I hope everyone is having a spectacular weekend!
And I hope to try to write a short story before it is over…
Me trying to look very serious right now…
Tag: Fiction
Write About Your First Name: It’s Meaning, Significance, Etymology, etc.
My first name is actually Jennifer. I do not go by it generally. At Doctor’s offices, or a substitute teacher may call me that, but I have always been a Jenny for as long as I can remember. I was actually named after a Virginia, who went by Ginny. So, it was confusing as a kid when my Mom would be talking on the phone to her sister, and I would hear Ginny and to me it sounded a lot like Jenny, and I would be like huh? And then she would be like, I am on the phone!
But, technically, it is Jennifer which I had always read was Teutonic, Germanic, meaning white wave, whatever that means. And then later when I was in my twenties or thirties, someone told me it is actually the Germanic translation of the name Guinevere, which is the French translation of the Welsh name Wanaver. I was into Arthurian legend, of course, so, yeah King Arthur’s wife obviously the most well known Guinevere there is was the ultimate Jennifer.
That did make me like my name more. Part of the reason I hated it, is I only started getting called it when I started school, and the other part was that in the seventies everybody collectively decided to name their daughter Jennifer so there were several in every class I attended in school so I had to go by Jenny N, because there all ready was a Jennifer S, and a Jenni R, and a couple Jenn’s.
It was the name, and I always wanted to be unique and different, so it was sort of a downer that I had the most common name ever. Of course, now it isn’t. My son doesn’t have a single one in his class. But at the time, it was all over the place. I tried to go by my middle name in high school but it never stuck. Although, my family does call me by it sometimes.
Jennisfora is actually one of my oldest characters I ever made up, and I realize now a pretty obvious fantasy stand in for me anyway, so my first email was jennisfora@hotmail.com, still use it. So, I have been Jennisfora for a very long time as well, although it is not my legal name.
I have always had a hate love thing for the name Jennifer, but I have made my peace with it. I used to get angry at people calling me it, my name badge at work even says Jenny, but people will still do it anyway, and now I get it. It is a decent name and it is mine. Even if it isn’t my preferred choice.
Daily writing prompt
Write about your first name: its meaning, significance, etymology, etc.
Another Character Study –A Story of Friendship
The images and sounds of the bus depot would stick with her. No matter how much she tried to stay positive, she always ended up feeling defeated before the battle even began.
All the faces of despair and poverty; the ugliness stared back at her without seeing her. They appeared to be looking through her into the vacant space of nothingness. She was Rhiannon, and she was waiting for her life to be over one day at a time. She lived for the moment, tomorrow was another day. Another day of empty stares, another day of meaningless hellos, and even more meaningless farewells.
Rhiannon pictured a treadmill at the local women’s fitness club. That was her life, one foot stepping in front of the other, alternating, using up time. Rhiannon knew that not everyone felt this way. Her mother’s voice over the phone dripped with urgency, and emotion. She was a powder keg of anxiety waiting to blow up in some poor guy’s face.
Rhiannon felt detached. She didn’t feel sorry for the fate of the victim, nor for her mother the ticking time bomb. That was the problem with Rhiannon. She felt absolutely nothing at all.
“Hey, Rhee, whatcha thinking about?” Her cool blue eyes shifted from the vacant people who lived and died on mass transit, toward the plain yet persistent Annie. Rhiannon had yet to find a way to get rid of Annie, who was oblivious to the blankness and detachment evident in Rhiannon’s eyes. “Well?” Annie hated gaps in a conversation. Conversations were like little books to her; they consisted of a definite beginning, middle, and conclusion. Emptiness was something that Annie didn’t like.
“Look at the people on the bus there. My life is much the same. We’re all slaves to an endless routine which is slowly poisoning us.”
“Rhee, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was thinking, maybe we could rent some movies. Have a girls night in, you know.”
“Annie, isn’t that what we always do? I know I haven’t felt well lately. I know I’ve been a hermit. But that doesn’t mean you have to be one too. It is okay for you to have a life. You’re allowed, I hereby give you my permission.” Rhiannon knew her words stung Annie because she was quiet, something of a rarity when it comes to Annie. Rhiannon watched her nod, and wave. Annie sighed, got in her little white car, an old Datsun, and backed out while another equally small car honked disharmoniously at her.
