tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17292899550624167742024-03-13T18:19:10.413-04:00Elizabeth TwistWriter, Plague EnthusiastElizabeth Twisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133959633383307056noreply@blogger.comBlogger419125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1729289955062416774.post-46492454305036940702018-06-25T19:39:00.001-04:002018-06-25T19:43:18.664-04:00Process<div style="text-align: left;">
Lots of talk among my fellow writers in the past little while about process. One thing is clear: what works for some of us doesn't work for others. And we've each had to figure out what does work on our own.<br />
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It's a hidden quality of this whole writing gig, I think? Figuring out how to make words go. Figuring out what to do with them when you've got them.<br />
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What's more, I can't speak for you but I can sure say my process has changed over the past five years. I used to be an over-writer: so many more words on the page than I needed to tell the story I was trying to tell. Lately, I've been surprised to find my first drafts on the leaner side, in need of feeding up, fleshing out. This isn't universally true, though. Sometimes I look at a thing I've done and I know I want to thin it out, simplify, make it cleaner, more aesthetically sparing.<br />
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You?</div>
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Elizabeth Twisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133959633383307056noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1729289955062416774.post-39193264593763536372018-06-05T15:12:00.000-04:002018-06-05T15:12:16.550-04:00I Crushed Story a Day in May 2018There's something really special about doing a writing challenge you have never successfully completed before. You sign up, and you have that immediate, gorgeous, spacious moment of exhilaration and excitement for what's to follow. You're filled with that feeling that everything is possible, that you're going to accomplish so much, and that it's going to be absolutely amazing. There will be rainbows and puppies, and probably even <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YMDYHt93tVI">rainbow puppies</a>.<br />
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Then the urge to throw up a little kicks in. I don't know about you, but sometimes that stops me before I start. Sometimes I squirm through it, and manage to complete a day or two before I mess up and fall on my face and curl up into a tight ball that will not loosen until the end of the challenge time frame. That second strategy ("strategy") is basically a description of the first time I tried <a href="http://storyaday.org/">Story a Day</a>, approximately a million years ago.<br />
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At the end of this past April, however, I was looking for something big, to help me stay in my current writing mode. I've passed a few personal writing milestones lately. My track record has been great. When the Story a Day in May reminder email came through, I thought, yup, this is it. This is my year.<br />
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Upper lip stiffened and mind not entirely lost, I turned to the same reasoning I always do when I'm about to ace something I think is impossible.<br />
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<i>Step One:</i> realise other people are somehow <strike>probably magically</strike> doing the thing.<br />
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<i>Step Two:</i> get over myself.<br />
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<i>Step Three:</i> figure out how I can do the thing too.<br />
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And so I did. I hit it out of the ballpark, friends. More on how, exactly, in a bit. First, the stats:<br />
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Thirty-one stories in thirty-one days. 52,511 words, for an average of 1693 words per day. Nine of those stories were under a thousand words. The longest (and most in need of filling-in) was over five thousand.<br />
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All of the stories had a beginning, middle, and end. Some of those parts were a bit sketchy, but not nearly as many as I expected.<br />
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One of those stories is non-fiction. (If you want to read it, I posted it <a href="http://elizabethtwist.blogspot.com/2018/06/chris-kelworth.html">here</a>.) One of them is a rewrite of a story I wrote earlier in the month (there was a prompt to pick a story and rewrite it, so no, I was not cheating). The other twenty-nine stories are all original fiction, most of them science fiction, fantasy, or horror, because that's how I roll. With the exception of the non-fiction piece, none of them were based on ideas I had before the month began.<br />
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I am absolutely shocked at how much I like most of the stories. Everything will need some kind of polish, of course. There were a few times that I only figured out what the story was about when I was almost done the draft. That is a normal part of writing for me, though, so I don't think it's a product of the speed with which I wrote. All told, I ended the month with upwards of two dozen definitely workable stories that I can finish and start marketing one way or another. (I've already submitted two of them—one to an anthology, and one to a contest.)<br />
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All in all, a great month.<br />
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Here's what I learned about my process. I wanted to write about this because it is, in my opinion, really cool, and also hey, maybe it will help you.<br />
