Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Write With Fragmented Chronology, Use a Different Kind of Logic

~the following is part of “Prompted Prose,” a series of posts from the prompts I’m working with during my Spring 2016 online writing course

One

God comes in many guises. Here, he’s Rodney, an alcoholic in his forties, living at the beach, and continually telling you how good he is in bed. Just give him a chance. You may be wide open to anything, living in a 1978, olive-green Westfalia, camping by the beach in Hawaii, but you’ll never sleep with Rodney. He’s crude, but good at heart. Sometimes you let him sit with you at the picnic table.

Rodney drinks with crusty campers, including an ex-jockey who’s supplying the crew with cheap drugs. One morning Rodney tells you he’s been listening, and you don’t want to know what those guys have been planning.

He leads you to a quiet beach beside the Outrigger Resort. Introduces you to the night security. Asks him to keep an eye on you in your van. Shows you the pay phone and the public bathrooms. Saves you from who-knows-what. Still saying, “Girl, come on. It could be so good with me…”

 

Two

Six, sitting on the red cement steps by the ivy. You and a cattle dog, a rare moment, off the chain. You caress velvet ears, his black, damp nose poised, transfixed. Gazing into dog eyes, you sing through baby teeth, “I love you, I love you, I love you.” Your little lashes are wet with a moment, two mammal hearts beating, down a gravel driveway, in the orange grove. Your first touch of Grace.

 

Three

“There is no name for what you receive.” So says the Healer in my friend’s back yard. His helper stands behind those receiving the transmission, because everyone falls backwards after the Healer hugs them. I doubt I’ll fall, and when the Healer approaches, he buries me in an embrace, zapping the center of my chest in a cascade of warmth. I go down easily, gently caught by the helper. Laid down upon the grass. Reverberating in rushes of Christ, the disciples, Mary Magdalene and a river, in some vast, familiar, ancient, abiding love.

 

courtesy of Abdy
courtesy of Abdy
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

Write in the Style of an Essayist Who Impresses You

~the following is part of “Prompted Prose,” a series of posts from the prompts I’m working with during my Spring 2016 online writing course

Inspired by Jia Tolentino’s “Five from Kyrgyzstan,” here’s my attempt to work off of one piece I’d started and then add two others, for my version of “Three With the Divine.”

 
One

I’m trying to remember the exact verbiage the camp counselor gave us, when he encouraged us to step out into this night, be alone, and invite Jesus Christ into our hearts. I walk in the open field, the white of my Keds in the moonlight. There are millions of stars, a splay of crystals on black velvet. Is He there?

I stop wandering and wait. Sit down where I am and listen. Crickets sound in the blades. A cabin door shuts in the distance. I search my heart, a doorway, he said. I lace my fingers together, feel the wrinkles of my knuckles. I ask again, listen, wait. But there is nothing.

Two

In the unseen area behind the pulpit, there is a changing room. It’s a church version of a back stage and today I’m a player in the production. Full submersion. I tell my boyfriend it’s not stage fright, when he slips into my changing cubicle. The one-size-fits-all, white gown they’ve given me hangs, twelve sizes too large. I can’t do this. Nothing feels right, as the hum of a congregation of a 1000 plus fills the pews just beyond the partition.

“You can’t turn back now,” he says, sorry, but certain.

I don’t. I get in the line-up to the pea-green, plastic tub, step down the stairs, and cross my hands in front of my heart. Am pulled back, quickly, into the swish of liquid. In and out.

Three

I’m standing in the kitchen, warming refried beans and grating cheddar cheese. My bare feet stand on terra-cotta tile. Newspapers are stacked on top of the microwave near the small window. The sun angles in upon the countertop, casting gold as I dare.

I flip the flour tortilla, right on the stove top’s open flame, and let myself consider it. There may not be a God.

I may be damned, but so be it. I’ve got to start with nothing if I’m ever going to know anything.

courtesy of D Coetzee
courtesy of D Coetzee
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

Write About…Your Own Topic

~the following is part of “Prompted Prose,” a series of posts from the prompts I’m working with during my Spring 2016 online writing course

 

Instead of responding to today’s prompt topic, I chose to work on a portion of something that I hope to incorporate into a longer piece, and it may come into one of the 1000 word assignments.

 

Matthew 7:8 “For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.”

I’m seeking. I’m knocking. I’m trying to remember the exact verbiage the camp counselor gave us, when he encouraged us to step out into this night, be alone with ourselves and God, and invite Jesus Christ into our hearts.

He made it sound so good. So simple. That all we had to do was ask, and we’d be privy to the bridge. A direct line of communication to God, and the essence of unconditional love filling our hearts. Jesus was waiting, he said. Available in every moment, but we had to ask.

As I walk in the open field, I can see the white of my Keds in the moonlight. I look up to see millions of stars, a splay of crystals on black velvet. Is He there? Tall mountain pines stand sentry at the edges, housing a few other seekers, whose shadows I see moving slowly about immense trunks. They, too, are finding their place, looking for the spot where they can sit, make their request, touch God.

I stop wandering and wait. Sit down where I am and listen. There is the sound of crickets in the blades. A cabin door shuts in the distance. I search my heart, this doorway he said, was the way in which I could be received, accepted, reborn. I lace my fingers together, feel the wrinkles of my knuckles. Unlace my fingers and trace the knotted string of the friendship bracelet around my wrist. I try to clear my mind of all thought. I ask again, listen, wait. But there is nothing.

I thought I’d hear a voice. Or maybe get some kind of sensation. Butterflies in my stomach, or a presence, very clear, inside my chest. I only smell pinecones on the summer breeze that floats across the lawn. See the outline of tree branches bounce with the moving air.

When I go back to the group tomorrow I will accept the invitation. Raise my hand and step forward from my metal, folding chair. Yes, I have asked Jesus into my life, and I will be his follower. I will make this claim, believing. Hoping. Never wanting to ask if I was the only one who didn’t feel Him. Unable to face the fear that, perhaps, there is something intrinsically wrong with me. Too afraid to question why God didn’t come, even when I asked.

 

courtesy of Jason Trbovich
courtesy of Jason Trbovich