The High Dive

The High Dive

by | Aug 13, 2019 | Creations, Writing

by Laura Thompson

I think I was around twelve when I decided that doing a backflip off the high dive would conquer my fear of leaping from the platform. Such a tactic was new for me as I am not impetuous and tend to shirk confrontation, but off the edge I leapt. It was hours before the red rash faded from my body, and my head stopped aching from the impact.

Seven years ago, when I got back into writing, I jumped from the platform once again when I sent my very first submission to Coastal Living Magazine. I’m sure this essay, like my backflip, was all over the place. Although I was unable to locate the exact number of subscribers to Coastal Living, one can only imagine, so who I thought I was and what on earth I thought I was doing has yet to be determined. Needless to say, I never heard a word back. For that, I am grateful. At least there was compassion in that silence.

However, today is the day I make my way back up to the high dive platform. I’m submitting a piece to one of the big boys. I’m in the final stages of editing; my knees are shaky, and I’m trying not to look down as I climb the ladder. Is this piece smart enough, snarky enough, clever enough? I question myself daily, far more often than with anything else I’ve ever written. Is it really good, or am I lost in that writer’s glow where I think I’ve actually written something respectable only to punch the submit key, wake up, and find that my beloved essay, sweat of my brow, instigator of nightmares, has morphed into dreck on paper.

I find myself backing down the ladder several times as I second guess myself, and my red pen is running out of ink. I’m not expecting much here. Publication would be beyond my wildest dreams. I’m thinking more along the lines of feeling worthy. Feeling worthy would be good enough for me.

Read more about Laura Janis Thompson

Sleep and the Writer’s Mind

Sleep and the Writer’s Mind

by | Aug 13, 2019 | Creations, Writing

By Laura Thompson

All writers have experienced waking in the middle of the night with some of our best ideas. When that happens, we feel compelled to capture that inspiration before it floats away on a dream which is why many of us get so little sleep. It’s also why we keep small notebooks, cell phones, or even recorders within close reach. There are evenings we’re unable to shut our minds down, so sleep is elusive. These nights, I find, are the worst. As I’m not refreshed, anything spinning around in my brain is rarely quality content, gibberish for the most part. However, ignoring words determined to get out, I have learned, is a really bad idea.

A writer’s mind at bedtime is much like that of an unruly child. You can draw the blinds, close the Kindle, and turn the lights out, but the minute you shut the door fully believing that child will sleep, the covers are tossed aside and jumping up and down on the bed and all manner of pandemonium commences. A slumber party is organized and a cast of characters—Racing Mind, Self-Doubt, and their hyperactive bestie, Anxiety—join the mattress party. Popcorn is popped, soda is poured, and someone, probably Anxiety, turns on the music.

The party rages into the wee hours until finally, in desperation, you jot some of that useless content down. Racing Mind stops dancing, Self-Doubt, at least for now, stops talking, and Anxiety slinks away.

Sleep finally shows up and takes control, turning off the music, sweeping the popcorn from the sheets, and dimming the lights.

Words, at least for the time being, are silenced, and sweet oblivion ensues.

Read more about Laura Janis Thompson
Family Photo

Family Photo

by | Aug 11, 2019 | Creations, Flash Fiction

By Rusty Leverett

 My family is spread out on the lawn below me, all the ladies dressed in their finery. I wasn’t invited, but I never am anymore. This saddens me to no end, but no bother. I can watch and listen from here.

My daughters sit on the far left and far right. Addie is on the left with her three daughters. God bless her heart; Addie never could keep her legs together. She sits spread out like a man, arms and legs akimbo. And Betsy, on the right with her brood of kids, sits with her knobby knees pressed tightly together. I’m surprised she ever spread hers. Lawd a mercy, I shouldn’t talk that way about them! They are good mothers, even if they have run off their menfolk.

I am chilled, even in this sweltering heat that makes it hard for them to breathe. It doesn’t bother me, though. Nothing bothers me anymore.

I wish they would finish taking this picture and come visit me. I’ll soon have to take to my bed. It is dark and smells cloyingly of flowers. I’m out back behind the house. Go through the wrought iron gate and turn left. You can’t miss my flowers, piled as they are on the fresh turned earth.

 

 

 

Spin the Globe

Spin the Globe

by | Aug 11, 2019 | Creations, Flash Fiction

By Rusty Leverett

 What kind of club was this? What kind of people had I gotten myself mixed up with? From beneath lowered lashes, I checked out the faces in the room, seeing greed, fear, and curiosity. A reflection of my face in a mirror took me by surprise, betraying my nerves.

As the newest member of this club, I was required to go where the leader’s finger would land on a spinning globe. I didn’t know the mode of travel or the time involved.

The globe was spun into motion, the colors a blur. I wasn’t the only one holding my breath. I watched the leader’s finger jab down, bringing the globe to an abrupt halt.

I blinked, finding myself not in the leader’s house, but in the cold ocean. I swallowed a mouthful of saltwater, coughing and gagging, and flailed my arms to keep my head above water. Where? How?

Before I could string two thoughts together, rough hands grabbed at me and pulled me aboard a lifeboat.  Sitting up, I noticed bubbles breaking the surface as other lifeboats drifted nearby. People were being pulled from the water into lifeboats, even as others were being pulled beneath the waves by the suction of a sinking ship.

As I took in my surroundings, my confusion cleared, and I realized the leader’s finger had come down on an ocean. Instead of a normal mode of travel, I had been transported through space, and if it hadn’t been for the sinking ship, I would have dropped into a watery grave.

We jostled to make room for another survivor, when I felt myself going overboard. I landed on my butt back in the club, soaked to the skin.