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My main fear in approaching Story a Day was figuring out what to write about. At any given time I might have a few short story ideas kicking around, one or two of which I'm interested in writing. I definitely don't have thirty-one viable ideas in the queue. That fact was the #1 cause of my initial queasiness.<br />
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Sometime in the wee hours of Day One, after I indulged a solid bout of my-God-what-have-I-done panic, I decided that things would go better for me if I just followed the daily prompts that Julie Duffy posts on the Story a Day site. I figured maybe I could write to one or two, just to get things started. Then the idea factory would, no doubt, conveniently kick in.<br />
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I just want to say that I don't know what kind of internal monster makes me resist prefab prompts. Surely it's some kind of ego trip that causes me to think that it will be easier or better to pull fire out of thin air than use the kindling and box of perfectly dry matches that someone has so kindly laid out for me.<br />
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The Story a Day prompts, let me just say, were genius this year. (I can't speak to other years, but I bet they are always great!) They were non-specific enough that they could be applied to any genre of writing, fictional or otherwise. Many of them were structural, exploring different ways to craft a beginning, middle, and end, inviting us to work with the many ways in which short stories are <i>not </i>mini novels. None of them, as far as I recall, required any specific type of content. One prompt asked participants to tell a story entirely in dialogue. Another suggested that a character notice a specific detail that holds significance for them. Whether the dialogue took place in a hospital room or the detail was on a space ship was up to the individual writer.<br />
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I loved the first two or three prompts so much, I ended up using all of them. There was no reading ahead, either: the prompt for each day goes up, as far as I can tell, sometime around midnight-ish EST. Generally speaking, I waited until morning to read the prompt; then I would let it percolate until it was time to hit my writing desk. Because I run my own business which entails irregular hours, some days I wrote in the morning or early afternoon, and some days I had to wait until after dinner and stay up late to finish the day's writing.<br />
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Some days, I read the prompt, and that was enough to trigger a great idea for what I wanted to pour into that structure. Other days (most of the days), I had no clue. So I turned to random plot generators and story prompt lists to try to fill in the open spaces just a little bit more.<br />
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Eventually, I discovered bookfox's <a href="https://thejohnfox.com/2016/05/story-idea-generator/">The Best Story Idea Generator You'll Ever Find</a>, which is, indeed, really excellent, and I used bits and pieces of a couple of ideas from there. In the beginning, though, I looked for grubby, cheesy, silly ideas. My mantra became <i>it's not the idea that makes it good: it's the execution</i>. I let myself hit refresh on bad story generators no more than three times. Whatever came up, I picked the seed of the day's story from one of those prompts. If I was feeling really confident, I would find a list of horror or fantasy prompts, and take my chances that something on it would seem workable.<br />
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The question I asked of each prompt was not <i>will this make a good story</i>? The desperation created by the Story a Day timeline did not allow for such fussiness. Instead, I asked: <i>can I write to this idea today</i>? If the answer was <i>yes</i>, I ran with it.<br />
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I hope you can already see that this was so much fun, you guys. The pressure was all in the timeline, and not in any way on the content of what I was writing. I wrote hard, and I had a blast, and I took semi-silly ideas and made them into the best art that I could. Like I said, I'm really pleased with most of them.<br />
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Here's why I think it worked: these semi (okay, in some cases <i>very</i>) silly ideas, combined with the no-time-to-waste daily pressure, provided the sort of freedom through limitation that I personally thrive on as a creative person, when I can manage to lean into it. I didn't make up any fancy rules or excuses about how I would go about it. I just ran with the prompts. I gave myself permission to blow past them, if that was what seemed right.<br />
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Writing so many different stories let me play with voice in a way I haven't before, because each day of the challenge called for a new perspective, new main character, new tone. I developed a much greater appreciation for the ways in which short stories really aren't just mini novels. Because they can be fragmentary in nature, they have the power to evoke a lot beyond their own frames. I also figured out how to match an idea to a specific length of story. On days when I knew I didn't have a lot of time to write, I learned to skew the idea I was working with to a less ambitious size. The shortest story I wrote was a mere fifty-four words.<br />
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And then there was the magic.<br />
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I've always loved Jungian psychology and Joseph Campbell's monomyth and the idea that we humans (and possibly other sentient beings, I personally can't speak for plants and animals) are sitting on top of this morass of concepts and archetypes and plot patterns that run as deep as the Marianas Trench. Those depths, over which we all float, contain more oddities and monsters and ways of thinking and conceiving of the world than we can possibly understand. I've always believed that at its holiest, story is a way to tap into all that. When we write, we're sending down a line, hoping that something interesting or maybe even essential will bite.<br />
