Goal

the prompt: We want to know what your goals and ambitions are for your writing, in 300 words or less. 


A long time ago, I used to make up stories. Write them down and sometimes illustrate them.

I took creative writing in high school. Even a poetry class.  I wrote. I have little journal books of crappy teen angst poems. The stories I wrote?  I don't know where they are. Long decomposed in some landfill I expect.

It all got lost.  In growing up and boys and work. Then motherhood and marriage.  Yes the mommy part came first.

The stories were still there. Locked in my head. Told and retold to the invisible passenger as I drove my intergalactic fighter or horse drawn cart to work or the grocery.

Pieces of elsetime.  Glimpses of otherwhen.

I can remember my mother telling me long ago she could see me at a typewriter, mixed drink in one hand, cigarette in the other, cranking out books.

Didn't happen.

Yet.

But I have taken a step. Sitting in front of a keyboard, coffee mug in one hand, cigarette in the other.  Learning how to pull  pieces and glimpses of elsetime and otherwhen out of my head and put them together.

Telling those stories.  Flying my magic carpet through the Internet, babbling away to You, my invisible passengers.

My Goal?

Simple.

Don't stop.

Hirelings

This week we asked you to use the words “candlestick”, “scarlet”, and “library”, inspired by one of my favorite movies (and games) Clue: The Movie.

The three boys stood in the center of the room. They supposed it could have been called a library once. There were books, though so heavy in dust they could barely make out the edges, much less the titles. Tattered wall hangings were mostly hidden by ropey cobweb drapes.

The room smelt damp and moldy. No air moved, yet dust motes danced about in the light of a flickering candle

The old man, who claimed to be a sorcerer stood behind a wooden lectern, his face eerily lit by the same candle. The four foot candlestick it sat atop was intricately carved with leaves and beasts that twitched with each flicker of the flame.

He looked the boys over. Young street toughs, more full of themselves than sense. They chuckled loudly with false bravado. Sadly they were all he had for the task at hand.

Finally he addressed them. “You believe you can take on this quest? You are certain you can complete this task I ask of you? You understand, once you accept, there is no failure.”

One of the boys stepped forward, “We’re here, ain’t we. You said we get paid up front for this.” He looked at his friends for support, their nods urged him on. “Well, show us the money, then we’ll get the job done.”

“Will you now. Then you won't object to signing an agreement?”

The boy rolled his eyes, “Whatever, yeah, we can sign ,you just pay up front, like you said.”

“Very well, we shall proceed.” The sorcerer opened the book that lay on the podium and read the details of the contract aloud.

When he finished, one by one the young toughs stepped forward to sign. Each surprised by the prick of the pen and the scarlet ink that forged the geas and bound them to their fate.

Ye Olde Shoppe

This week, I offer you this photo.(the photo is a sky full of red, yellow, and blue umbrellas)

Go where ever it leads.

You have a generous 500 words.

The showroom was eerily quiet. She preferred shopping early to avoid being rushed and distracted from her quest, but this emptiness was unsettling.

She'd found the shop while surfing the web. Her favorite dealer had closed its doors for good shortly after her last purchase.  She should have upgraded several years ago, but she hated buying from strangers.

She wandered haphazardly from one model to another. They were all fairly similar. The only difference she could discern was in color.  And only three colors seemed to be available.  Primary colors.

She sighed audibly and cast her eyes over the display one more time. The blue was not the right shade for her eyes.  The yellow would be impossible to keep clean.  The red, well the red was just too risque. After all, one must keep up appearances.

She clutched her bag a bit closer and brushed a speck of barely visible dust from her long skirt. Habit made her pat the hat atop her tightly coiffed hair. Just as she turned toward the exit a voice called out.

"I'm so sorry Miss, I'd no idea anyone was here this early."  The salesman looked genuinely apologetic, flashing a hopeful smile. "Please, may I show you the new options we offer in our most popular models?"

"Options?  Really all I require is a smooth ride and low maintenance." She took another step toward the door. "And I was specifically looking for something in a dark grey, or at least midnight blue."

"Oh. I'm afraid we don't have anything darker than the red."  The young man looked around the showroom dejectedly.  His shoulders slumped as his eyes reassured him there was no other color than the bright primaries.

She looked at him a little closer.  He was very young. Not much older than some of her charges.

"How long have you been employed here...Peter?" She looked back to his face from his name tag.

"This is my first week. It's been very slow.  Not many looking for these anymore I guess."  He shrugged sadly.