Was it such a crime to want to be alone? Rhiannon had no car. She used to have one. It wasn’t expensive, although her parents bought it for her. Her brother wrecked it after a wild night of bar hopping. She wasn’t there when it happened. She had stayed home, painting. Painting had once been her true love. Now? She wasn’t so sure. She walked to her apartment despite it being eight miles away. She liked walking. She liked people watching. What was going on in the mind of the old lady walking her mini daschund? Or the fat man taking out his trash?
Annie would be home stewing, her door shut, waiting for an apology. Rhiannon knew that Annie simply wanted someone to take care of, to care for. Rhiannon also knew that Annie was extremely shy. Not in the same way as Rhiannon, not through a lack of caring, but due to a pervading fear of rejection. Loners tend to seek out other loners, and they met and had been friends since high school. Annie had the misfortune of being the new girl, fresh in from someplace in Massachusetts. Rhiannon on the other hand grew up rarely stirring from the same small town. To by shy and to start over from scratch, not once but many times sounded like torture.
Annie’s father was some kind of business man, although what he did exactly was unknown to Rhiannon. It started in school, art class. “There are four of you to a table for a reason. Your final will be a group project. If you don’t participate, you fail the class. That’s it, pure and simple, folks. Many take this class thinking “Easy A”, but I am here to dismiss that myth.” That’s right, Rhiannon’s most enduring friendship was from a teacher’s random seating chart.
Rhiannon tiredly unlocked the door, and pushed herself into the small two bedroom apartment. There was no one set of decor, it was a hodge podge of styles. Her mother would be horrified if she ever visited. Half the place was covered in Rhiannon’s drawings or paintings, the other half had those prints one buys at Michael’s combined with a couple well chosen family pictures. That was Annie’s contribution.
Rhiannon’s photos remained in several scrapbooks kept hidden under lock and key. She only revisited them if she thought she was completely alone, and even then only rarely. To Rhiannon her mother was the shrill concerned voice on the other end of the telephone. That was all. Sometimes she had dreams of the phone ringing, and ringing, but the line would always be dead before she picked it up. She often wondered what the dream meant. Somewhere deep down in the core of her being, perhaps she missed her mom? Or perhaps it meant nothing.
She shut the door lazily, neither slamming it, nor taking care to be gentle.
“Your mom called. She left a message. I think you should call her back.” Annie’s voice was clipped and precise. It was an attempt to project coldness and impersonal lack of feeling. It was a failure. Rhiannon knew Annie was hurt. She even understood why. She simply couldn’t bring herself to care.
“Okay.” Rhiannon briefly glanced at the TV. Annie was pretending to be absorbed by an old episode of Sex in the City. Rhiannon shrugged. She approached the old black answering machine with trepidation. She knew she should return her Mom’s call. What she didn’t understand is why she didn’t want to. Rhiannon’s mother wasn’t perfect, but she was far from an evil uncaring child abuser. She’d always been there when Rhiannon needed her, and she was not unkind. But she did expect success. Success with a capital “S.” The kind that entailed wealth, kids, and a college degree. Perhaps she was simply praying for one of the above.
Rhiannon sighs, and plays back the messages. Three are from her mom, each one getting more frantic then the last. Two are from Michael. He must be back from college. One is a random person calling for a Melinda Richards who once must have possessed this number. They get her calls a lot, mostly solicitations for money. Rhiannon’s opinion of Melinda was mixed. The charity work was not bad, but the old debtors got annoying. Rhiannon wondered how someone obviously in financial difficulties would continuously give money away. Rhiannon’s imagination would conjure possibilities as varied as a simple divorce, to a death in the family. Maybe it was something more extreme; someone addicted to losing money over the phone.
She listened to her Mom’s message again. “Darling, please return my call. I’ve also spoken with your room mate. She seems like a nice girl, so there is no way you can avoid this message. I love you dear. Are you coming to Nathalie’s baby shower? Let me know, okay?”
