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November 18: Flash Fiction Challenge
I feel like I’m breathless, dancing.
My partner is Writing and we’ve been together a long time, me and W. I fell in love as a young girl, giddy to practice story-steps on that old paper dance-floor called the Journal. W showed me new tricks with a pencil beyond spelling words and long division. With my imagination and W’s endless possibilities, the world was our ballroom.
The fancies of youth gave way to the trials of learning complicated steps. Yes, dancing with W was still fun, but our relationship was challenged by English teachers and professors, literary criticism and the needs of media editors and bosses. For a time, W and I danced secretly in other Journals we found, not showing our moves to the world. We danced formally, earning some jobs and greenbacks.
The one day, we left the formal dances, cracked open the moves we started in Journals and took a chance that we might be able to create dances of our own. W has taken me to new heights and my head is spinning.
Writing has opened new doors. Or perhaps, I opened new doors with writing. See, that’s the thing with dancing — it’s a partnership. Much has happened in a short period of time. When I was asked to host a BinderCon event, it lead to partnering with the library. When I was ready to launch an anthology project, I was offered a chance to host a contest. When I was searching for another supplementary client project, I found two that are perfect matches to what I love to do — profiles on people and place. When I went into revision I planned to come out with a draft, but I will have a draft and a serial project to plot.
When I worked 9-5, I would take any opportunity that led to my dream even if I had to write late nights or weekends. Now I am working that dream. I should feel overwhelmed at the heaping portion on my plate, or how full my dance card is, yet this is…exactly…what…I…dreamed…to do. I am overwhelmed with gratitude. This is my life’s work. I’ve found a happy balance between writing that pays and writing that fulfills. There is nothing that I’m doing that is a step toward something; this is the destination.
Life doesn’t always celebrate with us. In fact, life often rains on our Happy Parades. It blew in like a hurricane. What happened? Well, that’s what happened — it RAINED. Yesterday morning we awoke to four inches of snow, the first snowfall in the valley. Sad to see winter arrive, but snow (not a date on a calendar) is the signal. Then the snow began to melt, the clouds sputtered rain and a fierce wind blew in replacing the rain with RAIN. Our house felt battered, wind howling in cracks we didn’t know we had and water pouring off the roof and down windows like garden waterfalls. The winds blew across Schweitzer Mountain (behind our house), clocked at 101 mph! If we had been a ship, we’d have wrecked, for sure. Instead, we lost electricity. We were lucky.
Yet Life has a wicked sense of humor. It didn’t understand that W and I had to dance! These were the dances we had been waiting for and we needed electricity! Come on! Life had its way and I actually found it rather pleasant to curl up by the fire in the dark, listening to the howling wind and lashing rain. My phone was charged and I reached out to Sarah Brentyn who so kindly rode over to the ranch to announce the delay. I prematurely got excited when the lights came on for 30 minutes, followed by darkness. By then the outage included eastern Washington, northern Idaho, western Montana and southern British Columbia.
Life added a further insult when I began reading from my Kindle aloud to the Hub. Just as we were cooing over our rediscovery of reading together, it smelled smokey. The Hub flicked on his flashlight and smoke was billowing from the wood-stove like a steam engine. Evidently, the wind gusts were so massive that they were forcing the smoke down the chimney! The Hub knew enough about the physics of wood-stoves and he opened the damper full throttle to counter the wind force with fire. That was a scary sight! We had to hold open doors against gusting winds to try to air out the house, listening the the crack of tree branches.
Today, our yard is littered with broken branches and our house smells like an ashtray. But still I rise to the dance. I will dance across the litter Life tosses at me and I’ll counter stale air with fresh. And I’ll be late on the compilation. It’s a set-back, not the end of the dance.
In trying to regroup, I decided to get the next prompt out first and do some quick summaries. Notice that this next prompt has a longer deadline. Carrot Ranch is welcoming home the Little Buckaroos next week and I’ll be a giddy mum. We haven’t all been together in one place at one time in over three years. They’ll be expecting ranch-cooking so W will have some time off. That means W has much to do in just few days, but we’ll get it wrangled!
I hadn’t intended to be missing in action on social media, but the way W was dancing, I didn’t get the chance. In particular, #MondayBlogs, #wwwblogs and #LinkYourLife are all Twitter events I try to keep up with, but they will be there when I return. Elmira Pond is rather neglected these days and I miss connecting with Ruchira Khanna on Wordless Wednesdays, but I will return there, too. The pond is rather silent, anyhow with all the migrating fowl having migrated elsewhere.
I’m excited to share my other writing as it publishes. A new magazine is launching in Idaho and I get to cover fun assignments in the Panhandle like a castle up on Schweitzer, my favorite local restaurants and Ruby’s Lube (it’s not what you think, but then again, maybe it is). When the publishers release the name, I’ll share it. A newsletter I’ve edited for years has a new look and most of the content is my writing (pages 2, 4-5, 6-7, -8-9) though I only have one byline. The fun challenge here is to vary the voice between articles, such as representing the board, operations and highlighting their food educator. You can access the digital publication at Living Naturally if you want to see our new look. Another project is ghost-writing but I can sneak you a peak as they publish.
The Congress of the Rough Writer’s Anthology Vol. 1 has officially kicked off on a ride to publication. It’s an exciting ride and one of my favorite new dances with W and the ranchers here. Sarah Brentyn is Trail Boss as the anthology Editor. What an incredible and skilled writer for the project! Many Rough Writers have stepped up to teams on the project. If you are a Rough Writer and received the anthology notice, you have until December 9 to decide if you want to participate. Even if you don’t, your writing may be selected or we may have questions and we’ll follow up with you. If you are a Rough Writer and didn’t receive the email (some filters will flag group emails as spam), shoot me a note at wordforpeople@gmail.com. We have new Rough Writers to announce and they’ve been patiently waiting for their pages — soon! I’m so privileged to be in the company of so many diverse and talented writers. Thank you!
