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Karma Free Writing will be offering 27 Days of Karma Free Writing Prompts starting on the 1st day of Spring. These writing prompts are designed to stimulate the creative process for writing your personal story - and beyond.
27 Day Karma Free Writing Prompts - Honorarium
The 1st 14 days are free. To go the whole 27 days there is a $27 honorarium.
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2010
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April
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- Stories from the Gathering ...
- Thank You ....
- Day #27. The Last Day. Theme: "I am completely o...
- Day #26 - Theme: Tantrum
- Day #25 - Theme: "Releasing on the Exhale"
- Day #24 - Theme: "That is so me!"
- Day #23 - Theme: "Food."
- Day #22 - Theme: " I would NEVER ... "
- Day #21 - Theme: "What we eat off of ... "
- Day #20 - Theme - "The Liberty Bell"
- Day #19 - Theme: "Get the Picture?"
- No title
- #18 - Theme: "Listen & Follow"
- Day #17 - Theme: Intimacy
- Day #16 - Theme: Lies
- Day #15. Theme: "What connects me in my relations...
- Day #14 - Theme: Time & Space
- Video Support for Prompt #13 - View this FIRST !!!
- Day #13 - Theme: "What did I notice, What did I N...
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April
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About Me
Filmore, late 80’s.
ReplyDeleteWas hanging around the band that was playing up in the other room for New Years, or maybe it was Halloween. Doesn’t matter. Maybe I’d be asked to climb aboard for a song or two. Why not? It was happening more and more. I would wait…hang around, carry gear, be a mate. This was my gang, somehow I pushed and got inside. These were fun dangerous people, these were quiet days and long nights, this was youth, this was everything I wanted; staying stoned, watching trees, seeing music every night, chattering on about nothing, strolling on the Haight, tripping at the Kabuki 8, sleeping on couches, listening to Anita at Ibeam, Sushi Sundays at Nightbreak, reading Edie on a rooftop off Baker & Turk, pesto pizza, meeting women with Mercedes, standing at the Other, curbing outside Dal Jeets, cold to the bone...endless, directionless, perfect.
The hall in the afternoon was bitter, dank, run down, dimly lit even with work lights on. The place was busy with circumspect workers standing around, moving kegs and cases of beer on hand carts, bottles of booze, decor, lighting, all of it was in a slow motion.
We had been relegated to the upstairs lounge, it was a VIP club within the club, it was perfect. The band was best in this kind of tight setting, rocking best with those right up front.
The rip, buzz and horror twang of Ivy’s guitar will never leave my pea brain…it is… undeniable… historical…sickening to the soul, to generations of me, and yet seductive... It is death scratching…It is mayhem…It is a razor; magnificent…It is pure volume to cave one’s chest to….Reverb to pull me out deep…It is evil…It is animal….It is the echo in my head.
Buck heard it first.
He set his guitar down.
“I think they’re checking.”
We followed like rats, sliding in the dark. We stood up in the balcony looking down on our heroes, not knowing what to expect.
“Is that them?” I wondered.
They were dressed in funeral attire, a Sunday best kinda thing. Sharp, dark suits for the men, a dark trench coat for Ivy, and she wore a headscarf that went over her slight bouffant. Dark sunglasses all around…
Classy folks.
Skull Swinger: You captured the scene and the visceral feeling of being young. Especially liked:. "These were fun fun dangerous people, these were quiet days and long nights, this was youth, this was everything I wanted."
ReplyDeleteThat was my favorite part too!
ReplyDeleteI hate to wake up.
ReplyDeleteI have one talent. I can sleep.
I know people who can paint, draw, write, sculpt, play instruments, speak, but I can sleep.
They all envy me.
I don't understand this tossing and turning and need for Ambien...or whatever.
I might need to read a little before I go to sleep, but once I'm there, man can I sleep.
I like to go to sleep late.
I like to stay up until 2 or 3 and wake up at 11.
I should go to bed at 10 or 11 but I go to bed at midnight or one. I have to wake up at 6. I hate waking up at 6.
My husband is a morning person.
The world is made for morning people. You're supposed to get up, get out, do things, make money.
I want to sleep.
I'd wear my jammies all the time if I could. I try to wear things that feel like jammies...except that I do like shoes with heels...that's ok. I can hold mutually exclusive ideals at once in tension.
But I hate to wake up. I hate alamrs. I hate singing birds. I hate amorous men. I hate crying babies. I hate deadlines. I hate work times. I hate school hours.
I want to sleep. And boy, can I.
Feeling empty today. Maybe too much work. Love the discipline of all the writing. But most of all am so grateful for all of you sharing so much. These stories take you places. Here goes anyway for today.
ReplyDelete**************************************
It's a sudden ker-KLUNK, shaking the house. Then the hum starts, probably like an early car that kick starts alive and then rumbles.
This grumbles, telling us things are working.
Out the window the pond is frozen. No birds in the feeder. No swans and geese duking it out. The sky is as gray as the ground, creating an invisibleness. Everyone is hiding.
The grumbling furnace, like an ornery Walter Matthau or Bella Abzug, tells us that though the earth is frozen life goes on.
Loving the storytelling and sharing!
ReplyDeleteinkydinky: that was an awesome post almost like a poem! i love it.
lkelly: i like the "grumbling" and the visuals it spurred..
Purr purr purring
ReplyDeleteThen a thump.
Oops did I kick the Siamese cat off the bed? Keep snoozing.
The steady purr is soothing, familiar, comforting.
