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.





  

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.

I Am Not Afraid

Whee I got to pick the song this week!  I chose John Wayne by Billy Idol, you can see it here:  http://t.co/Tmt4JQg






“ I'm not afraid,” he’d said.

He didn't understand. It wasn't a matter of his fear, it was a matter of his choice. A choice that changed everything between them.

She turned her back and walked away.

“I am not afraid,” she told herself, “I am not afraid of being alone.”

It would be better that way. No hearts to distract her. No one to tie her down.

“Tonight, it changes. I keep my soul to myself. No more pretense of normalcy.”

She mounted the waiting pony, clutched the familiar hilt of the ancient sword.

“Just you and me, my love.”

The Wedding Feast

This is the first chapter of my work Work in Chaos, the one I post bits and pieces of about the internet.  
It introduces Annag, of Clan MacClarren, long before she takes the name Anne Marie.  Shortly before her life changes.  Forever.  I haven't pinned an actual time or geographical location yet.  I'm still researching and changing my mind.  A lot.  But, here it is....

A slight breeze ruffled Annag’s already unruly red curls. She’d stepped outside the crowded stone house for a moment to take a final look around. She leaned against the outcrop she’d known all her life. The smell of the clan‘s sheep filled her nose. This was her last night on the moors of Clan MacClarren.

Soon the small party from clan MacGoulan would arrive. After a feast and music and dancing they would gather her and Taog, along with her few belongings, to begin the journey back to his home.

It was a fortunate turn for her. At nearly 20 years, she was considered old for marriage. The limp form a childhood injury had made her an undesirable choice.

It had also been a benefit. She was marrying a man she had grown to love. Taog had been sent to train with her father, Donnchadh, chief of her clan. A warrior however, Taog was not. More a bard and dreamer. She had more skill with weapons than he had acquired. It was a joke between them, he’d raise the babes and she’s protect the family. During his time with the clan, they had talked and laughed and dreamed together. Her father upon seeing the budding romance, saw a way to bind the two clans together as well as finally finding a match for daughter.

Taog had slipped behind her as she took her last look of home. He knew she was excited yet anxious about the changes that were coming.

“Are you sure, love? Can you make this move” he asked. She leaned into him as he wrapped his arms around her, one hand sliding to the swell of her belly.

“Yes, of course. I’m just nervous. I haven't met any of your family but your brother.” Sionn made her uncomfortable, he was twin to Taog in looks, but his personality was completely opposite. “Besides, its a bit late to change my mind now.” She laid her hand over his. Protective of the small life within.

Taog knew how she felt about his twin, he chuckled, “he grows on you. He’s not as tough and surly as he seems. Well, mostly not.”

She laughed with him, turning to face him. She gazed into his eyes, a dark blue that made her think of deep water. She wanted to look into them forever. His thick black hair curled tightly against his head, unlike her own temperamental locks. She lace her arms around his neck and pulled his mouth to hers.

“Oh sweet lass, you’ll make us miss the party if you start that.” His voice made the words a caress. She held tighter, trying to pull him to the ground.

“Annag! Come in girl, the MacGoulan will be here soon”, her mother, Mara, called. Annag reluctantly pulled herself away. “You've been saved,” she whispered, “this time..”

As they returned to the chief’s house, the clan hounds greeted them with wagging tails. The wonderful smell of roasting mutton caused her mouth to water as she opened the door. Her younger sister, Danae was following their mother from hearth to table, helping as best as her small size allowed.

“There you are, girl! Sneaking about with that young man again, I see.” Her mother teased. “Think you would have learned a lesson from that.” She gestured to Annag’s rounding middle.

“I take full blame for the state your daughter finds herself, and I’ll pay the price.” Taog pretended chagrin, for only a moment. He laughed merrily, “I take that back, the lass is to blame. It must be that red hair, all over the place, it blinded me.”

“Oh really, you will blame me? The price you will pay is not what you expect, I think.” She punched him playfully. “Remember, I’m much better with the broadsword than you, and I’m not afraid to use it!”

He grabbed her hand before she could strike again, “but my harp and my voice will soothe you. And the babe.” He grinned, “which is good, because your singing will just scare the poor thing.” He let go her hand and ducked quickly behind a table before she could plant another blow.

Mara shook her head, but inside she felt warmth. The chatter between the two reminded her much of the way she and Donnchadh had been years ago. They still loved one another, but the job of keeping the clan together took much time and energy.

She interrupted their play by assigning them tasks to get ready for the arrival of Taog’s brother and the few others that would escort the couple back to MacGoulan clan home.

Her happy mood was only slightly marred by the thought of her eldest daughter going away. She chided herself, “MacGoulan is only a two days trip. I can visit her and my grand babe whenever I wish.” That thought kept the tears away. Though she knew there would be no stopping them when she watched her daughter’s back walking away.

