Scribo Scribere
A Literary Blog
I am a writer based in New Jersey. I have a Bachelor’s degree from Harvard University and a Master’s degree from the University of Toronto. I have experience as a German to English translator, a technical writer, and a grant writer. In my writing, I explore myth, legend, and languages. This blog is devoted to my past and future writings. – Johanna Rodda
Category: Uncategorized
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One day, in the afternoon, two weeks after Christmas, as I am busy preparing to go out, when I have put on my favorite outfit and will go to a cafe for a few hours, writing, I am faced with a decision: to wear the diamond necklace, or the green pendant. The diamonds have much…
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At night, when I lay down to sleep and dream, dreaming, I am in Shangri-la. A castle. Enchanted forest. Endless sea. Or maybe, my self, flying through ether, jetting around like nothing. I plumb silent seas, course out to the Venice of my dreams, an island. Wondrous, the realm I am in then. Or perhaps,…
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At my desk I sit, and I stare – the wings of birds so idoneus, as they flit through the air, curling and curveting, light and thin, resting gently on a feeder outside the window of my room, no bigger than half my palm: I could hold them and feel no weight. Watching them, out…
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There is a gentle kind of love in the ritual and the routine of drawing thread through fabric, in and out, lax and taut, like the ebb and flow of life, to forge an image so geometric-perfect, thread crossing over thread, each movement of the needle slight and slow. In I draw the thread. Out…
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The first letter, short and sweet and easy, was written in a casual hand (like children in the playground passing a ball) just to say to a friend from long ago, Hey, how are you, what’s going on? And I had the letter from him, in response. The second took more care, more patience, more…
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It isn’t gold or the One Ring. I doubt it has value at all. I found it downtown in an Irish store, in a bin of jewelry marked down. I combed through the jumble to find it. It slips on my finger just so. On the face of the band, there are holding two hands…
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An object stands in front of me: beautiful for me to see. Fine, with brown leather bound, golden tooling all around. Inside, the quires tightly sewn, folds and pockets that are shown: what genius has made the binding, quires overlaid. In some gracious abbey grounds, the writing in the book astounds: gothic in rotunda script,…
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On the deck railing sat the dove: always and eternal symbol, love. And it imparted, as I started, to look: a coo full-hearted. But the dove was quiet, it was still. It was as if my loved one’s will had sent it to me, as if to say, “I will love you now, always.” And…
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When one day I went searching for the Grail, the cup, the chalice, to wash away my every care in life, I felt like King Arthur, whose mighty knights ranged far and wide for the healing, the paramount, the life-in-all-being, ever-eternal vessel, to give and grant them all they could imagine. I could not help…
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I entered the ballroom with single-minded purpose: I meant to have it out with her. Because of me, she would be an exile from her home and ostracized to a foreign land. To harbor such sentiments as she had is to commit treason toward all of one’s fellows. I was there not to reform how…
