Helium Rising...

The party was over, and everything was quiet. That was the problem of living in a small town. Friends could only come over for a short stay. There would be an hour of running, getting in trouble, scraping knees, and telling each other what we would do when we grew-up. And then they'd have to leave, driven away by their parents, not to be seen until the next school day, and the quiet would creep in.

My parents were doing their own scraping. Each dish brushed, cake crumbs and melted vanilla ice cream found its way into the garbage. Another birthday and the same routine after. Ma and Pa talking of what I'd become. Ma wanted me to be a doctor. Dad had his heart set on lawyer. He kept talking about needing to get me into the right school, which didn't make any sense--as I was already in school and he knew that. Somehow they didn't get I was going to be an astronaut. I had told them this for the past year. All my friends knew. I was going to be the first man to walk on Mars. One small step for man, one giant leap to see a real alien. I had my heart set on it. I wanted to squish the red dust between my toes.

But my parents never seemed to listen--they just seemed to know. So I stepped out of the house, taking with me the only salvaged balloon from the helium war my friends and I had fought. Would helium have the same affect on my voice on Mars as it did here on Earth.

Yellow and floating, the balloon trailed behind me as I past the line of our back yard into the field that was part of our house. The field stretched so far, and yet I could still make out the fence line. Everything here was sectioned off. The houses distant from each other still had boundary lines. The cows could only feed so far. And then there was me being placed into the mold of doctor or lawyer. Me stuck in a small quiet town that looked open and free, and yet here I was, fenced. Everything was fenced. Everything, but my last birthday balloon.

I let the balloon slip from my hand a bit. It rose high above my head and I held on tighter. The sun was setting and the yellow plastic glowed. I saw the sky above waiting for it. Space waiting for its arrival. I wanted it to be free. I wanted to be free. So I let the string go and watched as it drifted upwards, slow and steady, and I saw the rocket. The rocket I would one day be on. I saw my feet stepping on the red dust of Mars, and I saw the green alien that would be waiting for me--yellow balloon in hand as a welcoming.

Find the Instagram photo that inspired this short bit of writing by following @jdcowboy (click on name to see photo)

Glockenspiel...

Night was spreading. The clock tower sang in the light of the moons rays, ticking down time. Time--and people would be moving in line with the clocks chimes. The cafes lined the streets waiting with steaming urns of coffee and tea. Waiting, waiting for the crowds to come and sip the liquid down with their lips. But now... Now the streets hummed with the quiet vibrations of anticipation. The breeze whispered with the trees of all the journey's and places yet to be touched as it pushed the last of the day's clouds away for the stars to shine.

Petra sat motionless on a bench. She was staring at the towering clock--the Glockenspiel. With each tick of the second hand, each inching move of the minute hand, her eyes blinked--not able to fathom how time could move on. Tick-tock.

The barista in the cafe had shuffled past her, not willing to serve, as if she wasn't there. The tables lay empty and yet no words were spoken, no water offered. So Petra had moved, moved to the bench, and was now stuck to listen to the empty streets, staring at time as it past uncomfortably by. Everything was empty and she wondered if time had played a trick on her: Was she early?

Then the bells began to dance and with each echoing chime, the flags waved high on the tower. People flooded the streets, hailing each other to stop, take a moment to converse. The cafes filled and Petra heard of daily routines, spoken in unison behind her. It was all behind her. Her eyes didn't leave the clock as a long black car pulled up in front of her. The car door opened and the lean man in his gray suit looked down on her,

"It's time."

Petra stood and took in the last gleam of the hour hand shifting. Time passed by as she stepped into the back of the hearse. Tick-tock--nothing stopped.


This is a random project I thought would be fun. Take an Instagram photo I liked and give myself 30 minutes to write and edit a short story. Try to find the photo that inspired this bit of writing by following @bono73 (aka Flavio). Click on name to see photo. 

What do you want to be...

when you grow-up?

After seven years, a leap was taken. Notice given. May 27th marks the last day serving. 


Walking to get a coffee and write a bit, my fingers found their way strolling through past words written. Words from a year ago, this is what was found: 





5-3-2011
Recently I was sent an e-mail. Attached was a preview for a movie Pause, Press, Play. I can't really say why the last few words, "this changes everything, the industry's dead," inspired thoughts for writing today, but with the recession we're all in at the moment, and my continuing three year search for a career, I find myself truly asking: "What do I want to be when I grow-up?"


Having recently celebrated my 32nd birthday some may find this question funny. Haven't I grown-up already? But I'm realizing more and more, we are always growing-up, and this is a question one never stops asking. Whether you're in elementary school, graduating high school or college, or near the process of retirement, the question remains.


So what do I want to be when I grow-up? A lot of the work I have been thinking of lately is my own. Pause, press on, play. It's my future and my past combined.