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This is why I think that telling a story isn't about the idea you start with. It isn't about how perfect the opening sentence is or how well organised the plot. It isn't about the exact spot on the surface you choose to drop anchor. It's about beginning. It's about persisting. It's about what swims up from the depths to meet you.<br />
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I've never come closer to accessing that trippy, heady feeling of watching something surface as I did this past month, during Story a Day.<br />
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tl;dr: Story a Day is awesome. 10/10, would recommend. <a href="http://storyaday.org/guest-post/2018-editorial-calendar/">The next challenge, as far as I understand it, runs in September</a>.Elizabeth Twisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133959633383307056noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1729289955062416774.post-14453212910708935222018-06-03T01:01:00.000-04:002018-06-03T18:16:30.885-04:00Chris KelworthDo me a favour, and let's pretend I've been here all along, and the last few years on this blog haven't been a combination of absolute void and hesitant posts about plans I haven't followed through on. <br />
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I've been writing. I promise. And trying to figure things out, including myself. Details on that will probably pop up here and there, as I start posting a little bit more, but first, I want to tell you about my friend, Chris Kelworth. <br />
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You might have met Chris online at <a href="https://kelworthfiles.wordpress.com/">one</a> of his <a href="http://chriskelworth.com/blog/">blogs</a>. If you ever did Nanowrimo, you might have done some of the word sprints he hosted under the Nano Twitter account (<a href="https://twitter.com/NaNoWordSprints">@nanowordsprints</a>), or run into him in his capacity as Hamilton, Ontario Municipal Liason. You might, alternatively, have met him at Ad Astra or Can-Con, or one of several major speculative fiction writers' workshops. If you're part of the Roswell fandom, you might have read some of the fanfiction he wrote for the show, or listened to the podcast <a href="http://alienscast.com/">Illegal Aliens</a>, that he co-hosted with his friend Claire.<br />
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I met Chris about a decade ago, through my local Nanowrimo region. He was the first writing friend I made in real life. Without exaggeration, I can say that he was the heart of our local writing crew. He passed away at the end of March. (March 2018, if you're reading this in the future.) <br />
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When I met Chris, I was just beginning to be serious about writing, and I was busy trying to figure out how I could make it a more regular part of my life. Taking on a big challenge that had a social aspect to it seemed like a great idea. (It still does—seriously you guys, do Nanowrimo, and go meet some writers!) <br />
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If you're not familiar, during the November challenge, the Nanowrimo site encourages writers to gather in person for "write-ins," meetings where you get together, take up a bunch of tables at a local library or coffee shop, and spend a couple of hours getting raw word count down. It's the most perfectly antisocial social gathering, and suited me just wonderfully, since it didn't force me to choose between hanging out with people and writing. Imagine doing both! At the same time! That's Nanowrimo.<br />
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At some point during that first November, Chris and I had a chat about how it might be nice to keep meeting and writing during the part of the year that is not November. For a while—a couple of years at least—the two of us met every other Sunday to talk about writing in general, about whatever we were working on, and to cheer each other on while we wrote. <br />
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After those first couple of years, other writers joined us. The core group has shifted, as groups do, but Chris was always a part of it, always interested in getting together with other writers, encouraging everyone to keep going, and to have fun doing it. He was never big on sharing personal details, but along the way, we got to know each other pretty well. <br />
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He always had more than one project on the go, and he seemed to flip back and forth between them with ease. He was the only person I have ever seen close a document on his computer, and say, "Well, I think that's enough editing on this story for now," and then switch to another project. I learned from him that I don't have to beat myself up if I don't want to work on a thing until my eyes bleed. He taught me that task switching is not only okay, it can be fun. It can be a bit of a life saver, too. <br />
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He took a lot of delight in what he was working on, often reading a sentence or two aloud if he thought they'd come out well, and watching for our reactions with a smile on his face. He was big on accountability. He would always stop at least once or twice in the course of a writing session and ask, "How's it going?" If one of us went into some detail about what we were working on, he would often pause for thought, and then say, "That actually reminds me of..." and head off into a description of some grand speculative fiction tradition, or some story he'd read, or some debate about fantasy plots he'd been thinking about. Whatever it was, I would always end up feeling validated, like we were all participating in something that was bigger than ourselves. (We were. We are.) <br />
