Sheila's Dribs 'n Drabs

My first had no words, only sounds with my mother and brother interpreting them. My tale in full flow they’d explain, “Yes, she says no.” My next, ever-flowing, kept oceans of sixth-graders silent while my tales were told. Said the teacher, “Please write them,” but yes, I still answered no. When the principal offered a huge microphone to the mouth of small story-born me I said no to her too, then picked up a pencil. My next was in bright-colored ink, each new set of text in a shade all its own from my fat and glorious many-pointed victorious pen. I told my tales at bedtimes to brothers but if they annoyed me during the day I’d threaten withholding of fiction. Cruel is the sister. I told my tales to school friends and learned you can’t just make it so without research but you can make friends laugh and cry. Pregnant with dreams, sitting in the corner of the bus staring out through the window, pregnant with tomorrow, I wanna be a novelist, paperback wri...

He left to make sure he wouldn’t turn into his father. He left a lonely fatherless son who might grow up into somebody else instead. He left because they looked at him and only saw his father. He returned because his small sons needed him. Not his father after all. He left because she loved the child more than him, spent all her energy somewhere else. He felt ignored and helpless, left her without help. He left because it wasn’t the path for him, disappointed others but satisfied his dream. Not what he left but what he chose that mattered. She wept because she felt alone and then she wept because he wouldn’t let her be alone. Sometimes it’s hard to turn back the clock. She wept because everyone else was okay and everyone got what they wanted out of her except for him, the one she wanted to please. She wept because they told her right and wrong and she didn’t understand but that’s alright. She passed their message on and then she wept. She wept because t...

The breeze’s banners flutter bright and colorful against the green of trees. Olympians are heralded. Spectators loudly scream. Inspire a generation colored gold for victory. Proclaiming city, year and date, there is no pity in this fate. The runner runs and cyclist rides while glorious countryside looks on. Everyone wins. A bike of flowers adorns the roundabout. Cyclists fly past on wild mercurial heels. Glorious power is shown about this city, praising wild Olympic dreams. They’ve built a fortress, built a wave, built magic, built a dream. They’ve cheered the athletes, watched their flags wave high. They’ve built a fire. Winners just to be there. Victors just to see the crown. Champions play the melody. And future medalists set sparks to light the Olympic flame. See the towers of history, the fields of long-gone battles, shores where conquering heroes stood. Hear the cheers of victory’s parade, long-gone, renewed again today. When soccer balls and beach ba...