Utopia

Writing Prompt: Week 22
I've been away from this place for a long time.  Missed it.  A lot.  I took my inspiration from the picture, and of course, I twisted it to my personal bent for the bizarre.

                                       Image courtesy of Unsplash




The swing creaked in mock protest as she eased her slight frame into the cushions.  The soft breeze of a late summer's afternoon tickled the collection of wind chimes hung around the edges of the porch roof.

Contentment painted her face as she listened to the gentle wind-song.  Another day's chores completed.  Her garden weeded, and watered from rain barrels.  The first of the season's berries picked, cleaned, canned.  Herbs, both domesticated and wild, carefully picked and hung to dry.  

Her man had found a few stray chickens and goats on his last outing.  Their farmsteads deserted, just like her neighbors' homes.  Nature was quickly reclaiming the abandoned backyards, tough grasses were already breaking up asphalt streets.  

The community park down the road now hosted a bee tree, a thing that would have been discouraged if children still played there.  She'd already begun to plan a raid for the honey.  

They'd been lucky, the plague had missed them...  The small town that used to exist around them hadn't been of interest to the inevitable looters and gangs of displaced teens with no idea how to fend for themselves.  Those not killed by sickness moved on to easier pickings.

It was hard at first, no electric, no running water.  No Internet search to answer the many questions.  But, they'd stuck it out, relying on the few books they could find.   Learning by doing, trial and error, and half forgotten stories of grandparents.  

The swing moved lazily, her eyes drooped with the early evening heat. The gentle music of the chimes lulling her to sleep.

A raucous whoop and the unmistakable sound of a gas engine jolted her out of her comfort.  A smooth, easy reach brought the shotgun to her lap.

"Woman!  Looky what I found!  An' guess what?  It ain't that far to a real town, we can move to a place where they got water an' at least part time 'lectricity!  We ain't gotta live like this no more." He turned to reach into the pack of the two-wheeler.

While his back was turned, she aimed for the body.  She fired without hesitation.

"Damn," she muttered, "gotta find another'n."




.

In the Company of Shadows

We are a solitary people, uneasy in groups.  Among our own kind we are considered loners, introverts. Outcasts. 

Rather than gather about an overflowing table for our morning meal, we favor a seat beside a gently burbling stream. No reason to make others uncomfortable with our discomfort.   

Our preference is the company of ourselves, one on none.

It is not a lonely life, but a life alone. We do not live in silence. Far from it. Each appliance has a voice as distinct as birds' songs. Pets listen to our spoken thoughts and answer with purr or tail wag. Outdoors, the leaves whisper secrets, and all that walk, crawl, or fly have something to tell us. I am used to their company, the hurry and scurry, chatter and twitter. Presence without infringement.

So, it was startling when I first noticed my new companion. Just out of the corner of my eye, a darker shape. My shadow, I was certain. Yet, uncertain, a hint of something...wrong.

Throughout the summer and fall I covertly watched. It hid in the sun spattered trees, blinking in and out with the whim of light. Always just on the edge of my vision. I made conscious moves to put the sun at my back. My shadow fell in front, just as it should, nothing amiss.

As autumn rolled into winter and the leaves fell away, there were no places for my shadow to hide. One bright morning after a day's snowfall, I caught the stark contrast of that shadow against the white blanketed earth. It stood beside me as I shifted my eyes without turning my head. Again, the feeling of something not quite right.

Each day it was with me, sometimes following, sometimes leading. Other times, on the right or left.  On cloudless days I surreptitiously kept watch. Puzzling over what it was that didn't conform to how my shadow should appear. In frustration, I quickly turned my head to view it fully. As is a shadow's habit, it moved as quickly. I viewed it full on, taking in the contours of the profile, the shape of the body, the feet, where they met with mine. 

Its profile...I was facing it. I should not have seen a profile That was the wrong I'd sensed before, watching peripherally. There should have been a profile then. The shadow had been watching me!

The unease I had felt before slowly slid through disbelief, then quickly onward to fear. I backed away, my shadow obediently following. My instinct to turn tail and run was held at bay by the knowledge it would be following me. I could not outpace my own shadow. My rattled thoughts held me frozen, my breath coming in gasps. As I watched, the shadow, my shadow, moved its arms into a position that I recognized as clutching its chest. My own arms hung at my side, awaiting the message to flee.