A quick NaNoReViSo update — revision is to writing what Pilates is to dancing; both will make you stronger but it’s going to hurt! Writing is free expression (for those of us who identify as pantsers) and it feels like revision is a bunch of laws we freedom writers want to rebel against. However, revision gives what we write structure, clarity, correctness and artistry. We think we are more artsy free writing, but the real artistry shows up when we can master the craft and apply the right creativity. Creativity without craft mastery will not be clear or correct, thus our art might be missed. I thought I’d be working more on structure, but instead I immersed in research for clarity. The result is that my improved understanding led to better plot structuring. I’m cutting much and will need to fill in new places. I can better see what work needs to be done. It’s a lot of big picture focusing, problem solving and handling details I skimmed over in writing. It’s painful, but it improves the dance. And, Sherri Matthews, thank you for dancing with me this month to tune of revision! Tough steps to learn and I’m grateful for your company.
The Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction Contest is open until January 31, 2016. It’s my pleasure to introduce to you our Rough Writer judges: Sarah Brentyn, Norah Colvin, Pat Cummings and Geoff Le Pard. This is a great crew who will give submissions the review they deserve for entering and supporting Noah in his quest for a service dog. All other Rough Writers are eligible to enter, but remember this is blind judging so do not include any identifying information inside your submitting documents. We have a process in place and will announce the Winner and the over all Top Ten February 20, 2016. Entry fee is only $15 and you can enter as many times as you like. Read the details on the Contest page so you know by what criteria we are judging. Have fun and support a worthy cause!
Where am I at with Cobb? I’m resting easy these days, and focusing on Nebraska now that I understand circumstances in North Carolina better. A big round of applause for Geoff Le Pard whose real estate law background helped me understand a tough nut to crack. He also looked at it with a writer’s eye and gave me interesting plot twists to consider. I now feel that my story has the historical legs to stand on and while I can’t prove my theories, I can explore them in fiction and give a more plausible story than the ones historians have recounted over the years. If my Uncle Cobb were to sit by the campfire with me he might say I got it, or he might say I was off the mark, but I do believe he’d feel proud that a descendant was willing to search for the truth and see a whole man, not just the good or the bad.
And thank you to all who responded last week! My apologies for the weather delay and getting to this post first. In that 30 minutes of returned electricity yesterday, before it went down for good, I read a fun exchange about dance in the comments. Thanks for this prompt’s inspiration! I look forward to tangos, rumbas and more.
November 18, 2015 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write dance into your story. Twirl your characters round and round or stomp your plot onto the page. Use dance in any way that comes to mind. Be specific or free, tango or disco.
EXTENDED DEADLINE! Respond by December 1, 2015 to be included in the weekly compilation. Rules are here. All writers are welcome!
***
Secrets Kept by Charli Mills
Cold seeped into the corner of the Greene barn where Sarah watched him unseen. Snug breeches clung to massive legs, but he danced as fluid and light as any gay girl. More like a prancing stallion. Why did he keep dancing with Mary Greene? If only she’d the courage to step out of the dark, she’d ask him to pull molasses with her, then maybe he’d reciprocate with a dance. So cold, though. She couldn’t move.
“Mama, Miss Sarah’s waking.”
“She’s too far gone. Poor dear, I hope she’s ready to dance in heaven. We’ll never know her secrets.”
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August 19: Flash Fiction Challenge
Coyotes gather on the ridge across the road and sing to the distant train whistles. There exists a rule, probably written in urine, that coyotes stay east and wolves west. Naturally, we live on the west-side.
A noisy night in the neighborhood is when the wolves howl one direction, the coyotes another and an elk bugles. Not a smart elk move. Soon we hear only coyotes and figure the wolves are hunting the bugling neighbor. In the midst of this a Canadian cattle truck rumbles past or a BNSF train squeals steel rims on steel rails.
Silence is not common.
But I’m not expecting the excited yips of the lone coyote as I stumble from bed to fix the Hub breakfast. First cup of coffee drawn and I can still hear that coyote. Yip-yip-hooowl. Yip-yip-hooowl. I step out on the porch in the pre-dawn light and realize that the coyote is west. He’s in the trees behind the Elmira Schoolhouse.
That’s where the wild turkeys roost.
Timer goes off and I pull ham and cheese bagels from the oven. A quick breakfast. I start thinking about the food chain and how excited that coyote sounds, as if he just discovered what Thanksgiving is and there’s at least 40 drumsticks hanging in the pines above his head. The thought of future pumpkin pie makes me want to howl, too.
The turkeys are my first line of defense against gophers, and I’m not happy to share any with an upstart coyote on the wrong side of the road. If that yappy trickster wants to slink over to my yard and gobble up gophers, I won’t complain about the hairy coyote scat. I wish more predators would feast on gophers.
We had an easy alliance — gophers can rip through the back lawn and have at all the pastures. The gardens were off limits, no roses, no fruit trees, no veggies. If any pushed the boundaries, the Hub would flood new holes with the hose and I embedded sonar stakes. When I planted my potato patch along the north pasture where the soil is sandy, I surrounded my hills with 70 red onions, 30 white onions, 20 shallots and 20 garlic.
Clever. Until I realized, gophers love onions!
At first I had no idea what was happening. The sandy soil masked their burrowing. Each day it seemed like the onion patch decreased. No wilt. Just disappeared. Gone onions.
