Home » Posts tagged '#roughwriters'
Tag Archives: #roughwriters
Color me something new, something bold. Color over the mistakes and past regrets. Pick up a brush and paint bold strokes, flashy colors. This is a time to refresh.
Writers met the challenge with colorful stories full of emotion, surprise, horror and humor. All the paint cans opened to reveal a rainbow collection.
The following are based on the June 27, 2019, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that involves paint.
PART I (10-minute read)
Charli’s Starlings by Chelsea Owens
No one knew where the starlings came from. One day, the sidewalks and light posts and old brick buildings were bare; the next, they were scattered with flight.
Up and down Shelden Avenue elderly friends stopped their morning walk and children pointed and pulled at parents’ pants.
Winged, irridescent forms swooped up a wall. Yellow-beaked stills observed from flower pots. A proud male perched atop an awning.
Passersby soon realized that, lifelike as the birds were, they existed solely as pictures. For one woman, that mattered little.
She kissed her paint-stained fingertips in fond farewell, turned, and headed home.
Three Mistakes by Tony Amore
“The first mistake,” he says, “is not loading your brush with enough paint.” Nodding, I steady the ladder as my father works deep blue where wall meets vaulted ceiling.
“The second is pulling and dragging,” he looks down gauging how much attention is being paid Glasses perched at the edge of his nose; a bead of sweat hanging there. “Push into the space where the wall meets the ceiling,” he insists. “Push don’t pull.”
He teeters and jerks slapping a blue smudge across pure whiteness. Dabbing it with a damp rag, he notes the third is not being tall.
Paint on a Smile by Richard Dee
Mom used to say, “whatever life throws at you, paint on a smile and get on with it.”
Easy to say. Not so easy to do. Stood in front of the mirror, eyes blackened from too many tears, the memories still fresh, the smell of him not yet gone.
“C’mon,” the voice of Mom had been replaced by the voice I knew so well. “I’m not here and staying in won’t bring me back.”
I opened the drawer, the paint was all there, in bottles and tubes.
I had his blessing; it was time to face the world again.
Perfect Paint Product by Tien Skye
I looked at the botched paint job. I could have hired professionals but I insisted on doing it myself. I started scrapping away at the paint and started sobbing.
“What are you doing, son?”
“That was a lousy paint job and I just want to repaint it!”
He frowned as he processed my blubbering. “You want to repaint the entire wall because of that small mistake? Besides, the table goes there and it will cover up that section.”
“I want a perfect job! I just can’t let it go!”
He stared at me for a moment. “Can’t? Or won’t?”
Paint by Pete Fanning
Painting with my son is messy. Mom makes him put on too-small clothes. I change too. Once we’re sufficiently hideous, it’s to the backyard—to whatever we’ve thrown together from pallets I’ve brought home. Birdhouses, treasure boxes, last time I built a planter.
We slap it on thick, until paint is slathered on our knees and we’re picking it from our fingers. I try to teach him to go with the grain of the wood, but my son is an against-the-grain type of guy.
I like that about him. He’s not afraid to make mistakes.
He’s taught me so much.
Challenge Accepted by Ruchira Khanna
“I dare you!” he said with a snort and arms on his hips.
“I accept the challenge!”
Now ‘have to wait for the right moment!
Soon sleep encroached my athletic brother who had come home after playing a game of soccer in the scorching sun.
I was quick to collect my mom’s cosmetics and tiptoe in his room, and the process of painting started.
I painted the foundation gently on his tanned face with a brush; created a mole on his left upper lip with a liquid eyeliner; the Cindy Crawford style! Then concluded with painting, his lips red.
Natural Beauty by Susan Sleggs
The bride stared at herself in the hotel room mirror, horrified. Her soon-to-be mother-in-law had insisted they go for a makeover. They had their hair painted with highlights and their faces painted to clown level, or so the bride felt as she never wore make-up. She and her fiancé were naturalists, working and playing in the wilderness.
The door flew open, her benefactress strode in and handed her make-up removal towelettes. “My insistence you look like me was wrong. I apologize; we have enough time to get you back to natural, how my son loves you.”
“Thank you. Mom.”
White Washing by Sally Cronin
One angry brush stroke at a time, the old man painted across the words on his neighbour’s garden gate,
They were a lovely family, who had been kind to him since they been granted asylum three years ago, and moved in next door. Having recently lost his wife he had been lonely, but they invited him in each Sunday for dinner, did his shopping when he was ill and the father often popped around for a chat after work.
The least he could do in return was to white wash over this mean spirited graffiti before they discovered it.
A Green Field by JulesPaige
In the room she never wanted, in the house too far from friends, Essie was allowed to paint one wall. It didn’t make up for not being included in what should have been a family decision. At least that’s how she saw it. So she took her time with her artistic eye spreading green.
