Slice of Life Tuesdsay: Clearing the Air, Part 2

Last week, I mentioned that I finally – finally! – completed a work of allegorical fiction, and I posted the first installment of it here.

This week, I bring you Part 2, in which Flora, our ever-intrepid protagonist, finds herself in the right place at the right time. Enjoy.

During the next few days, the Naysayers made life difficult for the poor Floofs. Over in the school yard, the young Naysayers would trip little Floofs and call them names like “mop brain” and “fluffs.” One Floof, poor Flora, even found herself used as a ball in a game of Ga-ga. 

At the town marketplace, the grown-up Floofs were having no better luck. The Naysayers kicked the merchant Floofs out of their stalls, stealing both their stores and their merchandise. All the fruit, all the bread, the clothes – everything – became the property of the invaders. So did their parks, their homes, their schools. The Naysayers took everything and forced the Floofs to live at the edge of the village. 

As all of this was going on, a strange thing happened. It started as tiny green wisps, a fuzzy, off-smelling mist surrounding the town. As the Naysayers continued their nastiness, the mist developed into a filthy haze, which settled into a thick, reeking fog. And as the air became more rotten and difficult to breathe, the Naysayers’ beautiful silver coats faded to a dingy, matted olive green. 

One smoggy afternoon, Flora made her way through the village square, trying not to cough. She passed by her old house, now inhabited by Nix. She allowed herself one moment of nostalgia to peek in the windows. It was difficult to get a clear view, as the smog had made visibility almost impossible. But she could just make out Nix admiring herself in the mirror.

“Oh, you!” the chief Naysayer said to her reflection. “Aren’t you amazing, you silver star! Here you are with a brand new town, and the world is YOURS!”

As Flora watched Nix, she grew alarmed. It wasn’t Nix’s arrogance that concerned her. No, it was what Nix saw in her mirror – or what she didn’t see. She still thinks she’s beautiful and silver, observed Flora. They don’t see what they’re doing to the air! And they don’t see how the air has changed their coats. They still think they’re perfectly fine!

All at once, Flora got an idea. For the first time in what seemed like ages, things seemed clear. She ran to her family’s tent for her camera, then returned to take a photograph of Nix in all her ugliness. As she snapped the picture, Flora just knew that what she captured would change the course of her town’s history.

Tune in text week for Part 3!

Slice of Life Tuesday: Getting Brave

Well folks, I did it.

I forced (yes, forced) myself to finish another work of fiction, this one an allegory crafted alongside my fifth graders. I may have complained, I may have whined, I may have procrastinated, and tried just about every form of resistance just short of kicking and screaming.

But I did it. And I’m proud of the work I did, proud of the way my students supported me along the way.

So for the next few Tuesdays, I’ll publish my story in installments. Here’s the first one.

Clearing the Air by Mrs. Levin

Once upon a time, there lived a village of Floofs. The Floofs were lovely creatures who stood about a foot high and were covered head to toe with shaggy blue fur. If you looked straight at their shaggy blue faces, you would see two twinkling green eyes and a sparkling smile.  The Floofs were friendly creatures, and they spent their days playing hide-and-seek, Red Rover, and freeze tag. They were a happy bunch, and life was fun.

Until the Naysayers came to town. 

The Naysayers were beautiful: tall and sleek, with a smooth, glossy, silver coat of hair, with crystal blue eyes and toothy grins. 

The Floofs saw the newcomers. The shaggiest, bluest one of all stepped forward  and announced, “Welcome! Welcome to our village! My name is Frida, and I’m the leader of the Floof community. We are so glad you’re here. We love company.”

The Naysayers studied the Floofs up and down (it wasn’t a far trip). Nix, the leader of the Naysayers, raised an eyebrow, elbowed her buddy, and said with a sneer, “Oh, how about this? Looks like someone dropped a bunch of mops.”

Frida giggled and said, “Mops? That’s funny. No, we’re Floofs.”

