Friday, April 14, 2017

NaPoWriMo Day #14

The prompt from NaPoWriMo today is:

Last but not least, our prompt! Because it’s Friday, let’s keep it light and silly today, with a clerihew. This is a four line biographical poem that satirizes a famous person.

The Mannerisms of Anne (Sexton)

She reveled the yogis among their rigid corpse-pose 
testified to the colossal man-hate of Plath.
She was a ten-toed Geanie with her belly full of
writer's glow and one last wish for the fishes.

NaPoWriMo Day #13

I wasn't too inspired by the prompt at the official NaPoWriMo site today, so I just wrote a free verse of my own.

I was reading a book of poetry by Paul Zaller today.  He wrote a quite a few poems about war.  I like to reflect when I read poetry, sort of see where my thoughts take me.  The year 1969 came up in one of the poems and I thought to myself, 'that would have been in some previous life for me.'  And thus, this poem was born.

I Was Once Some Other Woman

Somewhere there is a cozy room,
it holds fresh linen and smells of cedar.
There's a paint-chipped window sill
behind the sink where the breeze used
to blow my evening candles asleep.
A classic 50's cooler is nestled in the corner,
metal ice-trays ready to clink their
ready-made cubes against the smooth bodies
of one another over late-dinner drinks.
The paint on the walls is faded
and the linoleum is peeling near the edges,
but love lives behind it's lose corners
for there's an old red cooler on the porch
waiting for summer, and some wading
boots worn by a man I loved.
I cannot remember the bend of his neck,
nor the tan clasp of his gentle hands, those
details are closed behind the closet of my mind,
each moment a brilliant stroke of color,
the complete experience a mere
fine-detailed painting and, dip as I may,
my fingers into bowls-full of acrylic,
whole worlds of color and possibility all their own,
I cannot properly reassemble the picture
of fists-full of babies breath, a house on
the edge of a green-blue moor,
his hands in my hair, my head on his chest.

Wednesday, April 12, 2017

NaPoWriMo Day #12

The prompt at NaPoWriMo for today is:

Today, I’d like you to write a poem that explicitly incorporates alliteration (the use of repeated consonant sounds) and assonance (the use of repeated vowel sounds). This doesn’t mean necessarily limiting yourself to a few consonants or vowels, although it could. Even relatively restrained alliteration and assonance can help tighten a poem, with the sounds reinforcing the sense. 

I Never Said I Wasn't...

I've been writing lately
in secret places
petty little box-top corners
where the weary carry
their invisible burdens
into careless corners of 
these empty, vacant cross-
ways near the cab wheels
where rusty rims stop my step.
And I've been wishing
on the emptiest nights
of wavering twilight
like the wishy-washy
I-dream-of-Jeanie in
a silver bottle already
washed of yesterdays Bicardi,
that I could fill the empty
well of myself with
anything swell, or real,
or wish-me-well?

Word List Wednesday #12 (Also my NaPoWriMo Day #11, 2017)

I know these weekly prompts are sporadic.  I lead a busy life.  I wish I was one of those people who could actually commit to a weekly posting on a certain day, but as it is, I can only do so when my schedule allows.  No matter, I hope I can inspire someone.

EVERY OTHER Wednesday (twice per month) I select a list of at least 10 words (sometimes more).  I pull these words from a favorite literary piece that has inspired me. Usually it's another poem.  I always provide the poem author and title unless you want to go read it for yourself.

The idea is to take those 10 words and create a new, unique piece of writing of our own.

I love word lists/wordles because  they allow me to use words I don't often use, and those new words encourage fresh concepts and ideas for my poetry.

I first created this weekly prompt to inspire myself.  However, I am extending the invitation to others who may enjoy writing with my word list.  I invite you to link your work in the comments section if so!

The Word List for this week is selected from the beautiful lyrics by Van Morrison as they appear in his song titled Astral Weeks.

