Pleasant Hills Public Library Scribe's Sanctuary: A Writer's Group

Bert didn't celebrate Christmas anymore. It wasn't that he disliked Christmas; it was just that he didn't have anyone to celebrate it with, so why bother? He went to dinner with relatives and participated in the family gatherings, but he didn't decorate the house, didn't put out any decorations, didn't put up a tree; Christmas was just another day. It hadn't always been like this. He used to have his family around him, and they always had a very nice Christmas. Bert, his wife, and their children had always decorated the house, put out seasonal lawn ornaments, and a large Christmas tree, brightly decorated with many ornaments, some store bought, but also many home-made by family members over the years. There were some of these that had survived for several generations; each being carefully wrapped and put away after the season. Away but not forgotten, and they would be unwrapped and put on the tree the next year. Each brought back a particular memory about th...

 A dog-eared paperback copy of The Bell Jar  smells of poet's ink. Like the smart girl with dishwasher blonde hair who sat in front of me in eighth grade English, always reading, who I never had the nerve to talk to. The scent of her shampoo, 99% pure, as she turned toward the laughter of the popular girls two rows over; her eye in profile, a sapphire dreaming in the pale blushed peach down of her cheek, scrubbed fresh and ready for another  night of silent tears no one would understand. Her fingers smell of lead and pencil flesh, as she underscores and annotates every thought and feeling as they glisten, sharp and bright, within the pages of a story she will never bring herself to write. A bound book- blank, wordless- pressed paper dreaming of being trees again, like a garden on fire in Eden's first Spring, where words would light and nest then take to the sky again with her song, with sunlight and starlight and raven black wings. And I never had the nerve to talk to her...

Cool winds lift the ends of my hair Slipping across my face Tickling my nose Massaging my senses  My lungs expand, heart lunges forward Finger tips freeze, nerve ending sizzle Ice cubes float across the land scape of my being God's breath tickles my mind Clearing the  cobwebs  I feel resigned Deep breath registers from the bowels of my soul  Bringing calm, bringing peace I'm finally home  Copyright, Genea Webb, November 18, 2022.   Unauthorized use or copying  i s strictly prohibited without the authors written permission.

Golden sun rays warm shoulders Turquoise skies and cotton clouds bring thoughts Of crystal clear water Soothing brown sand And lazy-day ice cream socials The sleeping Lilly awakens after months of slumber While tree branches spout pistachio-colored leaves That signal its beginning A new start Following the Earth's cold chill Cardinals and Blue Jays Sing songs of revival Hinting at summer's return Copyright, Genea Webb, September 22, 2022.   Unauthorized use or copying  i s strictly prohibited without the authors written permission.

Sometimes it's just you. Sometimes the world goes stark and barren. And it's only you. You can romanticize unprovoked onslaughts and enemies and devil tongues taunting. But in the dry silence of dawn you recognize the voice of your accusers. They are regret. They are shame. And they are truth, bare and raw. They are self, in all its nakedness and honesty. And because this twisted mass of reproach and remorse is self, You are committed to love it, if only because it is human. You must love it even more because it is you, and you alone are responsible for it. You cannot recoil in repulsion and disgust or simply leave it to its own -  pricked bloody in its writhing against its own thorns, a hazard to any who happen upon it. You must swallow hard against revulsion. You must cradle this thing and hold it, look deep into its darkness and try with all your heart and mind to understand. Then to set it on its feet again, and teach it how to walk in the world; looking not to the prints o...

This is my story about the many strangers that I meet on almost a daily basis. These people may be alone or consist of a mixed group of male and female adults. Too, there are sometimes children involved, but not very often. Our meetings are always outside as they occur the South Park Dog Park, near my home. Of course, weather is the reason that I am unable to make the visit there each day. It’s a given that I have a partner to meet and greet people with. My pooch, Copper, is now about five years old and loves people, especially women. Our trip to the park takes only ten minutes and Copper is usually whining and jumping to exit the car. The fun starts once we are parked near the gazebo, where people usually congregate. Typically, there are many cars parked side-by-side with many strangers preparing to walk with their pets. Not every stranger is exiting with a pet, as some people are ready for a walk alone or with a companion. Copper though, will often spot a strange pooch and head f...

Walking along the ruins of Tulum, I felt the sun like a blanket wrapped around me. A blanket I could not discard. Wanting to crawl into one of the gray, dilapidated Mayan structures and curl up in a shaded corner, maybe just melt into the sand. I heard the tour guide speaking about the sea and how the people could see the boats, but their city was disguised by the embankment lined with palm trees. She said once we got there we could go down to the beach and take a dip. The beach looked to be a million miles away. All this was running through my aching head. Hearing a sudden shout from Ursula, “We’re going back.” Ursula shoved a water bottle into my hands. “Drink,” her anxious voice demanded. I took the bottle and poured it over my head. It evaporated immediately, but I enjoyed a second of pure joy. My legs were getting wobbly as Ursula pulled me along. She stopped under a lone palm only to pull my bottled water out of my purse and when I got it I did the same thing. I was dry in minute...