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December 9: Flash Fiction Challenge
Around 5 am, Hell Roaring Creek burst several culverts on its way to the Upper Pack River. It washed out roads, uprooted trees and made a messy morning for our neighbors. Elmira Pond absorbed all the rain of the past week and took last night’s downpour in stride. The ice thinned to a membrane and the shore expanded gracefully into grass. The Pack River, swollen with rain, snow-melt and all the watery hell the creeks could contribute, jumped its banks and flooded the entire plain three miles south of us.
Curiosity nudged me to grab my camera. The Hub drove me to see the flooded plain. Where locals park in the summer to fish and swim is under water. Gentle waves lap at a stand of birch and a fence-line disappears. I can look up at the Selkirk Mountains and see the snow-lined ski runs of Schweitzer Mountain. It’s surreal to see flooding in December. Hooked, I want to see more.
We drive up the Upper Pack road, catching glimpses of water through trees. We pass several official trucks — Bonner County, US Forest Service and US Geological Survey. Uncertain if the bridge is closed we find the water roaring beneath, not over it. I feel sheepish taking photos like some gawking greenhorn tourist. But the power of the water has mesmerized me.
Another truck pulls up and a woman my age gets out with her camera. We smile and greet one another and stand on the bridge clicking our cameras and tongues.
“Can you believe it?”
“So much water.”
“So warm today! It’s December!”
“Work sent my husband home.”
“Mine, too.”
“Well, it’s a looky-loo day!”
I laugh at the word. I’ve heard it before, a gentle term for being nosy. I should be home, writing. But no, I’m going to looky-loo some more. My bridge friend even tells me of other spots not to miss. I hop back in the truck and tell the Hub, “She says we need to look at Hell Roaring Creek.”
Before we get to the washouts, a sign warns us of water on the road. The sign doesn’t say we can’t proceed, so we carefully wind around eroded road, standing water and debris. Someone’s driveway behind a fancy iron gate is a running creek. My dream home on the Pack remains only mere feet from the waters. Ranch pastures look like ponds. Then we reach the end of the road where a culvert is now fully exposed. No sign of road, just a swift moving creek.
We stop and I get out to shoot a photo. I see several neighbors gathered in a yard that’s simply gone and under a new creek ordinance. I ask my neighbor if he’s okay, if he needs anything from town. I don’t know him and I live on the opposite side of the ridge, but that’s what country-folk do. We gawk, but we also lend a hand freely. The man cheerfully waves and says he’s fine. He’s actually enjoying the adventure the morning has brought him.
The Hub walks up and cracks a joke in the way western men talk to one another: “Weather man said free rain for the lawn. He never said anything about rain to wash it away.” The men laugh. Another truck pulls up and it’s a Bonner County official taking official photos. Another vehicle and we are talking to a father who had to rescue his 20-year old daughter this morning when Hell Roaring Creek crested. Like us, they are now looking. A quad pulls up and I’m thinking this has become either an Idaho traffic jam or an impromptu party. No one has food or coffee to share, so it must be the former.
We chat with the man and his wife on the quad. They’re checking up on all their neighbors. By now, I’m thinking I might have a story to pitch my editor so I start asking for photo permission. The woman on the quad shakes her head no and starts to get off so I can photograph her husband, but he gently grabs her thigh and coaxes her to sit, the look he turns around and gives her is one of pure adoration. He loves her. He’s proud of her. He could care less if she’s wearing a hat and no make-up. She’s beautiful to him and I snap a shot.
This looky-loo has me thinking, and not about floods.
Lately, I’ve been dismayed over American politics and behavior. It horrifies me to think the world looks at an ass-clown like Trump and sees us in the reflection. It worries me that words like ass-clown slip so easily into my lexicon. I don’t use the photos of the Hub’s brass or write stories about our lengthy visits to J Bar S, the local gun shop. All my historians own gun shops, the ones who’ve coached me on identifying Rock Creek firearms and led me to consider my story’s premise.
A Muslim who hides her identity because of public opinion is a woman who is oppressed.
So what does that make me? I want to hide my heritage. I want to explain the rough talk of my neighbors as harmless. I have no desire to vote and I avoid discussing politics or religion though I walk in a strong faith. What has America come to that women claim equality and then shut up? We claim silence to not rock the boat, to not offend others, to offer compassion but not to our own.
I feel like I’m the road getting washed out. Silence seems as harmless as water until the road is gone.
Maybe this is why I dig into history. Maybe this is why I try to find truth beneath the myths. For all who have villainized Cobb McCanles, only one ever paused to ponder why he’d take his son to a gun fight. The easy answer is that he never expected a gun fight. But I went deeper and looked at Cobb’s family life. He raised a daughter who was special needs in a time when most parents let the baby “not thrive.” I can easily imagine Cobb adoring his wife like the man on the quad. Yet he was part of a culture not understood. Despite leaving the troubles of his home state, he was still a southerner.
The conclusion I’ve come to is that we do no good in hiding our culture. We need to find common ground.
As we drove down a washed out road today, I realized to be safe, we drive on what is left of common ground. And we need to stop eroding that common ground in an attempt to hide or excuse our cultures. Face it — we are human, complex and contradictory, but we are also human in sharing the same wants and needs in life. We need to shore up our common ground with courage to say, this is who I am, happy to meet who you are. Don’t understand? Ask, don’t judge. Learn, don’t isolate.
One thing that continues to amaze (and delight) me week after week is how a group of people from around the world from different backgrounds and writing interests can produce flash fiction full of multiple perspectives. Flash fiction has become common ground. It’s something that will be evident in our upcoming Anthology Vol. 1, too. Thank you for the diverse perspectives you all bring to this challenge. Thank you for sharing your voices.
December 9, 2015 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write about a looky-loo. It can be in the general term of “looking around” or it can be a nosy neighbor kind of tale. You can also go deeper into the prompt and have a looky-loo at another culture (or your own).
Respond by December 15, 2015 to be included in the weekly compilation. Rules are here. All writers are welcome!
A Great Divide by Charli Mills
Sarah chuckled after Cobb rode away. She turned at the smell of pipe smoke.
“Sorry to interrupt. Just curious what’s so mighty funny.” Hickok smiled broadly.
“That Cobb. Got himself in a skull-and-knife fight in Palmetto. Had to bite a German blacksmith on the rump.” She looked down when Hickok glared at her.
He spat. “No good border ruffians down there. No fun in their sporting. Evil men.”
Sarah shrugged. How to explain that’s how southerners play? Even their fun was made out to be evil these days. The looming war would create a great divide even out west.
###
Got Your Back
When facing a trial, unyielding institutions or difficult committees it helps to have an advocate. Sometimes that advocate is hired, and often not. A mother might have her child’s back or a grandchild might look out for the elderly.
The idea for “got your back” sprang from support for a veteran facing a difficult situation. The expression comes from being in a dangerous situation where you might need another to cover your back as you move forward. In the military, this is called “got your 6.” And there is an organization that seeks to empower today’s US veterans to be community leaders and for the community to have a more normal perspective of veterans beyond “heroic or broken.”
Check out the organization Got Your 6 and see the video clip at the end of this compilation.
The following stories are based on the August 12, 2015 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about a character who is called to have the back of another.
***
Back Up by Sherri Matthews
The questions had started out basic but became more complex with every turn of the page.
Write in as much detail as possible the applicant’s difficulties with everyday tasks.
She sighed and ran her hands through her unwashed hair as she glanced up at her kitchen clock. Damn. Already noon and still she hadn’t showered.
Her phone vibrated, she jumped.
“Hello?”
“Mrs Martin? This is Dee Caldwell, the Council Welfare Officer. I had a message to call you about helping fill out some forms for your daughter. When can I visit?”
Someone had her back. Someone cared just enough.
###
Back to the Future by Geoff Le Pard
‘Sore?’ Paul massaged Mary’s back.
‘Hmm. I need a better chair.’
‘What you reading?’
‘Rupert’s notes. He’s determined to find my twin.’
‘Really? Better?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s he found?’
‘She was definitely Katherine not Sharon. That’s my imaginary friend. Katharine was adopted by a family called Potts.’
‘Wow.’
‘They moved to Ireland in 1984. He’s going to see what he can find. He wants me to go too.’
