...and then...

Wrote this piece for the Omaha Encyclopedia Show. The theme was "The Future" and my sub-topic assignment was "Apocalyptic Wasteland." Of course, the imagery of veered my language into unexpected territory. I love it when that muse+creativity thing works! Thanks for "virtual" invite Omaha! Wasteland by Dasha Kelly Stretched tight across the horizon Find trip wire of ancient desires threatening to spray schrapnel into the clouds again Rain down fatal wreckage across your once-earnest fields again Denial lays waiting for you still Dividing this distance from blissful reminiscence You don’t dare hold on to that grenade again You're still peeling back skin from that last burst of hope You count our paces now 100 shuffled footsteps atop starved earth keep your rugged feet pointed away from certain death you let your breath hang in measured gasps Epiphany pinned against this stale atmosphere Nothing you cherish is left Hin...

Going to a funeral today. The father of one my girlfriends. Her father went in for some outpatient procedure last Tuesday, was released on Wednesday, collapsed in his bathroom on Thursday. I've only met Lori's father once or twice, but have been friends with her for more than a decade. We descended on her this past weekend with rum (her fave) and plenty of tissue. We didn't need the tissue, surprisingly. So, I'm not ready for today. I haven't seen her unraveled, but I know she's going to be a mess and I won't be able to help. Add to that, i can't help but think about my own parents. I'm blessed to still have them (and to actually like them a lot); I can't fathom -literally canNOT compute- the concept of either of them not being here. Yeah, yeah, yeah, ashes and dust and mortals and all that. I'm just not ready. There's been a story or a poem about my parents scratching underneath my skin for a while. I'm just not sure how t...

CeCe’s mother entered the living room full of light and purpose. She greeted CeCe with an unusual boom in her voice, while pulling her hair pack into its usual collar-length ponytail. “I think there’s extra sunshine out there today,” her mother said. “Let’s go outside to get some!” CeCe just watched her mother at first. She was typically stupefied, initially, by this random alertness. Ever since the flowers started to push up from the ground, CeCe noticed that the awakened version of her mother was vibrant for shorter and shorter times. Her mother’s magic might only last a few minutes, instead of the whole morning, definitely not the whole week or a whole day anymore. Sometimes, her mother’s light wouldn’t last for a whole game of jacks. While her mother floated about the apartment --bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, kitchen again-- CeCe was counting to a hundred. Mrs. Castellanos had showed her what to do after the 20s. By the time her mother re-emerged from their shared bedroo...

2011 is The Year of the Manuscript! I've been courting this character, CeCe, for more than a decade now (I know!) and finally got the momentum, time and headspace to finish her story. I'm five chapters away from finishing, so thought I'd share excerpts along the way as I edit. Here's the first two pages of Chapter One: CeCe mumbled a tight-lipped thank you to the tall woman who had stooped down to help her from the concrete. CeCe had crashed down on all of them when she tripped and fell through the accordion fold of the transit bus door. Unlike her sneakers, these stiff, black pumps were not familiar with the grip and lurch of a halting city bus. CeCe and her tennis shoes had grown up on these transit buses. The new, grown up heels mocked her stride and her balance, catapulting her into the cluster of strangers waiting to board. Once on her feet, CeCe pretended to examine her ankle, not making eye contact with the tall woman or the others beginning t...

Uggh. I remember this. The fawning hours before any new coupling can take its full shape: soul mates, long-term love, short-lived flame, friends with an understanding, late night lovers, bitter enemies. Before hoisting out any such labels, an abominable spell of time must first be spent wrestling down uncertainties and second-guessing your infallible intuition (which is always, simply, “do it” or “don’t do it.”). Obviously, with no inclination of where the introductions will lead, we spend the thin, early hours wondering, overanalyzing, waiting and… hoping. I forgot how much I hated this part. Truth be told, I don’t think I was wise enough then to dislike the Hoping Phase. Back then, I believed that the simultaneous heady and sinking sensations I felt were the signal of budding affection. Do it or don’t do it? Does he or doesn’t he? I can remember how trying not to check the answering machine (yes, it’s been that long) became an extreme sport of wills. Spreading out the t...

For a thousand different reasons, I’ve been removed from the banquet schmooze circuit for quite some time. I recently attended an awards reception for a local women’s organization and was instantly glad that I’d changed my mind about bailing at the last minute. I had a chance to reconnect with past colleagues, introduce myself to future program partners and hug a long-lost mentor or two. I’m back! I thought to myself. Time to re-insert myself into these worlds. One of the faces I hadn’t seen in a few years belonged to a woman who runs a mentoring program for up-and-coming community organizers. I can’t say I know her particularly well, like we hadn’t “done lunch” or coffee or cocktails together, but we once had earnest ambitions of working together and it was good to see her after such a long time. Our paths crossed, literally, as I was leaving the wine bar and she was moving toward the ballroom foyer. As we acknowledged and approached one another, I stepped in to greet her with a...

I teach at a writing camp for middle school students in the summer. Boys. Girls. Black. White. City. Outskirts. Comfortable. Underserved. All enamored with the sparks of magic between their pens and lined paper. For the past three summers, Samantha has been one of the half dozen perennial students in the class. My first year, Sam’s name was one that I never forgot. Partly, because I’ve always thought boys’ names on girls was super cool. Mostly, though, it was her satirical humor and irrepressible spunk. Small enough to fold herself in two within the slim perimeter of table edge and plastic chairs, the small knots of her knees would peek above the table to balance her composition notebook. Above those pages, her brown hair dipped into a voluminous bob just above her ears and her large, dark eyes. Sam was excited to share the industry happening inside her head, always asking questions to carve permissions for some outlying idea. She talked fast too, her S’s leaking through the...