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Why I Write
When I write, I draw on my experiences as a woman with a painful past, a rapturous wife and mother, a world traveler, and a spiritualist. For me, writing is an art form. Like an artist, the work becomes more than I imagined it would be. When I set out to write a story with a particular idea or character in mind, words I cannot claim as my own flow from a magical and mysterious place through me and onto paper. The work takes on a life of its own; it is living art. The process fascinates me, satiates me, and makes my life more meaningful.
Please read my stories! If you would like to offer me feedback on my work, please click here and sign up for a free membership: https://heftynicki.Writing.com
I hope to see you there!
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Blog, Blog, Blog
 
Welcome!
 In 2011, my main focus will be on writing a novel. Since I'm a novice novelist, I've decided to come at the project from different angles, exploring the genre and experimenting with its elements. This blog and its offsite sister blog will be my journals where I attack novel-writing one day at a time.
As I was creating my BlogSpot page, the inspiration for the blog solidified in my mind. I named that blog "One Significant Moment at a Time." In essence, I want to use the format as a reminder to walk through my life with my author's eyes open, taking in the details, feeling the emotions of the day. As moments unfold and I feel their affects on me as a person, a woman, a mother, a sister, a member of the world community, I'll let the writer in me talk about it.
Creative Nonfiction is the genre most fitting to describe what I envision accomplishing here, moreso than blogging or journaling. The style is best suited, I feel, for my ambitions as a novelist.
In addition, Friday entries will not be written by me. Instead, I'll turn the keyboard over to one of the characters in my novel. He or she will relate the events of the day as s/he saw them, through the filter of his or her perception.
** Image ID #1779494 Unavailable **
 Click this image to visit my Blog City neighbors!
Leave me a comment there, and I'll send you a WDC token of my appreciation!
Become a Follower there, and I'll send you a Supportive Merit Badge! -- You don't have to go to blogspot.com each day; in fact, I post much of the same entries here in this WDC blog. But building up a verifiable readership may prove important one day when I'm knocking on literary agent/publishers' doors!
 To Follow, just click "Follow" on the right margin of my blog page. You'll have to sign in using, or create, a Google account (it's free and only takes two minutes!), and then follow the short instructions. It's easy, and I'd appreciate it so much!!
2011 Reading Goal = 25 Books in 52 Weeks. To see the list of books I've read so far, CLICK HERE 
 Leave me a comment anytime ~ even on older postings!
Thanks for reading!!
September 30, 2009 at 5:04pm September 30, 2009 at 5:04pm
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I picked up a gem of a book today called "Writing Down the Bones, Freeing the Writer Within," by Natalie Goldberg. The author discusses the daily writing process and how it opens up creative doors. She wrote the book in 1986, so some of her comments are dated. (She writes in chapter one: I have not worked very much with a computer, but I can imagine using a Macintosh, where the keyboard can be put onto my lap, closing my eyes and just typing away. The computer automatically returns the carriage. The device is called "wraparound." You can rap nonstop. You don't have to worry about the typewriter ringing a little bell at the end of a line.) But, so much of what I read, seated on the floor between the stacks of shelves, related beautifully to the process needed for NaNoWriMo success, and I felt inspired and excited enought to buy the book.
In Chapter Two: "First Thoughts," Goldberg says that the basic unit of writing practice is the timed exercise. Thanks to Acme   's daily writing exercises, which I haven't done every day  , and Legerdemain  's 15 For 15 contest now on day thirteen, I'm well into a stretch of daily timed writing, and I plan to keep it up in preparation of NaNo.
Goldberg says no matter what time limit you give yourself, whether it's ten minutes or sixty, you must commit yourself to that time and remember the following:
1. Keep your hand moving. (Don't pause to reread the line you have just written. That's stalling and trying to get control of what you're saying.)
2. Don't cross out. (That is editing as you write. Even if you write something you didn't mean to write, leave it.
3. Don't worry about spelling, punctuation, grammar. (Don't even care about staying within the margins and lines of the page.)
4. Lose control.
5. Don't think. Don't get logical.
6. Go for the jugular. (If something comes up in your writing that is scary or naked, dive right into it. It probably has lots of energy.