‘What about you?’
‘Would you mind? I’d take the baby but you’ll have Penny.’
‘You know I’ll do whatever you need.’
‘Hourly massages?’
‘Course. Covering your back has always been my priority!’
###
Lost Loyalties by Christina Rose
She found the emails from his ex, the U-Haul rental receipt in her name, obvious signs of a quick exit. He he was gone by the time she got home.
I emailed him, unleashing my rage, my fury over their actions, the betrayal she was too brokenhearted to fight. He took the lowest of blows, personal attacks, things she said behind my back.
She denied saying those things of course, but I always wondered.
Years later, we don’t talk. Memories of me, bring back memories of him. Avoidance from the friend I once loved, no appreciation for the loyalty.
###
Providing Cover by A. R. Amore
The overnight detective was young, respectful and professional; he started almost every sentence with, “I’m sorry sir, but…” Chief Barret felt he actually meant that.
“Bring him,” he ordered and the detective nodded.
When they brought him all he could say was, “It looks bad but they have it wrong. It was a wild frat party…”
“The girl was 17,” Barret said. “You drugged her.”
“I didn’t,” his son mumbled. “No, I…”
This was his second college and third assault allegation.
“She was drugged; raped.” The Chief stood thinking: I won’t cover this one up. He needs to learn.
###
Growth: a Mindset by Norah Colvin
Marnie propped her head on one hand while the pencil in the other faintly scratched the paper. She hoped it wasn’t too obvious that she didn’t get it. But she didn’t get it. She didn’t get last year, or the year before. Why should she get it now? What was the point? Her brain just didn’t work that way. She was dumb. They had always said she was dumb. No point in trying.
Then the teacher was there, encouraging, supporting, accepting. “Let me help you,” she said. “You can do this. Let’s break it down into steps. First …”
###
Eating…by Bill Bennett
I had to have his back. I couldn’t count the times he had saved me from being bitten and turned. The Ruger 10/22 was a great weapon for killing the eaters, and I had never had a problem until now. The stupid gun kept jamming. Was it the amo or was it because the gun was dirty? Never the less I had to do something. I pushed my back against his and jabbed each eater in the eye socket with the gun and thrust harder into the skull, killing each monster and the threat of catching the hideous virus.
###
I Have Your Back, Grandma by Kate Spencer
“I have your back, Grandma”
“Yes, you have tact. Always have – ever since you were a little boy.”
“Grandma, listen, I’ll take care of you.”
“You? What can you do? Oh, goodness, no Jason. I’m fine and can manage quite nicely. Did I tell you I went strawberry picking last weekend?”
“Yes you did, but I wanted you to know that I’ll be there for you.”
Grandma walked over to the kitchen counter and Jason watched as she re-arranged some tomatoes in a bowl with one hand and quietly wiped her eye with the other.
“Love you Grandma.”
###
The Irony by Ruchira Khanna
Trisha lay still accompanied by silent sniffs.
“Don’t worry Trish. I am right here” she said in a pacified tone.
“Oh! I am scared Mommy,” she said while sniffing, “Will it hurt?”
“Not at all dear!”
Soon she felt the prick, the pressure on her arm build up, and within seconds, everything was back to normal.
She wailed, whimpered as the nurse dabbed cotton on the spot.
Mom took over with a gentle smile while making her sit up.
Aha! The paradox of life that in spite of a whining, weepy kid, the Mom was wearing a smile.
###
The Advocate by Sarah Unsicker
Mrs. Smith felt less alone when she walked into the room with her advocate behind her, but she still instinctively cowered when she saw the table with ten people around it. Ten people unwilling to expend resources on her child. Ten people who saw his naughty behavior as willful disobedience rather than inability to comply.
The teachers’ names flew past before she could take them in.
“I’m sorry, can we repeat those introductions, slower, so I can write down everybody’s names?” said the advocate.
Mrs. Smith’s shoulders relaxed. Finally, at this meeting, somebody had her back—and her son’s.
###
Two at Her Back by Paula Moyer
“You will have 10 minutes to empty your desk.” Jean knew she was good. What was up? She handed her key to the guard. Walked out like a robot.
Still numb, she drove home, walked up the drive, unlocked the door. Ellie was on the other side, whole body wagged by the tail. Jean dropped into the couch. Ellie’s manic wagging stopped. She plopped her head onto Jean’s knee.
Jean pulled out her phone, scrolled to Lynn. “Cousin, I just got fired.”
Lynn gasped. “How could they?”
“Easily, apparently.”
“Well.” Lynn’s trademark.
“Well.?”
“I’ll just take my business elsewhere.”
###
I’ve Got Your Back by Irene Waters
Close to the summit, Kathy’s hand hold faultered. The crevice was tiny and her anxiety was turning to panic.
“You can do it.” Richard gently encouraged her onwards in his calming, believable voice. “I’ve got your back so don’t worry. Your safe. One step at a time.” She trusted him and reached the top.
Now, back home, they danced. She loved being held against him but Richard was dancing clumsily, trying to look behind him to avoid collisions on the crowded dance floor.
“Look forward. Trust me, like I trusted you. I’ve got your back now. You have mine.”
###
Chips Are Unhealthy for More Reasons Than You Think by Dave Madden
The door jam is my Prime Meridian. In waiting for the right choice, I notice potato chips next to the garbage.
A wave of boys wishing “good mornings” heightened wonderment: How good would it have been had I crossed any time zones through the door’s threshold?
Really…?
An innocent Kindergartner admitted, “A friend shared them.”
My tone validated, with no hint at hiding urgency, “We don’t share food at school, so go throw them away.”
He nods his head; I turn around.
Crunch, crunch, crunch!
Even when teachers try to have students’ backs, it doesn’t always go as planned.
###
Family Reunion by Sarah Brentyn
“That’s not how it happened,” Terri barked.
“Who cares,” Kim interrupted, “I want to hear more about Tracy’s new ‘boyfriend’.”
“No,” Mark gestured with his beer, “let’s hear more about this supposed thing I did to Tracy. I hurt her wittle feelings?”
Britney laughed. “It’s bullshit. Like her new job.”
“Tracy?” Her mother glared. “Don’t just stand there like an idiot.”
Tracy’s boyfriend squeezed her hand. “It was nice to meet all of you but we have a weekend meeting at work.” He turned to her. “Do you want to leave now or wait a bit?”
“Now is good.”
###
Undaunted by Ann Edall-Robson
Hearing the horses milling around in the corral, she slipped into her coat. Picking up her rifle, the undaunted woman headed for the barn.
She shivered. The hair on the back of her neck was standing. The screaming had been sporadic for weeks. Tonight it was close.
The tawny coloured cougar lay waiting. Ears back. Tail twitching. Ready to spring.
A blur rushed past her towards the cat.
One shot and it was over.
Squatting, she rested her hand on the dog that came to stand beside her.
She depended on her partner. He was always there for her.
###
Legal Maneuvering by Larry LaForge
Judge Stone called Ed to the podium and read the charge. “How do you plead?”
Ed stood nervously.
“Not guilty,” someone proclaimed from behind. All eyes turned toward Edna, whose loud voice surprised even her.
The Judge was startled, then amused. “Does she always have your back?”
Ed answered immediately. “Guilty as charged, Your Honor.”
Judge Stone didn’t know if Ed was admitting he ran the stop sign or proudly affirming he has a supportive spouse.
The Judge smiled, scratched his head and then announced “Charge dropped.”
Ed ignored Edna’s signal to remain silent. “The defense rests,” he said.
###
Special Recipe by Pete Fanning
They tortured that boy. Day after day, smacking his head and taunting him. He never said much. But that numb look on his face said it all. His clothes were a mess. His hair butchered. And that bruise under his collar? I’d been there.
I don’t know how they found out Butch was on assistance, but by then I’d had enough.
The hell with probation, the next morning I wrapped that hairnet for the last time. When Butch arrived I took that bowl of pudding from off his plate and winked.
“Might want to pass on the that today.”
###
Sarah’s Deliverer by Charli Mills
He’d hid the kittens Mr. Boots had in the barn. On those nights when coyotes yipped and she felt abandoned on the prairie, Hickok read to her his mother’s letters. Last night, after Cob raged that he’d clean out Rock Creek, Hickok calmed her fear. “I got your back, Sarah,” he said.
