My Quiet Place – The Places In Between

For a long time I coveted the idea of having a room of my own, but when I read that a room of her own didn’t bring Virgina Woolf solace in this life, and that Woolf committed suicide, the desire for a room of my own lost its luster. Instead I look for places in between-stolen moments-for my quiet place.

Some days those stolen moments are the forty-five minute drive down a one lane mountain road to the post office. Other days it is entering into the Zen practice of hand-washing a stack of dishes for an hour and a half while the chaos of the Captain,  the kids, and running a home business in too small a space whirl around me. My favorite slice of quiet is before the day begins. The Captain is up and bound to work and the stove top espresso maker, but I linger in that small space of time before the wheels of the day begin turning. I look out the window to the west toward the trees and coming weather. I hear the chickens, the goat, or the insistence of a cat at the door. I wait in silence choosing my moment to toss the covers aside and bolt out of bed.


This week we asked you to write about your quiet place. Where is it? What does it look like? What happens there? Our word limit was 200.


The Wife – Writing Prompt

Nobody liked her, but my oldest brother chose her, and we had to live with it. My other brother sniggered at the our brother’s choice in a bride, yet he stood as best man at the wedding wearing a powder blue tuxedo and matching shoes. At the wedding, my best-man brother pushed his hands into the pockets of his blazer, rolled his shoulders into a hip slouch, and hid his red eyes behind mirrored shades, casting bemused looks at our oldest brother saying his vows.

My father, who was not my brothers’ father, shook his head in bewilderment saying, “What does he see in her? He’s such a good looking kid. He could have any girl. Why her?” At the reception my father, proud in his Brooks Brother’s suit, wilted in the glow of the in-laws across the table. A jolly, gap-toothed woman in an expansive floral dress and her younger devoted husband were ebullient at the good match their daughter made.  My mother, clearly destine to become the mother-in-law of all mother-in-law jokes, wrapped herself in southern dignity, grabbed a glass of champaign, smiled her brightly painted smile, and seethed inside. She knew what the rest of us did not; the marriage was doomed.

Our family dislike of my brother’s wife could have been superficial. Shallow as this sounds, we are a good looking family. It was understood that the unattractiveness of my brother’s new wife would produce unattractive offspring. But our dislike of this woman was more than skin deep. It was more than class. I listened to my long divorced parents fill me on the the wife’s latest transgression of social etiquette. One afternoon six years into the marriage, my mother called to say, “She could have asked. I would have given her the hand towel, but she took it. Why? I  heard her going through  the bureau drawers too.” I offered my condolences.

When the divorce came, we all knew it would,  my brother, the cuckold, lost his bearings for a time. Being replace by a woman challenged his manhood. After the initial rush of divorce, the wife found herself untethered and alone, living in a car. Occasionally she would borrow money from her kids promising to repay. She never did.

Note: The narrator’s voice is not my voice. This response is between memoir and fiction.

prompt: I am sure we were all shocked and devastated by  the news of the divorce of Kim Kardashian and Kris Humphries after only 72 days of marriage. Right. But in the spirit of relationships that we all knew wouldn’t work, we’d like for you to write about one you knew was doomed from the start. It could be yours or a close friend or family member. Please don’t use a celebrity. Unless you were in a relationship with one. Then, by all means, spill!

Remember, this is memoir, so we don’t want to see fiction (that’s for Fridays). We also don’t want to see the phrase “I remember” since we already know it’s a memory.

Word limit will be 400. That means we don’t need every detail. Just give us the key moment(s).

Write on Edge: RemembeRED

Conjurer – Writing Prompt


Ephemeral and fleet of foot,

sprinting in between mind and emotion.

Elusive before it is known.

A twisting yellow leaf before it falls.

The sweet smell of Bay after a rain.

Unbearable lightness–


RemembeRED Writing Prompt– Conjure

Conjure something. An object, a person, a feeling, a color, a season- whatever you like. But don’t tell what it is, conjure it. In 100 words.