Blessing of the Garden Gate

My offering for Master Class Monday at EatSleepWrite
The prompt I chose was nonpotable blessings




Twas quiet here, not long ago.  Shadow prevailed and gave cover to ghosts of the despair.  Wraiths of grief wrapped chilled fingers of loneliness around the heart of one left behind.  Neglect squeezed and choked life into submission.

Then she arrived. Her dreams and memories carried in boxes of cluttered life. The man by her side not so sure of this final destination, pulled along by her need to come home.

Life and color slowly return, the man working hard to reclaim a space left to weedy decay. She spends her time splashing color on faded walls. Together they create home.

Warm, golden light now shines from windows once shuttered in despair. The laughter within spills haphazardly into flowerbeds beneath the screened opening as one of the blood resides within again.

The bright Fae of the night climb thorny stems to peek inside.  Wings shimmering with moon glow from a cloudless sky, they raise excited brows and whisper of better times. They've marked the return of Rose and Tulip, old bearded Iris.  They hail the arrival of Lily and Heather.
  
Malevolent ivy retreats in frustration, pushed out by carefully nurtured roots. It slumbers uneasily beneath the color splashed gardens, waiting for the chance to regain a foothold.

Barefoot, careful of the garden sprites, the woman contentedly surveys the work of her spouse. Multiple beds entice butterflies and honey bees. Songbirds settle into the regained peace. 

A vegetable garden flourishes where none have farmed for decades. Fruit trees replace the ones lost through age and neglect. Wild berries welcome eager hands that have grown since picking and stuffing them into giggling faces long ago.

Her gaze follows the spreading limbs of the oak that shaded her childhood. Beneath it an overgrown lilac was a green fortress for herself and her siblings. Trimmed and tidied it still provides a quiet space within to think and to dream. 

On sunny days her man sees the figure of a woman regarding his work. Her grandmother she says. The one who left behind bits of garden hidden amongst the weeds. He raises his brow, but accepts and hopes his efforts are acceptable.

From the corner of her eye she catches glimpses of the Fae. They duck under the ferns and dance around the lilies. Playing chase with the squirrels and flitting about the feeder with hummingbirds. She tells no one she sees them, just smiles to herself.

Flowers follow their season, bloom then fade, replaced by the next, finally relinquishing to colder months. The vegetable garden ripens and gives its bounty to enhance the table through winter. Always some seed or fruit is left behind for wildlife. And Fae.

Snow fall blankets the ground, insulating roots and bulbs. A protective cover of bright white sheltering the promise of spring to come. 

She looks for the tracks in the snow. Rabbit, squirrel, and sometimes prints unfamiliar. Frosty pictures are left on window panes, icy flowers, a reminder that spring is nearby.

With yarn in her lap she waits out the cold. Watching for the early signs, a blush in the undergrowth, tiny buds peeking from the trees. Daffodils pushing through the frost, not waiting for a designated date. 

Soon, the time for faery dances and color will draw her barefoot through the garden gate and all the blessings it holds.

Canning Season

Trifecta: Week Ninety-Seven

Congrats to last weeks winners!  This will be my first Trifecta post in too long.  I've been sneaking into the Trifextra Weekend, cause 33 words has seemed more do-able.  I do hope I got the gist of this week's prompt correct.
And here it is:

This week's prompt word is inspired by a less-than-inspiring few weeks in the life of at least one (no more than three) Trifecta editor(s).  If this type of language is not your thing, don't worry.  There aren't too many more swear words with third definitions in our dictionary, so we can guarantee Trifecta won't always be not safe for work.  If it is your thing, well, give us your best.

ASS

1. (noun): any of several hardy gregarious African or Asian perissodactyl mammals (genus Equus) smaller than the horse and having long ears; especially : an African mammal (E. asinus) that is the ancestor of the donkey

2.  (noun):
a. often vulgar : buttocks —often used in emphatic reference to a specific person <get your ass over here> <saved my ass>
b. often vulgar : anus

3. (adverb/adjective) often vulgar—often used as a postpositive intensive especially with words of derogatory implication <fancy-ass>

Don't worry about the big, three-dollar-word language of 'postpositive intensive'.  Basically, we are asking for something similar to the example.  Think: pansy-ass, fancy-ass, smart-ass, dumb-ass.  This week, your prompt word may be used, as in the above examples, as a suffix.  We aren't hung up on the 'postpositive' aspect of this definition, and you don't need to be either.  (Though it's really not difficult to figure out.)

