Pick More Daises

A Film Dedicated to Grandma.

Hummingbird

I'm stuck in Revision Hell, but I'm hoping to plan my escape in the next two to three weeks.

Besides the fact that editing is tedious in its own right, my Grandmother's passing has been extremely hard for me.   When I'm not writing, I'm trying to wrap my mind around the loss of her.  Hell, when I am writing I'm trying to wrap my mind around it.

I can no longer call her up to say hello, and that sucks.  I miss her beautiful laughter, watching her wash dishes at the double sink, and listening to her hum church hymns as she moved around the house clapping her hands to the beat.

J.L.

                              Mrs.  Hattie Virginia Jones 1939-2012

Message of Hattie

When we leave this life, no one remembers what clothes we wore, how much money we spent, or how popular or famous we were. What they do remember is how we treated them.

During one of the last conversations I had with my grandma, she told me to, “Tell it like it is.” This was common motto of Mrs. Virginia Jones, in that, she never hesitated to tell you how she felt.  She was authentic. She was real.  She was beautifully refreshing in a world where pure honesty is sometimes so very rare.

I loved the relationship that my grandmother and I shared. It was one in which I never felt I needed to be anyone other than myself.  Although many of the things I discovered in my life’s journey did not agree with her core beliefs, she never ceased to show or tell me how much she loved me whenever I visited—whenever I called.

She was an amazing, intelligent, and beautiful woman, my grandmother. The more of myself I became, the more she seemed to love me. That’s the message I received from her. To be your authentic self. 

Mrs. Hattie Virginia Jones 1939-2012

Cheers:)

I was only able to edit my MS a little today:(

It called my name."Jennifer, come fix me," said MS.

No, but seriously--

Okay--this cough is relentless; and the sinus infection is even worse.  I'm literally drowning in my own fluid.  Cheers to the Amoxicillin. I drink to that, yeah yeah, (In my Rihanna singing voice), in the hopes that it will work it's magical pink powers on my nasal passages.

Before I decided to write this blog, I was in the process of watching Bag of Bones, the series based on the book with the same name, by Stephen King.   I'll let you know how creepy it was once I press play again.

For now, I'm going to stack up on too much tissue and hope that the ringing in my right ear comes to a swift halt.

Sending a faux shout out to my Eustachian tube!

a bientôt

J.L

Blues of The Flu

It’s 3:45 in the morning. I can’t sleep, but not from a lack of trying. I’ve taken the maximum amount of Cold and Flu medication that will leave my liver intact once this snotty storm comes to a halt.  Nevertheless, the Flu is kicking my ass and taking all kinds of names. Sweat is rolling down the wrinkles of my tense forehead faster than the rain falling outside my open window.  I forgot to pick up Nighttime TheraFlu Warming on my way home from work. So I’m flat out of luck until tomorrow morning.  I’m hoping for a speedy recovery.  

Oh what the hell; just for fun . . . ;)

Chapter One

The Snot Storm

There was not enough tissue in the world to adopt the immense amount of yellow drainage that gushed out of her nose. The skin directly under her muzzle was irritated and burned as if she had been bathing for hours under a summer sun.

With the microphone close to her flushed lips, the girl with coffee bean hair shouted. “Calling all Gods and Goddesses,” She swallowed hard with a sigh. “Take away my Flu.”

 Coffee bean girl tore the microphone away from her chapped mouth, and dropped the germ-infested equipment to the wooden floor. The mike rocked side-to-side like an empty, old-fashioned Coca-Cola bottle beside her bare feet.  Her ten toes curled under like merciless bear claws.  Her body shivered as goose bumps made a quilt over her scrawny limbs.

She hoped—No.  She prayed that her request would not go unanswered. 

A bientôt,

J.L 

VBP's Story

Let's face it. I love old tattered paper. Paper so old that if you blew on it, it would crumble into a thousand pieces. Vintage Paper is inaudible tree poetry. There I go, being overly dramatic, but it's the truth.  Vintage Brown Paper is my Blog space, and I am not afraid to admit that it's my first time taking a swing at the blogger lifestyle.   Being a writer, who desires to be published one day in this century. . .  I figured it was about damn time I jumped on the wagon, instead of standing on the side of the road hitchhiking.  The blog will be a ramble of thoughts, as I journey into the world of publishing wearing a child's' seatbelt. I will also share selective poetry, and music that sparks my creative senses.

a bientôt, 

J.L