To add insult to injury, Essie’s father was impatient that his youngest was taking so long. “It’s not rocket science,” he shouted!
Knowing that Essie would never win, all she could do was plot her escape. In the room that would now be her sanctuary.
Art Class 101—Portrait Painting by Norah Colvin
The task completed, he took a fresh sheet of paper and sketched the teacher with an enormous warty chin and hair sprouting like an unravelling steel wool pad. He added her name and then, with a flourish, his. He nudged his neighbour whose stifled guffaws drew attention. When the teacher investigated, only the task was visible.
Behind the papers, the portrait remained forgotten at class end. Until discovered by the teacher.
Later, having no satisfactory explanation, he was sentenced to weeks of lunchtimes painting bricks.
Years later, when he was a famous cartoonist, they delighted in telling his story.
The Girl on the Bridge by TN Kerr
Stavo picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder
the cans rattled together, they shifted in the sack
Tonight he carried mostly blues, greens, yellows, and greys
He took the path through the park, from his van to the bridge
His canvas was already chosen so he promptly set to work
Shaking each can before use
Ducking down as cars passed
He painted a portrait of Caledonia
The young girl with colourful corkscrew hair and full, lush lips
He never sold his work
Just put it out- to be loved or hated
By whoever happened across it
The Muse by Pratibha
It did not surprise me anymore, this struggle between holding on and letting go. It has started recently, but I had felt myself giving it more thought with every stroke. It was his doing; I wanted to scream but did not want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he could provoke me.
I stepped back to look at the painting.
Earlier, I was bolder in colors and the grandness of the scenes, while he taught me to add the details. The muse had become the teacher I was not ready to please. He still demanded it all.
Paint by Anita Dawes
I’m ten years old; it’s the middle of Summer.
My father gives me a bucket of whitewash,
a large paintbrush, telling me to paint the front fence.
The only thing on my mind is the cool blue lake, my friends waiting.
That’s where I should be. Not being used like a work horse
I’m a kid; I need fun before I’m old.
I stood in front of our fence, trying to make my arm work,
then it came to me.
Give everyone something to talk about.
Paint a lake scene.
Dad wondered why folk were looking at our fence…
Painting Clouds by Colleen Chesebro
I measured the pigments into the old jelly jar using an ancient long handled spoon used only for my spell casting rituals. Slowly, I dribbled rain water from the last storm into the vessel and stirred with a clockwise motion. My eyes snapped shut as the colors swirled behind my lids pulsing with a life energy that desired recognition.
The contents of the jar spewed forth in a magnificent arc of light gracefully materializing into the shape of a rainbow – a manifestation of the divine. I smiled, content to paint the clouds with the stuff dreams are made of.
Painting the Butterflies by Anne Goodwin
On the fifth day, God created the birds and beasts. But, as midnight loomed, he still hadn’t started on the invertebrates, so he delegated them to the angels. The angels, however, were too ham-fisted to paint the delicate wings of the moths and butterflies, so they handed over the brushes and paint pots to the elves. All the colours of the spectrum, apart from dark green, which ran out painting the rainforest on the third day. It was a minute to midnight when they checked God’s list, which is why the dark green fritillary is primarily orange and black.
It’s Not About The Paint by Geoff Le Pard
‘You decorating, Logan?’
‘I was fed up with the colour.’
‘I always thought it was one of those pretentious ‘white with a hint of snot’ thingies.’
‘It was Forest Dapple.’
‘You’re kidding? Which bit of that “yesterday’s cappuccino” effect was forest and which dapple?’
‘You’re right, it was just brown. Now it’s Sunshine Glory.’
‘But a really deep and inspiring yellow that speaks to love and harmony.’
‘Sort of lemony, then?’
‘Why don’t you decorate your flat rather than scoff.’
‘I plan to, tonight but I’m going much bigger than my flat.’
‘I’m painting the town red.’
Evening by Joanne Fisher
“Let’s go out tonight and paint the town red!” exclaimed Zana.
Krystal smiled. When Zana mentioned painting the town red, she sometimes meant it literally, given her proclivities.
“You planning to go out and have fun, or go on a killing spree again?” Krystal asked.
“The two aren’t mutually exclusive.” Zana pointed out.
“Yes, but killing loads of people ends up being rather messy doesn’t it? Maybe we should just stay in and order some room service.” Krystal suggested.
“Now that’s a great idea! The staff here look very tasty!” said Zana enthusiastically.
Krystal rolled her eyes and sighed.
Paint Chips by Bill Engleson
“They look–so colourful.”
“Thank’s. That’s precisely the reaction we’ve been seeking. Try a few.”
“There’s quite a selection, isn’t there? Its hard to choose.”
“They look appealing, don’t they? That’s all a result of our community consultation. Our WORLD consultation, really.”
