|
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!
|
15 For 15 Entries ~ June 2010 #699221 added June 14, 2010 at 6:05pm
Restrictions: None
Concert ~ June 14
I stare into my eyes in the mirror, but all I see is the photograph of my mother shoved in the corner of the mirror's frame. In my peripheral vision, she seems to be moving, swaying her hips in slow figure eights of seduction. I shift my eyes to it, and she freezes, arms stretched over her head, her body’s curves exaggerated. The photo is old; Mom could have been my age in it. The photographer had captured her during some performance, in some city, during some tour. I don’t even remember when I came to possess it. It feels like I’ve always had it.
I can’t think of my mother without chords of emotion tangling up in my heart, threatening to choke me. She was a loving woman, angelic even. I remember the way she sang softly to me when I had the chicken pox, to keep my mind off wanting to tear at my itchy skin. I have memories of us lying on a blanket in the shade of a tree in the park, tickling each other until our laughter lost its sound and we gasped for breath. Or the summer nights neither of us could sleep, and we’d crawl out the upstairs window and lie on the hot roof, counting stars.
But the little voice in my head reprimands my nostalgia. The mornings were too numerous to count when I’d wake up in my pink frilly bed and stumble to the kitchen, dragging my teddy bear by the arm, to silence broken only by the ticking of the clock over the sink. No smell of coffee brewing. No boxes of cereal laid out on the table for a little girl to choose from. No sign of an adult anywhere.
Or the late night jam sessions and long-haired musicians with scary tattoos across shaved skulls and free range of the house. I’d cowered in the shadows of the stairwell, listening to the sound of glasses clinking and smelling various perfumed smokes, wafting together in a haze. I learned curse words I knew where vile even at that young age. And when I wanted Mom to tuck me in bed, she’d stare at me, with black eyes that should have been blue, as if she didn’t recognize me.
More often than not, she didn’t recognize me.
A knock at the door startles me and I look away from the photo of Mom. In the mirror, I see the door behind me open and Ted stick in his head.
“You’re on in five.”
I thank him and he closes the door. I go to stand, but my head spins and I put a hand on the dressing table to steady myself. The other hand strays to my still-flat tummy, rests on the course sequined material. I wait for it to pass, but it doesn't. I glance once more at Mom as I turn and rush to the toilet.
|
© Copyright 2010 NickiD89 (UN: heftynicki at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
NickiD89 has granted InkSpot.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work. |