“Who is Michael?” asks Annie, pretending disinterest and failing.
“Michael is an old friend. You don’t remember?”
“That Michael? From way back then? You were more than friends, if I remember correctly.”
“Yes, well, that was then. I need to call my Mom. Apparently my brother is having a kid.”
“If you’d check your messages you would have known that months ago.” Rhiannon dialed the number, ignoring Annie.
Time to Write — The Big Bad Bird
The crunch of brittle bones underneath her feet reminded her of where she was. The cave entrance was clammy and dark. The beam from her flashlight only traveled so far, illuminating one part of the massive wall. She could hear little skittering noises of some unknown critter running away from her obvious human footsteps. Her assistant cowered behind her slightly. She could hear his breathing and hear his steps.
“Just a little further, Wally. I know we are getting close.”
“Why does it have to stink so bad?” She shook her head and chuckled. She knew he would rather be in cozy office building or even a lab building. Anyplace with heat and light and less scurrying noises.
“Don’t worry. The blonde girl in front of you will protect you from the big bad bird.”
“Oh, whatever.” She heard him say under his breath, annoyed. He was such a child.
“Are you getting any of this? We should try to record as much as possible. Who knows when we will be allowed back.”
“The lighting is less than ideal, but I am trying.”
They ventured further in and the space got tighter. Hopefully there would be some eggshells or feather samples. A loud squawk could be heard outside suddenly. She stopped and waited. “Did you hear that, Wally?”
“Yeah. I don’t like it.”
She went against the wall slowly, motioning him to follow. She placed her fingers to her mouth in a quiet gesture. Wally followed her against the wall. She turned the flashlight off. He gasped, and she could feel his eyes on her. They held still and heard loud scratching and squawking as the bird creature entered the cave.
It seemed large, from the talon scratching although they had no light to see it. She gripped Wally’s hand, giving him a reassuring squeeze. Luckily, most birds don’t have a keen sense of smell. Although, vultures can smell decay. This creature was unknown. It was hard to say what its skills were. She made a silent prayer to God, even though it had been a while. It was an instinct to reach out to something somewhere.
She heard it scrape by its talons and heard it scrape the ground with its beak like a large chicken. Wally’s foot slipped slightly and skidded a rock which made a not so subtle noise. She heard the bird stop, and come back around slowly.
She tried to regulate her breathing to be quiet, but it was getting more difficult by the minute. It approached their wall slowly, she could hear the click clack of its talons. Her legs began to go numb from being in the same position and suddenly she dropped the flashlight.
She heard Wally scream and heard him go down. In a panic she found herself running to the cave entrance, and then felt a searing pain in her ankle, and she crashed into the bones. Then it was upon her, and she could feel the pain from the gouges until her mind completely shut down and spared her the additional pain.
The Crash
She listened to the waves crash along the beach, powerful water grabbing and releasing material into and out of the ocean in equal measure. The skies were dark, cloudy and the wind was brutal. She got up slowly, turning around to see the cliffs begin to crumble, boulders bounding down onto the beach from the imposing cliffside. The uneven rocks kept her feet on edge while the ground shook and broke apart underneath her. She hunkered down by a picnic table, looking for protection from the angry nature goddess throwing all the elements at her.
Her car had broken down on arrival, and she wasn’t mechanically inclined, and had no idea what was wrong with it. Her phone was nearly dead, and she had no bars in this remote place.
She knew she should have taken the car in; she should have brought a friend or maybe her brother, just anyone, so she wouldn’t have to be here all alone, which was the most frightening thing about all this. Being alone and unable to reach anyone or anything, trapped in loneliness, trapped in helplessness.
Trapped by her own pride in not being able to ask for help. Why couldn’t she just reach out, once, at least. Look up the weather, look up how a car or even how a phone works. The rain started to come down freezing cold at an angle, chilling her to the bone. She could see a house on top of the cliff. A remote mansion, in that new modern style, suggesting solar panels, and smart features, the kind of house you might see in a movie.
