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A blossom drops from a summer courgette, and the fruit continues to grow on the vine. Maybe a girl or a cow named Blossom comes along and nibbles what has dropped. From that a story blossoms. You see how it goes.
That’s the path writers were asked to follow — to chase after blossoms in any kind of iteration. And so they did.
The following stories are based on the July 2, 2020, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story that includes the word blossom.
Blossom by Ann Edall-Robson
Quiet and unassuming, but don’t get her riled. Dedicated to everything she does from raising her children to providing for others. Not many are as capable of mastering their lives the way she does. She is happy with her life, her surroundings, and doesn’t ask much in return. She enjoys a wander across the field when the urge takes her and is glad for the options of shelter and a roof over her head when the weather turns ugly. She’s always been part of the extended family living at the ranch. There isn’t a better milk cow than Blossom.
Blossoming by D. Avery
As if moved by a gentle breeze, the purple blossoms nodded and swayed under working honeybees.
“They buzz like sunshine, Mommy.”
“We’ll follow when they take off with their pollen.”
Mother and daughter set across the meadow towards the hardwoods. Though they used no compass or bee box he wouldn’t be surprised if they found the hive. He saw his wife and daughter crouched at what must be another patch of clover. Well out of hearing range, he felt their laughter, a buzzing hum like sunshine. Even if they didn’t locate the hive, none of them would be disappointed.
Before Antibiotics by H.R.R. Gorman
You were so young, so tiny. You’d not even had dreams, not sought to see your goals blossom and bloom.
And here you are – in a hole, next to other families’ headstones all marked “INFANT” with a single date underneath. Could I get you one of those stones? A final blanket that might comfort you as you look down from Heaven and remember that your mother always loves you, no matter how young you were taken?
And here I am – moving on to the next grave, an unmarked patch of earth where sweet Ona, six, was buried last year.
Doing Right by Charli Mills
“What’s wrong?” Cate snapped open the canvas covering the freight-wagon. Three pale faces from within stared back in wide-eyed silence.
“Zeb broke my blossom.” Abigail, the youngest, wailed.
“Not-uh. Just made a pile of petals, teachin’ Joseph numbers like Ma did.” Zeb, the eldest, scowled. Joseph hid his face on his older brother’s shoulder.
Cate bit the stem of her pipe. She was a muleskinner not a childminder. With their parents buried three days back, none of the other families stepped up in charity. So, Cate found another blossom, wiped the tears, soothed the fear, and resumed her mules.
A Posey Piece of Reflection by JulesPaige
Many different things cross my mind. The distractions of the first summer monarch butterfly. Yet strawberry fields, or heather, blossoms are just temporary. Images that you might love to watch over and over like the way a sun sets on an ocean beach after you’ve picked your skin in the waves. But the clock ticks and time plays weirdly with your memory, making an off kilter kind of scene. One that you greedily wish you could repeat whenever you needed the calm balm of recovering from a mistake…
Sleep to dream
Of pleasant and lovely
In the Dust by Bill Engleson
I get there early. I’m always early. I sit in my Van, full of recyclables, cans, cardboard, plastic, lots of plastic.
Listening to a little blues, reading my book. The Plaque. Camus. Cheery stuff.
Traffic goes by. COVID carrying caravans of holiday makers. Each their own blossoming bubblehead.
I’m not feeling charitable.
I’ll switch to the news.
Three tykes crushed by tractor wheels back east.
A Canada Day country bucket ride.
I spot the ant.
Crossing the road.
At an angle.
It’ll be shorter.
Ants never do.
Might make it.
Far From Home by Jenn Linning
The first time I glimpsed cherry blossom in London, anguish twisted up within me. I longed to bundle the little tree into my arms like a babe, wrap her in blankets, remove her from her tiny traffic island, deliver her to my distant land where Mother Nature was monarch.
Instead I watched, horror coursing through me, as one pure pink petal dared to float towards Earth. A shriek rose and died in my throat as brave pink became mushy pulp under heavy urban rubber.
Bowing my head, I shuffled on, wrestling with what I must become to thrive here.
Tendrils by Cara Stefano
Bloom where you are planted, dear
A weed is only a flower growing in an unexpected (oft times unwanted) place or time
Stop and smell the fragile roses
Admire hardy dandelions for feeding sleepy bees
Some plants wither in the harshest desert sun
Surprising, the color and variety of desert flowers I have seen
Others flourish in cool, wet marshes
I covet the tenacity of a bramble growing up through city sidewalk cracks
Winter’s dormancy is a time of rest
And every spring tendrils of hope and growth emerge – slowly, surely
Everywhere I look: blossoms.
The Baby’s Nickname by Susan Sleggs
A month after Lexi and Adam, Tessa’s daughter and son-in-law, were settled in their new house, Emma got baptized with families present. Michael’s youth choir sang two children’s dedication songs and Adam’s parents were thrilled to see how he was accepted into the close-knit group. At the luncheon, Lexi tolerated her grandmother’s proprietorship over the baby just so long then retrieved her so Adam’s family could cuddle her too. Adam’s grandfather beamed at her and said, “So this is the new blossom that made our family grow.” And that’s how the pink-cheeked infant came to be called Emma Blossom.
Blossomed by Simon
I heard her first time over the phone, after days of work at same office, I met her first time in the cafeteria. She was having her cup of coffee, I heard her voice, realised who she is. I introduced myself to her, something between us connected immediately. Days passed, years passed, our bond grew stronger everyday. Then one day I opened up to her, she dropped her coffee cup in shock, with my good reflex I caught the cup and gave her back a ring, she said ‘Yes’. This is how our friendship blossomed into a relationship. 🥰
Blossoming by Joanne Fisher
Jennifer and Kelly first met at a marketplace. They had both wanted the same necklace, but decided to go for a drink together instead. Both considered themselves as loners believing they were better off on their own, but after they met only once, they perceived they were kindred spirits that made each other feel more whole. There was resistance from both of them at first as they began to question themselves, but they could feel themselves be drawn irresistibly to the other, like they were planetary bodies coming into one another’s orbit. Their feelings of love began to blossom.
After Midnight by Liz Husebye Hartmann
Ella arrived back home just before midnight. The golden carriage’d been delayed—unexpected maintenance—so she’d had to find her own way. Skirts rain-soaked, glass slippers…well, slippery…she shucked the gown and ran home in her chemise, dropping one slipper in the mud.