When I was seven, I wanted to be a writer. I remember my Mom coming into my second grade class to read a story she had written (one I hope she will submit soon). I found story fascinating--and still do as those who know me are bombarded with my ramblings on the subject everyday.


When I was eight, my idea changed all because of a puppy from Santa on Christmas day. I wanted to be  a Vet. I thought it would be all "fun and games" playing with all types of animals. Then when I was 10, my Dad got me a Veterinary Dictionary for Christmas. It wasn't one of those little kid ones, but the college level type that gave the Latin names for all the diseases animals could possibly have. This for some reason moved my desire to a new realm (o.k. lets face it, the dictionary overwhelmed me, and I realized pets might not be that cute and cuddly when disease ridden).


So I turned my sights to be an artist. This ambition was short lived as I realized, though I could draw--I didn't draw well. 11 and 12 my sights were on Olympic swimmer, amazing Rock Singer, or Journalist. Obviously, this was my pre-teen years and my mind was getting jumbled by the on coming hormones. 


Which gives reason for 13 and 14 being a bit blurred on what I wanted to be when I grew-up. I do believe my sights were more fascinated with boys (as seems to be the case still, though I pretend I manage it better now) than on my own dreams and desires of self achievement.


At 15, I went back to science, but I Incorporated the pool, thinking I would be a Marine Biologist (I mean come on, who didn't). Even my job aptitude test told me I would be great at this profession. Though I don't think it took into account I lived in a desert.


16-18: I was going to be (and was) an entrepreneur. Business licence purchased, I promoted rock concerts in the rural south-eastern corner of the "L" shaped Utah state. This was my focus for years, it was the direction for my early college education, and then I turned 20 and I was back to books. I wanted to be a writer, but added the possibility of editor of children's and young adult literature.


At 25, college grad, a book slinger, and ambition still driving my forces, I went back to school for a second degree. And then I found myself 30 and confused, because I still hadn't grown-up and somehow all that questioning of what I wanted to be when I grew-up had made me a master beer slinger. Lost. 


And now at 32, smack dab in a recession, options and opportunity abound. So here's the dream at the moment: submit writing to publishers, examine the entrepreneur projects you've been thinking of for years now, meet with colleges and see if they want a quirky-fun-and enthusiastic woman as an adjunct professor in children's and YA literature, and begin the process of submitting for PhD candidacy.


It seems like a long road travelled to get here, and I find it funny that at age six I knew writing would be the crux, story the glue. Sometimes we just have to remember that our young selves knew us better than we thought. They weren't confused by all the crazy distractions the years bring. They saw open doors, unlike our adult selves shutting and locking us in.


So maybe the question isn't ,"What do you want to be when you grow-up?" Maybe the question needs to be, "Who did you want to be when you were young?"

And now, a year later after writing these words--33--I'm back to my six year old self. That girl who took gymnastics and tumbled and leaped to her hearts content whenever she heard a story. It's a balancing act, doing what you love and working to survive. But I leapt. I'm taking the risk on myself with the hope that I can write the net that will catch me.

A New Tax Bracket...

... And yes people, I'm talking about dating here.

On Tuesday, I was a good American citizen and I did my taxes, much to my dislike. I wrote out two checks, one to the Feds and one to the State, neither of which covered the full cost. But hey, they were filed right.

And then today I came to a new analogy on dating as I sat having coffee with a long time friend I haven't seen in over a year.

Dating in your 30's is like jumping into a new tax bracket. 

You think all is good. You're making more money, right? And then tax time comes and you realize all that great pay just places you harder into the doom of the high middle class. Specifically... all your money goes to the government.

Now I realize that by writing this, my future prospects in the dating world may be slim. But really, let's face it--If a guy can't laugh at this, I don't think I'd really want to date them anyway.

But let's get back to those [brackets].

In your teens, dating is all dramatic and over the top (which I've also found somehow lingers as time goes, but whatever). In your twenties and dating, you're all full of hope and wonder as you travel along the path with a person to not only develop a relationship but find yourself as well.

In your thirties... Well lets face it people, you pretty much know who you are, know where you want to go and are trying like crazy to get there. You've had love and heartbreak. The wonder-lust is still there, but you have to some how find the time for it in your already developed and heavily busy scheduled life, and well... goodness gracious it's a lot of work to find that person who fits with you and wants to put the time and effort into making things progress.

I wonder what I will be saying on this topic in my forties?

Who knows, but like this years taxes, I won't give up. I might not be able to pay it all right away, but I'll chisel away payments each month, with the hope that one day I'll hit that high tax [bracket] and be able to bask in the sun on vacation.

(If any of this doesn't make sense to you, try reading a tax pamphlet and you'll recognize I make a lot more sense than the government.)