Timarie Friesen
Writing, Reading, Following Jesus


 

You decide, yes, you can walk the path in the dark and pass the willow trees and birches that bend toward the earth with tangled branches.

The peaceful whoosh of a dove. She landed and gleaned scraps, like Ruth, the gleaner. Ruth, whose arrival initiated and stirred.

A toaster, a mechanic, and romance—all elements from one writing prompt, combined into a story.

Dear Reader, I've been slow to write short stories, but for a reason that's been a gift. In August, I became an editor for Owl's Nest...

Green canopy blazes golden, Bee balm colors and bends.

100-word fiction story I wrote for the University of Iowa Microstory Contest.

Some petals catch the wind and blow to the lawn, where on the grass, a dozen wayward ferns sit, newly sprouted.

Would Elizabeth Clephane mind if I modernized her well-known hymn? I sat with the Scottish writer's hymn, "Beneath the Cross of Jesus,"...

Mainly, I wanted a glimpse of Tiffany stained glass windows inside the downtown building.

I then consider the diverse mix of people at church who serve, and later scribble out mini vignettes to celebrate the faithful.

Calico embers floated up and trailed the night sky like shooting stars. A grand finale, then burn-out. Poof! But some of the embers fell...

The village prickled at the threat of occupying German forces. Colette guessed her neighbors hid behind locked doors with curtains drawn.

Most of the robins flew off soon as the ground froze.

These last weeks my mom led us through the country she adored, and I followed along reluctantly.

I make a U-turn. The driving today tires me. Miles of Iowa roads shuffling kids to sports and summer activities equal a road trip to...

Utilize strong verbs to make adverbs unnecessary. Try the writing prompt.

Update: Fathom Magazine published my poem in Issue 44, September 2021. “Let’s not,” I say, As I hand the shell back. “I don’t want a...

Marla carried the washtub into the kitchen when her toe caught the leg of a chair. Metal clanged after water spilled, but somehow she...

How does a writer tell a story if they can’t think of one to tell? Sometimes I write poems for lack of a plan. Poetry gets words on...

The vinca vine drank in the sunlight, and its leaves, once curled and parched, now looked like mini tea cups filled to the brim. Though...