Writers Resources Cafe Magazine

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Mo's art and poetry reflect nature and its beauty in her lovely, truthful perspective.

Winter Storm

I wanted this snow,
first frail flakes, then inch on inch
of white solitude.

~~~~ Mo Conlan, March 4, 2015

Visit the Daily Haiku archives




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Visit Mo's Art Gallery

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Vase with gold and red


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Kathy admits a truth about her Prayer List


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Perhaps you've wondered about the writers here. If that is so, here is a mini-autobiography of each of us. The three of us agree that writing about ourselves is the most difficult task we've entertained.

Maureen (Mo) Conlan

Patty Lawrence

Kathy Coogan

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Kathy randomly selects a word from the dictionary to get her writing juices flowing. And the word is:

STIFLE

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A wry tale in prose-poem form about visiting kith and kin during the holidays

This is a top-ten favorite at Writers-Resources-Cafe...

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Another holiday favorite Grandma writes a dose of reality to grandchildren.
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There was a time when big snow meant a guaranteed day off school

Two winter poems by Mo



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Our writers nudge creativity by using
Words Prompts or Lists

Check out the first one we ever concocted and the two far-flung stories which grew from it. Hint: one word was watermelon.


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A new scathingly, funny report
from the real world by Patty
A guide to The Office


More wit and commentary
Inside Patty's writing log


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The latest Ace Spade, PI, story from Mo

Has Ace Spade Found His Olive?


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Most recent entry in Mo's ongoing series. "Microstory: She wanted him... "

Love Crash


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How I Became a Redhead

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Photo and Haiku

Hail the sun dipping
below Mother Lake; come back
early tomorrow.

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Here is an excerpt from, Babies' Breath, Kathy's award-winning short story contained in her anthology of the same title:

"My heart burned as red-hot as the ancient round stones edging the fire-pit and my tears sizzled and steamed like spit when they fell into the flame." Read on here.


Kathy answers questions
for blogger, Betty Meyette,
about Babies' Breath
at this link: Meyette's Musings


Kathy's five-star-reviewed
short story collection
can be purchased by clicking :

Babies' Breath

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Sailing with the kids

presents new challenges


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Art by Mo

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When the newsaper
is sold out... We may miss
the Fourth Estate.

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Kathy wonders if
LIKE-MINDEDNESS
is a good thing?

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Goodbye Cancer


Patty describes her journey through Cancer-Land


- The only thing I am not behind on is haircuts.
- The only reading materials in the surgeon’s office are cancer magazines and a coffee table book on Spring Grove Cemetery...
Read the rest of Goodbye Cancer

Chapter One

Chemo-land

Side Effects


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Writer Walter Seton Bunker
has a funny chat with The Bard


I had a dream one August’s night, a dream so vaporous and yet so vivid it passes understanding. It’s hard to know what was fantasy and what reality.

In my dream I found myself striding the battlements of Elsinore.... Then a helmeted figure emerged from the fog.
Click here to read the rest of the essay.

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Visit Mo's Art Gallery

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Vase with gold and red


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Visit The Cafe Blog.
and subscribe to the Cafe.


To discover what makes us tick,
click on Biographies

Mo, Patty and Kathy


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Note to visitors:
The stories, poetry, essays and artwork
on this site are copyrighted,
owned by the writers and artists.
No commercial use of them by others is permitted.

Far

by Kathy L. Coogan

We measure life in segments of time. When we’re babies, we’re counted in days, then weeks then months. We graduate to years and if we’re lucky decades. Some even reach the century mark and they get to tell us how they made it that far. Far. Our descriptive language changes from time-related words to place-related ones. We think of a century as a far away place at which most never arrive.

Time mystifies me. Sometimes it flies, sometimes it crawls. But it must be a constant if Einstein uses it as a measurement in his equation. I can quote Mr. Einstein’s famous equation, E=MC2, but please don’t ask me to explain it.

I’ll admit that I once thought that the E in the equation referred to Albert himself, assigned by him as an act of pure ego. I learned that I was wrong about his need for celebrity and that this equation has to do with energy equaling mass something, something and speed of light.

But that’s as far as my knowledge of physics goes. If you think that the speed of light is fast you’d be amazed at how fast information speeds out of my brain. So I choose not to measure life with time, that ephemeral thing, but to measure life as a distance traveled, moving away from or toward. Far - we use it to define progress in a practical way: “She’s come so far from that irresponsible, wild child who drove us nuts.”

Far – we use it to explain when someone’s life is irretrievable: “She’s too far gone on the heroin.”

Far - we calculate effort and measure determination in steps taken: “How far will he go to woo her?”

Distance I understand. Distance can be seen and paced in footsteps, a physical thing. Distance contains geography and geology and topography, those touchy-feely sciences that I can wrap my leaky brain around. Far is distant. I automatically squint my eyes to see it. When you say, “That boy will go far,” you pay a compliment, meaning he will move away from us ordinary mortals. He’ll be over there while we are here. We see images of place like squares on a Monopoly board.

“So far, so good,” we say, referring to a destination at which we arrive merely bruised but not battered. I imagine monsters and fallen trees and pits of fire that have been avoided - physical things in a path that haven’t prevented our arrival. More images of place.

“You can only get so far without an education,” we say implying that moving up the ladder takes us from here, uneducated, to there, promoted.

Sydney Carton exchanges his identity for Charles Darnay in a gesture of such generosity that it removes him far from common, selfish man. “It is a far, far better thing I do…”

We search far and wide, plumbing our psyches, our souls and our spirits for inspiration, solutions and comprehension. Opportunity is so near and yet so far when we miss it.

And now at this time in my life – this time – I have a place-related phrase that I identify with. It describes with an inherent optimism that, though time is slipping or speeding by, I have not yet reached my destination.

This phrase allows me to see goals ahead and a horizon to be approached. This phrase implies that there is more, that I am not a fait accompli. This is what I have done and this is who I am – so far.