The turkeys alerted me to the disaster. This flock of hens and brood took up dirt bathing in my gopher mounds. How they knew the beasts were in my onions and potatoes is beyond me, but they revealed the hidden tunnels. Like Nazis secretly drilling underground for evil purposes, gophers invaded.
A turkey bath (not to be confused with a Turkish bath) involves dirt, loss of feathers and poop. Turkey poop. Pure garden nitrogen, as far as I’m concerned. And gophers are squeamish about poop. Evidently, pet or human hair and cat poop are natural deterrents. Now, everyone, cat, dogs, coyotes, turkeys are welcome to shat in my potato patch. It may be the only thing that saves my onions.
The harvest that promised large yields is woefully diminished. That coyote needs to leave the turkeys alone. Where is wolf when you need one?
August 19, 2015 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that includes onions. It can be the main event or a spicy side to your flash. Think of the impact of onions — teary eyes, dragon-breath, indigestion. How can an onion add a twist, reveal a character or sabotage a perfect day? Have fun!
Respond by August 25, 2015 to be included in the weekly compilation. Rules are here. All writers are welcome!
In the following story, I’m using real-life to get me into the family dynamics of characters in my current WIP, Rock Creek. Sometimes when I’m uncertain about a scene or characters interacting, I imagine them dealing with a situation that’s familiar to me. Something simple to give me entrance. Do you ever do that in your fiction writing?
***
Onion Thieves by Charli Mills
Mary McCanles heard gunfire from her garden. She stepped outside to see Cob loping from the barn. Their son, Monroe, stood among her potato hills.
“Roe, mindful of your mama’s taters.” Cob reached the boy first.
“Out of the garden. Now.” Mary frowned at the swirling smoke from Monroe’s rifle.
“But Mama, I shot a critter in your garden.”
“No critter is going to cross my onions.” Mary was certain she had planted more. Why were there gaps between green shoots?
Cob pulled half a red onion bulb from the critter’s fat cheek. “Roe, you have a new chore.”
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June 17: Flash Fiction Challenge
Duck, duck, goose.
It’s a children’s game I remember from grade school. Mrs. Couch would turn off the overhead lights and each student would rest her head on the desk. The first selected student would wander through the rows chanting, “Duck…” tapping one student’s head, then “Duck…” and tapping another. We’d all tense and wait for “Goose!” If tapped, that student would chase the other back to his desk and begin the game anew.
I’m sure there are many versions of this game. In Minnesota, “duck, duck, goose” are fighting words. Mild-mannered people transform almost beast-like at the mention of winter existing outside of their state or those three words. It’s “duck, duck, gray duck” they’ll correct.
I’m reminded of this game because of the baby mergansers on the sunning log. Two weeks and Elmira Pond is shaggy with tall grass and the fluffy babies that once rode on their parents’ backs are now gangly youths. They sit on a log in a new version of the game: duck, duck, turtle, duck.
Having just returned from a household with five lively children, Kate’s grandchildren, I’ve learned all kinds of new games. Building blocks. Horses. Bubbles. Trike racing on sidewalks. Sausage. I’ve learned new songs, too, like:
Charley Barley, buck and rye,
What’s the way the Frenchmen fly?
Some fly east, some fly west,
Some fly over the cuckoo’s nest!
Traditional nursery rhymes are rich in culture and history. Four of these five children can recite dozens of them (we’ll give the fifth child a break because she’s only a month old). It brings to mind ones I knew along with childhood games, and I have a certain awe for their capacity to be passed down through the generations despite technology and screens.
There is yet life for the old stories, the old games in the new era.
Star light, star bright,
Very first star I see tonight,
I wish you may, I wish you might,
Give me the wish I wish tonight.
I’m home again, pondering the night sky. The Hub calls me to the porch to see Venus and Jupiter descending in the western horizon. I know they are planets, but they shine like the brightest stars and Venus qualifies as first. We stare up with childlike enchantment.
No wonder Peter Pan never wanted to grow up. We grow serious and forget to play, forget to wish, forget to dream. I needed two weeks with children who call me Charley Barley and giggle when I say, “See you later alligator!”
This week I invite you to play! Consider the flash fiction challenges at Carrot Ranch to be a writer’s sandbox; a place to play with 99 words like building blocks. Like musicians who jam, we join together with others and play our words. And, sometimes magic happens with what we create.
My gratitude to each of you who joins in. I get to play in world that is often too serious. My wish tonight is that you find the child within and race your fingers across the keyboard like in a good game of duck, duck, goose…or duck, duck, gray duck…or duck, duck, turtle, duck.
June 17, 2015 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that involves a children’s game or rhyme. You can create something new or go with something traditional. You can write with a twist, humor, menace or glee. Hop, skip or jump wherever the prompt leads you.
Respond by June 23, 2015 to be included in the weekly compilation. Rules are here. All writers are welcome!
***
A Real Keeper by Charli Barli Mills
Gus drew a circle in the dirt, then a starting line in the middle. The boys set down their clays. The new girl, Dina, added two green porcelains. Gus drew a deep breath. A girl with marbles? He wiped his palms and knelt with his blue slag shooter. Before the teacher pulled the bell rope, Dina added the boys’ marbles to her bag.
Gus walked beside her. “Can I see your shooter?”
“Sure.”
Swirls of amber, a real keeper. So he’d think years later as they exchanged vows, and he smiled into her eyes as pretty as her taw.
