The Kite


I grew up in a small town in the heart of Cajun country of south Louisiana.  I was an only child on a sugar cane farm with an alcoholic father, a loving mother and a chaotic household.  My mother, a seventh grade drop-out, did everything she could to keep things normal for me and most likely for herself as well.  My father drank daily.  And yelled daily.  We lived in an old farm-house that we rented for twenty dollars a month. This is in the seventies mind you, not the early 1930s.  The house had no heating or cooling. The roaches pranced around like they owned the place while the rats danced in the attic. Often I heard them fighting. At times they would fall down the walls of my room.  Not exactly a place you wanted to invite friends.  My days were spent alone, in my own world.  I played with toy tractors and football by myself in the pasture. Our closest neighbors were an old and kind black couple. Behind my house were acres and acres of sugar cane fields.  They were my escape from the chaos of my home.  My favorite time of the year was spring. The cane had grown to three feet in height at this stage of their growth. That is just a bit shorter than I was at eight years old.  The winds would blow swiftly yet silently across the fields.  Often in the spring I would walk into the cane fields and fly my kite. The vast expanses of openness along with the spring winds were ideal for this activity.

One particular spring I purchased a baby blue paper kite from the local Ben Franklin. This was a departure from the more cool plastic bat kites of the time.  Owning a paper kite would surely bring ridicule at school had my classmates found out.  My father helped me construct the simple kite. Four light pieces of grooved wood and the paper itself was all that was needed for assembly. He added a long strip of a worn bed sheet, yellowish in color, as a tail. One spring Saturday morning in 1973, at age of nine, I was ready to launch my kite on its maiden voyage.

I left the house late that particular morning.  My mother had prepared a lunch for me and placed it in a small brown paper bag. In the bag was a ham sandwich with mayonnaise, a bag of lays chips and a cold Winn Dixie brand of grape soda.  Off I went across our pasture behind our house.  Over the ditch and into the cane field I marched till I found the perfect location. I was alone.  The wind blowing briskly across the tops of the sugar cane.  The long leaves made a slight hissing sound as they danced in the breeze.  Armed with two reels of kite string spun around an old broomstick handle, I flung my kite in the air.  Up it went into the sky, the breeze lifting it skyward. Quickly it reached the end of the string. There it flew above me, its tail waiving in the wind.  I pushed the broomstick handle into the ground to free my hands. I looked into the clear sky, dotted with fluffy white clouds, at my kite flying so majestically. It was simply beautiful.

I don’t remember the amount of time I spent in the field that day.  It felt like an eternity.  I spread my small body between two rows of sugar cane with my feet just barely touching the infant stalks of cane.  The ground below me was cool against my back.  It was slightly hard from the drizzle of rain the day before. The cool ground was a sharp contrast the warm sun shining  from above onto the front of my body.  I ate my lunch there, carefully placing the trash back into the bag.  My dog Flag visited me at one point.  I even napped.  All the time, my kite just flew above me. When the wind picked up I could hear the rustling against the paper. I felt so free. So at peace. I felt my house of chaos was a million miles away when in reality, it was only a few hundred yards south of me.

I remember that day vividly, even to this day.  The memory is a short film captured for my mind to play whenever I want to revisit. I can still feel the cold ground below me.  I can still hear the kite rustling in the breeze.  I remember the cold can of check soda, the outside of the can covered in beads of water caused by condensation.  When I want to relax I just hit the start button and play this moment in time.  It soothes me even these many years later. I often hope that when I pass on that I can revisit that day. Perhaps I can hover above that scene and see the happiness, if just for that day, in my eyes. It was for me, at that time, a heavenly day.  

It was the best day of my life. 

This was written for Yeah Write Week #99.

My Sentence

A hush descended over the room.  She stands and clears her throat.  Then she reaches over to the center of the table to take some grapes out of the glass dish.  Everyone watches as she slowly places one single grape in her mouth.  She put the remainder of them on her paper plate.  Again she clears her throat and says, “Hi I am Beth and I am an alcoholic.”

Everyone responds “Hi Beth.”

