Words Light Wildfires

June 18, 2017

Words fell like snow,

Like ashes.

Burning through. Smolder in the dark.

Bits of paper and ink like

Destructive little darts.

Crushing little morsels that sour on the tongue.

Hold them in and they eat you from the inside out in acrid bitterness bites.

Release them to the air so foul,

To rest upon the unattended and unintended ear.
Words light wildfires.

The hand you burn now, later you might wish to hold.

Best to set words loose to sear the page.  

Write it out by heart.

Punch lines.

A simple piece of paper set upon by rage, breathed in fire forged.

As coals cool, sent to dive bomb the waste bucket.

Venting catastrophic spew.

The trash can take it.

Inferno diverted.

Cooler heads prevail.

Long term treasure spared.

Marsh Mellow

April 24, 2018

Another story from writing club.  

Time limit: 25-30 minutes, well honestly, I am not sure because this prompt took every available second!  

Prompt: Everyone chose a word on the spot and then wrote them down. Then we read them off. The goal: make a story with the chosen words.  (I chose sycamore.)

1.    Raccoon

2.    Sycamore

3.    Cow

4.    Marshmallow

Marsh Mellows

Beneath the tree Samuel sat for hours. It had become his quiet space, a place for reckoning and peace.  Why Pa had chosen this sycamore of he never knew?  Pa had been gone for many years now, gone soon after Samuel was half as tall and toddling around down by the brook at the bottom of the hill.  

He fell in up to his neck the day the tree was planted.  Pa had left his work and chased after Samuel’s squeals as he floated.  Samuel laughed as he remembered he’d been half way to the marsh before Pa pulled him out.  Pa hugged him and tanned his hide good.  Big firm hands like bear paws could put you back on your feet or make you wish you’d minded Pa’s words.  Marsh mellows, Pa had laughed, it ain’t good to stay angry.  The marsh mellows everything.  The pair listened to the crickets and singing frogs.

The wind whispered through the leaves, thoughts and memories of how he and Molly picnicked there in the shade. The trunk wasn’t near as thick then, but the tree made a nice shadow in the afternoon sun.  Molly met him many a time to read to him.  She was so sure she could learn him some words, but words had never been his friend like Molly.  She’d left him though once she’d grown.  Gone off to school in the big city and never returned to sit beneath the tree with him. 

Meanwhile Samuel had grown, fenced one thousand acres of land, watched over his father’s cattle.  Old Billy had joined him then.  The old retriever was a mean beast when it was time for milking. He’d round up the herd and have them at the barn for milking lickty-split.  Never was such a good dog.  Too bad he’d met up with that rabid raccoon.  Could have saved him if he’d had shots like they’ve got now days. Samuel buried his hound beneath the sycamore.  

Through the years the roots probably cradled the Old Billy’s grave.  Samuel wasn’t sure of the exact spot.  That didn’t matter now.  The grass grew long in the field.  Samuel’s days of herding cattle were all but memories.  

Beth came into his life late and blew out like a brief candle flame.  She shared the shade of the tree and Samuel’s home.  No living children followed.  Beth just couldn’t carry them and all three babes laid to rest the day they were born.  As husband and wife, Samuel and Beth, together they sought the peace of the fields. To sit and just be, in grief of empty arms and yet full.

She was buried just off the south of the tree with a simple stone.  As one hand rest upon the soil, Sam marveled at the stillness of the earth. Everything moved above it.

Samuel had never wanted to climb the tree, to reach higher, to see more.  As his chest rose and fell tighter and tighter.  He knew deep within.  He didn’t have to climb the tree to see Jesus.  He’d have a good view right here.

Sparrows

April 24, 2018

      Some more writing club fun.  Writing something for the joy of writing.  If you are a writer, you need a writing club, seriously.  It's great fun to get together with other people that just love writing stories on the spot or talking endlessly about anything literary.  

      For me, it's a free for all write when I get that prompt.  I don't have to write something pretty. Heck, I don't have to sell it to anyone.  It might be serious, or rattling on ridiculous.  It's pure intellectual or maybe stress relieving fun.  I write to suit whatever the prompt is on the piece of paper pulled from the box.  

     When the time is up, we read and enjoy stories spiralling out from one common vantage point to a myriad of possibilities, some serious, some darkly funny or maybe light-hearted.

      I admit this prompt was tough.  Nothing came to mind immediately and I could hear the clock ticking and the time running out.  This story came to me in a slow trickle at first.  

Prompt: "A man can bring back the dead, but every time he does, his life span shortens."

Time: 25 minutes

Sparrows

      The first time it happened, Harold hadn’t even known it was his fault.  He’d been out for a run through town.  There were a couple of kids playing in the yard.  Harold waved as he passed by.  The little terrier dropped the ball the kids just tossed it and ran across the street towards him.  He hadn’t even noticed the car coming.  There was thud and the dog lay still in the road.  The kids were crying.  

      Even though the accident wasn’t his fault, he couldn’t bring himself to leave. Kneeling down, he picked up the little wretch and carried it off the road.  Harold had been sure the animal was dead as still as it was in his arms, but by the time he reached the sidewalk, the dog twitched.  As he laid it down in the grass to check, children circling round.  The dog yelped, opened its eyes, nipping at Harold’s hand, catching his thumb.  

