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Without Ice
Imagine a world without ice. Not just the occasional inconvenience when you run out of cubes in the freezer or your favorite pub has none to offer. What would the world be like without skating ponds, Zambonis or polar ice caps?
Writers explored situations without ice. Some humorous, some stark. Grab a drink on the rocks and read while you still have ice to clink.
The following is based on the May 23, 2019, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story without ice.
PART I (10-minute read)
Without Ice by D. Avery
Archeologist walks into a bar.
“What’ll ya have?”
“Whiskey.”
“Neat?”
“No.”
“Ice?”
“No ice.”
“Water you’ll have?”
“With whiskey.”
“Nice.”
“So, how long have you worked here?”
“Are you digging into my past?”
“Aren’t I an archeologist?”
“Another whiskey ditch?”
“Why would I switch?”
“No ice?”
“Save the ice.”
“Yes, save the ice.”
“How do we save ice?”
“Keep it on ice?”
“How then do you keep that ice?”
“Sawdust. Lots of sawdust.”
“Sawdust?”
“From sawn trees.”
“Sawn trees?”
“Yes. Sawdust insulates the ice, keeps it from melting.”
“Last week’s prompt won’t like this.”
“Another?”
“Yeah. Save the ice.”
🥕🥕🥕
Whiskey Ditch (from Miracle of Ducks) by Charli Mills
Honky-tonk music crackled over speakers, the kind her dad listened to – Merle Haggard. Danni’s boots crunched peanut shells on a floor that hadn’t been swept in years. Not recognizing anyone in particular, she noted the regulars easily – the hovering barflies and closed-eye drunks reliving better days. It’s the kind of place her dad would have entered, leaving her to sit in the cab of his truck, reading a book. For a moment, she felt small again. And it hit her. Ike had really left. Iraq had beckoned him becoming the other woman. Danni ordered a whiskey ditch without ice.
🥕🥕🥕
Kronwalled by Jo Hawk
Ice.
The old-timers spoke the word, reverently. The miracle from their childhood, they waited for it each fall. Water buckets outside the door told them when to don sweaters and hunt for a sheet of holy grail on reservoirs, playgrounds, and ponds. Skates slung over their shoulders, twigs in their hands they gathered for a barnburner and the immortal words, “He shoots. He scores.”
They spoke of gods named Chelios, Esposito, Hall, Horton, Howe, Hull, Mikita, Orr and the Great One—Gretzky. Masters from a vanished game.
Zambonis sat silent and “top shelf” was now Hennessy straight, no Gretzky.
🥕🥕🥕
Pining for Ice by tracey
I was separated from my unit, deployed to a critical spot at a forward operating base.
I worked sixteen-hour shifts catching sleep when I could. The a/c worked just enough to take the edge off the heat. Couldn’t even get a cool shower.
As I ate the peanut butter and crackers in my MRE I looked at the picture my unit had sent. I glanced at their smiling faces gathered around a table in a chow hall but my gaze lingered on the ice filled glasses of sweet tea in front of them as I chugged my lukewarm water.
🥕🥕🥕
To the Victor Go…by Liz Husebye Hartmann
She’d let the dandelions go unchecked too long. Creeping Charlie was on the march, cannons of blue and green vines poised, ready to trip the unwary.
Nevertheless, she persisted. There were city ordinances and fines to deal with.
She donned her uniform of baggy shorts, stained t-shirt, and tennies from a prior decade. A colossus in her own mind, she revved the lawnmower, bearing down with a determined grimace.
Hours later, she emerged, victorious.
Shedding shoes, leaving a trail of grass and dust, she cracked open the ‘fridge.
No ice for her water, but at least it was wet.
🥕🥕🥕
Scotch On The Rocks by Abhijit Ray
“A large scotch please,” Sam ordered, “and whatever my friend wants.”
After a hard couple of days of business meeting, friends decided to relax on the final evening.
“Shall I bring the ice separately?” asked the waiter, “and for you sir, what should I get you?”
“Make one large peg, no ice.” Som asked mocking, “What exactly are these rocks, anyway? Would you stop drinking, if you you run out of ice?”
“How do you drink your whiskey, Som?!”
“Neat, ofcourse!” answered Som, “why waste money and good scotch whiskey. If you are thirsty, drink water, don’t waste alcohol.”
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Whiskey Snobbery by Kerry E.B. Black
No shooters. Refined aficionados converged.
Paul, the tender, inwardly groaned. “Of all days.”
A couple slapped bills atop the gleaming bar. “Double malts.”
“So far, so good,” Paul poured liquid amber into Glencairn glasses.
Paul presented three orders before the dreaded request.
“On the rocks.”
Paul quaked. No ice in a broken freezer. Sweat tickled his face.
The group bristled. “You’re ordering wrong, Son.” “A drop of water, maybe.” “Not on the rocks.” “Even ice balls dilute spirits.”
A blush spread across the offender’s face. “I meant neat.”
Relief flooded as Paul poured, reputation intact thanks to whiskey snobbery.
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Red Wine by Sarah Brentyn
She always added ice to red wine. Reds should be enjoyed at room temperature and I wasn’t shy about saying so. I guess I shouldn’t have picked on her for such a thing.
It annoyed me.
She’d chill a bottle of Chardonnay in the cooler and leave a Merlot on the counter. Why add ice?
She stirred the glass with her finger and I could hear sloshing and clinking. It grossed me out but I never said.
It was the sound of unhappiness. And that, too, annoyed me. At the gathering after her funeral, I ordered red wine, without ice.
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Cold as Ice by Di @pensitivity101
Another day, another boring evening.
Something smelt nice and he lifted the lid on the pan to have a taste.
‘I wouldn’t,’ she said. ‘That’s for the dogs. Your dinner’s in the fridge.’
Chicken salad again. Great. Not even new potatoes.
He sighed, got a glass and peered into the freezer.
‘There’s no ice Honey.’ he said.
‘Tough. Have tea instead.’
‘I don’t want tea.’
‘Coffee then.’
‘I don’t want coffee. Any beer?’
‘No.’
The dogs were getting excited for their supper as she spooned it into their bowls.
‘I’m off down the pub,’ he said.
‘Sure.’ she replied.
🥕🥕🥕
Ice Between Us by Reena Saxena
“There you go – messing it up again. Why can’t you ever get things done right?”
Martha’s shrill voice pierces my soul. I let my imagination go astray – a life without being blamed for every inconsequential act or mishap, a life with total freedom of doing things my way. The heat of a mismatched marriage was searing my sanity.
How I wished to be on non-speaking terms with her – several hours being whiled away without speaking a word, as it happened in the early stages of our relationship.
How I wished for the ice between us to build up again…
🥕🥕🥕
Sex on Ice by Anne Goodwin
No ice could kill their ardour. Nor would they want it to. But what fun to test it out with a second honeymoon at an ice hotel.
Bucket-list experiences are pricey, especially half a world away. Through years of sweltering summers, they dreamed of making love on ice blocks topped with reindeer hides, of sipping vodka from glasses made of ice.
Their lust still flamed when they finally found the funds to finance it. They made love, put champagne on ice and went to book it. Unfortunately, climate change got there first. No ice, but meltwater, swelling the seas.
🥕🥕🥕
No Ice Tonight by Kay Kingsley
We sat on the patio in the heat of the summer night listening to frogs and bird’s banter in the distance.
There was so much to say yet we sat there in anxious silence as the last seconds of calm before our storm expired like sand in an hourglass.
The tension was palpable.
Who’d throw the first arguments punch?
She opened her mouth to speak and I panicked, “Drink?”
I got up and heard the screen door slam behind me.
Normally, we sipped our whiskey on the rocks but tonight, no amount of ice would put out this fire.
🥕🥕🥕
Without Ice by Ann Edall-Robson
Thwunk. Quiet. Thwunk.
He watched Hanna from the shadow of the cookhouse. A glass of lemonade, without ice, in his hand. That’s how she liked it.
With each swing of the axe, she sent wood flying. Methodically stopping to stack the split pieces before settling the next chunk of wood in place.
“Why aren’t you using the splitter?”
Wiping the sweat from her brow, Hanna gave him a sarcastic look with a lopsided grin.
“And miss working off some steam?”
Tal wondered what had ticked her off. He hoped it wasn’t him.
Stepping closer, he offered her the glass.
🥕🥕🥕
Freezer Woes by Carol Arcus
I woke up terrified.
Last cyclone season was horrible, power cuts, no air-con.
Eating that half defrosted food meant I was sick, vomiting for days.
I stared into the freezer.
Carefully packaged cut bananas for smoothies.
Ice cubes for those tropical nights.
Frozen lasagne and steaks.
All would useless soon, when the power lines came down.
“Do you want to have a party, make some smoothies, fire up the grill?”
We drank gin and vodka, banana smoothies and grilled maniacally.
I woke needing to vomit. I found the cyclone had turned and I had no ice in the freezer.
🥕🥕🥕
Removing the Glaze of Grief by JulesPaige
independence lost
calm weather would not, could not
ease the burn of pain
Just when had it happened and really did it matter. Marge and Tina were talking. There were years that a berg had been between them. The base had spread through misunderstanding the others youth. But they had to join forces now. Dad needed them, now at a loss without Mom. Her illness had started slow, gained strength and then within moment froze the life out of the woman, as well as the man who had adored her. Now if they could just get James on board.
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In That in Between Time by Saifun Hassam
In that in between time
In that slip space
Fall drifted into winter
Night drifted into day
No ice clouds drifted across skies
Dry cool air drifted over valleys
Cool waters lapped lake shores
No icy vapor, no needle thin ice flowers
Prairie and meadow summer blooms
Yellow and purple and pink ironweed
Long faded on tall stems
Swaying ever so wistfully in the cool breeze
No petals of frost flowers at dawn
No icy ribbons on fallen pines.
In the open seas of the Arctic
frost flowers drifted melting
In that in between time
In that slip space.
🥕🥕🥕
No Ice for Cassandra by Gordon Le Pard
Jane Austen smiled at her sister’s letter, she enjoyed hearing from Cassandra, but sometimes her letters just contained a litany of complaints. Some, such as missing seeing the King and Queen were reasonable enough, but a lack of Ice! In September! After a hot summer! Really.
She picked up her pen, tucked her tongue firmly in her cheek, and wrote;
“Your account of Weymouth contains nothing which strikes me so forcibly as there being no Ice in the Town. Weymouth is altogether a shocking place I perceive, without recommendation of any kind, only suitable for the inhabitants of Gloucester!”
🥕🥕🥕
Titanic, The Maiden Voyage by TN Kerr
Birdie stood at the top deck railing smiling and waving; holding her hat in the breeze. Edward stood stoically nearby, as he imagined a new husband should do.
While the crew cast off lines and got underway Birdie turned to Edward, “I’m terrified. What if the weather takes a turn and the ship flounders?”
“Rest assured, darling,” he replied, “We’re aboard the pride of the White Star Line, she’s unsinkable.” They retired to their stateroom, where Birdie remained, panicked, for the duration of the voyage.”
Eight days later the newlyweds disembarked in New York and began their life together.
🥕🥕🥕
Safety Precautions by Nicole Horlings
The boy wriggled through the crowded fair, determined to make it to the dragon exhibit before it closed. He’d been waiting for this moment for months, ever since he saw the advertisement in the paper.