“I am here cause I believe in myself.  After years of drinking, two husbands, over twenty-five tattoos and lots of alcohol it is just time.  Life has exhausted me.  I have no control.  I never have.  Honesty is the hardest thing to face. I have drowned honesty with gallons of alcohol.  That has cost me my kids, two failed marriages and my professional life.  I know I am not alone in this self-destructive behavior. When does it end?  I am scared of where I have awakened sober. I am no friend to emotion.  I express love through physical contact and nothing more.  I am a sad state of affairs.”

Beth sheds no tears during her introductory speech.  She listens as others comment.  She sits nearly motionless through each visitor’s talk in the meeting.  Daydreaming. Agonizing. Regretting. She slowly finishes her grapes as the meeting draws to a close.  She savors the sweet taste of each.  She has brief conversations after the meeting then heads out the door.  Waiting for her outside are her kids. They were granted a quick visit.  She hugs each kid tightly. Her tattooed arms hold each kid tight, tears flowing from her eyes.  She kisses each kid and reaffirms her love.  Then she stands and turns to a female officer, waiting with the door of her car open.  The officer places handcuffs on her. Beth takes her place in the back seat.

As they drive off she waves to her kids.  She then says, “You know officer, my jail sentence is short. Only two months along with rehab and AA.  But my true sentence was handed down not by a judge but by alcohol.  A life sentence.”

This is a work of fiction.  Written for the speakeasy at yeah write #95.


copyright-Rich Voza

The morning sun rises as I board my flight.  Most trips take a few hours.  My trip has taken 27 years.  The excitement has my mind spinning, unable to gather a thought.  My flight will take me across our great nation.  From the desert southwest to the beautiful eastern hill country.  An hour drive from the airport through beautiful green countryside is nearly missed from my view.  My mind only sees one thing. A picture of you dressed in blue.  I turn into the parking lot, seconds away from meeting.  My heart races.  I exit the car and we hug.  Finally I have a home. 

This was written for FRIDAY FICTIONEERS


Write a one hundred word story that has a beginning, middle and end. (No one will be ostracized for going over or under the word count.)


Make every word count.

Join the fun!

Lost Confidence. Need Help!

I started this blog to communicate with fellow ACoAs and it has turned into more of a writing blog.  And I am ok with that.  I have enjoyed the many different prompts and what has spilled onto the pages of this blog because of them.  I have enjoyed the camaraderie of fellow bloggers and the support they have given this newbie.  

However, I have few issues going on simultaneously.  Here is a little about each.


What little I have is lost.  Perhaps I left it at CVS.  Perhaps at work.  Maybe even in the plumber’s butt crack.  If I had to guess, it is deep in the bowels of that large crevasse that was working on the sink!  Never to been seen again by the human species.  How do I retrieve it?  It was so small to begin with, a transplant from Who-ville!  At times it grew but mostly it stayed ever so small or shrunk even more! Imagine that, me with confidence in my writing!  So many jokes could be placed here.  Can I get some help from the local police?  Or Seal Team 6?  HELP!


Secondly, everyone says they “like” the things I write.  But my mind questions “Do they really?”   I guess at times I’d like more constructive criticism.  Is that not proper blog etiquette?  Is there something I am missing?  Someday I’d someone to say” I don’t like it cause…..”, well you fill in the blank.  Heck, just fill it in with cause it’s shit!  I can accept that, maybe!  Well, that might make me lose my small amount of confidence (again) in the black crack of doom (see above).  Do people just say they like it to be cordial?  Help me here!  Be for reals!  

Who do I listen to?king

There are so many different items to read about improving your writing out in the world.  Whether is in print or in the vastness of the web.  Who do I believe?  So many varying opinions whether from writers who earned millions to the person who had one poem published in some obscure poetry site.  I wrote a post about Stephen King’s book “On Writing” recently (HERE IT IS), which by the way I thought was well done.  The book was a great read and I did learn some.  Now I have not read much SK but chose him as an example cause I had his book.  So my question, what advice to you adhere to and what books will make a positive difference in your writing?  Or do you just write? Write what comes out of our brain and hope someone out there likes what spills out?

I know my audience is small.  If I don’t enter a prompt very few even read my post.   However, I have enjoyed the two months of writing.  It is nice to finally have someone read some of the thoughts spilling out this confused mind of mine.

Till we meet again.

Good Day.

Mind of Shoo

Vail of Beauty

My mother, once so beautiful.

Now her body trapped within a layer of disease.

