Pink Dress and an Axe

Writing Club #2

Jan 14, 2014

Writing Prompt:
Tell this story:  Photo of a woman’s torso in a pink dress holding an axe as large as her torso itself.

We got this one and it took me a few moments to have an idea where to go with it.

“I took it away from him.”  Claire mopped her dripping forehead with the silk handkerchief.  “He can’t have it any more.”  She looked quite proud of herself.

Frank just stared back at her in disbelief.  He likely looked like a ghost-all the blood drained from his face.  He gave a shudder.  There in front of him Claire stood casually in her frosted pink cocktail dress with the biggest axe he’d ever seen in her carefully manicured hands.  “Where’s Cal?”  He tried not to let on he was thinking the worst inside.

“Oh him, I left him over behind the grandstand.  He had no business taking it from me.” Her bright red lips swirled into a smile.  “What are you worried about?  The medic’s tending to him right now.  He's going to live,” she laughed.

Frank’s eyes darted to the sharpened edge.  Was that blood, or maybe it was just his imagination.   A nervous “You're sure?" escaped his lips.  Frank was imaging the worst.  Surely Claire wouldn’t kill her own brother for a trophy.  
His promise to Trish that he would get Cal to the wedding on time was ringing in his ears.  Frank wondered what he was ever thinking when he said he’d be best man?  Probably how hot Claire would look in that short pink dress.  That’s why he hadn’t told Claire the Dryden Lumberjack competition was the same day as her brother’s wedding.  How the blink had she found out?  He never understood her fascination with all this backwoods stuff.  Crazy Calhoun family and their beloved axes and plaid flannel.  

Claire swung the big blade up over her shoulder and he took a big step backwards reflexively.  Hopefully he was out of arm and axe reach.  

            She frowned.  “Cal’s fine.”  Reaching for Frank with a free hand, Claire grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him along.  “I’m thirty points and two minutes ahead in total.  The title’s all mine.  Are you coming or what?”  Now she was getting anxious.  “We’re going to miss it!”

“That’s not the only thing we’re going to miss!  We’re going to be late for the ceremony,” he rebuffed.  “I better go round up Cal so Trish doesn’t get angry.”

“Cal should have told me that the championship was today.  His nuptials will have to wait.  I love me some timber.  This competition is mine!”  Claire trotted off towards the waiting crowd.  With all the fake enthusiasm he could muster, her called after her.  “Show them how it’s done honey.”  Under his breath, he muttered, "Make it quick.”  His grandma always said never come between a woman and what she loves.  Frank thought to himself, especially when she’s holding an axe.  As he headed to the medical tent, to collect Cal, he mused about how he’d never understand her fascination with chopping wood.  In some strange way the shiny pink dress and all its toile only seemed to complement Claire’s tan steel-toed boots.

Tension and Anticipation

Dreams on the cusp of realization…it’s like just before the rain comes.  The promise of refreshment hangs in the air, the sweet scents of the coming shower on the breeze.  It’s close, but you can’t predict the moment the first drop will fall.  Birds sing sweetly in the trees, rejoicing over the summer shower, then as the time draws near, they return to shelter in silence.  The wind awaits its arousal call.  In the calm before the storm, all nature seems to hold its breath and then with a great sigh, the wind awakes, caressing gently the leafy trees.  The distant rain begins its song soft and sweet, growing as it nears to a crescendo of wind and water in symphonic song, drawing near, blessing the parched soil.  The promise of life, refreshment and hope has arrived.

Marvel at the Won Shot Wonder

Marvel at the Won Shot Wonder

June 28, 2013

The won shot wonder

Splinters into pieces

Upon the first strike

Spent like a lit firework shell.

Better to be the tried and true

Sure-footed goat that climbs

Along the cragged slope

Weathering the changing seasons

Hardened when the harshest wind blows

All eyes fall upon the sleek,

The boastfully bright,

While it really is the meek,

That bear the might to last.

Faith

Journal Entry 

May 20, 2013

Harken now to hear my words:

My heart is full of sorrow,

Long have I hoped for help,

Long have I hoped for a miracle.

Will God raise a hand to help

Or allow us to fall down, never to rise again?

I believed in what I saw in my dreams.

I believed that I mattered.

For a decade I have hoped and prayed,

Dreamed dreams I thought contained an answer.

I thought there was a plan.

Now while hope seems to drift away, lost at sea,

I find myself clinging to the life raft of faith.

Lest I sink and drown completely,

The millstone of despair pulling me down.

I find that I never was captain of my own ship.

Not that I ever truly believed I was,

For those lucky few who believe

That they whisper to the wind

And it fills their sails

And to those who can always navigate by the stars

Because their sky is so clear.

I hope it remains so.

Most of us eventually find

We no more control the wind than the tiny grains of sand it drives.

Does personal happiness truly matter?

I am no longer sure.

Perhaps, in no more than a few chosen moments,

For to love means to hurt.

The world is a deceptively dark place,

Where corrupted things creep.

Slowly dying, it longs to lull us all to sleep.