Panic finally delivered that message as the thing impersonating my shadow crumpled in classic heart attack fashion. Feet unconsciously finding purchase on the snow crusted ground, arms pumping, I ran. The only fully formed thought in my mind was the certainty that I had not left that shadow behind. 

Racing through the naked trees, pounding over open meadow, I tried not to look at it. But as my course turned direction, the shade fell in beside me. The unmistakable shape of scissors appeared in one hand. I stumbled as I quickly checked my own to be sure I wasn't carrying any. Catching myself before I could fall, I slowed my steps. What might happen if my shadow fell upon its shadow scissors? 

Moving with care, keeping my eyes forcibly away from my companion, I eventually made my way home. Once inside, I slammed the door, as if that would keep the thing out. Afternoon sunlight blazed through the living room window, the drapes open wide to let it in. I frantically pulled them closed. The shadow was made less distinct in the dimness. I visited each room, pulling drapes shut and dropping blinds. The little light that leaked through was not enough to give my shadow shape. 

That was three weeks ago. I haven't gone out during daylight since. The winter shortened days have allowed me to leave after dark for grocery shopping.  But this week, the moon has been waxing toward full. My one attempt to traverse the lunar lit landscape ended within moments of exiting my home. I caught sight of it to my left. Once it was aware of my gaze, it mimicked tripping over some invisible obstacle. I watched transfixed as it fell, seemingly with some force. The resulting pain in my knees and wrist answered that month old question. 

I live in the dark now. Because I know what might happen if my shadow fell upon its shadow scissors.



 

I haven't written for ages it seems.  But thanks to the wondrous group at Write on Edge, I decided to take a leap.
They gave us this prompt:

“It takes two to make an accident.”

F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

The details:

• 1000 word limit, all genres of creative writing are welcome.
• linky is open until Friday, February 21, at 11:55pm Pacific
• Use the F. Scott Fitzgerald quote above as an opening/closing line or draw inspiration from it, your choice.
• Community voting opens 2/22 and closes 2/28 at 11:55pm Pacific.
• Community and editorial choice winners will be announced on Write on Edge and Bannerwing Books on Monday, March 3, 2014.
• All entries must be original work, only published on your personal blog/website, and by entering you give Write on Edge and Bannerwing Books permission to reprint your entry in Precipice, Volume III‘s print and digital formats, as well as permission to edit for grammatical, spelling, and typographical errors.
• Have fun!

Weatherin' the Storm

Write at the Merge, Week 47

This is my 201st post.  Wish I was writing more.  But...life.  I brought Willa, the psychic realtor back for this one. And it may be a little long.
The prompts for this week are: 
“Then the lights went out.”

The quote:

Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.
Martin Luther King, Jr.

I

Willa stood on the walk in front of the sixth and final house on her list.   She'd been on her feet since nine am, inspecting each property, noting cupboards, opening closets, counting bedrooms and baths.  

Her notebook was filled with remarks for each listing.  One home needed exterior paint.  Another had a roof that wanted patching.  The bungalow needed a bachelor to keep it company, the modest ranch begged for a young couple just starting their new life.

Not only did Willa see the physical needs of the homes she contracted to sell, she felt the personalities of them.  

The sixth home of the day was a rambling two story in an old neighborhood. The lawn was well kept and the wide front porch invited visitors. She cut her exterior inspection short as clouds began to roll in, bringing the gusting winds and first cold drops of a storm she vaguely remembered being forecast.

Willa ignored the building gale as she focused on her checklist. It wasn't until she heard tornado sirens blaring that she realized how intense the storm had become.

Her first thought was to hurry home, but when she opened the front door, the roaring wind drove her back inside.  She'd never been afraid of heavy weather, but the rattle of small limbs being hurled against the windows and greenish cast to the sky warned her to take cover.

Ducking into a hall closet, she knelt on the floor waiting for the worst to pass.  It was the crash of breaking glass that finally made her heart pound with dread.

She tucked herself into a corner and closed her eyes while murmuring a small prayer.  Another crash induced a squeak of terror and she squeezed her eyes shut tighter.

The small space suddenly filled with the smell of gardenias.  Willa felt herself enveloped in a warm embrace.

"It's alright, baby girl.  I got you."  The voice was calm, filling her head but not her ears.

"Ain't no puff of wind gonna get you in here.  This house has solid bones."

Willa began to relax, listening to the voice reassure her.

