Showing posts with label Renewal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Renewal. Show all posts

Saturday, May 17, 2014

The Morning After

My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog




Lyssa Medana
It's been a long time since I've written anything.  I feel dull and rusty. But I desperately needed to jump back.  So I combined prompts, an old haunt of mine Lance Burson's 100 Word Song and a new place, Light and Shade Challenge, hosted by Thomas Marlowe and Lyssa Medana.  The song, Bigmouth strikes again, by the Smith's. And a photo from Light and Shade. So here are 100 words....



The sun's morning rays filtering through the trees massaged Jonah's cramped  muscles to wakefulness.  He sat up slowly, began to gather the shreds of the clothing he'd been wearing last night.

With a sigh, he looked about, trying to get an idea of where he might be.

Then he caught sight of a rabbit's remains only a few feet from the wall he had been curled against.  

Overcoming the nausea and sense of defeat, he wondered idly what the time was.  Eventually, he'd have to find his way back.  Pretend this was a bad dream, and rejoin the human race.





Wednesday, April 24, 2013

Witch's Desire

Trifecta: Week Seventy-Four
Congratulations to the Weekend winners!

I'm continuing the story of the witch and the demon.  It's a prologue of sorts for my Chaos in Progress.
Now on to the prompt...


1
a : a state of being beyond reason and self-control
b archaic : swoon
2
: a state of overwhelming emotion; especially : rapturous delight



Lillian congratulated herself on accomplishing the spell banish Aslozoth.  When Lillian had first called her up, she'd been pleased to see a feminine demon.  She'd thought that would make the control easier.  

Far from it.  Aslozoth had an agenda all her own.  It hadn't taken long for her to exert control over Lillian.  It was a subtle seduction, leaving Lillian breathless in the power of the magic she was shown.  Each new spell required levels of ecstasy she had never thought she could attain.  Each lesson accompanied by a touch, caress, stroke, evoking physical ecstasy, almost an addiction.

Yet, Lillian was satisfied.  Until she spied the sword.  The demon's blade that could buy her the allegiance of the chief of Clan MacClarren, the strongest clan on the moors.  An allegiance to fulfill a different lust.  Power over a nation.

Aslozoth's laugh at her plan was a cruel noise in her ears.  

A witch of lesser will would have ducked her head and continued to be the demon's pet.  

A witch of lesser will would never think to steal a demon's blade.

Lillian had a will of iron as hard as the sword she coveted.

  






Monday, April 22, 2013

Witchery

My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog








100 Word Song – Lucretia Macevil
As always, you have 7 days from NOW, to write 100 words inspired by Blood, Sweat, & Tears Lucretia Macevil. Please use Mr. Linky below to post your 100 then tweet, book o face, google +, smoke signal, pony express, or standard mail your 100 word song to everyone you know.

I've visited with the witch, Lillian and the demon, Aslogoth again.  They each have a place in my Chaos in Progress.  Neither are good by any stretch on my imagination.  

  
Lillian wielded the mortar with increased vigor as the odor of char enveloped her.

Aslozoth pressed against Lillian's back, peering over her shoulder into the pestle. She absently ran clawed fingers down Lillian's arm, across her belly, tracing ever widening circles. Lillian shuddered with longing as the other hand slid from shoulder to hip.

"What potion is this, Witch?"  

"Nothing special, Demon." 

 "You would banish me?"  Aslozoth's whisper threatened to blister the skin of her neck. "Haven't I taught you... everything?"  

Lillian hesitated, then spat, invoking the spell.  

Aslozoth's fading chuckle taunted her. "I'll be waiting for your call, Lillian."




Friday, April 19, 2013

Semantics

Trifextra: Week Sixty-Four

Congratulations to all the winners!  Wish I'd had time (and energy) to visit and comment on every one.  
I'm beginning to believe that most of mine are becoming character studies for my...uh,characters.

Anyway,
The Prompt: 
 This weekend we're asking for exactly 33 of your own words plus the following three words:

charge
century
lost
So 33 of yours plus 3 of ours means that everyone will have a 36 word response this time around.





"You lost my sword, Lillian?"

The demon bitch had been hounding her for the last century.  "It's not lost, Aslozoth."

"Then, let me amend the charge, witch," Aslozoth's eyes burned red.  "You stole my sword, Lillian?"

Monday, April 15, 2013

Ancestry

Write at the Merge, Week 16The song is “Tiny Dancer” from Elton John, and you can use the lyrics, the music or anything about the video that inspires you.
Trifecta: Week Seventy-Three
On to the one-word weekly challenge where we ask for a 33-333 word response to the third definition of a given word.  If you need a refresher, click here for more information on how to play.  Be sure to check that you've used the correct definition this week!

color (noun)



Anne Marie sat away from the crowd.  She settled in the shade and shadow of an old oak, well removed from the lake's sandy beach.  