Word List:

Here is my contribution:

Reminiscing a Trespass

She stood at the picture window near
the fireplace, looking beyond the
black stormy world of an astral kind of night.
The last of the guests had blown their
sherry-and-gin kisses into the space
beyond her cheeks, tip-toeing their
heels and crispy suits across the lawn
toward fancy cars, a distinct sort of music.
The whipporwills rattled in the elms
between the beginning of a Spring rain,
the wind spun softly, the sound of the ocean
caught between the inner-chamber of a seashell.
Dewdrops whispered from the intricately-shaped
leaves of the eves that swayed overhead.
And two addresses down the lane stood his house,
one window-block glowing like a California sun.
She watched his shadow flit momentarily past
the shaded pane, eyes traveling the backroads
of her mind.  Her memories were a slipstream,
the viaducts plugged.  She wanted to run
from the desire to wade the muddy waters
to his door, to bang the silver knocker
and fill his mouth with her kiss;  sultrily, hungry,
wet clothes peeling from her skin like sun-dried fruit.
She was a positively-charged ion, a 
spinning particle caught in the will of lust, made 
immobile in the absence of his touch.

NaPoWriMo Day #10

The prompt at NaPoWriMo today is:

Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that is a portrait of someone important to you. It doesn’t need to focus so much on what a person looks (or looked) like, as what they are or were.

He Was An Old Soul

How ill-prepared, one whose heart
has been left to frolic the roadways
of the insides, pink glowing and
sometimes upside-down altogether,
each night a bright star flickering
all white-florescent, and then dropping
from the head like pieces of
a straw hat, nesting and twinkling
like tinsel, ridiculous as a wayward that
stops time on a sidewalk just to
stoop and stare, dipping his young
fingers into the glow-in-the-dark
brain-matter that drips from crown to ears
like sky-lava, an as-yet unnamed element
that fell into the eyes of someone I once
knew, a man who taught me with hands
as tender as bird-feather that the mind
is a raging super-highway, a crazy
moon-night ride, a fully-equipped apocalypse
of vintage muscle cars and the mad-eye
of a roadside opossum, and how each
thought only a mysterious grove in the 
black asphalt curving past towns with names
we've never yet heard about, times that carved
our bones into the bodies that we are,
indigenous as old blood, our veins a
constellation, our eyes a vexing lunar eclipse
of pupil-formed to words, a textbook annihilation.
We are the trapped moth of a porch-screen
wire, just flipping invisible wings and waiting to die
until some random window blows the shutters open
and the wind, again, finds our feet,
stiff and bare, old souls born into new toes,
and we drag our dreams, like bruised knees,
into a wild-star night, watching close the clouds
how they fold the tree-tops and white-noise
of the city into each other like an old, withering 
envelope that saves words and voice in
the gray space of it's empty pocket.

NaPoWriMo Day #9

The prompt at NaPoWriMo today is:

Because today is the ninth day of NaPoWriMo, I’d like to challenge you to write a nine-line poem. 

All The Real Stars Are Sleeping

The inner-city is already sweaty
in midspring; pedestrians undulating past
sidewalks and park-stops, swimming past
green-lit walkways and into
greasy mom-and-pop restaurants.
The lights across Broadway
are even brighter this year,
they hypnotize my camera-flash immoble,
those fiercely-shy transatlantic stars.

NaPoWriMo Day #8

The prompt at NaPoWriMo today is:

Today I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that relies on repetition. It can be repetition of a phrase, or just a word.

The Belle of Black and White Movies

She lived well.
She used to dine on fine wine
with men and women whose
names took them places,
her fingertips smelling of caviar
and a wine stain left on the breast
of her best dress, replacable.

She loved well.
She was always the first to dance,
a brunette-belle-in-silver-slippers
kind of girl, a lover at each hip,
all pink lips and fluid limbs as she
swirled at the oceans edge.
She rationed her body the way
a seamestress measured thread,
bit by bit, the spool still spinning.