            The children shrieked with joy and then started agape.  Harold was busy wiping the bloody thumb on his t-shirt to think anything of it then.  He carried on, seeing as the dog took after its ball again.  That was the day his hair had turned gray.  

            Harold didn’t put two and two together until the starling hit the picture window, snapping its neck.  The loud thwap drew him away from his crossword puzzle.  Clearing up its little broken body, head dangling, he felt sorry for the poor thing.  The bird suddenly struggled in Harold’s hands.  Mortified as its neck swung back into place, he threw his hands up tossing the creature in the air.  It flew away into the oak outside his home.   Later one of his molars fell out in his hand as he brushed his teeth.

            Next there was the dead rabbit in the flowerbed when he was planting tulip bulbs. The osteoarthritis set in.  It put an end to jogging.  

            Around the same time, Harold found out his neighbour’s 5 year old son, Ben, was going for tests.  The boy had been sick off and on for a while now.  A week later there was talk around the block Ben had been diagnosed with some rare bone cancer.  Poor kid, just started life and was getting pumped full of poisons on a regular basis. 

            Six months later, Harold donned his black suit.  With a deep breath, he stood on the porch just enjoying the sunset leaning on his cane.  The evening wind was warm and fresh.  Rain was coming tomorrow his bones told him.  Life carries on.  More things grow wither and die with the seasons.  He turned to lock the door, then paused and left it be.  

            He set out down the street for Hanson’s Funeral Home to pay his respects. What would be would be.  If he could spare one more little sparrow…..

Ghost Ship

Writing Club

January 9, 2018

This story is a bit scruffy.  I was typing to the last minute to get it done in 20 minutes.  I have to admit, I did edit before posting.  It's a little dark and disgusting, but not every story should be coming up roses.  That's what makes a timed writing prompt fun-letting the imagination roll with the tide and wild seahorses loose.  Hmmm. Seahorses not so quick. Barracudas better?

Time allotted: 20 minutes

Prompt:  "Wake up! They’ve come aboard during the night."

            Gert pounded on the door.  "Wake up!  They've come aboard during the night!"

            What came aboard?  They couldn't have reached harbour already? Half a sleep, Bill rubbed his groggy face and stretched, wondering if it was his turn for watch already?  Couldn’t be.  The sun hadn’t woke yet.  He wasn’t due till half past 5.  All Bill wanted to do was roll over in his hammock to face the wall and put a pillow over his head.  The rocking ship would sink him back to dream land in a wink.  

Now that he was up, he couldn’t ignore the scurrying and scratching.  As the clanging and clattering began, he swung out of his hammock a little to swiftly and landed face first on the floor.  Finding his sea legs, he ambled across the room and let the rocking of the boat sink him into a chair to tug on his boots.  

            That was odd, his boots hadn’t had any holes before.  One boot began to dance and flopped over.  The midnight occupant rolled out and scuttled across the floor.  In the dark cabin, Bill made out a small ball of fur and a skinny tail.  Ship rat.  Picking up the closest weapon his fingers fumbled over, he threw a wooden clog at it. Old Dutchie’d never know Bill borrowed his shoe.  It struck the little beastie satisfactorily, stopping it fast.  

            With a smile, Bill swayed towards the portside door and gave it a hearty push. There was a gale going on outside. Gert ran past him along the deck. Dutchie and Scooter were yelling into the wind something mighty fierce and hammering away on something the far side of the boat. Something rushed over his toes.  The waves were coming on strong, but it wasn’t a wash of water.

            Bill rubbed his eyes.  The floor boards were moving.  They looked alive.  He’d forgotten his specks in the cabin.  As he turned to run back to grab them, that’s when he spied the sea of vagrants, hairy and hungry.

            Gert ran by again, passing him a spear.  Flabbergasted, Bill froze.  Everything was covered in rats.  Scurrying up over his feet, scrambling up his pants.  Beating them off as they bit and scratched, he stumbled over them, stepping on little writhing bodies.  

            Torch in hand, Dutchie appeared from the bow.  “Ghost ship.  We struck in the dark and held fast.  Now that we're freed, do we set her alight?”  

            

            "A little late for that.  Her passengers have already disembarked."  Gert shouted as he skewered one.

            As the horde flowed below deck, Bill’s only thought was, “What happens when all the grain in the hull is gone?”

The Cursed Closet

March 13, 2018

Writing Club

Reading affects writing.  I find one good story makes for another.  I've been delving into my son's library lately.  I relish a good fantasy!  Probably why it's trickling into my spontaneous thought process.  And I'll admit fantasy is fun because it can float off in any direction.  It makes for quick prose because you can just follow your own crazy logic instead of remaining grounded in reality.

Time: 20-25 minutes.  

I'm guessing on the time allotted on this one and I was writing up to the last second.  I had to tone the details down so I could squeeze a story in. 

Prompt:  "Lucile dragged the --------out of the closet.  It didn’t look bad for something that was --------."