Struggling to get out.  Struggling to live.

Her body dependent on alcohol

As I once was dependent on her.

Her body, a shell of what I remember

when I looked lovingly at her while she read bedtime stories.

Her body moved slowly

unlike the way it once moved playing in the backyard.

Her eyes stared blankly into darkness

No longer sparkling blue like waters in the Caribbean.

Her mind no longer knows me.

Her son taken away her by alcoholism.

Her body is motionless now.

Beneath a purplish blue vail of beauty.

The way I will to remember her.


This was written for Picture it & Write

Picture it & Write is a weekly creative writing prompt hosted by the Ermilia coauthors, Ermisenda and Eliabeth.  We invite you to join in; continue the story or starting your own based on inspiration from the image.  Poetry and foreign languages are welcome, but please provide a translation.
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Where am I going?

I have been blogging for a little over a month now.  It has been quite the experience for me.  However, my blog is going nowhere that I thought it would.  Is that a bad thing?  I think not.  What I have learned in this short time is that I really enjoy writing.  I have gone from wanting a blog to find others who are adult children of alcoholic parents to just want to express myself creativity.  Certainly I can find a way to do both.  Or at least attempt this.  But it the use of words that I enjoy. 

Now I am not saying that I am any good at writing.  When I ask people or reasearch how I can improve my writing skills I inevitably hear the word read.  Read all you can.  Read outside the genre you are interested in.  READ! READ! READ!  Now this is scary for me.  I want to improve my writing.  However, I am overwhelmed with all the material presented on how you can improve that I frankly don’t care to read all of it.  Not to mention I am not a good reader.  Reading is hard for me.  So can I improve without reading?  I don’t know.  Is reading really the foundation to successful writing?  Possibly.  Most successful authors will tell this to us.

How about music?  How about movies?  Both of them use words, only they are attached to sound and visual.  There are so many beautiful words in music if you just look past the music.  I am moved and haunted by music.  By just lines in music.  “I want to sleep on the hard ground, in the comfort of your arms.  On a pillow of bluebonnets and a blanket made of stars.”  This is a line from a Dixie Chicks song that I find incredibly beautiful.  Even if this is all I look or listen to, I am moved that someone could write something so beautiful in my eyes.  Now this is a key point. In MY eyes.  Look, I don’t even like country music but for me these words are, well, music to my ears.  And that’s without Natalie Maines’ lovely voice.  I can find lines in movies that are beautifully written and poignant.  In The League of Their Own, Jimmy Dugan (Tom Hanks) responds to Dotty’s (Gina Davis) saying baseball was getting to hard by saying; “Its suppose to be hard. If it wasn’t hard everyone would do it.  It’s the hard that makes it great!”  If I could only write something so powerful.  And it doesn’t hurt how perfect an actor delivers such a line either. 

Where am I going with this?  I have absolutely no clue.  What I know is this.  I understand I can’t change the world with words.  I understand that I probably will never get published or sell a script.  But I can dream can’t I?  I ever wrote about my dreams in THIS post some time back.  I understand I want my words to affect people.  I want to use the words I type on this screen to make them think about issues I feel important to our nation, our being.  Like accepting everyone regardless of color, beliefs or nationality.  So, I will continue to just write.  Or ramble as I am doing today.  I will write for me.  I will write what I feel and want to express if only to myself.  I know not many people will even read this!  But I will work to be a better writer.  Somewhere along the way, I can only hope that someone is moved by something I write.  Or someone thinks deeply about an issue of importance to our everyday existence.  Everything else will take care of itself.

I don’t know or understand the direction of this blog or my mind for that matter.  I just know there are millions of words in my mind.  I can only hope that I am somehow able to put them on paper in an order that others will want to read.  I don’t care where my blog goes, as long as the minutes I spend writing each day gives me some peace and fulfillment.  If only so brief.

Till we meet again.  Good Day.

Mind of Shoo

Top Ten Movie Quotes

I didn’t feel like writing today but I found this fun list from The Good Life.  Top Ten Movie quotes or moments.  Since I love movies, I thought I would join the fun.  It was hard to pick just one quote from some of these movies.  Here is my list, in no particular order


I could find many quotes from Shawshank..but in his letter to Red Andy says;  “Remember Red, hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies.”  VIEW HERE


From City Slickers.  I love this scene.  This is when Mitch, Phil, and Ed talk about their best day and bad day.  Love this.  Billy Chrystal tells about seeing yankee stadium in color for the first time (true story of his).  But it’s Bruno Kirby’s character Ed’s story that I can relate to.  It’s great.  VIEW HERE 


From Philadelphia  This is Joe Miller’s (Denzel)  response to the judge’s statement which I added as well.

