she who blogs

Summer Monsoon

He was all set to go down to the basement when he heard knocks on his kitchen door. The first knock sounded like the wind. He dismissed it without hesitation. The second knock echoed in his head like a faded memory. He paused at the basement entrance and hoped he was mistaken. But the third knock sounded so clear that he could not ignore it.

When he opened the door, he saw only white swirls covering the small frame of the door. The wild wind blew the stranger's white long curls about and hid her face. When the wind settled, a pair of pale violet eyes shouted loudly at him while her thin eyebrows were knotted into a worry line. Her skin appeared to be void of color and yet soft looking. She wore a long coat as white as snow. Around her neck and almost covering her face was a white scarf knitted with large patterns of yellow stars. He stood there looking at her unsure if he was dreaming.

The wind, again, began to blow behind her, shifting strands of his uncombed hair and spitting rain in his face. He shook his head and gently pulled her inside and closed the door. Her white boots lightly echoed on the wooden tiles as she shifted her weight. Raindrops fell from her boots as she walked.

He told the lady to take a seat. It felt strange to him to hear his voice. His strained words reminded him he had been much too long without company.

The kitchen was small but large enough for a medium-sized table and three wooden chairs that he made. There was but one light illuminating the room - a stark bulb that hung down and kept everything in shadows.

She sat down in one of the wooden chairs, barely making a sound. She adjusted her scarf so that the stars were smoothed out. She kept her head bended so that her face hid in the shadows. He sat facing her trying to think of reasons that she should go.

It was a few seconds later that it occurred to him that he needed to go down to the basement to check for flooding. It has been raining for a few months now and tonight, there was a chance of flooding. He began to wonder why he left his sunny home. He never needed to check for flooding nor did he needed an umbrella. After he lost Stella, his only daughter, he felt dry and empty but here, every day, the sky cries for him.

When he returned, the lady was still sitting there. She seemed so small to him now. Her small hands rested comfortably on each side of the armrest. She turned when he approached. He flicked on the portable radio that was sitting on the kitchen table. A tornado was coming. He did not look at the lady as he spoke to her, asking if she needed to stay until the tornado is over. She lifted her eyes to the light. He turned to see them staring at him. She nodded her head silently. He tried to smile but his lips kept themselves in a downward curve. He told her they will have to stay in the basement. At least he didn't need to worry about flooding even if he might not have a house afterward.

He went to the cabinets and opened a drawer pulling out a flashlight along with two sets of batteries which he dropped into his coat pockets. He then turned off the radio and picked it up and tucked it under his arm. She stared at the few drops of rain where the radio was. Under the light, looked like speckles of yellow stars. He supposed that was why she stared at them. He started walking toward the other side of the kitchen assuming she would follow him. The basement entrance was at the corner, where it might go unnoticed if he had not painted the door a bright lemon.

At the entrance, he turned to see if she was following. His long nose stuck her forehead. He muttered an apology but did not wait to see her reaction. He quickly turned and walked down the flight of stairs, flicking on the flashlight midway. He pulled at a white string hanging above and a lightbulb goes on, casting a faded shade of yellow on a wooden table and two gray chairs. He turned off the flashlight and placed it and the radio on the table.

The lady appeared and stood under the dim yellow light. He did not hear her steps and was momentary surprised to see her. He let out a chuckle and pointed at one of the gray chair. Her eyes smiled at him. She took a turn about the room inspecting everything with her fingers which he now noticed were quite small for a lady. She returned to her spot under the light and sat down.

He pulled two small paperbacks from a shelf among the boxes of candles, matches, dried food and bottle water. He dropped one of the paperback in front of her and sat on one of the gray chairs and opened the book.

But he could not focus. His eyes darted from the lady's face to the pages in front of him. He could see her face clearly now with the scarf pulled down. It was a small face, one that could belong to a child of ten. She picked up the book and flipped through the pages. She started to hum a tone that he knew very well - Clementine - one of Stella's favorite. The lady's violet eyes gleamed with tiny sparks as if delighted with everything she saw. The yellow lightbulb gave those eyes a greenish tint. Her lips were in a curvy half moon - an irresistible smile that gave him a shiver that was all too familiar. When her eyes met his, he quickly looked downward at her scarf. The yellow stars made him think of Stella. Stella - how he missed her.