- See more at: http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/#sthash.phPoWZpm.dpuf


I loved Grams to death.  As a boy of nine, nothing was better than sitting in her kitchen eating her homemade apple pie, warm from the oven, with a giant scoop of vanilla ice cream on it.

As much as I loved Grams, I hated her cellar.  I hated it from the ratty-ass wooden door that was tucked in the corner next to her old wheezy fridge to the dirt floor at the bottom of the creaky steps.

There was something down there.  My mother rolled her eyes.  My dad said to grow up.  Gram just said it was a cellar and the only thing down there was jars, full and empty.

I spent two weeks at Grams my tenth summer.  We ate warm pie and played cards and picked apples.

Picking apples meant canning apples. Which meant getting jars, from the cellar.

Grams could tell I wasn't keen on the idea, but she just shooed me along with the assurance nothing was down there except the jars.

It was the sixth trip that was the "charm", I was feeling cocky by then.  There wasn't anything down here.  I was just a kid last year when I thought that.

Just as I was thumbing my nose at that silly nine year old, I felt a cold hand on my arm.  I spun around to my worst fear. 

A face red as flame with long jagged teeth framing a forked tongue.  I tried to inhale enough breath to form a shriek, but choked on my fear.  The monster gripped my arm tighter and began to pull me closer.

I was going to die in Grams cellar.

I heard a sound like a bell being rung.  The thing let go of my arm, and simply melted away.

And there stood Grams, an iron skillet in her hand.  

"C'mon, boy,"  she said, "I told you, there's nothin' here but jars, and the apples are waitin'."

Exit

It was my plan to link up with last week's 100 Word Song.  But I waited to long.  Sad me.
However.  Since Leeroy gave us an additional 20 words to play with, I altered my original idea to encompass both tracks.  
Cause they said we could break the rules!


It whispered her name.  "Elise."
A soft plea. "Come."
Silver rimmed shadow, pulsing gently.

"Did you get hold of Granny yet?  We need that cash"

"Elise, come."
Chewing her lip, she took a hesitant step.
Silver swirled into shadow with anticipation.  
"Come, Elise.  Nothing to fear."

"I know, I know!  She don't answer her phone."

She stood, undecided.
It waited patiently.
Finally another faltering step.  
"Be free, Elise.  Come."

"Try again!"

She cocked her head, eyebrows furrowed. "Free?"
"Free, come Elise."
She stretched a gnarled hand toward the shadow.  A ribbon of silver caressed her bent fingers.
She grasped the silvery thread, followed with trust.


"I did, some young chick answered.  I musta got the wrong number."

She was free.

The Songs...

You have seven days from NOW, to write 120 words on Wrong Number by The Cure chosen by Melissa aka @realgirlmelissa. Link up to Mr. Linky below then tell a friend or fifty via the medias that are social

And....
 And She Was, by the Talking Heads and chosen by Tar Rah. Use Mr. Linky below then social media out your link and tell a friend or fifty.

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..."

Keeper of the Words

the prompt: A stand-alone scene, fiction or memoir, in 500 words or less, involving a handwritten letter.

Age yellowed envelopes with three cent postage. The pages inside are unlined, scratched with ink.

So many letters, from 1947 to 1952. An aunt to her niece. The handwriting in a tight, formal style, learned many years before.

The earliest notes passed along news of friends and neighbors. Bits of happenings of other family members shared from other letters that traveled across the country. Filling out the remainder of the pages with descriptions of weather or the latest shopping trip.

And always, “How is the family? The Mister? The Boy? Yourself?, I can’t wait to see you again.”

The later notes remain happy, still full of news. But, “the stairs are harder to climb.” Or, “I’d write more often, but the arthritis…” And, “hope all is well with your family. I can’t wait to see you again.”

Then came the letters in a different hand. This one younger, looser, rounder. “I stopped to see your aunt today. But she didn’t live there anymore. The landlord told us where to find her. Going to see her tomorrow. Hope all is well with your family.”

“I visited your aunt today. She’s doing well, but seems to have trouble remembering… Hope you're feeling better.”

“She can’t be alone anymore, she wanders off. She doesn't like it here… She asks about you. Too bad you can’t come.”

The last letter is dated February 2nd, 1952. My grandmother, Minnie passed away February 20th, 1952. Her Aunt Mina, also known as Minnie, joined her January 28th, 1953.