Nix rolled her eyes and nudged the assistant standing next to her. “Nero, do you believe these mops? Not only are they ugly, but they’re stupid.” The two of them laughed, but it wasn’t a kind, gentle chuckle like Frida’s. This was a low, sinister cackle – which echoed across the crowd of Naysayers.

None of the Floofs knew what an insult was, let alone heard one before. A silence fell among the Floofs, followed by a new, uneasy feeling like rocks in the belly. Nobody knew what this sensation was, and they didn’t know how to name it. They just knew it was a feeling that made them shrink into themselves.

Fred, Frida’s second-in-command, spoke for the rest of the group, who stood dumbstruck behind him. “W-what did you just say?”

“She said,” Nero repeated spitefully, “that you were dumb and ugly. Or is something wrong with your ears, too?”

Fred said, “Nothing’s wrong with our ears, but we don’t know what you’re talking about. Your words make us feel small, and that’s never happened to any of us before.”

Nix stared directly into Fred’s green eyes with her piercing blue ones, pointed a finger at his chest and said, “Well, you’d better get used to it, because we’re here to stay.” She turned to the group of Naysayers behind her. “Come on,” she said, “let’s leave these mops here and explore this dump.”

“Yeah,” added Nero. “Let’s go.” The rest of the Naysayers followed their leaders as they walked around the village, a faint wisp of odor trailing behind them.


Thanks to Two Writing Teachers for weekly Slice of Life. Check ‘em out!

Poetry Month Day 10: Driving the Point Home

Today’s #VerseLove prompt, “Look Closely,” comes from Joanne Emery. Her poem for the day tells the story of the house of her loved ones. As I read her work, a poem I’ve been percolating on the back burner might be ready to come to the surface. So I’ll give it a go.

Driving the Point Home

There
are times
as I drive
through neighborhoods
whiz past the houses
I think of my own home
and all that it holds within:
laughs around the dinner table
the door frame where we measured our height
countless retellings of family lore
hugs of farewell, of grief, of welcome
but my home is one of many,
like these, these houses that I
speed past – every last one
harbors countless worlds,
beyond what I’d
possibly
ever
know.






Poetry Month Day 9: Depending on When You Met Me

Today’s poetry challenge is to compose a “depending on when you met me” poem. It’s a good way to think about all of the “me’s” I’ve been over the years, and to whom. This seems like a tough one to narrow down. I could do my evolution as a mom, as a person, as a teacher, as a hobbyist…my life has gone through a lot of iterations, to say the least.

Have you met me?
is what I say when I mention
that I meal plan for the week, that I
organize my closet by color, that I
tend to be obtuse and random,
bordering on awkward

but

depending on when you met me,
I was a “wise-ask,” which is
what nobody likes, Helaine,
when I mouthed off
to grown-ups from
a tender young age.

Depending on when you met me,
I was the had-to-be-right kid,
the first-hand-up-in-class kid,
the do-what-I-like-and-skip-boring-work kid,
the wander-in-the-forest kid,
the picked-last-for-kickball kid,
the hey!-Earth-to-Lainie kid.

Depending on when you met me,
I was the class clown runner-up,
doing all the activities,
joining all the groups,
trying to be everything
to everyone.

Depending on when you met me,
I was the starry-eyed newbie teacher
with a tote bag full of ideals
and ideas,
ready to change the world
one kid at a time.

Depending on when you met me,
I’m the reluctant grown-up
who might still mouth off
who will definitely still be awkward,
who still loves teaching as much
as thirty years ago,
and is ready to meet
her own evolving,
changing,
growing
self.

Poetry Month Day 8: Birthright

Today’s poem is part of both #VerseLove from Ethical ELA and Slice of Life Tuesdays. The poetry challenge is to explore an inherited gesture, belief, or ritual.

Here’s my go at it:

Birthright

In poker and chess,
It’s called a tell:
Worlds revealed
In a flick, a blink, a twitch

For me,
It’s my father’s response
To frustration, impatience, annoyance:
The double-palmed face rub,
Followed by fingertips
Pressed to the eyes
Subtle, right?

What I’d give to
Deny my patterning:
I’ve tried
Sitting on hands
Taking deep breaths
Folding my arms
But what can be done?