Stella, his Stella, was not fond of wet weather and thunder always scared her. But she was always fond of stars and the color yellow. On her tenth birthday, he took knitting lessons from an almost-blind woman and made a white scarf with yellow stars for Stella. It was a work of knitted chaos but the stars were correctly shaped. Stella was so proud of it. She had kissed him on the cheek and told him it was the best birthday present that she had ever received. After that day, she never go anywhere without that scarf.

When he looked up, the lady was still watching him. The paperback was set to the side. He did not like having the lady staring at him so he pulled another book from the shelf and placed it in front of her. He nodded his head and took up his book again. He shifted his body so as not to face her.

The walls started to shake. Muffled sounds of the outside seeped in in quiet rhythms. The lightbulb above swung back and forth creating spotty shadows with each movement. The lady let out a small cry. Her eyebrows knitted together with worry. Thunder quietly rumbled above them. She grabbed at his coat sleeve. He tried to assure her it was only thunder but she pulled at his sleeve harder. He told her they are safe and that there's nothing to worry about. He patted her hand which was surprisingly warm. Thunder struck again, echoing close. He tried to pull her hand off his sleeve but she would not let go. Her eyes were in a downward sorrow, like Stella's used to get whenever she heard thunder. "Stella," he whispered for the first time in almost ten months. He reached out an hand to touch her face. The thunder echoed above like explosions. He looked up at the ceiling and then at the lady. Tears began to stream down her face.  She grabbed him and pulled him to the ground.

She covered him in white darkness beneath her coat. He heard a tearing sound similar to a roof being ripped away. He called to her to let him go but she would not release him from her grip. He felt a heavy weight keeping him down - soft but firm. He looked up but he could not see white anymore, only darkness. The noises drifted away and he was soon asleep in a monsoon-filled dream.

He woke to silence. Above him was the sky - a blue oasis. He was still in his basement but everything was gone - all the walls, the roof, the furniture. He was laying on dried ground with nothing surrounding him. On his neck was the scarf with the stars. He felt his face becoming wet and thought it was the rain but it was his own sorrow escaping for the first time.


So where's the R word for Alphabe-Thursday?  It is Rain. I like Monsoon in the title rather than Rain. Though it means the same thing doesn't it?

Visit Lissa at A Chance of Sunshine

And...I Still I Have No Gills

                                                     Photo © Rupert Hitchcox

“Ocean: A body of water occupying two-thirds of a world made for man - who has no gills.” ~Ambrose Bierce

I hate cheerleaders. Okay, fine. “Hate” is a little strong. I have a general dislike for cheerleaders. Then again, I’m not here to talk pep squad… except that I am here to throw my own voice into the “Rah! Rah! Yay EARTH!” chorus… which indirectly makes me a cheerleader for the planet and, though I adore the planet, I hate (No, really. Hate.) that particular association. I should delete this whole paragraph. Mmmm… nah. This is me, people. I’m always like this.

You want to know something even more disturbing? Not only am I not here to discuss cheerleading, I’m not really here to talk about global warming either… or how Mother Earth is supremely pissed at humanity… or how desperately I want to hug Leonardo DiCaprio because he cares about my Mt. Kilimanjaro and is using his fame for good. Like I need an ecological excuse to want to hug the new, improved, super sexy, manly Leo… but I digress. Again.

My point is this: I’m damn cold.

Shall I connect the dots before the grey matter within my noggin’ runs amok again?

I love this planet.
I believe in global warming.
I’m a cheerleader for all things “recycle”, “green”, and “make a change”.

But…

(Funny how there is always a “but”, huh?!)

…I am, and will always be, a complete and absolute failure at water conservation. I have lived where periods of mandatory reduction of water usage was dictated... necessary… where the water supply was cut off throughout the city for all but one or two hours a day. Pardon me while I shudder at the memories.