“Three tickets to hold a baby dragon,” he said, thrusting the crumpled slips into the attendant’s hand. He’d made it just in time, and there wasn’t even a line up.
“Sorry kiddo. Exhibit’s closed.”
“But it ain’t six yet!” He shoved his watch in the attendant’s face.
“We’re out of ice, and our safety contract says we need ice in case you get burned.”
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Let’s Hear it for Ice by Norah Colvin
A world without ice —
That made me think tw—
Two times.
A world without ice
Would not be so n—
Pleasant.
We couldn’t play games
With a six-sided d—
Numbered cube.
We couldn’t have fries
With a side-serve of r—
Food grain.
Our food would be bland
Without pinches of sp—
Flavour.
A world without ice
Where rule is by v—
Badness.
A world without ice
We’d all pay the pr—
Cost.
A world without ice
I’d say in a tr—
Moment.
A world without ice
I’d even say thr—
Three times
Would never
Could never
Be anything nice!
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New Way of Talking by Annette Rochelle Aben
A world without ice, how could that happen? What would cats do, with no rodents to chase? And think of everyone stressing out because they’d have to nail it the first time, because they can’t repeat anything.
We’d have nothing to toss at weddings AND Chinese food would be pretty darn boring.
Some might like it, because they could just be mean and never have to change.
Where fewer words normally worked, you’d have to say, “How much does that cost?”
With all the sage wisdom I have accumulated over the years; a world without ice, would be, cold.
🥕🥕🥕
Part II (10-minute read)
Lawmaker Has Shocking Epiphany about Climate Change by Molly Stevens
“The walrus’s testimony was convincing,” said senator Doughty. “But I wanted to walk out of the hearing when he started rambling about shoes and ships and sealing wax, cabbages and kings, and whether pigs have wings. I’m sorry he’s endangered, but I don’t believe the ice cap is melting. Or that the time has come to ask, ‘why the sea is boiling hot.'”
The server approached, and the senator said, “I’ll have the lobster.”
“Lobsters have had a pleasant run. But with higher ocean temps, we’ve eaten every one!”
With sobs and tears, he squealed, “Climate change is real!”
🥕🥕🥕
On The Rocks… Or Not? by Ritu Bhathal
“Hey, Sam, get me a scotch. On the rocks. Actually, make it a double.” James loosened his tie.
Some day it had been.
Markets were rocky with this whole Brexit fiasco, and then that Theresa May announced her departure from being the Prime
Minister… Things went haywire.
What with client calls, deals falling through, share prices dropping, he deserved a stiff drink, diluted only by that melting ice…
“Sorry, Boss, we’ve run out of ice. The machine’s on the blink. Typical on a hot day like this.”
James sighed. Guess it was a day that warranted a neat shot.
🥕🥕🥕
Not Ice by Bill Engleson
“I trust you got the notice?”
“Notice?”
“Yes. The Intergalactic Commissions Epistle on Global Defrosting.”
“Oh, yes. The ICE Notice on Not Ice. I got it.”
“Whew. Good. Everyone needs to be in the loop. Communications have been patchy.”
“Everyone? Even…?”
“The Holdouts? Sadly, there’re still a few. The ones who can make their own cubes. You know, at home. So selfish. I’ve got mine, they say. I’m good.”
“And what about…you know…?”
“Ah! The Impeachable Colluding Entity? He’ll be the death of us. We have the Immigration and Customs Enforcement, he says. Global Warming be damned.”
“So sad!”
🥕🥕🥕
Sadly Starving by Susan Zutautas
The mama bear and her cub were getting tired, so they stopped for the night. They were traveling towards Churchill, Manitoba on Hudson Bay, the polar bear capital of the world. Here they would be able to hunt for ringed seals. Sadly, not knowing about climate change, the ice normally on Hudson Bay was late coming this year.
The bears are hungry
Starving, anticipating
Ice to appear soon
When arriving in Churchill they came upon many other polar bears and new friendships began.
Finally, when the ice formed, it was game on for seal hunting.
Still many would die.
🥕🥕🥕
A Mother’s Dilemma…by Sally Cronin
My cubs and I swim further each day between melting ice floes. Some are only strong enough to carry the weight of my babies as they rest, at the limit of their strength. The seals that I hunt are also disappearing without a safe place to gather between fishing. I need to eat soon if we are all to survive. I may have to return to land and into the world of humans. Their waste food may be our only chance. They fear and hate my kind and there is great risk. But soon I will have no choice.
🥕🥕🥕
Life is Beautiful! by Anurag Bakhshi
I finished my 20th lap in the heated swimming pool and came out, drying my wet hair with a towel.
I pressed the button on the remote, and messaged my butler to get me some Beluga Caviar. As I waited, I looked at my luxurious surroundings…and thanked my lucky stars once again for global warming, which had pushed us polar bears to evolve enough to take over the world.
My Man was still not here. It was so difficult to get good help these days.
I shouted in exasperation, “Donald Trump…get your lazy ass here right now”.
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Inaction by wilnako
Sticky and salty, sweat dripping off me.
I feel the desert, all-consuming.
Burning hot sand under my feet, sun burning my cheeks.
I’m burning up, my body shaking the world won’t stop turning.
I moan and groan while polar bears have no home.
Icy lands a fading memory
what am I doing here I should be helping!
I do one last squat, one last puff, one last jump
I collapse on the floor, my fats giggling and jiggling.
The problems of the world were what?
Forgotten, phone in my hand.
Procrastination.
Distraction.
My inaction.
🥕🥕🥕
It Was Only After…by Joanne Fisher
It was only after the sea ice disappeared from the polar regions. It was only after the ice sheets collapsed into the sea creating mega-tsunamis that wiped out coastlines. It was only after the permafrost melted releasing ancient viruses killing millions. It was only after violent storms appeared on a scale never seen before. It was only after the oceans died.
It was only after all this that the people who thought it was all a hoax or simply thought it would never affect them realised that something needed to be done.
But by then it was too late.
🥕🥕🥕
Without Ice by Frank Hubeny
Bart looked left and right at the majestic Atlantic Ocean, the blue skies and hot sandy beaches. It was 90 degrees. He told the real estate agent, “I suppose if the global economy heats up so much that the ice caps melted then all of these high-rise condos would turn into part of the Everglades.”
“I’ve been waiting for it to happen for over two decades.”
“This place could sink into the ocean. I wonder who’d want to live here then?”
“I’m sure the alligators wouldn’t mind.”
Bart agreed with the agent: Better buy while the ground’s still dry.
🥕🥕🥕
Back From the Warmth by Eric Pone
At 16 April is as far from summer as Earth is to her moon. A distant memory that longs to spring forth into common memory. As Andrea looked out at the long prairie-like expanse of green that was Anoka Senior High’s front lawn she sighed as her senior high social teacher droned on about the importance of Indian Mounds. The red sedan came up the driveway slowly yet deliberately. The man getting out was a tall elegant man of dark complexion with salt and pepper hair. The ice was gone but salt between them remained. Dad was back …again…damn.
🥕🥕🥕
The Last Voyage by Miriam
“Where are we going, honey?”
“Real estate office.”
“Again?”
“They have a new listing.”
“Anything bigger?”
“Yes, a living quarter of 300 square feet, a share of 8 square feet of vegetable patch in the atrium, and a 5 square feet chicken farm.”
“How much time do we have?”
“Billions of people live on house ships already. We’re the last group. The ice from Arctic and Antarctic is melting fast. The ocean level has raised one inch a year for centuries. The last pieces of ice will collapse any minute.”
“Our ancestors couldn’t perceive us living on house ships.”
🥕🥕🥕
Taking Ice With A Pinch Of Salt by Geoff Le Pard
‘Ice with it?’
‘My dad said that was sacrilege.’
‘He liked his scotch warm?’
‘He didn’t like scotch. He just didn’t like others having it with ice. He was a G&T man.’
‘No ice?’
‘Always ice and a slice.’
‘Bit of an odd relationship with ice.’
‘He called me Ice.’
‘Why? He can’t have thought you were cool.’
‘I found it in his phone. My contact was “Ice”. I liked that.’
‘You doofus. It means ‘In Case Of Emergency. You were his nominated contact.’
‘Really? Oh well. At least I was his best pick.’
‘From a small field.’
‘True.’
🥕🥕🥕
Cooler Warming Part 1 by D. Avery
“Marge, any ice cubes left in the cooler for my beer margarita*?”
“Outta ice, we’ll have to finish framing the shed under less than ideal conditions, though there’s still beer, thank goodness.”
“It’s a cycle, Ilene, we run out of ice sometimes, but it’ll come back, like I told my nephew when he said the polar icecaps are melting.”
“Nard, you didn’t spread lies to that boy about climate change!”
“Told him things work in cycles, Marge, told him not to worry, then took him fishing.”
Kristof whispered, “Leave it, Marge, he knows; Nard cried so hard that night.”
***
Cooler Warming Part 2 by D. Avery
Both muttering about needing something, Marge stomped stage left up the steps into the singlewide, Nard stalked stage right off to his truck leaving the others in the glare of the halogen work lamps.
“What just happened?”
“Anger flashes bright burning flame, Dark dusty ashes smoldering blame.”
“What Lloyd’s trying to say, Ernest, is our beloveds have been spoiling for a fight. They’d rather feel anger than grief or fear.”
“Oh. Thanks Kristof. You deal with yours, I’ll go see about mine.”
“Marge?”
“Just seeing if the ice trays are frozen yet.”
Ernest hugged her. “I’m afraid too, Marge.”
🥕🥕🥕
Ice Removal by Susan Sleggs
When we go to bed at home it’s silent. Not so in a hotel. That little refrigerator always makes distressing noises. I turn it off and prop open the door. Feeling I’ve overcome the demon, my husband and I lounge and read. CRASH! A few expletives fly and we are both standing looking around. What was that? Nothing appears broken or moved. Peeking out from the fridge door is a half inch slab of ice. I have unwittingly defrosted the freezer. Ice falling on plastic is noisy. We laugh away our adrenaline. Husband remarks, “There’s no ice build-up now.”
🥕🥕🥕
Without Ice by Anna-Maria Amato
The sterile stone building was brightened, one day with the sculptures, installations images on the wall. The overly opinionated middle aged women, the distracted students, the stuffy middle class men, the wanna-be artists who thought that getting involved would draw attention to their own practise, which was lacking in everything except a degree. They were all being told that global warming was a major concern. That ice, in this world, was so scarce several years ago, now no longer existed. They seemed concerned as they looked around the building they knew, now covered in messages. Where is the ice?
🥕🥕🥕
Ice by Roberta Eaton
As we stepped outside, a chilly wind embraced us, making my eyes sting and water. The cold of the air felt more intense than when we had arrived a few hours ago and more white flakes flew from the dark sky. Our feet crunched on ice encrusted grass as we trudged across a wide expanse of lawn towards the first outhouse. Dizziness and confusion gripped me and thought I might collapse, but, drawing a few reviving and slow breaths, I managed to reach the small building and open the door. I stepped into its shelter, dragging Thomas after me.
