Three Steps Forward…

images(nidcd.nih.gov)


Words fail me… piles of words, stuck in my head. 

Writer’s Block is an over-simplified term for what I’m feeling about words right now. I carry them around like more emotional baggage, weighing me down. They taunt me, as I struggle to make sense of things, the best way I know how: writing.

“You haven’t written anything in ages,” my friend pointed out, at lunch. “You haven’t even done your Friday Fictioneers–“ she adds, watching me.

I wanted to cry. Again. I seem to do that a lot lately. Cry.

It’s been a really rough couple of months, on so many fronts. Three steps forward in my efforts to evolve, and five steps back– some days.

Generally, I’d use my words. That’s what I do: write. I figure things out that way; I process; I move forward and through things that are challenging, by putting them down and sending them out. But this time, I’ve been paralyzed. I see the weekly photo prompt for Friday Fictioneers (the weekly flash fiction challenge, that I’ve done for 20 months now, only missing 2) and I can’t even string 100 words together. Stories run through my head, but I can’t type them.

Even the words have failed me, recently.

Let me clarify: I think of a something to write, every day. Every. Day. I frequently lie awake late at night, because the words are clambering to be written, but I sit down and my fingers fail me. A lump in my throat prevents the blood flow from head to heart to keyboard.

There– you can’t tell, but I just sat for 20 minutes after that last word.

You haven’t written anything in ages.

So here I am, in this coffee shop– with its soothing European music, with lots of industrious people typing away around me, and I sit looking out the window… stuck.

Three steps forward and five back.

The words are there; my head is full of them– but they all feel unspeakable, un-typable.

This Voices of the Year is choking on her words.

It’s been nearly 2 months since I learned some family revelations that have rocked me. I’ve been processing it, and finding some peace, but challenge upon challenges rolls in, on top of that, and I am stuck. My past too often drives me; I want to drive.

The ongoing pain of watching someone I love so much struggle with Huntington’s Disease and addiction, and feeling helpless, hurt, hopeless… lost. Unable to reach out and fix anything, or connect. I drift in this loss.

Ten more minutes pass… I see someone I know out the window, and turn away. I don’t want to say hi, or chat about our kids.

My kids. I miss them. I love who they are and what they’re doing, but some days I ache from the distance. My girl is waiting for her first baby– nearly 7,000 miles away from me. Her beautiful round belly is only real in photos. I can’t hug her, or go sit with her, as she deals with the challenges of becoming a new mother, living in a new city, creating a new life (literally, and figuratively) with her partner, so far from us. I ache.

My boy is having the adventures of a lifetime, in Australia and soon in Vietnam and China. He’s with the woman he loves. They are happy and embracing their journey. We’ve shared some wonderful emails, skypes and phone calls. This child I’ve had more conflict with over the years– I have missed him enormously, and enjoy those moments of connection so much. Another 7,000+ miles are between us. I ache.

I smile at their updates, and the photos that bring them into my home again, but then I cry– “Come home…”

Two more people living in my house and another dog– I love these two; I’m so happy to have them here, but I miss my solitude. I miss my freedom to sit quietly and write, or miss my kids, or do any number of things that I did with that solitude. The dog has wreaked havoc. Aggressive and scary one minute, sweet the next. One of the people I love, loves the dog, but her presence is not sustainable. It weighs heavy on me– torn between the boy, the dog, my love and the offer of help I extended, but now can’t fulfill. Frustrated by the omissions that landed us in this place. The options are limited; none of them feel good. I feel boxed in and trapped by my own actions, my own desire to do the right thing.

Boundaries… three steps forward and five back, I feel like I’m always trying to catch up. If you grew up with very little experience in setting boundaries, in unconditional love, in healthy relationships… it’s like inventing the wheel, with feathers and glue.

Staring out the window again, watching teenage mothers on the corner, their young children playing on the busy sidewalk. Today, I don’t feel any more competent than they are. The young girl strokes her round belly, another child coming, as she sucks her cigarette… and I stare out this window.

I’ve written something.

One step at a time, forward, I stumble.

Check out other stories about dealing with our pasts, baggage, and life, here on the Daily Post.

