Paging all writers- it’s free write time #FiveMinuteFriday <–Click to Tweet this

This is where a brave and beautiful bunch gather every week to find out what comes out when we all spend five minutes writing on the same topic and then sharing ’em over here.

How to Join:

Want to know how Five Minute Friday got started and how to participate? All the details are here.

Featured Five Minute Friday:

And every week I’ll pick a post that caught my eye and share it down there in my side bar – see where it says “Featured #FiveMinuteFriday”? Yea -that could be you! Hop on over and visit some folk who make fireworks in just five minutes. They inspire me.

Meet the #FMFParty Writers:

And did you know there’s a whole community of writers that connect online before the prompt goes live on Friday nights? They use the Twitter hashtag #FMFParty and are about the most encouraging group around.

Now, set your timer, clear your head, for five minutes of free writing without worrying about getting it right.

1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking.
2. Link back here and invite others to join in.
3. And then absolutely, no ifs, ands or buts about it, you need to visit the person who linked up before you & encourage them in their comments. Seriously. That is, like, the rule. And the fun. And the heart of this community..

Oh and Ahem, if you would take pity and turn off comment verification, it would make leaving some love on your post that much easier for folks!

OK, are you ready? Please give us your best five minutes on:::

Home…

GO

Sometimes it’s baseball and apple pie. Sometimes it’s summer under Fourth of July skies and Traverse City cherry festivals. It’s little league and Labor Day and leaning into a country that’s offered me more family and memories than I ever could have imagined at 18. But sometimes home is a line of gumboot dancers stomping their way along back streets of Gold Reef City. It’s a Southern Cross serenade and my own three ululating with the shrieks and wails of glee of bursting through those Jo’burg airport doors. It’s dad with his glasses misted up and Wanda wrapping her arms around all three of my kids. It’s Jackson and Karabo reacquainting across balloons and toy cars.

Sometimes home is a Spur mushroom burger and a tall, cold glass of Appletizer. It’s the boys pushing off as high as they can feet stretched for a purple sky under the Jacaranda tree at the top of my father’s driveway. It’s tea at four in the afternoon, melktert and koeksisters and in the late evenings when kids have finally exhausted themselves asleep it’s droe wors and a glass of Amarula around the fire.

Home tastes like Ouma’s rusks and Five Roses tea. Smells like dry Karoo dirt and jasmine climbing up the outside of our thatch roof cottage. It’s the sound of Joshua and Luke swapping stories and their wives laughing with our kids. It’s Dutch accents and all these syllables of welcome wrapped around us in more languages than Pete would like. It’s a house full of kids in so many different shades of family – all these relationships winding themselves around my sinews and walking me back into a time out of time where I know my people and I speak the language.

STOP



 

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