and you’ll be my friend for life.

Funny, isn’t it?  We’re all so different, and so much the same. Some of you understand me completely.  Others of you would say I’m just a morning crank.

Well.  It is what it is 🙂