Big Yellow Taxi

The snow on the ground crunched loudly under my big leather boots.  The street was strangely deserted at three in the morning.  I walked to the corner of 96th Street and Central Park West.  I raised my arm in the air hoping to catch a taxi.  I yell, “Taxi!” and the sound of my voice is almost deafening.  All the cabs whizzed by.  They disregard poor little me standing in twenty degree weather.  One cab actually stopped and after ten seconds, quickly sped off.  But what do you expect, when they see my face and the color of my skin?

Image courtesy of Jeff Rowland, "Big Yellow Taxi," Castle Galleries.

To see The Burrow's drabble dare winner of the week, check out Burrow, Books & Balderdash.

City of Dreams . . .

City of Dreams, to some maybe.  To me, not.  The cacophony is overwhelming.  Walking across the Brooklyn Bridge is a reminder of what we once were.  The memories smother me.  Desolate.  Lonely. Inconsolable.  That is all that is left of me since you have gone.  In a city filled with people, I am alone. 

City of dreams, to some maybe.  To me, not.   I place one foot in front of the other until I reach the edge.  Spreading my arms out, I am free and kiss the cool blue that greets me. 

City of dreams, to some maybe.  To me, not.



Image courtesy of:  http://www.castlegalleries.com/artists/paul_kenton/collection.asp


drabble- n. a story written in exactly 100 words.

Rhythm of the City

Rhythm of the City

Mind racing. Heart thumping. Rhythms pacing. Music bumping.
Horns blowing. People walking.  Litter flowing.  Shoppers talking.
Taxis zooming.  Buildings rising.  Business booming.  Fashion sizing.
Lights blaring.  Shoes tapping.  Passers staring.  Awnings flapping.
Papers flying. Fires stoking.  Babies crying.  Poultry smoking.
Dogs pooping.  Children playing.  Seniors stooping.  Parents praying.
Meters running. Trucks parking.  Cops cunning.  Drivers barking.
Bikers peddling. Traffic moving.  Vendors meddling.  Dancers grooving.
Singles moping.  Couples holding.  Lovers groping.  Marriages molding.
Card sharks shaking.   Stocks falling.  No money making.  Sellers calling.
Liquors flowing.  No one’s buying.  Discontent’s sowing. People dying.
This is the pulse racing Rhythm of my city.








drabble- n.  a story written in exactly 100 words.
Image courtesy of Castle Galleries, artist- Paul Kenton.

Emotions and Characters

Yesterday was a truly harrowing day. Not only did I have to take my daughter to work with me, half day of school and no babysitting, I also had my car towed by the ever popular New York City Police Department. My husband had forgotten to put out the parking permit, which would normally just warrant a hefty fine that must be paid within thirty days to avoid penalties (Oh yeah, Bloomberg is just racking up cash from middle income family households). But I digress, the car is not only ticketed but also towed. The city makes $185.00 from the tow and of course, $115.00 for parking in a Department of Education zone with no permit. Great! What does this have to do with writing you say? Well, I analyzed the range of emotions I experienced from the beginning of the day to the end of the day. This is what I came up with:

1. Happy, content, relaxed (when I woke up)
   
2. Worried, anxious (no babysitter)
3. Relief (boss didn't have a problem with my little one traveling with me)
4. Frenzied (running a program, teaching classes with daughter glued to hip)
   
5. Stressed the hell out (Husband calls, car was towed)
6. Anxious (had to figure out finances to pay to get the car out)
   
7. Still Stressed (went to pound after work)
8. Relief (car returned, drove home)
9. Calm, Content (while cooking dinner, taking care of kids)
10. Happy, content, relaxed (watched The Office)
    
11. Emotionally exhausted (bedtime)

After this analysis, I applied the wide range of emotions that I experienced to the character in my mystery novel. These emotions added the precise complexity needed to not only move the plot along and create an interesting story, but also it added a different dimension to the writing itself. The story had more descriptive scenes, using a plethora of adjectives instead of just dialogue from one character to another, making it more interesting and drawing in the reader. The peripheral characters seemed to empathize with the protagonist which enriched relationships. This technique was a success. Some people say to write what you know. They also need to add that as writer, one must write what you feel also.