The prince was sure. The prince was an excellent tracker. He followed her prints to the kitchen door of the small estate, arriving almost before she did. Her figure was outlined in the firelight from the flickering stove. He stepped closer, slipper in hand.
She turned, muddy, skin-soaked, and utterly herself.
An eager flush blossomed his cheeks.
The Recital by R. V. Mitchell
It had been four years since Dave and Reena had visited Reena’s sister, Tracy. With things being slow in the shop, they thought that the invitation to their niece Carrie’s recital would be the perfect opportunity to catch up.
They arranged to meet at the concert venue, and Carrie was already backstage when they arrived.
Carrie made a spectacular solo performance.
As she stepped from behind her cello to take a bow, Reena said, “She has really blossomed.”
Dave’s whose gaze was firmly locked on the sixteen year old said, “She certainly has,” gaining him a well deserved slap.
Blossoms fo My Lady by Irene Waters
She lay looking skywards on the blanket of grass populated with daisies. The blue was obliterated by the huge cherry blossom in full bloom. Strange she’d never noticed it this time last year. Happiness washed over her for the first time since he’d left and she felt the coldness finally leaving her. Sometimes he brought her flowers and other times he meant to but didn’t. Either way had made her happy but that now seemed so long ago. “You kept your promise,” she whispered. “You’ve brought me flowers.” Her hand stretched out to caress the cold granite beside her.
Blossoming by kathy70
The way watercolors blossom on the paper is magical, an extra drop of water changes everything. Staring at the blank page like a writer seeing magic in the water drops I’m watching.
Soon I will leave this place and find my true home. This planet is scheduled to reverse it’s course so I can jump off.
Where I land will be like that water drop in the watercolors. My landing will change the climate and structure in this new place but will it change me? Without a parachute to guide the spot will be a surprise. Here goes nothing.
“PPG” by SGK
“The Powerpuff Girls,” my college roommates and I were labeled. The girl who opened the door for me on move-in day was Bubbles – sweet, but capable of extreme rage. I was Buttercup – spontaneous, always ready to fight. Blossom completed our dynamic trio by being the most level-headed one.
It seemed like college was going to be exactly what I expected it to be after watching enough movies. Friends for life were going to be made.
Unfortunately, Blossom and I got tired of Bubbles’ split personality quickly. Then, Blossom got tired of me.
We could have ruled the world together…
Essential by Kerry E.B. Black
Everyone feared the symptoms outlined on the news. The WHO recommended self-isolationism. Governments mandated quarantines. As beds filled, hospitals set up exterior triage units.
However, essential workers donned safety suits and reported for duty.
“How come I don’t feel essential,” Michaleigh griped as she squinted at wish lists for delivery. “Just expendable.” She packed groceries destined for 354 Victory Lane.
Break time. Finally.
She removed her mask to splash cool water on her face, then froze.
“No.” she breathed, leaning closer.
The mirror revealed what the mask obscured. Red blossomed her cheeks, the first “tell” of the deadly virus.
Light by Eliza Mimski
She grew up inside the dark alcoholic walls of her childhood. Drapes pulled. Bottles littering the table. Voices screaming.
She looked for a place of light but she couldn’t find any. Nowhere to escape.
At school, she never talked about herself or her family, then returned home to the shroud of people she belonged to.
She buried herself inside of books. She was transported to other lands far away from her home. Otherwise, she withered.
Years passed, and she received a scholarship to college. She left the house that she never wished to return to. Finally, light. She blossomed.
Every Man Is a Flower by Paula Puolakka
The boys I have met have said that girls are like foreign flowers to them. I have heard so many tales about a certain begonia or a cherry blossom that the narrations have made my mind feel like it was chewing a tasteless piece of gum.
What has driven the guys crazy is the fact that they have been unable to identify what flower I am. The reason is that I am a tree. To me, every man is a flower, and the idea has made the boys act like crybabies. Where is my carnation? I do not know.
Grandma’s Gifts by Saifun Hassam
By late June ivory and lemony magnolia blossoms were opening up, glowing in the sunshine. When Aunt May became Grandma’s caregiver, she also became the gardener.
On her walks, she photographed trees, shrubs, and gardens in bloom. She transformed the photographs into digital art. Somewhere along the line, designs emerged for fabrics, pottery, and book covers.
If you asked Aunt May what sparked her artistic journey, her eyes would light up. She pointed to the framed prints of magnolia, tiger lilies, purple iris, and tall columbine. And the many stories Grandma shared, as they enjoyed lunch on the patio.
Mature Blossoming by Yvette Prior
Sitting poolside in the moonlight, my feet dangled in tepid water
Decompressing from the flight
Ready to enjoy a few days away
life is at another crossroads
Another hot season of change to deal with
But for now…
palm trees reflected light from the garden and I remembered how God always makes a way.
In this still moment….
worth more than rubies
worth more than an easy life
Because mature blossoming is a gift from challenging experiences
Lightly splashing my feet, I feel hope in my belly.
Life’s a gift
The Order of Things by John Lane
When the flowers of drupes are in full bloom, we notice them as blossoms. Vibrant peach, cherry and orange colors emerge, marking its annual rite of spring. Our thoughts never once entertain this complex process.
The plant manager of genes, Apetala1, calls the shots. The proteins within the gene, in turn, notify the one-thousand other supervisory genes to send a “stop” signal to the plant’s meristems, the laborers assigned to the leaf production. This allows the blossoms to do their work because each member of the organic chain-of-command knows its job.
Nature proves that order is better than chaos.
Rising by D. Avery
“Sunrise coffee? Yer outta yer bedroll early Pal.”
“Yep. Set an’ injoy it. Tell ya, sure is good ta be out ridin’ the range. Don’t git me wrong, Kid. I’m right proud an’ pleased Shorty’s got us runnin’ thet saloon. But it’s a lotta time indoors. Umm. Lookit dawn, jist beginnin’ down in thet east runnin’ valley.”
“I’m lookin’, Pal. Now shush, so’s I kin see it better.”
“I hear ya.”
Swollen budded dawn
Sun’s gold-rayed petals unfold
This new day blossoms. ”
“Promises ta be a bloomin’ beautiful day, Kid. Time ta ride out.”
“Write on Pal.”