She wrote well.
Love letters to foreign lovers
by names she couldn't enunciate,
formal complaints to state senators
following federal grant proposals for
programs in the name of the working poor,
birthday cards for the morning post
and a sack-full of mole-skin journals
for the sake of staying sane.

NaPoWriMo Day #7

The prompt at NaPoWriMo for today was:

Our prompt for the day (optional as always) comes to us from Elizabeth Boquet of Oaks to Acorns. In keeping with the fact that it’s the seventh day of NaPoWriMo/GloPoWriMo, Elizabeth and I challenge you to write a poem about luck and fortuitousness. For inspiration, take a look at Charles Simic’s “The Betrothal” and Stephen Dunn’s “The Arm”. Need something more? Perhaps these instructions from Elizabeth will get you going!
Create the following lists:
1. List 1 – 3 random objects. (Smaller tends to be better.)
2. List 1 – 3 random but specific locations. (Think in the cookie jar, or under my seat…)
3. List 1 – 2 objects you’ve lost and a few notes on their back-story.
4. List 1- 2 objects you’ve found and few notes on their back-story.
Now, choosing an object from List 1, a location from List 2, and connect them in a poem with ideas from Lists 3 & 4 and VoilĂ ! A fortuitous poem! 

On Carelessness 

I'm laying in corpse pose on my yoga mat.  There's a candle to my left, beacon for long-repressed memories.  Overhead, a chandalier tinkles as if toyed with by ghostly fingers.  I'm head-to-head level with the secrets nestled behind the sofa.  I almost wonder if a piece of my heart might be found there among the dust, or at least the white-gold wedding band from my first (and only, thus far) marriage.  I can barely remember the cold-metal hug it gave my finger but I'm sure in a journal somewhere in a box behind a shelf there's written a lengthy explanation of its absense.  I've lost plenty of important thngs...a notebook full of last years poetry, though I've all but forgotten what was written.  And a pair of earrings from my last romantic relationship, which was really merely a rendezvious of cabin rentals and condos and beaches where the sand probably remembers my former self better than I.  And how, somewhere before yesterday, I lost myself between mirror-glass and an intellectual clumbsiness too cruel to pardon.

Sunday, April 9, 2017

NaPoWriMo Day #6

The prompt at NaPoWriMo is:

Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that looks at the same thing from various points of view. The most famous poem of this type is probably Wallace Stevens’ “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird”. You don’t need to have thirteen ways of looking at something – just a few will do!

Variation on a Night Sky

Dark trees on the horizon sway
against a black-star night,
as the moon hangs, an
irridescent fingernail of light.

Two lovers stroll hand-in-hand
along the rivers edge,
bulbous yellow moon undulating
atop the breeze-strewn ripples.

The stars dip their spotlights
into the hazy evening fog,
stopping only at the corner
of Main where the post-lights blink.

Somewhere past the backstreets
where the silver-rimmed wheels
crack the pavement a shade past black,
crickets orchestrate the leg-strings
of their symphany and night moves
among the trees in the shape of gray.

Wednesday, April 5, 2017

NaPoWriMo Day #5

The NaPoWriMo prompt for today is:

 In honor of Mary Oliver’s work, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that is based in the natural world: it could be about a particular plant, animal, or a particular landscape. But it should be about a slice of the natural world that you have personally experienced and optimally, one that you have experienced often. Try to incorporate specific details while also stating why you find the chosen place or plant/animal meaningful.

The Third Day of Spring

Somewhere in the distance
I hear chimes.
The ice in  my coffee
is slowly melting,
light brown morning lava,
manta for the poets brain.
I mean to drink it
bittersweet bean excrament,
but I've been made immobile
by the mid-day weather,
air as warm as skin,
the ghostly touch of a
sultry-cool breeze,
March weather made
of leaves and heat,
kisses the back of 
my neck, a sneaky lover
that teases,  yet eludes
tangible touch-of-hand.