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GIPY

Make me smile; HELP ME REACH MY GOAL:  I’d love to see the Tales From the Motherland Facebook page reach 700 likes in 2015. I’m nearly there! Have you stopped by to spread some fairy dust? Follow me on Twitter; it’s where I’m forced to be brief.  Most importantly, if you like a post I’ve written, hit Like and leave a comment. I love to hear what readers think. Honest, positive or constructive feedback is always welcome. Click Follow; you’ll get each new post delivered by email, with no spam.  If you see ads on this page, please let me know. They shouldn’t be there.  ©2015  Please note, that all content and images on this site are copyrighted to Dawn Quyle Landau and Tales From the Motherland, unless specifically noted otherwise. If you want to share my work, please give proper credit. Plagiarism sucks.

Posted in Honest observations on many things | Tagged , , , , , , , | 23 Comments

Eggshells

Dawn Quyle Landau:

I posted this on my other blog, The Huntington Chronicles, in September. It doesn’t get easier… just messier and harder.

Originally posted on The Huntington's Chronicles:

cropped-images-2.jpeg

I know this road. I’ve been here before. Some of the twists, the turns, and the road signs are different, but I know where I am. Hell. This is hell, and I know that we’re not even at the worst part yet. Challenge on top challenge, and I’m already exhausted– raw and wounded. And we are walking on eggshells.

I will never be able to make it right. I don’t have Huntington’s; you do. As we have watched our grandmother, then our aunt and then our mother get sick and die, we have inevitably experienced it from very different places. There but for the grace of… a few genetic markers– go I, go my children. Do you know that this keeps me awake at night? Do you know that I cry–unsure whether I wish it had been me, or whether I can be grateful it wasn’t. Is there room for…

View original 495 more words

Posted in Honest observations on many things | 6 Comments

Friday Fictioneers: Vodka Fog

friday-fictioneersI’m late; I’m late! It’s been a very busy week with a few big writing projects (on Huff Post, a piece about Honey Boo Boo and the welfare of children, and a piece for Mothers Day). I was also hesitant to post, because I knew I’d have guests from overseas here, and very limited time starting on Friday. I’ll do my best, but can’t promise to make all the rounds. Regardless, wishing a warm and happy Mother’s Day to all you writers who are moms in one way or another.

Giant congratulations to our fearless and tireless leader, Rochell Wisoff-Fields on the release of her book Please Say Kaddish For Me! So exciting! If you’d like to join this amazing group of writers, from all over the world, check out the details on Rochelle’s Blog, Addicted to Purple. This week’s photo prompt comes from Madison Woods.

This week, I sought to emulate in some small way, the fun and wit that Perry and Russell bring to this each week. Tough shoes to fill! The minute I saw the photo on Wed, I knew where I wanted to go, it was just a matter of finding the time! As always, I welcome honest feedback that is honest or constructive. Please leave a comment.

© Madison Woods

© Madison Woods

When Words Fail

“Water, water everywhere and not a sip to drink– is that it?”

“No. Something about water, but not that.”

“You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink? Is that the one, Janie?”

“Nope. It was about drinking, but not horses. Come on Meg!”

“Good grief! It’s your saying, not mine. What’s it about again?”

“David! It’s about that guy I met the other night. He’s over there, by the bar–“

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing: that man is a tall, cool glass of water, on a hot day!”

“That’s it!”

(97 words)

GIPY

Make me smile; HELP ME REACH MY GOAL:  I’d love to see the Tales From the Motherland Facebook page reach 700 likes in 2015. Have you stopped by to spread some fairy dust? Follow me on Twitter; it’s where I’m forced to be brief.  Most importantly, if you like a post I’ve written, hit Like and leave a comment. I love to hear what readers think. Honest, positive or constructive feedback is always welcome. Click Follow; you’ll get each new post delivered by email, with no spam.  If you see ads on this page, please let me know. They shouldn’t be there.  ©2015  Please note, that all content and images on this site are copyrighted to Dawn Quyle Landau and Tales From the Motherland, unless specifically noted otherwise. If you want to share my work, please give proper credit. Plagiarism sucks.

Posted in Flash fiction, Wrting | Tagged , , , | 31 Comments

Other Mothers Among Us…. (Healing For Mother’s Day)

When we were a family

When we were a family

Also featured on Huffington Post: http://huff.to/1czN6nc

Every year I’ve struggled with my emotions on Mother’s Day. My children have been fairly hit or miss in recognizing the day: from breakfasts in bed that, while not always edible, were priceless in their adorable orchestration, to thoughtful cards and gestures, to forgetting the day all together. As I get older, the misses mean much less, the hits so much more. But it hasn’t been in my role as mother that I’ve felt the lump in my throat and the knot in my gut; it’s in my role as a daughter. Until one month ago, I never knew why.

