In Defense of Prejudice

And what’s this got to do with writing anyway? One of my writing colleagues recently published an article about prejudice against beauty. What? Who doesn’t like beauty? We all enjoy seeing beautiful things, places, faces. But what we don’t usually consider is how that pretty face makes us feel. Envious? Intimidated? Intrigued? Superior? Before that

Lost and Found in Santa Monica

Two dauntless dames from Vassar’s Class of ‘54 plan to meet for lunch in Santa Monica. This should be easy, except Alumna Number One lives several miles down the coast and rarely drives her grey Camry into the metropolis of which Santa Monica is a part. She looks up the address on Google and memorizes

What’s in a Word?

What’s in a Word? When my cousin Ruth phoned, I said, “You were nice to call. I bet you remembered this is the day my mother died. “ “Alice,” she said, and I could just see her primming her lips, “nobody says died any more. You really should say

FOOD FOR THOUGHT

  Recess at Reservoir Avenue School wasn’t much fun for her. As a chunky klutzy kid, she was among the last to be chosen for group games. She wasn’t very good at jumping rope because her feet and the rope would entangle. She usually avoided playing marbles because she didn’t want to risk losing her

TACT AND OTHER NICETIES

There was once a judge who always listened with great interest. First he would hear the prosecution’s case, consider the argument, nod, and say, “Hmm, you may be right.” Then he would listen just as carefully to the defense, nod, and say, “Hmm, you may be right.” Finally, one of the lawyers, in a passion

Miss Moore and the Miracle

Reservoir Avenue School was a red brick, two-story building for students in grades kindergarten to fifth. Miss Moore taught second grade, and everybody knew about Miss Moore. Miss Moore once got mad at a boy and choked him around the neck so hard that blood came out of his mouth, and he died. That’s what

Repost: My Awful Christmas Poem

Over the years, I’ve received a lot of Christmas letters with enclosed poems, most often terrible parodies of “A Visit From St. Nicholas.” The meter is faulty, the rhymes wretched. One year, quite a while back, I was inspired to retaliate in kind by Edgar Allan Poe’s immortal “The Raven.”  ©1984, 2012 J. Guenther. A

IT’S ALL IN THE CARDS

          Some time ago she read of a woman who could read the newspaper through her fingertips. Amazing, if true, she thought she wondered if she could duplicate the feat. Starting with the newspaper seemed much too daunting. Even a book seemed too much of a hurdle. She would start with

I Wanna Be a Witch

“I wanna to be a witch,” my four-year-old daughter said. “Are you sure? You don’t like scary things.” “Yes,” she said with a firm drop of her chin. “You know witches usually have big noses, warts, and straggly hair. They wear raggedy black dresses and pointed hats. That’s what makes them witchy looking. And we

THE WOEFUL RANT OF THE WRATHFUL WRAITH

Once she was young and eager. Her future could not have been brighter. Until she fell to literary hell, And emerged as a ghostwriter. Pity that poor ghostwriter. Hear her pitiful moan. She brought you fame and a trademark name. Yet she remains unknown. Give heed to that sad ghostwriter. Respond to her high whine.