Tempus Fugit

This week's offering for Master Class Monday at EatSleepWrite. I chose the prompt; Waylaid Mutterings.
I also took inspiration from The Light and Shade Challenge. The prompts were a photo of a grandfather's clock and the quotation; Tempus Fugit.

Christian lost his concentration, his muttered chanting waylaid by the three percussive chimes of the grandfather clock downstairs still reverberating in his ears. Blinking in confusion he unfolded his legs and pushed his aching muscles to stand. He stretched his shoulders as he shuffled across the room, heedless of the thin line of salt scattered by his feet.

He stumbled into the dark hallway and found his way to the bathroom. Flipping the switch, Christian sighed in annoyance at its refusal to shed light. Reaching for the cold water handle he was greeted not with water but a dry gurgle.

He stomped downstairs to the front window and yanked the drapes open. He scanned his neighbors' homes for signs of power. The street was in darkness, no porch lights, no street lamps. His attention was drawn to several junk yard worthy vehicles sitting randomly along the street. Christian's mood shifted slowly from anger to puzzlement. A power outage, not unheard of, but someone parking junk cars in a neighborhood was bizarre. 

With the power down the house was eerily silent. The only sound came from the clock, its pendulum whispering back and forth in the narrow space. How long had it been? He remembered sitting within the pentagram and lighting candles. He'd started the memorized chant, the one that promised to make the world a better place. 

He bounded back up the stairs. Entering the room he'd recently left, opened the curtain to let the sparse light from a waning moon into the room. The candles had burnt to the bottom. Christian huffed to himself, "Five day candles? Yeah, right!"

He returned to the lower floor, this time going into the kitchen. If there was no electricity, he ought to eat before everything spoiled. The refrigerator door took an extra tug to open, as it did Christian was greeted with a small dust cloud that reeked of mold.

"What the hell?" he cried. His limited vision couldn't determine the contents and he wasn't inclined to stick his hands into the unknown depths. Slamming the offending appliance shut, he wandered to the back door. Grabbing the knob, he stood a moment, an odd tingle of fear keeping his hand from turning it.

Pushing down the uncomfortable feeling, Christian threw the door open and stepped onto the small concrete stoop. The silence of the dark pressed against him. He held his breath as he listened for the sound of distant traffic, the scamper of a rodent, the creak of tree limbs. He heard nothing. No breeze moved, the air was sterile and tasteless. 

Paranoia won and Christian bolted back inside, locking the door behind him.

He paced the room, mumbling to himself, "Wait for daylight, ask the neighbors what's going on. Walk uptown, find a newspaper. Stop being a wuss!"

A chill filled the space, stopping Christian's internal rant. His heart pounding he closed his eyes and uttered a prayer that was ironic in its direct opposition to the chant he'd recited previously. 

A guttural laugh silenced him. "Too late to switch sides now, Christian. You've done well. The world is a much better place." The voice mocked him.

Christian dropped to his knees, "How long has it been? I have to know." he asked through chattering teeth. 

"Twenty years. It takes a lot of chanting to accomplish a change of this magnitude." A snide chuckle accompanied the startling statement. "Time flies when you're having fun, right?"

Murphy's Law, of Course

Master Class: Week 7
This week, to keep things interesting, I asked Steph to choose the first line from the fifth chapter of any book of her choosing. She chose Three Junes by Julia Glass. The first line of the fifth chapter is as follows:

“Clever how the cosmos can, in a single portent, be ingratiating yet sadistic.”

Use this line to start your stories. Please be sure to include the sentence in quotation marks.  Congratulations Steph!

"Clever how the cosmos can, in a single portent, be ingratiating yet sadistic."

The day began as most, the grating alarm insisting that I get out of bed.  After long minutes in front of the mirror, I deemed myself ready to greet the world.

Shivering into the winter morning, I cajoled the car into drive.  A quick stop at the corner convenience counter for a glorified hot chocolate pretending to be cappuccino, and my daily scratch off lottery ticket.  Then back to the almost warm front seat.

Since I had some minutes to spare, I sipped my over sugared brew and grabbed my lucky penny. I always used the same coin to scratch the silvery mask from the ticket.

Winner. WINNER!! BIGWINNER!!!

Not enough to quit my job, but perhaps an impromptu vacation was in order. The car rocked along with my happy dance as I planned my sun and fun break.

I called off for the day so I could trek to the closest lottery office. Closest requiring a three hour drive to the Big City.

Halfway to my destination, winter threw the inconvenience of heavy snow frenzied by heavy wind. I belatedly remembered the winter storm warning from the morning news.

Travel quickly became travail as traffic slowed to a crawl on the freeway. Visibility was reduced to a few feet beyond the hood of my car, and evidently for the car behind me.

The seemingly gentle bump sent me spinning across the lane and over the edge.  It wasn't a long drop by any means, and at least the old beast landed upright.  But after a quick trip outside of the car, I could see there was no getting back to the road.

I considered trying to flag a ride. But who would see me?  Or worse, who wouldn't see me and ram me unprotected back to my car.