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February 4: Flash Fiction Challenge
I know how Buffalo Bill felt watching his Wild West Show from the sidelines, astride his own horse with gloved hands at rest on the saddle horn, casually holding the reins. He knew how to sit a saddle — balls of his feet lightly pressed in equal weight to each stirrup, boot-heels slanted downward, posture straight, unlike movie cowboys who flop like slouching trout against saddle leather and press their feet too far in the stirrups so boot heels catch and toes point down.
Buffalo Bill knew that audiences might not know the difference between an actor or a real cowpoke, but he understood that they’d react enthusiastically to the authentic passion of riders — Native Americans, cowpokes or cavalry scouts — when they rode a horse. The crowd roared with delight when each group performed a trick or re-enacted scenarios so smoothly no noticed things like how a cowpoke aimed his boots.
You can’t fake riding. Nor can writers fake writing.
Sure we all ride or write differently. Sioux warriors had no stirrups and leaned far over the necks of their horses in a full gallop. Texas cowboys had different saddles than California buckaroos and each wore different hats. Scouts were soldiers who held the reins differently so that they could also maneuver a rifle on the run. Some writers craft believable characters; others set scenes that pop to life like the start of a movie in a theater; and others twist plots that make eager bobble-heads out of readers.
Writing, like riding, improves with practice. Of course, you need to have knowledge, too. Those actors who slipped out of their saddles at a change of gait might have asked how to avoid it next time, just as a writer struggling with dialog might read a post by an author who has mastered it. It becomes a cycle of learning and applying.
But you have to write and be willing to fall once in a while.
Then there are those cowpokes who love the riding so much that they sing with joy to the prairie sun, “I’m lonesome but I’m happy, I’m rich but I’m broke.” These are the riders that Buffalo Bill sought for his Wild West Show. The riders who, like him, knew the joy of living on the back of a horse despite its hardships the same way some writers know the joy of living on the words they express despite it being a tough career or a demanding hobby.
Each week when I compile the stories of the Carrot Ranch Congress of Rough Writers & Friends, I know how Buffalo Bill felt when he watched his Rough Riders perform. It’s good to have others who share the love of the ride/write. Writers who write (blog posts, reviews, essays articles, short stories, poems, letters and journals) are as authentic as riders who ride (appaloosas, cow-ponies, cutting horses, race horses, jumpers, trail-blazers and Percherons). And the results are worth beholding.
Like many of the riders who rode the wild west show circuits, many writers seek the purse (fame and fortune). Cowpokes, Indians and buckaroos created rodeos as a way to win a cash prize and hear an audience cheer. Writers seek a cash prize in publication and receive cheers from readers who review. Neither is easy to achieve and booing is an unwanted possibility. To ride successfully you have to be able to connect with your horse. To write successfully you have to be able to connect with your story. Both have to win over audiences.
Thus, I’m calling my manuscript publication process The Rodeo. At first, I named it the Great Rejection Rodeo to acknowledge that rejection is part of the process. Manuscripts get rejected for many reasons; some are within a writer’s control and some are not. Some days, you draw a bad horse to ride. Yet, it occurred to me that rodeo riders never say, “The Great Broken Bone Rodeo” so why am I fixating on the inevitable negative when it is the ride that gives me joy? When it is the purse I’m doggedly pursuing come broken bones or rejection? The Rodeo it is.
And there’s a big rodeo coming up in March called the Out of Binders Symposium held in Los Angeles at UCLA. It includes a line up of workshops, networking with established authors and a VIP event with literary agents and publishers. My name was called in the draw and I won a scholarship. It makes me feel like these lines from the song, Cowpoke (give it a listen; it’s a beautiful cowboy yodeling song):
“I ain’t got a cent in these old worn out jeans
Stop eating steaks and go back to beans
I’ll pick up a ten spot in Houston I know
For a-riding the broncs in a big rodeo”
So this carefree range-writing drifting buckaroo is going! Despite my inner cringe factor at asking for money, I’m launching an Indie.GoGo fundraiser tomorrow in response to family and friends who offered the encouragement to do so. Now I know how Buffalo Bill felt when he got investor backing to take his Wild West Show to Europe.
Speaking of backing, I’ll be updating the collaboration page (with yet another call for feedback) because I want to roll over any raised funds to support the launch of any Rough Writer collaboration and have a plan for it by the time I go to LA in case I can find an interested publisher. Why not? That’s the spirit of the rodeo — go for it!
If you’ve hung in the saddle this far you’re thinking about this week’s tie to the prompt — Buffalo Bill, riding horses, being rich but broke? All tantalizing possibilities, but it’s going to be about nutty aunts. How so? Well, you see, Geoff, one of the Rough Writers, commented on the universality of nutty aunts. And while I was contemplating this post a flash came to mind about a nutty aunt who used to ride broncs in the rodeos. I really just wanted to write that story! So tell me one about a nutty aunt.
February 4, 2015 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that includes a nutty aunt. What makes her nutty? Is it the situation she’s in or a quirky habit? She can be anybody’s aunt. Maybe she’s really somebody’s uncle but wants to be an aunt. Maybe it’s the name of a cowpoke’s horse, a hockey team or a village pub. Follow where the prompt leads.
Respond by February 10, 2015 to be included in the weekly compilation. Rules are here. All writers are welcome!
***
Aunt Bronco Billy by Charli Mills
“No one cared where I’d go,” Aunt Billy said to the children sitting cross-legged at her booted feet. Her rocker creaked with undulating bulk.
“Not your Ma?” asked the youngest. The others shushed him.
“Nope. Too many chits and not enough beans.” She puffed a hand-rolled cigarette and snuffed it on a beer bottle.