But, now, I live in a first world country that I sometimes loathe. A country that, for all its faults, provides me with a seemingly endless supply of clean water. It’s a crime that millions of people on this planet have no clean water or any water… when our planet IS water. This is the part where I tell the rest of you to conserve all the water you possibly can… so that there is always enough for me. I know. I’m a terrible person. I won’t be winning a humanitarian award anytime soon ever. I simply cannot give up water.

I love it.

I love water inside my body. I cherish the sweet nectar that is a tall glass of freezing cold water laden with a mountain of ice cubes. Oh, how I love ice. Crushed ice. Yep, I’m a crushed ice cruncher. Make of that what you will. I may never leave my current job simply because the greatest crushed ice maker in the world (slight exaggeration) is located there.

I love water on my body. I want to live near the ocean and dive in it daily. I like to play in streams, rivers (sans carnivorous reptiles, hungry hungry hippos or elephant poop), waterfalls, swimming pools, fountains and even lakes… although lake and pond waters are my least favorite forms of the substance of life. Followed by snow. I really, really hate snow. It snowed this week. I was in hell. A cold, hard hell. Oh, and tears. I find tears are decidedly not in my favor. There is a reason “tear” is a homonym. “That salty substance pouring out of your eyeballs” often has a lot to do with “that ripping sound coming from the organ in your chest”. (Don’t mind me. Digressing again.)

I adore showers and baths. Long showers. Full baths. Scalding hot water. Once, twice… multiple times a day. I shower to get clean. I read in the shower. I sleep in the shower. I bathe to relax. I shower or bathe post-workout. I shower to escape my children. I bathe to get warm. Oh, yes… my point.

Remember my point? Up at the top. Below the babble. Well, below the really out-of-control babble. Whatever. “I’m damn cold.”

Every winter I find myself wishing I was a tropical mermaid (Distinction needed. Have you seen those uber-cold loch water, nasty Harry Potter mermaids?) living in the “Great Blue Hole". (Click the link. It isn’t anything naughty. I swear.) Then I wonder if mermaids suffer from dry skin. On their top halves, that is… not the scales. I might as well have scales because my skin positively hates (no exaggeration) me right now.

Yes, now. I should probably mention here that I’m in the bathtub. Now. Yep. I got in here specifically to get warm... hence the topic inspiration. No, I’m not a chronically cold-natured person. My equatorial blood simply cannot handle northern hemisphere winter. Yes, I have the computer with me. Sort of. In my small ass apartment the toilet is close enough for me to sit in the bath and type on the laptop sitting atop the toilet seat.

Sometimes I put it on the edge anyway.
One day it will fall in.
I’ll be super warm that day.
And dead.

Then the cheerleaders can laugh at me.

You'll find more of Beth's posts here

My One-Word Theme for 2011: Now

During my 2010 Year End meme, I mentioned I don't do resolutions, but I am doing something different regarding goal-setting this year. I've been setting goals for a while now, and although I've been fairly successful at reaching them, I feel like I need to kick things up a notch in 2011 to really make some progress on several items that have been hanging around on the to-do list.

And wouldn't you know it, the Universe, as it is wont to do, sent me in the direction of a concept that is all over the place but that I have somehow missed up to this point in my life.

Reverb 10 calls it the "One-Word" prompt, asking readers to think of one word that described 2010 and then to imagine what they'd like that one word to be for the upcoming year. Chris Guillebeau calls it his "theme" for the year, while Christine Kane labels it the "Word of the Year," and even offers a free worksheet to help you figure out yours.

I love this idea, and the first word that popped in my mind was "NOW."

"now by Genista on Flickr"

And then I immediately tried to analyze it away, telling myself it was too ordinary, too vague, too plain -- and that it came too damn easy. But I just kept coming back to it because it speaks to me on so many levels.

*NOW* : stop procrastination when there are tasks that need to be done.

*NOW* : move forward on personal projects that have been sitting on the backburner for far too long.

*NOW* : live in the moment, practice mindfulness - one of the most important lessons I've learned in the past couple years and am still learning.