From dust to dust, a weary path we trod.

Like a cat, we chase after flitting beams of golden light,

Building castles upon the sand only to watch them crumble

When the rain begins to fall too hard.

All too soon to find the only thing that remains is faith,

Better hope it has been firmly placed when the mighty gales come calling.

Playground

July 13, 2013

Spin me wide, spin me round,

Daddy, don’t let me hit the ground!

Swing me up to touch the sky,

Reach up, reach up, push me high.

Teeter totter, Daddy don’t set me down.

Up again, up again or I will frown.

Time to play, time to talk.

You were there when I learned to walk.

I may be small, but I will grow.

One day you will reap the seeds you sow.

Simple play is all I need

Remember, I will follow your lead.

Time will fly and so will I.

One day I will be gone, by and bye.

Darkness

Darkness

Writing Club Exercise #2

Mar 4, 2014

Prompt: “I was willing to go to…….”

The night was pitch black.  Somewhere that vortex of ink surely was a new moon.  I was willing to go to any lengths to get out to the old cottage for an evening off from the clamor of the manor and all its assortment of occupants.  I say “was” because as the sun had set and I was slowly swallowed by the night, a sea of regret washed in and I had begun to drown in my own perspiration as my candle extinguished in the humidity.  The dank scent of the marsh grew stronger as I struggled to find the trail.  A voice from my youth chided me to stay put.  It was the wisest course of action when one is lost.  There’s a greater chance of being found. 

With what I had left behind locked doors, I did not want to be found.  Had I locked the doors?  The nagging thought sent tingles running up and down my spine in alarm.  That menagerie of houseguests would form one search party that I hoped would never find me. 

As I groped through the black dank void, for the path I had lost.  My fingers faltered treacherously over slimy things and yet I was desperate enough not to draw back in repulsion.  Here and there my foot found a root and I caught myself, silently flailing and cursing once more over my late departure.  What would have been a ten-minute hike to solace had quickly become a blind nightmarish adventure.  In my mind’s eye all sorts of creatures great and small crept just out of reach.

I could hear the pitter patter of scurrying to evade my clumsy steps.  A howling solo broke out in the distance and a rondo began as other creatures joined in reply.  This only served make my skin crawl.  Hopefully the lonely choir members were just as lost to the darkness in their little niches as I.

The lake rested due south of the house so the cottage sat just west along the shoreline.   I could hear water lapping softly, trickling and teasing at the smooth pebbles in its wake.  The marsh lay just past that and was full of quicksand.  Without bearing or mark, for all I knew I was walking in circles.  There was a rustle in the trees behind me and I froze.  The question rose hauntingly, “WHOOOO?” With a shudder, it grew clear as the moonbeams that began to light my way.  "Dark heart," I whispered, "Me, it's myself I truly fear."

She could hear them living all through the house.

Writing Club Exercise

Jan 17 2012

Prompt: “She could hear them living all through the house.”

I think we had 10-15 minutes to respond to this one.  I haven't quite decided where to take it.  It didn't help that mid writing, my computer shut down and I lost what I had originally written.  It definitely pays to save your work intermittently. 

   Rats, she hated rats.  Gnawing, scampering beneath the floor boards, behind the walls.  One step had sent the entire village into motion.  As the floorboard creaked below her, the patter of a thousand feet broke out across the floor.  Sarah shuddered as one sought sanctuary beneath the faded red chaise lounge, its small hairless tail protruding defiantly in protest to the intrusion. 

   The small beady eyes seemed to stare back at her from all the dark corners of the large, drafty foyer no matter what direction she looked.  It had to be her imagination.  Would the filthy little beasts really stick around to keep her company?  She stepped forward from the threshold onto the threadbare doormat.  A puff of dust gusted up making her eyes water.  So much for her makeup, she could feel the mascara running down her cheek.

  What else was new?  She knew as soon as she had laid eyes on place that her inheritance was worthless.  It would cost more to make the house livable than the place was worth.  Old Aunt Ida couldn’t have left her some bonds or even a few furs and some pearls.  At least the old crone could have picked up a broom once and a while. 

   It hadn’t stopped Sarah from gingerly pushing the rusty gate open and heading down the weedy cobblestone walkway her two-inch heels clicking along all the way.  Now curiosity turned to sheer disgust as her eyes scanned the mess before her.  Tattered curtains shifted gracefully on the breathe of fresh air from the open door behind her.  Was it the cool air that made the hair on her neck stand on end?  A shiver ran down her spine. 

   The sun was setting now, the warm light sinking below the horizon. With a sudden gust of icy air the wooden door slammed shut behind her.  Sarah nearly jumped out of her skin.  Her eyes were wide open now.  Panic over took her for a moment.  She spun around, groping for the brass knob in the dwindling light.  Finally grasping it, she frantically attempted to turn it.  Finding it wouldn’t budge, she gave it a rough twist with both hands.  She gasped as with a snap it came off in her hands.   Just as the light left the room quick as a candle snuff, a cold hand settled upon her shoulder.