Anything would be better than staying out here in this mess, she thought, trying to find how to get up there. Is there a pathway, or a road? She saw a path, a foot path, that may lead in that direction.
She walked steadily embracing her coat fiercely to keep warm toward the path.
Time To Write — Where Is Here?
What is love? What is a feeling? Does it matter? Do we matter?
I wanted to say resoundingly, “Yes! Of course.” But then tomorrow there would be bills to pay, work to do, and the minutiae of everyday life. The things that can get in the way of the more exciting and wild life that I crave. It is like a slow death walking through the grocery store picking up this and that, deciding yes, I want to try that cocoa cereal, or I need the circular ice cube tray because it is there, and why not?
And then I am home with my circular ice cubes thinking, why did I buy this? Who cares about the shape of ice cubes? Then my mind wanders thinking about people who may not have easy access to water. They would probably love to have ice cubes, no matter the shape. Everything is just so commercial here. Commoditized for consumption. You don’t like that sweater, throw it away and get another. Don’t feel like cooking tonight? Order in.
I feel chained to a job I do not love to pay bills for things I may not need so I can live a life I find dull. I want adventure. To be swept off my feet and taken to an exotic location. Someone that holds me and listens to me complain about nothing. I feel like a train passenger in my own life, only the conductor never stops and I can’t get off.
Please let me off here, I want to enjoy this moment a little longer please. No response. He keeps going and ten years pass, and then another five, and I am wondering, what happened? Where did the time go? Why am I here? Where is here? And, then when I figure it out, it will be too late.
Time to Write — Belief
She slowly shut the car door, defeated from a long dull day at work. Her feet took heavy steps toward the small brick house with the tidy yard. Her eyes looked up and saw the door wide open. She ran up the steps and peered inside. It sounded quiet but also looked emptier than she remembered. The tv was gone, the couches, the computer, even the fan and the kitchen table.
She was left with an empty house. She fell down and cried in despair. Why me? Why now? This wasn’t fair. She didn’t have a lot that she cared about. She went about each room in the house mentally cataloging what was missing. There were clothes left strewn about the floor along with papers from the desk drawer. The antique box given to her by her deceased grandma, gone. She reached into her coat pocket to call the police to report the theft, speaking calmly, drained of emotion or energy.
“I need to report a robbery. I’ll make a list. No, I don’t think anyone else is here. ” The police were on the way. She sat down on the bedroom floor dumbfounded. How was she going to explain this to Eric when he got home from high school? How would she replace all this stuff? She remembers thinking renter’s insurance was a waste of money. She rocked herself anxiously on the floor, wrapping herself in her coat like a cocoon. It was going to be all right. It’s just stuff. It will be fine. They will find the stuff, catch the person. At least no one was hurt.
The police took her statement, and she made a list of missing items, thinking about her son who would be home soon. They left and she waited. She knew she should eat something, or do something, call somebody. But she was paralyzed. She sat there. The sky darkened and her son still wasn’t home. She reluctantly got up. Picked up her phone again to give him a call. The phone went straight to voice mail. It was off then. Where was he? She called her mom hoping she had heard from him, no such luck. “Can I come over? This place is empty and depressing, and I don’t know what to do.”
“Of course, honey.” Her mom said with concern. She walked out of the house locking the door behind her out of habit. Her phone rings suddenly startling her. She answers reluctantly. It is the police. She can’t have any more bad news today.
“We have your son and two of his friends here. They admitted to the burglary and breaking into the house. “
“I don’t believe you.”
But she knew it was true. It explained everything. She just didn’t want to believe it.
Daily Writing Starts Now
I am going to attempt to write at least a little bit of new material everyday, just to get back into the habit. I think trying to fix this mammoth novel has actually made my writing stagnant. I have been so intimidated about it. The immensity of the task, the insurmountable mountain of the pages. The myriad problems, none of which are small mind you. I think I have been using it as a crutch to avoid writing in general. It was written in a long fever dream after Layne Staley of Alice In Chains died. I was a big fan, and it made me realize that life is fragile, and often temporary.