Now that Cob had thrown Wellman to the ground, Nancy Jane growled by the door and young Sally whimpered from under the kitchen table. Hickok strode tall and calm from the barn, walked right past Cob.
“Friends, aint’ we Hickok?”
No Cob, it’s my back he has.
###
The Good Parent by Jules Paige
Children who are different – some schools want to put them on drugs.
To make them docile and compliant and pliable. Ones who are curious,
disrupting the normal routines of a class. But Janice had her son Manning’s
back. As a parent you have be your child’s best advocate. Since they
just don’t always have the right words to express their needs.
If you didn’t know it, at least where Janice lived there was such a
document called “The Parent’s Bill of Rights.’ And she used it. Janice
had Manning’s back. And he knew it.
###
Veterans, we got your 6!
June 24: Flash Fiction Challenge
Some days I’m just a dirt farmer.
On my knees, churning soil like a human rototiller, I grab at weed roots and aerate the compacted earth around fledgling plants. Some plants have not fledged. I’m patient with dirt, and wait for it to reveal a hopeful germination. I know when to give up, thus I press more seed into the barren spots.
Writing is a lot like gardening. Words are dirt into which we plant stories, books and dreams.
Most days, I’m comforted by the dirt, believing it will yield, believing I have half a clue about what I’m doing. Other days, those barren spots worry me. Did I plant too deep? Too shallow? Was my seed too old? I begin to doubt my efforts matter.
Topics can be like barren doubt. I’ve mentally churned the idea of writing something in relation to what happened, again, on American soil — the meaningless massacre of a hate crime in Charleston, South Carolina. Do I have words that will grow something fruitful? Will I write too deep? Too shallow?
I don’t know what to write. I’m the dirt farmer devastated by hail, by grasshoppers, by drought. I don’t even look into my neighbor’s eye because I know he’s experienced the same thing. I glare at my other neighbor in the big house because she has no idea what it is to put hope into dirt. And this is dangerous ground. It touches upon shame and envy, it breeds a blight of hate.
The singer Jewel asks in a song, “And who will save your soul if you won’t save your own?”
Best to kneel back down in the dirt, take compassion on both neighbors — the one who struggles, and the one who doesn’t — and plant again. Hope again. Feel. Joys and sorrows. It doesn’t matter if your dirt patch is small or if others even notice what you are doing. Do it because it’s yours. Plant your stories.
Charleston? All I can do is to promise you that I will not sow hate. I can promise you that I will help each person I meet best that I can. I promise to do what is right, what is just even if sometimes I’m confused by the results or how to go about it. I will put my gaze on the good, the sprouts, the beauty that grows from tenaciously churning my dirt, pulling weeds and nourishing emerging plants. I will write words that may not matter to pop culture or mass media, but express beauty nonetheless. I’ll rise up toward the light like a plant newborn from the soil.
I’m too far away to touch you in Charleston. But I can give a stranger a ride to town. I can share potatoes with my neighbors, big and small. One interaction at a time, I can be an agent of love and compassion. May my world one day spread toward yours, and hers, and his, and may each single effort add up to a worthier place to live.
Dig in the dirt writers! Be gardeners of your own stories and tillers of your truth. Write deep. Write shallow. Know that you matter; your stories matter. Every life matters.
June 24, 2015 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about dirt. You can go with the idea of digging into the dirt as an analogy, or you can be realistic. Maybe a character has “the dirt” on someone or another has “dirty laundry” to hide. Dirt can be rich soil or barren. Get dirty, but not shockingly dirty!
And the photo? I dug in the garden today, weeding and mounding potato hills, thinning red onions, evidently for the benefit of my largest garden pest, Bobo, who slept soundly upon the warm dirt.
Respond by June 30, 2015 to be included in the weekly compilation. Rules are here. All writers are welcome!
***
The Late Exchange by Charli Mills
Belle searched for signs of rising dirt that announced travelers across the barren basin. By now she could discern hand carts from wagons. She hoped to see indication of the overdue Pony Express rider. Sul would soon go searching, leaving Belle alone.
“I’ll give you the rifle. Point and pull the trigger.”
Belle nodded.
“Ah, Sweetheart, ain’t nobody getting’ in through these rock walls.”
Then, billowing dirt on the horizon.
When the rider arrived to exchange horses, he grinned. “Injuns!” He tossed Belle a calico sack full of pine nuts. “For you, Ma’am. Seems they like your chokecherry pie.”
###
June 10: Flash Fiction Challenge
It’s almost unfair that I sit in comfortable air conditioning, sipping a London Fog from a ceramic cup and savoring a lunch of pasta tossed in fresh olive oil, garlic, basil and pine nut pesto. My best friend can hardly hold her eyes open and dines intravenously. But my daughter chastised me to take care of myself. That I wasn’t going to be any good to her, or her daughter and grandchildren. So I’ve come to my Helena sanctuary, Lattes & Sundaes.
Ironically, their tagline reads, “where friends gather.”
This would certainly be a place where Kate and I would hang out. McLeod’s was our go-to tea shop back in the day. When I left Helena in 1998, I bought an English tea pot from there. It’s now closed and this place has opened in its stead. I miss my friend and hunger for her open eyes and clear mind.
Chemo is the devil’s booze. Once it takes hold, her white blood cell counts plummet and her fever spikes. She begged me, “Don’t let them lord the rings of me.” My God, what was I to do? I feel like Samwise Gamgee when Frodo was near collapse from his heroic journey. I want to lash out at Gollum, and she’s resting her hand on my arm, whispering, “Peace.”
I want to rescue her and I can’t. I’m a failed white knight; a first-responder arrived too late to the scene of the accident. But Kate doesn’t fret over my inability or the ineffectiveness of modern medicine. Her last coherent thought was about the rescue of dogs. She told me with that grin and chuckle I love so well, “Just who rescues whom?”
My Grenny dog needs rescuing. As I type, he’s in surgery. It took four days to find a vet to help us. I’m in Helena, Montana and my wee family of the Hub, barn cat and two dogs is faltering in northern Idaho. Veterinarians have no compassion, I’m convinced. Who would deny a seriously injured dog care due to the owners’ lack of financial resources? Well, Sandpoint veterinarians, that’s who. One finally accepted a “credit care” card we have for medical emergencies. Bastards, is all I want to say, but I know it’s crass and unlike me to swear in my writing.
I know I’m emotionally off kilter. I go to my keyboard tapping for resolution, for clarity.
What happened to Grenny is among my worst nightmares. I wrote a humorous post almost two years ago about my fears. The Hub likes to call me the “Cowardly Cowgirl.” I’m afraid of mice. I startle easy and squeal if a flying insect darts in my face. I worry over what might lurk in the woods, as from this excerpt of The Big Bad Bears of Trout Creek:
Okay, this is fun, my mind decides until it then says, hey what’s that?
“Todd, is that bear hair?” I ask, standing up as if it might still be attached. Todd comes over to the clump of hair matted among the huckleberry plants and affirms my find.
Now my eyes are like super-sonic scanners as I scope every tree, fern and boulder for the bear missing a clump of fur. Is he full or did he leave these berries for a snack, or worse yet, a snare? Torn between fleeing the scene and not being able to move, I then hear a horrible cry.
The Irish believe that a banshee wails moments before death, and it sounds as if death is rampaging down the mountain slope. Bursting out of ferns and brush, Grendel, our male GSP, is galloping and baying like a banshee. He runs past us and I cringe, waiting to hear the crash-boom-bang of an angry grizzly.”
All I can say now, two years after this incident, is how grateful I am that I was not there when Grenny did find a bear.
The Hub took the dogs fishing up the Pack River on Saturday. Grenny galloped off and Bobo stayed at the river as the Hub tied a fly on his line. He didn’t hear a banshee wail, but he did hear Grenny growl and bark followed by distress cries and yelps. He needed rescuing.