Soon, I’ll be another year older. I don’t really think of birthdays in terms of age; I’m more excited about cake and the possibility of a champagne sunset on Calumet Waterworks Beach. The 1.2 billion-year-old rocks interest me more than contemplating my meager years. I’m a mayfly in comparison to a Lake Superior agate. Why waste life worrying about growing older?
On Wednesday, I attended One Million Cups and listened to an eighty-something gerontologist talk about her experiences of growing older. Before she reached a high number of decades, she studied the aging process. According to definition, gerontology is the study of the social, cultural, psychological, cognitive, and biological aspects of aging. This woman educates readers on what to expect during the natural aging process. And I’ll give you a hint — aging is not a sickness.
Writer, Jolayne Farrell, answers questions at her popular blog, On Growing Older just as she did for decades in her newspaper column. When she told her story, I picked out many instances of her willingness to take risks. She talked about discomfort and uncertainty, but she also lit up at the idea of pursuing passions. In fact, she passed out her business card attached to a colorful blank card with a red circle she called a life-saver. She invited us to write down our dreams and keep that card with us at all times.
We might not be spared growing older, but our life-saver will keep us alive.
This reminds me of one of my favorite quotes by Gabriel García Márquez:
“It is not true that people stop pursuing dreams because they grow old, they grow old because they stop pursuing dreams.”
Jolayne shared with us her travels, work as a hospice nurse, and pursuit of what drives her own passions. She mentioned visiting other octogenarians in their mining homes (on the Keweenaw) surrounded by their memories. This made me realize how static we often try to make life. Do we think we can slow down the slippage of sand through the hourglass? I’m certain I don’t want my end-goal to be safe-guarding memorabilia.
My first year on the Keweenaw, I had a transformative experience at an estate sale. After the final owner of a home dies, a company comes in, working with the family, to clean out and sell the household items. I overheard a conversation at a sale — an elderly woman pined over a vintage set of glassware, commenting that they were “just like hers.” The woman’s daughter responded that they had downsized her belongings and she certainly was not going to get more “stuff.”
My heart ached. In part, I understood the daughter’s frustration. Likely, mom was living in assisted living or with family. She didn’t have the comfort of her old home surrounded by her memories. I felt the pining in contrast to the burden stuff can also bring.
When my best friend’s father died, and her mother went into a memory care facility, I helped my friend pack up her parents’ house. It was a painful experience, although we had plenty to laugh about (like all the teeth and hoard of toiletries we found in the bathroom). Sadly my friend died untimely of cancer. Is death ever timely?
Her children then had to sort through their mom’s and grandparents’ stuff. They were grieved and overwhelmed.
Yet, I felt for the elderly woman longing for her glassware. Sense of home stems from stuff surrounding us. I collect stories — books, rocks, and even broken glass. Other people gather family mementos or tools. One generation passes down glassware to the next. But not everyone wants great-grandma’s china. I have my great-grandmother’s recipes which I fashion into stories and serve along with the sopas or enchiladas. Yet both find connection to the past.
My imagination surges out west where the pining pictures pioneers unloading treasured household stuff to abandon glassware, dishes, and hutches along the Forty Mile Desert Trail across northern Nevada. The woman I briefly encountered at the state sale becomes one I imagine standing beside the wagon, gripping her apron as her husband deposits everything of hers deemed unessential on the blowing sand. The oxen stagger, needing water and hay. The children must walk in the sun, and they continue on, hoping the beasts don’t die to add their bleached bones to others. Once this woman makes it to Ragtown, did she dream of going back? In California, was she never satisfied, longing for her desert glassware?
Often, pioneers only had what they could take to remember home. Many would not see family again, and losing stuff adds to the sense of isolation. If you only had room for a few things, would you save a glass? Could you deposit your belongings in the desert if it meant your safe passage? Would you miss it years later?
I once saw a t-shirt that read, “Growing older is not for sissies.” It takes courage to balance what to take and what to leave behind; what to remember and what yet to experience. All the while we lose or sprout hair, find our posture slacking or our feet tapping out of sync. Did you know that a woman can experience hot flashes in her teeth? Yeah, no one told me that one, either. Digestions change and senses diminish. It’s the kind of transformation that signals the reality of change. Children grow up, waists expand, stuff matters more or less.
But Jolayne’s message was about embracing life. Not life at 20 or life at 50. But life. Life as it presents itself at the moment. Each day we ask, how will I live my best today?
The creative life is every day. It’s not when it’s now. On May 14, my middlest child turns 29, and a week later I’ll turn 52. It’s a middle of the spectrum age — it sounds young to some and old to others. It’s a number I can’t feel. I’m me, no matter what shifts. I have a robust imagination that sees beyond the day-to-day. Waly Disney said, “Laughter is timeless, imagination has no age, and dreams are forever.”
May 9, 2019, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about growing older. It can be humorous, dark or poignant. It can be true or total fiction. It can be fine wine or an old fossil. Go where the prompt leads!
Respond by May 14, 2019. Use the comment section below to share, read and be social. You may leave a link, pingback or story in the comments. If you want to be published in the weekly collection, please use the form. Rules & Guidelines.
Old Bones (from Miracle of Ducks) by Charli Mills
“That bone is heavy as iron,” Ramona said, picking up a fossil from Danni’s workbench. Ramona no longer recognized the bone or knew its story. Nothing seemed familiar these days.
Ike put his arm around Ramona, grinning. “It’s old as you, Gran’ma.”
Danni was brushing glass shards, musing over what they might tell her about 19th century occupancy near her garden. She paused. “Ike, you know that’s a dinosaur bone.”
Ramona winked. “Well, if bones get heavier with age then that explains the numbers on the bathroom scale.”
Danni laughed. At least Ramona hadn’t forgotten her sense of humor.
Living in remote places I have experienced Internet difficulties, even piracy. But never before have I had devices fail, resulting in a communications blackout. As if I needed more evidence of impending apocalyptic doom, a winter blizzard of such ferocity hit the Keweenaw Peninsula it stunned even seasoned winter-hardy locals.
That bit of green? That’s all you can see of our garage in the photo. A sea of snow eight feet deep swells between us and neighbors. The wind howled through our street at 60 miles per hour, and at times we couldn’t see the house next door. Whiteout.