"This house has deep roots, grown in hard work and love.  The oldest in this here neighborhood."

"Our people been livin' here for generations. We was here before this city sprung up.  When this was just a little scratch farm, full of family and joy."

Willa leaned into the embrace, listening to the story of lives and loves.  

"Wake up, baby girl.  Time to go, the storm is passed."

Willa felt a nudge urging her to her feet.  She opened the closet door a crack.  The last light of day streamed through the windows.   She made a mental note to call her handyman to board up the one that was broken. 

She gathered her belongings and stepped outside.  A gasp escaped her as she surveyed the rest of the street.  

An abandoned house several doors down had lost much of its roof.  Another home's garage had been leveled, and three trees had been uprooted.

Willa turned to look at the sixth house of the day.  The old two story stood straight, radiating strength.  The only damage was the one broken pane of glass.

She smiled,"Solid bones.  I know just family for you."

A Dose of Bravery

Trifecta: Week Ninety-Nine
This week we are giving you a page from the Oxford English Dictionary.  The ninety-ninth page, to be exact.  (Click to enlarge.)  From this page, you can choose any word, any definition, to use in your post.  (Please type your chosen word in bold, so we know.)  And instead of our typical 33-333 word limit, we are asking for 99 words exactly. - See more at: http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/#sthash.HmMOjuhJ.dpuf

Write at the Merge, Week 42

Your inspiration this week comes from the words “anticipation” and “leap.”







Two prompt muddled together this week. Here goes....



She measured the cinnamon with an iced tea spoon and half a thought. Added it to the brown sugar and nutmeg nestled atop a dollop of butter. She used he same spoon to lightly blend.

Her tea kettle began to hum over the flame, She anticipated the whistle of the imminent boil.

She poured Bacardi into the over sized mug, perhaps a little more than the recipe called for, then added the heated water, perhaps a little less.

Her story glowed from the laptop screen.  With a leap of faith, she hit publish.

Wish Upon a Star

Write at the Merge, Week 40 

Cameron gave us two photos for inspiration this week.  You can find them here

"Why're we here again, girlie?"

"We are looking for the wulver that has chosen this place as its hunting ground, Liam."  Anne Marie sniffed the air at the street end of an alley.  "It's what I do."

Liam looked over her shoulder.  "Ye doona need ye're nose, sweetling, there's light enough ablazin' to see fer miles."

The pair continued down the avenue, at each alley, Anne Marie tested the scent.  So far, she'd found no hint of the werewolf she was hunting.

"I say ye're searchin' the wrong side a town, Annie.  No wolfman worth his hide would hunt in this light.  Ye canna even see the star through this sodium bathed backwash."

"What are you blathering about, Liam?"

"Stars, Annie, I canna see the stars."

"What stars?"

"My point exactly, lass."  Liam laid a hand on her shoulder, "Annie, let's go back to the old land.  I still own the manor..."

"The ruins of a manor, Liam, you haven't been there, in what?  Centuries?"

"All the better, no electric lights to block the stars."  Liam cocked a half smile, "Remember when we used ta sleep in the wilds, Annie.  Nothin' fer miles.  No light, just the faint glow of the dyin' cook fire.  No horns blarin', just the song of crickets and tree frogs, leaves whisprin' secrets to each other."

"Liam, are you alright?"  Anne Marie looked at her oldest acquaintance suspiciously. "You have fed recently, haven't you?"

Liam sighed, "Yes, pet, I have.  Ye needn't remind me what ye think of my condition."

"Alright then, let's get back to the business at hand, shall we."  Anne Marie returned to her hunt, sniffing the air and peering down alleys.

"Aye, Annie, the business at hand." Liam gazed into the sky, seeking the light of a distant star. 

First Impression

 
Trifecta: Week Eighty-Six
Write at the Merge Week 29
Master Class Summer Edition #3


Congratulations to the weekend winners!  There were some great writing processes, some I may implement.
I've lost my mind or just gone plain crazy.  I opted to combine three prompts this time.  I hope they work.  I listed the prompts at the end.
I'm revisiting Anne Marie and Liam.  Most of the the stories I write about them are character studies.  This is how I get to know more about them.  So on to the story...

             "Annie, sweetling!  Come meet me friend Rosie!"  Liam kicked the door open as he bellowed.  He dragged his new friend into Anne Marie's kitchen, then proceeded to rifle her pantry.  "D'ya not have anything ta eat, lass?"