Then, just as all this was turning around in my head, my friend Pam posted this on Facebook on January 1:

"Inner peace comes with staying in the NOW!"

Yes. Yes. Yes.

And in the words of Van Halen:

(Right now) Hey! It's your tomorrow (Right now) Come on, it's everything (Right now) Catch your magic moment Do it right here and now It means everything.

So now I feel a little like Ally McBeal with a theme song in my head. You might not believe me, but I promise you that just having this word in my head has already pushed me to do several things that I may have otherwise convinced myself could wait another day. We're but 10 days into January, and the word has been with me constantly as I stare down something else I'd rather put off...and you know what? Things are getting done.

Sure, you say, but how long will that last? Well, I'm hoping for another 11 months and a couple weeks, but who knows? And who really cares? I'll still have all those accomplishments, and as many of you have probably already figured out, getting things done actually breeds getting more things done. There's something so inherently inspiring about progress.

By the way, my "now" doesn't refer only to work and chores either. It also plays nicely with downtime as I tell myself NOW is the time to turn off the computer, load that movie, make some popcorn, and just relax.

Do you have a word for 2011?

the good, the bad and the funny

Time for a little catch up. It’s been a busy November which, to be honest, is usually the case. I’m slowly catching up on restaurant reviews. I still have so many photos that haven’t been worked into a posted review here, and I’ll continue putting those up. I’m on a bit of a roll that I hope continues.

 

The good

Painting Sunflowers with Mom

My family was just here for the whole week of Thanksgiving, which was great. When they’re here, I’m able to experience the city in a different way. It’s more relaxing. My hurried pace to dart from Point A to Point B as quickly as possible slacks and I’m able to enjoy NYC from a different angle. We brunched at Jane and Cafe Lalo. We did Thanksgiving dinner out as I mentioned below at Pylos, giving my mom a stress-free Thanksgiving Day for once. No Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade though – maybe next year I’ll mark that off of my list. My parents helped me with Dixie’s annual Christmas Card photo shoot (she doesn’t mind much – especially when bacon and cheese flavored treats are involved). My mom and I, along with my friend Jenn, went and even did a painting class at Paint Along. I just love sunflowers. It’s always hard when my parents eventually leave since I only get to see them a few times out of the year and they are so far away (especially this round since they take Dixie back between holidays), but I’ll be heading down South myself soon enough.

 

The bad

Win Some, Lose Some

I was really looking forward to the challenge of this year’s NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). This was my third year to sign up, having won both years I did it before. The structure of the month plays into my competitive nature and I really enjoyed writing in a big teahouse with a bunch of other frantic writers. How many words did you get that last 10 minute sprint? Oh really? I got twice as many as you did… The other two years, I spent writing the same piece, with the 100,000 words from winning those two years bringing me to a book of some 300 pages. It was my magical means to the end I had always wanted to achieve. When it comes to longer works, I’d only ever focused on memoir. This year, I wanted to tackle fiction head-on, convinced after 50,000 words I would feel better about the idea (whether I had an amazing start to a novel or not).

However, I ended up being sick the greater part of November, the impetus being my galavanting all over Manhattan leading up to the Halloween parade sans coat in my Thriller 80′s fabulous outfit. And I ended up not just slightly sick. Three visits to the doctor sick. Thank goodness, I finally am feeling better. But it left me feeling run down all month, coughing and foggy-headed from my codeine cough syrup. It simply wasn’t the right time to tackle this demon, that’s for sure. Instead, I plan to keep plugging away at this on my own, just to see if I can get into the swing of thing with fiction. I have faith I can. Getting over 20,000 words in itself was a huge feat.

 

The funny

So recently at trapeze, I have begun tackling a new beast – turning around (apologies for those of you who have seen this pop up both on Twitter and Tumblr). The trick I am working on is called the Three Kick Turnaround, but for me as of late, it’s more appropriately dubbed the Three Kick Mad Fling Turnaround. With trapeze, I’ve learned you’ve gotta start somewhere … and be able to laugh along the way. Even when you manage to seemingly undo some of the prior class’ good work. Especially once you admit to yourself that turning around is a whole new way to swing. I’m still laughing at this one – don’t miss the sound, cause it kinda makes the video.

