Never Judge a Book By Jacqueline Cioffa Here’s the thing about writing. When someone risks pencil to paper and is fortunate enough to convey an emotion about the unique way they view the world well that’s art, magic and creative expression. I am not a brand. God, I hate that word. Although, I have been. Modeling, acting and all the various exhausting pretend faces I’ve worn just to fit in.
Take a Picture, or Not By Jacqueline Cioffa This face. This face has been scrunched and smothered by new new talc scented infant kisses This face has been covered in mud, dirt, blood, open-wounded, stitched, patched and put back together This face has been brave, kind and stubborn pout five-year-old defiant This face has been bullied and attacked by mean girl high school drama and self-important syndrome This face has
In His Boots The mementos we hold on to, heirlooms we choose not to discard and throw away. All the traditional, routine ways we try to live inside the memory of someone, some one precious, beloved. To feel them near in the physical awhile longer can seem foolish and nonsensical. It’s ridiculous to think an oversized, outdated, uncomfortable pair of black boots with fleece lining and thick rubber soles hold
The Coolest Thing About Me I have arrived at the supposed highway, halfway mark. That’s a median guess based on statistics, there are no guarantees. I have learned a few lessons along the way. I am not more of any old thing, prettier, richer, kinder, or smarter. Sure, I was granted a great big superficial life for a brief moment filled with stuff, lots and lots of stuff. All disposable.
Looking Glass and The Windowpane By Jacqueline Cioffa Let’s face it; there’s no fooling. The sagging skin, the wrinkled face, the ridiculous forty something woman in short skirts and bottled-up Botox. The gravitational pull and the eventual flight back home were booked in advance. You already hold the winning ticket. I recognize the faces in the street, the fear, the familiar grimace and disgust at the sideways glance in the
The Highway Halfway Mark by Jacqueline Cioffa I wonder, I do. I cannot help but wonder what’s down the road from the place I have ever truly called home. The wood and grass and nails and bolts, the wet familiar dew smells and giggling baby sounds.The joy and the sorrow. I can’t help but observe and wonder. The funny, peculiar, crooked way of seeing the world that is all my own. The structure has cracks, fissures
Waiting on Oprah I close my eyes and can almost see the perfect fairytale life I envisioned in my wildest dreams. Dear Fantasy (Oprah), “I feel that I am a very fortunate person …” I was fifteen. Fifteen, gawky, wickedly uncomfortable in my so called ‘model frame.’ Somehow fifteen was the perfect age to concoct wild fantasy adventures and the fastest way out of a stifled, small town. There was
I am no different. I am so very different from before. reflect. Oddities of a world, in free fall. Every thing is change. The Vast Landscape. Perspective. Flux. Gotta keep up. So they say. Who are they? Tinnitus. Hush now. Walking away. Different.