Saturday, May 31, 2008


"The card...where is that card?!" Mike thought, fingering the contents of his wallet in exasperation. "I've finally got the courage to call her, and I can't find her damned business card!" He held the wallet upside down and watched the waterfall of papers cascade to his unmade bed; the crescendo of panic and frustration escalating as he rummaged through the pile of current and obsolete credit cards, train and bus passes, crumpled photos, and lots and lots of business cards: present clients; past clients; new and old friends; cards that screamed to be thrown out.

"It was buff," he recalled, although it had originally been white before months of studying the number with warm and sweaty fingers while mustering his courage. Now, the card was gone.

Mike started a magazine with ingenuity and keen communications skills, but his photographic memory made up for his lack of organization except in times like these. Relying too completely on it cost him several accounts--more than he'd wished, but his tenacity never failed him. So, for the next half hour, he sorted his
wallet, inspecting each item carefully, discarding as he went along. Still no buff card.

Despondent, he fell onto his cluttered bed--the loss of the card blaringly reminding him of his chaotic life. He stared at the ceiling. "Think," Mike, "Think!" He closed his eyes and concentrated. The first three numbers almost immediately leaped to the forefront of his consciousness. But the last four... Just as a child verbally recites each group of abc's to reach that elusive letter, so he did with each number. One...two...three... "Yes! It's three!" He scrambled for his notepad and proceeded, clicking a number mentally, like a burglar searching for that sequence of numbers on the safe which held the treasure.

Glancing at his digital clock, ten to ten glared back at him. He concentrated for ten minutes for the last number. He stared at the seven digits and swore it was the number he had had all along. "Ten o'clock isn't too late. Actually, it could be really romantic. I'll call her!" He visualized the tall, slender brunette in her red, slinky dress, her perfume embracing him as they laughed at the bar, she sipping on a martini. His heart pounded. "But I'm not in her league." "C'mon now, Mike, cut it out." He dialed the number which now felt so right. It rang several times...


"Yes," she answered softly.

"This is Mike. You may not remember me. It's been...several months."

"Mike? Yes, of course, I remember you."

Elation fell short of the feelings he felt. He considered himself not bad looking, was six feet tall with an average build, but wore glasses. He often thought of wearing contacts, but they were too time-consuming for his hectic life.

"I'm glad you called," Mary added.

His courage soared from Brooklyn to Manhattan and back. "Would you like to get together for dinner? Next weekend? Right... Right... Okay. See you then. Good night, Mary."

The night of the date, Mike grew more and more frenetic, changing his Hanes underwear at least a dozen times. He felt lucky, but would be late if he didn't get himself together in fifteen minutes. When he arrived at the restaurant, the maitre d' escorted him to a cozy table in the dimly lit corner at which sat a bespectacled and petite, lovely young woman with porcelain skin and long, red curls which hugged her thinly strapped shoulders. They stared at one another.

"Mike?" Mary asked, adjusting her glasses, wondering whether her prescription needed a change.

"Mary?" Mike asked, mimicking Mary's gestures.

"But, you're not Mike."

The excitement and anticipation hissed from Mike's ego. Mary grinned at him, finding the situation amusing. Mike sheepishly returned her smile.

"Well, I don't know about you, but I'm starving," Mary said playfully.

Mike shrugged and sat down. After ordering wine, Mike slowly relayed what
had had happened. Mary's laughter was appreciated and contagious. They became engrossed in subjects in which they shared common interest. The hours flew by. When they realized they were just one of two couples left, they exchanged awkward silences. Mike was the first to speak.

"Would you care to get together next weekend, Mary?"

"I'd like that very much, Mike."

"But I don't know your telephone number."

"Yes you default that is," she teased.

Mike glanced at her, his lips in the shape of an O, right. Mary smiled.

"Why don't I call you, Mike." She pulled from her wallet a business card. On the back she wrote Mike's telephone number, then placed it in her velvet, emerald green clutch. When they rose, Mike helped her with her velvet, emerald green cape which fell to her petite ankles. They walked into the brisk October night, her red curls springing across her mid-back in sync with a newfound spring in Mike's step. "Thank God I lost that card," he thought.

**Written by Petra Michelle**

Sunday, May 25, 2008

Mr. Haste Makes Waste

...a fable for young children

"Haste makes waste! Haste makes waste!"
Mr. Haste mumbled with disdain.
"I'm tired of hearing my good name used in vain."
Then, set out his reputation to gain.

He hastily wrote the Department of Letters.
And hastily wrote his complaints.
He hastily sealed the envelope and
hastily stamped too.
He hastily mailed the envelope.
Then hastily returned to his room.

Weeks went by with no reply
to Mr. Haste's complaints.
Again, he wrote the Department of Letters
Urging his name not be used in vain.

He hastily sealed,
Hastily stamped,
Hastily mailed too,
Then hastily returned to his room.

Every morning for many mornings,
The time was dawn precisely.
Mr. Haste repeated this hasty routine,
Expecting an answer directly.

"Hooray!" He shouted with glee.
Upon a mailing, he found a letter
perched on his gate railing.

He tore it open and quickly read,
"Dear Mr. Haste:
Thank you, and enclosed are your empty envelopes.
Perhaps the Department of Envelopes would suit you most."

Mr. Haste couldn't believe what he just read.
The words "empty envelopes" lingered in his head.
He hastily searched for the letters he wrote
Which he forgot to place in each envelope.

He searched and searched but searched in vain.
And to his dismay, he heard himself say,
"Haste makes waste! Haste makes waste!"

**Written by Petra Michelle**

Sunday is for Poetry

Do you remember as a child, you could paint or draw anything and your masterpiece would be hung on the refrigerator door? Writing poetry does the same for me. I use poetic license in just about every aspect of my life, not only my writing. So, on this lazy Sunday, I thought I'd sit under the tree and share some of myself with you, through poetry.


Strewn papers of genius
Lay around for years
Unseen only by the dust collected
And deep frown marks rejecting
The words and sentences
That run on, trying to escape the
hand in a catcher's mitt.


Can a writer be so blind
That not a word of herself is understood?
Afraid and paralyzed to see further than
her pen.


My love,
Can you hear the chimes of my rhymes?
All I have most times.
I wonder.
Will you partake, or shun
The chimes of my rhymes.


Jealousy is a silent, secret wish
To change what I am not
To what I never will be.

Long gone is my curly, dark hair
And dark brown eyes
That could not see
My wish to be,

**All poems written by petra michelle**

Friday, May 23, 2008


This blog is dedicated to...of course, bloggers! Yesterday was my first official day of blogging. While I sashayed through your awesome world of sharing personal stories and ventures, there was one heartfelt word which jumped off each blog. Passion!

I am in awe of the dedication and devotion to one's family, friends, job, hobby, craft, cause, journey (politically, spiritually, aesthetically); the list goes on and on. And I now know that to tell a blogger's story takes such commitment, drive, and tenacity; in addition to seriously savvy computer skills.

So to all of you, I am in blog awe and possess the deepest respect for your love and passion. What big hearts you have! Petra

My very first blog

It took some time to get to this point! How long will it take to be a blog master?! But am tenacious and interested in introducing myself. Welcome to my humble world of writing. I hope to be able to share pov's with fellow writers and offer my services to anyone who may be interested. My account at is so that you may be more familiar with what I do. Feel free to post any comments or requests or help on blogging! Petra