So, I huddled into the barely warm front seat. And the snow continued.  And the wind. It wasn't long before the reduced view became no view.

*****

I think its been three days now.  I start the car occasionally for heat, but the fear of carbon monoxide keeps me from running it very long. There's snow for water, but not even a candy bar in the glove box to eat.

I haven't heard a snowplow, or any other traffic sounds.

As I consider the cost of medical care for frostbite and starvation, not to mention therapy for post-traumatic stress, I'm pretty sure the sun and fun vacation is off.

I hope my job is still there when the spring thaw finally uncovers me.

Beneath the Surface

 Jumping feet first into my first Trifextra Weekend Challenge



Upon digging through the shuffle of excuses for why not

Delving under the sludge of more important things to do

At the center lay the truth of inaction by procrastination

Fear of imperfection




The weekend challenge.  As you'll recall from your elementary science class days, the structure of the earth can be divided most simply into three sections: core, mantle, crust.  Here's a diagram.
Give us 33 words from it.  Interpret the prompt however you wish--literal, metaphorical, or somewhere in between

Image courtesy of Danilo Rizzuti / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

.

Goal

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


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

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

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

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

Pieces of elsetime.  Glimpses of otherwhen.

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

Didn't happen.

Yet.

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

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

My Goal?

Simple.

Don't stop.

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.

Change

The prompt:  It’s time for a change in outward appearance, be it a character, yourself, or someone in your life. In 500 words or less, write about a makeover of your choice (hair, clothes, makeup, facial hair for the menfolk), fictional or memoir/creative non-fiction. Let’s think about how physical appearance changes can affect the inner landscape.

She remembers sitting in the old kitchen chair.  A shiny, plastic apron tied behind her neck. Daddy has his scissors, the ones left from when he used to have a beauty shop.

Snip, snip. Bits of hair fall to the floor. She is getting a pixie cut before starting kindergarten. Her hair is kept this way for a few more years.

After third grade she lets it grow. It grows long, straight, and fine.

The body perm in early high school gives it some life. She uses a curling iron every morning to make the face framing bangs do something. Even if that something requires a can of hairspray, and perhaps resembles a slinky. The back is still long, if a wee bit wavy.

By her senior year, she sprays and back combs those bangs into "big" hair in the front. Nothing can convince the long hair down her back to do more than hang there.

Later, in her twenties' comes the tight curly perm that lasts three or four months. She has it re-permed regularly for several years.

And has it frosted. Gets the ends trimmed. Lets the bangs go.

By thirty, she has a daughter. Her own mother tells her it's time to cut her hair. "You're too old to wear it that long."  She laughs and lets it grow.

She is still ignoring her mother's opinion after she turns forty. Though she returns to the bangs, to hide the new lines on her forehead.

The fifties arrive with gray. It frames her face. She accepts its presence. Brushes it into the light browns that still fall to her mid-back.

At fifty-five, the gray rebels. It has body. It refuses to blend quietly.

She looks at her reflection. Her mother isn't there anymore to tell her it's time to cut her hair. 

She knows.

She sits in the vinyl chair, the apron tied behind her neck. "Cut it, just above the shoulders. And keep the bangs." She says.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. It's time"

I Had It a Minute Ago!

The alarm rings at 3am.  I hit the snooze, once, and again.  Just a little more time.  Where did I put it?  

Then it's off to work.  Book work to be done.  Prep work to do.  A delivery needs to be put away.  Need to stock the condiment tubs.  Have pots and such to push through the dishwasher.  In between breakfast orders, that is.  Where did the time go?  I had it a minute ago.

I need to start the lunch specials.  And write checks for the vendors.  Oh, and it's payday, need to run the payroll.  Call in the tax payments, and check the temperature on the cooler, it has been misbehaving.  I don't have enough time for this, I lost some minutes somewhere.

Oh no, already 1pm.  A few errands to run.  Make the bank deposit.  Get gas for the car before the price sky rockets.  Go to the grocery store, working around food all day makes me forget there isn't any at home.  And don't forget to drop the payment for the bakery in the mail.  Running short on time, I misplaced it again.

Home at last!  Put the groceries away.  Is it really 3:00 already?  Sort the laundry for the husband, he does the laundry, bless him.  Now check emails and twitter and Facebook and the status of numerous games.  And the dog wants to go out.  Give me some time, I can't find mine.

The cats are whining.  It must be 5:00, they get their canned food now.  And they know it.  Need more coffee anyway.  Not really, but it sounds awesome.  Then maybe I will find time to relax. Under the chair cushion, maybe.

Writing prompts are waiting.  It's 6:15, better get on that.  Better figure out what to write about.  I've lost time again.

Wow, this is awful.  Maybe I could put together a real story, if I could just find where I put the time.

(And I still need to find time to read the half dozen books waiting on my Kindle app.)

Misplacing things is frustrating. We know we put it where will remember it. We always seem to need it when it’s not where we remember putting it. WHY DOES THIS ALWAYS HAPPEN? Let’s write about it!