Children ran amok, parents yelled warnings about swimming too soon after eating, young couples sat staring dreamily into each other's eyes.

Anne Marie's eyes were fixed a little girl with dark curls and an infectious smile.  She was accompanied by her mother and grandmother. The girl was spinning in circles on the sand as the women talked. 

A small smile bloomed on Anne Marie's lips as she followed the girl's dance.  Memories surfaced in wisps of foggy images.  Of a beautiful man with dark curls and perfect smile.  Of a young girl with flame red hair and cheeks that glowed with the color of impending motherhood.

Unbidden tears flowed down those same cheeks centuries after her world was changed.  Her young man's life ended before his daughter was born.  Her daughter stolen from her at birth.

Her daughter, seen only once from a distance all those long years ago.  She'd kept track of the bloodline, knew of all the daughters born after.  Had watched from a distance the two older women when they were but toddlers.  Had known of the birth of this one.  

This one, this tiny dancer that so resembled the child she never held.  This one, that stopped spinning to look across the space between them.

With head cocked to one side, that perfect smile lit the girl's face.  She raised one chubby hand and waved merrily at Anne Marie. 

Just as she began to lift her hand to wave in return, the women took notice, "Katie Crowe!  What were you told about strangers!" Her mother gave the girl an exasperated look.  "I've told you, Mom, she never pays attention."

Caroline Crowe followed her granddaughter's gaze, caught the eyes of the woman under the tree.  A feeling of recognition washed through her.  "She pays more attention than you know, Natalie.  More than you know." 


Anne Marie has been a recurring character in many of my stories.  Katie Crowe is part of the "novel" I've been... ahem... working on.  Somewhere along the way, they became part of a bigger story that links them together.  Most of the bits I've shared here are under the labels at the top of the blog.  Annag of Clan MacClarren/Anne Marie MacClarren and Renewal; A Tale of Katrina's Kitchen.  This is the first time I've put them in the same post.





  




Monday, March 25, 2013

A Scene from Renewal

Trifecta: Week Seventy

Congratulations to the Weekend Winners, good work!
I found a bit of one of my  Works Chaos in Progress that had the word of the week in it.  I cleaned it up a bit, cut a lot of excess.  So, here we go...


On to the weekly prompt. Pay attention to the third definition, as always. Good lucky!

LUCKY (adjective)

1: having good luck
2: happening by chance : fortuitous
3: producing or resulting in good by chance : favorable

Please remember:
Your response must be between 33 and 333 words.
You must use the 3rd definition of the given word in your post.
The word itself needs to be included in your response.
You may not use a variation of the word; it needs to be exactly as stated above.
Only one entry per writer.
If your post doesn't meet our requirements, please leave your link in the comments section, not in the linkz.
Trifecta is open to everyone. Please join us. 



Sheriff Denny Clark pulled into the farm yard.  Nate Foley was waiting for him, angry and impatient.

“Mornin', Nate.  What’s the problem?”  he asked.

“The problem, Sheriff, is somethin' killed more than half my best layin' hens.”  The old farmer led Denny to the chicken coop.  Feathers, blood and torn birds littered the yard.  “Whatever kilt 'em didn't do it for eatin'.  These animals was killed for the fun of it.”

Denny squatted to inspect the remains more closely.  Nate was right.  The birds had been torn apart, one after another.  Whatever?  He was inclined to lay bets on whoever.  The local wild life may take a chicken once in a while, and that's exactly what they did, take.  One may find a few feathers or bones, but those remains showed obvious signs of feeding.  These didn't.

“You didn’t hear anything, Nate?”



“Nope.  Take my hearin' aids out at night.”

“Dog didn’t raise hell?”

“Ain't got no dog.  Last one I had thought the chickens was his.  It were his lucky day, the grandchild was here, took 'im home." 

“Got a count on how many you lost here, Nate?”

The old man figured a minute.  “ I’d say 'bout three dozen.”

Denny nodded, “I'll grab some bags, take a few to Doc Kelsey.  See if he can come up with anything evidential.”  Denny popped the trunk of the squad, he returned with several plastic bags and latex gloves.  He brought a camera to document the scene.  He took a dozen pictures, then bagged eight birds for the Kelsey, the local veterinarian. 

“Make sure you show all that to my insurance agent.  Only about twenty left.  That won’t pay bills for long.  Kin I get rid of the mess now, Sheriff?”