I have boxes of letters written to my grandmother from many family members. Most are from her aunt. She was named for her Aunt Mina, and there seems to have been a special bond between them.  I wish I could see the letters she wrote in return.  I never knew this grandmother, she was gone before I was born, but the amount of letters and pictures give me little look at who she was.

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.”

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. 

Gramma and Grandmother

Her name was Sylvia, she was my Mother's mother. I called her Gramma. We had a close bond while I was growing up. Many summers were spent with her, and Grampa, in their home in Tennessee.

Her name was Minne, she was my Father's mother. I never knew her. She died before my Father married. All I have are a few memories he shared.

Summers with Gramma always involved activities. She taught me to crochet one summer. That is a love I still have, a love for yarn. With the simple action of passing down a hobby, she started me on a life long love of fiber arts in all their forms.

I never got to know this other Grandmother. I grew up in the house she and my Grandfather finally settled into four years before her passing. Bits of her surrounded me there. Her rocking chair. Her cookbooks and kithchen utensils. I baked my first brownies with a recipe from one of her books.

My Gramma was always there when I needed her. After Grampa's retirement, they moved back to
Indiana. No more ten hour trips to Tennessee, she was practically around the corner. When I became pregnant at twenty-seven, and was looking at single motherhood, she offered which ever form of assistance I wanted. After I assured her I wanted this child, we dug out the crochet patterns for baby clothes. Giggling over the cute outfits we were going to make.

My other Grandmother didn't get the chance to meet her great-granddaughter. But that child also spent much time in the house where my Grandmother spent the end of her life. She baked her first cake from one of the old cookbooks.

My Gramma was full of fun and mischief. I still miss her, she passed away twenty three years ago. Looking back now, I realize how much more I could have learned.

I have moved back into the house that was my Grandmother's home. She left behind much more than a rocking chair and cookbooks. I have her collection of postcards, dated from the early 1900's until her death in 1952. I have books she read. I have letters from her family. I realize now how much more I can learn.
*****

(This post covered two different prompts this week. WriteOnEdge and MamKat's Writers' Workshop.)


This week we asked you to write about a person from your past…but the story had to include YOU.

We gave you the starting point of “His/her name was _______, and looking back now, I realize….”



the prompt I chose was to write my grandmother's story. I wrote little snippets of who they were

Paths Crossed

This week, we'd like you to write a scene that includes a happy ending


(If you haven't read here before, you may want to read this and then this ) 

Tamryn Leafeyes, Lady of Tree Cairn, tried to embrace her daughter. “Really, ‘Bet. Would it have been too much to say hello first?” Tam dropped her arms, she wasn’t entirely surprised by her daughter’s anger. She had far overstepped herself this time.

“How do you say hello to someone that has stolen your child, Mother.? Hi, hugs and kisses, can I have my boy back? Pretty please? Speaking of, where is Barry? I'm taking him home. Now." Lyabet had not seen her mother for literally ages. She hadn't changed, elementals, whether earth or air, didn't age at the same pace humans did.

“’Bet, I did not steal your son. I simply wanted to visit with my grandson.”

“You have two grandsons. The one you are visiting with, and the one you left behind. The one that thinks he’s not good enough to go with the, ahem, nice lady.”

Tam sighed , “I know. I have two grandsons. But, I couldn’t bring the other through the earth. And? Perhaps had you told me yourself of these grandchildren, instead of having to hear it from Graleon,” Tam shook herself in disbelief, “we could have set a much more pleasant visit.”

Lyabet remembered the last time she seen her father, Graleon. He’d told her how much he missed and loved her. In the same breath he’d called her babies animals. Her jaw tightened at the memory.

“You know how your father feels about humans, ‘Bet. You should have come to me. I understand. I had human babies. Once.” Tam turned away.  When she turned back, Lyabet could see traces of tears.

“Mother,” she reached out, almost shyly, laid her hand on the other woman’s shoulder, “ I know about them, I know about the trees. And, I know how this path may end.” Lyabet gently turned her mother to face her. “I know you understand, it’s just been so long since I’ve seen you. Father raised me, you didn’t seem interested…”

“I was interested! You were a child of my blood, the baby I wouldn’t have to plant a tree to remember. But, you were more the child of your father. Air, not Earth. I couldn’t teach you of the air. He could, he did. He did, and was so smug.” Tam waved a hand to dismiss the thoughts of Graleon. “’Bet, I have always loved you, always wanted to have you with me. It just didn’t happen the way I wished.”

