Spotlight

Writing from featured writers who have been in a writing workshop with Marlene.

One thing I know for sure: Writing that is pure is beautiful and magical. I hope you enjoy this magical writing.    Marlene Cullen

Join us! Check in each month to see the new prompt and the writing that prompt inspired.

Your turn:   Set your timer for 15 minutes and write, using the prompt to jumpstart your writing.

These prompts are designed to encourage writing that goes deep to capture a mood, feelings, emotions.  Have fun!

August 2010   Prompt: I remember                

I remember watching shafts of light shifting on my closet doors, shadows cast in through long, slender branches of the weeping willow tree in our backyard.  I remember how those shifting shapes both terrified and mesmerized me, alive as they seemed to be, dancing and twirling to a music all their own. 

I remember how immense that weeping willow seemed to me then, a virtual cascade of curly green leaves that I would part with my hands like a Japanese curtain, duck below and find myself inside, an enormous cavern at the center of which stood a thick tree trunk, solid and unmoving.  It was into that childhood cave I would disappear for hours – or maybe just minutes; time didn’t exist for me then.  I would hang on the tree’s flowing tresses like I was Tarzan or Jane, braid them as if the hair of a girlfriend. 

I remember the fuzzy black and yellow caterpillars I would find clinging to the vines, how soft they felt, how their seemingly endless number of legs tickled my arm as they shuffled their way up past my elbow trying to lose themselves in the tangles of my long, curly hair. 

I remember how my brother and I held several of those caterpillars, what we called “fuzzie-wuzzies”, captive in empty jam jars, then how the jars rested on the window sill in the family room, the one by the bird cage, so if they got lonely, they could look out.  I remember how excited we were to find a fuzzy-wuzzy had magically become a cocoon, and in a matter of days, emerged from that veiled solitude, transformed: a black and yellow butterfly, fluttering wildly until we took it out in the backyard, unscrewed the punctured lid, and released them to the big blue sky.       

  — Christine Falcone

I remember waking up and getting ready for school. There was a ritual about it. Put on underwear, robe over that. Come to the kitchen for breakfast. Cold cereal and orange juice on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Hot oatmeal and hot chocolate on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I don’t know why it was so regimented. My mother’s way of being organized, I guess.

I remember the chill of the early mornings. I remember the feeling of comfort and safety in a world full of sure things, like breakfast always ready and predictable. Bag lunches were also predictable. Bologna or cheese (never together, though) on white bread, carrot sticks or an apple and cookies or cupcake for dessert. Very little variation. I remember trading. My homemade cupcake for Margie’s Hostess Twinkies.

After school also had a routine. Always, first thing, change from school clothes to play clothes. Like I said, my mother was very regimented and pretty strict. Fair, but strict. I remember another of my mother’s routines – kissing everyone good night. Grandfather, Nana and Mom. Hmmm, seemed like so many more people at the time.

I remember being very young, around four-years-old and watching the I Love Lucy Show in my little red rocking chair, sitting squarely in front of the TV. I remember feeling very clean. I remember feeling safe and secure in a world full of certainties. When did this feeling go away/vanish?

The first memory of when this safe feeling disappeared was on a Christmas Eve, almost sixty years ago, going to Grandmother's house. It was raining. My father wanted to drive. He was drunk. It was the scariest ride of my life. I remember my mother pleading with him to let her drive. I remember looking out the car windows, from the backseat, watching the raindrops form a pattern on the window. Red traffic lights were blurred. The windshield wipers were a horrible ominous reminder of the precarious situation we were in as we drove across town.

— Marlene Cullen

Marlene is thankful every day for the wonderful life she has had and continues to have.