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The last time Chris came to a write in, the very last time, the group of us ended up having a talk about Golden Age science fiction. His voice was a lot quieter than it once had been. He didn't have the energy to speak at his regular volume anymore, and he was only able to spend an hour or so with us, but he talked about stories, just the same way he always had. He cared about writing. He cared about the way stories work, and he happily shared his enthusiasm for his craft, right up until the end. <br />
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Chris was brave. He could be brutally shy, and had some difficulty in social situations, but in the years that I knew him, he went out of his way to be with people. He was a member of the <a href="https://twitter.com/tobrowncoats">Toronto Browncoats</a>. He volunteered to be on committees and panels at writing conventions. He was active in online writing circles—he was a member of <a href="https://www.codexwriters.com/forum/">Codex</a>, and an administrator of the writing forum that another member of our local writing group founded (<a href="http://stringingwords.freeforums.net/">Stringing Words</a>). <br />
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As he was in the process of dying, we came to realise how many people knew him. He pushed past his own limits, in a way that was wildly admirable. He didn't complain about it: he just did it. If he hesitated, he didn't show it or talk about it. From where I was sitting, it looked like he just threw himself into things, enthusiastically so.<br />
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He worked hard on his writing. He signed up for online courses that he completed with gusto. He followed blogs and podcasts about writing craft. If you listened to any of the many <a href="http://storywonk.com/podcasts/">Storywonk podcasts</a>, you've probably heard his voice: he left more than one message that was included in episodes as listener feedback. He underwent formal training at some of the most rigorous speculative fiction writing programs out there: <a href="http://www.odysseyworkshop.org/">Odyssey</a>, <a href="http://www.sfcenter.ku.edu/SFworkshop.htm">Kansas University's Speculative Fiction Writing Workshop</a> and <a href="http://www.sfcenter.ku.edu/novel-workshop.htm">Science Fiction and Fantasy Novel Writers Workshop</a>. <br />
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He made progress. After a lot of years of writing and editing and submitting stories to magazines, he started to gain some traction. <a href="http://chriskelworth.com/blog/">He published a few pieces</a>. The last time he came back from Kansas, he told me that he'd pitched a novel idea to an editor or agent—I can't remember which—and she'd invited him to send her pages when he finished it. That book was about a generation ship. He was in the process of rewriting it when he got sick. <br />
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Chris turned forty-two during Nanowrimo 2017. He started the month in the hospital, during which time he was diagnosed with the illness that would take his life five months later. He still wrote 50,000 words that November. He managed to attend the party at the end of the month, and there, as he was addressing the group that he'd led for the last time, he told us that he'd really proved to himself that he could write no matter what. <br />
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<i>Chris would want us to keep going</i> has become a bit of a rallying cry among our little writing crew. There's no doubt in my mind that that's right. He didn't have anything approaching a bad temper. He was the very definition of an affable fellow. Still, I think if any of us drift away from our best effort, I can picture him looking a bit stern and asking us what he has to do for us to get some writing done. <br />
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We've tried. In his last days, we gathered around his hospital bed with our laptops fired up, and talked about what we were working on. It only seemed appropriate, to include him in that. It was important to let him know that we would carry on. <br />
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For me personally, Chris's passing is all about remembering the things I learned from him. To do the things I find difficult. To write. To enjoy the process. To work on a lot of things, and push them all forward, and keep trying. <br />
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I don't know if Chris really was the optimist he always seemed to be. He wasn't falsely chipper, but he certainly threw himself into his craft with what looked like the idea that all of his hard work would eventually pay off. You know what? It did. He had the beginnings of a career.<br />
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I'm not big on wishing things could be different. I try to accept what comes as it comes, but if I could change anything, I would love to be given the chance to see what might have happened next for him. I would have loved to see him publish a book, and another, and another. <br />
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It's a raw fact, and a difficult one, that Chris passed when he did. Forty-two is not very old. In writerly terms, for a lot of us, anyway, it's barely long enough to get your feet under you. <br />
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So take this for what it's worth; take it as a reminder. Time is limited. It's a good idea, if one is so inclined, to use it for the things that matter. If you're a writer, that means writing. <br />
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If you've read this far, which is to say, all the way to the end, thank you. xoxo</div>