🥕🥕🥕
Searching for Diamonds in the Rough by JulesPaige
The replicator could create many things in space. Synthesized alcohol, drugs for healing any number of species, humanoid or not. Even books. But it could not recreate ice.
Which was partly why Sherman had gotten involved with this crew. They were to explore and to a point exploit those silent balls of ice where no life lived. The trick would be finding any. Most of the nearest systems had been over harvested.
Sherman’s secondary reason, that he had kept hidden from the crew was that he was a Glaciologist. He wanted core samples of ice to read its history.
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Ice, Ice Everywhere, But Nary a Place to Skate by H.R.R. Gorman
Fourchad took the first step on planet Khione, entirely blanketed with ice, ripe for exploitation. They’d melt the ice and create water for the colony.
Brevard scraped a sample of the ice into her scanner. “Something’s not right.”
“What is it?”
“Water has unique physical properties – the weight of your body should add enough pressure to turn the ice into water and cause you to slip.”
Fourchad’s heart skipped a beat. “If it’s not ice, what is it?”
“Scanner says carbon dioxide. Dry ice.”
Wind chilled their hearts and the dead planet. They didn’t have the fuel to leave.
🥕🥕🥕
Without Ice by Floridaborne
Hamara wriggled in her wooden seat. A daily Bible reading. Boring.
“In the beginning, Yawina created cities. She commanded people to be good stewards of the Earth, but they began to worship Phone. They chattered with others anywhere on the planet, and sought to become one with Phone. They built mountains of garbage as tribute to his wife, Consumerisma. Yawina warned her people, Do not forsake me or I will tilt this planet. They did not listen! Down came towers of Phone! Yawina warned Righteousness, “Enter caves!” Then turned glaciers to water.”
Why must she endure mythology in 19392?
🥕🥕🥕
Shortchanged by Joanne Fisher
I booked passage to a small blue-green planet. I was assured it had a nice temperate climate and polar ice caps. However when I got there I found it was extremely warm and there was no ice to be seen anywhere.
I complained to the travel company about false advertising, but was told that while traveling there the planet had an unprecedented warming period due to the indigenous bipedal primates and their attempts at industrialisation. The company said it was regrettable but they couldn’t accept any responsibility since all this occurred while I was still in transit.
Well really!
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With a Paddle? by D. Avery
“Hey, Ranger.”
“Pal. Where’s your side-kick?”
“You mean that pain in the ass Kid? Up a tree.”
“Is Kid stuck again?”
“Claims not, but chooses ta stay, come ‘hellish high water’. So sayeth the Kid. Kid’s kinda freaked ‘bout meltin’ glaciers and risin’ waters.”
“Want me to climb up there, have a chat?”
“Naw, let’s enjoy the peace and quiet. Kid’ll come down at the first whiff a bacon.”
“You going to cook up some bacon?”
“Naw. Anyway, Kid’s onta buckaroo-ku.”
*Impermanent frosts
ancient glaciers speeding by
unnatural nature
Kid paddles in poet tree
Asses below, heads in sand*
🥕🥕🥕
May 16: Flash Fiction Challenge
Two days after my middlest child turned 29 years old, I’m seeking trees. My daughter, Rock Climber, lives on a craggy glacier island in the Arctic, surrounded by massive mountains, polar bear prints, and eternal snow beneath skies as wide as any final frontier. She travels by Zodiac in seas so tumultuous she has to wear a full life-suit with a beacon. When she flies between islands, she lands on airstrips made of permafrost. For fun, she rides snowmobiles in the midnight sun and sends me goofy snapshots. When her dad was in the hospital, she taught her Norwegian friends to sing a raunchy rugby song she learned when watching him play in a Montana league.
This is my Bug Child. My wild girl crafted in her Ranger/Rugby father’s image.
She tells me she misses trees.
Have you ever lived someplace where there were no trees? Even in the North American deserts, juniper, pinion, and Joshua trees grow. I was born beneath a canopy of California oaks and raised in the Sierras where the Jeffry pines and cedars grow. Eyes wide open, I can still smell their scent — Jeffrey pines smell like vanilla when the sunshine warms their broom-like clusters of needles. I’m not a tree-hugger as much as I’m a tree-cuddler.
I used to ride my horse Captain Omega (don’t judge, I named him when I was 12, reading Greek Mythology) to the cedar groves. There, I’d sit with my back to a cedar with its auburn bark that I could peel like fiber. I used to compare the color of my long braids to the tree and pretend we were distantly related. I’d read, devouring books and traveling in my mind to places as remote as where Rock Climber now lives.
Trees are in my DNA. Bumpa, my nonagenarian great-grandfather who used to tell me stories when my mother dropped me off to visit him in the nursing home beneath the oaks. I only knew him in his nineties. He died when I was ten, and he was 99. But those stories live on within me, roots of his life touching mine. His parents were farmers from Denmark, immigrating to America. They came west to California and planted apricot orchards. He grew up, tending those trees. My grandmother continued to harvest their fruit even after her father sold the orchards. My mother and her sisters would eat green apricots until their bellies ached. I grew up eating dried apricots every Christmas. When my Bug Child was two, my mother taught her to filch fruit from low-hanging branches, declaring these were the one’s Bumpa’s father planted.
I once wrote a story about the sweetness of stolen sunshine, keeping in mind the female tradition of San Benito apricots. Those trees produced fruit I thought must taste like the ambrosia of the sun. Throughout life, I continued to nibble from trees. First apricots, and then the nuts from Sierra pines. Jeffry pinenuts are flat and acrid but carry that luscious scent. Pinion pinenuts are fat, greasy, and sweet. Yet they don’t produce every year. When pinenuts come into season, the Washo and Ute would flock to high desert groves and harvest from pitchy stunted trees. I can taste American history with each nibble, I can experience Johnny Appleseed with the plucking of wild apples. I dream of Rock Creek and Little House on the Prairie when I slurp the tart fruit of a wild Nebraska plum.
Family legend holds that my other great-grandfather could create trees. He knew how to splice and get a crab apple to grow on a Macintosh. What scientist do in labs with genes, my ancestors did with trees. They brought their own hybrids with them from the Basque lands, the Azores, and beyond. Not from Ireland though. I once had a family member tell me that the English cut down all the trees in Ireland, and perhaps my Irish blood still misses those trees. I’ve watched shows on how the modern English take care of ancient oaks, and Monty Don is welcome to teach me anything about trees. My British roots are all mixed up in the different eras of history, place, and culture but undoubtedly go back to the Celtic worshippers of trees.
Deciduous trees of the Keweenaw have root systems that communicate throughout the woods. When I’m alone on a trail, I can hear them talking. White pines once grew in abundance on this peninsula, but like most other places, trees of today displaced the trees of yesterday. Climate change is displacing us all. Weather patterns and extreme weather events change what trees grow where.
At times I feel like a wind-whipped pine holding onto the cliffside. Then the sun comes out, or a gentle rain washes away the dust. Maybe I’ll find a home in a tree, a nest to call my own.
So I ask again, have you ever lived someplace without trees? Can you imagine having to hunt for them, to grow up not knowing what it is to smell bark or rake leaves or taste fruit?
My daughter misses trees. So I am seeking trees to give her stories to remind her.
May 16, 2019, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that goes in search of trees. It can be one particular tree, a grove, woods, or forest. What makes the tree worth seeking? Go where the prompt leads!
Respond by May 21, 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.
Laid to Rest (from Miracle of Ducks) by Charli Mills
Danni asked Ike to fall the tree, an ancient Ponderosa with thick plates of bark assembled like puzzle pieces. She estimated it had stood over the abandoned cemetery at least three centuries before burials. Mostly sawyers and log-camp followers found final rest beneath its branches. A hundred years ago, this Ponderosa would have netted the logging company enough money to cover wages. Yet they had spared the tree. Danni didn’t guess why, but she asked her husband to fall it because he understood the code of the forest. He’d remove the diseased old-timer with respect to those it guarded.
February 15: Flash Fiction Challenge
Props whomp-whomp-whomp a steady rhythm like the heartbeat of the plane. Cold air seeps through my window, and I can’t help but stare beyond the plane’s beating blades. It’s the only hint of sun I’ve seen over Svalbard since arriving in January. Sherbert hues of lemon and raspberry will be the single spoonful of sunlight for one hour and 54 minutes. And then it sets.
You might be wondering if my snow enclave with Lady Lake Superior has morphed with the Norwegian Arctic, but I assure you I’m still trapped by her snowy tendrils and merely dreaming of staring out the window at the only bit of sun my middlest daughter sees these days.
Mine is a voyage of the imagination. My daughter is the one who experiences the moment in person.
Rock Climber (or perhaps her arctic name should be Ice Cave Empress) lives in Longyearbyen, Svalbard, Norway. She recently posted this photo on her way to a remote job (as if Longyearbyen isn’t remote enough) in Svea. I’m along for an imaginary ride, hearing the endless whomp of the blades, feeling it connecting me to my daughter whose ice caverns are far away from my icy lakeshores.
As inhospitable as ice might be, my daughter writes that the movie, Frozen, has nothing on the ice caverns above Sveagruva (which means Swedish Mine, Svea to the locals). Sculpted frozen flows open like crystal orchids. My daughter explored inside with the small mining town lit up in the valley of snow below. She watched the Northern Lights pool and spray over a glacier, not bothering to take pictures because she said a camera could never catch the dance.
For now, her greatest danger comes from avalanches. A third of housing in Longyearbyen is under avalanche watch, so Rock Climber and her partner, Chef, are working in Svea where they can find rooms. Workers are only allowed 10 days rotation. They don’t seem to mind the dislocation, flying over partial sunrises and endless glaciers. They relish their life on ice.
I’ve come to welcome mine, too.
Last week, Winter Carnival unfolded across Michigan Tech University. Engineering students from nations around the world pulled the traditional over-nighter to finish building ice castles and sculptures. This year, Camelot rose just a few blocks from where I write. Frozen in ice, King Arthur kneels at the sword. Ah, I knew Superior was the Lady of the Lake! Here are the winning sculptures:
Ice ages. I don’t refer to “the” ice ages — I mean, ice grows old. It gets heavy and lined, pocked and dirty. It melts and turns crystalline until grabbing on to more layers of snow. It reminds me of aged cheese. But don’t worry, I’m not going to spread it on a cracker and eat it. I know what the critters do on ice!
Outside my front window, I watch five squirrels run the same tree branch trail around and around. As they bounce from bough to bough, snow plops to the aged ice below. I watch as my daughter flies over glaciers. If the snow extends from here through Canada, across to Greenland and over to Svalbard, are we standing on the same continent of ice?
Where does a mother go when the birds have fledged? I’ve watched male mergansers inflate their heads during their mating season, then shrivel up and fly away. The female mergansers remain, hiding nests from sky-prowlers like eagles and owls. Tufts of feathers emerge as baby mergansers. They grow bold and take to deeper waters and diving. I’ve seen the pond full of mergansers on the verge of flight and within days find only the emptiness.
A few mothers linger about. Neatening up the nest? Taking up grass knitting or reading the stars at night like books, no longer worried about death raining down as eagle claws? The babes made it. The mothers are on their own.
