Sifting Thought

This week's assignment is to write a short piece, either fiction or non-fiction, about something ugly - and find the beauty in it.




I found a new recipe to try. I read the ingredients list. I read the instructions. I bought the things I didn't have on hand. 

I gathered my goodies on the counter. The ingredients, bowls, a pot, measuring cup, and wooden spoon for mixing. Good to go.
 
The potatoes were quartered and boiling. The ham cubed and set aside. Sour cream and shredded cheese within reach. It was time to mix, assemble, and bake. 

The last step before going into the oven was sprinkling Parmesan cheese flavored bread crumbs on top. 

I didn't have Parmesan cheese flavored bread crumbs. But I had bread crumbs and grated Parmesan cheese. 

So I combined them, pulled out a whisk to mix them together. 

That wasn't working to my satisfaction. Hmmm. 

I went to my cupboard full of baking pans. There in the back I found the answer. 

It was dented a little bit. It was discolored by age a lot. Dusty from years of disuse. But I knew it would do the job. 

The old hand sifter had belonged to my grandmother. I poured the bread crumbs and Parmesan cheese into it. And I began to turn the crank. 

It made a pleasant noise, "shoosh, shoosh, shoosh". 

The crank still had the original wooden ball, worn shiny from use. The metal rod, shaped to fit the sifter canister still brushed the wire sieve at the bottom.  

"Shoosh, shoosh, shoosh."

As I turned that crank, I felt a smile happen. The simple beauty of an old fashioned utensil. Still doing the work it was crafted to do. 

I Hear People

This is written for
Imagine you are meeting someone for the first time. You want to tell them about yourself.

Instead of reciting a laundry list of what you do or where you're from, please give us a scene from your life that best illustrates your true self.


People tell me things. 
Things they don't tell their mothers. Or husbands. 
They say hello. There is small talk. 
Then, they tell me about their problem. Or the fight with a spouse/parent/child. 
They tell me about the bad thing they did a long time ago. 
They tell me about their wildest dream. 

I don't ask them about the secrets in their lives. But, they think I need to know. They think I can help. 

I can barely help myself most days. 
 However, if I know a resource, a phone number, or if I can say the right thing?  I do that. 

Sometimes, I have to be careful of my reaction. I don't want to hurt feelings. Or seem judgmental. 

Sometimes it seems like a strange curse. Bestowed at birth for some ancient sin I committed. 

And then...


My daughter told me a few months ago about a conversation she had with a casual acquaintance. About his problems at home. With his wife. With his kids. With his job. 

I told her "It's a gift"

Salt Water Birthday

Water gives life. It also takes it away.

Write a short piece - fiction or non-fiction - inspired by one or both of these statements.



The boy walked through the double doors. Head down. Behind him came his grandfather. 

The old man spoke quietly with the officer behind the counter. After a moment, they were escorted to a small room. A table. Four chairs. Three men. One, authoritative, in blue shirt and black trousers  One barely old enough to be called a young man. The third, an old man, becoming older. 

After prompting by the officer, the boy began to tell his story. Tears coursing down his soft cheeks, bringing to life the betrayal.   

He told of the neighbors. How he took care of their yard work. How they always gave him a soda and snack. Asked him about school. His plans. His life. Paid him when he'd finished. Pat on the back. Until next week. 

How he'd jimmied the back door. Just like he'd been shown. Eased into the kitchen. Going through drawers. Looking for cash. 

Into dining room. The good silver in the china cabinet. He'd been told it was worth something.  

On the table, a gift wrapped package. The tag. 
"Happy Birthday Jeff!" 
They had bought him a present. For his birthday the next day. 

How the lights suddenly came on. The gasp of surprise. 
The gasp of pain as he ran by, pushing the old woman down.  The sound of something hard hitting something hard. 

The gasp of pain when she slapped his face. Called him names. Told him how worthless he was. Coming home empty handed. After all she'd taught him. All she'd done for him. How she'd wasted her life on him. How he'd ruined her birthday plans for him. 

The officer asked more questions. Kept his voice in check.  Kept his stomach in check. 
Then the boy is taken away. 

A few questions for the old man. 
How he'd walked into the room to see his daughter hit her son. 
How he'd heard the things she called the boy. 
How she'd forgotten her father had recently moved in with them. 
How he hoped his neighbor would be alright. 