Elizabeth Twisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133959633383307056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1729289955062416774.post-69030939218540813522016-08-17T15:01:00.002-04:002016-08-17T15:01:39.823-04:00Quick HitsHey! I hope you, uh, maybe liked that month-long story that I posted here back in April!<br />
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Since then I've been writing up a storm, enjoying ("enjoying") the weirdest, driest summer Southern Ontario's had for a while, and getting ready, among other things, to release a collection of previously published and new stories. (That's coming up shortly. I commissioned a cover for it that is TO DIE FOR. I think you'll like it. Furthermore...and this is just between you and me...it's going to be free. These stories have just been kind of sort of sitting there, unread, for a while, and I want you to have them, if you want 'em, that is.)<br />
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In the meantime, I've had two ultra-short pieces published. The most recent is <a href="http://digitalfictionpub.com/quickfic/the-bell-by-elizabeth-twist-horror/">a reprint of "The Bell,</a>" just out from <a href="http://digitalfictionpub.com/">Digital Fiction Publishing</a>. It features that old timey coffin technology whereby the buried person could signal the surface if there had been, you know, a mistake. But it's really about melancholy and helplessness. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.snopes.com/horrors/gruesome/buried.asp">Via Snopes</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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A little while back, my 200-ish word story, "Status: Quarantined" was included in the AE Micro 2016 issue. This little gem of a magazine, published by the absolutely gorgeous <a href="http://aescifi.ca/">AE: The Canadian Science Fiction Review</a>, contains five ultra-short stories on the topic of Change. You can <a href="http://aescifi.ca/micro2016/ae-micro-2016-3.jpg">read my story here</a>, or, <a href="http://aescifi.ca/index.php/downloads/59-ae-micro/3476-ae-micro-2016">you can print out a pdf of the issue and fold it into an adorable tiny origami book</a>.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TknKK8gmBhE/V7SzpV8OpAI/AAAAAAAACMk/AG9GtYjGekg9BUdWdvPV4lxPwlR5ScC0QCK4B/s1600/CktGbsbXEAAHPS0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TknKK8gmBhE/V7SzpV8OpAI/AAAAAAAACMk/AG9GtYjGekg9BUdWdvPV4lxPwlR5ScC0QCK4B/s400/CktGbsbXEAAHPS0.jpg" width="225" /></a></div>
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For my piece, I wanted to explore the transformative nature of parasites, and the behavioural changes some of them create in their hosts. I wrote about that from a host's perspective. The story's a little bit about biological imperative and altruism.<br />
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(You know about parasites that change host behaviour, yeah? If you don't, this is the cutest video I could find on the topic. Click at your own risk though. Watching that could cause YouTube to suggest utterly gross stuff to you for longer than you might like.)<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/g09BQes-B7E?rel=0" width="560"></iframe>Elizabeth Twisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133959633383307056noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1729289955062416774.post-54583476054211863792016-04-30T06:13:00.000-04:002016-04-30T06:13:00.186-04:00<div class="MsoNormal">
Zero. </div>
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You can try to count down from one hundred by sevens, but you can't, not really. You stop at two, or you go too far and end up with a
negative number. The ritual is broken. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
What seemed to Celia like a green trap looks like paradise
to me. You reach a limit in this world, and if you're lucky, you find a door. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I made a promise, written in mud, long ago. A trade: me for
her. I didn't remember. I do now. It's time that I fulfilled it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I'm leaving now. I don't think I'll be back. </div>
Elizabeth Twisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133959633383307056noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1729289955062416774.post-26536723785085577232016-04-29T13:19:00.000-04:002016-04-29T13:19:00.732-04:00<div class="MsoNormal">
You can't hang on to anything in the end. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Celia told me the story again. She says she's told me many
times, since it happened. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I'm typing as fast as I can, to get it down before it fades.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One day, the last day we walked together, Celia stumbled off
the trail, and landed in a green place. Tall strangers fed her herbs, and gave
her sweet water. They told her she was theirs. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don't remember that. I remember pulling her out of the mud,
where she had fallen. A simple act. </div>
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<br /></div>
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According to Celia, it was a promise. </div>
Elizabeth Twisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133959633383307056noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1729289955062416774.post-64155424508837663152016-04-28T13:34:00.000-04:002016-04-28T13:34:00.961-04:00<div class="MsoNormal">
Xeroxed sheets appeared overnight on my refrigerator. Emergency phone numbers, schedules of appointments, information about what's
wrong with me. </div>
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Celia is sticking to the clock doctor's program. </div>
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She knows another program is running, one that will trump
whatever she's planned. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
She was waiting for me in the living room this morning,