So I was inspired, and I wrote for exactly nine minutes. I gave myself one minute to edit  -- Hey, we all have to start someplace! Here goes:
(4:08 p.m.)
The taste in my mouth is bitter, dry even though I feel like I have to keep swallowing the saliva that won’t stop gathering below my tongue. I shouldn’t have eaten that chocolate. I shouldn’t even have bought it. Sidney wanted it and I love my daughter to the point of giving into her whims even when I have my own ideas of what I should and shouldn’t be doing. “Whim.” It’s funny I used “whim” just now. It’s a word I don’t employ that often. But it is on the tip of my bitter, dry-wet tongue since earlier when Sidney asked me what it meant. We were sitting in the café in Barnes and Noble. I was drinking a black coffee; she had a bottle of spring water. Between us were a brownie and an enormous Rice Krispies treat – maybe the biggest I’ve ever seen in my life – and the book of children’s poetry we had just bought. We took turns with the book, running our thumbs across the length, letting the pages fan like a dealer ready to shuffle a deck of cards. Whenever the moment seemed right, we’d stop the pages moving, dig the thumb down and split the book in two, and read that poem aloud. The word whim came up and Sidney asked what it meant. ‘An impulse,’ I said. Like when you walk through a store and see a pair of sunglasses and you think, hey, these would look good on me and you buy them even though you were in the store to get a quart of milk. Sidney laughed at my example, and then she said, we do whims a lot. I smirked. The book of poetry we were reading from was bought on a whim. I guess she’s right.
(4:18 p.m.)
I'm going to challenge myself every day in October to timed writing. I may not post it all here. I may try writing by hand ( Or not...). I'm interested to see if what Goldberg says is true: (Timed writing) is a great opportunity to capture the oddities of your mind. Explore the rugged edge of thought...First thoughts have tremendous energy. It is the way your mind first flashes on something. The internal censor usually squelches them, so we live in the realm of second and third thoughts, thoughts on thought, twice and three times removed from the direct connection of the first fresh flash.
Looking forward to the exploration...!
Footnotes
Copyright 1986, 2005 by Natalie Goldberb, Shambhala Publications, Inc. |
September 28, 2009 at 1:54pm September 28, 2009 at 1:54pm
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I should be writing, getting my stuff done...but instead I...
Actually, I did write this poem today:
I stand, petrified
At the shoreline of my life
Up to my ankles
In the baptismal waters
Of my future
My back is turned, defiant
On rain-soaked yesterdays
The breeding ground of moldy dreams
Black and blue eyes
In the peacock’s plumage
When I was a child, hopeful
I was given a royal blue betta fish
In a gift bowl of water
Deadly to others
Who would dare to share his space
Before me, believe
Infinite cerulean sky melts into
Azure ocean peace
The only proof I need
That serenity exists
I stand, determined
Ready to plunge into tomorrow’s placid waters
Cool my scorched skin
Soothe my soul
Swim again.
And now I have to get my stuff done for 15 For 15....Maybe I'll watch this video one more time, first....
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September 26, 2009 at 10:38am September 26, 2009 at 10:38am
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I left the Central African Republic in May 1996 when fighting broke out between the then-called mutany rebels and the presidential guard created by then-president Ange-Félix Patassé. In the thirteen years since, much has changed, but much remains the same.
Ange-Félix Patassé (born January 25, 1937) was President of the Central African Republic from 1993 until 2003, when he was deposed by the rebel leader François Bozizé. Soldiers and sympathizers of the rebel movement continue to fight for their cause, and destabilize a fragile reality on a day-to-day basis.
Caught in the middle of opposing political ideologies are the people of the country. Many have had to flee their villages along the road systems for the (unguarenteed) safety of the bush. The following report (aired on French TV in July '07) attempted to shed light on the situation, and I can only assume the state of affairs is no better today, two years later. Hopefully, it isn't worse.
Of note as you watch the report: 
When I left the country, the mutant rebels were well-armed. ("In The Face Of Danger" ) But more than a decade later, resources are scarce and rebels have resorted to making their own weapons. One can only imagine their make-shift guns are supplemented with cruder weapons including machetes, knives, clubs, and whatever the imagination can conjure to inflict pain or intimidate.