“All you do is complain about that hall closet.  Why don’t you do something about it?”  

Arnie Botts was busy tying his boots with a tight double knot as he brought up the daily sore spot with his wife Lucile.  He tugged his purple trench coat, the patched one off the peg and wrapped his scarf around his neck.  

It was bad enough to mention the closet out loud.  He couldn't meet Lucile’s eyes.  They were probably burning holes in the back of his coat this moment.  

         His eyes darted to the topic of contention.  One innocent looking burled oak door with a gleaming brass door knob. What waited behind the door brought on almost every row.

         Lucile was stomping her foot.  Arnie dared to look at her.  

         “You know how frightening it is just to open the door.”  She chided.  “It’s an all-day project.  One I really shouldn’t take on alone.”  

         Arnie bravely gave her a peck on the cheek and opened the front door to dash into the daylight, off to another day mending other people’s misfortunes.  Too bad he couldn’t just shrug off his own. 

Honestly, he hoped Lucile would pull on her hip waders and rubber gloves and dig in.  Arnie’s favourite hat was on the top shelf somewhere in the jungle that was the front hall closet and he missed it.

         Lucile kissed him back and wished him well he left.  As the door closed behind him, she heard the shudder and thump, thump of items loosing their ground and falling in the closet beside her.   She groaned and opened the door.

         Dodging to the side, prepared for the riptide of goods ready to come free of containment in a landslide.  A basket ball bounced by, a fishing rod fell forward, some lumber lurched out as the main bulk fell out into the foyer.  

         What would she lay eyes on now?  Yesterday, it was a dragon, the bearded kind, green and still smoky from fire breathing. She popped the extinguisher in its mouth, slammed the door shut and wished it away.  

Today was no better, lush green ferns filled the dark void below the top shelf where Arnie’s hat used to sit.  Two yellow eyes met hers in the darkness.  Today she’d do battle with a Bengal.  The tiger sat in the corner.  Lucile picked up her sword from the umbrella stand.

         With a deft strike of her blade into the depths of the massive maw of the beast, Lucile retrieved the old fur coat from the closet.  It didn’t look bad for something that had just jumped from one dimension to the next.  She gave it a good beating.  Out fell Arnie’s favourite hat and a few dust bunnies.  Lucile tossed the coat back in, the closet gave a roar as she swung the door closed with a shudder.

Time's up.  I see Lucile left alone with Arnie's hat resting on the teak floor boards.  Should she pick it up?  Hmm.  I bet there's something under it.  I want to expand this story.

 Housework is kind of adventurous in Lucile's world.  I could see this story unfolding as I wrote it down.  Too many fun ideas of what the closet could lead to.   Good ole escapism, cause I hate housework.  Who doesn't have way too much stuff in their hall closet?  I'm no minimalist myself.

         

Know Thy Self

Jan 9, 2018

I'm finally getting back to writing club meetings.  Fast fiction with friends is fun.  You can't be too precious or too wordy.  When the timer goes off, it's time to read.  From one writing prompt come a host of varied and entertaining stories.  Time to start posting some again so they can escape the oblivion of my computer and go wander like bubbles in the virtual world.  Pop up and be free.

Time allotted: 20 minutes

Prompt: "She studied her face in the mirror."

Brenda stared the person opposite her.  Did she know the woman staring back?  She had seen her before, but she just couldn’t put her finger on when, but she was sure.

Continuing along the hallway, she glanced someone joining her out of the corner of her eye.  Another woman.  Brenda had the sinking feeling she should know this person with a glass eyed stare.  Two eyes, one brown and one blue.  Heterochromia really narrowed it down.  One ski slope nose.  She didn’t like that ski slope nose, shoulder length hair, asymmetrical cut, and a scar along her chin.  The stranger was dressed in jeans and a khaki blouse just like Brenda.

Brenda turned right, following along the mirrored corridor.  The same woman walked along on either side in perfect rhythm.  Brenda stepped to the side, and sat on the bench in the corner.  The other woman followed suit matching her movements and multiplied by five. 

As she looked at the reflection opposite, the image folded on itself infinitely, multiplying the woman she did not recognize.  Yet, this was her.

Brad’s idea to cure her by walking the hall of mirrors was growing more and more unsettling.  It wasn’t working, instead her confusion grew.  Why couldn’t she hold the memory of herself?

Brenda looked intensely into her reflection.  She touched her cheek and the reflection followed suit.  The knowledge that nothing and everything had changed.  One bump on the head.  She may have lost herself in the accident and though she found herself again, she’d always look into the face of someone new.  Facial agnosia, the doctor called it.  She marvelled at her inability to know her own image.  Maybe she’d learn to embrace the stranger that stared back anew with each blink of the eye.  She studied her face in the mirror.  Even with the scar, the person looking back was actually kind of beautiful.  "Hey, survivor, take a breath," she smiled.

I would have loved 5 more minutes for this one to tie it up at the end, but maybe it's better tied up briefly.  
Even when you can recognize yourself, sometimes you don't really like who you are when you look around 360°.  Acceptance of the things you can't change, healthy, but tough.  I admit, something I have't mastered.