“The world, huh?”
“Our oyster, so to speak. From the get-go, we were out to corner the market.”
“Wow! Ambitious! And all of it based on a person’s colour personality?”
“You betcha. Very scientific. The four key elements, earth, air, fire, water, the primary colours, our magnificent colour wheel…”
“Yet, they’re just potato chips?”
“Crunchy, colourful and delicious.”
Independence Paint by Frank Hubeny
The hot afternoon brought a sinister cloud extending across the western horizon that painted the sky behind it dark. From the distance of our heroes on Earth they could not estimate its speed, but they knew it would be upon them at any moment.
“That is the largest alien vessel I have ever seen! It covers the sky.”
“It’s a storm cloud. We need to reach shelter before the downpour.”
“It’s part of the rebellion to liberate the universe from the evil empire. They want our planet as a base of operations.”
“I hope not.”
Then the aliens landed.
Paints of Peace by H.R.R. Gorman
“Dance well.” I stroke my fingers across my son’s cheeks, drawing symbols to praise the creator. “Please the gods and praise their creation.” The white paint of peace applied, I clean my fingers then swirl them in a blue paint made of crushed berries and buffalo fat. This will remain smooth through the day while the white clay cracks and falls. I hope my paints strengthen him throughout the ceremony.
“It is excellent, mother.” My son in his ceremonial clothing exits the tent.
A white soldier frowns and, through the translator, growls, “Why are you painted up for war?”
Home to Say Goodbye by Kay Kingsley
I sat and let out the exhale I’d been holding in for years. Coming back home didn’t mean I had a home to come back to. It’s not like it was, anyhow. My parent’s death shattered our family scattering us kids, we abandoned the only home we’d known.
Quietly she called at first, then stronger, she beckoned.
In two weeks, eminent domain would swallow her whole and I think she needs to grieve, we both do. So, we visit in the sun as I scratch at her paint flakes and thank her for calling me home to say goodbye.
PART II (10-minute read)
The Interview by The Dark Netizen
Thank you sir, for agreeing to do this interview.
“That’s okay. Let’s get on with it.”
Sure, sir. Before beginning, any message for your fans?
“It’s just a medium I’m adding. I’ve always spoken to my fans through my paintings.”
Of course. They are definitely most expressive. What is the secret behind your unusually emotive paintings?
“It’s the water I use.”
Wow! Is it imported from a secret place?
“Imported? No. My tears give my paint their magic. Earlier, when I was a poor nobody, they were tears of sadness. Today, they are tears of joy and satisfaction…”
Born This Way by Tina Stewart Brakebill
What would he say when he saw them? Sparkly and pink, they matched her t-shirt and her lip gloss. Or would have, if she’d been brave enough to wear lip gloss. Baby steps. That’s her plan. Painted nails today. Maybe painted lips next week.
What was she so afraid of? She needed to live her true life. She needed to tell him! And she would. Soon.
Still, she remembered his menacing tone before last year’s talent show. “No son of mine is going to strut around like a painted whore!”
So, less Britney. And more … what?
Pretty in Pink by Annette Rochelle Aben
I had never had my nails done professionally. But since I was now a female business executive, who did a lot of public speaking, it was suggested that I spruce up the ends of my fingers.
The nail tech was chatty and did a great job! We chose a bright shade of deep pink polish and everything was perfect.
She admonished me to use the side of my finger to open my car door, lest I break the new nails.
Sheepishly, I walked back into the salon a few minutes later. Smiling, she said, “I’ve been waiting for you.”
House Painting 101 by Nancy Brady
Julia always liked bold, bright colors, and she was tired of having walls of cream, beige, or off-white year after year. Just this once, she and her husband picked jewel tone colors for their new home.
The living room was now midnight blue; the kitchen, burgundy, and the bedrooms, cypress green; even the den was turquoise. Still, the baseboards were painted white to match the ceilings.
Their friends and family were shocked by the boldness. “How will you ever be able cover over the paint? If you decide to sell the house?”
“We won’t,” they said. “Our heirs will.”
Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time by Liz HusebyeHartmann
We’d started with a couple buckets of ice blocks, and another couple with dried ice. These’d cool down the backyard while creating thick fog in our North Minneapolis back yard. Full sun, tropical temps; we’d lost a bar bet around nude sunbathing in a semi-public place.
Friends showed up to gloat, but brought their own buckets of ice…and craft beer. We decided to paint our side of Mrs. McCready’s ugly adjoining fence, Tom Sawyer style. Fog to cover from neighbors’ prying eyes, ice to keep things cool. Brilliant!
Seemed like a good idea …
Wish we’d remembered sunblock.
Paint and Bells (Part I) by D. Avery
Marge leaned down to speak with Ilene through the rolled down window of the El Camino.