The Hub transformed into Sgt. Mills and charged the forested hillside like a soldier charging Normandy Beach. He bellowed and scared off the bear, not able to discern if it was a grizzly, but the Pack River is marked with warning signs. It’s grizzly country. He reached Grenny to find him wounded but thankfully alive and intact. The bear swiped his back from shoulder to tail, but not too deeply. Then, the bear bit off his flank, the webbing between hind leg and stomach. It’s an awful wound that no veterinarian would touch without payment in full. I’ll say it again, bastards.
It takes a special person to feel compassion for a dog. It takes a resilient person to rescue one.
I’m proud of my daughters who both worked jointly to rescue a dog deemed unadoptable. The Radio Geek and her hub, the Geologist now have a family of two rescue dogs (the two goofs in my car trunk in the photo). Back when I was still drafting Miracle of Ducks, I started my first ever blog (I had no idea what I was doing!) and wrote, Felting Ilya. It’s a story of dog rescue.
And that is what Kate offered us for the prompt this week. She has the biggest heart for animals and even worked with rescued grizzlies. As she hallucinates, she tells me that animals are walking through her room. It seems appropriate. She expects to be greeted by her departed loved ones and the animals she rescued and said she’d be waiting for me beneath a big oak tree in heaven, reading Tolkien. It better be a massive tree. She has rescued many.
June 10, 2015 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about an animal rescue. It can be a typical dog or cat rescue from the pound, or helping a critter less fortunate. Go where the prompt leads you.
Respond by June 16, 2015 to be included in the weekly compilation. Rules are here. All writers are welcome!
Doc to the Rescue by Charli Mills
Ramona irrigated the dog’s wounds with hydrogen peroxide. He huddled on the bathroom floor, his brown eyes woeful. She’d called every vet in the phonebook and the answer was the same, “No. Payment due in full.” Only one man offered to come. She found the strange dog wounded in her barn. Those darn twins left the doors wide open, again. Never mind. She’d deal with those two truants later when they returned. A knock at the door, and Ramona rose to answer it.
“Thank you for coming,” she said to her new MD. At least he cared about animals.
###
The Twins Find a Dog by Charli Mills
The twins played among pines, leaping from one bough to another.
“Shh,” said one twin to the other.
A soft whimper rose from the base of a Ponderosa pine.
“A dog! Mama would love a dog!”
Gently, the twins prodded the dog to stand. He quivered, his nose detecting nothing, but feeling compelled, he walked until he came to a barn. Slowly, doors opened and he entered to find a blanket draped over hay. He collapsed in a heap.
The twins hung out in the lilac bush outside Mama’s window and sang her awake. “The barn, Mama, the barn.”
Hard Places
Hard places are universally known. The teacher put on the spot by a parent; the childhood friend who died too young; the ailing family member; the medical condition that won’t go away; roadblocks and stream-blocks; abandoned buildings and glimpses of earlier struggles.
Yet circumstances such as these have a rock — a way through the hard place. It might be the support of a colleague or pure determination to get through. It might be a way to remember or a way to honor what has passed. This week, writers looked for connections. We might not control the hard places we are in, but we can find connection.
Connection is the monthly theme for a group of writers and bloggers who gather to overcome hard places and connect with one another in compassion. These stories are part of the May collection from 1000 Voices Speak for Compassion and are based on the May 13, 2015 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that shows a hard place and a connection.
Connection in a Hard Place by Irene Waters
Natasha dreamed of death. These visions were always pleasant unlike the bombs that fell around her, killing all in their path. Except her. She who longed to die seemed immune to the terror surrounding her. All her family were dead. Her lover too had died, beheaded. They had forced her to watch. Now, except when dreams of death lulled her, the nightmare never left. The latest bomb left her scrabbling at the rubble to reach the trapped cry below. She pulled the unharmed baby to her and connected her to her breast. She smiled as the milk flowed again.
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A Game by Mercy.James.
Rock Paper Scissors
Scissors cut paper. Rock smashes scissors. Paper weighs upon both.
Who wins?
None exists without the other – each complimentary – a serving of needs met – sometimes left wanting – as reliable as the waxing and waning moon, sitting in crescent left or right-faced.
Does not paper come from the earth? From trees that are deeply rooted in soil, rock and nutrient infused. And silver – precious metal – it too comes from the earth, lying in rock’s embrace.
What matters in the end – now – we realize connection is absolute truth – no room for control over elements in purity – nature’s way.
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A Dawn Concert by Jeanne Lombardo
Four a.m. The pain a staccato knock. No going back to sleep. She pushed up on gnarled hands, scooted, let the sharp ache push her into the wheelchair.
She followed the grooves in the carpet, pushed past the girls’ rooms, imagined their young bodies. They looked like her, thirty years ago, before the arthritis made a crippled birch of her.
She parked at the kitchen table. No coffee until Dan rose to percolate it. She waited.
At last a pale lemony light washed through the window. The familiar room emerged. And the concert began.
The robins never forsook her.
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United With a Song by Kate Spencer
She sat on a log hugging her knees, smiling softly as she gazed at the campsite community seated around the blazing fire. Some were chatting quietly; others were busy roasting marshmallows.
She nodded to her husband who leisurely reach behind him and pulled out the worn guitar. He tinkered with the strings and began strumming an old familiar ballad.
Slowly he started singing, the lyrics filled with love and sorrow, longing and hope. Tears formed in the corner of her eyes as she raised her own voice, joining her husband. Gradually everyone joined in – united with a song.
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Fiona Meets the Universe by Ula Humienik
Fiona felt alone and small under the twinkling of the universe and sweeps of the Milky Way. She’d never seen the night sky living in the city all her life. Tears made rivulets on her cheeks.
She remembered her last conversation with her sister.
“Dad never meant to hurt us,” Nina said.
“But he did. He hurt me. I can’t trust men, I’m afraid of them.”
“You have to forgive him.”
“I can’t,” Fiona said as she ran off. They hadn’t spoken since.
She looked up at the expansive sky and imagined each star a soul watching over her.
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The Friend Inside by Sarrah J. Woods
A sudden breeze rose up and ruffled Maggie’s hair as she gazed over the valley. The wind was changing inside her, too.
Loneliness had become her straightjacket in the past year. The more desperately she struggled to make friends in this unfriendly town, the more isolated she felt.
Now she was giving up. Aloneness had won.
But, somehow, this decision only lightened and sweetened the silence that had oppressed her for so long.
“I’ll keep trying to make friends,” she said, “but in the meantime, I’ll enjoy my own company. I will become my own friend.”
Her heart smiled.
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House of Thorns by A. R. Amore
Nesting in the back are a pair of cardinals. They’ve chosen the most evil of shrubs, a dark red demon laced with poisoned oblong pellet sized berries and black tipped briars. The bold male roots in empty planters on the deck for building materials while the duller female scuttles in and out of the shrub seemingly unscathed, her beak filled with a gathering of grass or twig or twine. Like any couple, they visited and revisited, no doubt debating merits and drawbacks. Flitting in and out, despite the risk of harm, they nestle hopeful in their house of thorns.
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Little Boy Lost by Sherri Matthews
I saw him, that little boy. His back turned to me, holding the hand of a man leading him further into the crowd.
I recognised his saggy blue jeans and the curl of his boy-short, soft brown hair.
Don’t go, oh God, please don’t go.
Then the boy, hearing my silent cries and knowing my love turned back, and his brown eyes locked into mine.
He tugged at the man’s hand, but the man held too tight and kept walking.
Mummy!
Gone. Just like that.
Now my boy is a man and I hug him with everything I have.
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Just a Soul by Ruchira Khanna
Jane was pensive, yet persistent as she was staring at the pen.
Took a deep breath, blinked a couple of times.
“I am not the body. I am not even the mind,” she chanted as she disinfected a small area of her thigh and placed her pen over it.
Clicked the pen, and the pain was intense. Her eyes were moist by the ache.
She waited for the syringe fluid to enter her body, while she continued her chant, “I am not the body. I am not even the mind.”
Released the pen, and wiped the drop of blood.
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Brown by Norah Colvin
She glanced at the child, usually so eager to please, and knew this was no ordinary day.
Downcast and avoiding eye contact, the child trembled. Her instinct was to reach out with comfort to soothe the hurt; but stopped. Any touch could end her career. What to say? Brown earth/brown rocks? would ignore and trivialise the pain. Any talk now would be insensitive with other ears listening. Any word could unravel the relationship built up over time. Nothing would harm more than doing nothing. Her steps moved her body away but her heart and mind stayed; feeling, thinking.