“Won this silver belt buckle at the Clay County Rodeo.” She grinned and lifted up her belly from the belt that girdled her faded gauchos. The kids grinned back, some nearly as toothless as the celebrity aunt who once busted broncos for buckles and bucks.
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Ranch-keeping for Rough Writers: In case you are wondering, I’m looking into some options for listing books in the Bunkhouse Bookstore. A gallery lets me set up a collection of thumbnails, but doesn’t allow for links to purchase. A list calls for too much scrolling. An idea will come to me! Like with writing, sometimes I just need to let the page simmer.
Watch for a book give-away over at Annecdotal this week, as Rough Writer, Anne Goodwin, will be posting one with a book review.
Thanks for the terrific show last week! Your feats and remarks were inspiring!
September 10: Flash Fiction Challenge
“Hey, Baby, what’s your sign?”
It’s a cheesy pick-up line that brings to mind a stereotypical caricature of a slick-haired, middle-aged man wearing gold chains and polyester disco pants trying to hit on a woman more hip to the 21st century.
The zodiac is a zone in the sky that follows the path of the sun, moon and significant planets. It’s divided into 12 equal parts with each one representing a zodiac sign used to determine one’s horoscope (a destiny governed by the stars).
While I’m not interested in predicting futures, I am interested in signs. It was the first influence I encountered in regards to personality traits. As a kid, I didn’t read my horoscope to determine my day, I read it to gain a greater sense of self-awareness.
Once I got into management, my interest turned to personality types and how teams could work together more effectively. Through leadership training, I learned about Myers-Briggs Type Indicator. It’s based on a Jungian theory about behavior and personality types.
Later I got into following strengths-based psychology because it develops the opportunity to do one’s best. Personally, I like to review my own strengths when feeling blocked or negative. Self-awareness continues to be important part of my writing, to better understand who I am and what this world and humanity are all about.
Over they years, I’ve attended writing workshops and read books that discuss personality traits of characters. Usually, I get to know my characters through writing so I haven’t yet used any kind of assessment for my characters, although I believe it’s a plausible pursuit.
However, I’m in an unique position to know the signs of my characters Sarah Shull, Cob McCanles and Wild Bill Hickok. They were real people with real birth-dates. It was while writing out my research cards that I recognized Hickok as a fellow Gemini. It got me wondering. Turns out that Sarah is a Libra and Cob a Sagittarius. What does this mean? I didn’t know but I thought it was worth exploring so I went to The Secret Language to look up their birth-dates.
What a gold mine of insight I found there! If you’ve been following my flash fiction, then you know I’ve been using it to explore the relationships of these three. I’m interested in who they are as holistic people, not as one-dimensional heroes or villains that legend has made of them. In knowing their signs (based on their day, month and even historic year of birth) I felt as though I got to better understand who they were.
Sarah Shull: “Prone to exhibitionism, those born on this day are never happier than when they are the center of attention in any gathering. It is extremely difficult for them to go unnoticed, and although they can spend long periods alone, they need to emerge periodically and be recognized for who they are.”
Does this sound like a woman who would take being shunned by her community or set aside by her lover? Oh, I feel the plot thickening already.
Cob McCanles: “Most November 30 people also have a fine sense of humor that is subtle, but it can also expand to the full-out thigh-slapping, raucous guffaw as well. Excellent mimics, those born on this day use satire in such a subtle way that others may miss the intention…almost. Their humor is indeed of the thought-provoking variety.”
Now I believe that it’s true (according to the stories passed down in my family) that Cob teased Hickok mercilessly and dubbed him “Duck Bill” because of his nose and lip.
Wild Bill Hickok: “Generally on the side of the individual, they hate oppression and exploitation, opposing them both in theory and in practice. These people will not usually back down from a fight. Naturally combative, they stick up for what they believe is right and will not hesitate to attack wrongdoing in any form, be it moral or practical, for these individuals believe there is a right way and a wrong way to do things, and that only the right way will yield uniformly positive results.”
This trait supports my theory that Hickok believed he was protecting the oppressed–be that Sarah, or the station manager and his wife on the day Cob showed up to “clean up” on Rock Creek.
Further, the horoscope site let me use a relationship finder. I wasn’t surprised to find out that Cob’s and Hickok’s personalities clash, or that Cob and Sarah naturally had an easy physicality that was hard to suppress and prone to flirtation. That helps shed light on the question of why Cob had an affair with Sarah. As to her relationship with Hickok, it was one that was fun and relaxed. Even just as friends, their enjoyment could have caused Cob jealousy.
So in honor of signs, we will explore the influence of the stars this week. You can explore the 12 signs to see if a particular one fits a character you are developing. Or maybe a particular sign gives you a story idea, a nugget of the unseen influencing lives. While you don’t have to be cheesy like that guy asking, “Hey, Baby, what’s your sign?” you can have your characters explore horoscopes as a topic.
September 10, 2014 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) focus on the personality traits of a character informed by the zodiac. It can be a revelation of how he or she acts or a focus on behavior because of personality traits. It can be a relationship ruled by the stars. You can have fun and exaggerate, or keep it subtle and refined. You can use zodiac terms or not.
Respond by noon (PST) Tuesday, September 16 to be included in the compilation.
When I started to write, two stories emerged. It must be in today’s horoscope for Geminis.
For the Fun of It by Charli Mills
“I don’t know Cob, he was born in the spring. He’s fresh as peach blossoms.” Sarah smiled, pouring coffee at the woodstove. She sat down next to him at the table with two enamel mugs. Autumn sunshine and cool air sifted through the open door of the sod house.
Sipping her cup, she leaned into Cob. “Hickok means nothing to me. I just hate being holed up by myself. He’s fun, that’s all.”