NaPoWriMo Day #4

The prompt at NaPoWriMo today is:

The “enigma” of the title is widely believed to be a hidden melody that is not actually played, but which is tucked somehow into the composition through counterpoint. Today I’d like you to take some inspiration from Elgar and write a poem with a secret – in other words, a poem with a word or idea or line that it isn’t expressing directly. The poem should function as a sort of riddle, but not necessarily a riddle of the “Why is a raven like a writing desk?” variety. You could choose a word, for example, “yellow,” and make everything in the poem something yellow, but never actually allude to their color. Or perhaps you could closely describe a famous physical location or person without ever mentioning what or who it actually is.

The Long Winter

She said the feeling
was like an itch
in a place untouchable,
a steady burn between
the edges of her skin
and candles weren't
call for concern.

She walked circles
around the window
that was herself,
secrets sliding past glass,
a prototype for pain,
yet couldn't keep herself
from looking inside.

The night pulled her taunt,
a pendulum swinging
between elation and something
close to sorrow, her body
slowly migrating like
drops of water, a loss
of herself, irretreviable.

Monday, April 3, 2017

NaPoWriMo Day #3

The prompt at NaPoWriMo today is:

And now for our (optional) prompt! Today I’d like to challenge you to write an elegy – a poem that mourns or honors someone dead or something gone by.

An Elegy of my Heart

Somewhere amidst my
last trip-up of
the dating pool,
the damn thing
finally left me.
Funny how it never
made a clamour
as it edged between
the narrow bones
of my ribs and chest.
As spontaneous as
a jolt of lightning,
I woke up one morning
minus a hangover,
on a dreamy Sunday
and I abhorred
the idea of love,
thought the act of
intimacy a slimy violation,
refused the mushy words
of worn-out radio melodies.
I cashed my date-stash
in for red wine and
a fat, black cat
to keep my feet warm.

Sunday, April 2, 2017

NaPoWriMo Day #2

The prompt at NaPoWriMo today was:

I’d like you to write a poem inspired by, or in the form of, a recipe! It can be a recipe for something real, like your grandmother’s lemon chiffon cake, or for something imaginary, like a love potion or a spell.

Grandmother's Hands

They were always most agile,
even against the background
of her ever-stooping shoulders
(the most cornerstone 
stereotype of the elderly)
and her vague ears
remedied by aids without wires
for which she preferred
never to wear,
her hand-grasp never failed.
My seven-year-old self
would watch her squint against
the warm pink glint of her
glasses while I scoured
kitchen shelves for whatever
ingredients the cookbook called for.
Rather saltines and oats to
thicken the cream for meatloaf
or confectionary sugar
for her old-fashioned apple fritters,
I'd watch her strong hands
knead the dough with love.
With seventy years worth
of perseverance, and growing,
she'd work with an unfailing affinity
on the food that would replenish
four generations of her namesake. 
Gathered around the dinner table,
We never noticed the mismatched dishes,
how crystal and fine China were incognito,
nor the yellow wallpaper that frayed
at the edges; only the magic her food was,
the love in her hands I later held
in her eldest age, counting the wrinkles
and willing to my memory the
curve of her thumbnail,
the shape of her grasp I pressed
against my chest, as if to imprint
upon my heart a reminant of her strength.

Saturday, April 1, 2017

NaPoWriMo Day #1

The prompt today at NaPoWriMo is:

write a Kay-Ryan-esque poem: short, tight lines, rhymes interwoven throughout, maybe an animal or two, and, if you can manage to stuff it in, a sharp little philosophical conclusion.

Right-Hand Solstice

sometimes at intervals,
I find myself posessed 
by the bizaar necessity 
to record.
My hands twitch
toward the pen,
a thing as automatic
as breathing or sleeping,
the need for scribe
mews to me pitifully
like an old abandoned cat
until I slice a piece of time
between afternoon tea
and the evening laundry.
On the patio in late eve,
I write, write, write
against the incessant brag
my brain has to speak
constantly to my hand,
notebooks upon notebooks
stacked like the ghosts
of old lovers.