Judge Garrett: In this courtroom, Mr.Miller, justice is blind to matters of race, creed, color, religion, and sexual orientation.
Joe Miller: With all due respect, your honor, we don’t live in this courtroom, do we?  NO LINK FOUND


From Driving Miss Daisy  Hoke as he pulls next to Miss Daisy walking and his response to her saying “What are you doing?”  “I’m trying to drive you to the store.”  VIEW ON TRAILER


From Stand By Me.  Gordie (Wil Wheaton) to Ace (Kiefer Sutherland) “Suck my fat one, you cheap dime store hood.”  VIEW HERE


A River Runs Through It  Norman’s letter/poem to Jessie.  So beautiful.  VIEW HERE


A League of Their Own.  This is Jimmy Dugan’s response to Dotty saying “It just got too hard” “Its suppose to be hard. If it wasn’t hard everyone would do it.  Its the hard that makes it great!”  VIEW HERE


Juno.  There are so many great quotes from this movie.  The dialog is so well written.  This is the clerk at the grocery store reacting to Juno’s positive pregnancy test “That aint no Etch-a-Sketch. This is one doodle that can’t be undid home skillet.”  VIEW ON TRAILER


Bull Duhram:  Crash (Kevin Costner) to Nuke (Tim Robbins) at the mound after a batter hits a homer breaking his 2 hit shutout.  “Man that ball got outta here in a hurry. Anything traveling that far ought to have a damn stewardess on it don’t you think!”  VIEW HERE


A Car for John

This is fiction, written for The Speakeasy at Yeah Write.

Submissions for this week must be under 1000 words and must begin with the following line: Blowing bubbles in milk always feels good.

In addition, your submission must reference the photo prompt, which is this image:

This is my submission. It’s called “A Car for John”

Blowing bubbles in milk always feels good.  That is what the nurse told me about John.

“Oh, he just loves doing that,” the nurse explains.  “Its like the highlight of his day.  He has this cute smile while doing that, like he is going to get in some kind of trouble.  The staff all knows what he does with his milk.”

Another nurse walks into the room.  “Time to change that diaper John.”  She turns to me and ask “that’s ok with you Mrs Bellamy?’

“Sure,” I reply.

It’s hard to believe he is here.  You never expect this to happen to anyone in your family.

“Nurse, I am going to step outside for a few minutes.  I want to get something in my car.”

I lean over and kiss John on the forehead.

“Thanks for coming,” he says again.

“I’ll be right back, I promise.”

I turned and walk out into the hall.  I think to myself  how guilty I feel even leaving him for a few minutes.  I walk through the hall and out the door.  It’s a beautiful day out.  The sun is shining brightly as I across the parking lot.  I hear a bird singing in a tree nearby.  As I get to my car, I lean against it listening to the mockingbird’s beautiful songs.  It is from my time with John that I learned about birds. I learned a lot from him.  I turn and unlock the car door, grab my laptop and kleenex.  I close the door and walk away.  The mockingbird’s song slowly fades as I reach the front door.  The song is still in my head as I arrive in his room.  It has eased my mind some. 

“Hi” he says excitedly.

My heart aches to see him in that bed.  He’s not supposed to be in here.  It’s not supposed to be like this.  My eyes start to tear up as I look at him.

“Hi,”  I say back to him as I reach his bed.

Now I am alone with him.  It’s the first time we are together without a doctor or nurse here.  Just the two us.  What do I say?  This is my first visit since he was brought here last week.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I’m your daughter, Irene.  I came from Florida to see you.”

“Did you bring my hotwheel car and street matt with you?

“I did not Dad, I am sorry.”

His face turns quickly from happiness to sadness.  He begins to cry.  What do I do?  This is my father?  He is just like a child.  He has no idea who I am.  I get up quickly and walk out the room to look for the nurses station.  I find the nurse who was in his room when I arrived.

