Tag Archive | writing

Coffee Shop Moment

I am out of the house. At Starbucks. Alone. The coffee shop is one of my favorite places to be, and not just for the coffee, believe it or not. It started with the coffee of course, but it didn’t take long to realize there was so much more to my outings than a good cup of coffee.

Most days there’s a kind of quiet here I can’t find anywhere else and the company quite often fascinates me. Most days. This morning I’m only five minutes into my much anticipated mini retreat and the gathering crowd is beginning crowd me. Todays caffeine connaisseurs are chatty and a bit on the rude side.

I’ll just sit here and write, avoiding eye contact and any possibility of accidentally appearing available for conversation, basically what I typically do anyway. You might not believe this, but I’m not much of a people person. I’ve tried to be, I admit I haven’t employed Herculean effort into my attempts at human contact, but occasionally I smile at people, that’s trying. A little.

My moment has passed. This is not turning out to be the morning I had hoped for. I’m only halfway through my venti iced coffee and thoughts of poking people in the eyes with a straw are washing over me. Just so you know, I wouldn’t do it, straws are bendy, not nearly reliable enough.

I swear I am a good person. I am.

Thankfully, the mouthy masses are moseying off to . . . other pastures. Not sure where I was going with that, all the chatter messed with my ability to form coherent thought. Maybe I can salvage the last five minutes before reality resumes and I head home to face the laundry pile.

. . . . . . . .

This morning was just made perfect. God is good, He knows just what we need and when we need it. I finished my coffee which prompted a trip to the restroom. There was a young man tapping his foot and singing to himself while waiting for the men’s room to open up. The ladies room was occupied as well so I stood in that little hallway, listening to his song.

He noticed me listening. I asked if he had a song stuck in his head. He nodded and told me it was a good one . . . Then, he took a step closer and looked me in the eyes, he serenaded me with his song.

I couldn’t understand the words, but I felt them. Each one leaving goosebumps on my arms. He was precious, he was pure and real and his sweet heart touched my soul.

A few people took notice, they stared, some even smiled. When a Down’s syndrome angel gives you a gift, you take hold of it and treasure it always.

Hush Little Baby – (writing prompt – storm, nursery rhyme) OR Oh, dear friends, be kind – I don’t write much fiction.

Aug12

The night was black, dark clouds covered what little light the moon had to offer. Violent torrents of rain poured from the sky, beating the surface of the building as if begging for refuge to escape their own raging fury. With each lightning flash, a tiny, barred window near the ceiling illuminated Heather’s hiding place with an eery glow. She used these brief moments of light to scan the small space for something, anything she might put to use to protect herself, from what she didn’t know. The room was bare, nothing but a small, overturned cot beneath the window.

Heather was scared, more than scared. She tried to remember what happened, why she was running, how she ended up crouching in the corner of the cold, darkened room. Was she hiding from the storm or something worse? Her fingernails dug sharply into the palms of her hands as she desperately tried to piece together the few memories she had. Nothing made sense.

There was a door, she darted across the room, placing her ear to the cold, metal surface. Silence. She felt her way to the handle, it wasn’t there, nothing but a thick, metal plate where it should have been. She slowly stood on her toes, trying to peer out the rectangular opening above her. There was a faint, yellow glow behind the pattern of mesh and glass, she wasn’t tall enough to see anything more.

The musty scent of old, wet wood from the weathered window panes filled the room with a sickening, yet familiar scent, for a moment she thought maybe she’d been here before. Her bones ached, her head hurt and her heart pounded. She began to count the seconds between the booming thunder and the flashes of white. A strangely comforting warmth came over her, she looked down to see her own blood dripping from her clenched fists. She loosened her fingers and examined the blood. The glistening liquid fell like tears on her stained nightshirt. It looked black in the darkness, for some reason this brought a smile to her face and she again let her fingernails pierce the wounds.

Lightening flashed through the room again, for a moment she thought she saw a glimpse of someone’s shadow peering through the door window and she began to rock. She wrapped her arms around her legs and rocked back and forth to the music of the storm. The loud cracks of thunder began to soften, giving way to a familiar tune. As the winds howled and the lightning flashed, Heather could hear nothing but a far off melody.