Friday, March 31, 2017

NaPoWriMo: An Early Bird Prompt!

Today's NaPoWriMo Prompt:

here’s a special early-bird prompt: the haibun!
The haibun is a combination of prose poem and haiku. It was originally developed as a sort of travelogue or character sketch , in which the writer would first describe a place in prose, and then pen a haiku appropriate to the place or scene.

Saturday Night at the Diner
Among streetlights and strange faces, curbside prophets and horoscope redemptions, it's hard to decipher even gender.  Bored, we all stumble between smoky cigars and the alcohol-induced mania in the euphoric feel before the final Saturday-night let-down:  a headache and two handshakes of the aspirin bottle.
The weekend nights were meant for random randevous, but I'm meticulate, always pretending to 'pick my own adventure.'  The cafe is closed and the bar-scene is a boring fix so I distract myself with my purse, scatter the contents and await a surprise.  I find it:  a telephone number written half-heartedly inside the weathered flap of a matchbox by a hand whose face I cannot recall.
I amuse myself with the rainy scene outside the window, rendered  dreamy by the shine of headlights against a slow, steady drizzle.  A variety of slick-metal cars pass the street, each one selecting from right and left-hand turns; never aware the lottery of a simple wheel-turn.  And they travel too quickly, each one, and too far beyond my voice-call to heed such warning.
I'm feeling restless
girl drinking coffee
at a table made
of reflection.

NaPoWriMo (National Poetry Writing Month) 2017

April will arrive tomorrow, and bring with it another yearly installment of National Poetry Writing Month.

For the last three years I have participated on the Official NaPoWriMo blog because thousands of bloggers post with their participant sites everyday and it's just a lot of fun to know you're writing with a 'collective whole' of sorts.

However, I always have a list of back-up prompts because no matter how well-written a prompt is, sometimes the subject matter just doesn't inspire me.  That's why I also compile a list of '30 poetry Prompts for 30 Days' over at my publication blog Pink.Girl.Ink.   You will actually find a plethora of prompts for writing and other interesting articles on creative exploration at Pink.Girl.Ink. so hop on over tomorrow and check out my alternative NaPoWriMo prompts!

I also just wanted to clarify that I may not have time to do my usual weekly writing and art prompts from other blogs.  So if you don't se me participating any this month, it's because I'm busy with NaPoWriMo.  After all, it only comes once a year.

Sunday, March 26, 2017

It's Spring!

"Spring Chicks"

I adore Spring colors.  Looks as if she's found a nice place to nest among the wildflower.

Created for an art challenge at The Three Muses.

Saturday, March 25, 2017

Animal People!

"Grandma's Kitchen"

Looks like granny cat has things taken care of...even fed the pet mouse.  Ha.

Created for Sunday Postcard Challenge.

Dressing Room Art!

"After the Rehearsal"

Maybe she's a dancer...or an actress in Broadway plays.  Perhaps shes a talk show host...but then what about that dress?  All I know is, I want that couch and those curtains!

Created for a digital art challenge at Digital Whisper.

Friday, March 24, 2017

Free Graphics Friday #3: Vintage Room Scenes/ Backgrounds

On FRIDAY's (when my schedule/time permits)  I will be offering up new stock elements and collage sheets I create.

I use these elements in my personal art and wanted to offer them to other friendly artists and blogger friends via the internet.

Please read, and abide by, my rules!!


1.  DO NOT include any of my elements in kits or sheets for purchase.  I don't make money from them, nor should anyone else.  DO NOT make anything for sale.  The elements are free, and for personal use only.

2.  PLEASE if you download a nice comment, a word of encouragement means the world to me.  Say thanks, or let me know what you think.

3.  If you make something, please leave me a link or photo in the comment section.  I LOVE to  see what all the great, talented artists do with my images (this is OPTIONAL but it would make my day to see what you make!)