My story begins with the earlier blizzard, the one that blew in like streamers across the weather radar last Wednesday. The Hub had an appointment to evaluate his right hip, and we had to drive to Iron Mountain. The roads were choked with snow and the bad weather hit us after we left Keweenaw Bay.
The Hub said, “This is the longest stretch of 36 miles of anywhere.”
I understood what he meant. Each rise and fall of remote forested snowbound road looked like the last hill and it felt like we were stuck in some repeating time and distance loop. No houses. No towns. Just rise after snowy rise. For 36 miles.
By the time we got to Iron Mountain, the snow accumulated like suds overflowing a washer. We played 20 questions with the civilian doctor who ordered a new X-ray because the last one was over a year old. He asked, “Why aren’t you receiving treatment?” Don’t get me started.
Suffice to say, I’m on a letter writing campaign.
Driving to the hospital for X-rays delayed us and we returned to our car buried in three inches of snow suds. Everyone said it would be best if we stayed in town. The Hub disagreed and off we drove toward home. We stopped for a bite and the waitress reminded us we still had Keweenaw Bay and the Portage Waterway to navigate. Closer to Lake Superior, the snow thickens like Lady Lake’s velvet gown of white.
Once we left Chassel we could no longer see the road. If we veered toward the shoulder, headlights caught the wall of piled snow bern. Oncoming headlights gave fuller definition. But it was a total whiteout. We both felt relieved to see the lights of Houghton, cross the peninsula bridge and crawl up the deep snow ruts of Quincy Hill into Hancock.
We arrived only to get high centered and stuck in our driveway. Two hours later after shoveling, pushing, and getting the car out, we drove back down the hill to get gas for the snowblower. On the way we got slid into a snow bank. Rocking the car got us unstuck. Back home, we scooped and blew the drive and “trail of turds.” That’s the inglorious path to walk the dogs to do their business, which we bag.
Finally, I got to Carrot Ranch. VA days can be draining, but in a blizzard, it’s even more so. After my computer restarted three times, I closed down all my open tabs, programs and music to do a complete restart. It still continued to crash. Frustrated and tired, I went to bed, thinking I could better problem solve in the morning.
The next day, Radio Geek and Solar Man were home on a snow day because of the blizzard that was now just flurries. SM hopped on my computer to resolve the issue from the night before. All his fixed resulted in more crashing. I called the manufacturer and they walked me through other unsuccessful fixes. They advised a clean install of my operating system.
Pause a moment and ask, “When did I last save my writing?”
For me the answer was Monday. While working on my MFA application, I realized I hadn’t saved my novel folders since NaNoWriMo. I backup all my folders in one grand NOVELS file to DropBox. You can use iCloud, Google Drive, or an external hard drive. But do it!
Meanwhile the FedEx driver delivers our new phones. The Hub and I have limped along with a failing Motorola Android system for six months. An earlier system update depleted the battery. My phone became tethered. Even on our blizzard drive, it refused to charge in the car and at best I got intermittent use that day.
I was excited for the new iPhones but worried about the computer. I told the Hub we couldn’t go to the Verizon store until we got my operating system working. That meant more technology — I needed a 16GB USB and a different computer to download a new Windows 10.
Can I whine? Pretend I’m just wind moaning through eaves. But blast it I hate technology problems!
Thursday I posted a hopeful comment, giving enough time to reinstall Windows and return to Ranch duties. Friday before group with my warrior sisters, the install failed. A tech at Acer advised a different way but I had to go. The Hub had his group and afterward we went to his orthopedic because his knee swelled following a Synvix gel shot last week. By late afternoon we headed into Verizon.
Two hours later, the Verizon techs understood my utter frustration with the Motorola as it kept dying every time they tried to transfer files. They finally figured out how to manage it while keeping it plugged in. The Hub satin a cushioned bench and played with his new phone. I couldn’t figure out how to turn mine on. We knew a storm was coming over the weekend so we went grocery shopping.
Saturday spit snow, nothing major. Acer techs were unavailable and I couldn’t figure out my new phone. We cooked and watched a new show called The Umbrella Academy. Sunday the blizzard arrived and we continued to hunker down.
Mid afternoon I attempted to take out one of the dogs only to discover the front door snowed in. The back deck is a dog backup and that door opens inward and revealed two feet of snow. The winds howled and the dog shook her head. None of the dogs wanted to go out. The snow got so deep it consumed our car and filled up the piles between houses, covering garages and first story floors. It’s claustrophobic.
Today the kids and Hub dug out. The entire community dug out and neighbors and friends helped each other. I couldn’t get a live person at Acer and none of the tech shops in town were open. On a hopeful note, I figured out my phone, installed apps including this one for Word Press. I tried to get word out that I was okay, just having technology challenges instead of flash fiction ones.
After snow mountain moving, clearing roofs, and recovering vehicles, one of SM’s friends, an IT tech offered to look at my computer. He thinks it’s the hard drive not the operating system. He offered to rescue my documents and photos (because I save my novels, not the rest). He said he’d run a diagnostic on it too but he’s certain the computer is fried.
And I’m as wiped as it’s going to be.
What to do? I’m pecking this post on my phone. I don’t know how I collect stories on my phone. It would be time consuming.
For now, let’s play an intermittent game, after all, the challenges are about play and keeping creatively connected every week. This won’t be an official challenge so no compilation. But play along — write, read what you have time for and comment on what stirs you. Those are the three pillars of literary art.
Right now, I can’t shake that feeling of morbid curiosity — what would it be like to get buried in snow. The way that blizzard filled space was phenomenal. We have no way to stop such snow.
INTERMITTENT CHALLENGE: in 99 words, no more, no less, write a story about “buried in the snow.”
*Note that there will not be a compilation for this challenge while technology gets sorted. And forgive any typos I might have pecked out on my phone.
My sad and lonely desk without my laptop:
Grains of Snow (from Miracle of Ducks) by Charli Mills
Danni rolled a towel against the draft at the back door. North winds blew straight lines off the ridge, piling snow at her back door. Snow slid off the metal roof creating a wall. By morning her porch was tunneled in snow. Danni stood at the back door staring at a wall of white. Bubbie whimpered and pranced like a kid who had to pee, but G-Dog wasted no time in lifting a leg. Buried in snow, he’d add to it yellow streaks. Danni scowled and grabbed the grain shovel. It was her preferred weapon against winter burials.