Anne Marie leaned against the door frame leading to the parlor.  "There is food, Liam, root vegetables and herbs.  But, oh dear.... likely nothing to your tastes."  She eyed Rosie as Liam continued to search for meat, preferably raw, and perhaps a bit rancid.

"Rosie" stood at the kitchen table looking bored while absently running one long pink fingernail along a crack in the surface.  Unnaturally blond hair danced across broad shoulders clad in the soft black leather of a form fitting leotard.  A low slung belt sported assorted bulging pockets.  The outfit was completed by knee high, shiny, black boots with three inch heels.

Rosie caught Anne Marie's gaze. "Liam says you're a hunter, too.  I guess I expected someone...ya know, taller."

Liam threw an arm around his new partner, "Now, Rosie, doona judge a book, girlie." 

Disengaging Liam's arm, Rosie sauntered toward Anne Marie, "What gear do you prefer, Annie?"

"I prefer Anne Marie.  And I don't pack gear, I use what's at hand."

"Isn't that risky?"

"Not as risky as those boots.  They're barely made for walking, useless for running."

Rosie snorted, "I don't run.  Annie."

Liam stopped rummaging to watch the interchange, "Now lassies..."

One swift move and Rosie lay across the table, the point of a large butcher knife aimed between wide blue eyes.  Anne Marie sniffed, then raised her brows in surprise.  Releasing Rosie, she tossed the knife aside, "Get out, both of you."

Liam rushed Rosie toward the door, "C'mon, girlie...wha....Rossamund!  By the gods, lass, ye've wet yerself!"

Anne Marie sighed.  Nothing worse than an amateur hunter.  Except perhaps a foolish ghoul, trying to make her jealous with his new partner. 

Should she tell him his new playmate, Rossamund, was a boy with a girl's name?


Write at the Merge..."This week, we’re offering a photograph — feel free to use any or all of the items in the photo as part of the prompt."







The Master Class.....


From Trifecta 'Writing Challenge....

CRACK
1a : a loud roll or peal <a crack of thunder>
  b : a sudden sharp noise <the crack of rifle fire>
2: a sharp witty remark : quip
3a : a narrow break : fissure <a crack in the ice>  
  b : a narrow opening <leave the door open a crack><cracks between floorboards> —used figuratively in phrases like fall through the cracks to describe one that has been improperly or inadvertently ignored or left out <a player who fell through the cracks in the college draft> <children slipping through the cracks of available youth services>
4a : a weakness or flaw caused by decay, age, or deficiency :unsoundness
  b : a broken tone of the voice
  c : crackpot
5: moment, instant <the crack of dawn>
- See more at: http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/#sthash.LETuMiLK.dpuf

It's Not Over

Trifecta: Week Eighty-Three   
and
Write at the Merge, Week 26

After my Trifextra offering, I was inspired to create a new character in my ever changing world of Anne Marie McClarren.  So I'm throwing two prompts together this week,  this image from Write on Edge..

and, from Trifecta Writing...

This week's word is:

RUSTY
1: affected by or as if by rust; especially : stiff with or as if with rust
2: inept and slow through lack of practice or old age
3a : of the color rust  

  b : dulled in color or appearance by age and use <rusty old boots>
4: outmoded
5: hoarse, grating

- See more at: http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/#sthash.31EjgJ5O.dpuf

Damp air touched his face, a soft caress awakening him.  Jean Philippe Michel L'Parre struggled to raise rusty eyelids.  As consciousness returned, so did memory.

She'd been there, in his lair under the lighthouse.  Lying in wait for his return at sunrise.  He remembered the surprise followed by the pain.  Excruciating, burning pain.  It immobilized him as she sealed the entry of his cavern.  His final memory had been of black, dry silence.

His eyes adjusted to the dark as he slowly moved his weakened extremities.  Arms lethargically drew his hands over his body.  When they reached his unmoving chest, he grasped the rotting wood of the stake driven there. 

He twisted the shaft free, the accompanying scream reverberating in the small space meant to be his tomb.  The elder memory of pain blotted out by fresh agony.

He lay still, willing strength to return.  Vengeance growing hotter as the burning wave of pain subsided.  He threw the offensive wood, its clatter echoing more softly than his cry.

