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Kathleen March

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Jan, 2020

Stories (396)

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396 Stories

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Whose? (R)

Intro to the story: These were the instructions, the prompt. I tried to do as told: “Tell a story in the form of a police report, news article, or journal entry about an incredible (or impossible) event.” The story: Lavinia took a new journal with a deep reddish, berry wine cover from her bookshelf, admired the hand-embossed cover for a moment and opened it for the first time. It was from one of the street vendors from the casco vello, the old part, of Santiago. She didn’t buy often from the stalls, but enjoyed the probably unhealthy scent o...

4 likes

Truth be told

I’ve been keeping this secret so long now that I pretty much have decided it’s not true. There is no secret. There’s nothing to be revealed. Even if there were, it’s nothing anybody wants to hear about. So I’m not going to tell anybody anything. I’m not stupid. I don’t want people to think badly of me. I declare that nobody think ill of me. I’ll probably put that in writing tomorrow or at least no longer than two weeks from now. I never lie, so you can count on it. My word is worth its weight in gold. In case you were wondering - and many pe...

3 likes

Changes

It's been a longA long time coming, but I knowA change gon' comeOh yes, it will ~ Sam Cooke We all meet someone who changes our lives, maybe more than one person changes our life, maybe each change leads us in a different direction. There’s nothing strange about this. What I wonder, though, is why we let those changes happen, why we meet some (many) people and they just bounce off of us. Then others permeate every molecule and start to push (or pull) us here, there, anywhere but where we are. What makes some people so important, but also w...

3 likes

And still I rise…

You may shoot me with your words,You may cut me with your eyes,You may kill me with your hatefulness,But still, like air, I’ll rise. That’s a quote from one of my favorite poems, the one by Maya Angelou. I don’t know if she was thinking about me when she wrote it, but I like to think so. Like me, she shows resilience, and that is a good thing to have nowadays. It’s exhausting trying to survive in this world. Not that it was ever easy, but when you were dealing with Greeks and Romans, those empire builders, you knew what you were getting. Bat...

4 likes

Soft lemons

A soft lemon scent, flavor in the air. You are stepping down from the sidewalk onto the green. You know immediately where you are. The coast of Cordes-sur-ciel, far from Maine. You’d know those bees anywhere. They sip and persist. It’s the buzzing you can’t resist because you’ve heard it all before and before that was the wrapping of some wings around the hot, stealthy breeze. You stop, mid-step. This cannot possibly be southern France. You sniff again and find the underbelly of the heart leaves by extending your search, your hands in charge...

4 likes

Sounds of silence

Who are you? Who talks like you do, or writes about the world of nature as if it could speak? Do you really hear plants and birds and spring waters holding conversations? Nobody’s going to believe that story. Oh, right, when you go by, as if you had extraordinary powers, as if you knew secret languages, as if you could perceive beauty nobody else can see. You are able to hear the world, but your special ability isn’t what you think, is it? You see and hear, but your skill isn’t able to overcome time, and your dreams will get you nowhere. Yo...

3 likes

Burned Food

Non, rien de rienNon, je ne regrette rienNi le bien qu'on m'a faitNi le malTout ça m'est bien égalNon, rien de rien Non, je ne regrette rienC'est payé, balayé, oubliéJe me fous du passé ~ Edith Piaf (Ch. Dumont, music, M. Vaucaire, lyrics) I couldn’t get the song out of my head. So sad, so strong, so unrepentant. I wish I could say the same for myself. I, I who have nothing (like the song from 1963 but before that, too if you know Italian), nevertheless and despite all the nothing I have, ought to know how to unravel the air around me. I ...

3 likes

Rosalía, continued

My protagonist has joined an odd, perhaps even mysterious group of readers and - or are they writers - writers. She soon discovers that nothing is what it seems, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that none of the group’s members is what she or he seems. We live in such a fragmented society these days, don’t we? Perhaps it’s best if you see for yourself what I’m talking about, and then you can tell me what you think. My protagonist brings a poem to her first meeting, expecting there to be a discussion of what it means, after which s...