Rock Climber lands in Svea and already morning has turned to dark of night. The whomping blades shudder to stop, and she walks away from the window to new sights and adventures. I tidy up my ice and think of her laugh. My daughter is only an ice flow away. The polar bears slumber and the sun is making a return. She’s the Ice Cavern Empress, and I’m a writing merganser dreaming of sherbert on ice.
February 15, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story on ice. It can be an event on ice, a game on ice or a drink on ice. Go where the prompt leads you.
Respond by February 20, 2018, to be included in the compilation (published February 21). Rules are here. All writers are welcome!
***
Pups on Ice (from Miracle of Ducks) by Charli Mills
Garan blew past Danni, kicking up clumps of powder from the recent snowstorm. When he hit the ice, all four paws skittered, and he crashed to his chest, sliding across the smooth expanse.
Danni let out a hoot, and the herd of German Short-haired puppies slowed their bumbling approach to the ice. They pestered their mother, Det and yipped at their father who scrambled to gain traction on the pond. The runt took a bold step, then slipped on the glazed surface.
One bumped another, and then the chase-slipping began. Danni laughed, the only audience to Pups on Ice.
###
February 16: Flash Fiction Challenge
There’s a juniper tree on the slope of scree between my view outside the library window and the cliffs of Zion Canyon. The juniper is the size of a person, and each time I glance out I think someone is there, watching me. I’m torn between my inside world of words and my outside world of nature. A person on the periphery of both is startling. As if this Juniper Tree Watcher can see through to me.
I’m not paranoid. I use aluminum foil for BBQing, not blocking nefarious satellite spying. Honestly, I don’t feel watched in that sense. I don’t feel the need to wear hats in public to hide my face from Big Brother cameras or apply duct tape to the video cam on my lap top. Seriously, if anyone is watching me as I write, they have weird clips of me contorting my expression in frustrated pain when internet feeds are slow, deep breathing, arm/shoulders/neck exercising, or drooling when in a daze to flow thoughts from the head to tapping fingers.
The worst Big Brother can nail me for is one-handed keyboarding and scratching my nose (it was just a scratch).
I’ve long known the NSA is watching my email and blogs and bank accounts. The NSA alerts come from Idaho neighbors who’d come over for coffee and the latest conspiracies. I don’t doubt the government is watching, but doing something with that data is beyond their abilities. Try getting VA care. They have tons of data. They lack resources.
Once, when I was 12, a Native American elder warned me about water babies and watchers. He described a place where the Washo knew the watchers to be. It was a spot I avoided because my horse snorted every time I rode past this low bit of land along a creek. My friend said my horse recognized the watchers. I began to think about other places I felt watched, yet another correlation emerged: history.
Feeling watched became a clue for me to look for historic or even pre-historic evidence of habitation. I got so good at it that I recorded 11 archeological sites around the town where I grew up, including the spot I had been warned about. Of course I learned to identify features and clues, but that sense I feel, like a hunch, also feels like being watched.
The top of Dalton Wash felt like a hunch the first time we crested the mesa. It didn’t take long before I found chippings and tools, indicative of an encampment. Subsequent times I’ve been back, I’ve brought loose tobacco to share, a gift to the ancients my Native friends taught me. The first time I brought tobacco, I had the hair on the back of my neck stand up at a certain point. I felt I should not go past and I left my gift there on the wind.
I’ve been asking around, to fill in the gap between knowing this place was once inhabited and wanting discover their story. Some of the rock shops had said the Shoshone and Paiute lived and hunted here. It didn’t feel like my watcher, though. Then I discovered a small warning to hikers on the Zion side of the mesa above Dalton Wash — leave rocks, petrified wood and artifacts behind for others to enjoy; do not climb or disturb the rock dwellings.
Rock dwellings would mean Pueblo or even the mysterious Anasazi. I began asking outfitters and all were reluctant to say anything more than the park doesn’t want people to know in order to protect the ruins. In a round about way they confirmed the existence of ancient ruins in the vicinity where I felt watched and compelled to leave tobacco.
Whatever the feeling is, it taps into my imagination. Of course, a logical explanation would be my mind attempting to fill in the gaps it doesn’t know. I could agree with that. When I was younger I thought an archaeological career would be the greatest ever. I had always wanted to write historical novels and I saw the possibility of being an archaeologist/historical fiction novelist. It was beyond what I could do at the time, and college was not part of my family dynamic. By the time I got to college, I was a mother of three. Practicality dictated a teaching profession, but history and creative writing called my name. Creative writing called the loudest.
When I started writing Miracle of Ducks, Danni came to me as Dr. Danni Gordon, an historical archaeologist. She disdains dogs until her husband Ike abruptly decides to serve a private military company in Iraq. She has to overcome her dislike of dogs and Ike’s best friend to hold her life together in Ike’s absence. She ends up finding a friendship and a pup, and eventually she even finds her community after believing she never needed to be part of one.
The friend, Michael Robineaux, is the perfect foil for Danni’s career — he’s Ojibewe. He frequently challenges both her profession and disbelief in the supernatural. While the plot doesn’t get too “far out there” there is a thread of supernatural regarding the pup, Bubbie. Most of it is easily explained away like my sense of feeling watched by those who’ve gone before, but there’s several incidents that are left to the reader to decide.
The community element was something I originally set up to contrast Ike’s commitment to duty and Danni’s need for solitude. Community is a dynamic force, and complex. Miracle of Ducks drills down through the layers until Danni can finally see her own placement and come to understand why Ike would feel the need to put himself in harm’s way.
Last week I had a huge breakthrough in revising. I’ve mentioned before that I’m changing the setting from northern Wisconsin to north Idaho. One chunk of story that I wasn’t sure how to transfer involves Bubbie getting lost on Madeline Island. There is no such place in north Idaho, although several peninsulas on Lake Pend Oreille might work. Last week, I responded to the prompt and was thinking about Danni’s angst over her missing pup. In my original scene, Danni and Michael spend days searching for Bubbie, following up on sightings including a farmer who finds the pup in his hen-house.
Without thinking, I wrote Bubbie was lost on the Pack River and a group of rednecks shot at him for sport. Suddenly, the transfer was complete in my imagination. I could see Bubbie getting lost on the Pack (many dogs do each year) and the dangers became real and unfolded. I’m biting at the bit to get this scene rewritten now, thanks to the insight from that flash. Sometimes, my own responses to the prompt are like a flash light showing the path in the darkness!
I hope to find that ruin above Dalton Wash before we leave Mars. We don’t know where we are going next, or how we are going to move our RV, but I hope we get a flash of insight before the snowbird season ends, early April. Like a good story, I know something is up on Dalton Wash. It interesting to note, it’s not the only Anasazi ruin in the area.
The other is beyond the slope where the Juniper Tree Watcher stands.
February 16, 2017 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that includes a watcher. It can be a sentinel like the Watchman formation that overlooks Zion Canyon, or a Big Brother conspiracy theory. How can you use a watcher to set a tone or present a twist?
Respond by February 21, 2017 to be included in the compilation (published February 22). Rules are here. All writers are welcome!
***
Falling Shadows (from Miracle of Ducks) by Charli Mills
The Beehive was where granite met duff and towering larch. Hikers said they saw a dog like Bubbie run up the trail. She swore she saw dog-prints by the spring. Nothing. No Bubbie. Just a warm breeze through the pines.
She felt…watched.
Looking up, high on the granite mound considered sacred to the Salish, and called the Beehive for its shape, Danni could see the shadow of a dog. How did Bubbie get up there? She’d need a rope to ascend.
Her breath left her as the shadow fell. Before impact, it spread wings and an eagle flew away.
###
Smoke on the Horizon
Extreme weather leads to natural disasters. Flames crown ridges of drought-dry trees; greasy debris churns down rain-sodden slopes; and unexpected water displaces lives. Regional disasters, weather related and often people oriented, becomes smoke on the horizon that the world can see.
Who responds? A busload of anonymous helpers. Firefighters from across national borders. Citizen inventors with a solution.
Often the extremes are unexpected. Nations deplete resources and people flee as refugees. How we respond to the smoke of elsewhere often defines our societal character.
The following stories are based on the August 26, 2015 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about the need for help in an extreme weather event.
***
Man’s Wrath by Pete Fanning
It came from above. Fish scattered as the earth moved. Land slid and rocks shifted. Driftwood slammed to the ocean floor, releasing thick clouds that smothered the light.
It was carnage, how mankind mangled the sea, trampling the coral reefs and contaminating its magical blue waters. The wreckage was everywhere: the sunken ships, the murky fog of filth and trash, the ghastly tangle of his net, swooping in like a giant mouth. The fish plunged deeper into the angry waters, searching for refuge…
“Scottie, how many times do I have to tell you? Get out of the fish tank!”
###
Midnight Locomotive by Pat Cummings
Winter’s rains pounded for a week before the San Gabriel express arrived.
The slope above the house, burned greasy brown by autumn’s fires, was a well-prepared track for this locomotive, primed to deliver tons of gluey debris down our hillside street, straight to our house.
Transplants from Georgia, we knew only of floods up from the river, in from the ocean. The rumble at midnight was our first warning of California’s downhill kind. Shed-sized rocks, neighbor’s automobiles, the twisted swing-set from our yard, a house-filling mud-flow, burst through the back door.
We lived: our backyard pool caught just enough.
###
Flash Fiction #1 by Irene Waters
Suddenly, unexpectedly the sky darkened, emitting an eerie green glow. It sounded like an express train passing at speed when the wind came, followed by the crash and splintering of wood. The tin of the roof buckled under the weight of the fallen trees, that had twisted and snapped like twigs. It passed, as soon as it came, continuing on its path of destruction. Shattered people emerged, surveying the damage. Emergency services eventually reached the needy, clearing the roads and tarping the rooves. Unaffected friends helped.
Three days on, power unfixed, we listened on the car radio – Desert Storm.
###
Arrogance By Sacha Black
They were delicate rumbles at first. Tempting my arrogance to ignore them. So I did, I stayed, laptop open, coffee in hand, typing.
But the hairs on my knuckles stood to attention. I knew I’d made a mistake. The rumbles became thundering cracks and the Earth ruptured.
The coffee shop tore open like the sun bursting through clouds. My laptop slipped and fell into the ravine.
“No,” I screamed, reaching for my life’s work. My foot slipped. I held on with five sweating fingertips. Four. Three. Two… At least I’d die with my work.
Then a hand grabbed me.
###
Freezing Nightmare by Ann Edall-Robson
Darned truck. Where did the landmarks go?
Blasting snow and howling north wind. Tired of walking. Need to stop. No! Keep moving. Rest, yes rest, here, beside the road. Need shelter from the wind. Stay awake.
Consciousness slides away. Deeper and deeper his mind spirals. Struggling to keep his frosted eyelids open. Slowly, his thoughts welcome the abyss of darkness. It’s so cold. Imagination and hallucination take over. Sleep feels good.
The ground shakes beneath him.The sound of an engine. A door slams. Amber lights flashing. A dream…
The snowplow driver knelt beside him.
The nightmare was over.
###
Fence Down by Jeanne Lombardo
Paul cranked the ignition. Only the same harsh rasp. And no service on the cell phone.
“Won’t be an hour,” he’d called, flinging his weight into the white, squinting wind; his mother’s voice a needle in the air before the sky sucked it up.