The villages shown in this video look exactly like the ones I worked in. The people look less joyful and thinner, but as I looked at them I was reminded of a chilling truth: When people have less to lose, they are willing to risk losing it all.
I'd designed my Peace Corps program to lower child mortality and to improve the health of women and children. We were building a rural maternity ward so women who couldn't travel to the regional hospital would no longer endure unassisted labor and delivery in their homes or fields. We trained a local woman in midwifery. However, I was evacuated from the country before the project was completed. My heart broke when I saw the images of the new mother being transported in a wheel barrow-style wagon to a hospital, presumably miles away.
The hospital in this report looks exactly like the one where I worked in Bambari (the second largest city in the Central African Republic) during our month-long midwifery training. Even in times of peace, there was no electricity (a generator was fired up in the operation room when emergency surgery was performed during the night) and no running water (except a spiquot in one building). In-patients were assigned a bed, but family members were responsible for providing bedding, drinking water and meals. Family members also had to help their patient to the latrine, or were responsible for providing and emptying bed pans.
I'm currently researching what I can do to ease the suffering in the Central African Republic. The lack of infrastructure prevents donated food, medicine and supplies from reaching the people that need it most, so supporting aid organizations that go there may be the only avenue for now. I've begun my research here: http://www.nonprofitexpert.com/countries/central%20african%20republic.htm -- wish me luck!
Footnotes
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ange-F%C3%A9lix_Patass%C3%A9 |
September 23, 2009 at 4:55pm September 23, 2009 at 4:55pm
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(Yesterday was) officially the last day of summer. How are your 'goodbye' scenes? Do they manage to evoke an emotional response from your reader? They won't if they don't evoke one from you!
Write
Pour your heart and soul into a goodbye scene of some sort (friendship, lovers, death, school, pet, etc., etc.)
(4:20 pm - 4:50 pm)
I hugged my sister again. This time we were in the driveway, standing next to the Hummer idling under the hot Georgia sun. My sister hated that car. She'd wanted to buy a Prius but her aristocratic husband had scoffed. "Please," he'd said, "a Prius would look like something my Escalade shit out." I hugged my sister harder, trying to push her husband's face out of my mind. He was the reason she was leaving. He was the only one who wanted them to move to Florida, and since he was the only one that mattered...His actual voice cut into my thoughts.
"Come on, Dean, we've got a long drive ahead."
Nadine pulled away from me, and I felt cool, aware of the sudden absense of her body heat. I swiped a tear before it hit my cheek and looked up into my sister's face. Her eyes were swimming too.
"I'll miss you, Aunt Nicole," my neice said, running around the back of the Hummer and wrapping her arms around my waist. I rocked her back and forth as we hugged, and pictures flit across my mind's eye. Chelsea in front of the Christmas tree holding up the ballerina doll we gave her. Chelsea, with sun kissed skin that made her cerulean eyes dance, and her bright red cast earned after a handstand on the trampoline went terribly wrong. Chelsea, giving me the necklace for my birthday that she'd strung herself, with beads hand selected with me in mind. Chelsea... I kissed her on the top of her head and she was gone, scrambling into the backseat.
"Hey!" I shouted, looking around. "Where's Damon?"
My sister pointed at the same time Damon said, "Here I am." He slammed into me with typical eight-year old grace, though his hug was soft like a fleece blanket. He tried to escape too quickly but I caught him by the shoulders. He smiled at me, exposing three gaps where teeth must have conspired and fell out at the same time. When would I see him? In a couple months, next year? I wondered if the next time I saw him his smile would be gap-free. He'd almost lost his baby face completely. The tween in him would certainly make his appearance soon. I told him I loved him, kissed him on the forehead, and released him. He stumble-climbed into the car.
Nadine and I hugged again. I couldn't stop the tears this time. We sobbed quietly into each other's hair as her husband reminded us, again, that it was past time to go.
"We'll come visit," I said.
"And we'll play Scrabble all night long," she said in an unsteady voice.
"And make chocolate chip cookies," I added, closing her car door for her.
Her window lowered and she reached for me. I grasped her hand as the Hummer started to back up. "I love you!" I cried.
"Me too!" Nadine said as her hand slipped from mine.
I waved frantically as the Hummer headed down the road, arms extended from all but one window. "Fuck you, Adam," I said under my breath, waving in a wide arc now that they were farther away.