She chuckled, "No, not many. But enough.  Alright, young man, show me those options."

His delighted grin lifted her earlier unease, "Oh, yes!  Right this way Miss..."

"Poppins, Mary Poppins."  She followed him back to the display.  Maybe that red wasn't so bad after all.

Game

The Prompt: Olympic athletes are showcasing their talents on a global stage, and we’d like you to choose your best event for this Friday’s link up. Choose one of the following prompts and come back to link up on Friday.

The 100 Meter Sprint

100 words on a conflict, competition, or game.

The Road Race

300 words on a topic of your choice. The only catch? Your setting must be London, Beijing, or Rio de Janeiro.

Synchronized Diving

Partner up with another Write on Edge writer. You each have 450 words to write about a conflict between two characters; each writer should represent a single character’s point of view.(I chose the 100 meter sprint.)

"One, two, three, four, five, sixseveneightnineten!
Here I come!" 


"Oh no, you found me!"


I found you...I win!"


"Yes, you win."


"Let's race!  I'm racing!  Catch me!
Did I win?"


"You win."


"Yay!  I win!"


"Run with me!
Play with me!
Your'e it...close your eyes!
Count!"


"I am, I am!
One , two ,three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten...ready or not, here I come!"


"Do you see me?"


"Yes, boy, I see you.
Ah ha!  I found you!
We win again!"


"Come on, Gramma!"


"Wait for me..."


"I love you Gramma."


"I love you too, Kiddo..."

Secrets

The prompt:  I gave you a tiny poem by Robert Frost to inspire you this week:

The Secret Sits

We dance round in a ring and suppose,
But the Secret sits in the middle and knows.

Sionn of Clan MacGoulan kept his distrust of the old woman well hidden. He knew her power from experience, and she’d promised these would be the last tasks she’d require of him.

“Be here, the second full moon from today, boy. You'll take the child at birth.” Lillian told him.

“Does she know the child is being taken from her? What if it carries the same taint as its mother? She was clawed by those hell hounds, she’s cursed.”

Sionn couldn’t forget the scene inside the MacClarren clan chief’s house. Pools of blood, the mangled bodies of the clan. The mangled body of his twin brother, Taog, there for his wedding feast. His betrothed alone had survived, though not untouched.

Lillian’s sharp voice brought him back, “She’ll know when the child is gone. I’ll not have a squalling brat getting in my way.”

“But the curse…” Sionn started.

“I know my business boy! The child is clean, and of MacGoulan blood. She is your problem. The mother is mine.”

“It’s a girl child? Are you sure, witch?”

Lillian snorted, “you call me witch, yet question my knowledge?” She glanced sidelong at him. “You have three boys. Be here, take your wife the girl child she wants.”

**********

Annag knew Lillian would be angry that it was taking her so long to complete her errands. She’d make sure to fill both baskets well with the roots and herbs the old witch and sent her to gather.

Though her body was heavy with pregnancy, she felt surprisingly strong. Whatever brew the old woman had been forcing on her had been good for her. The limp from a childhood accident was nearly gone, though she still pretended it for Lillian.

She stayed for the sake of her unborn child. None of the neighboring clans would give her sanctuary. They all knew about her wounds and what they meant.

Annag prayed the end of her pregnancy would not mean the end of her immunity to that curse.

She’d been using the many errands to assemble a cache of supplies. When her child came, they’d escape this prison. She’d find a way to live clanless and raise her child.

As she approached the cottage, she heard voices. Her heart began to pound with fear as she recognized the voice of her once to be brother-in-law conversing with her captor.

“And what of Donnchadh’s blade? Have you found it yet? Is it with you?” Lilian demanded of sionn.

“I have not. Ive searched the ruins of MacClarren and the land around it. Perhaps the faerie reclaimed it.”

Lillian replied with scorn. “Faerie. Fool! Keep searching, I want that sword, it’s the only thing could have killed those beasts!”

Annag's eyes narrowed, she purposefully rustled the brush she had hidden behind. The voices stopped and she heard Sionn's feet hit the earth as he trotted away.

She limped heavily around the bushes, her baskets all but dragging the ground.

“What took you, girl? It can’t take all day to gather a few leaves.” Lillian was angry, and not entirely with Annag.

Annag dropped her eyes to the woman’s feet, “I’m sorry, milady. It’s hard, getting up and down. The babe is heavy in me.”

“You're weak. Perhaps more duties will strengthen you.” She sneered and turned away.

“Yes milady” Annag replied meekly. Her eyes glowed with hatred at the witch’s back as she thought, “You’ll never find my father’s blade.”