“You gonna burn ‘em, Nate?”

Nate Foley nodded.  “Yep, gotta burn ‘em.  For sure.”

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

Rock You Like a Hurricane

sharing a piece of my nanowrimo project.  just because.  and remember, it's nano, quantity-not quality.




Andrew was coming in hard and merciless. Anne Marie was swinging a hammer with the rest. Boarding up windows, ready to ride out the storm.

As the winds blew in, the sky darkened. She’d come here to investigate the stories of zombies. She’d seldom followed up on this type of report, most were crap. But this particular area seemed to have more than its share of urban legends about them as well as a run of mysterious and gruesome killings.

She cursed herself for not looking at long term forecasts for the area. Hurricane parties were not going to further her research. She pounded a final nail and scurried indoors to wait out the storm.

The low rent complex she had chosen was mostly empty. The hold out residents were those with the glassy eyes of drug users that had no where else to go. Most were camped out in the building’s narrow hall. Curled up in pitiful balls, enduring various states of jonesing. The mostly conscious eyed her warily as she passed, her steps disturbing the perpetual dust and other debris that ever lined the worn carpet.

None dared to bother her since she had physically removed the few that thought her rooms to be an easy target for robbery and other amusements by assault. Anne Marie never feared the criminal fringes of humanity. A few broken bones and other embarrassing injuries had them walking a wider path when they caught sight of her. After all, they were merely human. Of course, she rarely feared the inhuman either. They could handled, though she found killing them to be the easiest and obviously most permanent answer.

She let herself into her rooms. The boarded windows made the space seem close in the darkness. With no power, she resorted to candlelight. The lazy flickering gave her a feeling of calm that electric lighting never could. As the storm gained strength, she settled into a comfortable overstuffed chair with a pile of pages, some computer printed, others were copies of notes from the local police, along with many newspaper clippings, all covered with notes scribbled in her own hand.

She was intent on her work, when she became aware of a sudden lull. The eye, she thought. Soon the other wall would arrive with another round of screaming winds and pounding rain.

Just as she opened another can of soda, she heard the crash of the outer entry door. The heavy footsteps that followed were muffled only a small bit by her closed door. Her hearing was more acute than most people, she could sort out the sounds of shuffling that would be the residents winding themselves into tighter balls as heavy footsteps moved along the hallway. Boots, she decided, well made, heavy boots.

The ancient broadsword that traveled with her had made its way to her hand. She stood in practiced balance, ready to defend or strike. Which ever she deemed necessary.

“Annie! Annie, me love! I know you're here, I can smell ye!” the heavily accented voice, funneled by the narrow confines of the hall, seemed to fill her room.

With a sigh of annoyance, she relaxed her stance slightly. She knew the owner of that voice. Had hoped never to hear it again.

Anne Marie could feel the boot tread stop in front of her door, “come on sweetling, let an old friend in. It’s positively monstrous out there.”

She could refuse to answer, but it wouldn’t stop him, just make him more determined to get a reaction from her. Giving irritation to her voice, she answered, “Go away, Liam, I’m not in a mood to entertain you, and I’m far too busy to be bothered with killing you right now.” She gave a short snort of regret, “I should have killed you last time. I was evidently in a far too generous state.”

He chuckled, “you'd not be the first lass that wanted to do me in, m’dear. Its my wanderin’ eye always gets me in trouble with the ladies.”

“Then please, wander your eye elsewhere, there’s naught here to see.”

“Hah!. Slipped into the “auld” English a moment there.” The doorknob jiggled as he tested it, knowing it would be locked. “You're too tense, girl. All worried about fitting in. Have you adopted the local drawl as well?”

Anne Marie growled under her breath. Her ability with language and dialect had served her well. She could pass for a local almost anywhere in the world. Yet Liam could cause her to make mistakes. That made him dangerous, perhaps more dangerous than those she hunted.

She resigned herself to his presence and returned the blade to its worn leather sheath. “Soft as a babe’s breath that was.” Liam’s hearing was almost as good as her own. “ I’m glad you've changed your mind about killin’ me right now.”

“Right now, but I could reverse that decision easily if you annoy me much more.” She turned the flimsy lock and opened the door. The point of the dirk she held to replace the sword drew a single drop of blood from Liam’s neck as she blocked him from bursting into the room. “Not so fast, I’ll need an inventory of your knives first.”

Liam rolled is eyes dramatically, “Annie, I’m here as your friend…”

“Now, Liam. How many and where.”

“Fine lassie. There's the blade is me right toe, the buck knife, a switchblade in me left pocket and three of them throwing stars from the Japans in the right. A tension triggered blade on one arm and the other,” he grinned with pride, “the other is released and pointing at a target right below your pretty bosom.”