The officer left the room. 
The old man sat still.  Tears coursing down his leathered cheeks, for the family he used to have. 

Evolution of a Room

This is for The Red Dress Club.


The prompt: Think of a room from your past.  It can be any type of room at all.


This room. With fancy pocket doors. Just off the living room. 
It may have been considered a parlor once. Before my grandmother died. Before I was born. 

When I was growing up.  This was my grandfather's room. It smelled of old man and pipe tobacco. 
He put eye bolts through the beautiful pocket doors. So he could lock himself in at night. And lock everyone out when he left. It was an empty room after he died. 

 My brother moved back home after a serious illness. The room became his. Filled with computer and books and cigarette smoke. The doors were no longer locked. But often closed. 
He finally moved into his own home. 

Then my mother chose to make it her room. With her bed and television. The curtain closed.  It took on the smell of alcohol and old woman and urine. She broke her hip in  this room. She chose to stop living. After she died, the room was closed. 

For a while. 

Now. This room has a new purpose. The pocket doors are open. The eye bolts removed.  There is an entertainment center. There are chairs. And people. And pets. 
The curtains are open. Light pours in and out. It still smells of cigarette smoke. And pets. And in the spring, when the windows are open, fresh air.

This is where my husband and I talk. Read. Visit with family. 
Be. 

We don't call it a parlor now. 
We call it a Family Room. 

Available on Craigslist

This was written for The Red Dress Club ,the prompt was write a humorous listing for eBay or Craig's List. Talk about the history of the items, why they must go.



For Sale: $1500.00
One fenced in back yard suitable for dogs. 
Rarely used, (dog prefers to poop in house).  
Comes with one large tree, (dog prefers dining room table legs).  
Partial flower garden, (dog digs up flowers). 
Ratty lawn furniture, (dog ate chair cushions). 

Special offer! 
$1600.00 rebate!*






*to receive rebate requirement must be met.
Take the damn dog!

Practice

The prompt: Write a piece about a fight. What happened? Why? Who "won"? What were the repercussions?


All of the young Nadan trained, daily.  So daily, Naddnē was on the field with the young men. She had been there every day for eight years. Learning the arts of defense. With and without weapons. 

Today she works alone.  Works with her sword. 
Step. Swing. Turn. 
  
The blade sings through the air. She follows. 
Turn. Swing.   The blade, her arm. Step. Swing.
 
The blade plays currents of air like the strings of a harp. Swing. Turn. 

A flash at the edge of her vision. Turn. Swing. Blade on blade. Ring. Step. Swing.
 
Blade slides on blade. Turn, swing. Blade plays on blade.
 
Naddnē realizes it is Baundl.
 
Step. He has bullied her for years. 
Turn. The blade sings.
  
At six, the practice blade is too heavy. He taunts her. Too small. Too girl. 
Step, step, swing.

At ten, he is faster. He chases her with his new steel blade. He shatters her practice blade. 
Turn. Swing, step. 

Last year, she receives her steel blade. 
He laughs at it. The hilt is made for her smaller hand. It is balanced for her lesser weight.  He calls it a baby blade.
Step, swing. 
Step, sing. 
Bloodsong. 

The blade, her arm, her rage, one.    
His blood. 
Turn, swing, sing, step, swing. 
Blade, arm, one, bloodsong. 

Baundl sweats now. Retreats.
 
Naddnē swings her rage/blade/arm. One in  the song. The blades meet, sing.  Her blade demands.  His blade no more than a thin shield. 
Turn. Swing.
 
Baundl falls.  
Step. Swing. 

Blade on leather shield. Discordant. Rage.  

The shield belongs to Dænl, her kindred. He has thrown it over Baundl to protect him from the death blow.  The shield has split Baundl's lip. 

She takes a breath, closes her eyes.  The blade is quiet.  She approaches Baundl as he regains his feet. 
 
She speaks to him, "She sang for your blood."
He topples backward as Naddnē slams the flat of her blade against his swollen, dripping lip. 
"It's only fitting that she have it"


This is a little more of the character from Prologue.  Although this was originally posted in February, I've edited (a lot) for the prompt.

Darkness Tells

Walking in shadows
Avoiding the light
Truths hidden in the dark
At night
Where the mind wanders
Into blurry vistas
And words never said
Flit like moths
With no fear of fire
"hear me hear me hear me"
Hands over ears
No relief
From the truth
"fear me fear me fear me"