perched on the couch with a cup of coffee. Neat. Efficient. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last night--last night! I couldn't sleep in my bed. I had to
go out, to lie out under the singing stars. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Celia gasped when I walked in. "I know, my love,"
I said. "I'm full of starlight!"</div>
Elizabeth Twisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133959633383307056noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1729289955062416774.post-82594471199274132482016-04-27T18:16:00.000-04:002016-04-27T18:16:02.408-04:00<div class="MsoNormal">
Went to the woods again today. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I arrived at the green place, the voices were clearer than they'd ever been. I'm not sure the words are English, but I'm beginning to
understand. I fell asleep, in the grass, to the sound of the singing, the sun
warming me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I saw them. The owners of the voices, dancing on the edge of
the clearing. They're taller than I thought they'd be, dressed in such colours.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I told them I would come back, and I would stay. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
There's nothing for me in the world now, except pills and
hopelessness. And Celia. </div>
Elizabeth Twisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133959633383307056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1729289955062416774.post-67089995422788763882016-04-26T20:56:00.000-04:002016-04-26T20:56:04.306-04:00<div class="MsoNormal">
Very upsetting news today, at least, according to Celia. The clock doctor confirmed my diagnosis. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So now there are pills, three types, none of which I will
take. I tried this evening, for Celia's sake. The pills dull the music. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course there is something wrong with me! I know that very
well! I don't belong here any more. It's obvious. I don't fit, and haven't for
some time, not in the world of grocery stores and appointments and seniors
fitness classes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Celia frets. She needn't worry. When I'm in that bright
green place, I'm fine. It's where I belong. </div>
Elizabeth Twisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133959633383307056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1729289955062416774.post-28378177466785083002016-04-25T07:16:00.000-04:002016-04-25T07:16:00.494-04:00<div class="MsoNormal">
Under the trees in summer, it's all shadows. This time of year, there's bright sunlight, and mud, and buds just beginning to unfurl, from
the finger bones of bare branches. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It's beautiful.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The green place, miraculous with grass and leaves, has burst
out with flowers, white snowdrops and purple fairy slippers. The air is filled
with the scent of warm earth. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stayed there all night last night, listening to the
singers. I can almost make out the words now. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Celia is wrong to be afraid, but I can't tell her that. She
still wants to live in the world. </div>
Elizabeth Twisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133959633383307056noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1729289955062416774.post-18246362517334470662016-04-23T13:30:00.000-04:002016-04-23T13:30:01.891-04:00<div class="MsoNormal">
Talked with Celia all morning. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She told me she hears the music too! Can you believe it?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She hears it wherever she goes. Always. She doesn't like it,
though. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She showed me a raised bump on her ankle. It looks like a
tiny hand print. She knows about that clearing, too. She turned pale when
I mentioned it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I'm trying to write down everything she said, but I'm
forgetting the details faster than I can type. That is strange, isn't it? The
kind of thing that doctors who want you to draw clocks would agree is a cause
for concern. </div>
Elizabeth Twisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133959633383307056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1729289955062416774.post-56291114658002936092016-04-22T20:11:00.000-04:002016-04-22T20:11:00.157-04:00<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes I think Celia really does need to see a doctor. She is always tense and shaking, these days, always ready to burst into tears. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She noticed my new shoes right away. Her eyes went straight
to the window. I knew what she was thinking. Yes, Celia, I found your horseshoe
and broken file. And your scissors too.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She said something very strange. "You really don't
remember." She said it more than once. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then she stayed for the afternoon and the whole evening. I
had to miss my walk. I wasn't upset, though. I can still hear that delicious
music!</div>
Elizabeth Twisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133959633383307056noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1729289955062416774.post-42037060892796929902016-04-21T20:52:00.000-04:002016-04-21T20:52:00.228-04:00<div class="MsoNormal">
Replacing the shoes wasn't an issue. I had a brand new pair in my hall closet. An experienced hiker knows she needs fresh shoes every six
months. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The weather today! Balmy and windy, with white clouds
whirling across the sky. I found the little clearing with no trouble. I settled on
my back on the warm, dry ground, and watched the sky. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The music was louder. Did I hear singing? I thought I did.
