Author: jennygracespoetryandcreativewritingtechniques

I am a published poet and short story writer. I have been published in SNHU's the penmen review. https://penmenreview.com/author/jenny-andrews is the link where you can find my poetry and a short story. Currently, I am writing a collection of short stories, and a collection of poetry. I am trying my hand at writing a novel. Well, not a novel, actually. Make that two novels. My passion is writing. My inspiration is Franz Krafka because he managed to see the absurdity of life. Life is all about perspective and who is telling the story. We all see this life through the lens of our experiences. Literature should inspire us to think, to analyze, and to get lost in unfamiliar worlds in which we learn something new about this human existence. It is my hope that my writing challenges the reader to think, and to see a different perspective, as well as be entertained. My faith in Jesus strengthens me and gives me the courage to survive the twists and turns of this life. My faith influences a lot of my writing in that goodness always triumphs over evil, in that love conquers all. I hope you enjoy reading my blog.

Multiplicity of Memo Acquisitions: A Short, Short Story

Note: It has been almost 30 years ago since I worked in the legal department of a major mortgage company. This short, short story is actually based on some “corporate language” that our supervisors and management staff cooked up. I guess they thought all the verbal acrobatics made them sound smart or something, but it made me laugh. I hope you get a laugh out of it, too.

Story:

“What do you suppose it means?” Abigail stared at the pink Post It with the block letters. “Candace, are you listening to me?”

Candace gathered up the loan closing files and inserted them into the alphabetized cabinet slots. “Read it to me. I need to get this done.”

“Okay. Here goes. Legal review specialists and post closers will be reassigned to interface positions with primary goal intentions to achieve and acquire transferrable skills. Steve left this at my cubicle and wants to see me at two o’clock in his office.”

“Uh?” Candace suspended the last file half-way into the alphabetized slot. “I need to read that myself.”

Abigail handed over the pink Post It to Candace and said, “It makes no sense.”

“Steve sent it so naturally it makes no sense,” Candace said as she took the pink Post It. “Interface? Transferrable skills? Uh, why doesn’t he just come out and say what he means? He’s probably the single worst supervisor I have ever had at this mortgage company.”

Abigail eyed the natural scenery landscape posters with peppy little captions such as each step is a step towards greatness which lined the hallway to Steve’s office. She paused and cringed at the sharp pain behind her right eye. The mere thought of him made her migraine flare up.

“Steve, you wanted to see me?” Abigail stepped through the half-opened door.

“Yes, Abigail. Sit. I have been reviewing your work logs. You have slipped from ten complete reviewed files to nine from the usual ten. As a legal review specialist it is imperative that you exhibit team work, therefore, you are assigned a post-closer mentor so that interfacing with other team players will assist you in achieving and coordinating your goal acquisition.”

Abigail stared at Steve as he leaned back in his swivel chair. It sounded as if a drum was thumping inside her head. He swiveled in a half-circle creating a motion that made her nauseous.

“I’ll try to do better, Steve.” She rose to leave as visions of her unpaid medical bills, childcare bills, and late rent replayed inside her pounding head.

Jenny W. Andrews Copyright 2021

Hydrangeas: A Poem

Delicate deep blue petals spill onto the rain-drenched ground.

Little white clapboard house squeezed between two other little white clapboard houses, like life left to gasp at its final defeat.

Nothing ever blossomed there,

except those deep blue hydrangeas Mama grew beneath the black wrought iron banister next to the front steps leading out.

Railroad track across the dirt road, I thought of it as a potential exit strategy in the event that the inevitable occurred.

In front of our little white clapboard house, that railroad track laid itself out among tangled weeds, and escaped hydrangea petals.

Jenny W. Andrews Copyright 2021

Envision Your Revision: A Short Story

It had started off well enough, as these such affairs often do.

Henrietta pressed her lips tightly. She did this whenever she was in deep thought. How exactly had she come to this moment? Certainly, it had not been her intent. The affair with Jasper Jackson, that is. J.J. as she had chosen to call him.

Not a particularly handsome man, nor a particularly prosperous man, nor a particularly intelligent man, neither.

Mississippi summers, it had been told to her by her grandfather Clem, could literally fry the brain. Or, had he meant figuratively?

Well, no never mind. Pastor Jenkins had advised her that it didn’t really matter how it had all got started. The why was the worrying part, and she being a lady, wasn’t about to divulge those details, especially to a Baptist minister who would most certainly turn her personal failings into a Sunday morning series with allusions, hyperbole, parables, metaphors, and all manner of semantic acrobatics, while just barely not revealing her identity.

But, she knew full well that the entire congregation at Mount Gilead Baptist Church would most certainly recognize her. She, as Martha Hennessy had told her, was the train conductor in her own wreck. According to Martha, she had overshot the trajectory of the route, had veered completely off the track, and toppled her own caboose over into the ditch.

“It was the heat.”

“Excuse me?” Mr. Littlefield, her legal counsel, peered over his bifocals at her.

“I had a migraine from the one-hundred and twelve degree temperature. You see I was sweating.”

“The heat is no excuse. We all live here, Henrietta.” Mr. Littlefield sopped his forehead with a white handkerchief.

Judge Claxton thumped his gavel. “Mr. Littlefield, how does your client plead to these charges?”

“J.J. was driving the car.” Henrietta blurted out. “The heat was just too much.” She smiled. Maybe, just maybe, if she could deflect any blame from herself to J.J., then maybe Judge Claxton would just let her go.

Judge Claxton removed his glasses and stared at Henrietta. “We are not talking about him; we are talking about you.”

Henrietta suddenly dropped her head against the table and covered her head with her arms. Hopefully, when she woke up, Judge Claxton and Mr. Littlefield, would have disappeared, just like that self-help book had promised. “Envision your revision,” she began to chant in whispers.

She envisioned a complete revision of the past eighteen months. She laughed, and waited.

Jenny W. Andrews copyright 2021