Siren

Write at the Merge Week 5

This week, I give you a French phrase (you are not required to use the phrase verbatim, but you can) and a photograph:

La Douleur Exquise (French): The heart-wrenching pain of wanting someone you can’t have.

************

Trifecta week Sixty-two

MOUTH

1a : the natural opening through which food passes into the body of an animal and which in vertebrates is typically bounded externally by the lips and internally by the pharynx and encloses the tongue, gums, and teeth
  b : grimace <made a mouth>
  c : an individual requiring food <had too many mouths to feed>
2a : voice, speech <finally gave mouth to her feelings>
  b : mouthpiece
3: something that resembles a mouth especially in affording entrance or exit: as

  a : the place where a stream enters a larger body of water

  b : the surface opening of an underground cavity

  c : the opening of a container

  d : an opening in the side of an organ flue pipe

Please remember:

• Your response must be between 33 and 333 words.

• You must use the 3rd definition of the given word in your post.

(I've attempted two prompts in one this week)


He wasn’t immediately aware of the music. It started low, worming its way into his conciousness slowly, until he found himself humming along with the melody. Swaying to the soft beat.

He smiled, an involuntary twitch of lip. He stopped his work and leaned back in his wheeled desk chair to listen more closely. The harder he listened, the farther away the music became.

A frown crossed his brow. He rose and went to the small window of his office. The window wasn’t made to open. The door, however, was.

Soon he found himself on the sidewalk in front of the building. He cocked his head, honing in on the direction of the haunting notes and in a semi-daze, he followed.

The journey through the city went unremarked. He almost noticed the rural land he passed as day became evening, then night. By morning, he’d entered a wooded tract and was following a small, forgotten river.

It was afternoon when he reached the mouth of the river, where it emptied into the sea. The trees still clinging close to the banks, roots reaching out to the water. He didn’t feel the cuts on his arms from pushing through brush. He didn’t care that his shirt was in shreds, or his shoes waterlogged and muddy.

All he knew was the song. Sad and sweet and full of unfulfilled promises.

He found its source. A monstrous gatehouse of stone. Empty windows in its upper reaches, watching his approach.

Without hesitation he climbed ancient, lichen covered steps. Higher, the melody quickening the closer he came. At the top of the stairway, a room. From the fading light of the window he saw the singer. A woman, of sorts. At his gasping entrance, she silenced.

His heart broke at the quiet, his arms reached out, pleading. She turned swiftly to the window and leapt to the sea below, her jeweled scales flashing in the last rays of sunset.

With a cry of pain, he followed.

Careless Love...

The red dress brought out the highlights in her hair.  She brushed a stray brown strand back into place, as she  chewed on her lightly glossed lower lip.  

She sighed, as she gazed across the room. Covertly watching him, curly blond hair and discreet musculature. His arm possessively wrapped around a honeyed blond...

The honey blond glanced longingly, at every chance, toward the painfully shy young man. Thick black hair crowning his face, that unbeknown to him, was made for Hollywood...

Hollywood sighed, and gazed across the room at the petite brunette in the red dress, chewing on her lip.


100 words inspired by David Bowie’s Soul Love.

Under Gifted

Week Three: For this week, your inspiration comes from two words (you are not required to use these words, though you may):

Gossamer: noun; a fine, filmy substance consisting of cobwebs spun by small spiders, which is seen esp. in autumn.

Affinity: noun; ( pl. affinities ) (often affinity between/for/with) a spontaneous or natural liking or sympathy for someone or something: he has an affinity for the music of Berlioz.

Willa stood on the sidewalk gazing at the old duplex. The yard needed mowing, and the flower beds wanted weeding. Still, she saw dignity and grace in the abandoned building. The wide porch beckoned a welcome to either entry door. She’d always been drawn to the old homes. That was why she finally went into real estate, to listen to the voices of the homes, and find the proper residents for them.

It was her gift.

She planted her “For Sale” sign in the yard, then stepped onto the porch while fishing the keys from her pocket. For no particular reason, she opened the right hand door first.

As she stepped over the threshold, the house sighed with the pleasure. Memories drifted from the walls, reaching for her. Caressing her with silken threads of full lives and loves everlasting. Warm hearts and laughing family times.

She welcomed the peaceful embrace. Heard yearning in the whispers of empty spaces longing to filled again.

She knew the perfect family for this home. People of life and love and laughter.

Willa smiled contentedly to herself as she finished her walk-through and began to search for the other key.

As she reached the door, the voices of the home became more insistent, “Don't go. Don't go.” They pleaded.

“I’ll be back, and with a family for you.” She whispered. “I promise.”

Willa left the gentle memories behind. She crossed the shared porch and stepped over the threshold of the left hand door.

Her gift hadn’t prepared her for the mirror twin of the other side.

No. Regrets.

The water is bearably hot, to offset the inevitable chill.  Fingers swirl the water.  Making pretty pink designs upon the surface.