Now cold seared a sugar crust onto the windshield. The snow funneled down. It’d swallowed the fence in the south pasture. Now dense, wet waves of it lapped against the tires.
At least he’d found the cow, he thought, satisfied, settling back, closing his eyes, already oblivious to the sound of a truck door slamming.
###
A Blessing in Disguise by Ruchira Khanna
Mortgage over-due. Bank Balance in negative.
John is sitting on his dry land that has disintegrated due to lack of rains.
Now he has only one hope.
That his continuous bawling, sobbing could wet his land with the hope that he could reap the crops and gain his self-respect.
Politics and Weather lead to the loss and debt.
While continuing with his sobs, he felt a few trickles.
Looked around, to no luck!
Looked up to see Nature joining him in his cry.
That made him euphoric since Mother Nature’s whimper is a blessing in disguise.
###
Flash Fiction #2 by Irene Waters
Prepared for the worst we bunkered down after giving rations, water, torches and extra blankets to our guests. They’d be safe in their bungalows, as these had stood against cyclones of greater strength than now predicted . Nevertheless, as the wind howled bending the trees double, we worried about them. At great danger to himself, in the calm of the eye, before the storm turned with its destroying ferocity, Peter visited them and checked they were alright.
They left when the airport reopened gushing their thanks.
A month later: a complaint. We hadn’t served breakfast. Please refund money in full.
###
Toasted by Sarah Brentyn
“What could be better than this?”
“Not a thing.” Donna smiled at her husband.
“It’s like being on vacation…”
“Every day,” she finished.
They clinked glasses, toasting their new beachfront home, watching frothy waves roll up on their private beach.
They don’t talk about that night on their deck overlooking the ocean—the shattered champagne bottle, the shattered dream.
But they are reminded.
Every time they reach out for help, they are reminded.
Sipping scotch in the motel, they listen to Donna’s mother on speakerphone. “A category 4 hurricane. Tsk, tsk. I told you not to buy beachfront property.”
###
One Shivering Southern Belle by Paula Moyer
Her third winter up in Minnesota. Third season of sub-zero highs. Tonight, Jean paced at the bus stop, arms crossed, hands clapping her shoulders to keep – well, not warm, just moving.
She went through the list of layers: “Next time I’ll …” but no. The extra socks? Two thermal undershirts? Tights under the long-johns? She’d done them all. Nothing more to do.
The bank sign blinked: 25 below. Her shoulders heaved. She sobbed, then made herself stop – the moisture could cause frostbite.
Despair. Then …
“Stand close to me.” Jill, her roommate, just off work. Catching the same bus.
###
Saturated by Geoff Le Pard
Mary peered out of the tent at the rain. ‘More like a waterfall,’ she thought, given rain should come in drops. Behind her Penny squealed ‘snap’! followed by a groan from her husband Paul. Mary squinted at where their car sat. Between it and the tent the grass had gone, replaced by a moat. Any moment, she thought and they’d float. She rocked her baby and smiled.
A hand touched her shoulder. ‘Perfect break, eh?’ Paul nibbled her neck and she shivered. ‘Gross, dad.’ Penny pushed him and he rolled over, laughing.
Her family: Mary was saturated with love.
###
Storm by Norah Colvin
A big storm was coming. Two older ones were put in charge of two younger ones. They sat at the fence, watching. Soon other neighbourhood kids gathered, sharing storm stories, waiting.
Green clouds swirled as dark clouds played leapfrog races above. The children watched the storm rush closer; mesmerised by its beauty, mindful of its power.
Soon the winds whipped up, chasing the other kids home. The older two called to the younger, but they were nowhere to be seen. Mortified they hurried inside to alert their parents.
What relief. They were already in, telling of the storm’s approach.
###
Mad Scientist by Larry LaForge
Ed rose at 4 AM again. Edna heard him scratching around in his cluttered study. What’s he up to this time?
Around 8 AM Ed plopped his laptop on the kitchen table and grabbed a cup of black coffee.
“Big project?” Edna asked.
“Biggest one yet,” Ed answered solemnly.
“’What about?”
“WERELO.”
“Huh?”
“WERELO,” Ed repeated.
“WERELO?”
Ed motioned for Edna to lower her voice and move closer. “Weather Relocation,” he whispered. “Moving weather patterns. Getting rain to drought and fire areas.”
Edna knew her husband had absolutely no scientific training. “But how?”
“That’s where I’m stuck,” Ed replied.
###
Red Stains by Christina Rose
The day the city let us back in,
we went to help.
Driving through mud covered alleys,
landfill streets.
Doors covered with red paint
– 0 Dead – 1 – 2.
Trapped inside,
survivors wait for rescue.
Wade into a home
about to collapse.
A dog floats by.
Tears well –
ashamed a dead
animal stirs more
emotion.
Dirty diapers decompose,
stench fills the house.
Rub chew on upper lip
– the smell is better
than decay.
Trailers spread over
suburban lawns.
Temporary homes will last for
months, years.
Broken families wait
for checks.
Homes still crumble,
waterlines still mark walls.
Death stained doors.
###
Hurricane Sandy by Jules Paige
Somewhere in the Midwest, a major weather event
happened several years ago. A whole town lost its’
footing. Yet the people would not give up – Someone
knew someone who organized other people. That’s
how a Jewish Congregation on the east coast started
helping – becoming an annual bus trip to help the
town rebuild.
The first year it was one bus, and the next year two.
Those who didn’t go gave money and supplies for
those who did. The rabbi goes every year. It’s a mitzvah
– a good deed that no one expected recognition for.
###
Flash Fiction by Anne Goodwin
When the water swirled around our feet, the boatman insisted we’d be there soon. What choice had we? We peered through the darkness for dry land.
When we asked for jackets, they said to start bailing. When the sea reached our knees, we asked about the radio. But rescue meant repatriation and prison for the crew.
They said we were too many, but we hadn’t been too many when they took our dollars. We pleaded for the children as the waves crashed overhead. When the water reached our waists, they launched the dinghy and left us to our fate.
###
Border Crossers by Charli Mills
Lucy’s helmet blew off when the smoky whirlwind hit. Flames began to illuminate the dense fog of gray. Radiant heat blazed like a torch. Bad signs.
Her crew boss transmitted the call. “Need help, HQ. Fire blew up on the west flank. Lines won’t hold.” Static. No answer.
Flames screamed. The air receded. They all hunkered low together. I’m going to die, she thought. And damn it, I lost my helmet.
Lucy never heard the Bombardiers before both dropped water like benevolent sky spirits, but she felt the instant relief. The Canadians heard their call and crossed the border.
***
Dedicated to all firefighters near and far who answered the West’s call for help in August of 2015. And the Country Folk who survive.
The Day the World Turned Brown
Climate change education and literacy is an important part of of the 21-century world. Writers in general are vital to the discourse of information, and literary writers are important to imagining what might happen. That’s what writers did this week — imagine a brown world.
Yet, creativity knows no bounds. Beyond environmental factors, writers imagined humanity, humor, irony, tragedy and joy. If there is hope for our future, it is found in the creative spirit of determination to leave this world a better place for the next generations. We can nurture the earth.
The following stories are based on the April 1, 2015 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write about the day the earth turned brown.
Brown by Luccia Gray
I used to think blue was the most beautiful colour in the world.
When Tim’s intense blue eyes first looked into mine, I soon realised I wanted to gaze at them forever, and he always said my clear blue eyes were like pools he wanted to sink into eternally.
I assumed our son would have blue eyes, so I was surprised when they were brown; a soft, honey brown. Tim says our son will be tall, dark, and handsome, like his father. Now every time I look into our toddler’s eyes, I remember the day my world turned brown.
###
Treasured Memories by Ruth Irwin
It was as if she was looking through a thick dark fog. The images were hauntingly familiar, but somehow strangely different. Amongst others, the elegant Eiffel Tower; the snaking Great Wall of China; Tower of London with its secrets of wealth and horror; the proud Statue of Liberty; the traditional Fijian Bure. The whole world was awash with a brown that sofened the edges and threatened to erase the images from view.
Despite her early morning coffee washing over the printed memories nothing would ever blur the treasured images in her mind of her adventures in far off lands.
###
The End Is Near – Flash Fiction by Susan Zutautas
Thirsting for water
Not a cloud anywhere seen
Everything is dead
Trees are screaming out
Our leaves are all on the ground
Somehow please save us
Once what was luscious
Voluminous green pastures
Has now turned to dust
Spring arrived with hope
Not a flower to be seen
Dispiritedness
Oceans are depleting
Lakes and rivers are hollow
Ponds now memories
Scorching sun daily
Humans are seeking shelter
Underneath the ground
Not one animal
Can endure these elements
Soon there will be none
Annihilation time
Sorrowfully will soon show up
Such a travesty
Depression darkness
Gasping for relief to come
###
When it Happened by Charli Mills
It felt like a shadow, creeping up my back. At first I thought it was a thunderhead, scudding across the midday sun. I knelt in freshly turned soil to finger a trench for stony beet seeds. When the crows flew overhead in silence, I finally looked up.
Like some grand dust storm from Arizona, a mass of brown clouds roiled like sediment, churning the sky. A volcano? No wind. No dust. A brown haze descended. It wilted green grass and shriveled clover. Water ran like mud. Electricity dimmed and batteries frothed. My beets never saw the light of day.
###
Darkest Before the Dawn by Geoff Le Pard
Mary stared at what was once her parents’ garden but now looked like the Somme. Figures in white suits, like choreographed aliens moved slowly between trenches. A group were struggling to raise a tent to protect the current working area.
She heard her half-brother say, ‘They’ve not found anything. The detective said they should be finished by the weekend.’
Mary watched the clouds roll in, the first of the promised rain dropping on the turned earth. Finished by the weekend? ‘It’ll never be finished.’
Her husband put his arms around her waist. ‘Yes it will; you wait and see.’
###
Flash Fiction by Irene Waters
“What colour do you want to paint the world? We have enough Mission Brown or Sunburst yellow. I doubt there is enough Burnt orange left in the storehouse.”
“You haven’t got a green?”
“Nope. All out of green. Very popular last year with the tree artists.”
“Don’t need to bother there no more. The Amazon’s gone and that mine dust killed most of the others. I think we’ll use the brown. That’s how I’m feeling. Drab. Down.”
“Okie dokey. I’ll get the paint to the decorators.”
True to his word, the painters brushed the world, soon turning it brown.
###
Dateline Fresno County by Phil Guida
The hills are usually brown in this valley, but not until June when the temperatures begin reaching triple digits. This is only April and our world seems to have been choked dry.
The ground is parched, the lakes of my younger years are merely ponds, and the rivers resemble creeks. Our once oasis is rapidly retreating back to its origins.
No rain, no snowpack, and soon, no farmers.
The air has a peculiar scent, one that I’m unfamiliar with.
Maybe it’s the slow dying of the land taking place or it could be the stinking denial of climate change.
###
Going Brown by Pat Cummings
Our new house was perfect, except for the poor garden plot in back. Limp weedy stalks drooped in widely-separated clumps over the dry gray soil.
Those first few weeks, as we unpacked and arranged furniture inside, I could ignore the gasping pleas of the water-starved garden. New house, new job, new neighbors to meet, new schools for the kids—there was no time for backyard farming.