And a little more of Annag/Anne Marie's story....

Downtime

     The room was comfortably cool. The walls colored in shades of peacock blue. Three of four lined with shelves from dark wooden floor almost to the eggshell ceiling. A lacy candelabra adding more to the decor than lighting.

     The fourth wall rose over a long oaken desk, just inside the door, filled with electronic paraphernalia. The industrious hum of hard drive was punctuated with bursts of cooling fan.

     Scattered dots of LED lights winked in blues, reds, and greens as the equipment attended its various tasks. Searching for specific words and phrases across the World Wide Web. Bookmarking and flagging those that matched the criteria set for it.

     From the fog gray suede of her chair, Anne Marie MacClarren looked up from her reading. She breathed in the scent of the space. The musk of old paper spiced with a variety of inks, that was subtly interlaced with the ozone of electronic exhalation.

     She scanned the rows of scrolls carefully sealed in protective tubes, and old leather-bound books. All well worn yet meticulously maintained. She'd spent countless years finding them, acquiring them, translating them, studying them.

     In recent times, countless hours copying the contents to drive, file, and disk. She'd compiled a searchable database from hundreds of years of study and discovery. Now, compacted into silver platters of ones and zeroes.

     She leaned back into the cushions, her eyes drawn back to the book in her lap. She chuckled to herself as she indulged in the once forbidden joy of reading for pleasure. Title page:  "Fifty Shades of Grey"....






the prompt: You have 450 words to write a fiction or creative non-fiction piece about the forbidden or the taboo.

It's Friday

Its Friday.   That means I babysit my grandkids.  The grandson and granddaughter.  Different as night and day, and not just in gender.

The boy is three and a half, full of wonder and energy.  In love with big trucks and Thomas the Tank Engine and driving over bridges. And digging for treasure in the back yard.

 Even though I think he was running a fever as the day wore on, he still wanted to go outside with his grampa.  

Then he needed to come inside to play with gramma.  Which means hijacking my iPod and/or Kindle Fire.  Because Angry Birds is on both.  As well as Cars and several Abc,1,2,3 games I bought just for him.

 Or asking a million questions.  Including, "what is your name?"  And when I tell him Reneé, he cracks up and says, "no it's not, it's Gramma!"

 He was more subdued today.  I could feel the heat radiate from him as he leaned into me.  I may pay for that. 

Although, later was another round of running through the house giggling hysterically, being chased by his little sister.

 She?  Is a character.  A wee bit bow-legged right now at 18 months. Not that it slows her down.  She's demanding and headstrong.  A princess in army boots.  Stomping her foot if she's thwarted in any way.  If that doesn't work, she'll fall to the floor in a heap of rebellion.

 She's enamored of her big brother, following him relentlessly.  Her little legs hard pressed to keep up.  Sometimes he's okay with that. Sometimes not so much.  But she'd follow him to the moon and back if he'd let her.

 Where the boy will sit still with me, she seldom does.   She prefers being on the move.  If she's still, she's asleep.

 I'm in love with these children. I have patience and time I never found for my daughter, though I love her more than she can ever know.   She is the mommy I should have been.

 Perhaps its age and maturity, but this "gramma" gig?  Is the best time of my life.



 The Prompt: 500 words to write a piece, fiction or non-fiction, which includes the phrase “to the moon.”

Her Heart

For this week, the prompt is the word “core” and 450 words to explore any meaning of the word in a work of creative non-fiction/memoir or fiction.


 She stands under the steaming water, her thoughts integrating this latest bit of medical information with all that has come before. 

Fifteen years ago, she stood by him through the cancer treatments. The chemo-induced puking. The hair loss. Finally the surgery that removed enough bowel to ensure a lifetime colostomy.


Ten years ago, she fretted by his side as he apologized for the heart attack. Two years later, she cried as they fought to keep him alive through the second.  


 She helped him track the cocktails of medication that finally triggered his genetic predilection for diabetes.   

The diabetes that has finally taken a toll on his kidneys. That has introduced words like "dialysis" and "high potassium levels". 

 She begins to accept his mortality.  Accepts that sooner than she imagined, she will be alone.  That there will be stresses.  Mental, physical, and even financial.

 But the heart of her weeps already,  dreading the loss of her partner. Her lover.   

The Shopping Trip

The prompt: Introduce a romantic interest or opportunity and see what happens.