This past Monday I tried again. It’s better, but still not quite there. I realized in watching the video that was only doing two kicks for the three kick turnaround. Seeing as it’s kind of in the name, might be a good idea to fix that! I ordered some grips to start to use on Sunday so that I have a better grip on the bar for this. I’m learning the harder the tricks, the harder it is on your hands, so getting used to using grips sooner rather than later might be wise. I ordered them yesterday from a gymnastics supply company. They’re essentially men’s high bar grips, which kinda makes me laugh because me and gymnastics? Not so much of a combo. Come Sunday though, I’ll add in my obnoxious pink EVERLAST boxing wraps around the bottom and see if it’s the magic something-something I needed in this equation. Wish me luck!

 

 

Visit LJ at City Grits

Some Silly Stuff For NaNoWriMo Writers

NaNoWriMo is here. Wouldn't it be nice to have some instructions or some words of wisdom before you start? Well, you won't get any of those here. I'm too unstructured to give any advice but I like to make things up. So here goes:

The writer's guide to joyful writing or how to get people off your back when you are writing :

1. When ask what you are doing, answer with "Oh, just writing words from the dictionary."

2. If caught taking a nap, say, "I'm studying on how sleep or lack of, will affect my characters' well being."

3. If caught staring at a blank page, say, "I'm contemplating how my characters will react when confronted with empty space."

4. If caught staring at a blank computer screen, say, "You have just caused me to erase my entire novel and now I will have to start all over again, so dinner won't be happening for a couple of nights."

5. If ask where you get your ideas from, say, "I met a kid that was homeless on the streets and he was carrying a rainbow umbrella and talking about how the rain makes him crazy at night and then he hands me a flyer for a restaurant that sells fried chicken and when I got there, they only sell baked chicken and when I asked the owner why the flyer was wrong, he mentioned that he recently had a heart operation and will no longer sell unhealthy food and that his cousin printed up the flyer and wouldn't change it for him and before he continued, he got hit in the head by a piece of chicken and then a crowd gathered and he was sent to the hospital and...what was the question again?" and look very, very frustrated as you say it.

6. When ask why you can't do housework, say, "My characters does not do housework and so I'm trying get into their psyche by doing the same. It helps me write."

7. When ask if they can be a character in your novel, say, "Sure, you can be the cross-dressing uncle who picks his nose and carries a Chia pet."

8. When ask if they can read what you have written, say, "Sure, can you read German?" Or some language you are sure that person does not know.

9. If they pester you on what your novel is really about, say, "Nothing much, just about people who asks too many questions and who ends up getting run over by really big cars, you know, a love story," and smile sweetly.

10. If caught playing a video game or watching a movie or doing something other than writing, say "I'm doing research."

Note: This is just a silly list, so don't take them seriously. I mean it. Don't take them seriously. Seriously.

You can visit Lissa at the memory of rain

frutto della passione

While I cannot always dedicate as much time to writing and photography as I would like, I still feel a strong need to do both. I often find myself composing posts while riding the subway and I frequently catch myself thinking: “That would make a great shot” while looking at something.

 

I find myself torn between justifying a decrease in blogging by telling myself that there is more to life that sitting in front of a computer – and justifying my desire to blog because it satisfies a desire to create something and share it.

 

Taking the leap from a free Wordpress.com blog to a self hosted one was a long time coming for me. I kept telling myself that I didn’t need to host my own blog, that it was just a hobby and that everything was fine just the way it was. When I finally realized that I wanted more control, more freedom I went from thinking about it to doing it faster than I imagined and now it’s almost up and ready to go.

 

I’ll be launching the new Frutto della Passione on October 1^st and I would love it if you could all come round for a visit. To celebrate the move, I’ll be offering 3 Amazon gift certificates and of course a recipe!

How To Lose a Demon in 10 Days by Saranna DeWylde

Back in September 2009 SWB did feature about Text Diva Saranna DeWylde.

