Water falls. Maybe it looks suspiciously like snow, but it is water and it is falling from the buried sky. I stand outside and let it collect on the blue and white plaid of my flannel shirt. Water falls. Tiny snowflakes carved too perfectly to be believed cling to my raised sleeve. I’m mesmerized. Water falls and I let go.
It feels like I’m at the precipice with nothing left to do but go over the edge. It’s peaceful here, falling with the water. I’m a crystalized snowflake, a soaring mist, a droplet that once quenched the thirst of my ancestors. I’m part of a cascading waterfall on the ridge of the Keweenaw, wondering how long it will take for me to experience this fall again, trying to remember the last plunge.
Despite winter’s hold and the never-shrinking snow piles, signs of spring emerge. I can see black soil at the edge of my front pile of snow. I hear the robins whistling. I can smell an earthiness in the air, wet, saturated, and promising a change.
Driving into Hancock, someone has left an emerald green recliner by the curb. A freebie for anyone. A motorist stops, and in my rearview mirror, I watch the person test the mechanism. At the farm, I worry for the plants that are too big too early with no way to remove the mounds of snow in the greenhouse.
Water falls and I practice patience.
I remember thinking as a kid how much fun it would have been to ride the log chutes down the mountains to plunge into Lake Tahoe. I’m older and feel satisfied with a slower descent. Falling doesn’t have to be fast or wild. It can be dreamy.
Work snaps me out of my reverie and demands attention.
Some of my students will graduate soon. Most will return next August. All are preparing for final papers, projects, and exams. We are droplets joined and coursing in a single direction. They will flow and I will pool. None of us will be the same drop of water twice, but we will repeat some of these patterns. Water falls.
Where I can see a pool of rest, I plan to go deep. My writing time has suffered greatly and I feel the creative damn ready to burst. So much is ready to unfold. Maybe that’s the feeling the crocus have buried deep, yet but knowing the release is coming.
The Saloon returned with a game on Friday — the Cowsino. It’s just for fun, a way to practice the form of a story at its most basic. Yet, like all forms, it has complexity if you let it challenge you. Or not. You could relax and see what comes from your imagination. Next Friday, Colleen Chesebro and I have an announcement to make and I’ll be at the Saloon for it. No school next Friday, although snow is predicted and I have veteran spouses to be with. Coffee. Conversation. Tears.
Time to let go. Allow life to be this week. Surrender to whatever needs surrendering. It’s okay. Water falls like forgiveness.
April 11, 2022, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story using the phrase, water falls. Where is the water coming from? How does it shape a story? Who does it involve? Go where the prompt leads!
- Submit by April 16, 2022. If you want to be published in the weekly collection, please use the form. The Collection publishes on the Wednesday following the next Challenge. Rules & Guidelines.
- Carrot Ranch only accepts stories through the form below. Accepted stories will be published in a weekly collection. Writers retain all copyrights.
- Your blog or social media link will be included in your title when the Collection publishes.
- Please include your byline which is the name or persona you attribute to your writing.
- Please include the hashtag #99Word Stories when sharing either the Challenge or Collection posts in social media.
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