Somewhere in a museum, marble walls border a room full of vases. Each vase displays qualities from behind protective glass cases. Each one rests upon plush velvet — a deep royal blue that accents the different shapes and hues of fine artistic renderings. The veins in the marble create a soft pattern and polish. Security cameras validate the assumption that this room secures valuable items on display.
People meander through. Children are taught to “not touch.” Everyone can feel the value of the place with unseen price tags that would shock the more common among the crowd. Those not shocked want to possess more of these vases for their own private collections out of sight from the throngs.
No one seems to notice the shards on the floor, swept away to an unlit corner. From the shadows, the shards remember what it was to once be whole. These shards came from a water basin, or maybe a jug for transporting figs. Whatever the purpose, the shards knew they had shape for a task. The original vase might not have been destined for a velvet seat on display, but the shards dream.
The shards dream of wholeness. They dream of Japanese myths that say that gold can mend broken vases. The shards envision how to rearrange into something new, something not seen before. They dream of purpose, to serve again. They dream of someone noticing them in the corner, someone willing to give a broken vase a break. Sometimes, the shards dream of blue velvet. Why not? The shards know beauty because they have known the pain of shattering.
Occasionally someone will step over to the shadows.
A bored child approaches, one who has plenty of vases back home. Who cares about these dumb vases in glass? There’s not a vase in the world Father can’t own. He steals a shard because he knows its naughty and wouldn’t that make Mother blush. The remaining shards sigh and rethink another configuration with one shard stolen.
A woman in high heels randomly steps on the shards, pulverizing the edges to dust. She grinds the shards under the toe of her Jimmy Choo, revering the feel of power over something already crushed. Abated, she leaves the shards gasping. Maybe it was foolish to dream of being worthy of blue velvet. Maybe it was a waste of time to find recognition as a vase.
Once broken, you can’t be whole again. The shards lie numb in the dust of what was and what could have been. That’s when the sweeper arrives.
Can even one shard have hope of being a vase again?
Hope of evolving into something more.
To be valued.
Without a second glance, the sweeper batters the pile of shards with bristles, grumbling about its unsightliness. Unwanted. Worth nothing. An imposition on his time and effort. He sweeps away the pile, scattering them down a dark, dank drain. Water flows and pushes the shards through tight places. What is left, lingers on a gritty bottom of a sewage pipe. In the darkness…
In the darkness, the shards dream a little dream. Why not? It’s better to dream of blue velvet or purpose than worry about the dark. Dreams light the inner places of the shards, and although broken and scattered, they still connect as one. A type of wholeness?
A rushing sound in the distance grows, and so much water pushes every last remnant of the shards out into a waterfall sparkling with sunlight. The shards tumble over miles of rocks and land on a sandy beach, breathless beneath moonlight. It’s so beautiful, the shards marvel, looking up into the vast array of stars on velvet so dark blue it’s black.
Can it be that stars are pieces on velvet? And yet, the shards notice with excitement, they form patterns, constellations. Now the shards dream of being stars! The water rushes in from the sea on rolling waves as translucent as green glass. It grabs at the shards and tumbles each piece in a playful game. The shards laugh with joy and go with the water.
Sometimes, from beneath the glassy filter, the shards see people on the beach. It reminds them of old dreams. Life is not so bad now, with the waves, sand, and sky. But to be valued. To be whole. It’s still a dream. People do not care about broken things. Best to remain in the sand.
A woman in bare feet approaches, toes sinking into sand. She lowers her face, searching. But for what, the shards wonder. She reaches out slender fingers to grasp a shard. The woman smiles. She shouts, “Look what I found!”
Another joins her and cries, “Beautiful!”
The companions sift around, searching for more. The shards call to one another — we are found!
That day, two women left the beach with a bucket of shards they treasured. Some shards stayed behind to experience the world. All of those found came under scrutiny. They were bathed and photographed. A man in a curio shop identified their family — a broken wine vessel from Roman times. Unusual. Beautiful craftsmanship. Broken.
Identity is not about going back. Identity gives foundation to what comes next. A sense of belonging in time but free to evolve. The women made art of the shards. One arranged pieces into shapes, mounted and framed. The other made jewelry so exquisite that one set went to a jeweler who displayed the grandest pieces of the shards in a glass case on velvet.
Great value came with price tags and news media. Pieces were made into whole projects. Of all the lives the shards experienced fractured and worn, the time spent on the blue velvet was most boring. Safe. Secure. Objectified.
Luckily, an adventurous world traveler bought the exquisite jewelry set and took the shards around the globe. Even to Rome! Which changed a lot since the shards had last seen home. Finally, the shards realized that value came from being who you can be no matter how broken.
We might never be whole again, but we can live a full life. Shards know true beauty, hope, and joy. Pieces become more valuable than the whole.
It’s been a week of healing and snow. I like one better than the other. One of our Rough Writers, Ruchira Khanna, has generously offered me long-distance Reiki and Healing Touch on my ankle. Tuesdays are quickly becoming my favorite day of the week! After she calls, I go to a quiet place (aka the couch) and rest beneath a big fuzzy blanket. Sometimes I have to shove over a dog, and sometimes the cat pesters me with her paw. I don’t sleep but fall into a warm, restorative space, watching colors swirl behind closed eyes.
I’ve experienced Reiki and HT many times before, but always in person. I wasn’t sure how the long-distance energy work happened, but Ruchira has been a caring guide, committed to helping my ankle heal. If you are curious or interested in working with Ruchira, she is accepting new clients in her practice. Contact her at firstname.lastname@example.org. You can learn more about energy work at Explore the World of Reiki or the world famous Mayo Clinic. Ruchira is both a Reiki Master and a Certified Healing Touch Practitioner. She offers her services to Standford Health Care.
In other forms of healing, I had another EMDR session. I get stuck in my grief over many losses I’ve experienced, one after another. It’s like a crushing weight. EMDR helps me face painful feelings and neutralize them. This week, I had a vision during my session that led to the story I wrote above. It was a big shift for me to realize that value is not about wholeness. I’m embracing the lesson of the shards.
Snow, well, snow keeps falling. This is the Keweenaw I know and love with its Winter Mistress, Lady Lake. She’s been fickle and now fierce. I love the energy of her wild lake-effect snow. Driving in it is another matter, but our city is fully equipped and experienced.