My mother has been dead for three years now. She died of Huntington’s Disease on New Year’s Eve 2011. At the time I was relieved to see her suffering end, but this Mother’s Day, I find myself grappling with much more complex feelings, and a sense of relief in knowing that I won’t have to celebrate this day with her. Perhaps that last line just shocked you? I can see how it might. But then, you probably have a mother you love. I’ve shocked you again.

One month ago, I learned the truth about my mother. I’m a 52-year-old woman and I feel like I’m just waking up. It hasn’t been easy; in fact the past few weeks have been truly brutal at times — but they have also been freeing. I have long acknowledged that much of my childhood was painful and challenging. My mother was a broken woman long before Huntington’s claimed her. I feel enormous compassion for the abuse she suffered as a child, and the hardships she faced throughout her life — even the ones she brought upon herself. Life is much harder when you start out with as many scars as she had. As her daughter and as another woman, I have always felt a great sadness for her. I did my best to forgive many things and before she died, I know she felt that. I loved her, in my own broken way.

However, she was not a good mother, and from that brokenness she inflicted many of the same hardships on me (I won’t speak for my siblings). I generally write honestly, without filters: I must filter this. The truth I learned serves no one else reading this, but my journey has lessons that are worth sharing.

I blocked the truth out, something that has been almost as dizzying as the truths I’m now digesting. As children, we do that sometimes when reality simply hurts too much. However, hearing the truth for the first time I felt both horror … and then a peace descend on me, knowing that all those years, that knot in my gut was there for a reason.

Mom loved being a Grammy

Mom loved being a Grammy

Mom struggled in her role as mother, and while I’m still grieving the loss of stories I clung to to make things less painful, I also feel a deep sense of relief in knowing that I wasn’t crazy all those times I felt lost and confused. The struggle wasn’t about me; I just believe that, because I was too young to know any better. My husband has gently pointed out that she did change later in life; she was a good grandmother; she did her best. I know he’s right. I’ve always understood that fact, but it feels bitter in my mouth right now. I reserve the right to feel what I feel right now, and work on forgiveness.

I was loved deeply by others, and that is the memory I’ve recovered.

It was there all along, but I was afraid to believe in it, because my mother’s stories never pointed me in that direction. I believed whatever story fit, to avoid feeling abandoned. While others cringe that a child who has been horribly assaulted would still want to be with the offending parent, I’ve always understood that desperate need to fix it and hope things get better. I clung too. *For the record: I was not assaulted by my parents, but the role of trauma in my childhood served the same end.

After my father died in car accident, when I was ten and a half, I had very little contact with his family: my grandmother, great-grandmother, two aunts (his sisters) and countless great aunts, cousins, etc. — all of whom had been an integral part of my early childhood, prior to my mother taking me and my siblings back east, without my father’s permission or knowledge. Our world was suddenly filled with new aunts and uncles, new relatives, who we hadn’t known before, having grown up far away. They loved us; there were happy times with there as well. Over the years I tried to bury the hurt I felt in losing my other family. I believed my father had let us go; I believed he didn’t really want us, and over time I came to believe that those aunts and uncles, grandparents and cousins, all found other children to love. I imagined they had moved on, and we were not worth the effort. I was not worth the effort.

My father loved us very much... and he lost us.

My father loved us very much… and he lost us.

The reality was very different, and after high school, my paternal aunts and great grandmother reached out to me, and sent me an airline ticket to visit them. By then, my father and grandmother were dead, and I’d grown up with another family who I loved. I saw my dad’s family as strangers who I wanted to know, but who I felt guarded with and unsure of. It was a wonderful summer, and we all made more effort over the years to reconnect — but in the back of my mind, my mother’s stories kept me from fully embracing their love; I remained wary and careful, protective of my mother, who had long told me reasons to feel that way. I remained a scared kid, afraid to anger or push her away, by embracing this other family. I stayed in touch with them, but there was always the invisible wall I’d built, that kept me from being closer to them.

When we moved to Washington State, 15 years ago, I began to forge a stronger relationship with my father’s sister, my aunt Cokie — who lives only two hours from us. By then my mother was ill with Huntington’s and we were all careful in what we said about the past, building new ties and bonds. I thrived in my aunt’s affection; my children adored her, often telling me that she was like another grandmother — one who took them hunting for beach treasures, made cookies with them, and beamed every time they were with her. I have loved her for all the same reasons, but my child’s heart held just a bit of that old wariness and fear that I’d betray my mother, or alienate my aunt. Having grown up with fear and anxiety — always afraid I’d alienate my mother; I assumed that’s how it worked with everyone.