Hours passed before he became aware of the sound dripping water.  Then the scuttling of tiny clawed feet.  Here was the creature that had breached the seal, inviting the wood moldering wetness.

Curiosity drove the rat closer.  L'Parre waited patiently as it sniffed and shuffled about his feet. When it moved within his reach, he snatched it with one emaciated hand.  Not bothering to bring it to his fangs, he simply twisted its head off.  He held the body over his open mouth, letting the crimson flow run down his throat.

When the blood no longer ran freely, he used both hands to wring the remaining rusty drops directly into the gaping hole in his chest.  

He tossed the empty body  the same direction as the stake.  Then closed his eyes once more, resting, to let "nature" take its course, while he dreamed of the demise of Mademoiselle McClarren.


   

Homecoming

Write at the Merge, Week 17

                               pinhole 970, bridge © Darius Kuzmickas via Flickr
This week we were given two photos from Cam, I was inspired by this one.  



Willa checked the address again.  She drove this route daily, but couldn't place the house she was supposed to show.  

Trees and thick brush lined the road.  Shielding her eyes from the sun's glare, she slowed the car to a crawl as she searched for a mailbox.  The brakes locked with a screech when she finally spotted the tire ruts that passed for a drive way.

Willa eased the car onto the track, navigating potholes and fallen limbs as she followed it into the urban forest.  Leaf laden branches met overhead, casting shadows over the hood of the car.  She'd idled down the path about a quarter of a mile when she spied the bridge ahead.  

At least it pretended to be a bridge.  Wooden planks thrown across tree trunks was a more apt description.  No way was she driving her car across it.  

As the car idled, she pulled the paperwork for the property from her briefcase.  The house should be just beyond the far side of the bridge.  She squinted through the windshield, trying to catch a glimpse of it.

As she scanned the space, a fog rolled up from whatever water source the bridge spanned.  Frustrated, Willa turned the engine off and stepped out onto the dirt road.  She'd have to walk from here.

Her first step on the structure caused it to sway belligerently. There were no rails, Willa threw her arms out for balance as she waited for it to stabilize before resuming her trek.  

While she hesitated, the fog continued to build.  She could barely see the other bank at all now.  Her second step caused a shiver in the wood that ran up her legs and back.  The accompanying creak dried her tongue to the roof of her mouth.  

The planks halfway across faded into the fog, Willa reached out with her mind.  Her gift was generally only active inside the homes she sold, but since the property had seemingly sent the fog as an emissary, perhaps she could sense something from it.

She slid one foot forward, still holding her arms out.  The fog moved toward her steadily.  All she could sense was the physical. Chill, damp air, and the sound of the wooden planks rubbing against the logs and each other.

With a deep breath, and the shallow remains of her determination, Willa slid her other foot forward.  The fog rolled into her, flowed over her body, caressing her with cool moisture as it wrapped about her legs and draped across her shoulders.

Willa froze, the fog continue rolling around her.  Though she couldn't make contact, she felt like she was being sniffed, evaluated. Finally, she risked a careful peek over her shoulder, the few feet she'd traveled were hidden, as was her car.

She faced forward again, and gasped in delight.  The fog now lay behind her.  In front of her, the sun reflected brightly off the gleaming red roof of a modest sized bungalow, just the other side of the bridge.

Willa hurried across the rest of the planking, practically running up the concrete steps to the front door.  She unlocked the door and stepped into a light filled foyer.  She was overwhelmed by a feeling of warmth.

Then the house spoke.  "Welcome, Willa!  Welcome home!"  








  

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)

3: complexion tint:

  a : the tint characteristic of good health

  b : blush

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.





  

For Sale; Reduced

Write at the Merge, Week 15

Happy Birthday to Cam!  "I am one of those people who celebrates their birthday in month long chunks. So, for this week’s Write at the Merge prompt, I’m giving you two photos that hit me like a sucker punch from an imgur.com photoset." 

Willa heard about the house at a lunch she had attended with other local realtors.  More than one had tried to sell the property, all had failed.  Most wouldn't even show the place after their first walk through.

She had to see it.  She had a way with houses, a gift to find its heart, and then the perfect buyer.

Willa eased her car up the leaf drifted driveway.  Dirty windows glared at her as she approached.  It wasn't often she was unnerved by a house, but this one was doing it's best to intimidate her.