When I was in the midst of it, in the emotions and the living and breathing of it, I thought it was the most important and glorious novel ever written. It was only after the dust settled, it was written quickly in three months, that I realized just how messy and unreadable it actually was.
It has been the boulder on my back crushing me ever since. However, I woke up feeling invigorated and positive and with a distinct feeling like I could conquer the world. I haven’t felt this way in years, before covid, and all that. It has been a hot minute. So, I am going to try and get into the habit of new writing and writing daily. And, I am going to start going to the gym on a regular basis too. Healthy body, healthy mind.
That was the idea behind the YMCA. They thought a pure body was closer to a pure mind. Young Men’s Christian Association. It is very 19th century, reminds me of the way they built sanitariums to be shaped in a way to keep the mind pure, and the working to keep the mind busy.
I also plan on doing some hiking and adventuring because I live in a beautiful area that has so much outside nature. I feel like growing up here has made me take it for granted. I tend to forget all the beauty and fresh air.
It has been awhile…
Trying to get back on the horse again. Life has a way of distracting you from things that matter. I tend to get caught up in the daily grind and get a little lost. My happiness has been a bit low, and one of the reasons is I haven’t been writing or drawing. I need to refuel the tank and get back to where I feel productive.
I’m sorry to all the people I disappeared on around 2019. I tend to sabotage myself and financially I’ve had other priorities.
Anyway, I appreciate any visitors and I promise to start writing some stories. JenRae.
Timed Write — First Thing that Comes to Mind
She walked down the street quietly, hands embedded into the pockets of an overly large beige rain coat. A piece of garbage blew past dancing along the street to some silent tune while the occasional rain puddle stood showing the sky in its natural mirror.
She sighed. Perhaps she just wanted to hear more than the occasional dripping of droplets from rooftops trying to hurry to the ground in their own wet way.
Sometimes she liked to hear her own voice, it almost sounded like it was coming from some other person. Her voice wasn’t how she imagined it would sound like in her head. It was higher, tinnier, distant. Like an echo of what she assumed was her voice.
She was young, wearing a maroon scarf and a small black hat askew. She had her own fashion sense, it was a bit nonsensical. Part retro part comfort, part a little bit detective movie, and a little bit couch potato. She wasn’t sure who she was yet, or who she would become and the impression she gave was of a whimsical and confused teen who wasn’t sure she liked herself all that much.
She knew she liked the rain. It was soothing when it hit her hat and her coat, it made a satisfying plop sound. It made its own music, a rhythmic percussion of sounds that set a tempo for action or just a lengthy walk.
She loved to walk. But, for some unknown reason, when the rain stopped something about the world seemed dark and gloomy. The music slowed down, and everything just sat wet and bland. Everything was just there, remaining around concrete and water.
The clouds were still overhead promising a return of rain in the near future. But in the meantime she was left walking down a largely deserted street wondering if the aftermath of a zombie apocalypse would resemble this.
Everything and everyone needs water, and rain is the form it often comes from. Rain was life, just like sunlight was. A plant would die without water just like it would without light. The air smelled different after a good rain.
The humidity messed with her hair more than her hat did, and she would stop to readjust a strand that somehow got into her face. It was a constant battle between her hat and her hair and her glasses. There was never a real victor, much like the rain or the sun, hair always came back.
Occasionally she would yank a particular strand out and examine the root of it, before tossing it. It would grow back. She guessed that was okay, after all, she didn’t want to be bald. Then again, since she liked to wear hats, perhaps that didn’t matter very much to her. Hair was kind of a symbol of vitality or health though.
People looked at a girl funny without hair. Everyone would probably make insane assumptions like cancer, or some terminal illness if she lost all her hair. Perhaps it is better to have it, so she can blend into the surroundings better. She didn’t want to attract too much attention. she didn’t want any more stares than she occasionally got for the hats she would wear.
A little attention was nice, a lot of attention was scary. She didn’t want stares, a glance was okay, but a stare would be altogether different. She wanted to be different, but not necessarily a freak.
It was a delicate balance that she might not ever perfect. But she was learning how to be herself and sometimes mistakes would be made.
The Infamous Jennisfora Strikes Again...or something like that 