She soon forgot about the storm, she forgot about her fear as the music box innocence of the tune grew louder. She recognized it, someone once sang it to her. A ghostly voice from her past filled the empty room, it was a woman’s voice, a beautiful voice . . . momma’s gonna buy you a diamond ring, and if that diamond ring turns to glass . . . Heather began to rock faster, her long hair making contact with the concrete wall behind her.

The booming thunder interrupts the song and the soothing voice turns to anguished screams. Heather begins to rock faster, harder and waits for the screams to stop, somehow she knows they will. The lightning flash again reveals someone at the window, she closes her eyes as the screams fade and the soothing song resumes . . . momma’s gonna by you a rocking horse . . . she lets her fingernails slide like puzzle pieces into the broken flesh of her palms.

Outside of the room, two men stand guard. One of them looks nervous, “Is she gonna be okay? Should we go in?”

The other guard glances sideways into the room and then back to his magazine. “Naw, she’ll live. Does this crap every time a storm passes through. They’ll patch her up in the morning and she’ll be back to normal.”

“Normal?” the new guard looked as though he’d be sick. “Nothing about this place is normal, gives me the creeps.”

Without looking up from his magazine, the older guard sighed, “Look, the pay’s good and as long as they stay locked up, we got no problems, relax.”

Inside the room, Heather continues to sing, she has no memory of the stormy night she killed her mother . . . and if that rocking horse does break . . . .

Crystal R. Cook

Life Upon a Page

Aug9

My Words

Aug8

Dance of Words

Aug8

Journalism Today

Aug1

“Journalism can never be silent: that is its greatest virtue and its greatest fault.”- Henry Anatole Grunwald

True journalism is both a craft and a profession. I’ve long respected those who travel with pen in hand to bring news and information to all. Without journalists we would be lost in a sea of misinformed confusion. Of course, there are those who could argue we actually are lost in a sea of misinformed confusion brought on by those who wear the guise of journalistic integrity.

The dictionary gives more than one definition for the word journalism.

(1) The occupation of reporting, writing, editing, photographing or broadcasting news or of conducting any news organization as a business.

(2) Writing that reflects superficial thought and research, a popular slant and hurried composition, conceived of as exemplifying topical newspaper or magazine writing as distinguished from scholarly writing.

I fear the first definition will soon become no more than a simple eulogy for a noble profession which was once respected and much-needed. Journalism used to require passion and diligence. It required dedication and talent. True journalists are a dying breed. Not only did they research their facts, they wove their words carefully, keeping their personal opinions for the editorial pages. There are still those who endeavor to maintain the essence of journalism, but they are among a dying breed.

It can be argued there have always been those who sullied the profession with half-truths and misinformation, an argument which would be hard refute. The art of journalism has been caught up in an increasingly downward spiral toward the fast paced, one-sided, in your face reporting being touted as journalism today.

Ellen Goodman summed it up simply when she said, “In journalism, there has always been a tension between getting it first and getting it right.”

The second definition best describes what seems to be taking place in today’s journalism industry. Write what sells. Go ahead and throw in your personal views and make speculations. Today it’s all about the headline, the writing itself seems to be secondary to the topic. Write it, don’t worry about writing it well, just write it. The public is being misinformed and seems content to be remain blissfully uninformed by the steady decline in journalistic morality.

To be honest, it’s frightening.

“There is much to be said in favour of modern journalism. By giving us the opinions of the uneducated, it keeps us in touch with the ignorance of the community.” – Oscar Wilde certainly had a way with words.

A good journalist has to be a writer. Many of today’s bylines are given to anyone who can type. I respect the restraint a journalist has to maintain the integrity of whatever piece they are working on, the ones who do not put words to a page until they know it to be fact. In recent years there have been more than one respected journalist shift to the other side. Sad but true, you just can’t believe everything you read.

I applaud those who have remained true to the art of journalism, they are indeed craftsmen worthy of admiration and accolade.