She stopped the car in a wide parking area and surveyed the house. It sat precariously against a hillside above the city.  It was huge, three stories and a walk-out basement that opened to stone stairs leading down the hill to the street below.  On the city side, a long stone veranda promised a spectacular view.  

The small bit of lawn, left to its own devices, had gone wild, sending shoots of ivy crawling up the stone exterior.  The untended gutters were spouting a forest of saplings and the sidewalks and steps were carpeted in moss. 

Willa picked up her briefcase as she left the cozy comfort of her car and stood on the uneven pavers.  The house sent a psychic wave of haughty disapproval that almost sent her diving for the safety of her front seat.  Instead, she drew a deep, calming breath, pushed the warnings of the previous realtors to the back of her mind, and keys in hand, walked boldly to the front door.

She stepped into the entry hall, dust covered every surface.  Papers and trash littered the marble floors.  She let out a gasp of dismay.  Who had let things go so long?  No wonder the house was angry, she thought.  

She opened her senses to the home, searching for memories of happier times.  The presence of the house retreated from her probing, not hostile now, but distrustful.  

She slowly explored the main floor.  Each room showed the sign of abandonment, disregard.  When she entered the kitchen, she was delighted.  Though the space was just as disheveled as the rest of the home, the floor to ceiling cabinets and vast counter space excited her.  As she explored the nooks, in a cobwebbed corner, she found a broom.  Leaving her briefcase on a counter, she grabbed the broom and went to work.  

Willa spent the next several hours sweeping piles of dust and debris.  Once the floor was clear, she started on the counters and cabinets.  As she toiled, she felt as if someone was watching.  Not with animosity, but with curiosity.  

She stopped finally, and regarded her handiwork.  Sunset was close, the light in the kitchen was dimming.  She wasn't ready to spend the night just yet.  She grabbed the briefcase and headed for the door.

She could sense the house, sigh.  Her mind showed her the image of a child dropping their shoulders in disappointment.

"No," she said, "I'll be back, I promise."

Cleaning Day

Write at the Merge; Week 14

The Prompts:  This week, one of your offerings is the phrase “cellar door”. “Cellar door” is considered a perfectly euphonic phrase, some say the most beautiful in the English language.

I first heard it expressed as so in the film Donnie Darko, which led me to the following image for the other half of the prompt.

Mary worked the padlock free and pulled the cellar door open.  She'd put this off long enough.  Duke raced down the stairs, plumed tail waving, as she hunted for the light switch.

She could hear the dog snuffling below as she flipped the lights on and descended the wooden steps.  when she reached the floor, she saw Duke had made himself comfortable on an old blanket laying next to John's work table.

"You spent a lot of time down here with him, didn't you, boy."  Mary began sorting through the bits and pieces littering the table.  John had loved his model planes.  There were wings, wheels, and tiny rudders.  his tools had been miniature versions of  everyday tools.

From the floor beams that made up the ceiling hung dozens of completed models.  She gently tapped a propeller and set it spinning.

John had brought his son from his first marriage down here every other weekend until the boy had grown into a young man.  They'd spend hours together, John, the boy, and the dog.  Mary smiled sadly at the memory.  She knew she couldn't just throw everything out, John had taken such care with his hobby.

She pulled her cell phone from her back pocket, quickly tapping through her contacts, she hit dial.  John Junior's wife answered, Mary took a breath, "Hi, Elise?  This is Mary, John's step..."

"Mary!  Oh my gosh, how are you?  It's so good to hear from you!" Elise gushed, then Mary heard her muffled voice as she covered the phone, "Johnny, John!  It's Mary...yes, Mary!"

"Mary?  It's John, how are you doing?  I'm so sorry I haven't stopped by, I just..."

Mary finally spoke, "I'm doing okay, John.  And I understand, I never expected a visit."  She took a breath, "But, I could really use a favor right now."

"Of course, Mary, how can I help?"

"Well, I'm trying to clean up the cellar, and I honestly don't know what to do with your Dad's planes."  Mary continued, "I don't want to throw them out.  Are you interested in them, or know someone?"

"Wow, Dad's planes."  Johnny hesitated, "I would love to have them, but, Mary?"

She waited for the rebuff, "It's okay, if..."

"Mary, could Elise and the boys and I, if it's okay, all come over and help you with them?  The boys always loved playing with Duke.  He's doing okay, isn't he?"

Mary laughed, the first good laugh in more than a year. "Duke is doing great, and I would love for all of you to come by.  Any time."