Anne Marie side stepped with practiced ease, her dirk taking an extra layer off his throat out of spite. “You are a fool, Liam. I will kill you one day.”

“But not today, Annie, not today.” He glanced quickly around the small space, then made himself comfortable on a small love seat across from her chair. “Sit down, girl! Relax.”

Anne Marie returned to her chair, gathering the papers and clippings she’d dropped when Liam made his noisy entry. “Ive never been good at small talk, Liam, what do you want? I would like to finish my research, when the storm has passed I have things I need to do.”

“Company, Annie. You told me long ago that immortality was over rated. I know now what you meant.” The smile he gave her now held a hint of sadness and regret. “You're the only one left has known me most my life.”

‘You made you own choice, I warned you.” Anne Marie had limited pity for him. “Why don’t you track some of your blood? Become the obnoxious well to do uncle. And leave me alone.”

“I just don’t have the stamina to track my bloodline like you did. I have to say though, I was intrigued when I found you had left Renewal and your little great great great…how many? Granddaughter.”

Liam eyed the papers, “that’s why I'm here to help you out, sweetling. I have info ye need to finish your task and get back to stalking your descendants”

“I. Work. Alone.” She said each word quietly, yet the force made her meaning clear.

“Aye, I know, the lone gunman. Er, swordsman…woman, whatever.” Liam wave a hand in dismissal. “I still have info. I know some things ye don’t. So. You can hear me out, and let me help, or I can take my knowledge elsewhere.”

The elsewhere caught Anne Marie’s attention. “What do you mean, elsewhere? Who else would believe, much less be interested?” He was hinting at another hunter. She hated dealing with other hunters. They were, generally, ill equipped, undereducated, and mostly, in the way.

“Oh, there’s others. Here. Drawn by the same stories probably caught your eye, lassie.” Liam knew he had her attention now. “Scary murders, no suspects. Fresh bodies disappearing from the local morgue…”

“Bodies disappearing?” Anne Marie hadn't come across any news of body snatching.

“Got ye now, haven’t I, lass.” He didn’t even attempt to hide his delight. “Aye, girlie, bodies gone missing overnight. And often the theft, if that's what it is, is followed by another unpleasant crime scene.”

He snatched the stack of papers from her hand and started to study them. “For someone that pokes fun at me accent, you oughtta start writin’ in that language you're speakin’ at the moment.” He could make no sense of the characters scrawled in the margins of the reports and clippings. The alphabet used had disappeared over a millennium ago.

Anne Marie smiled sweetly, “ there's a reason for that. Of course, if your info is legitimate, I might translate some of it for you.”

Friday, July 20, 2012

Secrets

Write On Edge: Red-Writing-Hood
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....

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Sleepless

     As sleep lounges in a corner refusing her invitation, Anne Marie's mind travels to the long ago.

     In the blush just before dawn, after a night of hunting those things that go bump, the memories taunt.

     Her daughter, born in a witches hut. A child she never held nor suckled. A child taken from her before her womb completed its business.

     All that she has to hold, is a silver thread wound tightly about a lock of hair.

     She has known her daughter's daughter, and the daughters after.

     Still, she'd trade the centuries for one touch of her newborn's hand.




I joined in the 100 Word Song, this week's track is "She Talks to Angels" by The Black Crowes.  This is another little snippet of Anne Marie/Annag's story.  There is more, I'm working on it...




My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog



Thursday, May 17, 2012

Aftermath


   This is some of the back story a character I've been working with.  Annag is pronounced Anak, Scottish Gaelic for Anne.




    Annag, the lone surviving soul of Clan MacClarren, awoke in the unfamiliar bed, trying to die.  Escape.

    Escape the terror that began as her wedding feast.

    Trying not to believe her betrothed had been torn apart in front of her.

    Escape the vision of savaged flesh that had been her mother.

    Trying not to remember her father being pulled down and slain.

    Escape the scream of her young sister before her head was ripped from her body.

    Trying not to see every one of her clansmen dismembered, bloodied.  Dead.

    Escape the soothing voice that kept repeating, "It will be alright."




This is my offering for Lance's #100wordsong.


The track this week is The Beatles; Revolution



My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog

Friday, April 6, 2012

The Shopping Trip

Write On Edge: Red-Writing-Hood
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.  

Friday, February 24, 2012

Evicted

Write On Edge: Red-Writing-HoodThis 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.”

Thursday, February 9, 2012

Arrival

Write On Edge: Red-Writing-Hood
 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.