J.J.K. (Father’s Day 2014)

Published June 15, 2014 by kdorholt

J.J.K.

A man, a myth-maker, a mystery
a mystic, merciful and merciless
meticulous, middle class, muddler
a clotheshorse, a clown, a choir boy
a crier, a connoisseur, a cook
a hot-tempered, handsome, Hungarian
a healer, a hard worker, hopeful and hopeless
sentimental, sacrificing, a serviceman
sarcastic, scathing, a Santa Claus
a carpenter, a crooner, a Catholic
inventive, insightful, insufferable
a dancer, a drinker, devout and destructive
a patriot, a perfectionist, a preacher
fiery, flamboyant, flawed
forever forming who I am
My father—J.J.K.

Plodding Tired (Writing 101 Just Write June 2014)

Published June 3, 2014 by kdorholt

Plodding Tired

Today I am
plodding tired,
a day-long’s
listless languishing.
My frowsy fingers tapping
sluggishly along convoluted,
complex computer keys.
Will I succeed to
the next stroke?

I’m writing wearily
under weighty water.
My head heavy—
from my sunken
eye sockets
to the top
of my shrunken
skull soaking in
sultry lake algae

My murky mind
of floating thoughts
drifts through
muddy waters
empty sluggish efforts
What does algae
linger on?
Discarded fish droppings?
Let it leave me.

I want to awaken
crystalline. My fingers
gliding glissando.
Caressing each
computer key
at a pristine
piano-concerto pace
to touch the next
with zestful zing.

I want my mind
to bask in the
bright sunshine.
Brilliant ideas bursting
radiant on the page.
Soaked in sun.
The source of
energy evolving.
Singing out secrets!

Check back tomorrow.
My mind report
may scintillate.
One can always hope—
Even with a muddled
mind of algae water
Even with thudding
feckless fingers
Even plodding tired.

Oh, Christmas Tree (StoryADay 2014)

Published May 29, 2014 by kdorholt

As Brent and Kay drove to the Boy Scout’s Christmas tree sale in Shopper’s City parking lot, merry thoughts pranced through Kay’s head. Their first Christmas as husband and wife. It would be a holiday of her dreams—she just knew it and the perfect tree was just the beginning. She couldn’t wait to pick out the balsam fir that would stand in the corner of their living room, its fresh pine smell filling the house with the reminder that Christmas season had arrived. She knew exactly what the tree would look like, the strings of big lights glowing, lots of lights, showcasing the ornaments and glistening off the tinsel, the star crowning the tree and directing all eyes to the nativity set that she would place below the tree.

Her mother had given her Grandma’s old set as a bridal shower gift, and Kay was looking forward to using the heirloom for the first time. She couldn’t wait to create a manger scene, just like her family always did. She’d wrap a white bed sheet under the tree to represent snow and to hide the tree stand. Underneath the sheet she’d pile books at various strategic spots. There’d be the mountains and hills. The shepherds and their hut decorated one of these, sheep randomly dotting the hill and at the bottom, a “pond,” represented by a purse mirror, would lie, a few sheep lapping from its “water,” a shepherd or two watching over that part of the flock. And of course, angels would grace the scene bringing the “glad tidings” to the shepherds. Luckily, she had happened upon a sale of nativity figures at Woolworth’s earlier and picked up some extra angels. Some of Grandma’s figurines were too defaced now with chips here and there from years of use.

The wise men and their camels on the other side of the tree would climb another hill in their journey to Jesus. In the center of it all, the focal point, would be the manger topped with another star. Inside she’d scatter some bits of straw and in the corners would lie Mary’s donkey on the left side and a cow on the right. Jesus’s “guardian angel” would kneel between the two animals. She’d place Mary in front of her donkey and Joseph in front of the cow. In the center, in front of the angel and in between the kneeling Mary and Joseph, Jesus would lie in his manger bed filled with bits of straw for his newborn comfort.

Kay’s eyes filled with tears of joy and anticipation and she leaned her head back on the headrest as she savored her dreams.

Meanwhile, Brent was building the Christmas-tree scene of his childhood dreams. He couldn’t wait to find the best Norway, maybe Scotch, pine and decorate it with a few little lights—too many looked garish—that would highlight the ornaments and garland just enough. Underneath the tree he could picture the festive Christmas-tree skirt he planned on buying at Shopper’s City once he and Kay bought their tree. He hoped they could find a skirt like his family’s, adorned with poinsettias and Santa and his reindeer flying through the sky. On top of the skirt, he envisioned the Christmas gifts wrapped with colorful Christmas paper and bows, enticing in anticipation of Christmas. So many gifts, that most of the Christmas tree skirt would become almost invisible. At the top of the tree he’d place an angel, sparkling in gold, hands open in welcome to all who entered their home during the season.

Brent could feel the nostalgia of past Christmases and family traditions fill his heart and head as he drove into Shopper’s City parking lot and stopped the car close to the trees.

“Are you ready, Sweetie?” he asked as he turned and smiled at Kay, his eyes twinkling like the lights he hoped would adorn the tree.

“I can’t wait!” she said smiling at Brent in return, her eyes reflecting his excitement.

Arm in arm, they walked toward the awaiting snow-dusted trees leaning against the exterior fence. At the same moment they both took a breath of the pine-scented air, almost like one person, of one mind. Brent looked at Kay and gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. “Let’s go!” he said, as he turned to the left toward the Norways and Scotch. However, he was stopped by a tug. Kay was turning in the opposite direction. “I thought we were going to get a tree,” he said.