Duke lay on the floor at her feet, one ear cocked, his tail thumping as though giving his approval.

Egg Shells

Write at the Merge, Week 13
The prompt from Cam: Week 13 (my lucky number!)

So, today, we took our son to Boston’s Museum of Science. His favorite part of the museum is the audiokinetic sculpture (or as my son calls it, the ball tower) on the lower level of the atrium, a piece called Archimedean Excogitation, by George Rhoads.

For this week, take your inspiration from this video of the sculpture in motion and from the word WONDER:

Seven year old Bree was shooed outside after she'd completed the simple chores assigned to her.

 "Go play a while, child, enjoy your days now.  In another year it will be time to teach you to weave. Then your time will be less your own."  Mama's smile held a hint of regret. Her fingers cramped and her back ached from long hours sitting at the loom.  "Be home for  midday meal."

With a hug for Mama and a promise to be home on time, Bree scampered outside. Her home nestled within a corner of the King's forest.  The day was breezily warm, as spring days often are.  Wild flowers beckoned butterflies and bees.  And Bree.

She gathered the prettiest and sweetest smelling for Mama as she
made her way to her favorite place. A small glade, not too far from home, where the tallest tree Bree had ever seen stood proudly in the center.

She lay on her back at the edge of the clearing watching the antics of three squirrels as they raced up, down, and around the old trunk.  From her vantage point, she could see a nest near the top.  Occasional flashes of red could be seen coming and going.

One squirrel chose to investigate. Bree saw its bushy tail over the nest's edge, twitching impishly.  An angry squawk and belligerent chitter erupted from the canopy. The squirrel popped out, a shiny egg captured in his little paws.

As he scurried along the limbs, Bree saw the red flash careen across the squirrel's path. Unbalanced, he fumbled his loot.

Bree watched the egg spin unsteadily on the limb a few moments before it dropped over the side. It fell a short distance to a leafy branch that broke its fall.  The leaves quivered under the weight, bowing to shed the interloper.

The squirrel's playmates, having intently watched the altercation, raced for the egg.  The quicker of the pair snatched it from the shaking fronds.  The slower snatched at her partner's tail as he spiralled down the trunk.

Red wings spread wide, the hostile parent confronted the new possessor, who wheeled back, and slammed into his partner. The egg began a free fall to the ground below.

Bree jumped up, bouquet forgotten, and ran to the tree. There were no more leafy branches to interrupt the fall. Two squirrels watched the egg's descent with curiosity. The first used the distraction to return to the nest, followed closely by the raging red flash.

Bree held out her hands and willed herself to not clutch too tightly when she caught the fragile orb.  She heard a small crunch as the egg landed in her hands. She waited, eyes tightly shut, afraid to look.

Movement surprised her eyes open as the shell parted with a crack.  She breathed an "oh" of wonder as the tiny scarlet lizard shed the remaining shards and spread its brand new wings in the palm of her hand.

Working Girl

Write at the Merge, Week 12
The Prompt: Speaking of legs… we’re offering you a photo and a song this week. Happy writing!

I chose the photo, and had a hard time coming up with something.  As usual, I found the weird.  Actually with help from the husband.  Sometimes I wonder about him....

Terry swaggered up the street.  She was late getting started this evening, she had to have an extra snort of powder to steel herself for another night of reading the johns.  Her goal was surviving until morning.  Too many girls had gone missing over the past month.  

She rounded the corner, making her way to her favorite post, a street light in the center of the block.  It would be a long night, traffic was unusually light.  

As Terry neared the light pole, she slowed her stride. Someone else was under the light.  It was a woman, her back turned to Terry, long legs in fish net stockings, perched atop impossibly high stiletto heels.  The woman's body hugging shift grazed her knees. 

"Not gonna get the homies that way," Terry muttered to herself.  To the figure ahead she shouted, "Hey! Bitch!  That's my track!"

She picked up her pace, "Imma kick your ass, bitch, get off my..."  The figure turned, arms opened wide.  Terry tried to stop her momentum as she saw the glowing red eyes, the only feature in the space that should have been a face.

No Worries!

Write on Edge Giveaway!


Problems?  What problems?

The furnace only blows cold air once in a while.

That spot on the ceiling hasn't gotten any bigger since the last rain.  So, that's okay.  Right?