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Selfish Devotion by Rebecca Patajac
Fist clenched, Warrick scribbled signatures across paperwork. His wife, face pale, breathed hard on a hoverbed. She looked worse with each day.
Labouring took a greater toll.
She screamed before the relieved laughter and a nurse placed their child in her arms.
Warrick relinquished the papers and nodded.
The nurse reclaimed the newborn.
His wife turned her head to him, eyes trained on their child, “Warrick? What’ve you done?”
Men guided the hoverbed to a cryo-chamber.
She screamed, “No! I want my baby!”
Warrick steeled himself, muttering, “should’ve had the treatments.” He left the child. “I’ll find a cure.”
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Mentoring the Gaps by Roger Shipp
“Mr. Raycomb, you are needed in the office.”
Having just left the office, I wondered why I was needed to return.
“Come on in. Push the door shut.”
I do so. With stomach and thoughts intermingling… I’m wondering why the sudden closed door conference with our new principal.
“Steven’s mother is on the phone. She has asked, what I feel is a very unusual request.”
I gasp. I immediately know what has happened.
He presses speaker-phone.
“Hello, Ms. Jackson.” My faltering voice answers.
“I can’t tell him it’s returned. I won’t win this one. Will you tell him? Please!”
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For Chris – The Rock by Susan Zutautas
I have a rock I keep upon my window ledge that is my connection to you
They were handed out at your funeral so we had something to hang onto
It sits in sunshine almost every day
I pray your pain has left and gone away
Young children should never die so young
Your life had just begun
You are and always will be Garth’s best friend
For the rest of eternity
We talk about you after all these years
Remembering your courage, showing no fear
Until we meet again one day
You are in our hearts Chris Jackson
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The Yellow Rose of Kennedy by Deborah Lee
It feels subterranean inside the ruined cabin. Dust motes eddy in the beam of light fingering through the glassless window. This gold-panner’s squat has long been picked clean of souvenirs. Fine dirt like powder covers the floor. Smell of decay and old scat.
Outside again, he is brought up short. Growing hard against the cracked and weathered wood under the window is a vibrant green rosebush, blooms at once shy and defiant in this wilderness. Not wild; deliberate.
Who planted it? A woman, in a mining camp? A cultured forty-niner? That is the story he would like to hear.
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Aunt Gloria by Geoff Le Pard
Rupert called, ‘She’s taken a turn for the worse. Her cancer is back.’
Mary dreaded visiting. Letting herself in, Gloria’s call was as usual cheery. But her face was grey. She saw Mary looking. ‘Cheekbones like Garbo. About time.’
Mary wept and felt guilty that it was Gloria comforting her. ‘Who will I talk to?’
‘Paul’s a rock. Rupert too…’
Mary shook her off.
‘God’s still here.’
‘I don’t believe in him anymore.’
Gloria put a hand on Mary’s stomach. ‘I’m here, every time you need me. Just talk, dear and we’ll be listening.’
‘I’ll try. Both of you.’
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The Power of Science by Larry La Forge
Ed stared at the weathered concrete wall still standing behind the Science Hall patio. His mind drifted back nearly five decades.
A power outage had sent the class outside. Ed sat on the wall facing the professor. A cute coed plopped down next to Ed—it was the only spot left.
“This stuff’s impossible,” she said.
“Tell me about it,” Ed replied as he mimicked the current assignment: Calculate the magnetic flux density of a parallel plate capacitor when completely submerged in a homogeneous isotropic dielectric.
They agreed to try to figure it out together.
Her name was Edna.
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New Friends by Ruth Irwin
First day at this school. She had been to many schools before, but not long enough to settle in and make friends. Small for her age, very thin, unkempt hair, stained ill-fitting clothes and battered shoes revealed that this six year old had been doing it tough. She remained aloof at recess, watching the other children as they played in already formed friendships. She wondered how long she might be at this school and if she would have friends. Then she saw an out-stretched hand and a smiling face saying “come and play with me”. How could she resist?
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The Rock by Sarah Brentyn
“It’s cool that you don’t say stupid shit like ‘How do you feel about that’ or whatever.” She grabbed a grey rock from its shelf and examined it.
“Well,” he swiveled in his chair, “glad to hear that. But I do need you to talk to me.”
She turned the rock over in her hand, “Okay. I’ll talk. You have this like professional office with expensive leather couches and shit then there’s this ugly, little rock. Seems out of place.”
“It’s special.”
“Why?”
“My father gave it to me. He died last year. You think it’s ugly?”
“Not anymore.”
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The Portal by Ann Edall-Robson
A welcome familiarity reached out as she stood in the doorway.
The aroma of coffee brewing and bacon frying coming from the old wood stove. The quiet murmur of voices around the kitchen table, interrupted by intermittent laughter.
Through the curtain-free window, the hand hewn log barn stands silhouetted against the early morning sky. A stoic soldier offering shelter and sanctuary while scrutinizing the activity beneath its massive structure.
There was no doubt within her soul. These old abandoned buildings were the portal to the inception of life. The premonitions would be answered. Finally, she had arrived home.
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Flash Fiction by Anne Goodwin
Revenge fantasies kept me warm in bed. She’d lose her job; she’d crash her car; some thief would take her precious ring. The news infused my heart with joy. Let her learn how it feels to lose a husband.
The kids, though, mine and theirs, would lose a father.
I made a casserole, seasoned with rosemary, his all-time favourite. Thought I’d leave it on the doorstep, but the door opened before I could nip away. I took no pleasure from seeing her so unkempt. She opened her arms. We wept on each other’s shoulders. Soon we’d both be ex-wives.
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River Ganges by Kalpana Solsi
And she tried desperately to hold his deliberate loosening grip, the diamond
ring slipped off and remained in his cupped palm, as she saw his sinister smile
before the foaming Ganges sucked the bride into the river-bed.
After the last rites, he sat, staring at the diamond ring.
Horror was largely writ on his face as he saw a hand with the wedding ring,
rising above the rapid Ganges water-current. His feet gave away as he
couldn’t resist her strong grip dragging him.
“In life and in death together”, the wedding vow, he remembered.
A watery grave they had.
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A Chink in Her Armor by Sarah Unsicker
“We are concerned, Mama,” Kate said. “You spend too much time alone. I found a widow’s support group that might help you …”
“I don’t need a support group,” Cecilia said.
“You need friends.”
“John’s been gone too long. My pain is stale.”
“Pain doesn’t go stale, Mama. It fades away, and yours hasn’t.”
Cecilia sighed dramatically. “I’m going up to bed. You know where the door is to leave.”
Before she had time to answer, she heard the stairs squeak as her mother climbed up to her bedroom.
For the first time, Kate’s arrows had pierced Mama’s armor.
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Indomitable by Pat Cummings
The racetrack surges with imperative: we must return. Each mile upstream also means climbing a body-length vertically, darting past the rocks, and the other racers. Our run has the ultimate prize, but there is no call to win. There is only the urgent invitation of the water upstream.
Closer and closer we come to the finish. Suddenly the water almost disappears. The final lap is a tight tunnel, already full of racers. Has someone already won?
No, there is one more obstacle, a leap to a tighter passage. I alone make it home, one salmon of thousands hatched here.
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The Rock by Charli Mills
A contact rock. Yin and yang. Feldspar and…?
Ramona frowned, retrieving the smooth river rock from beneath a wild rosebush in the west pasture. It felt heavy, familiar. She closed her eyes, willing recollection. Running water. Yes! She and Vic riding to the grotto, up the creek, metallic horse-shoes clanging on rocks this size. Vic, off his horse, reaching elbow deep into the water.
“Look, Ro, a contact rock.”
Her eyes fluttered open. Why did her memories have holes? She cradled the rock to her chest, willing herself to remember the twins. This rock was connected to them somehow.
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Bugle Boy by Pete Fanning
They found his bugle amongst the bodies. A few of the survivors recounted of how fourteen-year-old Eli had charged right into the line of fire and dragged three soldiers to safety, only to return and man the cannon as confederates advanced on his position.