Their car turned the corner and disappeared from my view. I covered my eyes, shoulders shaking in silent sobs.
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September 22, 2009 at 4:46pm September 22, 2009 at 4:46pm
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I have writer's block and it's making me crazy!! The photo prompt for Legerdemain "s 15 For 15 has me miserably stumped  . I'm feeling sad and frustrated.....so I decided to watch this video and cheer myself up. Anyone else feeling down? This'll take your mind off your troubles 
 Ah, better already! Now off to write...!
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September 18, 2009 at 12:20pm September 18, 2009 at 12:20pm
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My emotions are all over the place today. It's a very special day in a couple different ways:
To start with, today is the first day of the class I teach at New Horizons Writing School. It is my fourth term teaching Love Reviews, and my last  . I created this class, wrote all the lesson plans, and felt the pride my contribution made to the creation of the school. I love teaching, but it's time for my writing to soar again to the top of my priorities list. I'm going to enjoy this last term -- live it to the fullest! And, here's a quick shout-out to any students who have popped in: Looking forward to the next six weeks with you!
Another exciting thing about today is the opening of Round Eight of Legerdemain 's "15 for 15 Contest --- Closed" . I LOVE this contest; it's my third time competing. I've finished today's prompted fifteen minutes of writing, and in case anyone would like to read my entry, here is the link:
"Spetember 18 - Clock"
Now, with so much good stuff starting today, why is it also a day of final farewells? Today, September 18th, 2009, CBS will air the finale episode of my favorite soap opera, Guiding Light. I began watching Guiding Light when I was a ten year old girl. My Aunt Charlene watched it every day, and my cousin and I got sucked into the drama and romance -- and enjoyed sharing something adult with her mother. We spent a lot of time back then at our grandmother's house, and we always asked her to turn on channel four at three o'clock. She became one of the shows biggest fans, and the four of us watched the show -- often together -- ever since. When I went to college, my grandmother recorded (on VHS, of course) the show every day and during breaks my cousin and I would sit with her and watch hours of Guiding Light at a time. Once I was an upper-classman, I never scheduled a class between three and four. In fact, except for the eight years I was out of the country living in Africa and Europe, I have been watching Guiding Light for thirty-three years.
To say that the characters are like family to me is silly and cliché, but true. Through all the marriages and splits, births and deaths, and crazy storylines, I feel closer to them in some ways than to my own extended family. My family is centered in upstate New York, a place I get to only once every couple of years. But the residents of Springfield have been in my home for an hour every day for three quarters of my life. I still can't believe it's ending...
For anyone who doesn't know, Guiding Light is the longest running show in broadcast history. 72 years ago, it premiered on radio. It was the first soap opera to switch from the radio format to television. It is the longest running television show.
Here's a quicky video that will give anyone who's loved this show for as long as I have a lump in the throat. Enjoy.
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September 16, 2009 at 3:05pm September 16, 2009 at 3:05pm
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A friend recently gave me a huge piece of mirror, about 3'x4' in size. Much to Christian's dismay, I announced that I'd like to adhere about four rows (four inches total) of glass mosiac tiles around the edges and hang it over the fireplace in our great room. Christian loves a project as much as I do, but our creative visions rarely match at the outset. Unfortunately, math wasn't on my side (I hate math!) because the weight of the mirror warrented a hefty frame, and tile would only worsen the problem.
We battled it out with design ideas and came to an agreement over how the mirror should hang, then set out building a frame. Christian is a master woodworker, and I assisted watched him transform planks of wood into a frame that I then painted white.
Now, we have the frame lying on a table in the house, and we are painting it in bright, funky colors. We are using symbols that have special meaning for our family (geckos, the globe, tribal markings) and drawing inspiration from aboriginal art and culture. We spend evenings with the kids, painting and laughing. Here are some shots of us
[Also here, the kitchen shelf project I mentioned in comments below. Thanks, sunshine014 for asking to see it!  ]
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September 15, 2009 at 8:56am September 15, 2009 at 8:56am
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Last week, I made it past the first round in WYRM's Gauntlet competition, and I was feeling optimistically confident because the second round challenged us to write a short story. Phew! My comfy-cosy zone! Then I read the prompt, and my chest fell, my shoulders rounded, and my tail went between my legs....