Now, I can't take credit for coming up with this writing technique. There are several writers/ authors who use this. Some blogs to check out for writing techniques are Mystery Writing is Murder, Confessions of a Watery Tart, and Linda M. Faulkner . . . On Writing. I have found these to be really useful when experiencing writer's block or misbehaving characters.

Midtown Rush

"Taxi!" I yelled with my arm raised high. Hailing a cab in Midtown during rush hour is definitely ill-advised. I walked to the next corner. It begins to rain. I mumble about meteorologists and faulty forecasts and it dawned on me that I forgot the holy grail in business- my flashdrive with the PowerPoint presentation needed for the meeting. Thank God for cell phones.
"Mandy, bring my flash drive to 39th and Park. I don't care how you do it. . . Yes, I know the meeting is in fifteen minutes. Just get it to me. Now!" Time for a new assistant.

Drabble(n) - an extremely short work of fiction exactly one hundred words in length.

Painting by Paul Kenton
Image courtesy of Cardiff Galleries

For a response to this drabble, check out Rayna's blog: Colours- Violet.

Fairytale of New York

Fairytale of New York

Once upon a time in a land far away, there lived a young girl with big dreams. She was raised by a horrible stepmother in the poorer section of the city. She had to clean the roach infested apartment and made all the meals with paltry scraps of food.

One day, the young girl grew up. She met a wonderful man who wined and dined her. She felt like a princess. But now she sits in her tower. She is surrounded by beautiful clothes, furnishings and people. Isn’t it ironic that she narrowly escaped one prison to enter another.


Painting by Jeff Rowland
Image from Castle Galleries (http://www.castlegalleries.com/)

Drabble(n) - an extremely short work of fiction exactly one hundred words in length.

When We Reminisce . . .

Today was the first time, in many years, that I rode the subway. My journey began in Greenwich Village, West 4th Street, where I boarded the D train northbound to the Bronx. I began thinking about the times I rode this same train, but in reverse, to my grandmother's house on 96th Street and Central Park West or to the Museum of Natural History on 81st Street with my 5th grade class. These memories were very positive and brought that warm, fuzzy feeling you get when reminiscing of good times.

The train moved on from 59th Street and went express to 125th Street in Harlem. I remembered the crowded platforms of yesterday. There were also the blaring radios that crooned smooth R & B music or poetically profound Rap songs. Girls wore "door knocker" earrings in those days with bright red lipstick, stone or acid washed jeans and asymmetrical hairstyles. Those who were into techno, grunge and alternative music were ensconced in black. Some individuals danced on the train platforms to the tunes of Stevie B, Noel, Cynthia and Johnny O. Free-style dance music was all the rage.

The train then by-passed 135th Street. This is where A. Philip Randolph Campus High School is located. I call it "my castle on the hill." Years ago, and I will not mention how many, this was my home. My friends and this school were my safe haven from my hellish home-life. I had stopped getting off at this stop because one had to walk through a very dark park with a never ending staircase. I had my necklace snatched by a crackhead and decided that I would no longer place myself in that type of danger ever again.

The D train pulled into 145th Street. I remember walking ten blocks to my high school every morning. My friends and I would all meet up, with precise timing, and accompany one another on our long arduous journey through the streets of Harlem. We walked from St. Nicholas to Convent Ave and then on to 135th Street. It didn't matter if it rained or snowed, we trekked through the urban jungle all in the name of education. Okay, maybe not education but definitely for social interactions. I no longer keep in contact with many of my friends. The only regret I have is not keeping in contact with Rodney Robinson. He is that friend that had your back in good times and bad. He moved to California about 18 years ago. I have not heard from him since.

When the D train pulled into 167th Street, my stomach began to knot. This is where my story begins. This is my birthplace, my roots and my "hood." This is where as a child and a teenager I dealt with my father's alcoholism, family drug abuse, child abuse, my mother's schizophrenia, the parental neglect of my siblings and suicide watches. I was the observer, care-taker and the only one with any ambition. There were good times also but these were overshadowed by my family's flaws.

The train moved out of the station and I immediately began to breathe easier. Is it any wonder why I can't go back to the Bronx? To any other person, it's just a train ride. However, for me, it was an emotional roller coaster of memories.