“Funny looking,” said Cob. “He’s got that duckbill look. Quack, quack. Sara’s fun friend, quack quack.”
“Somebody call my name?” Hickok’s tall frame filled the doorway.
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Stars and Seasons by Charli Mills
“In 1858 a comet streaked across the sky,” Sarah said in between bites of apple cobbler. The Williams family seated around their polished dining table listened, spoons clinking on fine china. “It was destiny. Something I was born to do.” Sarah stared into her empty bowl.
Jesse Williams, twelve years old, shared the same birthday with the vagrant old crone her mother pitied. “Was it in the stars to go west, Aunt Sarah?”
Sarah barely nodded, still looking down as if viewing a sad painting. “Peach blossoms and fiery fall maple leaves are not meant for the same season.”
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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.
April 9: Flash Fiction Challenge
For those of you visiting Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction for the first time, we a have a community writing prompt going on weekly. You’ll find this week’s prompt and rules of play toward the end of this post. You are welcome to join in every week as several writers have. Or, you can meet the challenge as your time and interest allows.
Each week I look for something educational to share about flash fiction and how practicing its craft can improve our writing no matter what genre, profession or level of pursuit we hold to as writers. For me, I know that practicing flash over the years has made me a “tighter” writer. I’ve become sensitive to unnecessary words. When I started writing longer narratives, my tight writing evolved into text which is “active, engaging and easy to consume.”
Practicing writing short can influence what you write at length.
In fact, the executive director of National Novel Writing Month, Grant Faulkner, is also the editor of “100 Word Story.” He wrote an opinion piece for “The New York Times” called, “Going Long. Going Short.” It’s worth reading in its entirety. I took away this gem from his article as it seems relevant to those of us writers who connect within online communities:
“Such evocative, fragmentary brevity makes this Twitter and Facebook era perfect for flash fiction. Flash allows literature to be a part of our everyday life, even if we are strange multitasking creatures addled by a world that demands more, more, more. ” ~Grant Faulkner
Making literature a part of everyday life is another goal of Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction. Each week, all the responses to the current challenge are gathered and published in a compilation. That compilation is shared across the social media channels to be read. Together, as writers, we are making literature available as we practice our craft.
Writers can follow Grant Faulkner (@grantfaulkner) and 100 Word Stories (@100word_story) on Twitter. You can also submit 100 word flash to “100 Word Story.” The online publication offers a monthly photo prompt and has a lengthy list of journals where you can submit your flash. What you craft here can give you a jump start on journal entries and contests, not to mention the benefit of weekly practice. It can open your mind to creative possibilities.
Onto the prompt! It is spring, yes it is spring! I once rode in an old Ford truck across a ranch in southeastern Minnesota with a woman who had been raising beef cattle with her husband for over 40 years. A unique feature of the ranch is that it straddles a state park famous for its pristine hills and vales that follow a fresh limestone river. It’s one of the few places that you can fly-fish trout in Minnesota. It’s also home to an impressive display of spring flowers. This woman shared with me an interesting observation, though. She said, “The white flowers always bloom first.” It reminds me of innocence and resurrection, often associated with white flowers. So many possibilities open to your interpretation.
April 9, 2014 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that includes white flowers. Respond by noon (PST) Tuesday, April 15 to be included in the compilation. My contribution follows and I hope yours does, too!
The Sprig by Charli Mills
His hand reached for the sprig of white flowers dainty among the first shoots of green. The cattle returned early to high Sierra pastures. Skinny from winter, they weren’t much to look at with hides black as a crow’s wing. No, not like a crow’s wing, he thought, as he lay staring at white flowers like a lover’s nosegay. Black Angus hides are tinted red like the beard of a Highlander. Like his ancestors, he had come to steal from the herd. Only now he lay face down in the pastures, gut-shot, reaching for the sprig fine and gay.
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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.
Musical Inspirations
April 2, 2014 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that quotes from a song’s lyrics (could be a classical aria, a rock & roll song, anything).
Flash Fiction by Pete
Rolling down the highway, like a rocket. Headed to town and leaving a trail of trash flying in our wake. There was no time to put the top up. I turn around to tell my wife to hang in there, her face recoils in pain, her tawny hair swirling in the wind. I grasp the wheel, swerving to miss the oncoming truck. The horn blares, the tires scorch across the yellow lines, leaving tread on the road. I can taste the dessert. The speedometer needle drifts to the right, shoving the fuel needle towards the floor. Miles to go.
Based on the lyrics to “Son’s Gonna Rise” by Citizen Cope.
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Vagaries of Time by Norah Colvin
She rubbed the grimy pane, squinting to peer inside.
It was all boarded up now with chairs stacked haphazardly on tabletops and piled in corners decorated with cobwebs.
On one side stood the jukebox covered in dust.
Suddenly she was back in his arms, their bodies pressed tightly together, swaying to Mick singing “time is my side”. They thought they would be young and in love like this forever.
“Hmmhmm! You okay, Miss?”
“Yes,” she stammered, embarrassed.
She stumbled down the steps, smiling as the words in her head became Van’s “precious time is slipping away…”
(Based on “Time is by My Side” by the Rolling Stones and “Precious Time” by Van Morrison.)
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Dreams and Debris by Sarah Brentyn
Sitting next to the bonfire, I read the words I wrote when I still believed. Better days were ahead. Success awaited me. Love would find me.
Flipping through pages, I watch my handwriting change. Ugly scribbles fill the diary toward the end where I wrote about the things that were lost and the things that were never found. I want to remember, to feel something. But I can’t hold on. Bits of my life flutter in and out of my head and these memories lose their meaning. I toss the book into the flames and walk into the lake.