Then my neighbor offered, “I make more compost than I ever use. I just enjoy making compost.” Digging it in felt so good, transforming that dry gray earth to a rich, fertile brown!
###
Dry Season’s Eve by Sarah Unsicker
I saturate my lawn for the last time, mourning the impending brown. The stifling hundred-degree days without a swimming pool. The baked brown lawns and flowerless gardens. The absence of squeals of children running through sprinklers. Already the sun beats down, a shadow of the summer’s heat.
I water only until I see water running down the sidewalk, then put the hose on the top shelf of the shed, the shelf I need a stepladder to reach. The dry season begins tomorrow.
I pour myself a glass of water, drink a sip, and pour the rest down the drain.
###
Desert Storm by Sherri Matthews
The Man With No Name sat motionless on horseback, his eyes squinting into the scorched, brown skyline as his horse pawed at the parched earth.
“I need fresh air,” gasped Ken. “I’m sick.”
Muriel smirked, as she followed him up to the deck. “I’ll join you, this film’s boring anyway.”
“I know what you’ve done Muriel,” yelled Ken, as he lurched towards her.
A packet of rat poison fell out of her pocket. “You idiot!” screamed Muriel as a gust of wind sent them both overboard.
Gun fire rang out from inside the boat as a vulture swirled overhead.
###
The Rose Garden by Ula Humienik
The heat seemed boundless. Farmers predicted rising grain prices. Daniel said it was unavoidable. My only concern was for my rose garden; it hadn’t seen water for weeks.
“How long do you think they could last without water before we can declare the damage irreparable?” I asked Daniel.
“I don’t know, honey. They’re probably gone. Where’s my navy sweatshirt?”
“In the second closet.”
Three weeks had passed since water rations had run out. I skipped a glass of water a day for my roses.
“Honey, we need to get out before it’s too late.”
“But what about my roses?”
###
The Cure by Sacha Black
“What do you mean you saw a rainbow, Tyler?”
“Before you were born, and before the world became this slush of vintage browns and antique beiges, there used to be colour in the world. The Earth was flecked with colour and shaded with meaning.”
The girl just stared at me, brows deeply furrowed.
“Colour?”
“I’ll show you if you promise to keep it secret?”
She nodded.
I led her to the back of the house and into the greenhouse.
“You see that? The tiny budding shoot? It’s the first of its kind for five years. I’ve found the cure.”
###
A World of Browns by Roger Shipp
“Do you want to walk outside, Dad?”
“Why bother?”
“You need the exercise.”
“I can get that walking the halls. Besides, more people to talk to here.”
“I know that. But wouldn’t you like the fresh wind in your face… see the mountains… hear the birds?”
“When blue jays aren’t blue, they’re just mean vicious bullies. Mountains without sunsets have little meaning.”
“Are all the colors gone, Dad?”
“The sky is still a nice shade of blue…. But who wants to see a brown sunrise? Oh, ignore me. I am blessed. My love for you will never turn brown.”
_________________
** Monochromacy can be an acquired eye malady of the aging. The cones in the eyes weaken and eventually the ability to see all colors except browns and shades of blues is vanquished.
###
Lawn Care by Larry LaForge
“I got this,” Ed said confidently.
Edna was apprehensive. “But, Ed, it’s our front yard. Let’s get a lawn professional.”
“That’s just throwing money away,” Ed replied. “Fertilize. Water. Cut. That’s all you have to do. It’s not rocket science. Trust me.”
Edna relented, and Ed took on the project with his usual gusto—and impatience.
He gave it a triple dose of fertilizer, watered twice per day, and kept it cut super low to prevent any weed growth.
The blazing summer sun did the rest.
Finally, Edna had seen enough. “Ed, isn’t a lawn supposed to be green?”
*****
The 100-word version of this story is posted at larrylaforge100words on Flash Fiction Magazine.
###
Thirsty by Amber Prince
We stood on the bridge looking down into the sandy abyss littered with long forgotten lost belongings and decaying fish.
“This isn’t good.”
I shook my head. There was nothing else to be said, we both knew what was coming next. It had already begun. Dehydration crept up the embankments as though the Earth was looking for a drink, and sucking the life from anything in its path.
No one knew how long we had, but we all knew what was coming. Without water, there could be no life.
We watched as the last lake took its last breath.
###
One the Scene by Sarah Brentyn
“Wait!” Skinny rushed over with her can of hairspray, lifting a flyaway strand out of my face.
I sighed, “Hurry! I’m first on the scene. Don’t screw this up for me.”
“Okay.” Skinny scurried away. “Just wanted…”
“Whatever,” I snapped. “Blondie, you ready?”
Blondie shifted her camera slightly, “Go.”
I drew my eyebrows together, pursed my lips, and spoke slowly. “Minutes ago,” I slumped my shoulders and swung my arm to show the surrounding brown grass and trees, “our beloved park….”
“Stop. News reports coming in from everywhere—‘the dying earth’ they’re calling it. You’re not the first…”
“Dammit!”
###
The Smell of Peace by Ruchira Khanna
Zeenat woke up to loud screams, sirens, and gunshots. She was quick to peep out the window; after smelling fear, and anger she collected her essential resources and ducked in her basement.
Stuffed her ears with cotton and started chanting. Hours ticked to days and soon to a week. Finally, everything was quiet.
She came out with her face covered cause of clouds of soot. The residue had turned everything brown and burnt sienna. However, she lifted that cloth and inhaled deeply cause the smell of peace is far more wholesome and harmless than any destruction caused by mankind.
###
Scorched by Georgia Bell
She’d been sweating out here for hours. Turning over dirt. Moving it from one place to another. She accepted the canteen gratefully when it came her way, barely remembering the time she would have refused to drink from the same container as a stranger.
“Thanks,” she said and wiped her hand across her mouth, likely just smearing the filth on her face into streaks.
The young girl who worked beside her looked down, but she saw the smile that turned up the corners of her lips.
Taking a chance, she leaned in. “Come see me later. I have news.”
###
Palette Potential by Norah Colvin
She walked between the desks admiring their work. From the same small palette of primary colours, and a little black and white for shades and tones, what they produced was as individual as they: J’s fierce green dinosaur and exploding volcanoes; T’s bright blue sea with sailing boat and smiling yellow sun; B’s football match . . . At least in this they had some small opportunity for self-expression. She paused at M’s. M had mixed all the colours into one muddy brown and was using hands to smear palette, paper, desk and self . . .
###
Binding a World by Rebeca Patajac
Day by day, the population thinned. Babies weren’t being conceived as often as they once had. The sun’s radiation increased week by week. Cancer counts increased. Hospitals overflowed. Lives faded.
Those with fair skin donned sunscreen every morning without fail, before continuing life. Most just stayed indoors.
All were failing fertility tests.
Years pass.
A coloured President. A Prime Minister. Council and Board members. School principals. Teachers. Newspeople. Neighbours. Friends. They all grew darker.
White folk just weren’t strong enough; their evolutionary lines unprepared.
The last died and all others pushed onward, brown skin binding a world in peace.
###
Flash Fiction by Anne Goodwin
Her cheeks were a hodgepodge of colour when he left, slamming the door behind him. Mascara washing into blusher, rainbow shadows streaking from around her eyes. It reminded him of mixing paints as a kid: the power to reduce sky and sun to mud.
Now, under heavy clouds, with the snow recently melted, the moors are likewise conquered: grass leached of green, shrubs stripped of leaves, the heart sucked out of the bracken. He leaves the paths to the Sunday walkers with their Gore-Tex smiles and stumps across the peat to lose himself in a muted landscape of brown.
###
Flash Fiction by Pete Fanning
It was time. After all the waiting and hoping and false starts we’d broken through, both on the calendar and the grasshopper thermometer outside the window.
Stabbing in with the shovel, I unearthed moist, brown soil, like that of a brownie just out of the oven. I stirred the fragments, the once vibrant yellow banana peels, dimpled corn cobs along with red tomatoes, leaves, egg shells, and even some soda that I’d snuck in before my diet.
Thick earthworms wiggled as I stirred nature’s crockpot, where the fertile brown earth would soon bolster the wonderful green stalks of life.
###
Tilting the Future by Geoff Le Pard
We’ve browned off the Earth with careless needs
Thoughtless beyond our artificial horizons;
Enlightened by science, scattering seeds
Of our potential destruction. Denizens
Of Earth shrug – having a secular faith
Expecting absolution; they plough on
While the plough rusts in the field; a wraith
Of their lush youth melts in the heat. Clarion
Calls dissipate. Tipping points have passed.
Narrow minds ‘know’ summer’s oven is a phase,
Seasons change: solid winter never fails its task.
Oh history, be their teacher – Time’s backward gaze:
Recall the dinosaurs; even they all died
While the rest – the birds and beasts survived.
###
July 16: Flash Fiction Challenge
Before you begin reading, turn on some music: Mark Isham.
Our county had no high school of its own so students had to be bused out of the mountains of eastern California into a valley of northern Nevada. The bus ride was an hour each day, each way. Buses can be socially awkward spaces, especially for socially awkward teenagers, and I just wanted to sit alone. If I had to double up, L was a safe choice.
No one wanted to sit with L, saying she smelled. Despite the efforts of our grade-school teachers to explain certain cultural norms for the local indigenous Washo families, many wrinkled their noses. But she could flash the warmest smile that lit her brown eyes and she’d welcome another reader at her side.
It was L who introduced me to Farley Mowat’s books. Upon his death in May of 2014, The New York Times hailed him as “the champion of the far north.” Through Mowat’s stories, I was transformed to arctic places where wild wolves were less viscous than the people who sought to eradicate them and where I met the Inuit through his compassionate filter.
As a writer, The New York Times says this of him:
“He wrote with great range, from light, humorous fiction to historical accounts and dark tales of injustice, from children’s stories to tales of exploration, whale hunting and deep-sea salvaging.
But one theme remained constant: humanity’s relationship with nature, one in which he frequently cast people as a devastatingly destructive force.”
You might say that Mowat planted the seed for my interest in climate fiction–a genre that explores the impact of anthropogenic climate change. But it would be the music of Mark Isham that fed the seed. In 1983, Disney produced one of Mowat’s books for the big screen: “Never Cry Wolf.” And Isham supplied the haunting score that still can touch me deeply.
Filed away in the recesses of my mind was the note-to-self, “One day write about the Inuit in the Arctic.” Then in 2007, I was at a conference and learned about Will Steger’s Global Warming 101 Expedition. Through serendipity my eldest had applied for a scholarship to go as an exchange student and was accepted. The following year I hosted Inuit students at my home for dinner. My desire to write about this place and culture reignited.
Now I had a garden on Arctic stories growing within me. And still Mark Isham spurred me on. I wrote a short story in a 24-hour story slam and the editors invited me to present it. I held onto the potential and let it flower last NaNoWriMo into a project I titled, “Warm Like Melting Ice.” My mock-cover borrows a photo from the exchange students of the Global Warming 101 Expedition. My music of choice while writing was Isham, of course.
Over the years I’ve owned the album you are listening to in various forms–record, cassette, CD and itunes. While it has musical scores from several movies, I equate them all with the arctic. I played it as I designed my concept cover; I’ll play it as I revise. Have you ever found music to connect with your writing?