Part of Jonah's story is here, 












     Jonah took Katie’s advice and walked two doors north to the dollar store. The interior was bright. The light was welcome as the aisles were narrow and shelves packed with all sorts of items. There was pet food on one side of an aisle, vitamins and common over the counter medicines on the other.

    He picked up a new toothbrush and toothpaste, soap, deodorant, and after searching several shelves, found the underwear he’d thought of earlier that week. He also put a couple of new t-shirts into his basket. 

    He made his way to the cash register. The young woman behind the counter had short brown hair, and brown eyes behind black rimmed glasses. Her jeans were just tight enough without being trashy, she wore a fuzzy green sweater over her black t-shirt.

     She smiled as he set his basket on the counter. “Hi! You must be Katie’s new dish boy, uh guy.” She blushed and looked at his purchases, ringing them and bagging them. “I’m Shelly Harrison,” she said.

     “Harrison like in the hardware?” Jonah asked.

     “Yep, Uncle Randy has the hardware. I got the junk store. After Aunt May died, I came to see if I could help out. I used to spend a lot of time here when I was a kid. And I had just got laid off my job. So it was mutually beneficial.”

     “Well, you’ve got some useful junk here, and I hear your prices are the best in town.”

     Shelly blushed again, “Katie must’ve sent you, then. She spends a lot of time in here. She says Marshall’s is over priced.”

     Jonah grinned, “that’s about the same thing she told me. And I think the grocery store probably doesn't carry underwear.” She blushed again.

     “I’m sorry, I’m being a smart ass.” It had been a long time since he’d carried on a conversation with anyone close to his own age. “I swear it’s a defense mechanism, I’m working with some real characters at the Kitchen.”

     Shelly laughed at that, “Not to mention the crazy customers. Don’t get me wrong, they're my customers too, and I love ‘em. But, yeah, character is a good description,”

     “So you stay in town or do you commute from the big city?”

     “Oh, I stay with Uncle Randy. He’s got a big place outside of town. He’s not much for talk, but he treats me well.”  She finished his order and collected his money. “You're staying at Missy McKay’s, right?” he nodded. “It’s a small town. And most new comers end up with Missy, for a while anyway.”

     Jonah saw one of the other shoppers heading for the register, “It was nice to meet you, Shelly Harrison, I’d better go now. Or the characters will have something to talk about.” He winked and Shelly blushed one more time as he left.  

A Secret Path

Show me an anti-hero. It can be a character sketch or a scene, but try to establish how and why this person is the obstacle to the protagonist’s goals.

Write a piece, fiction or non, in which your character suddenly finds themselves somewhere and have no clue how they got there.


I've tried to handle two prompts at once here. Let me know if I succeeded. More of the Elementals' story can be found here


       The kitchen was busy. And noisy. Beth was teaching Barry more games using his power of air. Her mother, Tam was watching and talking about how she should really go home for a while.

       Darren felt left out. He was only a little boy. A little human boy. He couldn’t move the air like his brother and mother. He couldn't make the earth work for him like his grandma. He was not special. Just human, like his daddy.

      But Daddy was a grown up. He got to leave and go to work. Darren was just a little boy, he was not special, he was nothing.

He sighed and left the kitchen. His feet slowly dragged him upstairs to his bedroom.  Once there, he picked through his toys and books, looking for something to do. Nothing interested him because he was nothing.

He was nothing, so he climbed to the back corner of his closet. With his arms wrapped around himself, in the dark he could be nothing and pretend he was nowhere.

>>>>>>>>>>>

                          

Tam was rambling on about trees she knew and flowers that she loved. Suddenly she stopped mid word.

“’Bet.” She tried to get her daughter’s attention, “Lyabet!” she called, using her daughter’s given name. “Did you just feel that?”

“Feel what, mother? Barry! You dropped the feathers. Pay attention to what are you doing.”

“They just falled, mommy! They just falled!”

“They don’t just fall, Barry." Exasperated, Beth finally answered her mother, "Feel what Mother?”

Tamryn Leafeyed, earth elemental, Lady of Treecairn, sat still and felt the earth beneath her. She’d lost touch with her element, for just a moment, she believed her young grandson had just had the same experience.

She sighed at her daughter’s distraction, “Never mind, ‘Bet. It was nothing.”

“Okay, Mother, whatever. Barry, good job! Your feathers are floating again, now you…” Beth, as she was called by her human husband, was focused again on her youngest son.

Tam quietly left the kitchen, troubling memories from her youth swirled just out of her grasp. Still, she followed her instincts up the stairs. Standing outside her other grandson’s bedroom, she called, “Darren, it’s Grandma. May I come in?” There was no answer. “Darren? Sweetie?”