4.  Please if you use the elements, link up my Flickr account or my blog (this is OPTIONAL but it would be great if you could share my link so others can find the goodies).

5.  Aside from selling it...go crazy, do whatever you want and create whatever you want.  Yes you may also create backgrounds with my backgrounds, just let me know so I can download them as well.

This week I have some lovely vintage room scenes.  They have been polished, sharpened and edited with photoshop.  Enjoy!

Download the full sized PNG image for free HERE.

Check back EVERY FRIDAY for more new sheets and stock....And have fun creating! 

Everything I make/create comes from old images.  Vintage images.  Retro images.  Rather from a magazine or a photo or an image search for 'vintage' things.  I do not EVER claim to own any of the images, backgrounds, pieces of advertisement or found images/elements.  Nor do I derive any monetary gain as they are free for use.  All of them have been digitally mastered or altered in one way or another. I make them only for personal use for your art hobby.  No selling or products for sale (made with them) is allowed!  I go to great pains to assure that my images are free to the public, however if you feel that by some error I have used a photo or element that is questionable please do email me personally and I will see that it is removed:  prettypoetstacy AT

Thursday, March 23, 2017


The Reflection is a Lie

I know this because I
have swam its murky depths,
camoflauged as something cerulean.
And it contains a river
that runs North,
calm as an old stone,
clear as the sky,
but what rages beneath
that crystal exterior is unknown.
It is the great deceptor,
mimicking an illusion
more grandeur than fantasy,
more perplexing than mystery,
for what sight could be
more keen than the naked eyeball,
flesh against fair flesh?
You cast a gaze into
the center-stroke of its surface,
silver as a traveling star,
slick as polish across metal,
and ask of yourself,
which one of us sees best?

written for a poetry prompt at Poets United.

"Noteworthy Links" Thursday

My serving of useful, interesting sites this week are:

1.  One Word

"Simple. You’ll see one word at the top of the following screen.
You have sixty seconds to write about it."
I adore this website.  It comes with a wall (sort of like a facebook wall) where it saves all your posts and daily contributions.  You can also join groups, make friends, and a whole host of other interesting things.

I use it to write a small prose poem each day.  How will you use it?

2.  Wattpad

"Wattpad is an online storytelling community where users post written works such as articles, stories, fan fiction, and poems, either through the website or the mobile app."  - Wikipedia

This website is a treasure trove for books written by indie authors!  And trust me, there's some really good literature throughout this site.  Features include reading lists, your own library/bookshelf as well as an area where you can keep track of your own work.  

It's very reader/user friendly.  You can comment, you have an inbox for messages, there are forums and contests and it's just a lot of fun overall. 

Wednesday, March 22, 2017


"Celia And Her Cat"

I'd be willing to gander he's probably her biggest fan!  I suppose she's on holiday.  Ah, the life of a dancer.

Created for an art challenge at The Three Muse.

Tuesday, March 21, 2017

Yum!!! A Haibun

A Panoramic View of the City

Even in midwinter, California is pretty.  I remember China Town:  a snapshot behind my eyes, a city whose mouth I stuffed my dreams inside.  The huge, red-lit lanterns that swung across rope between a concrete walkway, weightless moons that coughed a yellow candle glow.

I recall the memory of my moving feet, swimming the fresh sidewalk of Fisherman's Wharf. On ten toes, I spun my snails' track across city corners and into the shiny, florescent glow of bakery windows and old-fashioned eateries.  The lights of their many windows shone like beacons for the tourist-weary.

Then the quick rush into a carpeted foyer;  the pedestrian-trample past a second-floor landing into a room sparkling of linen and mahogany.  I relished the meticulously-poured tea from authentic china cups that I imagine were once imported in wooden crates for many ocean-miles.  The specially-seasoned soy-fried Lo Mein that teased my tongue of a distinct flavor I could not remember.  Then the fresh smell of roasted duck that my vegetarian hands dared not touch.  But the taste of atmosphere was enough. San Francisco, a glowing ember out the window, the city lights a mirror of the starlit sky.  And the fresh dessert dishes with delicate miniature spoons meant for dainty slight-of-hand dipping.