“We are, Honey,” said Kay. “They’re over this way.”

“No, they’re over here. See the Norway and Scotch pines this way?”

“Norway and Scotch? Those aren’t Christmas trees,” Kay said as she shook her head and gave a little laugh. “Those are just big bushes. The ornaments don’t even show up on them. Balsam is a Christmas tree.”

“But we always have Norway or Scotch,” explained Brent.

“Well, then you’ve never had a real Christmas tree,” Kay said as she tried to pull Brent closer to the balsams.

The newlyweds were in for a not-so-festive, long night full of discovery.

Final Torture (StoryADay 2014)

Published May 27, 2014 by kdorholt

The Final Torture

Another cold blast of air hits Alex like a steel beam forcing from her what little heat she has stored since the last blow only seconds earlier. She takes a deep breath as she moves her leaden-like legs once more up the mountain, her feet ankle deep in snow. She knows snow is supposed to be light, fluffy, full of fun, but this stuff is hard and heavy and scraps her ankles, leaving ice scratches with every excruciation step.

The searing sting of the wind and snow pierces her and she reaches to pull her down-filled coat closer to her body, maybe button the top button, pull up the collar. But wait! Her coat is not there. She feels so exposed, naked! Her stomach begins to bubble like lava and her mind is as frozen as the snow that is impeding her journey. She looks around frantically to either side and behind her. Has the wind blown her only source of heat off her? Has her coat dropped from her shoulders without her noticing? How can this be?

She must sit and think. What to do now? The warnings about freezing to death flash in her mind like the red light on a police car. She’s a Minnesotan. She knows the danger of stopping and hypothermia—-frozen digits, even death. But all the lessons she’d had in health classes can’t outweigh her need to sit.

As she does, the snow beneath her feels more like chilly linoleum, like the high-school floor too long in air conditioning. Her hip begins to ache with the cold. Her head has hit something smooth and hard, uncomfortable. Alex feels her head throbbing. Her blood vessels near her temple and left cheek are beating like a heavy-metal song. She hates heavy metal. It always gives her a headache. And she’s numb like someone has given her a shot of novocaine.

Wait! What is this? She’s not on a snowy mountain! It’s not even a snowy day! Alex shivers with the knowledge. It’s late May. The chill she feels is the air conditioning piped up to intolerable levels.
She forces her eyes open and until they adjust from her sleeping she sees only a blurry white.

She focuses harder. Ah, yes familiar concrete blocks painted that grayish white. Of course, she’s in the counselor’s conference room—-that claustrophobic den of the derided and devious students. Must have fallen asleep. But why is she here? What has she done this time? The bubble of dread gurgles in her stomach as reality riddles her body. Why had she decided to miss the calculus final? Why had she pretended to be sick so she could have one more day to study? Why had she squandered most of the day watching reruns of American Idol? Now she’s secluded in this raunchy room to take the test. She feels the cry in her chest vault to her throat, but she keeps it locked there. She won’t let it out.

Slowly, Alex rouses herself and grabs onto the cheap, plastic gray chair sitting askew at the graffitied brown table in the center of the room. She must have dozed off and fallen from the chair. Who is the idiot who decided to put those chairs with the slick runners in the rooms with linoleum? Kids are always falling off those things, especially if they tip back a bit. Why hasn’t somebody sued? Maybe she has a head injury or brain damage now. Maybe she can be the one to sue! Nah, that’d never be her luck.

As she lifts herself a bit more, Alex notices the door at the end of the small room. Her chance at freedom. Her only means of escape. The desire to run to it and fling it open, to smell the air of freedom rushes over her like the cold winter wind she felt in her dream. But she knows before she can feel that freedom, she must finish the taunting task at hand—-the calculus final!

Trembling once again, Alex sits in the gray chair, her thighs feeling the chill of the over-air-conditioned plastic and slides the dreaded pieces of paper waiting for her on the table into her view. Her chest contracts as she tries to breathe. She shuts her eyes and forces herself to calm down by counting backward from ten, a method Mrs. Jenson, the school counselor. has taught all the students to do before they take standardized tests. After she calms a bit, she breathes deeply and opens her eyes. She picks up her pencil and writes “Alex Winters, Block 3” in the top right-hand corner and begins. The only way to escape this hell is to endure one “final torture.”

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JUMP FOR JOY! Photo Project

Capturing the beauty of the human spirit -- in mid-air -- around the world

iKu2e

Truth as it is!

The Blahgg Blog

life by design in a small and still charming town.

The FireBird: A Phoenix's Aria

"A torn jacket is soon mended, but hard words bruise the heart of a child." Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Stories in 5 Minutes

Why waste an entire day reading a novel when you can read the story in 5 minutes

Peace, love and patchouli

A blog of life according to me.

Daily (w)rite

A Daily Ritual of Writing

Words. On the Internet.

And perhaps some punctuation?

Here

Nowhere else

Theme Showcase

Find the perfect theme for your blog.

WordPress.com News

The latest news on WordPress.com and the WordPress community.

The Daily Post

The Art and Craft of Blogging

Salsachica's Ramblings

A place to share a chica's thoughts about food, life and music

Don Charisma

because anything is possible with Charisma

Julian Sherman

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craftedincarhartt

a blog about women who do amazing things

Cassiann Anderson

fitness. yoga. books. cats.

lauraagudelo272

This WordPress.com site is the bee's knees

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