Like the uninterrupted sound of my Grandfather’s lawn mover. He had the old fashioned kind that you have to push. So it really wasn’t a motor purring but he was steady and strong in his thorough pacing. Unless he was tripped up by a rock. The sound was soothing and familiar.
Like the motorboat I learned to steer on Lake Winnipesaukee when I was 14 visiting for summer.
Like the bass undertone lower than the dial tone A of the voice of a man I love.
Like the diesel car arriving early before dawn with my niece.
Like the Transatlantic flights that carry me to visit my family.
Purrs are one of the most soothing sounds. Yet when interrupted, the feeling is worse than any piercing alarm clock.
Purrs should taper off and never just stop. Just like phone calls. Click is never as pleasant a sound as the final purr goodbye.
Erika: so nice! would love to hear more about the distance between you and your family. Liked previous story of trying to connect with your father. And the line in this story, "Like the Transatlantic flights that carry me to visit my family." Conjures up so much. Is it a purr or something else entirely? Thanks for sharing.
ReplyDeleteWhat!!!
ReplyDeleteSorry, I was floating, floating somewhere
I'm trying to listen
I see your mouth moving and
WOW!!!
Look at all that energy
spurting out of your head
But, why is your face turning red
and, goodness all those pocks.....
Here we go again:
In the corner
Hand outstretched
Leather belt
Sorry, Miss McKen.......
YOU MUST BE KIDDING ME!!!
It is a helicoptor sound in the sky. I makes my heart sing. When I can hear it from a distance I look up so I get to see it coming. Then over head such a thrill. Some times its like looking for a treasure with the surpise I have found it. I get to stop pause and stay in the present moment be present moment. Thats the best part. Or the visions I have of past experiences. Only wish I was up there following.
ReplyDeleteMy little Airstream Bambi ain't what she used to be. That's a trailer, by the way. The round-shaped metal ones. Mine's been on the road a while, east and west of the good ole U.S. more times than Forrest Gump himself. It's the only place I feel like myself. Out on the road, where no one knows me, no one gives two shits if I stop and piss on a bush or wake them up from a nap to buy a couple of gallons of petrol. Every little town I pass through, not the cities, not a chance, I wonder if I could live out here. I take myself through the day, getting up, feeding the dogs, cats, mice, rates, what the hell, making my way off to work, passing nobody on the way there or the way home. Might be ten people in the whole town and we say hello and all that, but we don't socialize, not a lick, nope, nope, nope. We're all out here for the same reason. To get the fuck away from whatever it is that's been chasing us the better part of our lives. Better if it's the desert than the mountains or the sea or any place with more to say than us. The desert doesn't say shit. Doesn't give a shit. Walk through it and it might not even know you were there. Not true for a sandy beach. My Airstream provides everything I need and not one ounce more. How many rooms does a man need? Toilets, sinks, comfy chairs? One of each suits me just fine. Less to think about, less to clog my mind as I solve the world's problems and keep the solutions to myself. See, if you're not gonna do anything anyway, might as well do it in nowhere. Don't even pay half attention to the folks that come by and look at me like I'm the one lost. Let me translate their, "Well, this is a lovely place all by itself out here in the desert," to "Who the fuck would infest this rat hole even if they were running from the law?" Uh huh, keep talking and thinking and head straight back to your city to have your soul sucked out by some overpriced sushi and fancy facial. I'm staying here. Airstream and hood up on my Jeep for the rest of my damn life.
ReplyDeleteI'm in the parking lot walking towards the track. A mist of dust rises up into the stadium lights. I hear the roar of engines. I'm wearing white pants so I can go in the pits after the race. Step-mom, Carol, with her big her beehive "ratted to perfection" and black eyeliner and mustache that she couldn't hide back in 1972, nor did she try, leads the way. My sister is pouting as always and I can't wait to get inside to see the race. I know the drivers are just taking practice laps, you can tell by the way they're flirting with the corners and the rpm's on their Super Modified's. Come race time they'll push it and each other all the way. My dad is driving the yellow 14 and his racing partners Duane Silva and Bobby Sunday are manning the pits. That means changing tires and set-ups to get the car cornering right. They never win much. Not enough money to make the car right. They just tinker with it in Duane's garage next door till all hours of the night. They love working on cars and getting grease all over their hands. Next to the actual racing it makes them feel like men, I suppose. I've come to see my two favorite racers, Jimmy Gordon, in his sprint car, and Hash Brown driving his Studebaker in the stock car race. Jimmy has long blonde hair like mine, always wins, and always gets to kiss the big-boobed trophy girl. Later, when I I’m about fifteen, he rolls his sprint car in the big race at the state fair grounds and another racer plows into him splitting his head in two. It was in all the papers and my neighbor Alan Silva woke me up the next morning and told me all about it. He was at the race. I kept staring at Jimmy’s picture on my wall, wishing I was there, but glad I didn’t see his head split. I always liked Hash Brown for obvious reasons. I'll let you think for a second, say his name a few times, and then assume you understand. It's a warm night in the fall, man I love these warm nights in Northern California, Roseville Speedway to be exact. Sky to the west is still orange. The crowd's buzzeing, the pungent odor of alcohol-laced gasoline is in the air. The announcer barks out the lineup for the first heat race. Step-mom won't shut up, talking to Bobby's wife and Ludell, Duane's wife, like they're long lost friends reunited. Hell, they all live next door to each other. Finally, the racing starts and my dad gets into the lineup behind the pace car. The come around Turn 4, the pace car peels off, the green flag comes out and damnit if they don't stand on the gas so hard you can barely hear yourself think.
ReplyDelete