It followed me home, all the way. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sun must have dazzled my eyes. Little coloured lights
are still dancing at the corners of my vision.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Elizabeth Twisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133959633383307056noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1729289955062416774.post-41024472792329984022016-04-20T07:36:00.000-04:002016-04-20T07:36:01.864-04:00<div class="MsoNormal">
Quite sneaky, my Celia is. Clever. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I found what she buried. The little holes she made were obvious,
badly covered, one in each corner of my property.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here's what I dug up: a pair of rusted scissors. A broken
file, the kind you use to sharpen a knife. A horseshoe! And the other half of
the file. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Where in the world would Celia have gotten a horseshoe? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I took it all away, and threw it out in the neighbour's
garbage. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
On a whim, I checked my hiking shoes. Full of iron filings,
poured under the insoles! Can you believe it?</div>
Elizabeth Twisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133959633383307056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1729289955062416774.post-11126132148846645362016-04-19T16:37:00.000-04:002016-04-19T16:37:06.243-04:00<div class="MsoNormal">
Pair of mourning doves in my front yard today. If I hadn't been at the window watching them, I wouldn't have seen what Celia was doing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There she was, kneeling, in the southeast corner of my
property, with a spade and gloves, tamping down the ground. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If it were anyone else, I would think maybe she was planting
some spring bulbs. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I snuck out the back to go for my walk, before she could
stop me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I couldn't find the clearing. I didn't hear any music either.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Celia, what have you done? What did you bury in my good
earth?</div>
Elizabeth Twisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133959633383307056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1729289955062416774.post-87642856647418259262016-04-18T15:25:00.000-04:002016-04-18T15:25:00.160-04:00<div class="MsoNormal">
Only Celia talks to me the way she does. Again, today, again: "Where were you yesterday? Where did you go?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was at her apartment for lunch. Why doesn't she remember
that? I told her <i>she</i> needed to go to
the doctor, if she likes doctors so much. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She got really pale and started to cry. She told me I came
for lunch on Saturday, which I knew very well. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don't think I understand the problem. It's clear as a bell
to me. We sat in her apartment and had quiche and salad. I was nice. I am fine. </div>
Elizabeth Twisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133959633383307056noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1729289955062416774.post-10107226398478828032016-04-16T12:58:00.000-04:002016-04-16T12:58:01.080-04:00<div class="MsoNormal">
Ninety-three, eighty-six, seventy-nine, seventy-two, sixty-five, fifty-eight, fifty-one, forty-four, thirty-seven, thirty, twenty-three, sixteen,
nine, two, and negative five!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There. I can count down from one hundred by sevens. I typed
that very fast, as fast as any doctor could please.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I'll draw all the silly clocks they want me to. I am never
going to agree that spending plenty of time exercising outdoors means that I am
unwell. It's healthy! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am never going to agree that I need to move into a home
where they can keep a close eye on me. I would die in a place like that. </div>
Elizabeth Twisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133959633383307056noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1729289955062416774.post-11259052086389514372016-04-15T21:45:00.000-04:002016-04-15T21:45:00.224-04:00<div class="MsoNormal">
Music in the woods! As soon as I stepped into that little green clearing, I heard faint sounds, like tinkling bells. At first it didn't
sound like a tune, but after a few moments, there it was! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Somehow, the quality of light is different there, more
golden. I don't know if that makes sense.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Since yesterday, more people have visited the clearing. I
found lots of footprints, big and small, all moving in loops and circles. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can understand the appeal! I lingered there for a long
time myself, soaking in the light and shuffling my feet to the music!</div>
Elizabeth Twisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133959633383307056noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1729289955062416774.post-17650702844177867502016-04-14T22:32:00.000-04:002016-04-14T22:32:01.234-04:00<div class="MsoNormal">
Lovely day, bright and warm. First walk of the year in short sleeves. I took water and snacks, so I could stay out a little longer. The
trails are dry now. Just a bit of mud on my pant cuffs. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I found more circles, in an open green space tucked among
the trees. Never been there before. A small private paradise. Beautiful!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I did check myself for bruises yesterday, after Celia left.