When Eli awoke his chest ached. Nearby, a soldier screamed out in agony. He watched through blurry eyes as a bandaged Colonel limped over and laid his mangled bugle beside what was left of his family’s songbook. Eli grimaced, studying the musket ball embedded in its pages.
Those rebels were going to pay for that.
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Ministering by Paula Moyer
“Thou art Peter … upon this rock I will build my church.” When Jean heard these words – like most Baptists – she remembered what Simon did that caused Jesus to rename him: he declared his faith.
The rock was more than Peter.
Now Jean sat in her house with her little kids, five days after her husband had moved out.
The phone rang. “Jean, it’s Lynn.” Her cousin, a rock in her own right. “I’m here for you.”
Thirty minutes on the phone.
Lynn showed her faith by enacting a passage from a letter of Paul’s: Bear one another’s burdens.
###
Literary Compassion
February 20, 2015 marks a special occasion: bloggers around the world have committed to speaking out on compassion. #1000Speak. Voices unite. Words move mountains. Compassion is expressed.
Many will be writing today about topics, people and places they have compassion for. Some will write to share awareness. Some will tackle the daunting questions — what is compassion and how can we arouse it in others? Compassion is a deep well from which we can draw.
My take is literary compassion: how writing literature can be an exercise in finding compassion; how reading literature can be an entry point to developing compassion for people, places or causes; and how literary communities can be compassionate places to grow among other word artists.
Writing Literature: How to Find Compassion for a Soldier
My journey to write Miracle of Ducks was one to find compassion for my husband, a former US Army Ranger. Often we have compassion for war-torn places. We protest war. And we feel puzzled as to why anyone would volunteer to go to war.
Soldiers serve. I never really understood that about my husband because he signed up for the military and got out all before I knew him. I recall his mom saying how scared she was when she learned he was on a C130 headed to Grenada. In military history, “Operation Urgent Fury” was the shortest conflict that America ever fought. Many don’t even remember the event and other soldiers often scoff that it “wasn’t a war.” Even my husband minimized his experience until he went t a 20 year reunion for the event.
Thanks to a friend, I began to volunteer with soldiers in need of stress-relief. It opened my heart to my husband and understanding his experience. Soldiers are human. I began to feel compassion for those who have served so I began to think about a character who is trying to understand why her husband would suddenly want to go to Iraq 20 years after getting out of the service. My character, Danni Gordon, is left behind with her husband’s three hunting dogs. She even contemplates leaving him. But he doesn’t come home; he goes missing.
In this scene, Danni is coping with her grief by collecting the stories of war widows. She’s making an effort to understand why her husband Ike would have put himself in a war zone voluntarily.
From Miracle of Ducks by Charli Mills
“Okay, Genny. Thank you for taking the time to talk to me, today. I want to let you know I am using audio equipment to fully record your stories.” Danni explained and listened to the ear piece to make sure her voice, as interviewer, was picking up.
“And I thought you were just draping me in newfangled techno-jewelry.” Genny joked, sitting upright on the studio stool.
Danni smiled. “Just required to state the obvious: you’re being recorded. As I mentioned to you on the phone, I am a historical archaeologist, meaning I collect both written and oral data that can be used to assist with the scientific recovery of data from the ground.”
“So, one day when they dig up the war zones of this century, there will be oral data to support it?”
“Something like that,” said Danni.
“Well, honestly, I don’t know how much light I can shed on war or military.”
“Actually, I’m here to collect your story as a war widow,” said Danni sitting down opposite Genny.
They were in a tiny studio at Northland College in Ashland. Danni was using her skills to collect these stories from war wives and widows. If Ike could serve, she’d find a way to serve, too. It was like the time when Danni had been a fellow on Baffin Island and she used audio equipment in the field to collect the disappearing oral traditions of the Inuit. Back then, nothing had surprised her more than to hear throat singing first hand. She wondered what would surprise her today.
“Why are you doing this,” asked Genny.
“I’ve interviewed a woman whose husband was a pilot in WWII and several women in our community whose husbands have or are serving in Iraq. I’ve even met other women who were married to Vietnam vets and one who is the war widow of the Korean conflict. They said no one ever asked for their stories before.”
“Why me,” asked Genny.
“My husband served with yours. After my husband went to Brad’s funeral, he enlisted with a private security company and tried to explain to me his need to serve. I’m trying to understand. I thought your story would be important to this collection.”
“You do know that Brad and I were divorced almost 10 years before he was killed,” Genny said.
“Married or divorced doesn’t matter. Your story can communicate what it is like to be a war widow. Ike said you were at Brad’s funeral.”
Genny was silent, poised on the stool in the studio. Then she asked, “I’ve heard through the grapevine that Ike went over to train for Watersand Security. He seemed to get the ‘brother fever’ at Brad’s funeral, but I never did hear what came of him. Are you a war widow?”
“I don’t know. Ike’s been missing for 15 months. Officially, Watersand Security called off the search.”
“I’m sorry,” said Genny.
“I’m doing this because I want to hear something different than ‘I’m sorry.’ I’m trying to understand. When Ike came back from Brad’s funeral, raving about how he was needed over there, I thought he was deranged. I thought it was a mid-life crisis. Why do they put themselves in danger?”
###
After I wrote the novel I felt more compassion for my husband, his army brothers and those who serve. Writing literature can be a powerful experience and can bring about the understanding necessary to feel compassion for something outside our own experiences.
Reading Literature: Getting Readers to Care About Something
My second novel is still a work in progress and its working title is Warm Like Melting Ice. I found Will Steger’s Global Warming 101 Expedition across Baffin Island (2007) so profound that I have wanted to write about the people of Baffin Island ever since. In 2008 I had the privilege of hosting a farm tour and dinner for the first ever cultural exchange of high school students from Baffin Island to Minnesota. I wanted others to know about this cultural group. I wanted others to develop compassion for their plight with melting ice.
Here’s a video that shares a story that moves me. Note the compassion that the Inuit guide expresses in his statement:
Literature can draw us into to stories we didn’t know about. We meet characters in situations we didn’t think existed. We finish the book and know about a new place. We get curious about those who live there and we learn that climate change is a big threat. Suddenly, a reader who once dismissed climate change, has a change of heart. She’s found compassion through literature.
The following stories are from 21 writers who all took on writing 99-words of literature using compassion as a prompt. What we find in reading these stories is a variety of situations, points of view and understanding we may not have had prior to reading. Think about it. A reader can feel compassion in 99 words. It’s a seed, a beginning, a turning point. Literature matters: Stories of Compassion.
Literary Communities: Places of Compassion
It’s not easy, walking the road to becoming a published author. Some writers are content to blog, others call their writing a hobby and some work at it t build a career. No matter, each writer communicates with an unknown world. Negative comments about quality of writing or content, bad reviews or the difficulty of finding an audience can break down a writer’s resolve. A community can form out of like-minded writers, fellow pilgrims on the path, to take the sting out of sore feet.
“When we offer more to others than what we ask of them in return, good things happen. When we work to benefit the greater good of our literary circles, everyone benefits.” Lori A, May, author of “Why Literary Citizenship Matters.”
What does compassion look like in literary communities? It’s writers who focus on building up other writers, who point out strengths, who create safe places for writers to express voice or practice craft without judgement. Compassion is found in acts of encouragement, sharing experiences, reading, commenting, sharing writing. Meet the Rough Writers who form a compassionate literary group at Carrot Ranch.
Please take time to read about compassion for the bloggers supporting #1000Speak. Use literature to express, encourage and explore compassion.
We are writing around the world in one big literary connection:
Stories of Compassion
Compassion is complex. It involves both empathy and action, but how much of each and for whom? How is compassion aroused? Can it be taught? One person can lack compassion for animals and another weep for their plight. Relationships and the self are both in need of compassion. Does it have to be received before it can be given?
As a reader, you might be surprised by the variety and you might not agree on every interpretation. The point is that writers have explored the idea of compassion and literature seeks to make sense of that undertaking. Join the discussion in the comments!
This week, writers answered a special call to write stories that explore compassion in support of February 20, 2015 1000 Voices Speak for Compassion. The following stories are based on the February 11, 2015 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that demonstrates compassion.