         Reaching for the doorknob, she realized she was holding her breath  She exhaled and scolded herself for overreacting, with a twist of the knob, she threw the door open.

Tam stifled a cry of horror. On the other side of the door was…nothing.

Tam closed her eyes to the emptiness beyond Darren’s door. The light is off, nothing more she told herself, but when she opened her eyes, there still was nothing. Just black, empty space. She put her hand through the doorway and watched as it disappeared. She yanked it back quickly, then stared at her fingers, wiggling them to reassure herself.

“Darren?” she whispered, “Darren are you there? Answer me baby, are you okay?” Tam started to panic. Should she call her daughter,what could she do? 'Bet was too young to have any knowledge of this. This void.  Blackness.  And elementals had no power here, their elements no existence. She reached again toward the emptiness.

This time the blackness held her, sucked her into itself. Tam felt herself falling, she knew she was screaming, but her voice made no sound in the void.

Yet, she wasn't falling, she could almost feel ground beneath her feet, but there was no connection to it as with the earth. The blackness wasn’t  complete, she could make out a bleak landscape of various shades of black and gray. “Darren?” she whispered, her voice almost soundless to herself.

Close by, Tam heard a voice chanting, “Fall. Fall. Fall.” She could just see the outline of a small figure in front of her. She recognized the muted voice and gently touched the young boy in front of her, “Darren? Darren, please stop.”

Darren flinched at her touch and voice. “Grandma, what are you doing here? I just want to be alone!” he yelled. His focus shattered, his bedroom began to reappear around them, color and light quickly filling the shadowy void.

Tam threw her arms around the boy. “Oh Darren! You're okay, I was so afraid…”

“Afraid? Afraid of what, grandma? I was just playing, by myself.” Darren rocked side to side in his sneakers. Guilt warring with anger at being caught. 

Evicted

This week we’d like you to stir up some conflict, using the following quote as inspiration.

It is better to be violent, if there is violence in our hearts, than to put on the cloak of nonviolence to cover impotence.
Mahatma Gandhi (1869 – 1948)

The word limit is 300.  Come back Friday to link up and let us see those sparks fly.

(this is some more of my nano story, the other bits are here and here )

Jonah entered the hall, as he tried to remember the way to the bathroom, he heard Missy McKay’s voice, raised in anger.

“You ain't been here in five days!  You ain’t paid your rent in two weeks!  I don’t give a hoot who you daddy is, you’re out!”

A male voice yelled back, “Look you old bitch, I signed a lease, you cant throw me out!  My daddy’ll pay up my rent.  I gotta get ready for work.  So, you…”

Missy cut him off, “work where boy?  You find a new job these last five days?  Cause if you think you still gotta job at the Kitchen, you are mistaken!”

“Shit”, Jonah headed down the stairs.  “Missy McKay!  You need help?”  He turned to the younger man, “You have a problem, kid?”

The boy glared at him, “What the fuck do you care?”

‘I care that you are threatening my land lady.  I’m pretty sure I heard her tell you, you’ve been evicted.”

“Then you heard me tell her I signed a fucking lease and she can’t throw me out”

“Yes she can.  You broke your lease by not paying your rent on time.”  Jonah watched Missy back into the room behind her, he hoped she was going for a phone.

“Who the hell are you anyway?”

“Why, I’m the new dish washer at Katrina’s Kitchen.”  Jonah continued to bait the boy,  “Seems her help isn’t responsible enough to show up, and you’re going to make me late for work, kid.”

This took the boy by surprise.  “Like hell you are!  That’s my job!  Do you know who I am, asshole?  I’m Ben Marshall, my daddy owns the grocery in this this town!”

Missy returned with a phone at her ear, “Denny Clark, you get yourself over to my place!  Benny is back and in a bad mood.”  She turned to Ben, “the sheriff is on his way, boy.  We’ll see how impressed with your daddy he is.”

Arrival

 Pick four numbers, each between 1 and 10.

Write them down so you remember.

The first number will be for your character, the second your setting, the third the time and the fourth will be the situation.

Then take the four elements and combine them into a short story.

All four you picked MUST be your main elements, but you can add in other characters, settings, times and situations.     




He looked through the large front window, a faint glow from behind the counter told him someone was getting started. As he lingered on the sidewalk, debating his next move, the door unlocked behind him. He jumped at the loud click of the thumb key. The door swept open, odors of brewing coffee, frying bacon, and oven fresh biscuits caressed him on their way out.