(The Beatles “In My Life”)
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A New Day by Paula Moyer
Un bel di – the words from Puccini’s Madama Butterfly haunted Jean. “Un bel di vedremo” – one fine day he’ll come, the heroine Cio-Cio San sang as she waited by the window, for years, for her beloved to return. And then, one fine day, she got it. “I want to be as little like Cio-Cio San as possible,” she announced. She would stop waiting. Today. She picked up the phone and dialed with a cold hand. When he answered, she said, “It’s over. It has been for awhile. I release you.” He gasped. She laughed. She started her new life.
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The Long Winding Road by Ruchira Khanna
The clock strikes 5pm. Lenard cleans up the mess and brings down the shutters of his shop, and starts to walk home.
Comes to a halt when he reaches a bifurcation, stares at that road with the hope to get a glimpse of her.
He longs for her and wishes that this were just a dream where he is away from his love since he has cried for her company.
The journey so far has been long and tedious without her presence since her smiles still haunt him, as he stands alone in a long winding road of life.
——
Based on the lyrics of “The Long and Winding Road”
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Virgil Kane is My Name by Charli Mills
I says to my wife, there goes them no-good McCanlesses. Me, I’m out plowing the field them Yankees trampled after murdering Cap’t Morgan. Stoneman’s cavalry. Bah! Bunch of thieving turncoats, I say. “You leave Tennessee,” I shouts at them. Their wagons creak but they say nothin’ to me. Old man Cobb McCanless slumps in his wagon seat. Hope he feels a fool having to flee Tennessee. He was my school teacher once. Old man Cobb. A poet. Virgil Kane is my name and I rode on the Danville train. Until Cobb’s sons came and tore up them tracks again.
Based on lyrics from “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down.”
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New challenge posted every Wednesday on Carrot Ranch Communications!
April 2: Flash Fiction Challenge
Already this is our fifth flash fiction challenge! It’s exciting to see both returning writers and new writers weekly. By now, I hope that those of you who have discovered 99-word flash have benefited from practicing this form. Last week’s responses are posted in “Flash Fiction: It’s Just the Wind.”
Flash fiction can open up creativity–in addition to clever, chilling and funny flash, I’ve also read several comments that include word play. Thus a sign that flash creativity is alive and well.
According to Writers Digest (.com), “And no matter what you write, stringent word limits can challenge and sharpen your skills in ways that can improve even your long-form work.” The concision of flash is poetry-like and although I’m not a poet, I have found that practicing short form makes my longer prose tighter and full of imagery.
You can write any genre in flash which can help you explore a new genre or develop a new idea in a genre you already pursue. Some genres even have organizations that encourage flash, such as the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America, which accepts submissions of flash fiction in 500 to 1,000 words. Even if science fiction is not your genre, the organization accepts different genres and pays $50 for published flash. Something for you to consider.
Last week we had a poem in 99 words that deftly interpreted the prompt. Feel free to take such poetic license especially in April as America celebrates, Poetry Month. Scholastic offers resources and links for poets of all ages and levels if you are interested in exploring poetry.
One of our regular writers, Paula Moyer, posted an idea for a prompt. That’s the kind of interaction between writers that I’m hoping this weekly challenge will foster. So if you have ideas, too, just let me know! Here is our prompt for the week.
April 2, 2014 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that quotes from a song’s lyrics ( could be a classical aria, a rock & roll song, anything). Respond by noon (PST) Tuesday, April 8 to be included in the compilation. My contribution follows and I hope yours does, too!
Virgil Kane is My Name by Charli Mills
I says to my wife, there goes them no-good McCanlesses. Me, I’m out plowing the field them Yankees trampled after murdering Cap’t Morgan. Stoneman’s cavalry. Bah! Bunch of thieving turncoats, I say. “You leave Tennessee,” I shouts at them. Their wagons creak but they say nothin’ to me. Old man Cobb McCanless slumps in his wagon seat. Hope he feels a fool having to flee Tennessee. He was my school teacher once. Old man Cobb. A poet. Virgil Kane is my name and I rode on the Danville train. Until Cobb’s sons came and tore up them tracks again.
Based on lyrics from “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down.”
###
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.
Flash Fiction: It’s Just the Wind
March 26, 2014 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that includes the phrase, “It’s just the wind.”
It’s Just the Wind by Georgia Bell
I pressed my forehead to the window, the cold glass soothing against my flushed skin. How long had I stared down at the sidewalk, waiting for something – for someone – to be the change I couldn’t initiate? How long had I been sitting here, wanting and needing and not acting?
I felt him standing behind me. His silence as loud as the words he wouldn’t say. I didn’t turn, but flinched as the window rattled in the frame.
“It’s just the wind,” he said, and I nodded, closing my eyes, hope burning as hot as the tears on my face.
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Red-faced Relief by Paula Moyer
Jean was alarmed. As she opened the registers at work, she could not escape it. Pain in her lower abdomen – not the hallmark, lower right, could-this-be-appendicitis pain, but instead in her lower left. It was so sharp, she could hardly walk. Her faithful husband arrived when called, and tenderly escorted her to the car. At the ER, the attending physician suspected a kidney stone that had gotten stuck in her ureter. Urine sample, test upon test. The last imaging study was inconclusive. Then Jean went to the restroom. She emerged relieved but sheepish. “It’s just the wind,” she said.
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The Darn Door by Ruchira Khanna
The door gets shaken now and then as if someone is trying to push it open.
Leo is trying to focus on his work thus ignores it by murmuring repeatedly, “It’s just the wind.”