“I’m heading out to get some paint.”
“Hop in Marge, I’ll drive.”
Marge’s maneuver was more of a plop than a hop but she did fit herself into the El Camino.
“I was headed to the hardware store myself, Marge. Wedding supplies.”
“Won’t be any wedding until I’ve finished painting the boys’ handiwork.”
“Painting. Just a letter switch away from waiting.”
“That’d be wainting, wordsmith.”
“Wainting– when one wants and waits and wants to wait at the same time; wainting. A dreadful condition.”
Paint and Bells (Part II) by D. Avery
“What’s going on Marge? You taking your Paxil?”
“This is a big change, Ilene.”
“Marrying the man you’ve been living with? Marge, nothing’s going to change except that you’ll make Ernest so happy.”
“Will Mr. Biggs be happy if I don’t take his last name? That’s a change. Ilene, I’ve been Small my whole life.”
Ilene looked sidelong at her friend. Marge was contorted on the bench seat that was pulled forward so that Ilene could reach the controls.
“Hyphenate, both of you. Small-Biggs, Biggs-Small…Marge, it’s all good. And if you want, I’ll help paint.”
“Waint that be nice.”
Paint and Bells (Part III) by D. Avery
“Jeez, Ilene, put the seat back so I can get out.”
Ilene was already out and taking measurements the El Camino bed. “Oops, sorry Ms. Small, I forgot you’re too Biggs for this vehicle.”
“Only when you have the seat crammed into the dashboard, Ms. Higginbottom. Let me drive on the way back. What’s with the measuring?”
“You put me in charge of decorating. You’ll have to wait and see.”
While Marge got her paint Ilene picked up a rectangular blow-up kiddie pool. She would transform the El Camino into the largest beer cooler the gang had ever seen.
Repainted Landscape by Ann Edall-Robson
It had been two years, but Tal remembered the day vividly. A wall of smoke and flames coming towards the ranch. Neighbours banding together to do what they could before everyone was told to leave. And then the wind changed in their favour.
Tal stood beside his horse looking out over the valley at the still visible aftermath of that raging firestorm. The healing shades of green across the land accentuated the shards of brown-black. Haunting sentinels of burned trees left behind with the scorched fencing. The blatant reminder of Mother Nature’s power to repaint her landscape, anytime.
Dream House by tracey
She felt like Myrna Loy in “Mr. Blandings Builds his Dream House” as she recited paint colors to the contractor.
“I am still figuring out my office”, she confessed. It felt terribly important to get the color exactly right in the room she would spend the most time in.
Since she couldn’t even narrow down a color family she was going by name now. She wanted something literary like ‘Writer’s Retreat’ or ‘Chapter and Verse’.
She flipped through the paint chips and read ‘All Your Dreams’. The palest of pinks, more of a rosy cream. Her future in paint.
A Coat of Paint by Abhijit
There was agreement that the room needed a fresh coat of paint. Disagreement was on the choice of color. Daughter wanted a pink color. Mother wanted a yellow or a white, a color that was bright. Father preferred green, the color of almighty, but also a wanted consensus. As controller of purse string, father had hoped that his wish would prevail.
Time passed. Consensus eluded. Father passed away. Daughter got a job and moved to a different city. Property changed hand.
Today, standing before the brightly painted two storey building, their old home, the memory of earlier times flashed.
Protest in Paint by Floridaborne
I loved my home on a half acre in the rolling hills of North Carolina with a fenced-in yard. It was 1979, and hubby did his job so well, they didn’t need him any longer.
It was easy for an engineer to find another job, and our home sold in a month, but the cost of housing in Wisconsin gave us few choices. At that time, homeowner’s associations were not common. We didn’t know until the day of the signing that we couldn’t have a fence.
In protest, I painted my home psychedelic green. It glowed in the dark.
New Paint by Joanne Fisher
“Has he gone colour blind?” My aunt asked.
We had just pulled up at my dad’s house and seen the new paint job. His entire house was now a rather shocking turquoise colour. A colour I had never liked. Still it had always been his favourite, and I wondered why.
I was now living in Christchurch so it had been a few months since I had seen the house, and now the entire family was coming here for Christmas. They ended up being as mortified as we were.
Dad was his usual self and dismissed our opinions with kindness.
Golden Snowdrops by Valerie Fish
It said on the tin ‘Golden Snowdrops’; he said it looks like vomit.
Painting a room two weeks away from your due date is no bundle of fun, making me feel nauseous, and last night hadn’t helped.
I’d been nagging him for weeks to decorate the nursery, when I dared to mention it again yesterday, I should have known what was coming…
‘Why can’t you do it?’ he bellowed. ‘You’ve nothing better to do now you’re home all day.’
Then the punch came.
I fear for myself and my unborn baby.