My aunt, however, has taught me that love doesn’t hurt.

Over and over she has shown me that no matter what I do, whether she agrees with me or doesn’t, one thing is constant: she loves me. In learning a painful truth, a month ago, I also learned that that her love and the love of all those relatives who lost us, was always there. They held it in a safe place, just been waiting for me to let my guard down and fully accept it. When the wall came down, I felt free to finally acknowledge my mother’s love was something that held me back. It came with conditions and toxic edges. I exhaled deeply when I realized that somewhere inside, I’d always known there was another love … and that I was deserving of it.

IMG_9791My aunt Cokie has become the matriarch of our family. She will blush when she reads that. I make her laugh with bold assertions and my unfiltered way of saying things. I love her laughter; I bask in its glow. She is a doting grandmother to her five grandchildren; she adores them. She is close with both of her children, my cousins. We all have our issues with our parents, nothing is perfect — but from a distance, I always knew that my cousins were very lucky. My aunt has also embraced me and my kids, my sister and her daughter, and my brother’s children. She and her sister, my aunt Pat, have been a vital connection to my father. My aunt has let us know that we are loved, with no strings and no judgment. She is the kind of mother I wish I was and wish I had, but I’m grateful she’s my aunt. I aspire to be that kind of aunt to my nieces and nephews.

In my darkest time, five years ago, when I believed I couldn’t cope anymore, she was the one who pulled me up, and told me: “You are from strong stock.” Those words have made all the difference. They are my daily mantra. They are the words I want my own children to know.

I am from strong stock; we are from strong stock

Not everyone grows up with the kind of mother that Hallmark celebrates. I have spent a lifetime struggling to pick out the right card — knowing it doesn’t really exist. There are countless people who have struggled with these same feelings, many having had much harder lives than me. But if we are open, there are other mothers among us. They come in the form of friends, in the form of grandmothers, sisters … and aunts. A month ago, my aunts Cokie and Pat, circled the wagons and finally freed my scarred and wary heart. They let me know that I am and always have been loved. They reminded me that for all the loss and pain they are still here, and we are from strong stock.

To Aunt Pat and Aunt Cokie, who I love very much, Happy Mother’s Day

DSC_0496.JPG - Version 2

 Who do you love? Are you close with your mother, or are there other women who you honor on this day, as well? Share your thoughts in the comment section.

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GIPY

Make me smile; HELP ME REACH MY GOAL:  I’d love to see the Tales From the Motherland Facebook page reach 700 likes in 2015. Have you stopped by to spread some fairy dust? Follow me on Twitter, it’s where I’mforced to be brief.  Most importantly, if you like a post I’ve written, hit Like and leave a comment. I love to hear what readers think. Honest, positive or constructive feedback is always welcome. Click Follow; you’ll get each new post delivered by email, with no spam.  If you see ads on this page, please let me know. They shouldn’t be there.  ©2015  Please note, that all content and images on this site are copyrighted to Dawn Quyle Landau and Tales From the Motherland, unless specifically noted otherwise. If you want to share my work, please give proper credit. Plagiarism sucks.

Posted in Aging, Awareness, Death of parent, Grief, Healing, Love, Mother's Day, Motherhood, Mothers | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 49 Comments

Worrying About Honey Boo Boo.

dirtyandthirty.com

dirtyandthirty.com

The other day I found myself worrying about Honey Boo Boo. Yes, there I was wondering what happened to Alana Thompson, AKA: Honey Boo Boo, the little girl who had her own show, for mostly behaving obnoxiously. I wasn’t a fan of the show; in fact, I’ve only seen two episodes. That was all I could handle. I found it tasteless, silly, and I felt like the very nature of the show was set up to make fun of this little girl and her family. A giant dose of bullying, that seemed to be validated by the fact that it was a television program… on a channel, no less, that was known as “The Learning Chanel” for years, now TLC. None of that was appealing to me, though it was an enormously popular show. However, I’ve always been intrigued by pop culture, and when this little girl who does pageants became a pop phenomenon, I was curious. I watched the two episodes, and that was more than enough to leave me utterly disheartened.

Then I started reading the covers of newspapers (the ones you see when you’re in the check out line) and hearing bits on TV, that Honey’s mother, “Mama June,” was dating a man who had sexually molested Honey’s older daughter, “Chicadee,” in 2002, when Chicadee was eight. For weeks there were updates and intense focus on the family. TLC cancelled “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo”… and it all just went away. There was nothing in the news– none of the salacious updates that had been so prominent for weeks; the subject of Honey Boo Boo just stopped being a media focus.

