Not sure if I’ve mentioned it, but I’m going back to school to get a Master’s degree in Creative Writing. Why? Great question.

For one thing, it’s been a dream I’ve had for more than 40 years — a dream I could not realistically pursue because of family obligations, like car payments, house payments, kids, and things. Now I’m retired. That means I’ve got time on my hands. Decided to make use of it by investing in myself.

Going back to school at this stage of my life (I’ll be 75 next year) may sound crazy, but the great thing about writing is that there’s no age limit. None. You can start at age 6 or age 60. I started in my late 20s as a reporter for a small twice-weekly newspaper. Loved it. Decided to get a degree, which I did in 1977, thanks to the GI Bill. Got a job right out of college as a sports writer. Then covered local news. Eventually became a copy desk editor. Then a section editor. When I retired, I was news editor for a small chain of up-and-coming publications. But 2008 happened. Economy froze. Real estate market collapsed. Automobile dealerships closed. “The Great Recession.” As a result, the media group I worked for cut back drastically. My job was eliminated. Sad. Sad. Sad. Bad. Bad. Bad.

What did I do?

Started freelance writing/editing, mostly news releases. Wrote a book—“Orange Socks & Other Colorful Tales.” Edited two other books for friends. Wrote poems, too. (That’s why I hooked up with TheProse.com ... It’s my sandbox. Where I get to play with words. Have fun. Rhyme stuff. And sometimes not.)

Back to the point:

Why am I going back to school?

To get better at my craft. Like Hemmingway did.

Let me close with this. It’s a quote from one of my favorite writers ― C.S. Lewis:

“You are never too old to set another goal, or to dream a new dream.”

Is that a true statement? I expect to find out. The hard way. One write at a time. I’ll try to keep y'all posted along the way ― assuming the college accepts my application. Why wouldn’t they? I’m a writer, right?

PS: Why did I post photos of Sylvester Stallone & Robert De Niro? Stallone was in “Rocky”; De Niro, “Raging Bull.” Both are boxing movies. Intense. Brutal. Like writing ― when your words drop to the page like blood falling from a battered face. “BAM!”

The theme from “Rocky”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r81AviZECUE

you can have more than one soulmate,

a cluster of stars in a dark sky,

you always know when you meet one,

there's something in their eyes

that you're sure reflects in yours

and you change~

into something bright and brilliant.

sometimes they stay for a while,

sometimes they burn and fade

after the promises of forever.

each one is beautiful

and make you

beautiful too.

In the summer of ’58,

rain fell harshly in late July,

bringing white sand under my feet

into a squishy quicksand feeling,

and the odor of tall Carolina pines,

catch your senses quickly.

As a boy loving the outdoors,

I relished this downpour,

the inherent feeling of freedom

as I was drenched beyond mere wetness.

Running crazily,

not watching the path taken,

half sunk in the sands murky depths

laid a trap …

an empty, open pork and bean can.

My toe, its sharpness, met.

I could hear Grandma calling.

She heard my hawk-piercing scream.

Tears mixed with rain salted my cheeks

as I bravely hobbled to her house,

into her waiting arms.

Rain continued to beat the air savagely,

slamming like small fists on the tin roof;

like nails driven into wood.

it was relentless.

Thunder reigned supreme.

Lightning screamed around us,

lighting up a frightening black day.

I shivered in Grandma’s warmth,

her arms holding me, protecting me,

as she always did.

Tears subsided as she washed away blood and sand.

Taking a warm cloth, she eased away my pain.

With a kiss to my toe and a band-aid,

she said a prayer,

asking God to make things right.

Finished, she hugged me again,

saying she loved me.

Shortly after, the rain stopped.

So did the pain in my toe.

Grandma always knew what to do.

**********

The above photo is my grandmother

who passed away in 1983.

Not a day goes by

where I remember that storm, her prayer,

and my toe no longer hurting,

I was all of 10 1/2 then.

clinging to sanity

we sink like the USS Arizona

and grasp at foggy memories:

"America is great, right?"

bloodied grounds

burnt down in tyranny

and stupidity as we set our sky ablaze

(chugging economy like the whisky that lingers in the bellies of dead friends).

raging whispers of conspiracy

and debauchery

coming from under our beds

into our heads

while we forget we are supposed to sleep.

guns in our grip

slipping from greasy fingers

and lost purposes,

triggers are pulled,

innocents are hurt

and lies spread their wings like the eagle.

face to face matches

of black and white punches

each side tugging

and falling

and clueless to the hole forming in the battlground beneath.

we keep screaming

not realizing everyone has grown up

with deaf ears

not realizing we need to slow down

and write down words to better cooperate

to reveal the middle ground of truths.