Window-seat swimming sky,
the sweet tang of green tea ice cream,
and oriental scent.

*I usually do my haikus as 6 / 8/ 6.  This is a technique I learned from a book by Natalie Goldberg.  She titled it 'An American Haiku,' given the idea that American words contain more syllables than Japanese words.  Thus, I suppose she felt we were allowed one extra syllable per line.

Written for a prompt at dVerse Poets.

Retro Writes (Tuesday) #10

The Rules:

Welcome to my new writing challenge!

Every other Tuesday I will post some lovely retro-era eye candy as inspiration (think 50's-80's decades).  I will be posting photographs and advertisement ephemera that, perhaps, is quite different from modern day photography in hopes that it may inspire us to come up with parallels and concepts we might not otherwise make with modern art/photography.

Simply write a piece of poetry, fiction, flash fiction, or even create your own art-work.  Anything goes so long as you create/write something original!

Leave a link to your post so I (along with others) can visit and comment.  Please also link back to this page in your original post so others can find it.  

Most of all, have fun creating!

And now, for the prompt.

Retro Writes (Tuesday) #10

Look at the advertisement photo for a few moments and allow yourself to be inspired.

Here is my contribution:

Fan of Ann Bannon:  A Flash Fiction Story

"Seriously, Patsy, I dunno how you do it.  I'm just bored stiff,"  Molly exclaimed with much more fervor than was necessary.

Patsy turned another page flippantly, all but ignoring the poor girl.  It wasn't that she was ruthless.  She had grown used to the histrionics of her exasperated, boy-crazed dorm-mate.  At first she'd found Molly's dramatic speeches and ever-growing complains amusing, even endearing.  These days she listened with half an ear.

"Oh, I can't wait until Freddy gets here," Molly bounced from the bed like one of those cheap rubber balls from the dime-store toy machine and began to pull clothing from the closet. She sifted through the garments like sugar, never bothering to replace the hangers on the closet rack.

"Hmm,"  Patsy said with a blink for emphasis.  "Where are ya'll going tonight?"  Truth be told she was asking only so she'd have a more accurate calculation of how long the girl would be gone.  This way she could feign sleep shortly before her arrival without having to hear all humdrum details of her silly, girlish love affair.

"Oh we are double dating with Suzy and Lars,"  Molly said, slipping into a poodle skirt and a tight silk button up shirt.  "I think we are going to the drive in over on Hoover Street."

"Ah," Patsy said, keeping her eyes glued to the book. She cringed on the inside at the idea of sitting in a shoddy old car, hip to hip with some goofy college boy who insisted on kissing her on the cheek or discussing their next move to second base.  The idea actually made her chuckle aloud.

"What's so darn funny," Molly shot at her as a resounding knock echoed from the other side.  "Oh, that must be Freddy already!"  She dashed to smooth some lipstick across her lips and fluff her hair before grabbing her purse and all but sprinting to the door.  She stopped just short of turning the knob and leveled the heated cheeks of her gaze straight at Patsy.  "You know Pats, I dunno how you do it, study so much I mean.  All we're going to be, anyway, is someone's housewife someday.  What you need is to get out there and have fun with a nice looking man."

Patsy laid the book face-down on her chest, eager not to lose her place, and shot back at Molly without missing a beat, "What I'm reading isn't for school.  It's lesbian erotic.  Ever heard of Ann Bannon?  And no, I will never need a man, you see I'm not really into that sort of anatomy.  But you, Molly, you go out there and practice being Betty Crocker for some goofy boy who'll forget your name once he graduates to a more sophisticated lady who doesn't calculate her relationship on numbers and bases!"