Angelina started by Bev Bronson

I am jealous of Angelina. She has beautiful lips, a drop-dead gorgeous body and she could look beautiful wearing a potato sack. But it is not really her looks, her live-in boyfriend Brad or all her varieties of children. It is how she connected to the world, her being a goodwill ambassador for the USA, cleaning up the tarnished image of our country. I like how she walks barefoot in other countries, wears no makeup and seems to be a free  spirit. I guess I envy her.

But if I am not careful, I find myself trying to be her. Now, I am okay but a few months ago, before I got my medication, I was trying to get my hands on hr stuff. Anything she threw out was my treasure because it once was hers. Her old pants, her old t-shirts, even her old sox. I still have several pairs in my closet.

If she knew what I was doing or if she could glimpse my thoughts, she'd be mortified.In my family home up in Union Pier, MI, I hid the things that once belonged to her. No one ever goes top this old dilapidated house anymore, so I'm sure they'll never discover the treasures that are mine alone. The hardest task is extracting and keeping her scent. I've found that if I smell an item too often I loose her smell and that's the last thing I want to do. SO I've come up with a way to savor her pheromones. I'm really amazed with the smell of the woman.

I spend my my days sitting amongst her things, smelling the armpits of her worn t-shirts because that's where the smells linger most. Sometimes, I can smell her perfume - if I am lucky. God, I hope nobody sees me like this.

The summer months pass and it is time that I head home. Something brought me back to reality and I realize that I've lost it. I'm sitting in a bizarre collection of Angelina's things and I have no friends, no connection to the real world. Maybe it was the bank account getting lower. Maybe it was the empty refrigerator. Maybe it was the dried baby formula on a t-shirt that reeked me into reality.

THIS WAS A CLASS PROJECT -5/14/08 black = Lin, blue = Nora, red = Frank, purple = Bev

pretending

The Only Flame In Town

Long before Joe, I had another love. He was older than I, more experienced in the ways of the world, politics, and deep thought. He opened my eyes to things going on in the world that I didn’t know existed. He was good looking, had a sweet voice, and I would go starry-eyed whenever I saw him. He didn’t love me, though, and that was okay-- I still loved him anyway.

Years went by and he fell by the wayside. I knew that I would never be his love, and so the accessible college boyfriends came and went. I finally found true love when I met Joe, and we went through the usual friendship, courtship and then got married. I had kept up, somewhat, with the old love and what he was doing, but it wasn’t like we corresponded or anything. He just seemed to fade into the past-- a young girl’s crush. Now I had more important things to do, like diapering babies and doing laundry 100 times a week.

The old love was coming to town, or so all my friends said. My cousin in Atlanta sent an email informing of his impending visit to Chicago. The phone kept ringing with reports and friends kept insisting I needed to see him. They all knew I was obsessed with him so very long ago, and I needed to have one last moment with him. How did all of these people know he was coming, and I didn’t? How out of touch have I become? Who knows when he would be back this way again? It was now or never. The problem was his visit coincided with the very weekend of Joe’s and my twentieth wedding anniversary. How do I explain that one to Poor Joe?! He is usually so patient and understanding, but could he possibly forgo the weekend downtown in some swanky hotel to go see my old love? Is that fair to ask of him? I asked anyway.

He caved, God bless him. Joe made all of the necessary arrangements--scheduled the kids’ activities around the evening, delayed the hotel reservation, and planned for an evening that was all about his wife and her old love. The weekend came; I dressed up, eager to see the old love again. Joe dressed down—he was pretty much just playing along.

My heart raced with excitement as we approached the place. The lights were dimmed and he walked in--suave, confident, and extremely built for a man of 55 years old. His beard was scruffy though, and I have to admit, it disappointed me that he couldn’t shave for me after all of these years. He began to sing and I forgave it all--those years of absence, the no shaving, and the marrying of someone else. My heart smiled and it was like I was 20 years old all over again.

It was an odd anniversary present to say the least, Joe escorting me to see Sting in concert for our twentieth wedding anniversary. It's then when I realized how much I loved him and I think he even winked at me once—Joe, I mean.

connie says hello

Hi,

My name is Connie. I am an old author who is coming home to roost.

vacation story

I have written a vacation story. It is rather long so I have posted it on my depressing blog. Click on it if you would like to read it. I will not read this in class.

Vacation Story

Frank

Center Story

This is a picture of the moon near the north pole (via Marge Boyd). It has nothing to do with the following story.
It wednesday afternoon about 1:45 pm. We have been have the usual good time in creative writing class. Several people have shared their stories and they are wonderful. But I have, as is my habit, just drank my second cup of coffee and now the urges of nature (you only rent coffee it seems) are calling forth. I excuse myself knowing that the class will get ample time to talk about me when I am gone. I enter the main lodge and head briskly toward the gentlemen's relief station.
Suddenly, I am halted by a no nonsense woman who asks me bluntly 'who are you ?' I tell her that there is nothing to worry about and that I am 'teaching' creative writing right now in Cabin A.
She tells me some horrible news - the men's room is off limits. Because they are doing something with the plumbing for the new cabin. About 25 minutes to go before they can be used
.' 25 MINUTES', I think, 'can I last ?' Luckily, I do not have to go that bad. I return to the class, tell them the news about the plumbing and quickly regret doing so.
'Just use a tree' 'DO you hear the water flowing ? drip, trickle' HA HA
I am tough, I can handle this. Judy gets up to read. It is a wonderful piece of writing, the best she has done, full of emotional tugs and heart-wrenching situations. I love it. But something is distracting me. I fight it. I start standing, then walking back and forth, then pacing back in forth.
Time is my enemy. 20 minutes has passed. I am trying not to walk so much but everytime I stop, I realize I have to keep moving. 22 minutes pass. My hands are twitching. I can no longer look at anyone's cup, or my thermos. I begin standing in the doorway and glancing at the exit. I can do this ! 24 minutes pass and Judy stops overcome by the emotional impact of her powerful story. I want to comfort her and say great story but I have something that stops me - the signal - warning from internal plumbing central - something must be done ! or override signals will be enacted - I don't think - I leave and go to the lodge declaring nothing will stop me, not even a no nonsense woman!
Happy ending : there is nobody there and I reach the men's depository in time without incident.
Back in the cabin and all is well that ends well.