Disjointed thoughts drift upward on the rising steam as a contented smile plays on slackening lips.  Chances missed, opportunities ignored, mistakes made, apologies unspoken.

No regrets.

Leaning into the warmed porcelain embrace.  Snuggling deeper into the warmth.  Twin rivers of red flowing not so slowly into the relaxing bath.

A random thought skitters by.  Which will win the cosmic coin toss?  The emptying of the shell?  Or the waters waiting for a slip beneath the surface?

Whatever....

No regrets.



My 100 words for Debonair.   (And just for the record, I'm not suicidal, I just go where the muse takes me.) 

Every Other Year

Week 2, hot air balloons and Nirvana...





Keb eyed his wife warily as they stood on the ridge watching the balloons begin their journey across the canyon. 

Keb and Fen had shared a heartfelt hug, but Jaya had just nervously patted the six year old boy's head as she loaded him and his belongings into the basket.

"You be good for your next mamma and pappa, Fen.  Just as you were for us."  Polite words.  

The boy smiled and waved, too excited about the balloon ride to notice Jaya's apathy. Fen turned to face his destination.  This third trek across the rift was just the next step of his growing up.

"Maybe, this time, Golda will come back to us."  Jaya strained to see the balloons that were floating their direction, children waving as they passed each other mid way.

"Jaya, you know it's unlikely, the..."

"But it could happen! It has before."  Jaya looked at him with desperate hope.

Keb kept his thoughts within. Their self-born daughter had left after her second birthday, just as she was meant to.  Jaya had grieved herself into depression, barely attending to the toddler boy they'd received later that day.

He'd prayed for a girl child two years later, in hopes that Jaya would come around. Four year old Fen had turned out to be a perfect fit for him. Jaya played her role, barely.

"Look! The balloons have landed, Keb!"  Jaya shook with anxiety. "Go see, Keb, see if it's her."

Keb followed the chart at the landing area.  With a smile and hug he collected his next cycle child. A six year old girl.

They returned together to Jaya's post. Keb's joy turned to despair at Jaya's crestfallen face.  She recovered enough to run one caramel colored hand through the girls curls.

"What pretty blond hair you have."

If Wishes...

For the first week of  Write at the Merge, I play around with only dialogue.



"Why do you keep coming around?  You know you annoy me." 

"I'm here to keep ye company, sweetling, ye spend too much time alone."

"I like being alone. I particularly prefer being alone to being followed about by a fool who chose become a monster, so afraid of death he'd risk his soul."  

"T'wasn't a fear of death, girl.  And which path to immortality would ye have rather I'd chosen?  This seemed the least malicious, and was convenient at the time."

"None.  Immortality is an unnatural condition, I had it thrust upon me.   You could have died. It would have saved me the trouble of killing you eventually."

"Aye, true that. But ye've not killed me in the last four hundred years, no matter how often ye threaten."

"It's only a matter of time."

"Well, darlin', until that time I'll be droppin' in on ye.  Because ye  oughtn't be alone all the time.  Because sometimes ye need one that has known ye longer than anyone else.  One that can tell when the years have weighed too heavy for too long."

"You give yourself a lot of credit in the subject of my feelings.  What makes you believe you're an expert?"

"My continued existence.  And this continuing conversation.  I only wish ye'd look upon me as ye began to long ago."

"Long ago you were a man.  A man I had begun to trust, and yes, to have feelings for.  Your choice destroyed that man."

"I am still that man!  Look at me, girl!  I cheated death to stay for ye, I paid an ugly price, to stay with ye.  For the love of ye. I chose."

"You chose.  You chose to become something I cannot abide.  When I thought I might care about someone again, you stole him from me.  Had you died, I could have mourned you.  I could have had a funeral, an ending.  Every time you come around, you reopen that wound, it can never heal!  I wish you had died."

"Then, kill me.  Kill me and free yourself, lass."

"I wish I could.  But then I'd be alone.  All the time."


The Prompts:  the song below and the word: Wish

Borrowed Time

His heart beat against her breast in time with her own. One arm about her waist, the sleeve of his black jacket indistinguishable from the black sheath embracing her.

They floated around the dance floor as one.  The orchestral notes weaving a spell of desire.

A whisper so soft. "Don't let go..."

The final notes faded, overcome by the insistant shrill of dream's end.  They are drawn away from each other. Fingers lingering, tracing the curve of cheek, sweep of lips.

Each committing the other to memory as they are pulled apart.

"I'll come back for you."
 
"I'll be waiting."


Joining Leeroy for the 100 Word Song.  The 100 words inspired by Mumford and Sons’ I Will Wait.

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.

turn it

talk talk talk
it's not all about you
whiner
sleights
imagined or not
do not give you the right
to close your mind
to regress
to cease to function
suck it up
get over it
move on
direct your emotions
into positive action
don't nurture the anger
spend it
on building beauty