 

At the time she told us a bit about her new text novel

 How to Lose a Demon in Ten Days.  Well, if you clicked that link you'll see that she won just about every prize available.  But that's not all - guess what?

  

Well, I recently received this news via e-mail that read:

So, you guys know I don't normally do a mass emails because they are obnoxious. But, I wanted to share with everyone because I am doing the happy dance that's better than chocolate. HOW TO LOSE A DEMON IN 10 DAYS is available for preorder!!! Everyone hold my hand and engage in girly shrieking. Clickety click to see!!!   HOW TO LOSE A DEMON IN 10 DAYS 

 

 

Thanks for sharing my bliss moment and hugs to you guys who helped me get here!

 

 

Cheers,

Saranna

 

Clicking on the book cover will take you over to Amazon where you pre-order your copy.  I also requested that it be made available in a Kindle edition. 

 

Congrats Saranna!

 

The Most Influential Woman In My Life...

Michelle aka The Italian Mama Chef won SWB's 3rd Anniversary Writing Contest with this lovely essay.  Choosing a winner was very difficult.  At the end of this post you'll find links to other entries.

The most influential woman in my life is not one woman but many women who have taught me many things.  I can’t say that is was only my mom or my grandmother. It was both of them, it was a neighbor growing up. It was my sister, my cousin and my best friends. Today the women around me that influence me are those who take the time to share with me the things in life that I didn’t learn early on. Some of these women pray with me and for me. Some of them simply listen. How can any one person be the biggest influence on your life? We are constantly growing and changing with the trials of life so that brings about the need for different women to walk along side of me to help me to where I want to be.

Lately I have been finding that my daughters influence me in many ways. They challenge me to improve myself as a mother and grandmother. I watch them as they are mothers to their own children and think to myself that someone had to have shown them how to do that and then I realize it was me! My mother in law has also been a big influence in my life. She was a friend to me when I moved away from my family and knew no one else in our town. She accepted me and my daughters as a part of her family from the start. My sister has helped me to see the truth about things in my life that I might not have otherwise have noticed on my own.

Pictured below is my mom, my grandmother and my aunt.

 
I can also say that my mom influenced me in several ways that were monumental in my life. When I had my first child at 16, she was there for me but she did not become the parent for my baby. She made sure I was the one doing the parenting.  I needed that. I watched other teen moms around me go out partying while their moms raised their children and felt bad for their kids. I knew that I was the one my daughter needed to raise her. I took on that responsibility and never looked back. If my mom hadn’t done the things she did I would have relied on her or others too much and never stepped up to the plate.

My grandmother Matilde Michelina circa 1929

 
I was unsure how to write this post, it’s for a contest, because I could not narrow it down to just one woman who influenced me the most in life. It’s all of the wonderful women who have come into my life over the last 43+ years.  But my Italian grandmother is the one who’s memory lives on in this blog more than anyone. She was a kind woman and did more work in a day than I can imagine. I wish she was here to teach me how to cook like she did.  All I can do is go by memories and research but she is the inspiration for this blog as a whole.

For all the women in my life, I love you all!

As promised ...

Lisa

Candid Karina

Callista

Lori

Running Between The Raindrops

A lot of people I know have been feeling a little down, lately. Sometimes I just want to get everyone and wrap them up in a big blanket and squish them and hold them all day long. But that’s just not possible. I asked my friend, Gina, what would make her feel better and she said a story would help. A romantic, hopeful story. So I wrote one. The title comes from the wonderful photographer and blogger, Frances of Blogjem and Daytrippers; it is something her own father used to say to her (thanks again for letting me use it, Frances).

This is dedicated to everyone who needs a little lift….

Rose’s father ran a store in the city selling umbrellas, rain coats, all manner of rain-related gear. Rainy Days and Mondays he called it. It was an enormously profitable business, particularly since he got the students from the local design school to design umbrella prints in limited editions. Those umbrellas were cool – there was no other way to describe them – with their slogans and images that exploded onto the landscape.