If you are curious about the ads, I will continue the space I set up for the Rodeo. Kid’s Kat explains what you need to know (look for the cat among the ads). I’m still waiting for a decision from The Continental on the Radio Spot. We had so few writers, I’m not sure what they are considering.
I’m not the most patient person in limbo, and right now I’m waiting on several important outcomes, and it’s about to drive me mad. So what is a writer to do but write? And so I am writing. I hope you are, too!
January 24, 2019, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about shards. You can write about the pieces, the item they once were, or who picks them up and why. Go where the prompt leads.
Respond by January 29, 2019. Use the comment section below to share, read and be social. You may leave a link, pingback or story in the comments. If you want to be published in the weekly collection, please use the form. Rules & Guidelines.
Stories in the Shards (from Miracle of Ducks) by Charli Mills
Danni sifted dirt from Ramona’s garden through the screen and shards of glass emerged. She had built the box to hang on a tripod to accommodate her shorter height. Thick brown crockery and glass from household items emerged. Danni would take this year’s haul to her barn, scrub pieces clean, arrange by type, and document. Every fall, when Ike’s grandmother tilled up her tomatoes and zucchini, Danni sifted for treasure. Most people scoffed at broken glass, but to an archeologist, each piece told a valuable story. One day she’d figure out why the crockery and mason jars were there.
Ho-ho-ho, or rather ha-ha-ha. 2018 seems to be getting the last laugh at me, but I’m punching back. I didn’t fall off the ends of the earth, but I did take a nasty spill down our steep basement stairs.
Good news is that I didn’t break a leg. Bad news is that I won’t be dancing for a while. Wait, I don’t dance. However, even writing or trying to sleep is excruciating and I can’t drive or walk. Friends are graciously helping me finish holiday errands, loaning me a cane, and taking me shopping with a motorized scooter. I’m laughing at the thought of trying to drive one already. I’d be more comfortable on a horse!
All week long, I had been collecting your stories for Cora Kingston and squealing with delight. I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to have writers join me in making historical fiction mud pies. Unfortunately, I hadn’t caught up on comments before the accident, so I’ll be doing that from the couch where I’ll be popping Advil and sipping hot cider.
It’s the end of the year, and those who know me won’t be surprised to hear me say it’s time to review our visions. I don’t mean the sugar plums dancing in our heads. I mean the vision each and every writer holds dear. Sometimes we hold it so close that we don’t give it wings to fly.
So that is the challenge until Flash Fiction Challenges resume January 3. We are also delaying the announcement of winners for the Bonus Rodeo until after the New Year.
Let me explain to you why I think visions are golden. Visioning is stating your North Star. Without it, you are a hunter with aimless goals. Dissatisfaction often comes from a lack of clear vision. You might seek the prize, but for what purpose? Why are your passionate about what you do? A vision imagines success, and a North Star guides you. You aim your goals toward it and use it when you get lost.
“When the vision is clear, the results will appear. Keep your mindset positive as you work your plan, flourish, and always remember why you started.” ― Germany Kent
Why do you write? What are your expectations, dreams, and goals?
A vision can be outrageous! You can have a vision to be an astronaut and still succeed as a writer. How? Write a sci-fi novel where you get to immerse yourself in the world of astronauts. You can have a dream to be a New York Times best-seller. Before you get there, you have to look at what success is on that journey. That’s why you set a North Star.
I’m going to share with you a process I use with entrepreneur and author clients. It’s my holiday gift to you along with encouragement to make space for visioning work over the next two weeks.
Part 1: Preparation
- Pick your topic. Be clear about what you are creating and why. What do you hope for an outcome? Focus on what you are creating, launching, or seeking to accomplish.
- Pick your timeframe. Visions typically span two to ten years. Five years is a good place to start. Your vision answers “where do you see yourself in five years.” This is not “how” — that’s strategic planning. Dream about what success looks like in a specific timeframe.
- Brainstorm for 10 minutes a list of “prouds.” Like contests you’ve won, or moments you overcame, or projects you finished, or reviews you received. Let good moments pop to mind. The idea is to build a base of positive energy and high-quality experiences.
Part 2: Discovery
- Write the first draft of your vision. Take between 15 and 30 minutes. Set a timer; this is a time constraint which prevents you from becoming bogged in the process. The most creative visions occur within 30 minutes. Believe in the process.
- Go for greatness. Think, MLK, “I have a dream…” Think big, specific, scary and exciting. Get past the 59 reasons why it won’t work.
- Write from the heart. Effective visioning happens from the inside out. Go with your gut, with what pours out. Ignore the inner critic.
- Get in the future. Imagine yourself there. What details stand out? How do you feel? Where are you at? What does your office look like?
- Write quickly. Use the hot pen technique where you can’t stop writing once you start. Don’t set down the pen or stop tapping keys.
- Get personal. Blend the personal and professional into a single, holistic vision. Include your passions. Grab the details that make your vision the dream that gives you jitters.
- Write it as a story. Use a date as a prompt and describe the story that is unfolding that day. Describe the many great things going on that make it clear that your long-term vision has come to be the reality you planned and believed it would be. Give details.
Part III: Revision
- Review and redraft. Let it sit a few days. Come back to your draft with a 30-minute review session. Read it out loud. Don’t erase what you wrote. Copy it and then cut and revise. Follow your gut. Don’t remove what sounds too bold or overly ambitious. Often, that’s what makes your vision special. Make it sound and feel inspiring. If it doesn’t make you feel stressed, you haven’t pushed deep enough.
- Get specific. Don’t say “founded a company” say where you located it, when and how many clients you have, how many products or ideas you’ve sold. Say which awards you’ve won. State how much of your income will come from your business. State how others recognize you in your industry. What do clients or customers say? Imagine them.
- Edit your vision. Work on the language, clean up the content and write a sharp vision in 99 words. But don’t cut the specific details or bold proclamations. Length is not an issue, but again, do this edit in 30 minutes.
Part IV: Polish Your Shine
- Seek input. Use only trusted sources to share your vision and ask for insight or feedback. The idea is to improve the vision, not kill it.
- Create your North Star. Once you have your vision, create a 59-word mission statement to set your North Star to guide you to your vision of success. Next, craft a tagline in 9-words.