His constant persuasion makes him complete the file, and as he pushes himself up from the chair, he hears a loud bang with a body falling on the floor.
Devastated Leo rushes to the figure that wants to speak but nothing can be transcribed. Finally, the man breathes his last.
Leo’s eyes are moist yet curious as he stares at the door that is motionless.
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It’s Just the Wind by Susan Zutautus
Bitterly cold
Turning fingers white, noses red
It’s just the wind
Sending shivers down my spine
Something rushes by
It’s just the wind,
Rain pounding
Trees thrashing about
It’s just the wind
Were those men whistling at me?
As I walked down the street
It’s just the wind
Forceful destructive
Strong enough to knock you down
It’s just the wind
Gusts travelling at a hundred miles an hour
Leaving many without power
It’s just the wind
Changes in speed and direction
Causing tornadoes
It’s just the wind
Dust sweeping across the desert
Gritty sand everywhere
It’s just the wind
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It’s Just the Wind by Norah Colvin
Her crumpled body pressed tightly into the corner; she willed herself a part of it.
He was coming to get her.
His tendril-like fingers scratched the window pane, prised up the screen, tore down the blind, demanded entry.
With her eyes clamped shut, the images took charge: too terrifying to forget, too horrible to remember.
He’d never let her be.
His powerful hands pummelled the door, jangled the handle, wrenched it free.
Hands blocking her ears failed to exclude the menacing howl.
“There’s no escape.”
Her screams found voice.
“Hush,” they soothed the quivering mass. “It’s just the wind.”
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Waiting for Company by Charli Mills
Each morning, Lilith shuffles across pale pink linoleum to brew coffee. “Be ready for company,” Pa would say. After much gurgling, the pot radiates an aromatic invitation. If it’s strong enough, maybe the new neighbors who bought Johnson’s old Black Bear Ranch will visit. Sitting alone at her Formica table Lilith dabs at a sugar cube in her cup. Her wrinkled eyes close, recalling old sounds. Scuffs of cowboy boots. How black-brew tinkled when poured into enamel cups. The rumblings of male chatter from the wooden porch. A board creaks and Lilith’s heart stirs. Company? It’s just the wind.
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New challenge posted every Wednesday on Carrot Ranch Communications!
March 26: Flash Fiction Challenge
Last week’s challenge rounded up seven new stories of flash fiction. Reader responses are holding steady, too. You can read each week’s posted stories in one convenient place on the Carrot Ranch blog or you can read individual posts as they are submitted on the Carrot Ranch Communications Facebook page. If the responses are posted at the writer’s blog, I link to that blog through Twitter, Facebook and Google+. Lots of sharing!
Last week, I looked into the issue of “duplicate content.” A hearty buckaroo “thank you” to a friend and fellow colleague with whom I’ve built websites with for other companies. She helped me interpret the confusing, sometimes contradictory information about that particular topic in relation to search engine rankings. Carrot Ranch is compiling submissions for the ease of readership and includes link-backs to submitting blogs. We feel that this is acceptable.
However, if you are concerned about duplicate content, simply respond in the comments! In fact, several of our writers do just that. If you have a blog, a link-back can still be included in the compilation or FB page listing. This is meant to be creative fun for both writers and readers. We aren’t selling or buying anything here. It’s an opportunity for writers to practice craft within a supportive, friendly environment and for readers to discover and interact with new talent.
So, that’s house-keeping for the week–appropriate as it’s the season of spring cleaning.
Each week, I also want to include something practical for writers whether its a tip for flash or a place to submit writing. We all know that writers have to write. If you play piano, the more you practice, the better you get. Same with writing. You can think of writing flash fiction as playing scales. Or it can be the beginning riff of a new song you compose. Several readers have responded to flash fiction saying, “I want to read more of the story!” Your flash can develop into a new project for you.
What kind of project? Well, here’s one I’m excited about and according to social media hits, so are a lot of other writers: the Amtrak Residency. Between March 17, 2014 and March 31, 2015, Amtrak will select up to 24 writers for a train-ride residency. How cool is that? Selection is on a rolling basis, so there is no “deadline” per say, but the earlier you apply, horse-sense says the better.
Yet, some writers don’t like one of the terms. Whatever you submit in your application, Amtrak will retain the right to use that content. What this means is that Amtrak wants to use good content to promote the quality of their program. Just be thoughtful about what you submit. For example, if you’d like to use the residency to work on your novel, don’t actually submit pages from your novel. Submit a well-crafted short story or essay. And how do you get an idea for writing such? Practice flash fiction weekly! See, it has it’s benefits.
Okay, onto the prompt. The wind is moaning like a gang of ghosts today, reverberating through my office windows. Wind can be pact with emotion–it can feel haunting or exciting. It can recall memories or stimulate the imagination. Wind is our prompt, today.
March 26, 2014 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that includes the phrase, “It’s just the wind.” Respond by noon (PST) Tuesday, April 1 to be included in the compilation. May your writing lead to happy trails! (Or an Amtrak train ride.)
Waiting for Company by Charli Mills
Each morning, Lilith shuffles across pale pink linoleum to brew coffee. “Be ready for company,” Pa would say. After much gurgling, the pot radiates an aromatic invitation. If it’s strong enough, maybe the new neighbors who bought Johnson’s old Black Bear Ranch will visit. Sitting alone at her Formica table Lilith dabs at a sugar cube in her cup. Her wrinkled eyes close, recalling old sounds. Scuffs of cowboy boots. How black-brew tinkled when poured into enamel cups. The rumblings of male chatter from the wooden porch. A board creaks and Lilith’s heart stirs. Company? It’s just the wind.
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