Tarianne DeYonker offered a session on May 19.
Tarianne creates space for writing with others that encourage, affirm and inspire us to go farther than we imagined!
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by Mitchell Drach
“Eh, Bud? Got a cigarette?”
I leaned against a rectangular pillar outside the office building where I toil several
days a week. The speaker was old. Long gray hair, matching beard neat but not too neat.
Compact with muscular arms beneath a plaid short sleeve plaid. Wouldn’t stand a
chance against him at arm wrestling; I wondered at the thought as I fished a pack of Old
Golds from the pocket of my blazer. I tapped out a cigarette for myself and offered him
the pack.
“Take two,” I said genially, “have one for later,”
He placed one in his mouth, the extra behind his ear. I pulled out my gun metal
lighter, fired us both up.
“Didn’t know they still made Old Golds,” my benefactee said. “Haven’t seen them for
years.” His voice was raspy—a lifetime smoker, I guessed.
“I get them by the carton from Costco,” I replied. “You just get off the ferry?” I asked
him. My office is at the tip of Manhattan Island, a block from the ferry.
“You got that right Bud. Left my cigarettes on the bench when I went to ooh and aah
at the Statue Of Liberty.”
I squinted skyward. Clouds were just beginning to roll towards the sun, and the
breeze was kicking up. I reached into the inside pocket of my blazer, pulled out a small
flask with the initials MMP engraved on it. I offered it to my companion before I took a
snort. “It’s rye,” I said
“Kinda early in the day for it, ain’t it Bud?”
“The names Max, not Bud,” I said, still genial; but all the Buds were getting on my nerves.
“Yeah, it’s early in the day” I said. In fact, it was barely eleven. Its been a long year, even
longer decade.
“The rye doesn’t know the time of day,” I said, “and it does me just fine.
”“Cigarettes and Rye,” the old man laughed. “My name’s Ward. You know, like the dad
on Leave It To Beaver.” He laughed again. More like a cackle, actually.
The Problem with Windows and Walls
by Lara Bridger
It’s foolish to be so open, the wall says to the window.
The window never says anything back because windows only know how to listen.
This just infuriates the wall even more.
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by Tarianne DeYonker
When I think about buds, whether flowers or leaves, they remind me of life, of course, but also of mystery. The tightly curled petals or greens squeeze in close together, seemingly unwilling to let go of each other. Sometimes I’ve checked flower buds daily to watch their progress. It’s always a joy and amazement at how much they change. Moment by moment they loosen their grip on each other, like letting go of each other’s hands. Then, on one day’s visit they show themselves to us in all their splendor. How this happens with buds and life still holds mystery.
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For the rest of the summer, watch our blog! We are sharing writing from AWA’s yearly marathon fundraiser, which happened this year all-online throughout the month of May.
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