It’s a dubious inheritance,
Just like
Oddly-shaped fingers
The knack for trivia
My wiry, curly hair
The nasty habit of punnery
A tendency to burst into song
The shadow of dementia

Poetry Month Day 5: Scars

A Map of the Outer Lands

We begin the tour
at our northernmost point, with the
oldest of our scars:
a souvenir left from the
Great Door Frame-Forehead Confluence of 1974,
then just a quick drive southeast, til we’re at
Crater Pock, established in 1978
by a prospector looking to
settle an under-eye chicken pox score

There aren’t many roadside attractions in this area, folks,
but as we’re driving the eastern shoulder
keep your eye out for the trio of trenches,
vestiges (two benign) from 2024’s Biopsy Spring.

From there, the roads are clear until we reach
south-of-the-knee country.
There’s no telling what you’ll hit:
trip-and-fall scabs, barbell scrapes,
coffee table collisions.
It’s all wilderness there, folks,
and it’s a rocky end to an otherwise smooth trip.

That’s all for today’s tour,
(don’t forget to tip your guide)
but for those of you looking
for more adventurous territory,
we’ll be giving tours of the heart
on alternate Tuesdays.

Poetry Month Day 4: The Places I’ll Go

Today’s #VerseLove prompt is to take inspiration from travel. I knew which travel I wanted to write about – when I stayed in Sandusky, Ohio while my son was in the hospital there. I remember how otherworldly it felt being out one morning on a kayak. Not gonna lie: this poem WRESTLED me.

Drifting

A crystal morning
on Lake Erie:
I float,
an island unto myself
among islands,

pondering, amid
turtles and eagles and dragonflies,
how this time,
these moments: they are
breath and sustenance,
and I have
left the world behind, save

the kayak time limit
my son’s hospital visiting hours
phone calls,
phone calls,
and the phone calls:
and trappings
of life

I consider
how we are all
archipelago:
islands cultivated
or bridged
or isolated

how the
difference
between being
untethered
and unmoored
is how we feel
about the hand
at the end of our rope.

Poetry Month, Day 3: Ode to False Spring


Wrote this poem for Ethical ELA’s VerseLove. Today’s task was to borrow a rhyme scheme from another poem or song, then “golden shovel” the last words into a new rhyming poem.

I really did want to come up with something deep and pithy. Clever, however, butted in line and stole Pithy’s number at the deli counter. So…here it is:

Ode to False Spring
after Robert Frost

Spring is here, the weather is fair
And many Chicagoans claim
That sandals and shorts are ready to wear
(Though I really could not say the same)

For each April morning, I lazily lay,
The sky through my window still black;
I think, I could better leap into the day
If only the sunlight came back.

Instead I will stretch, I will yawn and will sigh
Pondering the day to come hence;
To dress warm? Dress cold? (Between you and I,
It’s not gonna make any difference.)

Poetry Month Day 2: Spring Is

squishy ground
mud puddles
and dog prints

squawking in
wet sneakers
that can’t sneak

traditions:
searching out
crocus blooms

I wrote this tricube (3 verses, 3 lines each, 3 syllables each) in response to Ethical ELA’s Verselove. I’ve long lurked and read, but finally jumped in and added my two (twenty-seven?) cents…

(And yes, the pedant in me knows the blooms above are not crocuses. But still spring, nonetheless.)

Poetry Month Day 1: Easing In with an Etheree

Happy poetry month! Throughout April, I’ll be crafting poetry every day. There may be days I’m inspired to do something beautiful, brilliant, sparkling in its craft.

There may be other days I’m writing to keep my wheels moving. Today is such a day.

For today, an Etheree: a poem that works from one to ten syllables (and, sometimes, back again):

on
the first
of April,
I stand, looking
at the rest of the
month, wondering if I
have it within myself to
keep writing, this time all in verse
(after all…I always say it’s my
preferred method of expression), so one
would think I’d leap right in, ready to
take the world on, line after line
but there are times (more often
than not) where I’d like a
moment of silence,
a retreat from
the need for
any
words.