Tomorrow I’ll go and get some more paint.
War Paint by Deborah Lee
Caroline peers over Jane’s shoulder at Jane’s reflection in the mirror, her breath hot. “Why doll yourself up?” she says. “You’re not going to find a boyfriend here.”
Janes snaps the compact shut. “I’m not here for a boyfriend. I’m here because it’s my job.”
The restroom door slams shut as Caroline huffs out. One step closer to fired, Jane thinks.
It’s not a job, it’s a war zone. War zones require war paint. Magical protection: It’s not blush, it’s a shield. Transformation: Look like who you want them to think you are.
Maybe she should buy some woad.
Something Different (from Miracle of Ducks) by Charli Mills
“Want some paint for that brush?” Danni smiled, remembering. Her brushing a mammoth tusk, Ike standing at the edge of the mud with his fishing pole. The first time they met.
A wet nose nudged her hand while she cleaned shards and the paint brush flew from her grip. It dropped to the concrete of the barn floor. “Det, you are a pesky hound.” She patted the dog and picked up the brush. Maybe she should paint.
If Ike wanted to do something different, then she would too. Danni left for the hardware store to pick out cheerful yellows.
Meditations by Sascha Darlington
There’s meditation in painting. The up-and-down strokes whether with a brush or a roller. Up and down.
I didn’t tell my family Scott left me.
Cornflower blue, up and down.
They never liked him, although they pretended, because that’s what you do for family.
Apply masking tape around baseboard. Paint the baseboard: white.
“You’re family’s overwhelming. You’re overwhelming.”
I use a smaller brush, which takes longer without the mess.
I still hear the slam of the screen door, the Metallica song wailing over his car speakers when he started the engine: “Nothing Else Matters.”
He won’t be back.
War Paint by Kelley Farrell
Lilli plopped two tubes of lipstick down in front of her mother.
“Red for strength and energy.” Her mom admired the purple tube and cherry red lipstick.
“Black to signal you’ve been here before.” At this her mother frowned.
“You know I don’t like you wearing black lipstick.” Lilli rolled her eyes and huffed.
“Mom, I really think black lipstick is the least of the problems here. Besides, you need war paint to show the cancer who’s boss.”
Lilli’s mom tucked the black tube into her pocket.
“I’ll just keep this with me … to show the cancer who’s boss.”
Gardeners by Saifun Hassam
The garden shed was Tanya’s canvas. In summer she painted twining tea roses on one wall. In fall giant bronze chrysanthemums sprawled across another wall. In winter she painted pine needles and acorns on the back. In spring her neighbor Vinnie helped her scrub and wash the walls. She painted pink and purple hyacinths near the door and planned another season of flowers.
Vinnie brought fresh veggies from his garden and Tanya made his favorite casseroles. Their children said they should marry. Vinnie and Tanya grinned. They were seventy, great garden buddies and loved those casseroles. Leave it that.
Smile! by Di @ pensitivity
In our first house, we were fed up with grey walls in our lounge, so decided to buy a large tin of white emulsion and a colour syringe to tone it down a bit when we decorated.
As it turned out, one syringe didn’t do very much to the white so we added another, stirred it all together and set to.
We couldn’t have matched the original colour better if we’d tried. The only difference was the large smiley miley we’d put on the wall behind the stairs before starting which still showed through when the lights were on.
Anhalonium by Kenneth Cahall
At night, Devin painted abstracts. Once, I sat sipping coffee watching him paint. I asked about the unusual smell of his paint. He told me he’d added peyote for that nuclear test site green color and laughed.
His laughter continued but his mouth wasn’t moving. Then Devin, his painting, everything in the living room floor slammed into me. Now Devin and I were in his painting. We could see it in the mirror across the room: Devin holding his paint brush, me holding my coffee mug.
“I like this one better than your others,” I admitted.
“Thanks,” said Devin.
A Painted Poem by Susan Zutautas
I had a picture painted in my mind
But where was I going to find
Someone who completed me
To give them my hearts key
Then one night
My heart took flight
Meeting you, such a delight
I want to paint you a picture in a poem
How long it was, how long I roamed
To find a person that would love me
One who wanted to spend an eternity
The night I met you I started a new life
One year later we became husband and wife
Thirty-two years have now passed
Baby it has been a blast
Painting Passion by Ritu Bhathal
“Mrs Smith, you can come and sit over here.”
I put my book into my bag and sat at the chair indicated by the technician.
“What are we doing today, Mrs Smith?” She smiled at me, awaiting my answer.
“I’d like my nails painted please, Jemima.”
I chose my colour, a deep red, always my favourite.
Red, the colour of passion
Apt for our date night.
It had been a long time since we’d been out together, as a couple.
Usually, it was all about the children, but tonight was for us.
Time needed, to keep the romance alive.