Just like you, I’ll be working on my vision for writing and publishing. These are my visions for Carrot Ranch:
A Vision of Success (99)
Writers high-fived across the string of comments, appreciating craft and creativity in their sandbox, 99 words at a time. Carrot Ranch, an imaginary place made of real people from around the globe. A tribe. Buckaroo Nation. Authors and entrepreneurs arrived too, looking to forge brands and learn how to tell stories around investor campfires. Readers found literary art in small bites palpable to a modern diet of busyness. A buckaroo wrangled the words and published collections, hosted rodeos for writers, and flashed her way to write novels about veterans, history and earth science. The vision for the future rocked.
Carrot Ranch and A Lead Buckaroo’s North Star (59)
Carrot Ranch understands that writers and entrepreneurs need safe space to explore the craft of literary art and harness the power of storytelling. Lead buckaroo, Charli Mills, gave up riding horses to write brand stories. Now she wrangles 99-word flash about history, veterans, and rocks. Flash by flash, she crafts award-winning novels, leads authors on retreat and coaches entrepreneurs.
Tagline: Making literary art accessible 99 words at a time. (9)
Originally, when I encouraged writers to join me in annual vision work, I shared a vision that included small and intimate writing retreats. 2019 will see that come to fruition. It won’t be at my beloved Elmira Pond, but it will happen at D. Avery’s beloved Vermont Lake. Save the dates for two sessions that have room for three writers each: July 12-14 and July 16-18. More details to come.
2016 was a disaster. 2017 was about seeking stability. 2018 was implementing some big changes toward achieving that stability. All along, my vision hung in the sky, and no matter what happened, I followed step by step. You will appreciate having a North Star because life’s circumstances have a way of tripping us.
2019 will be a prosperous year, or so I’m declaring. There will be some big life changes for me but the struggles of the previous year have prepared me. My novel continues to hammer into shape, and I remain hopeful on that account, too. Vol. 2 stalled out after our Father’s Day floods and diagnoses for the Hub, but I will recommit to getting what we started finished this year.
Once you have worked your vision, set quarterly goals that you can measure (and use the Rancher Badges to encourage achievement). It’s good to revisit your goals every three months to help you stay on track or readjust. Every month, do a quick planning and use a Daily Activities plan to direct your most important priorities and balance writing with career and life.
Also, if you have any clever ideas for challenge prompts in 2019 (like, “break a leg”) now would be a good time to discuss them.
Whatever your year-end holidays or non-holidays look like, I wish you all peace, joy and the prosperity to see your writing dreams through to fruition. I’ll be checking in with you all from my couch!
Carrot Ranch is under the influence of tryptophan and will take a brief vacation until all the turkey has been consumed — midnight turkey, turkey for breakfast, reheated turkey, turkey sandwiches, turkey enchiladas, turkey soup.
Avoid the Black Friday madness. Wherever you live, support local businesses and artists (writers included). #OptGreen instead and get outside (especially helpful for digesting all that turkey and stuffing and pumpkin pie). One of our writers, Anne Goodwin, is having a Facebook Book Launch for Becoming Someone on Black Friday. Join her if you FB.
Remind all your friends and family that Kindle app is free and can turn any phone, tablet, laptop or computer into an e-reader. This gift-giving season, no matter the holidays you celebrate, consider giving the gift of digital books. It’s easy to select the “buy for others” button and customize a gift message.
Seriously, everyone is on their phone. Turn phones into e-readers! And I’m going to say something radical — forget the whole “review an author’s book” nonsense. Buy their books! Buy their books for your library. Buy their books for gifts. Buy them digitally and share widely. Start with the books in the right-hand column — those our very own authors. Find more books from our community here and gift ideas here.
Support literacy in your community. Support your libraries. Support literary art.
If you are local to the Keweenaw or can fly in constant snowstorms, find me at Booth 19 by the Christmas tree on Saturday (Nov. 24)! I’ll be signing and selling copies of The Rough Writers Flash Fiction Anthology Vol. 1 and writing spontaneous 99-word stories for 99 cents.
We will not have a Flash Fiction Challenge this week or a winner announcement. Challenges will resume November 29, and Sherri Matthews will announce the winners for Rodeo #3: Travel with a Twist on November 30.
How I would love to gather you all up at one table and serve you a fine feast. Imagine the discussions and laughs we would have! Although not everyone celebrates Thanksgiving, I think we all can honor what it is we feel thankful for in our lives. Top on my list is all of you in this community at Carrot Ranch. Happy Thanksgiving!
He shuffles across the rubble that bridges the 2nd Street drainage system of Ripley Creek. Wisps of white locks curl from beneath a baseball cap, and his t-shirt glows as white as if he reserves a brand new one for rare occasions. Spotting this reclusive Vietnam veteran hovering in what used to be the front yard of one of his neighbors feels like a sighting an elusive Sasquatch.
He hesitates and reminds me of a moth that bobs back and forth on my back porch, seeking entrance through the glass and darting away just as quickly. Like the lapping waves of Lake Superior on a hot calm day. Shy, uncertain but reaching out. Cynthia rises from the silt-covered floor of her gutted house, speaking his name in reverent tones.
As much as I want to dash out the front door and greet this rare neighbor, I hold back, letting Cynthia guide him up the front steps. I’ve heard much about the man. Cynthia has a big heart for the elderly. He lives alone in his mother’s old house down the street. When she first moved to Ripley, a girl in the neighborhood told her that the man’s house was haunted. The lights came on after midnight.
Like many who live in seclusion, this neighbor keeps odd hours. He is the only specter in his domain. Cynthia befriended him not in person but on social media. Although only one house separates them, they chat late at night on Facebook. She’s told me how brilliant he is, knowing much about music and art. Vietnam secluded him, fenced him off from community.
It’s a kind gesture on his part that’s he’s ventured well beyond his comfort zone to see if Cynthia is okay. With last night’s rain, Ripley Creek overflowed, washing away the sandbags along Cynthia’s house. We’re filling out applications for funding and trying to find immediate resources so Cynthia can get temporarily housed. It worries me when my friend is unsure of where she is sleeping each night.
It’s also troubling to wait on the dictates of others — no one has a permanent solution for the Ripley drainage and the elephant hunkered on the hill above our community is the unstable sand escarpment that can trigger more landslides. Powers that be monitor the temporary silt mitigation, but no one knows how to work together or even if Federal funding is coming.