     "Good morning, sweetie! C'mon in, you’re just in time for breakfast." He stood a moment, assessing the owner of the invitation. Average in height, not chubby, but not thin either. He judged her to be about forty. Her light brown eyes lit by the first rays of winter sunlight. She smelled of flour and butter and soap.

     "Don't just stand there, son, get inside. Welcome to Katrina's Kitchen. I'm Katrina Crowe. But, don't you call me Katrina!  You call me Katie." She snagged one of his elbows and steered him through the door. She walked him to the counter where he sat hesitantly on a stool.  He'd been told he could find help at the restaurant in Renewal.  

     "What'll it be for breakfast, sweetie? Omelet, biscuits and gravy. Pancakes?" She danced around the dining area, flipping switches, filling the room with light. On her return to the counter she filled a mug with fresh, hot coffee and set it in front of him. "Don't talk much, huh?"

     "I guess I've just gotten out of the habit. Been traveling alone." He sipped the coffee, the mug pleasantly warm in his hand after the chill outside.  “Actually, I’m looking for someone. I guess a relative of yours. Caroline Crowe. A…friend told me to look her up.”

Katie raised her eyebrows, “A friend? Caroline was my grandmother. She’s passed 25 years ago.” She thought to herself, “who could possibly have sent this troubled man to see Gram."

 He looked startled. “I'm sorry, I had no idea…” he trailed off, looking confused.

“Well, Gram left me the diner, amongst other things. Maybe I can help you.”

“What? Oh, no he just said to tell her hello.” He looked around the room, anywhere but at Katie.

She took a leap, “ No one ever came to see Gram just to say hello. They came to Gram for help. I didn’t only inherit the diner.” She looked directly into his face, hoping he’d understand what she meant.

         Instead he changed the subject.  "You know, breakfast sounds good, but I'm short on cash. I can probably just buy my coffee." Sometimes that admission got him a free meal. Sometimes it got him an invitation to leave.


        Katie took the hint, “Down on your luck, huh?” She continued moving about the dining room, an unconscious routine playing out as she spoke. “I can spare a meal now and then, for someone I know. What’s your name, son?”

“Uh, Jonah. Pierson.”

“OK, I know you now. What sounds wonderful this morning?”








This is a piece of my Nano project.  Jonah was first introduced here I picked numbers 6, 4, 1, and 2.

The Hunt

We’ve asked you to show us in 400 words or less how your character reacts to a piece of music. Did music advance a story line or flesh out a character–or both?

The door was locked and the blinds drawn. Anne Marie contemplated the gear laid out on the old chest. How many years had it been since she done a real hunt? Too many?

“Look at the way we gotta hide what we’re doin’…”

She reached for the hilt of her hunting blade. It nestled comfortably into her hand, eroded to her fingers by heavy use over countless years. It bled confidence into her, she was still fit, still trained daily. She was still the best.

“Cause what would they say if they ever knew…”

She could feel it behind her, stalking. The beast that was also a man. But this wasn't a man afflicted with a curse. This was a monster reveling it’s blood rage. This one didn't want to learn control. This one embraced the beast and lusted for the kill.

“And so, we’re running just as fast as we can…”

The black leotard she wore moved like a second skin, the soft boots nearly soundless in the leaf litter of the woods. Her hand reached to softly touch the hilt again, reassuring her with its presence.

“Holdin’ on to one another’s hand…”

She shifted direction, made a few turns. Soon she was behind the beast. Anne Marie could smell the animal odor, mingled with sweat and dirty human. She was close now. She drew the ancient blade from its sheath.

“I think we’re alone now, there doesn’t seem to be anyone around…”

Closer now, she could hear its breath huffing as it tracked its prey. Or rather what it thought was its prey. She stepped from behind a tree, blade at the ready. It realized its mistake and turned.

“I think we’re alone now, the beating of our hearts is the only sound.”

Moving On

For this week, we asked you to write a fiction or creative non-fiction piece in which an epitaph features prominently–in 500 words or less.




Jean had cut her hair and changed the color. A deep shade of red, the color she'd been born with. No makeup, she didn't need it.  Her black jeans had been washed until soft before she slid into them. The hunter green polo shirt was a gift to herself, to complement her hair.

She had one more stop to make before she left town. The contents of the apartment had been donated or trashed. The bank account closed and the small balance used to pay for cleaning the apartment.

 She was surprised to see the two old women at the grave site. The interment was last week. She hung back as they stood chatting. They didn't see her, though it wouldn't matter.