Again, none of this interested me that much; I didn’t watch the show. But over time, I realized that what did matter to me was that this little girl has been exploited by the media and possibly her own family, and now that she was potentially at risk, that same audience didn’t want a part in it. When her family was stuffing “cheese balls” and soda in their mouths, and talking and behaving like “hillbillies,” when folks could watch this little girl painted and dressed like a caricature and judged in pageants, it was all entertaining. These antics were making millions of dollars for TLC, and Honey Boo Boo’s family were living the celebrity life that so many reality stars seek: attention, attention, and more attention… and lots of money for it.

hollywoodlife.com

hollywoodlife.com

When it was revealed that Mama June’s lover was the same man that served 10 years in prison for sexually assaulting June’s then eight-year old daughter, Chicadee, TLC told the tabloid TV show TMZ: “Supporting the health and welfare of these remarkable children is our only priority.” Forgive me if I’m cynical about that, but how is the network doing that? The way I see it, the same network that was willing to exploit any and all antics of this family, promptly dropped the show when things got dicy.

I sit on the board of a local agency, Brigid Collins, that’s stated mission is “to break they cycle of child abuse.” They have set a goal of ending all sexual abuse in our county. If that sounds like a monumental goal; it is. However, in the time I’ve worked with the organization I’ve come to believe that this is actually possible. It’s all about awareness. It’s all about educating communities to know what to watch for– how to protect our kids from abuse and predators by educating ourselves, and being vigilant. Having just spent an entire weekend at a Board retreat, to discuss ways to achieve these goals, it is particularly jarring to me that Alana- Honey Boo Boo- Thompson, a nine year old child would be left in a situation where a known molester is present, when frankly, it might have been the most meaningful time for the cameras to be present.

Somehow it’s ok to film that child being dressed up in make-up and sequins and prancing provocatively down a runway, for our entertainment. It’s ok to film her eating unhealthy foods, and behaving outrageously for our amusement. But when that little girl could potentially be in a risky situation, with an known sexual abuser, the network found that inappropriate to film.

If TMZ and Honey Boo Boo’s family wanted to do a reality show, it could have been an infinitely meaningful dose of reality to talk about preventing sexual abuse, what to look for, and keeping our children safe– keeping Honey Boo Boo safe. There’s nothing to suggest that she has in any way been at risk with her mother’s relationship, but it’s disturbing to me that this child was sold in all kinds of ways, but when the potential for real harm was present, the cameras were pulled and the show was cancelled. Suddenly everyone was talking about what a train wreck the situation was, but there seemed to be no meaningful dialogue about what to do to protect that child.

I spend a lot of time thinking about, and talking about, how to end sexual abuse for children, with a group of people who work in the field and passionately seek to make our world safer for children. We all want that. However, when we find the topic so unsavory, so uncomfortable, that a network removes a popular show from programming because a sexual predator is present I wonder how we can really protect our kids. Citizens are strongly opposed to a known predator moving into their neighborhood, but as in the case of Honey Boo Boo’s sister, the vast majority (studies show 80%) of sexual abuse cases involve someone known to the victim, not a stranger. A shocking number of prison inmates were sexually assaulted when they were children– that may not elicit compassion for those criminals, but it bears consideration that the most of the people who molest others, were molested as well– making them victims, as well as perpetrators. That’s something worth looking at when we talk about both rehabilitation and prevention.

I didn’t watch the Honey Boo Boo show. I don’t know why I found myself thinking about her the other day, and worrying about her safety. In a time when we can Google virtually anything, I have found nothing on line that suggests she is currently at risk. However in canceling the program “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo” right when things got uncomfortable, it seems to me that we all missed a real “teachable moment,” and left a little girl to the wolves.

This piece is also on Huffington Post: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/dawn-q-landau/why-we-should-all-be-worried-about-honey-boo-boo_b_7210584.html

To learn more about sexual abuse, check out these sources: International Sexual Assault Resources, Preventing Child Sexual Abuse Resources, Justice Study, Darkness In To Light (Childhood Sexual abuse prevention training–available around the country)

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GIPY

Make me smile; HELP ME REACH MY GOAL:  I’d love to see the Tales From the Motherland Facebook page reach 700 likes in 2015. Have you stopped by to spread some fairy dust? Follow me on Twitter, it’s where I’mforced to be brief.  Most importantly, if you like a post I’ve written, hit Like and leave a comment. I love to hear what readers think. Honest, positive or constructive feedback is always welcome. Click Follow; you’ll get each new post delivered by email, with no spam.  If you see ads on this page, please let me know. They shouldn’t be there.  ©2015  Please note, that all content and images on this site are copyrighted to Dawn Quyle Landau and Tales From the Motherland, unless specifically noted otherwise. If you want to share my work, please give proper credit. Plagiarism sucks.