Lyabet drew a breath, the anger receding as she made a quick decision. “Maybe it’s time we got to know each other. Perhaps we have some catching up to do. Get Barry, we need to go back now, time is different here.”

Tam looked at her daughter with raised brows,“We?”

“Yes, Mother. We. Three. Now” She could only hope her husband would understand.

>>>>>>>
　
Chuck wasn’t sure what woke him. A change in air temperature, a thump in the backyard, but he jumped from the sofa where he’d dozed off. “Beth? Beth is that you? “

A woman with leaf green eyes and brown hair that glinted with autumn highlights stepped into the room. “Yes! Yes Chuck, we are home!”

He jumped back, reaching for anything that might pass as a weapon, “Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my house!”

He was answered by the patter of little feet, and a sweet voice calling, “Dadda! Dadda, I here! You miss me?”

We Used to Sing

This week's memoir prompt asked you to dig deep to find what, from your childhood, you still know from heart.


"Chickery chick, cha-la, cha-la
Check-a-la romey in a bananika
Bollika, wollika, can't you see
Chickery chick is me?"

"Mairzy doats and dozy doats
And liddle lamzy divey
A kiddley divey too,
Wouldn't you?"

"Down in the meadow in a little bitty pool
Swam three baby fishies and a mama fishie too
"Swim" said the mama fishie, "Swim if you can"
And they swam and they swam right over the dam
Boop boop dit-tem dat-tem what-tem Chu!
Boop boop dit-tem dat-tem what-tem Chu!
Boop boop dit-tem dat-tem what-tem Chu!
And they swam and they swam right over the dam"

"I went to the Animal Fair
The birds and the beasts were there
The big baboon by the light of the moon
Was combing his auburn hair"

"Wintee Wee was painted on a saucer,
Song Fong Lo was on a fan.
Song Fong Lo, he came across her
On a dressing stand. 

Wee, please come with me,
And we'll go back to dreamy lotus land. 

You step off your saucer, I'll climb off my fan
And we'll go back to dreamy lotus land..."

These are songs my grandmother and my mother sang to us as we were growing up. 
We'd sing in the car on long trips. 
We'd start singing while playing cards. 

My grandmother had a very expressive face. During different songs, she'd roll her eyes or grin maniacally. 

My mother's version always had a swing or Big Band edge to them. 

Either way, I remember the words to them all. 

Except the last one. The words defy me to find them all. It's a sad love lost song. For Winty
Wee is made of china. She slips and falls from the dressing stand. 
(we had it wrong. Lyrics found: I posted them on RandomRants. The button is on the right.

The Path Before

We'd like you to write about what your character wants most.
To read more of the story: The Paths of the Elementals

Tamryn Leafeyed, stood quietly, watching the two boys play. The older boy playing with plastic trucks and cars. The younger boy playing with whatever he found. Pebbles, sticks, blades of grass. Their father peeking out the back door regularly.

She remembered watching other children play. She and their father laughing at their antics.

Their father, a beautiful man, skin the color of rich earth. His eyes darkest brown.  She had hair of brown with hints of autumn red, eyes the color of spring leaves.  Her skin lighter, touched with the blush of ripe peach.  Together they had seven beautiful children.

She was happy, she had love. She gave and received love. Love from the beautiful man. Love from the seven beautiful children. She would be happy forever.

Except, they didn't have forever. Tamryn Leafeyed was an Earth Elemental, a force of nature. Yet, she had no power over time, and it went by more quickly than she had imagined it could. The beautiful man became old, though never less beautiful.  When his life ended, she was shocked even though she had known it would happen.

Her seven beautiful children grew to adulthood almost overnight. They had children of their own. Her beautiful grandchildren. 
Her beautiful children became old. When the first of them died of old age in her arms, her heart shredded.  She suddenly understood the consequence of the path she had chosen.

Tam planted the first of seven trees

She stood within the circle of the seven ancient trees, holding the hand of the little boy she had brought with her. Her youngest, newest grandchild. A grandchild that could hear and feel her presence, half human, half elemental.  A child that maybe had forever.

Tears rolled down her cheeks. She never should have hugged that other boy. The other grandchild. The one whose oh-so-human heartbeat still vibrated in her arms. The beats counting down to the end of his days. She wanted so much for him to hear her. To find that her blood was there.

She wanted so much to have them both...forever.