“He’s crying,” I say to her.

“Oh Mrs. Bellamy, he will be fine.”

“Fine.  You call that fine?”

“Mrs. Bellamy, your father is in stage six of Alzheimer’s,”  she explains.  “I know it’s hard, but he is still your father.  This is normal behavior for someone at his stage of the disease.  He will be well taken care of here.”

My father, leader of men.  Well respected in the community.  Church going.  Great family man.  Now asking me for a hot wheels car.

I collect myself and head back into his room.  He barely even looks my way and says nothing.  I can’t bear to look at him in this condition.

“Goodbye Dad, I must go now.  I’m sorry, so very sorry.”

“It’s ok Irene, I understand.”

My heart pounds in my chest.  Is that him?  Tears of guilt are now flowing down my cheeks.  He knows me.  He knows I am here. 

He looks over at me and with a big grin says, “You are beautiful!  Who are you?

I kiss his forehead again.  “Dad, I am beautiful because of you.  It doesn’t matter who I am.  Just know that I love you.  Goodbye.”

“Goodbye Irene.”

As I exit the facility towards my car I still hear the mockingbird singing.  He mimics the songs of others birds.  Songs that are not his.  Yet, he is still sings so beautifully.  Does he even have his own song?  Even if he doesn’t, he still is a mockingbird.  I suppose my father is like that now.  He is singing different songs but none of them his.  But he is still my father.  I’ll never hear him sing his own song again. 

Color The World

Copyright-Rochelle Wisoff-Fields


We are a growing community of blogging writers who come together each week from all parts of the globe to share individual flash fictions from a single photo prompt (above). The prompt goes up early Wednesday morning  CST to give each writer time to compose a story by Friday. Some use the photo as a mere inspiration while others use it as an illustration. Use your imagination and think outside the box.

I suppose this is not quite the fiction genre, but just words on a page.  Forgive me for the creative license i took.  This is very differnt than I usually write.  I saw the contrast between the crayons and the black and white photo.  That was my inspiration for my writing I call:  Color the World.

Color the world
Take it from black and white
and give it  many colors.
So we can see the world through human eyes
and not eyes of an old camera.
So beautiful and full of contrast.

Color the world
Make people more than black and white.
Bring those old photos to life.
So we can see the difference in people
and appreciate everyone as they are.
So we can be as one.

Color the world
Throw color onto a canvas
and let me see the beauty you create.
Like a kid with crayons
in class many years ago.
Simplistic yet so beautiful.

Color the world. 
Using your mind and imagination.
To make this earth a more beautiful place.
To give the world diversity,
And acceptance to these colors.
As God intended it to be.

Till we meet again.  Good Day.

Mind of Shoo

Sky Writing

My son and I sat on the park bench outside of town.  It’s a beautiful spot on the outskirts of the desert, especially at sundown.

“What do you think Josh?” I ask.

“About what daddy?” the ten-year old replies.

“Look at the sky,” I ask of him.  “Read to me what you see. “

“Daddy, there are no words in the sky, that’s silly.”

Oh Josh, there are plenty of words in that sky.  Look out there, its like a plane flew in the sky throwing out big letters that formed words.  Just for us.  Look at the beauty of the sky.  There is one word.  Beauty.  Look how peaceful it is.  Feel it?  There is another word, peaceful.  Painters paint beauty like this.  Its their inspiration.  There is another word.  Inspiration.  Don’t you see all this Josh?

“Daddy, how do you see all that?”

Josh, use your imagination and the words will come to you.  I use my imagination. There is another word in the sky. Imagination.  You have to feel what’s around you.  Close your eyes. Feel the breeze, imagine the view you just saw right before your eyes closed.  There is another word.  Feel.   Use your eyes, don’t you see hope in the sky Josh?  Hope, another word.  The words are endless son. 

“I suppose daddy.  But when I close my eyes and think of this sunset, all I see is mommy” he says to me with tears in his eyes.  “I feel her arms holding me.”

“Josh, you saw beauty.  You felt love.  From this view of the sky.  You didn’t need words.  It was all there for you.  From her.  She will never leave you.”

“Daddy, I wish I could write I love you mommie in the sky.”

“You just did Josh.  I am sure she just read it.”

This fiction was written for Inspiration Monday.  Click for the prompts and rules.