Through the Attic Window


This was written in response to Writing 101, Day 4: A story in a single image.

Through the Attic Window

Looking through the attic window reminds me of what I’ve always known but never sought out.  I was never supposed to live a 9 to 5 work a day away type of life.

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I Struggle to Breathe


This was written in response to Writing 101, Day 3: One-word inspiration.  I started out with one word in mind; then two.  But, I now see that the word prompts are interrelated and this could be about any one of the words.

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 Finding My Saving Grace

In Writing 101 there were three assignments that were to be written as part of a series. It took me over a year to finish all three, each one harder for me to write than the one before it.  The first assignment was Serial Killer was about losing something and I wrote Working Through The Pain with Chocolate and Chardonnay.  The second part in the series was Serially Found which was about finding something and I wrote Not Quite Me.

This is the final part in the three installment series and it is about Lost and Found.

The first time I held your cousin Jennifer Christina in my arms. I drank in her new baby smell and cried softly in her pink sleeper. My due date was ten days prior to the day she was born.  I was supposed to be holding you in my arms, her big cousin by all of less than two weeks, when she arrived. Instead my arms were empty.

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All in for Nan

At twelve, Kat lived in the same 1960s style three bedroom ranch house her parents built when she was three years old.

It sat on a plot of land originally owned by her mother’s grandparents. Kat’s great grandparents were Italian immigrants, who on weekends escaped the neighboring city and its shoe mills to work a piece of land in what they referred to as the country.  They grew vegetables and raised chickens.  They made wine out of the grapes on the vines still growing alongside of the barn.

It was the second to the last house on the right. A big old oak tree grew proudly at the front of the house while weeping willows offered shade from the sun and heat in the backyard. If it had been built another quarter mile through the woods, Kat would have lived in New Hampshire. Or Cow Hampshire as she often times heard people refer to the state to the north. Instead the dark brown ranch, adorned with matching colored planters made from old tires filled with brightly colored tulips, was located on a dead end street in the City Known as the Town of Methuen.

Not knowing that her hometown’s moniker had to do with its form of government, Kat snickered when she heard people say, “The City Known as the Town.”

“Being called the City Known as the Town is just plain silly,” she would proclaim. Adding, “You can’t be a city and a town.”

In the twelfth year of her life, the town trucks covered the dirt road she lived on with shiny black asphalt. She no longer lost her rubber boots in the spring mud as she raced home from school. Along with the dirt, the trucks covered at least one pair of boots Kat had lost the prior year. It was the first of many changes to occur on Quincy Street that year.

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