Last week, Rough Writer, Sarah Brentyn, let her inner Darth Vader out to write flash fiction. Now I’ll hear the Imperial March every time I read something chilling from her. And that set me on this course about how music can move our writing. How it can reach into recesses long passed over to pull out a forgotten story idea that had grown to novel proportions.
Judging by the shared music over the past few weeks on blog posts, I don’t think I’m alone in this influence. So I’m curious to hear your stories this week and, if available, link the music that influenced your flash when you submit it. Youtube has just about everything. It’s up to you if you want to include a song with lyrics, but try to be influenced by the sound rather than the words.
July 16, 2014 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story influenced by a musical score. Where do you drift, hearing the notes? How does it fire you up to grab the story and hurl it into existence? Or is it gentle, and leading you into lyrical pastures of green? Respond by noon (PST) Tuesday, July 22 to be included in the compilation.
McCandless Rides by Charli Mills
Hooves pounded in the distance, hollow like ancient kettle drums. Sarah heard Cob riding his leggy blood red bay with main as black as his owner’s thick hair. Only Cob rode so recklessly down the mountain. No one was about the store this time of evening. She was only there to tally the books. Sarah set her ink quill aside, shuffled the accounting notes for her father’s business and smoothed her long hair that was artfully coiled at the back of her head. Hers was lighter than his; ‘chestnut’ he called it, when he had stroked her uncoiled locks.
****
Written to The Lone Wanderer by Antti Martikainen
###
Rules of Play:
- New Flash Fiction challenge issued at Carrot Ranch each Wednesday by noon (PST).
- Response is to be 99 words. Exactly. No more. No less.
- Response is to include the challenge prompt of the week.
- Post your response on your blog before the following Tuesday by noon (PST) and share your link in the comments section of the challenge that you are responding to.
- If you don’t have a blog or you don’t want to post your flash fiction response on your blog, you may post your response in the comments of the current challenge post.
- Keep it is business-rated if you do post it here, meaning don’t post anything directly on my blog that you wouldn’t want your boss to read.
- Create community among writers: read and comment as your time permits, keeping it fun-spirited.
- Each Tuesday I will post a compilation of the responses for readers.
- You can also follow on Carrot Ranch Communications by “liking” the Facebook page.
- First-time comments are filtered by Word Press and not posted immediately. I’ll find it (it goes to my email) and make sure it gets posted! After you have commented once, the filter will recognize you for future commenting. Sorry for that inconvenience, but I do get frequent and strange SPAM comments, thus I filter.
Climate Change
April 23, 2014 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) describe the climate of a story as it changes to reflect a character’s mood or to create a sense of what is to come.
Palmetto Poison, by C. Hope Clark
The glass thrown splashed lemonade from the smell, now puddled under my toes as I stood on the temporary, plywood stage decorated with potted petunias. The packed double-bay firehouse stood with doors open to accommodate the overflow of bodies. Summer heat in all its ninety percent humidity smothered us, even with the AC running full blast.
A dark-headed teenager in a sun-bleached Braves hat pumped his fist. “You’re Carolina Slade, the skunk-striped bitch who arrests farmers.”
The audience exchanged gasps. I may have gasped, too. The white streak through my dark auburn hair defined me clearly as the bitch.
###
Abandoned by Sarah Brentyn
A sudden crack of thunder sent him scurrying under the bridge. Lightning turned midnight to morning. The boy stared at the outline of abandoned cars. He tugged at his tiny boots, yanked off his sweater, squeezing rainwater from the wool. Waiting, watching, he sat in his spot. Another crack split the air. He shivered. Mama would come for him. She promised. One night, when the thunder was just quiet rumbling, she told him to wait for her here. He curled up, rubbing his sweater between two fingers. She would come for him. He heard soft rumbles in the distance.
###
Flash Fiction by Pete
I pass through Buford in a daze, neglecting its wrought iron street lamps and sidewalk traffic lights, and more importantly the antique shops that Maggie and I used to frequent during the budding days of our marriage.
The autumn leaves scrape across the street, ushering timeless memories of driving, the windows down and the mountain air swirling. We’d stop at the overlooks and take in the spectacular foliage, on the way down we’d stop at the orchards, and pick bushels of apples. A car honks, jerking my memory to halt.
I haven’t eaten an apple in almost three years.
###
Knife of Winter by Paula Moyer
Moving to Minneapolis gave new meaning to “cold.” Jean now felt its sharpness. 30 below last night. Cold cut through her at the bus stop, despite her layers: long underwear, extra socks, gloves under the mittens. Still black out at 7:30 a.m. She gave the driver her pass, took a seat, and then slept until her transfer.
The second bus huffed to Franklin Avenue. Jean stepped out, peaked east. The blinding dawn verified the forecast: “Bright, ineffectual sunshine.” Too cold to snow. Yet she brightened. Sunrise was earlier than yesterday. More sun would vanquish the blade of cold. Eventually.
###
Revival by Norah Colvin
Her motivation and inspiration was as parched as the cracked red soil beneath her feet. The days were hot and lazy: nothing to do until the rains came. One long languid day followed another. With no work to be done on the land, time did not pressure creativity. Without pressure, there was no rush, no will. The bright blueness of the skies, usually joyous, now oppressive. An occasional cloud or flash on the horizon made empty promises. Finally the winds whipped the clouds into a frenzy, reigniting her creativity as the relentless soaking rains awakened the dormant earth. Please let me know what you think.
###
Climate Change by Anne Goodwin
When they began rationing the water, George thought he’d be immune. His daughters would bring plastic bottles of Mountain Spring the minute the floods receded and the roads were passable again. Meanwhile, Matron harvested rainwater, which tasted foul, no matter how diligently it was filtered and boiled.
Wilting in the heat, battling cholera and dysentery, the old folks felt forgotten, until the Press paddled a rubber dinghy to Shady Glen. Cameras clicked as George was pushed to the front. How do you feel now, Mr Bush? Don’t you wish you’d acted on global warming when you had the chance?
###
Basking by Charli Mills
Chickens scratched at bare dirt as Sarah tossed dried corn from her apron pocket. They pecked at kernels and she watched, feeling the morning sun warm on her back. It was like basking with Colb in bed, his chest pressed to her back. His arms snugged around her. He’d crossed Rock Creek two days ago to take care of business. Business always drew him away, but like the chickens at her feet he never wandered far from his favorite roost. The trundle of wagon wheels caught Sarah’s attention. A dark cloud slid over the sun. It was Colb’s wife.
###
New challenge posted every Wednesday on Carrot Ranch Communications! All writers welcome!
April 23: Flash Fiction Challenge
Creativity seems like a night sky full of burning stars sparking into infinity and beyond until it pokes the eye of creation. Endless. Boundless. Open to all possibilities.
Yet, that might not be so. Consider the blank page.
Many writers have stared into the endless, boundless white ready to take on all possibilities only to discover that they have nothing to add. In fact, writer’s block is often denoted as the blank page.
Creativity is also viewed as something free-spirited. I’ve even known parents who excused the poor behavior of their toddlers as creative free-spirits.
Yet, behavioral experts advise that toddlers best thrive in an environment that offers a schedule. To raise a free-spirit requires parenting with constraints.
Apply that to our writing, and you can see that constraints can also make for an environment where creativity can thrive. Give an artist a frame and she’ll give you a painting; give a writer a specific number of syllables and he’ll give you a poem.
I don’t claim expertise in the area of creativity and constraints beyond what I’ve personally experienced. When told to write anything, my mind tends to freeze. Anything? Suddenly I know nothing. The blank page remains white.
When told to write anything as long as these three words are included (lioness, taxi and lemon), suddenly my mind is making brilliant connections–“the lioness of New York city with her bottle-bleached, lemon-blonde hair drove a taxi at night to stalk her prey.” A story emerges from the constraint.
Why is that? One of our flash fiction writer’s from last week’s compilation, Biographies Real and Imagined, reflected on the 99-word constraint of Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction. Anne Goodwin wrote that reducing a story to 99 words “was like growing bonsai.” Yet she recognized that “limits can be liberating.”
Anne introduced me to another blog that explored the genius of Dr. Seuss. The post, “The Weird Strategy Dr. Seuss Used to Create His Greatest Work (And Why You Should Use It Too)” reveals that Theo Geisel wrote “Green Eggs and Ham” after a publisher issued him a 50 word challenge.
It’s worth the read to better understand the power of constraints. They can help you define your white page. And that’s what we are doing here each week–using constraints to create. A weekly prompt and the 99-word rule can work to spark that expansive creativity we feel when we look up into the night sky.
Seems how it is the day after Earth Day, our prompt is going to be about climate change, so to speak. Climate in fiction can be the container that holds our characters and their story. Climate can set the scene, shadow the tone or hint at a plot twist.
Mastering the setting is a subtle but vital skill. This week, let’s practice the impact that climate change has on a story, even a very short one. Think of ideas like sunshine and happiness, or rain and depression. What does it mean to your story if the clouds move in to block the sun, or the rain suddenly stops? Your climate change can be overt or implied.
April 23, 2014 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) describe the climate of a story as it changes to reflect a character’s mood or to create a sense of what is to come. Respond by noon (PST) Tuesday, April 30 to be included in the compilation. My contribution follows and is an exploration of a larger project I have in mind. May the sun shine on your writing this week!
Basking by Charli Mills
Chickens scratched at bare dirt as Sarah tossed dried corn from her apron pocket. They pecked at kernels and she watched, feeling the morning sun warm on her back. It was like basking with Colb in bed, his chest pressed to her back. His arms snugged around her. He’d crossed Rock Creek two days ago to take care of business. Business always drew him away, but like the chickens at her feet he never wandered far from his favorite roost. The trundle of wagon wheels caught Sarah’s attention. A dark cloud slid over the sun. It was Colb’s wife.
###
Rules of Play:
- New Flash Fiction challenge issued at Carrot Ranch each Wednesday by noon (PST).
- Response is to be 99 words. Exactly. No more. No less.
- Response is to include the challenge prompt of the week.
- Post your response on your blog before the following Tuesday by noon (PST) and share your link in the comments section of the challenge that you are responding to.
- If you don’t have a blog or you don’t want to post your flash fiction response on your blog, you may post your response in the comments of the current challenge post.
- Keep it is business-rated if you do post it here, meaning don’t post anything directly on my blog that you wouldn’t want your boss to read.
- Create community among writers: read and comment as your time permits, keeping it fun-spirited.
- Each Tuesday I will post a compilation of the responses for readers.
- You can also follow on Carrot Ranch Communications by “liking” the Facebook page.
- First-time comments are filtered by Word Press and not posted immediately. I’ll find it (it goes to my email) and make sure it gets posted! After you have commented once, the filter will recognize you for future commenting. Sorry for that inconvenience, but I do get frequent and strange SPAM comments, thus I filter.