Standing in It by D. Avery
“What’s goin’ on Kid? Why’s all the furniture out here on the porch?”
“Stop right there, Pal. Don’t come in. I decided ta pitch in an’ hep Shorty spruce up the ranch. Decided ta paint the floor of the bunkhouse.”
“Oh, yeah, thet looks real good, Kid. Looks like yer almost finished, too. Jist thet there corner left.”
“It’s gonna be awhile, gittin’ this bit finished.”
“Thet’s ‘cause yer standin’ in it, Kid. Ya done painted yersef inta a corner. Reckon you’ll be waitin’ on the paint ta dry.”
“Yep. Reckon they’s worse things ta have ta wait on.”
Like a kid plotting to cannonball of the diving board at a public swimming pool, sometimes we want to make a big splash. We prepare prepare to leave a memorable immpression. Other times, we trip into the circumstances. We drop the paint or the mic.
Writers didn’t tread in the shallow end of writing this week. They dove in and created waves with stories and words.
The following is based on the June 6, 2019, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that makes a big splash.
PART I (10-minute read)
Soundless by Saifun Hassam
The fountain’s cascading waters glittered in the sunlight. Mallards splashed in the lake. Children chased each other past the benches.
He drank in the sight of a graceful swan and its two cygnets gliding in the lake. A gentle breeze carried with it an elusive scent of jasmine and honeysuckle. Kite birds glided lazily in warm summery currents of air.
He sat in his wheelchair, an unforgettable first day at the park this summer. Not a sound came to him. He had always been deaf, and he would use those lessons of life to learn to live with paralysis.
Feeding Frenzy? by JulesPaige
My brain cannot comprehend where this intermittent Manna comes from.
The serenity of the opaque surface is broken in what some would call dreamscape.
Sometimes in little bits, other times too big.
I care not that I share space with would be siblings.
Those too afraid to part from schools.
I will wave my appendages, push through from underneath.
With all my energy focused on receiving this heavenly gift.
Though, I am wary of baited hooks, lines, and sinkers.
I will feed myself, and grow to spawn.
I will make a splash, not knowing or caring who gets wet.
Exercise by Reena Saxena
“Breathe in, breathe out, you’ll be okay.”
“I’ve been doing that all my life, so, don’t give me that crap.”
She sounds offended, so I decide to change the topic.
“Did you see Mrs. Kapoor in hospital on the way?”
“Yeah, I did meet her son, but she is in a coma.”
“There is a difference between living and being alive – We need to exercise goodwill to be humane, willpower to make a big splash, the brain to be counted as intelligent, limbs to remain mobile and the lungs to clear debris from your system and thoughts.
Splash by D. Avery
Dad looked surprised when I said I’d be bringing a friend home after school, but didn’t ask any questions, just grunted and nodded. Permission granted. Same as when I’d tell him I was going to Jimmy’s, or Jimmy’d be sleeping over. Or me and Jimmy’d be up at the quarries.
Dad looked even more surprised when he met Jamie, this sparkling green-eyed girl in bright mismatched clothes. Jimmy had always been a light in our gray lives, a flash of lightning, a comet, but Jamie was a splash of color rich and deep, color new to both of us.
Splash by Floridaborne
Common names change over the years; in the 1980’s Jennifer and Nicole were number one and two on the list.
I met John in 1998. I don’t know which I was more in love with, a huge wedding or the man who would take a mistress two years later with my same name.
“Nicole,” my father said. “Do you want a big splash or a trickle? I’ll put $100 a month into a retirement fund under your name for 30 years.”
I took the wedding. Two children and living with my parents taught me that trickles are under rated.
Lucinda Arrives (from Miracle of Ducks) by Charli Mills
The rumble of a Harley echoed across the valley, crushing the crackle of a nighttime bonfire. Ramona leaned forward on her lawn-chair and asked Michael, “Is that her?”
“Yes, that’d be Lucinda.”
Danni hoped Michael’s tension was excitement. Ever since he visited his aunts last fall, he spoke about the Navajo biologist he met at powwow. Lucinda rode her bike from Red Cliff, Wisconsin to Elmira, Idaho.
Rumbling up Danni’s driveway, the woman dressed in fringed black leather stopped and dismounted. Ramona gaped when Lucinda shook thick black hair from her helmet. “Oh, Michael. She’ll make a big splash.”
Burning Rubber by Sherri Matthews
I heard him before I met him. The throaty rumble of a V8 engine streets away came into view in a blue Dodge Charger with Black Sabbath’s ‘Paranoid’ thudding from his eight track. He gunned past me where I waited with my boyfriend for this, his old high school buddy. Smoke screeched from his tyres as he skidded to a turn and brought the Dodge to a stop one inch from my feet on the sidewalk. A guy built like a truck with long, black hair got out. ‘Hi,’ he grinned, ‘thought you’d like Black Sabbath, being a Limey.’