Another neighbor, HockyPuck because he has the personality of one, strode by earlier, bragging about how the flood got him started on his home improvement projects early. He can afford to put his family up in a hotel and start repairs without care to grants, funding or donations. I heard he was brave the night of the landslide, rescuing his wife and children. But he refuses to give me an interview because he’s too busy.
I want to say I’m not interested in his story anyway. It’s the broken fences I find more interesting. Who cares about a fence that never breaks because it has all the resources and support it needs. Capitalism forgets that while some earn a comfortable life surrounded by ornate fences, most struggle. My friend and this gentle neighbor buckle beneath worry and real-life fears.
But everyone’s story matters. When collecting the stories of an event — or even here at the Ranch, the way we collect multiple stories on a single theme — different perspectives contribute to the greater story of us all. No one is to be excluded. No perspective matters more than others. It’s not about the best but the invitation to have your story heard.
My friend is not without her support network. In fact, the fence of human hands that surround her is amazing. All these hands, reaching out, pulling up. Even the Hub showed up with his truck to build weirs and fill sandbags. A few friends did the best they could do. I returned home to finish some paperwork for Cynthia, and that’s when I opened a portal to a long-held dream.
It came via email like Elvis popping up in a chat box.
You see, the dream is old — I wanted to be Indiana Jones. Not just an archeologist, but one who traveled and adventured. Who learned in the field and archives. Who taught college and wrote books. Oh, that was the original Big Dream! I even left my hometown to study archeology for a semester. It didn’t work out.
In 1998, I graduated from college ten years after my first failed attempt. Back then, to be a career author, one had to get an MFA. I could have been a contender! Instead, I chose to be a wife and mother, and I veered from the dream and used my creative writing degree in a marketing career.
I never lost touch with my literary roots and as I gained life experience, I better understood what the Big Dream meant to me. To be Indiana Jones, I had to be open to adventure, travel, and discovery. I’m not an archeologist, but I certainly excavate stories from the layers of the past. I’m now writing, and I’ve taught workshops for years. Not exactly college, but satisfying enough.
Until now. Until the pinch-me-Elvis-sighting moment.
I’ve written here before about my presentation to 1 Million Cups. Carrot Ranch Literary Community made the evening news, and many in the room warmed to the idea of storytelling and flash fiction as a tool. Already, I’m finishing up a small but mighty gig I landed from that presentation, coaching six entrepreneurs to craft their 10-minute pitches in a series of 99-word stories. Tomorrow they test-run their speeches.
Another organization met with me after the 1MC presentation to talk about workshops — Finlandia University. I toured their facility on campus where I can use conference rooms and the large hall for public workshops. It’s great space from intimate settings to large presentations. I shared my Curricula Vitae and received an unexpected response — had I ever considered teaching adjunct?
Short answer, yes! And quickly followed by the fact that I never went on to get my MFA, let alone my Ph.D. to complete the Big Dream. However, it was suggested that my CV was robust enough to waive the masters. I felt light like a butterfly flitting among honeyed flowers. So, I looked at their need for adjuncts, of course. One stood out as perfect — a marketing course intended for high school students through a partnership with the university. I thought, why not try!
Today, I received my appointment at Finlandia University for nine months to teach the CTE Marketing course. That’s about as close as I’ll ever get to sighting Elvis! Never did I think that part of the Big Dream would happen without a different journey. It’s only 10 hours a week, all hands-on (so no homework), includes 60 hours of prep time (I get to design the course!), a budget for materials, a van for field trips, and my very own college classroom.
I’ve become Indiana Jones, after all. Carrot Ranch is my beloved field work of discovery and treasure; I have a college appointment to teach; and I continue to write novels through the stories I catch 99 words at a time.
Broken fences can be mended. Everyone’s story matters.
July 12, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about a broken fence. You can mend it, leave it, or explain its place in a story. Go where the prompt leads.
Respond by July 17, 2018. Use the comment section below to share, read and be social. You may leave a link, pingback or story in the comments.
Horses Have Greater Value (from Rock Creek) by Charli Mills
“Blast it you duck-billed buffalo!” Cobb lunged at the stock handler.
Despite his injuries, Hickok dodged the charging man better than the bear that tore him up. “It weren’t me,” he said, confronting his angry boss.
“That busted fence didn’t happen on its own accord,” Cobb growled, pointing to the corral empty of horses.
“No Sir, pert sure it didn’t. Found it that way before you showed up. Recon’ Dock rode out after ‘em.”
“Then quit idling and get after that herd!”
Hickok sighed and set out on foot, his left arm hanging as useless at the fence post.
This month, Rachel Thompson of Bad Redhead Media is hosting a Twitter-driven event called #NaNoProMo. Rachel is the author of several award-winning books, including the 30 Day Book Marketing Challenge.
Rachel’s event is National Novel Promotion Month. If you are an author or plan to publish and market a book, this is information you don’t want to miss. Follow along on Twitter to catch the daily posts. Comment on each post to enter a chance to win author-supported prizes.
Your TwitterFlash challenge for May in to share the #NaNoWriMo hashtag by Tweeting from one of Rachel’s daily guest posts. You can use the built-in Tweets or the Tweet button.
A bonus challenge is to join in one of Rachel’s weekly #BookMarketingChat events. It happens every Wednesday, 6pm pst/9pm est on Twitter (just use the hashtag to join). It’s a good way to see how chats work.
In the comments below, let’s open up a discussion about how (and why) to use Twitter as a promotional strategy for books, blogs, and author brands.
Lisa Reiter is one of the Rough Writers whose calling is not fiction. She writes about her experience writing flash fiction as a memorist. More than that, she explores the topic of perfectionism, giving sage advice to all writers who might struggle with perfecting drafts. She frames her story with a memory of worming cats. For a few laughs and a delightful and informative read, visit Lisa at her blog as we return to England on our Rough Writer Tour Around the World.
Join us next week as we go to Poland to visit Urszula Humienik.
JulesPaige is one of the bright jewels of Buckaroo Nation, whose curiosity for words leads her to share new vocabulary with her fellows. She can take multiple prompts and create what she calls a “mash-up” response to them all in 99 words. That’s not an easy feat! Jules shines brightly, offering a helping hand and welcoming words to others who make their way to the Ranch.
Join her in Pennsylvania today to learn more about her creative literary art: Jules in Flashy Fiction.
Next week we jump across the Pond to Lisa Reiter’s UK.