Meeting Again

Sunlight streamed through the kitchen window creating a bright spot on the vinyl floor just right for little painted toes to be displayed. Elizabeth giggled as she pointed one barefoot into the square of light and then the other, watching her pink toenails sparkle and fade as they moved from shadow to brightness.

A tap on the window drew her attention and she looked up to see a tiny figure hovering outside the glass.

She climbed up on a chair, placed her hands on the windowpane and leaned forward returning the impish smile of the fairy princess from the garden.

Journal Writing

In looking over my writing journal it occurs to me I should rename it. I called it daily writing as I intended to write in it daily or at least every day of my workweek. Yet, it is obvious I am not. It’s more of a once a week, or two, writing journal.

Although when I do write in it I write one entry, so could I still call it daily?

Ha, Ha. Apparently the creative juices are not flowing overly free this morning if this is what I have to write about. Although, I sometimes think it’s more important to engage in the activity of writing, being mindful of my grammar and spelling, than in what is being written. Much like a novice dancer practicing the same steps, the same movements, over and over again until the muscle memory is firmly ingrained and the time between thought and action becomes infinitely small, so close to zero, the two seem to occur similutanously, similtanously, simultaneously.

Okay, so I just got completely derailed by a misspelled word. I often do and it isn’t just because I am writing on a word processer, which alerts me—with its bright red lines—that a word has been misspelled, I recognize when I can’t recall the correct spelling of a word and knowing I’ve spelled it incorrectly my train of thought comes to a grinding halt. I can’t proceed until I have clicked the spelling and grammar check, subjecting the entire document to the marvels of modern software and correcting the offending lapse in my intellect, removing the glaring red lines from my manuscript.

Unfortunately, my spelling attempts can be so out of whack spellcheck has no suggestions for me, leaving me with the uncomfortable dilemma of do I get my dictionary out and look it up or do I ignore the erroneously spelled word and write on?

Since it is in my nature to dot the i’s and cross the t's, I was a machine designer in a former career after all, I have a strong urge to figure out the correct spelling before moving on, I stop, retrieve the dictionary, look up the word, smile in recognition and correct the spelling. Once all is fixed and the word document is cleared of all red lines I began the next sentence, my fingers striking the keys in rapid fashion delivering my thoughts and images to the screen in a free flowing burst of creativity, completing my journal entry for the day.

The Inheritance (14)

Beyond the tree line a dark gray mass was building, heralding a change in the weather. The various groups of picnickers continued in their leisure activities unaware of the pending storm. Out on the lake carefree boaters were the first to notice the change, a cool rush of air and a shadow growing across the lake, covering it, darkening it to an oily midnight blue. The water rippled as the growing wind brushed the surface.

Lily shifted her focus from the young water skier behind the boat to the sky above, frowning as she studied the advancing line of tumultuous dark clouds.

“Tom.” She called out above the sound of the engine and wind. “Looks like we are in for more than a ten percent chance of showers.”

Tom glanced sideways at Lily. She nodded, pointing beyond him at the sky. He turned to look just as a streak of lightening flashed in the dark heavens above the trees. Moments later a rumble of thunder reached them. Lily looked back at Matt cutting across the wake of the boat, his body leaning back against the pull of the motor, his ski throwing up a rooster tail of water, and waved, signaling for him to let go of the rope.

A brief skip of time passed before Matt reached the apex of his arc to the outside of the boat, straining he raced over the rippling surface even with the stern before shifting his posture to begin his return trip. He acknowledged his Aunt’s signal with a wave of his own and a flamboyant release of the towrope, letting himself sink into the water as his forward motion slowed.

“He let go.” Lily shouted.

Tom swung the boat around in a curve heading them back to the spot where his nephew bobbed in the water. He reduced speed as they approached, coming to a stop a few yards away and turned off the motor. Lily began pulling in the towrope, looping it in her hands as it came while Loren hung the portable ladder over the stern for Matt to use. In the water Matt removed his foot from the ski boot encasing it and pushing the ski in front of him began swimming toward the boat. Tom grabbed the ski, fishing it out of the water, freeing Matt to make his way along the side of the boat to the ladder. Where he climbed aboard accepting the towel held out to him from his cousin. A loud, menacing rumble sounded overhead. All four of the passengers looked up at the looming line of dark clouds building above the trees lining the western shore. Lily dropped her eyes to the distant beach along the eastern shore wondering if they had enough time to get there and get the boat out of the water before the storm descended. The strengthening wind cooled her skin, raising goose bumps on her bare arms. The shoreline was awash with sunlight, the bathers and picnickers engaged in their activities seemingly unaware of the storm poised to strike. 

To Be Continued...