Crystal R.Cook

Parade of Fools

Jul30

Conformity is not my norm,
I’ve no desire to fit in.
Societal expectations
are not my thing.
I try to understand
the hunger for acceptance
I see so many
willingly sacrificing
themselves upon alters
of false pretenses to obtain,
but the reasons I seek
elude me.
Shall I slit my own wrists
and allow my essence
to drain, pooling into
the festering puddle
of a fictitious existence?
Shall I don a mask
which doesn’t quite fit
to blend in with the faceless
crowds blindly following
an unseen leader?
A reclusive ghost, this non-existent
circus master serves as shepherd
to a lost flock, leading them
to slaughter with delusive promises,
empty platitudes and hollow hopes.
They follow without question,
shedding their individuality
like clothing too tattered to wear.
A fools parade,
I cannot follow.

Crystal R.Cook

What to write today?

Jul29

Today there are too many thoughts swirling round in my mind. My feeble attempts to focus are frustrating.

Suggestions, prompts, subjects, or questions requested.

Pretty please.

Sir Wetsalot . . . A rainy day writing.

Jul20

Since children’s stories seems to be my theme for the day, I thought I would share one written with children. My children. My kids are all talented and articulate weavers of words, I read to them while they still nestled in my womb. I’ve always encouraged them to read and write and create.

The following tale was written on a rainy, stay home day when my children were in elementary school. Four bored, runny-nosed house trolls need to be kept busy and entertained so we decided to write a story.

They had so many ideas, we settled on our theme and they ran with it, each adding their own adorable voices to what would become one of our favorite memories. What I thought was going to be a miserable day turned out to be a pretty great one.

Sir Wetsalot and the Knights of the Changing Table

Sir Wetsalot and his knights had many grand adventures protecting the kingdom of Cry-a-lot. Their faithful service never went unoticed by the king or the good people they protected. Their deeds and heroics were recorded so future generations would be reminded of their courage and sacrifice. The tale you are about to embark upon is one of the most famous and remarkable stories ever told of the brave souls we proudly called, The Knights of the Changing table.

Our story begins on a stormy night in the kingdom of Cry-a-lot. The wind howled as the knights gathered at the changing table. The King himself had called them to this secret meeting to discuss his fears that somewhere, someone was plotting to steal his most precious belonging, the golden rattle, Exloud-in-ear. The symbol of peace and harmony for Cry-a-lot was in danger and he feared life as they knew it would come to an end if they did not take measures to stop whatever fiend plotted against them.

As they thought of what to do, they remembered the day the King pulled Exloud-in-ear from under a mountain of rubbish and stone. Many had tried before him but none of them had the heart of a true king. The moment the golden rattle was freed the kingdom cheered and proclaimed him ruler and king. Their villages prospered and the evils they had come to fear seemed to vanish.

They were not sure of the exact nature of this new threat, the Kinghad heard rumors of a plot to steal Exloud-in-ear but that was about it. He decided to send out his most trustworthy spies to gather information and find out who was behind the dastardly plot.

As the spies packed for what they thought could be a long journey they heard a noise outside, they listened carefully but did not hear anything so they continued packing. They had lollipops and plenty of bottles filled with juice, they had their blankies and teddies and of course their spy gear. As they packed the last items they heard the noise again. This time is was even louder.

They rushed to the door and peeked out into the dark night, they could barely make out something in the distance, it looked like it was coming closer. They reached into their bags and pulled out their bottles, they aimed and squeezed, covering the intruder with orange juice and apple juice. Wet and unhappy, it disappeared into the city.

They immediately ran to the King and told him all about it. They were sure it must have been whoever, or whatever it was that wanted to steal Exloud-in-ear from them. They made plans to set a trap and catch the thief, they got to work right away. They started to grow sleepy though and their eyes began to close. One by one, they all fell fast asleep.

When they awoke, Exloud-in-ear was gone! Everyone began to panic, it took the King a long time to calm his people. He called on Sir Wetsalot to help him. Now Sir Wetsalot was very smart and very brave. The only thing that ever slowed him down was a full diaper. He came up with a new plan and quickly put it into action.

A fake Exloud-in-ear was made and placed on a table in the middle of the kingdom, it’s gold paint twinkled in the sun. The King, Sir Wetsalot, the Knights, the spies and all the people hid and waited. They waited, and waited and waited. Just when the sun was going down they began to hear noises. They watched nervously as something approached.

The table began to shake and the fake rattle fell to the ground. No one dared move closer to see what was happening. They listened to the rattle sounds growing softer and softer until they where gone. Now it had the fake Exloud-in-ear and the real one! Everyone in Cry-a-lot was sad. The King began to cry, he would not speak at all. He just sat there in tears and sucked his thumb.

