So It Is With Writing…

Aw spring, my favorite time of the year is finally here. Budding new birth is everywhere you look; people are taking inventory, spring cleaning, clearing out cobwebs, and the clutter of their lives.

As a girl, we started every Spring by opening the windows and letting fresh air blow through the house removing the winter’s stale air. Then, we moved down mama’s list, decluttering closets, washing windows until they sparkled. We whitewashed scuff marks off baseboards, mopped, waxed, and polished the hardwood floors until they shined.

It was an exhausting time for my sisters and me, one we always dreaded, until lying on our beds late at night we inhaled the smell of a freshly spring-cleaned house as the breeze stirred the sheer curtains and the sounds of crickets serenaded us to sleep. Some things are worth the hard work.

So it is with writing …

You outline a novel and fill in the plot or as some do, fly by the seat of your pants until you reach the end of the story and a satisfactory word count. Of course, I’m over simplifying, but you get my drift. When things need to be done, you do them and cross them off your list. Not unlike when I was young and checking off mama’s spring cleaning to-do-list.

Perhaps you’ve wondered why no one was minding the Cow Pasture. Suffice to say; I was hard at work. Not writing, but working on something much harder so I could get back to writing – my health. In 1983, I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease, Sjogren’s syndrome and others, but over the last five years, things had stabilized.

I thought I had this plot figured out, so to speak, but then what’s a good story without a twist, right? After many years of being manageable, the sleeping giant began attacking my central nervous system. Talk about a twist I wasn’t expecting, this was it. I didn’t know how to talk or write about what was happening, even in the Cow Pasture.

Over the last six months instead of working on my novel, blog or writing short stories, I’ve been outlining a plan to combat this disease and improve my outcome. I’m happy to say things are on track.

Some things are worth the hard work. 

I’m writing again, not using many outlines or sticking to a strict schedule, but writing when I can. Musing from the Cow Pasture Chronicles may include exerts from my novels, Hello HellCall Me Florence, a short story, flash fiction, writing topic, an opinion piece, or a chapter from my memoir. Who knows what I’ll share, I’m pretty much a panster these days.

Some things are meant to be enjoyed.

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All Clear – Flash Fiction Story

 DOWNER MAGAZINE

a broken home for abrasive fiction

September 2012

ALL CLEAR

By: Sheila Good

They invited her into the room because of her expertise in the field, the family, and the doctor’s soft spot of guilt for bungling her case years ago. She stood stoic at the foot of the bed, as the code team applied paddles for the eighth time. Every time they got him back another run of ventricular tachycardia would start and his heart would stop.

“Clear!”

Rigid with interest, she didn’t want to miss a second. His body convulsed with each shock as her eyes darted back and forth from the monitor to the bed.

“Got him,” the nurse said.

She flinched. The paddles had worked for the moment. The team stepped back satisfied. A less dangerous heart rhythm danced across the screen and the steadier, stronger beeping sound of his heart rate were like ice picks to her soul.

The doctor handed the chart back to the nurse and walked over to her.

“Are you okay? “

She cut her eyes at him and waited for him to continue.

“We’ll transfer him as soon as he’s stable,” he said. “Right now, it’s just too precarious.”
She nodded feigning interest. The reality? She couldn’t have cared less.

He glanced at his buzzing pager then back at her. “He seems stable, for now. I need to check on other patients, but stay as long as you like, or if you prefer we can call you if anything happens.”

She crossed her arms, and leaned against the counter. “I’ll stay.”

He smiled, nodded his head in understanding, and gave her arm a consoling pat. “Don’t worry. I’ll check-in on him after rounds. I’m confident he’s safe with you. ”

The doctor left, and she let go, closing her eyes against the onslaught of memories. Alone in the room, she gripped her elbows as the years of hatred roared through her for the man who had stolen her childhood and robbed her of having a family.

She watched the monitor and prayed for the return dance of the V-tach across the screen. V-tach gave her hope.
“You’re here to watch me die,” he said.

At the sound of his scratchy, tired voice, she turned to face him for the first time in years. Her eyes were cold and hard. The beep-beep of his heart rate soared as their eyes met.

She stared at him, refusing to take the bait.

“I know that’s why you’re here. You hate me.”

The effort of talking and the stress of his sins were taking its toll. Short of breath, he fumbled with the oxygen mask, as beads of sweat popped out on his pasty brow, and she heard the stumble of the beeping as his heartbeat began its dance.

She pushed away from the counter and walked silently to the door, glanced out, nudging it closed before returning to the bed. His eyes followed her, uncertain.

Calmness, settled over her as she leaned in close to him, face-to-face. She smelled the fear on his breath and for the first time in a lifetime, felt free.

“You’re damn right,” she said.

– See more at: http://www.cowpasturechronicles.wordpress.com/p/all-clear-flash-fiction-story

 

The Seduction Of Art

I tugged nervously on the hem of the expensive new dress, the lady at the boutique had said, “Fit me like a glove and accentuated my best features,” and entered the room filled to overflowing with rich and glamorous art enthusiasts.

The product of a small no-nothing town, I was new to the big city with its whirlwind of activity, lights, and glitz; but I shoved my own insecurities aside when the company handed me the invitation; this was my new beginning.

Conscious of a few heads turning as I strolled through the gallery, I clutched the small evening bag tighter in an effort to still the niggling edge of doubt and began to wonder if the sexy, new dress with its draping backline had been a mistake.

I did not hear him approach as I stood staring at the painting with is vibrant mishmash of colors, swirls, zigzags and bleeding crimson black, just the whisper of his words carried on the soft scent of his cologne, “The most beautiful work of art in the place,” he said.

I turned to see who, in their right mind, would call this painting beautiful, but the intensity of his gaze robbed me of my voice as he lifted my hand from the clutched bag bringing it to his lips,  “I was speaking of you,” he said.

FIVE SENTENCE FICTION – SCARLET

The prompt word this week was chosen by J. D Wenzel.

A Good Year

 blimpPhoto Prompt for 100 word Flash Friday Fictioneers-33

A GOOD YEAR

      Karen elbowed her sleeping husband, “Oh my God! Brian look! Wake up,” she said, shaking his arm.

     He yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Sorry babe, I’m exhausted from the wedding.”

     She pulled him toward the window. “It’s the blimp!”

     Sure enough, high above the clouds, as though their own personal escort, floated the Goodyear blimp.

     Brian’s heart swelled to near bursting, with love for his young bride as the window of the plane reflected back the child-like delight in her eyes.

      Karen squeezed his hand, smiling, “It’s going be a good year.”