Monthly Archives: August 2014

FreeWrite Fridays: Distance

FreeWrite Fridays: Distance.

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FreeWrite Fridays: Distance

Barbed Wire, Close, Wiring, Limit

The New Orleans Writing Marathon is doing an exercise called FreeWrite Fridays. I did not participate in the marathon, but I did do the weekly writing prompts on their Facebook page.  This is the fourth one. The prompt was, “Distance.”

http://www.nwp.org/cs/public/print/resources/315

http://www.writingmarathon.com/

 

 ©    Copyright 2014 by Sara Jacobelli

The Escape

It was about a twelve foot drop. That was her estimation anyway, not that she was all that good at math. Still, she figured it must have been twelve feet, maybe ten. All she would have to do was climb over the fence, one of the parts where the barbed wire didn’t reach. Then make the drop. Then run, cutting through backyards in unfamiliar neighborhoods, running fast until she could get far enough away they’d quit looking. It’s not like they’d send a posse out to look for a cookie-eating-juvenile who escaped from juvenile hall. The store dropped the charges, the only reason they were keeping her was because she was a minor, and no responsible adult came around to claim her.

She would have to do it during their “outdoor recreation period.” This was a joke. Sometimes they would let them outside in a fenced-in concrete yard. They’d give them a few balls and some girls would play four square. It reminded her of recess. She didn’t participate, she just leaned against the wall and sang her favorite songs quietly and stared over the fence, daydreaming. She didn’t participate in anything. There was some type of point system, you earned points for cooperating, you lost points for not participating in activities or for having a bad attitude. All she did was lose points, she was somewhere around minus three hundred now. This amused her, her Negative Balance. She couldn’t imagine why she would cooperate, you earned things like the privilege of making phone calls or buying a candy bar from the machines. Since she had no one to call, and no money on her books to buy anything, there was no point in cooperating.

I’m just a kid, she thought. A hungry kid who ate some fucking cookies out of open packages in Safeway, so you busted me and put me in juvenile hall. Now I’m stuck here. But I’m only twelve feet away from freedom. Just twelve feet, if I could make the climb, and make the jump, and land without breaking my legs. Twelve feet.

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Photo Credit:  Pixabay free images: Barbed Wire. CC NonCommercial ShareAlike.

http://pixabay.com/static/uploads/photo/2014/05/16/18/18/barbed-wire-345760_150.jpg

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FreeWrite Fridays: Triumph

FreeWrite Fridays: Triumph.

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FreeWrite Fridays: Triumph

The New Orleans Writing Marathon is doing an exercise called “Free Write Fridays.” They post a prompt, and you write for ten minutes straight.

I did not participate in the marathon, but did do the  weekly writing prompts on their Facebook page. This is the third one. The prompt was “Speak.”

http://www.nwp.org/cs/public/print/resource/315

http://www.writingmarathon.com/

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Silence, Magnifying Glass, Loupe, Search

© Copyright 2014  by Sara Jacobelli

Triumph

She doesn’t remember when she decided to stop speaking. Maybe it was the night they had the Big Fight and the cops came, her mom was all beat up and bloody and her father calmed down and talked to the cops. “You know how it is,” he said. “You know how women are.” And he laughed and the cops laughed and they were friends huddled together, huddled like men on the football field, and her mom sat with her head on the kitchen table, not making any noise at all.

So she just quit talking, quit talking at home and at school too, and in the neighborhood, out in the street. She didn’t say anything when called on in class, but she would make gestures with her hands, she’d make faces, she’d write down her answers and she’d draw cartoons. At after school kickball games, she’d use hand gestures, and when she went to the corner grocery she wrote everything down and handed the note and the money to Margie at the cash register.

After a while people quit commenting about it. They quit asking, although sometimes her teacher would look at her strangely. Once her father got mad at her about not talking, and he hit her, hard, but she still wouldn’t speak and even he gave up. “Kid’s weird,” he mumbled.

She felt not speaking was a victory, a tiny victory, that she held close to her. No one knew that sometimes, at night, when he was asleep, she’d whisper to her little brother. “Don’t be afraid, Angelo.” He almost seemed like her heard her, he’d roll over and smile.

They kept fighting, so her protest didn’t really do any good. They kept yelling and screaming at each other, her mom would throw things and break dishes and cut up his ties. It always ended with her father savagely beating up her mom. The neighbors got used to it, they either stopped calling the cops, or the cops just quit bothering to come.  When the phone rang, she’d run to pick it up, then hand it to someone else.  In her own mind, her and her brother lived far away, on a farm, with horses and cows and chickens and sheep, with tons of other kids and no parents, the Wizard of Oz with no tornadoes. There was something special and magical about this world she created, this world inside of her own head.

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Photo Credit:  “Silence.” Pixabay Copyright free images. CC NonCommercial ShareAlike.

http://pixabay.com/static/uploads/photo/2014/07/11/20/44/silence-390331_150.jpg

 

 

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The Bingo Game

The Bingo Game.

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The Bingo Game

Bingo, Gambling, Game, Luck

 

Flash Fiction

© Copyright 2014 by Sara Jacobelli

Aunty Ruth loved Bingo. She’d drag me and my brother Nicky to the church hall every Friday night. I was fascinated by the chain smoking ladies with curlers in their hair who managed to keep track of ten different Bingo cards at once. We giggled about Franny, Aunty Ruth’s friend who always wore pin curls in her hair,  day after day. Nicky would say, green eyes gleaming, “WHAT, is the Big Occasion she will finally take them out for?”

We’d roll on the floor, and Aunty would glare at us. “Don’t embarrass me, or I’ll smack you good!” she’d threaten, and we’d run around the tables taunting her. We knew she wouldn’t bother to try to catch us; she wouldn’t dare miss a called-out Bingo number.

This was a woman’s world.  The men were out playing poker or shooting pool. The only man in the parlor was the priest, a young, dark haired dreamboat with emerald eyes and long eyelashes that, according to Nicky, some of the curler-clad women had crushes on. This was a fact I found interesting, a clue to the Mysteries of the Adult World.

Aunty Ruth would buy us one card each, but I usually got distracted by the donuts and the other kids. Nicky would play his card very seriously, writing down various strategies the chain-smoking ladies gave him.

When I asked why Mom never came anymore Nicky whispered, “Poppy’s jealous. Of Father Reilly.”

“Why?”

“Says I have his eyes.”

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August 24, 2014 Update: “The Bingo Game” has been published on Postcard Shorts!

 

http://www.postcardshorts.com/read-2267.html

 

 

Photo Credit:   “bingo-gambling-game-luck.” Pixabay free images. CC NonCommercial ShareAlike.

http://pixabay.com/en/bingo-gambling-game-luck-159974/

 

 

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New Orleans Writing Marathon Free Write Fridays

New Orleans Writing Marathon Free Write Fridays.

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