Warm Like Melting Ice Day 26
NaNoWriMo Word Count: 2,487
Moe Ipeelie limped to his cabin door. He twisted his ankle crossing over the rock face of the fjords. He had to abandon his skidoo, after casting off his sled and most of his gear. Not all his gear. His tarp caught in the wind and one of his empty coolers rolled away. He kept essentials. Moe knew how to live on the land, although he preferred modern rigging he easily carried the knowledge of his ancestors who lived in these extremes for thousands of years. Food, water, shelter, warmth and transportation. If you knew where to step, your feet could serve as your transportation. But Moe had been trapped in a less than ideal spot.
The dog with him had been a hassle at times. Especially trying to find a way over the fjords once the sea ice broke up. He’d made it to a narrow bay that held, but he had left his sled at the place he intended to hunt. It was normal for him to leave his sled, even his skidoo and walk out to scout the blow holes or any seals he spotted in the distance. Elijah was going to meet up with him, but the dogs, of course, were slower than a skidoo. He never did see Elijah and hoped his older friend had made it to his own narrow bay sanctuary since Elijah would have been traveling, and not hunting. When hunting, you walked away farther from the rock cliffs.
This one dog was all Moe ever saw of Elijah. She had been wearing her harness and a chewed strand of seal rope. Moe recognized the dog. She was the young one, her first trip out. Elijah called her Maki. It was the same named he called his wife and they always had a dog named Maki, as it was some joke between the married couple. But an affectionate one. Often Maki was a name they bestowed on a dog they had affection for.
And that was not typical. Huskies were not the pets that people in the south made of dogs. In Clyde River, everyone who had dogs kept them in a community pen. You were responsible for feeding your own dogs and often everyone contributed frozen seal to the purpose. Sometimes a hunter had to shoot over the heads of dogs fighting for food or position. The dogs created their own hierarchy and some were quite fierce. Those dogs were certainly not pets.
Hunters looked to their dogs like a work animal. They had a purpose and it wasn’t to curl up at your toes by the hearth fire. The dogs slept outside, often staked out onto the ice in a circle around tents or iglus. They warned off wandering polar bears and signaled any new arrivals. If it snowed hard, the dogs curled up into their own furry balls and let the snow bury them into their own mini iglus. Some southerners were shocked to see the dogs treated in such a way, but it was how they had always worked with dogs.
Of course, each man was his own and some found more companionship in the dogs especially when living long on the land. Children often played with dogs, to get familiar with these community companions. Elijah was tough and smart, something Moe knew first hand. But he was soft for his wife and occasionally one of his dogs.
This Maki-dog was one. She looked like the others in Elijah’s care, white with black lips, black nose tips and rimmed eyes. They looked like some offering from wolves and polar bears. Elijah’s father had preferred the markings and so did Elijah. Everyone in Clyde River and beyond knew Elijah’s dogs. They were big and stocky, too. Sometimes the southerners that Elijah guided for would ask about buying a dog or puppies. But he never did sell any. Once he gave three to the man from Minnesota who had stayed with Elijah and Maki while making trips by his own dogs to the North Pole. But that was the only exception.
As Moe limped into his cold cabin, he set about finding fuel that hadn’t gelled. He had a tiny bit yet left in his pack, and he could thaw some of what he had in the cabin. Funny, to think of burning fuel first before thinking of food. But he had food and would get some seal stored outside for the Maki-dog. He knew he should leave her outside like any other dog, but he’d need to find rope. He also had to admit that this dog had become a close companion to him during his difficult trek back to his cabin. And just because he made it here didn’t mean that the ordeal was over. Clyde River was two days away by dog sled and he neither had a sled or a team. He no longer had a skidoo. He would have to hope that other hunters would come here, seeking shelter or maybe just games and stories.
Maki-dog curled up on the hide by the stove. Moe sat down on one of two chairs at a table. Across the room was his bed, which never looked so good as it did now. First heat, then food. Last time Elijah was here with his team, he kept an eye on this dog. Twice before he had caught her chewing on the seal hide rope of her lead. Once he even had to repair it as she nearly chewed it through. Such actions would often gain a dog the cuff of a hunter’s hand, but Elijah silently repaired the damage and kept watch. She was young, not yet out of that stage where dogs would chew up useful things.
When they left the cabin, Moe knew that the lead was in good repair. Possibly, if Elijah had stopped to scan for seal signs, or walked out onto the ice, Maki-dog could have resumed her chewing. That would explain her escape from the sled. Moe hoped that it was an escape. The other possibility was that Elijah’s sled broke through the ice. The dogs would be able to swim to land or ice. But what Moe saw was ice breaking away from the cliffs. Where would dogs swim to? He knew that Elijah’s sled would float for a time. But was it long enough time?
For some reason, Moe seemed to think that it wasn’t enough time. And the sea-ice was land. If that land fell, the hunter on it would go, too. It nearly happened to Moe. Yet it seemed to be repaired, like a chewed upon rope, re-braided. Never had Moe seen such a thing. Never had he heard such a story. Moe was determined to deliver this Maki-dog to Elijah’s Maki. It was all that was left of Elijah, he was pretty sure. In fact, he had hoped to arrive here to find an iglu built by his friend waiting.
After his meal, Moe thought he heard a plane over head. But he was too tired to step outside. Too disappointed not to find Elijah. Too warm finely, not to disturb Maki-dog. As he dozed off he recalled a childhood story about the littlest sled dog. He could still hear his grandmother and another elder singing it in a throat song. He now had the littlest sled dog. Brave. Loyal. A good dog. Little.
###
When the search plane returned to Clyde River the spotters reported seeing smoke from Moe Ipeelie’s cabin which created a big stir. Sydney pounded on the door of Lucie’s house. Inside he could smell apple pies as if they were attached to her waiting, but he also heard laughter and a guitar.
“Sydney,” she said, welcoming the mountie. “Come in, take off your clothes.”
A woman giggled from across the room, an attractive, bright-eyed woman with hair like those of the hip-hop instructors who had visited, only blond. Dr. Starkka was sitting close to her on the couch and looked as if he could sit next to her a long time. He seemed to be smiling for no apparent reason. The big man, playing the guitar he recognized as the famous explorer, Ax Mathiason, not because he personally knew the man, but because he recognized him from National Geographic posters. Conrado was sitting on a chair in the living room circle drumming his fingers on his knee while balancing a plate of nearly gone apple pie on the other. Despite the small space Tobie was dancing in the hip-hop style with several other youth from the community standing or sitting.
Tobie stopped mid-step when he realized it was Sydney. “Our Mountie,” he shouted. Sydney had not adjusted to the near-hero status he, Alex and the other survivors had gained since returning to Clyde River two nights ago. It seemed ridiculous to honor officials from a plane crash who added more worry to an already concerned community. But as Conrado explained, “You survived man, you are a hero.”
Sydney disagreed with the status, believing Conrado, Dagen and Tobie were the heroes more so than he. None the less the community was planning a celebration for their return. And a funeral. All had reached the sobering conclusion that after six weeks, Moe and Elijah were never coming home again. Lucie was surrounded by people, elders, youth or visitors and she seemed to be coping, even offering comfort to others when she was the one who should be comforted. Maybe baking pies and welcoming the steady stream of people to her house was best for her right now.
But it made Sydney’s official duties feel awkward. “Hello, Mrs. Ujarak,” he said.
Ax stopped strumming and all faces turned to the RCMP standing by the closed door in his parka, wishing he could be anywhere else, even back at the site of the Herc crash.
Lucie handed a piece of pie to Ax, who was now leaning his guitar upright against the arm of the couch. “Mrs. Ujarak, is it,” said Maki, her hands kneading the edge of her black sweater with red embroidery. “This must be official, Mountie Brindeau.”
Sydney felt the tears welling up in his own eyes and he nearly cursed out loud. He swiftly removed his cap, having forgotten to do so upon entering. He took a deep breath, managed to center himself in calm. “They have officially called off the search for Elijah.”
“Thank you for looking so hard, Mountie Brindeau,” said Lucie. She smiled but he could see the tears pooling. It remained silent for several long moments.
Finally, Ax, who rose from the couch to tower over Lucie, but hug her to his side anyhow, broke the silence. “They recovered his body, then?”
“Well,” said Sydney, “Not exactly.”
“Then why call off the search,” Ax asked. Several faces, some of the youth with tears already wetting cheeks, looked hopefully at Sydney.
“The plane spotted smoke coming from Moe Ipeelie’s cabin,” explained Sydney. “As they flew lower, they saw two sets of tracks, but the second turned out to be animal, not human.”
“A wolf followed,” said Tobie as if it were somehow significant.
“Not a wolf,” said Sydney. “But it was Moe and one of Elijah’s dogs.”
Lucie nodded and said, “Maki, I knew she’d figure her way out of any situation.”
“Moe says the same thing,” agreed Sydney, confirming that the dog found was Maki, Elijah’s youngest sled dog.
“Moe!” Tobie’s eyes widened. “Moe was really on a flow?”
“Not exactly, but Moe did get stranded in a bay that remained intact when the sea ice broke up,” said Sydney. “His eye-witness statement confirms that the ice broke all the way off to the cliff face at the Walker Citadel.”
Dagen shook his head. “That’s unprecedented.” He knew all the popular time lines for climate change based on current greenhouse emissions, but an incident of this magnitude exceeded those. He knew he would need to take samples on the eastern shore and try to collect data to explain what happened. Although that would be small comfort to a widow and a village.
Ax asked, “How did Moe make it out?” He was familiar with the terrain.
“Seems that he found a passage through rocks and ice and traveled over the top of the fjord cliffs,” answered Sydney.
“Where did he find the dog,” Ax asked.
“She swam up to the span of ice that Moe had retreated to when the ice began breaking up,” said Sydney. He took a deep breath and continued. “Moe says that Elijah was going to meet him at a certain point. Moe left his sled there, and managed to race his skidoo into the narrow inlet. He waited for Elijah after the dog swam to the shelf of ice for many days. He left, hoping that Elijah was similarly stranded.”
“Is it possible,” asked Dagen.
“We already searched by air,” said Sydney. “We found no signs and we flew over every nook and cranny between Moe’s cabin and where Moe sought safety. We confirmed that the tarp and cooler were lost by Moe, from his sled. Moe’s skidoo was still in the inlet, but we missed it when flying over in the Herc.”
“Could you have missed Elijah?” asked Elisappee through her tears.
“No,” said Sydney. “Different search pattern was followed once we understood what we might be looking for was closer to the maze of fjords.”
“How did Moe get the dog over the terrain he had to trek,” asked Ax.
Sydney said, “Moe was determined.”
Lucie smiled and Ax hugged her tighter into his side with one arm. “Elijah said was a determined dog.”
“But how is it that she broke free from the team and sled,” asked Dagen. One of the dangers of breaking through the ice with dogs pulling a sled was that if one plunged in, they all did.
Ax answered. “Elijah runs a traditional fan hitch. No trees out here to run dogs the way we do in tandem the way we do in the states.”
“That, and Moe said Maki-dog had been chewing on her lead whenever Elijah stopped,” said Sydney. “The weight of the sinking sled could have snapped the frayed line.”
###
As planned, Clyde River held a celebration. And a funeral for one of their beloved elders. Tarps spread across the community center at the airport where residents brought chunks of country food—slabs of seal, fish, caribou. Many pies were baked and other foods prepared. The town shut down.
More than ever, Dagen realized the impact of global warming in this scientific canary cage. Except, now he knew that the canaries had names.
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