And the car?  Well that noise doesn't happen all the time. It can't be too urgent then.  Can it?

There's food in the cupboard and milk in the fridge.   Coffee in the can...

Wait?

No coffee in the can?

Now that's a problem!

Blowing Bubbles

/>Write at the Merge, Week 11
Two photos this week for you to reflect upon:(I chose this one.)



Trifecta Challenge; Week Sixty-eight

Congratulations to the weekend's winners, and on to the weekly prompt.
TIME (noun)

1a : the measured or measurable period during which an action, process, or condition exists or continues : duration
 b : a nonspatial continuum that is measured in terms of events which succeed one another from past through present to future
 c : leisure <time for reading>
2: the point or period when something occurs : occasion
3a : an appointed, fixed, or customary moment or hour for something to happen, begin, or end <arrived ahead of time>
b : an opportune or suitable moment <decided it was time to retire> —often used in the phrase about time <about time for a change>

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. 

The children squealed in delight.  Bubbles!   Hundreds of bubbles.  Iridescent globes, dancing through the forest on the whim of gust and breeze.

They chased the fragile spheres, shrieking in glee.  Bubbles hung from branches, flashing with reflections of leaf and bough.  They caught in the undergrowth, where little hands tried to capture them whole.

At the far side of the forest, the ground rose through gentle foothills to the mountains beyond. She perched on a sunny outcrop watching the forest edge, puffs of smoke curling from her nostrils with each breath. Her wings folded in readiness against golden scales. 

"Is it time for lunch yet, Mama?"

She flicked her gaze toward her dragonet, still marvelling at the strange emissions flowing from her tiny throat.

"Not yet, Baby, let them get clear of the trees."

Tres-Path

Write at the Merge; Week 10

This week we’re honoring the genius of Dr. Seuss, who was born on March 2, 1904.  Our two Seussical offerings are an image and a line from one of his books. Happy writing!

“I am the Lorax. I speak for the trees. I speak for the trees for the trees have no tongues.”
Dr. Seuss, from The Lorax

And because a birthday celebration should include everyone, if you don’t find either of these offerings inspiring, use your favorite Dr. Seuss quote or story as inspiration — just leave us a note letting us know what you chose!

I may have just chosen trees, which gives me an excuse to revisit the Elementals for a minute...

Chuck was gazing out the kitchen window when a movement caught his attention. He watched the young girl slide down the rough bark of the old oak in the back yard. She wasn’t at all dressed for tree climbing, her long legs were bare as were her arms. She didn’t seem to have shoes, either. The jumper she wore was far too frilly.

He called to his wife, “Hey, Beth, who’s the kid in the tree?”

Beth joined him at the window, still holding a plate and dish towel. She watched for a moment, then raised her brows, “That’s no kid, chuck,” she said as she lay the towel down. “That? Is a dryad.”

“A what?”

“A dryad, wood nymph.” Beth put the dish aside and headed out the back door.

Chuck muttered under his breath as he followed, “Wood nymph? What next, unicorns?”

Beth was already half way to the tree. “Whoa there, Toots! That oak is taken!”

The girl had started back up the tree when she saw beth approach. She hesitated, she had been caught by humans. Disappearing into the tree would not be a good idea, she dropped lightly back to the ground.

“I’m sorry, lady.” She did her best imitation of a young human girl, letting tears fill her bright green eyes and twirling a lock of honey brown hair. “I just wanted to play.”

“Give it up, I know what you are, and as I said, that tree is taken.” Beth glared at the nymph. “Whats your name? And no games, I’ll know if you lie.”

“Acalia,” she answered with a very unchild like scowl, “and how is it you know what I am?”

Beth looked Acalia over, she was too thin for even a dryad. “I know a lot of things. Except why you're crawling all over this tree.”

“I didn’t know this tree was taken. I need to find a new one, mine is sick.” Acalia squinted at beth, “You're no dryad, why do take this tree? I can make it a better tree, if you let me live in it.”

“The tree is in my yard, but I’m not the one that has taken it.” Beth said with smirk as the back door burst open once more.

“Get away from that tree, dryad!” cried the newcomer, her leaf green eyes blazing. “That’s my personal doorway!”

Acalia’s eyes and mouth fought to see which could open wider.

Beth chuckled, “Acalia, meet my mother, Tameryn Leafeyed, Element of Earth and Lady of Treecairn!”