Write a short story inspired by this line: I can still see him burning.
And, the genre must be....(drum roll)...Speculative fiction? What the hell is that?
Panic didn't set in until I learned what the genre is all about. Speculative Fiction is an umbrella genre under which you may find combined categories of Sci-fi, Fantasy, and Horror. Stargopher described it, and I paraphrase here, as 'stories with stuff in it that doesn't exist, like trolls or supernatural elements.' He qualified his explanation by saying we weren't limited in any way to his examples, but the genre speculative fiction was mandatory.
So I started doing some research and learned some interesting things about speculative fiction. The genre is premised by "fiction" defined not by what isn't true, but by what doesn't exist. Spec. Fict. stories either take place in the future, where we don't know what it will be like, or in make believe worlds, or in the past before recorded time, but in a way that contradicts what we believe to be true about ancient times. If Spec. Fict. stories take place in our world, the plot or elements of the plot and characters must contradict what we know to be true or believe to be possible.
At this point in my research, my head was spinning. I still didn't quite get it. Then I read an interesting article at LostBooks.org (link is below) that offered me my first ah-ha moment. Speculative Fiction writers often premise their stories on the question "What if..."
What if medical science could genetically eliminate the need for sleep thus causing two separate classes, those who sleep and those who do not? The non-sleepers can accomplish and gain at minimum twice what you or I can simply because they have more time to devote to work and other interests (see Nancy Kress's novella or novel, Beggars in Spain)?
What if aliens declared Earth to be 'prime real estate' and felt about the extinction of humankind as we felt about the Passenger Pigeon (see James Tiptree, JR's. short story, The Screwfly Solution)?
What if Robert E. Lee had won the battle of Gettysberg (see Harry Turtledove's novels, The Guns of the South or How Few Remain)?
[The three bullet points were copied from LostBooks.org. Read the article in its entirety here: http://www.lostbooks.org/speculative-fiction.html]
So, the way I understand it, Speculative Fiction is the Twilight Zone genre, where reality is skewed and everything you believe to be true may not be. It is a fascinating lens through which to regard fiction, and a genre that takes incredible imagination to pull off. I don't think I'm there yet  . But thanks to the WYRM Gauntlet competition, I attempted the genre and wrote a story I never would have penned on my own. Here it is -- comments are MOST welcome!
| |  | ~Burned~ (18+)
Speculative fiction based on the prompt: I CAN STILL SEE HIM BURNING.
#1599664 by NickiD89  |
If you have written a story that would fall under the umbrella category of speculative fiction, send me a link! I'd love to see how others approached the task
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September 9, 2009 at 7:07pm September 9, 2009 at 7:07pm
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I've officially signed up for NaNoWriMo! I'm very excited, worried, not sure how to prepare, not sure if I should prepare....yikes! I was wondering if other, more seasoned NaNo participants have any good advice?
Also, like all websites I begin navigating, the NaNo site seems a little confusing. Do people interact a lot on there? I saw there were forums and blogs, but I didn't know who uses them and when. Is there a way to visit other people's profile pages? Anyone have any tips?
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September 8, 2009 at 2:58pm September 8, 2009 at 2:58pm
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I spent the day yesterday with my cousin and her family. A couple years back, she found out her husband was cheating. Their marriage teetered on the brink of the abyss for over six months, then slowly they worked their way back to each other. Now, they're solid. Granite solid. But when things were coming apart, my cousin declared to herself that life was too short to waste the good days. When you're knee deep in bad, you have new perspective. She decided she was going to go skydiving, something she had always wanted to do but never dared try.
A couple weeks ago, with her now faithful life partner next in the jump line, she did it. The two of them went skydiving. When I watched their videos yesterday, I was filled with awe that she would dare to jump out of a plane at 14,000 ft! She fell at a speed of 120 miles per hour! The picture of her taken by the company's photographer that documents each jump's experience is now her desktop wallpaper. Firey sunset colors outline the profile of her body and her face is the picture of living-in-the-moment joy.
I'm not an adrenalin junkie, but I want an experience that forces me right in the middle of the present. I want to my immediate senses hightened, my emotions raw and all about the moment, not the moment before or the one after. So, I've been thinking: What would that experience be, for me?
