"Goodbye Daddy," A Saturday Centus

I have never, ever entered a writing contest before or submitted anything for publication, but someday I would like to.  In fact it was one of my New Year's resolutions!  And though blogging is a good exercise to get those creative juices flowing, for me it's something altogether different than, say, writing a short story.  That is an area that I can use some practice on.


That's why this week I decided to give it a whirl and see what happens.  To aid in this endeavor, I am participating in Saturday Centus, a themed writing meme hosted by Jenny Matlock at her blog ...off on my tangent....  Every Saturday she posts a "prompt", a phrase that must be used in the essays of each contributor.  The essays must contain the prompt as written and be a total of 100 words or less, not including the prompt words.


Here is this week's prompt:

I look back over my shoulder, squinting into the late afternoon sun, gawking with stunned alarm at the broad rolling muddy waters of the Mississippi,  

After posting their stories, the writers link up with Jenny's Saturday Centus meme post so that we can all share our treatment on the prompt.  Having read several of these, it's more than a little intimidating to put my toes in the water here because the writing from these bloggers is so good, but you know, no one ever won a Pulitzer Prize for thinking of a story, right?  


I encourage you to come on by and check out Jenny's site here and submit one of your own essays!  Trust me, it's fun and challenging trying to keep your story to 100 words or less!  While you are there read some of the other submissions to this meme, as well as her other writings.  She is a very good writer and very worthy of a spot on your blogroll!  Just sayin'!


Here is my first Saturday Centus effort.  I call it "Goodbye Daddy."

Back home.

I walk the dirt path I’d known as a child.

Memories rush forth,

filling my senses like so many vivid dreams.

The smell of barbecue hangs heavy in the air,

mixing with the dingy air of poverty, rusted

factories and cotton fields.

Daddy’s life and love had been the river.

Oh, the times spent catfishin’, daddy singing

the blues to music flowing from a nearby juke joint,

or playing his harmonica.

Damn, but the man could play.

I look back over my shoulder,


squinting into the late afternoon sun,


gawking with stunned alarm


at the broad rolling muddy waters


of the Mississippi,

wondering if daddy is up there in heaven now,

smiling and listening to his delta blues.

The tears flow.