They wouldn't know who she was.  When they left, she approached the grave.  Jean had paid for the plain headstone years ago.  She just needed to check the dates and name for accuracy.
                                                   
                                                  Carla Jean Sullivan     
                                       April 3, 1928 - December 11, 2011

 Just as she had ordered. But beneath the dates was an addition.         

                                            A True and Dear Friend               
                                                 We Will Miss You 

 That was why Maryanne and Lainie had been here. Jean's eyes filled with tears.  "I will miss you, too." she whispered as she walked away from another empty grave.

Hot Chocolate

        The doorbell rang. Maudie was startled by the sound. How long had it been since any one had rung that bell?

It took a moment for her to pull herself from the chair. Stiff knees and aching hips slowed her progress. She shuffled painfully to the door, pulled the dusty curtain aside to peek out.

A boy of about ten or eleven, stood on the front stoop. His jeans were tucked into red vinyl boots. The collar of the puffy coat he wore framed cold reddened cheeks. He held a snow shovel.

Maudie sighed and opened the door slightly. “What you want, boy?”, she asked in a voice rough from disuse.

The boy looked up at her and smiled hopefully. “Shovel your walk ma’am? Only ten dollars.”

“I ain’t goin’ no where, boy. No need to shovel, it’ll just snow again anyway,” she started to shut the door.

“Please! How ‘bout if it snows again before Christmas , I’ll come back and shovel it again. For free.”

“And why would you do that?”

“Cause your’s is the only place left to shovel. And I only need ten more dollars to get my Ma’s Christmas present,” he flashed another hopeful grin.

Maudie hesitated, then gave in, “Alright boy, but it snows again, you better be here. And for ten dollars, I want you to shovel around to the back door too!”

“Yes ma’am! Thank you, an’ if it snows again, I’ll be back. Promise!” he jumped off the step and started shoveling.

Maudie shut the door and shivered from the cold. She looked back at her comfy chair, then decided to get something warm to drink. She shuffled to the kitchen to brew a cup of tea.

She peered out the kitchen window to see whether the young boy had given up yet. He’d cleared the walk in front of the house and was almost to the stoop again. His breath blowing out in frosty clouds.

She turned to the cupboard for her tea tin. But can of cocoa powder caught her eye.

She heated milk, cocoa, and sugar in an old pot, the spoon she stirred with scraping the bottom in time the the shovel scraping the walk. She poured the chocolate into a mug when the boy knocked on the back door.

She opened the door, “All done then, son?”

“Yes ma’am,” he puffed, “the whole walk. You wanna come look?”

“No, I’ll just have to trust you. Knock that snow off your boots and come in.” She started for the front room and her pocketbook, then stopped. She pulled a second mug from the cupboard and filled it with the rest of the hot chocolate. “Sit here and warm yourself, I’ll be right back with your pay.”

She came back and sat across from him, taking a sip from her own mug. “You got a good present picked out for your Ma?”

“Yes ma’am, a pretty scarf in her favorite color. With butterflies on it.”

“Sounds like a good choice.” She handed him three five dollar bills as he finished his cocoa.

“Ma’am, I only need ten dol…”

Maudie shook her head, “you just remember your promise, boy.” Then she shooed him out the door.

As ran excitedly toward the street, he turned and waved, “Thank you, ma’am!”

She watched him disappear from sight, a rare smile lifting the corners of her mouth.

Then the snow began to fall.

Ready at 8:00AM

This week I want you to take me to your version of 8:00 -AM or PM, fiction or creative nonfiction- in 200 words or less.


It's 8:00 am. The percolator sits on the counter in the kitchen, proud in it's stainless steel-ness. It waits for her to come fill it with water and load the basket with the aromatic grounds.

She doesn't show up. It must not be 8:00 am on Monday or Wednesday. It must be 8:00 am on another day. On a day when she bypasses the kitchen counter and heads off to that fancy commercial coffee machine. The machine that produces endless cups. Quenching her need for coffee well before and after 8:00 am.

It slips sadly into semi-usefulness.  Dreams of perking a pot of perfection.  Dreams of tipping a stream of clear brown wake up into her pretty cup.  Dreams of watching in pride as she closes her eyes and inhales the flavor, smiling in anticipation of the first sip.

text

Compose a post in the form of a text–160 characters.

Your text must elicit or express fear.


where are you you said you'd be here voices they say bad things about you they're laughing and laughing closer and closer I see them they're coming please hurry

The Mist

This week, I want you to take me there.