I found one small one on the back of my calf. I must have hit a rock when I
fell. Funny, it looks just like a tiny handprint!</div>
Elizabeth Twisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133959633383307056noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1729289955062416774.post-62186936846994580832016-04-13T15:26:00.000-04:002016-04-13T15:26:01.335-04:00<div class="MsoNormal">
Kitchen floor gave me away. I didn't clean up after myself yesterday as well as I should have. I left muddy footprints on the porch stairs
and in the kitchen, quite obvious in the light of day. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I'm fine, but that doesn't matter to Celia. She cried
anyway, and got red in the face, and demanded to know what happened, and
wouldn't stop asking. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Celia has always given in to fear. It's why we've never
gotten along, not really. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I fell, and I'm fine, and no, I would not let her check me
for bruises or marks or broken bones. </div>
Elizabeth Twisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133959633383307056noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1729289955062416774.post-48238146774527201742016-04-12T23:49:00.000-04:002016-04-12T23:49:02.922-04:00<div class="MsoNormal">
Just mud. Nothing to worry about. My clothes are in the washer now, and I've scrubbed my shoes, and had a bath. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mud is very slippery. Much more treacherous than ice. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I've fallen before, many times! I'm fine, nothing broken. I
must have gotten winded, though. I think I was lying on the ground for a while.
It was dark when I returned. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Never mind. I must have left the house late. I let the day
get away from me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
My hair had so much mud caked in it! The bath water was
quite brown, by the time I finished.</div>
Elizabeth Twisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133959633383307056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1729289955062416774.post-68861045261136549972016-04-11T09:05:00.000-04:002016-04-11T09:05:02.653-04:00<div class="MsoNormal">
I'll let you in on a secret. These posts are exactly one hundred words each. And another thing. Look at the first letter for each day. See a
pattern? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don't tell anyone if you don't! They'll think there's
something wrong with you, and whisk you away to an annoying doctor.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This writing takes focus. I couldn't do it if there were
something wrong with me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I will take the test over again. I told Celia that. She said
I've taken it three times, and gotten it wrong every time. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don't know when she decided to start lying to me. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Elizabeth Twisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133959633383307056noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1729289955062416774.post-69289440933745491182016-04-09T09:42:00.000-04:002016-04-09T09:42:00.977-04:00<div class="MsoNormal">
Help.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is what Celia says: "You need help Mom!" Over and over. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Apparently my clock drawing was inadequate. Apparently I failed
to count backwards from one hundred by sevens with sufficient speed and
accuracy. According to the doctor. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don't feel like I need help. I feel like I need to go for
a walk.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Celia is lying. She said I was out for eight hours
yesterday, until well after dusk. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nonsense. It was just my usual walk, an hour and a half, at
most. Nothing happened whatsoever. I was very hungry when I got home, but
that's all. </div>
Elizabeth Twisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133959633383307056noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1729289955062416774.post-27557961519921922552016-04-08T22:48:00.000-04:002016-04-08T22:48:01.028-04:00<div class="MsoNormal">
Great walk today! Things are changing fast, starting to grow. Garlic mustard, which is everywhere on the ground in the woods, is
greening up. The pioneers brought it here. It's an invasive species. Like
people, I suppose. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Celia isn't talking to me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yesterday, I reminded her of how she always used to be so
afraid of the woods, how funny she was about it. She turned rather pale. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are people who like it, and people who don't. That's
just the way things are. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Celia's wrong to be afraid. The woods are beautiful and
peaceful. I could spend hours there.</div>
Elizabeth Twisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133959633383307056noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1729289955062416774.post-55194136968473891222016-04-07T07:40:00.000-04:002016-04-07T07:40:04.252-04:00<div class="MsoNormal">
For a long time, Celia and I walked together. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Around the time she turned twelve, she grew afraid, and
refused to go with me any more. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, I say "refused." She screamed when I asked,
tears streaming down her face. She begged me not to go. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I always walk. I started doing it on my own. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
That first year was very difficult. Celia would grip the
back garden gate, her knuckles white, face blanched, and watch me leave. Hours
later, she would sometimes still be there, shaking and crying, saying,
"Mom!" over and over, as she watched me return. </div>
Elizabeth Twisthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03133959633383307056noreply@blogger.com0