With a Splash by H.R.R. Gorman
It would help if they didn’t wiggle so much. But boss says it’s cleaner, quieter this way. I do as boss says.
I tie the cinder block to the potato sack full of human refuse, then toss the concrete over the bridge. It hangs in midair.
“No! Don’t do this!” the sack shouts. Damn, he’s undone his gag somehow. I hate it when they do that. Now I have to pick him up and toss him by the legs so he won’t bite me.
He splashes into the canal. I wait ten minutes to confirm the job is done.
News Splash by Norah Colvin
It was splashed all over the front page. There was no hiding it now. Mum and Dad wouldn’t be pleased. They’d cautioned her to be careful. Time. After. Time. And she was. She thought she could handle it. She didn’t need them watching over her every move. She had to be independent sometime. But this front-page catastrophe would be a setback. How could she minimise the damage?
When they came in, Jess faced them bravely.
They looked from her to the paper and back. Jess’s lip quivered. “Sorry.”
“Those headlines look somewhat juicy,” smirked Dad. “More juice?”
The Dirty Apron by Susan Sleggs
My adult son came up beside me and dipped a spoon into the spaghetti sauce I was stirring. “Be careful, the boiling bubbles can pop and splash.”
“I know Mom. I learned that when I was about seven.” He looked at the front of my apron. “Don’t you think you should wash that thing?”
“No.” I pointed to different splashes. “This is gravy from Thanksgiving. This is fudge from Christmas and this is the last time I made sauce.”
“It needs a bath.”
My grandson hugged my legs. “No Daddy, it won’t smell like Grandma if she washes it.”
From a Certain Height by Bill Engleson
From a certain height,
the water below,
as supple as night,
a light winter snow,
from a certain height.
In full cannonball flight,
There’s a crueller tinge,
Blue water, black night,
As you clasp your fringe
In full cannonball flight.
As you plunge the air,
as dawn turns from night,
your essence, aware,
warmed by breaking light
as you plunge the air.
There’s no turning back,
the river awaits,
blue water cracks;
your plummeting fate;
there’s no turning back.
From a certain depth,
Day’s night, nights day,
A curable path
If you’ve lost your way,
From a certain depth.
Treasured Moments by Jo Hawk
My daughter stood at the lake’s edge, trying to skim stones across its surface. As they plunged into the water, I remembered standing on this shore, throwing pebbles to master the skill. My father showed me the proper wrist flick to send a stone bouncing over the glassy expanse. Those rocks inspired my love of geology and my assemblage of semi-precious gems.
As I reached the shoreline, she stooped, selecting another rock from the bowl holding my collection. I gasped. Then I cradled her hand, positioned her wrist to the proper angle, and together we let the beauty fly.
Big Splash by Joanne Fisher
Esther took pride in her swimming. She could move through the water like a torpedo. She reckoned no one was faster than her as she swam through the warm waters building up speed.
Her long dark hair trailed behind her as she sped upwards. She broke through the surface leaping into the air and then diving back under with a big splash. As she plummeted downwards she turned around again and built up speed once more.
Breaking through the surface a second time her silver fish tail gleamed in the sunlight before she disappeared under the water again.
Freedom’s Price by Liz Husebye Hartmann
The Gull cries warning, but Gwyneth is late to work in the Manse’s scullery. She’s agreed to pay off Auntie Shallah’s debts from drink and gambling. Shallah had bet her tailfin; she’s now imprisoned by Pastor Johnson.
Gwyneth steps from the water and sheds her own skin, trading it for the thin blue shift she hides in the cave downstream.
The minister’s boy watches—he’s watched all month. He wants a girl, a magical mermaid for himself.
Gwyneth hastens to the scullery.
He slips in the cave, takes up and sniffs the pelt, still damp and salty, like her.
Selkie Self by Kerry E.B. Black
Seline pines for the sea, fingers pressed to her throat as though strangled without its brine. She spends every moment she can with toes tickled by frothy surf, never misses a sunset when the waters engulf the great orb in their murky depths. Her tears splash its turbulent surface before she returns to her husband, the man who hides her true self and thereby enslaves her.
One day, she’ll find the skin he stole. Then she’ll slide into it like destiny. She won’t look back when she rejoins her selkie sisters, and she’ll never again misplace her true self.
Interstellar Underdrive by Keith Burdon
“Did you ever see the two golden records the humans sent?”
“Yeah, Sounds of Earth, it was my job to listen to them when they landed here.”
“Were they any good?”
“Not particularly, but then they were better than that ‘Do wah diddy diddy’ nonsense. ‘Snapping her fingers and shuffling her feet’ sounds like your first girlfriend Gliese 145.”