Embracing the Individual by Geoff Le Pard
The girl laid flowers on the mossy grave. ‘What was grandpa like, Dad?’
Her father said, ‘He was a mixture of things, love. Kind, caring…’
‘At school they say he was gay.’
‘Yes. He was. After he divorced grandma he realised…’
‘And they say he had a weird religion.’
Her father forced a small smile. ‘A Buddhist. Not many in Liverpool.’
‘And he lived with a black man.’
Her father knelt down. ‘Those things are just dull wrapping paper. You have to rip that off to find the gift inside. Everyone is different but everyone is still a gift.’
###
True Grit by Sherri Matthews
The old man went down at the first push. “Not so tough now, are yer?” spat Vin as he aimed a heavy kick into the man’s ribs.
The others laughed and jeered, their voices echoing in the dimly lit alley. Vin threw his arm around Joe’s neck as they walked back to the pub.
“I warned that old git before not to ask for money. He had it coming.”
“Yeah, good on yer mate,” Joe lied, pulling away. “Look, I need a slash, you go on…”
Joe slipped behind a charity shop, then ran back to the old man.
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Coffee Break by Larry LaForge
Robert scooted from his early morning sociology class to the coffee shop downtown.
Turning onto Main, he spotted someone sitting on the corner holding a crude cardboard sign: A FRIEND IN NEED. He watched as many passersby nodded with sympathy but generally avoided eye contact. Some folks tossed coins into the box without missing a step as they continued on.
Robert checked his pocket for cash, entered the cafe, and ordered two large coffees to go.
“Cream and sugar?” Robert asked as he plopped down next to the vagrant.
They talked for two hours about sports, weather and politics.
*****
The 100-word version of this story is posted at larrylaforge100words on Flash Fiction Magazine.
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Compassion by Luccia Gray
I closed the storybook.
“The writer depicts a poor, hungry, and frightened little match girl with bare head and naked feet in the snow, lighting matches to keep warm, before finally dying while sitting against a wall on the pavement.”
“That happened a long time ago, Mrs. Smith. It doesn’t happen anymore.”
I turned on the projector.
“The journalist was killed after watching a little baby’s horrific death. She saw shells, rockets and tank fire during the massacre.”
“Wars are different.”
“It’s never different. It’s the same over and over; greed, hate, violence, suffering, and worst of all…. indifference.”
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Mutiny by Paula Moyer
Sunnie couldn’t take it anymore. True, Jean disregarded her homework. She sassed. But Jean was little. Watching Mrs. O’Brien drag Jean out of class hurt.
“I can’t stand it!” Sunnie cried inside.
The next day at recess, Sunnie began conspiring. “We need to stop this,” she said over and over. Finally two classmates agreed.
During spelling class with Mrs. Pearl, Sue said, “Mrs. Pearl, Mrs. O’Brien isn’t fair.”
Sunnie spoke up. “She’s always mean, but she picks on Jean more.”
Annie then said, “That’s right. She picks on Jean.”
Mrs. Pearl listened, then said quietly: “I need to know.”
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Understanding by Norah Colvin
In the ‘smart’ outfit carefully selected by the charity shop attendant, Marnie was surprised how well the confident exterior masked the whirlpool of fear, anxiety and insecurity.
Without looking up, the receptionist handed Marnie a number and waved her to the waiting area.
“9”. Her heart sank. “That many?”
Avoiding contact and ‘contamination’, she squeezed into the only available space: between a boy slouching awkwardly and a girl picking her fingernails.
The girl started crying. Marnie stiffened, but glanced sideways. The girl cried into her sleeve.
Marnie breathed, proffered her unopened purse packet of ‘just-in-case’ tissues, and smiled, “Here.”
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Sole Mates by Pete Fanning
“Yo Marcus, what is on your feet?”
Marcus shrugged. His white socks glowed under the filthy pair of shoes. He got a few laughs as he did a dance and found his seat.
“Yo, check it out,” someone said. Clinton plodded sheepishly to his desk, his steps pronounced by a shiny pair of Lebron James sneakers.
Marcus smiled, yesterday he’d watched the snickering and pointing over Clint’s split and frayed Nike’s. Then last night he tried to put himself in Clint’s shoes. And only minutes ago, when he’d found Clint whimpering in a bathroom stall, that’s what he did.
(Author’s Note: This was based on a story I read a few weeks back.)
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Rainy Night by Kalpana Solsi
Finishing her frugal dinner of dry loaf of bread and yoghurt, she tucked the spare loaf into the wicker basket for next morning.
The rain lashed on the window pane engulfing her little cottage with its ferocity.
Who could it be at the door at this time of the night? There was no soul when she saw through the peep-hole. She cautiously opened the door and he sneaked inside between her legs.
Ramming the door she looked into his innocent eyes sending waves of compassion.
Woof, woof he said. Smilingly, she took out the loaf.
Tomorrow is another day.
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Compassion by C. Jai Ferry
The reality show slipped into a commercial break, and his fiancée wiggled her hand in front of him again.
“My sister’s gonna flip with jealousy.” She smirked, splaying her fingers wide. “I can’t wait!”
He turned back to the screen. Puppy eyes stared at him as melancholy notes seeped from the television’s speakers.
She groaned. “They should just put them down.”
“Excuse me?”
“It would save money.” She shrugged, then readjusted her ring. “No one wants them anyway.”
He clasped her hands in his, kissed her cheek, and slid the ring from her finger. He’d make a better investment.
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Compassion by Irene Waters
So beautiful. No external mark hinted at the catastrophic injuries she had sustained in the crash. She was my patient and I would give her the last dignities of life despite the tubes which gave her breath and drained her fluids.
“I’ll get security. The boyfriend’s getting angry. I’ve told him it’s relatives only. Some people.” My colleague went off, her huff travelling with her.
Some people indeed, I thought. I couldn’t leave my charge. I called over another colleague, who did my bidding.
The boyfriend stood behind the closed curtain with me. Tears streamed from four eyes. We hugged.
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Compassion for the Relationship by Anne Goodwin
We never reserved I love you for Valentine’s and anniversaries, so why should it matter that, this year, you forgot? Yet I contemplate arsenic-on-toast for your breakfast; you couldn’t even bring me a cup of tea in bed.
Once you’re cleaned, fed and dressed, we wait for the sitter. The hairdresser’s booked and the theatre, a restaurant reservation for one.
This evening, when I’m calm again, we’ll look through the photographs. “Who’s that handsome man with the carnation buttonhole?” I’ll say. I won’t mind if you can’t tell me; my memories of our marriage are strong enough for two.
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Compassion Disjunction by Pat Cummings
“Attacks Against Schoolgirls on the Rise” he reads, and sips his coffee. Next page of the paper, he sees “University Shooting Victim Left Paralyzed”. He brushes bagel crumbs from his shirt; they land on the page over “Racial Slurs Written on Stabbed Woman’s Body”. He shakes the paper, flips to the international section. “Jordanian Pilot Burned Alive in Shocking Video” provokes a “tsk” as he takes another sip of coffee. He scans onward.
With his last sip of morning coffee, his throat closes, and tears spring to his eyes, as he reads “35 Cats Dead in Weekend House Fire.”
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Her Worth by Charli Mills
The old mare hung her head low, lips quivered above grass-forsaken dirt, ribs protruded beneath a swayed back. She was broken.
“How much you want for her,” asked the Fed Ex driver.
A lean cowboy scrawled his signature for his box. “That nag?”
“That our wine?” A beautiful woman stepped out onto the deck.
The cowboy winked at the Fed Ex man. “There’s a beauty worth buying.”
“Can’t afford that one. How much for the horse?”
He knew his boss would ask how a starving mare got into the back of his van, but already her ears had perked.
###
No One Should Have It Coming by Amber Prince
“He’s a troublemaker.”
“He has been in trouble before, but I wouldn’t call him a troublemaker.”
“Does it matter? It wasn’t that big of a deal.”
“It does matter, it’s a big deal, he came to you for help and you ignored him.”
“I heard what he had to say, but how was I to know that the other kid was going to actually do something? That one is a good student.”
“And now?”
“What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry? Fine, but the boy had it coming.”
“You’re wrong. No one should have it coming.”