Sir Wetsalot could not stand to see his king like this and valiantly went after the rattle. It was pretty easy really, there was a trail of cookie crumbs for him to follow. As he bravely skipped along the path he heard the familiar sound of the golden rattle. He very quietly crept toward the sound. He could not believe what he saw.

There sat his little brother, slobbering all over Exloud-in-ear. He was so mad he started screaming . . . “Mommeeeee!” Sir Wetsalot smiled as his mother took the rattle from the baby and returned it once again. After a quick diaper change and a snack he was on his way back to Cry-a-lot.

Everyone cheered and gave him a heroes welcome when he returned! The King took his soggy thumb from his mouth and jumped for joy! Peace and harmony returned to the kingdom and everyone settled down for a nice nap. While they slept, Sir Wetsalot’s mommy added a safety gate to the entrance of Cry-a-lot and turned out the lights.

Crystal, Wilson, Matthew, Angela, & Michael Cook

One of the few . . .

Jul20

This is one of the few child themed pieces I’ve written I actually considered a success. It brought smiles to the faces of my children, they giggled and squealed and wanted to hear it over and over again. They would squinch up their little eyes and try to dream of silly animals, they would fall asleep with a smile . . .

Something very strange happened late last night,
I began to hear odd noises, so I turned on the light.
You won’t believe what I saw, you won’t believe what I heard,
I hardly believed it myself, it was simply too absurd!

There where mice in my slippers and hamsters in my bed.
Fluffy bunnies on my dresser and a kitten on my head!
There where roaring lions scratching at the door,
and I could see two crocodiles, but I’m certain there where more!

Birds where busy flying, some were singing too,
I could hear a barking dog and I think I heard a moo!
Turtles slowly traveled across my bedroom floor,
while slithering snakes slid quickly underneath the door!

There was a zebra in the corner who didn’t make a sound,
and a dozen little piggies where running all around!
A great big pretty parrot flew up above my head,
then some silly chipmunks started jumping on my bed!

The closet door was opened up, just a little bit,
it must have been too small for the hippopotamus to fit!
They all made so much noise it soon woke up my mom.
She ran into my room to see just what was wrong.

Her mouth fell right open and her eyes got very wide
when she opened up my door and saw the animals inside!
She called out for my father and my little brother came in too,
who jumped up and started shouting “Yay! We’ve got a zoo!”

An owl hooted softly and then an elephant appeared,
followed by some monkeys and an ape who had a beard!
The house was filled with animals, now what would we do?
Every single minute our zoo just grew and grew!

Mom was in the kitchen and so where all the goats,
Dad was in the closet getting bats out of our coats!
My little brother was in the bathroom filling up the sink
for a line of thirsty penguins waiting for a drink.

“Oh what will we do?” I heard my mother call.
“We really must act fast! There’s a giraffe out in the hall!”
It was completely up to me to rid us of this zoo,
I thought for just a moment, then I knew just what to do!

I politely asked the polar bear who was sleeping in my bed,
if he could find another place to rest his sleepy head.
I thought maybe if I fell asleep I could dream them all away.
The animals where fun, but I knew they couldn’t stay.

So I pulled up all my covers and shut my eyes real tight,
hoping that my dreams would make everything all right.
I slept for just a while and then thought I’d take a peek,
everything was calm and quiet, not a single peep.

The monkeys where all gone, and the elephant was too,
I guess it must have worked because there was no zoo.
No more birds where flying, and no more lions roaring.
The animals where gone and everything was boring.

But I knew how to fix it, I knew what to do!
I’d just go back to sleep and dream about our zoo.
So I pulled up all my covers and shut my eyes real tight,
and when they opened up, I saw such a funny sight!

There where hippos and rhinos, cows and kangaroos,
I couldn’t help shouting “Yay! We’ve got a zoo!”
It used to be hard to fall asleep most every night.
I would pull up all my covers and close my eyes real tight.

Then I’d toss and I’d turn and I’d never get my rest,
I’d think all sorts of things, I’d try my very best.
But now each and every night when I get into my bed,
I just close my eyes and dream of animals instead!

Crystal R.Cook 1994