PRINCESS

by Michele Torrey

Flower boxes
bolstered the broken egos
of the cottage windows
spilling with pansies
geraniums
begonia
and lobelia
looking like a child undecided
upon which toy to carry
and so gathering them all.
The old gate
standing guard on the front path
complained and whined
when I perched and swung
adding to the cacophony
of barnyard cats who
through mutual consensus
agreed Mum’s dustbin slop
was the best around.

“Listen for kittens”
my brother whispered
co-conspirator in saving
the abandoned felines.
Breathless
we stood in the grassy field
grain licking our thighs
tuning the drums in our delicate ears
to beat to the mewings of kittens.
Upon discovery of such warm
squirming creatures
we gingerly scooped them up
and ran to find Mum
as she squeezed out hot
white linens
into the bowels of the kitchen sink.
Bubbles bobbed
before my eyes
creating rainbow worlds
of iridescent folk
destined to live furiously
before the big bang.

“Mummy – look! Kittens!”
And into a big box
behind the kitchen stove they would go
nestled into the sour smell
of a never-washed horse blanket.

“It’s the warmest place we have”
Her big hands
reddened
parched
caressed the furry heads.
“Run along now, there’s work to be done”
She brushed us into the barnyard
as though sweeping off the scrubbed
splintered planks.

Heads wrapped in shirts
neck holes tightened
around our foreheads
headdresses in place
we metamorphosed
into Indians.
I,
The Princess.
On the painted warpath we charged
raiding the chicken coop to kidnap rotten eggs
splashing their brains against brick walls
escaping with fingers pinching our noses
shadow of the ghastly scent chasing us
with its sulphur-yellow
tomahawk.

Enter jumping jacks for writers. Guaranteed to deliver creative oxygen to those mushy cerebral cells.

Here’s how it works:

Write just one sentence. Doesn’t matter what it is, just write a sentence. Do it fast, without thinking: “The dog went to the store.”

There. Done.

Wasn’t that easy?

Now try another one: “He knew it was raining, but didn’t wear a hat.”

And another: “A fork takes all the fun out of soup.”

Most of the time I don’t even know how a sentence will end before I begin it. I just start writing the silly thing and let the words fall where they may. After ten minutes I have about twenty sentences.

Now, here’s the thing. You don’t have to show your sentences to another living soul. These are your personal jumping jacks. You see, part of writing well is giving yourself permission to also write poorly. Why? Because if you’re too critical about everything you write, if every jot and tittle must be perfect, the next Faulkner or else, then you have become your own censor and literary Nazi. Poor writing is fine. You can toss out what doesn’t work later, but for now, just write. As we say in the writing world, “You can’t edit a blank page.” But, should you decide to share your literary jumping jacks then, by all means, I invite you to do so here. The more the merrier.

So, in the spirit of encouragement, I’ll share my jumping jacks with you. I wrote the sentences all at once in about ten to fifteen minutes and have not edited them. Some are really stupid. Some aren’t even complete sentences. Some are pretty cool and might even make nice stories someday. But the best part? I’m writing. My brain made the switcharoo from mushy paralysis to creativity. And, voila! the page is no longer blank.

MICHELE’S LITERARY JUMPING JACKS:

His was a moldy mind of moss mildew.

Bleary with sniveling, snorting, snotty eyes.

Captain Whizzer snapped the rope, whipped his butt, and promptly fell overboard.

Maid Mary made the bed, snapping the sheets, and crisping the covers, gasping because her pinafore was too tight.

Mortals we, as giants see, are but goo upon their shoe. Tell me, tell me, is it true, is it true we are but goo? Nay lad, ‘tis but a fad, we are much, much more than goo. We are the fabric, the lint between toes. We hold together, the kingdom forever.

Blown on his head, Johnny but bled, and the wind laughed and scorned him once more.

Mad monsters roamed the town’s shore, lurking in dark shadows. They pounced on many, crunched their bones, slurped their brains, and spit their buttons out to sea.

Major Ned went to bed, tired, oh so tired, in his flame-red head.

Plastic Polly plunked purple pancakes down her parched palate.

In the Valley of Children, clean dishes, clean bedrooms, and fine table manners are strictly forbidden. Nose picking, dirty knees, and soda pops before bed, however, are not.

Beefy Bert bellowed. His face reddened. His tonsils popped. Windows shattered until Peter Peck plugged the screaming hole with his fist.

The ghost manifested on the day I ate seven chocolate chip-peanut butter cookies in a row.

Maybe Sherry really didn’t want to be found.

The sunset heralded the first night of terror.

Mr. Martin’s secretary never said anything nice, except on Tuesdays.

There was plenty of blame to go around; after all, it wasn’t every day a class of students murdered their principal.

Tom thought marriage was for wimps.

Jenny never did like her hair, especially after the nights when the ghosts kept her awake.

Far away, across the hills, deep in the valley, an old man was saying his prayers.

If you held up a mirror, you would see just how lost you’d become.

On a terrible day at half past two, seven soldiers marched through the town square and the bell began to ring.

He lived in a tree, they said, so old and gnarled you could not tell where his fingers ended and the branch began.

Forget everything you thought you knew, and, just for a second, imagine you can fly.

Peter picked up the paper just as fire spread through the room.

Little Harvey was jolly and good, though he like his eggs cooked just so or else he threw a terrible fit.

That’s all she wrote.