(one of my pro-trainers just returned from the Coachella Festival, so I had a particular interest in the NYTimes/Style Section article 4/28/16 "Where Coachella is a Playground and Muse" by Sheila Marikar)
response to “write a 1, 3, 5 minute story Poets & Writers,
March-April 2016). This is a 2
They had been sharing his L.A. loft condo for only two
months, but Brad was ready to ask the big question. He had liked being married, and seeing the
kids for the weekends wasn’t much of a life.
But would Carrie be ready to make
their relationship permanent? There was
a risk in asking too soon.
“Go out and get a dog,” his best friend Charlie had
suggested. “If she agrees to that, you
are halfway to engagement.”
“Maybe. But the other
half is what I am worried about,” Brad lamented.
Following Charlie’s advice, they had gone to the animal
shelter and gleefully brought home Juno—a six-month old, crate-trained yellow
lab who could play ball twenty-four hours a day. Carrie loved Juno. She took her in the car to go to the doggie
beach, to the grocery story, even to their favorite café. The three of them would sit on the café’s
patio, drink a latte and watch the Ferrari’s drive by on Highway 1.
So another two months passed. Then, one day, after a yoga class at the gym,
Carrie came out of the locker room in her t-shirt and leotard pants, shaking
her ponytail loose.
“I want to go home and shower before dinner, not take time
to shower and change here.”
“Home?” Brad was
stunned. This was the first time she had
uttered the “h” word. Usually, she would
say, “the condo.”
“Home? The condo?” he
“Yes, silly. Home is
where the heart is.” Carrie nuzzled her
nose into Brad’s neck. “Don’t you know
that by now?”
“Guess I didn’t.” Brad paused, pulling back to look at her,
face to face.
“But now that I do, I have a big question to ask.”
NOTE: Inspired and
challenged by “A brief guide to world domination: How to Live a Remarkable Life
in a Conventional World” by Chris Guillebeau and by Poets & Writers
3/10/16 non-fiction prompt, I am sharing my “manifesto”. –anita c. fonte 3/2016
Beliefs: Equal justice and opportunity for
everyone; the cup IS half full (and I am grateful there is a cup); everyone is
capable of creating something good; the world is complex and dynamic; we are
connected to each other and to our natural environment; we share responsibility
for each other and our natural environment; facts, based on verifiable and
generalizable research is a foundation of truth but feelings cannot be ignored
and need to be “heard”; stories give our lives meaning.
Principles: Collaborate when possible and it’s
usually possible; once committed to a task, I will do my personal and
professional best to complete it; I am willing to be willing; I have and will
continue to invest my time, talents and financial resources to invest in my community;
I will take moderate risks—if and when I encounter them.
Goals: Work with others to BuildUP^ a better
community, keep learning, growing, changing; have some fun; combine creativity
with productivity; stay connected to the people who matter to me; celebrate
milestones of work and life.
Prompt response to Hemingway’s Iceberg from The Creative
In the café, Jerry
studies the doctor’s report online.He’s
looking for hints of the number of years he has left.Hoping to make it to seventy, he picks up the
Wall Street Journal and tosses it into the garbage can. [written after the
A man of sixty-plus
years sits alone at the café table.His
neatly trimmed beard of mostly white hair partly covers his neck and black
baseball hat shades his eyes from the sunlight. Wearing khaki shorts with no
socks and black and white Converse, his legs are splayed around the table.He swirls the cup of his half-filled iced
coffee. Then takes a bite of his crumb cake with his right hand.Wiping his fingers on his shorts, he begins
taping on his tablet and glances at the newspaper.Shrugging his black hoodie over his
shoulders, he gets up and throws the paper in the garbage.Folds down his computer tablet, carrying it
under his left arm, and opens the door with his bent back.A January wind blows the door open.
Going to the Farmers’ Market could be a long walk or short
drive.Because of the six pins and metal
plate in my right ankle, I prefer the short drive.Heading to the market, my husband and I pass
a strip mall, an elementary school, renovated apartments and the University of
Arizona Village Farm.I see a sign at
the farm.It says “Mushrooms Workshop
This Afternoon.”I smile, imagining
bobbing mushroom caps, busy like Santa’s elves, in a workshop shed.
It’s mid-morning in January and the market, across the
street from the adobe church is bustling.A variety of people and dogs parade around the canvas covered
stalls.At both ends of the market,
stone fountains spout towers of water.A
few children dip their hands into the cool pools.Their parents pull them back.
I purchase two half-pound bags of fresh pasta.I buy a tan baseball cap for my husband.It carries the brand name of the market:FoodinRoot.Together, we select three shiny red tomatoes and a two-palm sized head
of lettuce, picked that morning from the university farm.Damp roots still cling to the green
globe.We visit a favorite Greek food vendor
and pay ten dollars for quinoa tabbouleh and eight stuffed grape leaves.Tonight’s dinner is complete.Our bag is full of items and we stroll to the
nearby financial bank to replenish our wallets.
On the way home, traffic is light and we take Limberlost
Road past one hundred sixty acres of the university’s animal research farm.This autumn’s calves chew grass in one
field.Scattered horses stand in the
shade of a dusty field.A bicyclist on
the road signals left.Winter’s noon sun
is soft and slanted.Full of its light,
the fields open against our desert’s blue skies.We are almost home.
[Exercise for Pace (sentence length) from The Creative Writer’s Notebook/Hemingway Section.]
FoodinRoot Farmers' Market, St. Philip's Plaza, photo by anita fonte