###
Lucky by Nicky Torode
He etched the final day onto his wall. As he walked out the gates, he drunk in the sunlight like he had done 15 years ago. The first thing he’d promised himself was to go to 289 Phoenix Road – the destination he had been planning for 14.5 years. As he approached the building, he saw the man’s familiar silhouette opening his door. This was his lucky day. Picking the lock, he entered. He pulled out the paraffin, struck the match. This is for me and the other innocent ones you got locked up, he yelled, free at last.
Merlin Learns a New Way by Tally Pendragon
Anna thought and worked quickly, stanching the flow of blood with a cord around the man’s leg, patching up the gash the falling masonry had made, and being sure that he was safe, in mind and body, before moving on through the mass of poorer dwellings all huddled together like shy schoolgirls.
“Next time you can do the healing, Merlin!”
“Me?”
“Did you think yours was to be a watching ministry while you’re with us?”
“But surely healing’s for women.”
“Healing’s what the ministry’s all about, whether you’re man or woman, Merlin. Get used to it, or go home!”
###
Invisible by Sarah Brentyn
“We’re late!” Jeremy snatched his coat from the closet. “Mum!”
“I know! Stop…stop yelling. We’ll be right there.”
“Mum, seriously! Coach will bench me!”
The clicking of cleats on tile echoed down the hallway. Jeremy’s face tightened with each step. He swung into the kitchen, “If I have to sit this game out I’ll…”
His mother sat on the floor stroking his little brother’s hair as he reached out again and again, touching the edge of the countertop. She didn’t look up. “We’ll be right there.”
“No, it’s good.” Jeremy crouched down. “We’ll go when you’re ready, okay buddy?”
###
A Plate of Food by Ruchira Khanna
Sarita opened the door to her maid, who had brought her kid to work.
“He is my son; Jay.” introduced the maid in pride.
“Friend’s?” Sarita’s son, Hari extended his hands towards him.
“Sure” nodded Jay and they walked towards the toys.
While playing, Sarita brought a plate of food for her son.
Jay pretended to play while Hari was being fed. Just then, a morsel came towards him.
He looked up to see Hari’s hand holding a snack.
With moist eyes, he took the grub and soon both the boys were munching and giggling away.
###
Compassionate Neighbours by Susan Zutautas
Easter was approaching and there was barely enough food to feed the family of six let alone get the children any chocolate eggs or bunnies.
Stop worrying Agnes, surely some work will turn up soon, said Roy.
Normally he was right but Agnes felt deep in her heart that this year there’d be no ham on their table for dinner.
It was Good Friday and Agnes heard a knock at the door. No one was there but there was a fairly large box sitting on the porch. It was filled with food, chocolate, and a ham.
Agnes’ heart melted.
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An Arm Outstretched by Geoff Le Pard
‘Your mum never knew.’ Mary’s Aunt Gloria sipped tea. ‘About the twin.’
‘Sharon?’
‘I don’t know her name. Sharon was your imaginary friend.’
‘Do you know what happened to her?’ Mary shivered; she hadn’t told Gloria about the bones in the garden. ‘She is dead, isn’t she?’
Gloria sighed. ‘Have you asked Rupert?’
Her hated half-brother.
Gloria wiped her mouth. ‘This is killing you, isn’t it? Come on, let’s go and see him and get to the bottom of all this.’ She enveloped Mary in her grandmotherly bosom. ‘Poor thing. Your dad was many things, but not a monster.’
Graphic crafted by The Quiet Muse.
Link up! Today is THE DAY! #1000Speak. Add your voice: 1000 Speak. Link up.
February 11: Flash Fiction Challenge
An engine lurches and mutters to a halt. It’s so dark outside, the night is like obsidian, but I see dim headlights and a bobbing flashlight as a man tries to open the hood to the engine of his logging truck. The Hub puts on shoes and a jacket to go outside and help a stranger broke down in the night.
My friend is a retired Navy photographer. She tells people she had it easy. “Not like you,” she says to the Army soldier seated in front of her. He’s completed two tours of duty in Iraq and is reluctant to admit he has trouble sleeping. My friend pokes acupuncture needles in both his ears to reduce “stress.” No one mentions the P-word that can mar a soldier’s career. Yet the auricular acupuncture offered regularly, helps. My friend volunteers every other Wednesday at Fort Snelling and has not missed a day in seven years.
I hired a dynamic young woman to take over the education and outreach at my organization. At her first community outreach meeting, which she would take over eventually, she listens to a donation request made by the friend of a woman who is pregnant and battling breast cancer. “Please, can the co-op help her buy some healthy food.” I look over at my new hire and know I made the right choice. Tears stream down her face as she nods, yes.
Online, I follow a local social media group for news on jobs or postings for trades. A woman posts the comment, “I have a question please. Am I the only one on these Facebook sites that finds it offensive when people sadly have a tragedy in their lives.” I want to answer, I hope you are the only one! How can another person’s tragedy be offensive? Why is it, not all people can feel compassion.
What is compassion?
Although my handy-dandy (American) dictionary defines compassion as “sorrow for the sufferings or trouble of another or others” it also defines pity with the same phrase. However, the important differentiation is that compassion is “accompanied by an urge to help” whereas pity “sometimes connotes slight contempt because the object is regarded as weak or inferior.”
To me, the woman with the question felt pity for “people [who] sadly have tragedy” because she felt contempt for how they asked for help or handled their donations. A person in need is not an inferior human. Even a person who makes mistakes or misjudgements or lacks compassion (like this woman with a question) is not inferior.
Compassion is kind. It is merciful. It is loving. It is not withheld for the privileged few. It can even extend to horses and peat moss and all of life.
Rough Writers, Norah Colvin and Anne Goodwin, introduce us to two words that extend from compassion. Weltschmerz: “world pain” or the grief we feel at how the world keeps falling short of our expectations. Meliorism: having a belief that the world can be improved by the actions of humans. Anne sums up the interaction of the two words:
“Both are useful: weltschmerz enabling us to care enough about what’s wrong and meliorism driving us to try to do something about it.”
That is what compassion looks like in action. Yet, another compassionate action is taking hold — #1000Speak. It is a call for 1000 voices blogging for compassion on February 20. When I think of compassionate bloggers, I think of another Rough Writer, Ruchira Khanna who writes an inspirational blog with daily mantras at Abracabadra. Imagine a concerted effort by bloggers in one day to write with words that make a difference in the lives of others!
This is what it looks like in a video created by Tamara Woods who encourages us to “break the internet with compassion”:
So this week we will tackle stories that reveal compassion. In addition to our compilation, I will link to it in my own #1000Speak post on February 20. When spreading your own stories or posts, use the hashtag for greater visibility.
February 11, 2015 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that demonstrates compassion. You can explore weltschmerz (enabling us to care enough about what’s wrong) and meliorism (driving us to try to do something about it) if you want to explore those specific terms. Consider posting on February 20, too.
Respond by February 17, 2015 to be included in the weekly compilation. Rules are here. All writers are welcome!
***
Her Worth by Charli Mills
The old mare hung her head low, lips quivered above grass-forsaken dirt, ribs protruded beneath a swayed back. She was broken.
“How much you want for her,” asked the Fed Ex driver.
A lean cowboy scrawled his signature for his box. “That nag?”
“That our wine?” A beautiful woman stepped out onto the deck.
The cowboy winked at the Fed Ex man. “There’s a beauty worth buying.”
“Can’t afford that one. How much for the horse?”
He knew his boss would ask how a starving mare got into the back of his van, but already her ears had perked.
###
Ranch-keeping for Rough Writers: I’m working on how to communicate my ideas for the collaboration. Bear with me as I seek my words. And, I can use an Amazon widget for the bookstore, but it’s an affiliate thing so I’m trying to verify that I would be helping you in book sales, not robbing you! That would be embarrassing to this buckaroo. But I like the idea of populating the page with the ability to purchase the books rather than link to Amazon. Is there anyone with a preference or who is not selling on Amazon?
Look for my first Rodeo post tomorrow! I purchased a real bull-riding photo (as if that’s going to help my cause for publication). Of course, I still believe in me lucky charms if you care to step over Elmira Pond Spotter and take a peek at my peat.