I've never scuba dived on a coral reef. That's what comes right to mind. I'm sure there are other ideas if I gave myself more time to think. But, scuba diving would be awesome! Oh, and I want to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro. And I want to climb over the top of the bridge at Sydney's harbor.....
What about you? If money were no object...what would you dare do? |
September 4, 2009 at 4:30pm September 4, 2009 at 4:30pm
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Something funny happened the other day. My husband was going to Augusta the next day for work, but only had a sketchy layout of the quarry and wanted a better look. He had to kick me off the computer to log onto Google Earth, but it'd been a while since we'd "played" with it, so I didn't complain too much.
He pulled the program up and put the address of the quarry into the search box. The globe began spinning and we went into a spiral nose dive into Augusta. Once Christian had looked at the aerial shots, he clicked on Roads and Maps. This brought us even closer to the quarry. It was then that we noticed camera icons along the routes. Christian clicked on the camera closest to the quarry, and the view dipped at a radical angle at the same time that a large bubble appeared on the screen. It looked like the view in a large round mirror in the corner of parking garages. The warped view grew and flattened out, until the screen became a digital photograph of the entrance to the quarry, as if we were sitting on the road ready to turn in. By scrolling with the mouse, we could turn 360 degrees and enjoy a panoramic view of the location. There were other camera icons along the road, and by clicking on each one you get a similar view from a new location. Too cool!
We put our home address in next. The last time we tried to see our place, Google Earth's most up-to-date aerial shots had been taken when there was no house build on our lot. Now, we were able to see our actual house. Someone had stood on the road right in front of our place and snapped a panoramic view. I had a strange feeling when I realized this, but it was still pretty cool. We could actually narrow our guess as to when the pic was snapped based on the fact that the basketball marquee my parents bought the kids is visible, as well as the patch where we fixed the driveway.
Next, we put my sister's address in. She lives in Palm Harbor, Florida. We were whisked there quickly since GA and FL are close, and we clicked the camera on her street. We panned around and...there was her house....and OUR CAR WAS PARKED IN HER DRIVEWAY?!!  Apparently, the pictures had been taken of her neighborhood last summer the week we spent our vacation with them. How hilarious is that?
If anyone hasn't played around with Google Earth lately, it really is a blast. We put Christian's home town in the search engine and found ourselves in the middle of Vichy, France. You can literally go where you want on a virtual vacation.
Here's the link for anyone who hasn't downloaded it yet. It's free!
http://earth.google.com/
I haven't tried to put Africa in there yet, but that's my next virtual trip!
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September 3, 2009 at 9:54am September 3, 2009 at 9:54am
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Well, writing off-the-cuff has officially kicked my arse today. It was like pulling teeth to get this little ditty written. I fought the urge to re-write, and lost several times. The exercise from Acme's "2nd September" was this:
Whatever way you look at it, our protagonists need a dark edge, and our antagonists need redeeming features to make us interested in them, their choices, and their story. Just like comparative imagery adds a powerful punch to our writing, so do a broad spectrum of personality traits in a character.
Write
Think of a character type (cop, killer, bully, hero etc.,) and write them a scene where a little of their 'other' side can shine out.
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(8:30 am)
Jasmine perched on the edge of the bench backrest with her black Converse high tops planted on its seat. She’d been comfortable enough when she first sat on the narrow spot and enjoyed a better view of the street than she would have had seated in the conventional fashion. She thought this pose went better with her outfit, too. But the rigid reality of the backrest’s unforgiving pressure against the tender base of her tailbone had her wishing the bus would get here already.
She craned her neck to look up an empty Emory Avenue; the chinks of her many strands of miniscule glass beads floated on the nighttime air. It was a more pleasant sound than the groaning she’d listened to in the Emergency Room for the past three hours. Jimmy was such a loser. Hadn’t she told him not to smoke that thing? If you don’t know where it came from, you don’t smoke it. Period. He’d scoffed at her, called her uncool. Then when he’d started tripping, all his “friends” had bugged out, leaving her to deal with him. She should have split when the drugs came out in the first place, but no, her pride had kept her there. She shifted her bottom a little, wincing as she repositioned the painful trench left by such an unyielding roost. Jimmy’d really started losing his shit, trying to rub off the spiders he saw crawling over his body. It’d taken her twenty minutes to scrounge enough dollar bills and loose change around Jimmy’s apartment for cab fare. The cabbie hadn’t been cordial on the way to the hospital, but she guessed she didn’t blame him.