3 likes

Oh, the Word of It

'Words, words, words. ' This was Hamlet's reply to Polonius' question, 'What do you read, my lord?' (Shakespeare, 1603). By repeating the word three times, Hamlet suggests that what he is reading is meaningless, just words. Literary criticism has - ironically - devoted many words to deciphering the triple use of “word.” Among the interpretations we find: Disdain for superficiality: Hamlet thinks Polonius's curiosity is trivial. He is likely being sarcastic. Emphasis on meaninglessness: By repeating "words," Hamlet suggests that the text he i...

5 likes

20. The Choice

Nasín cando as prantas nasen,no mes das froles nasín,nunha alborada mainiña,nunha alborada de abril.Por eso me chaman Rosa,mais a do triste sorrir,con espiñas para todos,sin ningunha para ti.Desque te quixen, ingrato,todo acabóu para min,que eras ti para min todo,miña groria e meu vivir.¿De qué, pois, te queixas, Mauro?¿De qué, pois, te queixas, di,cando sabes que morrerapor te contemplar felís?Duro cravo me encravachescon ese teu maldesir,con ese teu pedir toloque non sei qué quer de min,pois dinche canto dar pudenavariciosa de ti.O meu cor...

3 likes

19. She who translates is not lost

[From the translator’s journal]I love this poem. Everyone loves this poem. It’s a bit of a mystery, because it seems so sad, dark, troubling, mournful. What is it about people? Why do we all seek sadness at the same time as we’re looking for love, hope, a glint of joy? Why can’t we just follow a path that makes life worth living? I ask, because I’m one of the worst. So I work with this poem, trying to mould it to fit English, insisting it’s a simple task and failing at every step. It never fits, and I never stop trying, but if I give up, wha...

4 likes

18. Right vs. Wrong

Some readers may recall the poem, “Justice by my own hand,” written by Rosalía de Castro, the one that tells the story of a wretchedly poor woman who wreaks her own vengeance on the authorities after losing her children to starvation. She slashes them to pieces. Well, actually, the woman tells her own story. Many readers either skip over it, pretend she never wrote it, insist it’s not to be taken seriously, since it’s just a poem.Rosalía, who is the author and knows what her intentions were, writes about her misgivings in her journal: Will p...

2 likes

17. Dicen que no hablan

Lavinia Rivers was thinking about Dicen que no hablan las plantas, ni las fuentes, ni los pájaros by Rosalía de Castro. She knew something about the poem that the author could not: years later it would be one of her best known, even though it was published in Spanish, in En las orillas del Sar. That was in 1884, but there were some who said the book contained poetry from different times. After two immensely popular books in Galician, this last of all her works was in Spanish. Lavinia was making an effort not to judge this decision, and thoug...

3 likes

Mochi

It was horrible. My dog had been ill for awhile. Very ill. Getting skinnier and skinnier. Not eating, then wolfing down food, then nothing. For months. Fear for him and rushing him to the vet every few weeks.  My dog wasn’t just skinny, she was almost emaciated, like people get in some countries for lack of food. My dog ate, but her body wouldn’t acknowledge the things she put into it. She had been taking medication for thyroid and another for some reason I’ve forgotten. I never missed her doses, because she was my best friend. I wanted...

4 likes

16. Oh no

Rosalía was in Brión, where some of her family lived. She was there to spend a few days with her relatives, but also to carry out some other plans. Brión was not that far from Santiago and the area was the birthplace of many of the writer’s relatives. Luis Tobío had brought the body of a martyr from Cádiz in 1848 and the cult had quickly taken root in Galicia. Santa Minia was Roman and had lost her life when she was fifteen. That had been in 362 under the emperor Julian, or so some sources say.. Tobío had transported the body to his village ...

2 likes