Where is up to you: Someplace real? Imaginary? From your past? In your future? It can be fiction or creative non-fiction. But make your descriptions so rich that I can’t help but feel like I’m right there.

What do you see? What does the air feel like? Smell like? What are you stepping on? Who else is there with your character or you? Time? Weather?

Close your eyes, paint the picture in your mind, and then use your words to paint it for me.

You have 200 words. Go. For. It! Take me there, baby! Then come back Friday and link up!



If Naddnē closed her eyes, she could strip away the years. See the forest that framed her
childhood.

The smell of trees pushing up from fertile earth.  Multiple greens gracing their boughs.  The promise of fruits, full of sticky sweetness dripping down chubby cheeks and chins.

A symphony of bird song, dadeedeedee, cheercheerprettyprettypretty, beebeebee,the melody underscored by the heavy drone of honey bees. Feathers fluttering in the in leaf tinted light.

Children playing games, hiding, chasing, their high pitched giggles filling the treetops and
underbrush.



She opened her eyes.

The trees were dull through the mist.  The dripdripdrip of moisture from leafless limbs.
Listless clack of broken branches against sodden trunks.

No birdsong, no nests in the empty trees. No buzz of bees, or fluttering wings.

No children running through the moldy leaves. The sweet, sickly smell of rot released with each squishing step.

Only Naddnē, trying to wish back the multiple green of the leaves.


Naddnē was first introduced here , she's a part of me, I think.

The Færie Ball

This week’s assignment was to write a piece inspired by pictures. You could chose either one or even do both.
What did the images mean to you?
(I chose the spiral staircase)


Soft steps upon the gilded stairs
The færie spiral down
Translucent, jeweled wings 
Mirrored in silken gown

With shining eye and glittered breath
They tiptoe through the door
Their men-folk wait within
Standing breathless on the floor

The lute and pipes and ancient drum
Invite them to begin
The melody hypnotic
Soon they're swaying wing to wing

Slender hips move with the strings
Wings keep time with drum
Haunting  pipes weave magic
Færie blood begins to hum

One by one, then pair by pair
Enrapt, the dancers rise 
Touches gentle as a kiss
Promised in their eyes

One pair departs unnoticed
Two, then three and four
To share their music elsewhere 
Far from the crowded floor

One couple left within the space
Their faces lined with age
Wingbeats slow,  hands caress
Memories in their gaze

Hand in hand, they leave on foot
The music fades away
Wing to wing they close the door
And let the memories play

Paths Meeting

This week, with Labor Day and the end of summer rapidly approaching, we asked you to write about a season of change for your character or you. It can be literal or metaphorical

(Another bit in the Paths of  Beth/Lyabet's family. The human and the elemental. I've added a page with all the snippets) 


.
Chuck sat in uncomfortable silence observing his companion. Graleon was dressed in light gray slacks and a sky blue polo shirt. His hair was the lightest shade of blonde almost white. Along with his icy blue eyes, he looked cold as a winter dawn.

Graleon only gave Chuck a cursory look. He didn't care about Chuck's faded blue jeans or black T-shirt. He did care that Chuck was uncomfortable, he wanted to put him at ease. He wanted to make clear that he was not here as an enemy, but to be a friend.

Finally, Graleon broke the silence, "I come to speak to you because of your relationship with my daughter. I only want her to be happy. I'm concerned that she cannot be happy while denying who she is."

Chuck raised an eyebrow, "I have never heard her deny who she is, or what she is. It is you that have denied her children. You who have tried to talk her into leaving us, tried to talk her into coming back to you and living in the world she left behind."

Graleon sighed, "I have changed my feelings. I don’t pretend to understand why she made the choices she did. Yet, I have taken time to observe her interactions with the children and how you care for her, I would like to play a part in her life again. In your lives.”

Chuck listened to the words, trying to read the intent. He wasn't sure he trusted this man. He heard little from Beth, and nothing good from their new house guest, her mother, Tam.

Chuck looked steadily at Graleon, “I’ll give Beth your message. If she wants to renew her relationship with you, she’ll let you know. If she doesn’t, that is her choice.”

Graleon nodded, “That is all I ask.” He rose from his seat , nodded once again, then walked away.

There was an uneasiness in Chuck that he couldn’t define. He took a deep breath, the meeting had unnerved him more than he wanted to admit. He replayed the short talk in his mind. The words were benign, but they weren’t reflected in those icy eyes. Things were about to change, Chuck could feel it