The highlight of the evening had definitely been meeting Dr. Satterfield. Talk about handsome! He was old enough to be Jasmine’s father, but something about the flourish of his salt and pepper hair or the slight swagger in his gait sent the butterflies in her tummy in flight. She’d listened to the baritone voice instead of what he said, and even now her cheeks flared with the memory of having to ask him to repeat himself every time he’d spoken. She’d narrowed her eyes at the glint of gold on his left hand. She never entertained the hope that he’d feel the same immediate connection to her as she felt for him, but realizing he was married had been a blow to her optimism just the same.
Footsteps echoed on the still night from behind, and Jasmine stiffened. She wrapped her hand firmly around her woven Guatemalan sack, ready to wield it as a weapon if necessary. She jumped at a voice.
“Not sure there’s a bus at this hour. Need a lift?”
Jasmine stood on the bench and spun around. She hardly towered over Dr. Satterfield’s tall form. The street light shone on his hair and reflected a sparkle of light back at her from baby blue eyes. Jasmine stared at him, mesmerized.
“Miss Smythe? Would you like a ride home?”
Jasmine gave her head a rousing shake and smiled. “Thanks, Dr. Satterfield. That’d be great.”
She hopped off the bench and Dr. Satterfield led the way to the hospital staff parking lot. She tried to concentrate on his conversation, but found herself wondering how many lives he’d saved in his career in the ER, or what his beautiful wife must be like. What a lucky woman. As they approached his car, Jasmine drew in a sharp breath.
“Is this an Alpha B7?” she asked.
“Wow, you really know your cars,” he answered.
“Just BMWs. My brother was a dealer in northern California. We’d walk the lot and dream about riding around in these cars.”
Dr. Satterfield grinned as he drew a set of keys from his pocket. With a touch of a button, the car’s lights illuminated, the door locks popped up, and the engine roared to life. He walked ahead of Jasmine to the passenger side and opened the door. Leaning in, he hastily pulled file folders and loose papers off the passenger seat and tossed them into the backseat.
“Sorry about the stuff on the floor. Just nudge it aside, if you will.”
Jasmine offered a bashful smile as she lowered herself into the bucket seat. As the door swung shut, the smell hit her. Her hand covered her nose and mouth, and a grimace furrowed her forehead. She swallowed past a gag, her mind reeling as it tried to identify the odor. It seemed to be a horrible combination of humid garbage, old gym socks, and a cat’s litter box. She glanced at the console housing the stick shift. In a drink holder was a half eaten apple with black and green mold growing on it. Jasmine quickly looked away and stared at her feet as Dr. Satterfield slid into the driver’s seat. Her eyes grew wide as she prodded the debris at her feet with the toe of her sneaker. Discarded take out containers, some not quite empty, and Styrofoam coffee cups littered the floor up to her ankles. Slowly, she raised her large, questioning eyes to Dr. Satterfield.
He smiled back. “Okay, so what’s your address?”
(9:45 am )
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September 1, 2009 at 1:54pm September 1, 2009 at 1:54pm
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I've been a member of deviantart.com for months, but I used the site solely to search for images for my sig shop. It never occurred to me to upload my own original art. (Okay, I'll admit it: a contributing factor was I didn't realize I had a scanner on my printer until last week, so I didn't know I could get my drawings from a real life portfolio to a virtual one ) When I was overseas, especially when I was in Africa, I had long blocks of time to fill and pass the days. I hadn't discovered writing (for an audience) and though I kept a daily journal, my writing was restricted to jotting down at the end of the day what I'd done. I did a lot of drawing back then. I made my own greeting cards and then wrote in them, and sent them to friends and sisters back home. When I wasn't in the mood, I sketched and drew "for me."
So, today I uploaded some of that work to my deviant art gallery. If you'd like to check it out, here's the link:
http://nickilovesgraphicart.deviantart.com/
Nicki |
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Comment • View 5 comments 
Where'd Ashy go??)~