On rainy days Rose felt as if the city belonged to her father. Everywhere she looked she saw one of his umbrellas. People commented on how much she smiled when it rained, but she couldn’t help it with so many of her father’s creations catching her eye from street corners and doorways.

Her father favoured only one umbrella. A rarity designed by the famous Parisian designer Bernard De La Pluie. It was deep red, a plain weave made from silk and cotton. The shaft was fashioned from walnut and the handle was etched with De La Pluie’s signature. It was extremely valuable and beautiful. People commented on it whenever her father used it.

Despite its beauty the De La Pluie umbrella was fragile. Rose’s father feared its deterioration. He used it sparingly. So when the rain was light he would take her hand and gaze up at the glistening sky, moving slightly from one foot to the next as he gauged the speed with which the raindrops fell. When he had ascertained their rhythm he would shout RUN and together they would plunge over the wet streets in between the fall of the raindrops, sheltering under trees until it was safe to run again. It was a game between only them. A precious thing they shared. Whenever it rained Rose would pray that the rain would fall lightly and that her father would have time to run between the raindrops with her.

One day Elaine came. She captivated Rose’s father with her tight skirts and swinging hips. She looked at Rose with a curled lip, saying : You’re very plain, aren’t you?

It wasn’t long before Rose’s father confided that he was in love, that he and Elaine would be married.

Rose felt sick on the wedding day. Her father had puppy dog eyes and a new suit that puckered at the shoulders. Elaine shimmered in champagne-coloured lace. They danced to Your Song by Elton John.

Rose caught sight of herself in the mirror near the kitchen. Her face was puckered like her father’s suit. And very plain.

Soon after Elaine suggested Rose move out. That she was too old to be living at home. Rose’s father apologised but did not object.

Elaine was a quick worker. One day she emptied out all of Rose’s father’s bank accounts then disappeared. Rose’s father sat in the kitchen drinking tea and listening to Your Song over and over again. He refused to open the store. Rose got into a panic. She didn’t know what to do. The bills piled up on the kitchen table unopened.

It rained for two weeks, a light, soft rain that should have been comforting. Rose didn’t run between the raindrops once; she had decided to reopen the store. The umbrellas had almost sold out. She asked her father what to do but he was sitting in the kitchen eating dry cereal from the box and weeping. She could get no sense out of him.

Sam walked in just as Rose sold her last umbrella. I’ve sold out, she said, biting her lip.

I’ll help you get some more, Sam said.

Sam bought new stock, dressed the windows with jolly umbrellas and helped Rose pay the bills. She told her father she had given Sam a job. He stopped gazing out the window for a moment but was otherwise unmoved.

The rains came swiftly. Rose and Sam opened the store early to cope with the rush. The streets were clean-washed and blue, smelling of autumn. They sold all of their new stock in three days and were able to put some money in the bank.

The design students wanted to run another series of limited edition umbrellas called Crying In The Rain. The umbrellas were printed with eyes and tears. It caused a frenzy. People called from all over the world to secure a Crying In The Rain umbrella. Rose and Sam were interviewed by the local news station. They made so much money they could afford to buy Rose’s father a ticket to Paris to visit the factory of Bernard De La Pluie. The excitement of the trip broke him out of his melancholy.

One night a wind blew up from the south full of magic and whimsy. Rose and Sam had just received several boxes full of umbrellas.

Let’s unpack them tomorrow, Sam said. I’m hungry.

They locked the store, caught off guard by a light rain that had begun to fall. The only unpacked umbrella was Rose’s father’s.  I’ll get my father’s De La Pluie umbrella, Rose said.

Don’t worry, Sam said. We can run between the raindrops.

Rose looked at him, wondering how he knew, taking his hand as the wind cavorted at her heels. She caught sight of herself in a shop window as they ran and danced. She was no longer plain and puckered. With hope held high in her heart she plunged into a night that tasted only of good things, as Sam’s gentle breath caressed her face.

Visit Selma In The City

dreamer

 
“Every great dream begins with a dreamer. Always remember, you have within you the strength, the patience, and the passion to reach for the stars to change the world.”
Harriet Tubman

Illustration by lissa@the memory of rain