America is a large, separated and segregated country of humans,

that hold past grudges

and future false promises...

human,

just like you and me,

so please open your eyes and see

a nation below your own feet slowly

c r u m b l i n g.

this is just something to try, i have no idea where it's going. it's a whole new world, set on the horizon, the colors bleeding into the sea, until they become part of the earth. the words just spill out, and it's late at night, the stars are shining, like a pin has been punched into tinfoil and there's nothing but light beyond that, but only tiny pieces are making their way throught. it's beautiful, i guess, but also myserious. i like mysteries, but they also scare me. i know why i'm afraid. i don't know what's behind them, i don't know how they'll unfold, what's underneath the layers of patterned paper and gauzy ribbons. it could be something beautiful, or it could be something dead. i'll never know, because i'll never poise my hands over the first piece of tape, the one that unwinds it all. i'll sit in the corner, oblivious to it all, because that's safer. i'm fine with staying still because i don't know what i'm missing. i'm okay and not okay, all at once.

‘‘Roses are red-’’

‘‘Violets are blue~’’

He bent down on his knee,

‘‘Will you marry me?’’

‘‘Oui!’’

At last, it was a Yes—

Time to book the wedding venue!

#PRESSURE © 20.01.2021

Dear Writing Community,

I received a rejection letter yesterday and felt elated.

Dear AA,

Thank you for giving us the opportunity to read 'Keisha, Smile' for consideration in our 2020 _____ Flash Fiction Contest, judged by ______. We can send so few pieces into the next round, we do have to release work we like very much—we're sorry your entry has not advanced.

We're grateful you chose to share your writing with us, and for your support. We wish you the best of luck with your writing and hope that you will send us work again. 

Sincerely,

The Editors

I had written about a girl with an incurable disease; a work of pseudo-fiction that these editors had perhaps actually read through to the finish. It was embarrassingly honest, as is most of my writing. I had almost retracted it.

Perhaps they send this out to everyone, regardless of anything. But it reads nicely, and I felt hopeful. It came months after submitting it and I wonder if they had held onto it for consideration.

My only hope is that I am not scattered going forward.

I have a habit of switching words around in my writing. For my most recent piece I submitted to a writing contest (not "Keisha, Smile"), I noticed after I submitted it that it contained one error, and that was flipping "could not" to "not could" in a sentence. I am constantly flipping words around; perhaps I have mild dyslexia, perhaps I am anxious, perhaps I am overly zealous. My processing speed doesn't match my typing abilities.

Perhaps this reads like a journal entry.

I hope for those who want to submit to writing contests, that they are not deterred. We are all excellent at writing. I am in awe of so many of the writers on here.

I write and I write and I write and hopefully someday, I will cringe in a good way when it gets published. For being too honest, but for being open and unabashedly who I am.

A thanks and best wishes,

AA

her bones are not yet inspired

dark ink dripping

within that soul

of golden honey and rosemary blend

a gentle beauty within her

that wants to touch the sun,

thoughts of something already lost

and not yet found

filling her mind

( in whispers, sharing a bright sky,

and the night spectrum under heavy eyelids )

pulse beating in pained motion, and slower breaths

( she says it’s darker there now )

wind howling through the cracks

of glass walls,

tradition, culture - unnecessary vines around fragile wrists

a suffocating thickness of something that’s meant to be good

but is sharp, scratchy, woolen rough

that’s why her heart is caught

in a web

of eternal summer,

but always placed in the days

that smell of

lingering autumn leaves

I see that soul swirling, stuck

somewhere

around a dandelion’s dream

her bones are not yet inspired

but there is light under those fingertips

silently getting ready,

waiting

for the wildflowers to bloom once again

in those gentle arms,

strength hidden in the way she smiles

( with kindness, such kindness )

despite the ache set deep

under those powder blue lungs

.

She stands at my doorstep, frizzy brown curls, standing up on edge around her face as she stares at me with pain glistening in her crinkled charcoal eyes. Her bright red lipstick contrasts starkly with the state she’s in, completely disheveled. Her violet jumper hangs lazily off of one shoulder exposing fair freckled skin and the pale pink scarf around her neck barely hangs there in a loose knot, showing off irritated patches spreading beneath her chin down to her chest.

“Brian?”

I stare at her in complete silence before the reality of what she did kicks in and I shut the door in her face.

Took you long enough to remember me, mother.

“Brian! Brian, please open the door. I’m- I’m sorry I left you Brian, it was a mistake, I was angry and I didnt know what else to do I had nowhere to go,”

She begs and pleads but I don’t care. She left me with him. Someone who couldn’t give a damn about my life and what I was going through in college. Someone who drank his sorrows away lying under a heap of beer bottles, day after day drowning in himself, slowly and steadily losing himself and becoming a horrible, monstrous being who spewed the vilest profanities at me, degrading me to nothing. And I believed him because I knew people spoke their heart out when they were intoxicated. So he must have been right. I was gangly, and ugly, and stupid. No wonder I got bullied every single day of my life. I deserved it.

Can you believe I thought that same thing for 12 years of my life? What a waste. But not anymore. I’m free now. This old dorm, my best buds and my new job at the Pizzeria is all I need. Which reminds me, my pizza has probably gone cold. I check the box to see if its still warm. Much to my surprise it is! I take out one of the stretchy, cheesy slices and take a big bite. Heavenly. Its times like these that I’m ever so grateful. Even my estranged mother’s persistent knocking fades away into silence and the shadow beneath the door disappears too.

Good. Its pizza time.