Posted in Childhood sexual abuse, Education, Honey Boo Boo, Media, Tales From the Motherland, TV | Tagged , , , , , , , | 37 Comments

Friday Fictioneers: Dance With Me In Barcelona

friday-fictioneersFriday Fictioneers is a weekly Flash Fiction challenge that features writers from all over the world. Use the photo prompt to write a 100-word story and join this group of Kool Kats, led by our talented and generous leader Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Check out her blog Addicted Purple, to read more stories, learn more, or join in. The photo this week was sent in by Dee Lovering. I always appreciate honest, constructive feedback. Tell me what you think; please leave a comment.

© Dee Lovering

© Dee Lovering

Dance With Me In Barcelona

Dreamy guitar drifts across the square. You take my hand and pull me to my feet. I ignore the bystanders; they don’t understand. We have always danced without concern for who might judge– in the market, our favorite restaurant, and here in our city.

Twenty years of marriage: four wonderful kids, all grown now, and so many memories. This place, where we spent our honeymoon, is the perfect place to dance.

I ignore those who stare. With hearts forever heavy, we buried you six months ago. Today I will dance with you one last time, my love; let them stare.

(100 words)

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GIPY

Make me smile; HELP ME REACH MY GOAL:  I’d love to see the Tales From the Motherland Facebook page reach 700 likes in 2015. Have you stopped by to spread some fairy dust? Follow me on Twitter, it’s where I’mforced to be brief.  Most importantly, if you like a post I’ve written, hit Like and leave a comment. I love to hear what readers think. Honest, positive or constructive feedback is always welcome. Click Follow; you’ll get each new post delivered by email, with no spam.  If you see ads on this page, please let me know. They shouldn’t be there.  ©2015  Please note, that all content and images on this site are copyrighted to Dawn Quyle Landau and Tales From the Motherland, unless specifically noted otherwise. If you want to share my work, please give proper credit. Plagiarism sucks.

Posted in Awareness, Blogging, Death, Flash, Friday, Tales, Writing | Tagged , , , , , | 55 Comments

Friday Fictioneers: Requiem For the Sun (in honor of Earth Day 2015)

friday-fictioneersFriday Fictioneers is a weekly Flash Fiction challenge that features writers from all over the world. Use the photo prompt to write a 100-word story and join this group of Kool Kats, led by our talented and generous leader Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Check out her blog Addicted Purple, to read more stories, learn more, or join in. The photo this week was sent in by Douglas MacIlroy.

What a haunting image! While I think I know what it is, I’m taking a stab at Science Fiction in honor of Earth Day. I always appreciate honest, constructive feedback; please leave a comment.

© Douglas M. MacIlroy

© Douglas M. MacIlroy

Requiem For The Sun

“Do you ever dream of fresh strawberries, Da?”

“Don’t be silly, Ginny, we’ve got fresh berries whenever we want.”

“Not the ones that grew in fresh garden soil– you remember? The ones you and Ma grew … before the sun grew cold.”

Seamus gazed out the podhole at the icy land.

“No sense wishing for things we can’t have, luv. We’ve done fine with our “growing pods.” We have everything we had when the land was green: streams with fish, fruit trees… safety from the cold and ice.”

“Aye, Da, we’ve managed to recreate everything– but sun and fresh air.”

(100 words, exactly)

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GIPY

Make me smile; HELP ME REACH MY GOAL:  I’d love to see the Tales From the Motherland Facebook page reach 500 likes in 2014. Have you stopped by to spread some fairy dust? Follow me on Twitter, it’s where I’mforced to be brief.  Most importantly, if you like a post I’ve written, hit Like and leave a comment. I love to hear what readers think. Honest, positive or constructive feedback is always welcome. Click Follow; you’ll get each new post delivered by email, with no spam.  If you see ads on this page, please let me know. They shouldn’t be there.  ©2015  Please note, that all content and images on this site are copyrighted to Dawn Quyle Landau and Tales From the Motherland, unless specifically noted otherwise. If you want to share my work, please give proper credit. Plagiarism sucks.

Posted in Awareness, Beauty, Blogging, Flash fiction, Writing | Tagged , , , , , | 77 Comments