“Shut your snarf Camelopardalis! No worse than that Splish Splash rubbish you always used to play.”
“What’s playing next?”
“That one about your mum, you know, the ‘…one eyed, one horned purple people eater.’
“Hey, she only did that once…!”
Mythical Creatures Swimming Pool by Nicole Horlings
It was a hot summer day at Mythical Creatures Swimming Pool, and everyone wanted to cool off. The Loch ness monster was slowly swimming in circles, completely submerged at the bottom of the pool. The phoenix was sunbathing on the patio. The mermaids were flirting with the lifeguard. Leprechauns were selling rainbow ice cream cones for a gold coin each. A couple satyrs were arguing over which radio station should be playing. Bigfoot shyly came out from the bushes, and stepped out onto the driving board. He let out a warning growl, then cannon-balled into the water, splashing everyone.
PART II (ten-minute read)
Gone in a Splash by Ann Edall-Robson
Above the falls, she found what she had heard over the thunderous sound of water hitting water at the bottom of the rocks. A calf straddled over a rock, its Momma bawling on the other side.
Leaving her horse at the water’s edge, Hanna figured if the cow had crossed, she would be all right on foot.
Hanna reached out to the calf at the same time a rope settled over its head. The surprise of help made her turn to look. Losing her balance she went under in a splash, the current carrying her towards the deadly falls.
Maggie and Water by Di @pensitivity101
They say there is nothing more affectionate than a wet dog.
Maggie loves the water, and when she was a pup, we’d drive down to the park every day where she could have a swim in the sea.
She took the groynes as her personal obstacle course, which of course Hubby encouraged.
She went flying over them with ease, until the last when she did a complete somersault and ended up on her back. I was panic stricken, only to find her splashing around in total bliss as the water was quite deep on the side I couldn’t see.
Homey by Gloria McBreen
The box is nice and cold today. The last time Annie put me in here the temperature was not to my liking, and I nearly passed out.
Today, I’m feeling claustrophobic. “Annie, let me out now please.”
But she never listens to me. All she does is look at me with her big blue eyes, and beam her big toothy grin.
I’ll play dead; that usually works. Yes! Here she comes. I love this part. This is where she turns the box upside down, then I make a big splash into my lovely clean fish bowl. Home sweet home.
A Big Splashy Dance by Miriam Hurdle
“Karen, this is unbelievable. We did it. I’m so glad you accepted our invitation.”
“I didn’t know your team, but I know you. We worked well before.”
“Our dance group had been working with the choreographer for six months. Delia got hit with the flu in the last minute. I couldn’t think of calling anyone else.”
“It was delighted to dance with you again.”
“You’re natural, Karen. Just two rehearsals, you were like with us for ages. We made a big splash tonight. Our choreographer would love to have you come on board.”
“I’d like to think about that.”
One Way To Create a Splash! by Ritu Bhathal
“Can I see it? Please!” Julie ran over to Jack, straining to grab the phone.
Jack stretched his arm high up, out of her reach.
Grabbing his sleeve, she tried to bring his arm down. “I need to see the photo!”
“Because I’m not having you sharing awful pictures of me!” She pulled at his arm, her grasp nearing the phone.
Both hands on the handset – it was like a tug-of-war.
“There! Got it!”
One final wrench and it was hers… except it flew out of her hand and landed in the pool with a big splash.
Candidate by Abhijit Ray
“Make noise, a lot of it,” Nikhil’s political advisor said excitedly, “let people know your arrival.”
Nikhil and his advisor were chatting on the way to his party office. There was a buzz that party will announce Nikhil as party candidate for assembly election.
“How?” Nikhil asked his advisor, “help me improve visibility?”
“Give interviews, address public meetings,” said advisor, as he stepped on a banana peel “create a splashhhhh!”
“Created enough splash for a day!” commented Nikhil as he pulled his advisor up from the mud puddle, “hope I do not land on my behind like you!”
A Splashing Good Time by Sally Cronin
Her husband insisted she was incapable of learning to drive, refusing to pay for lessons as a waste of time and money. After seven years she found her own voice, and grateful there were no children to witness her failure, she left. With a new job, cottage and money to make her own way, she passed her driving test first time, and purchased a small car. One day torrential rain filled the drains, creating deep puddles each side of the road. She saw him walking along the pavement. Smiling, she swished passed him, creating a wonderfully drenching big splash.
Big Splash by Robbie Cheadle
How do you see
your life unfolding?
What gives you purpose?
What inspires you
to get up in the morning
and face the day?
Do you care if your actions
leave the surface
of your own life
and that of others
smooth and unmarred?
Or is your ambition to cause
small ripples across
its glassy face?
Do you think it’s important
to make an impact?
To do or say something
that will be noteworthy
and possibly inspire change
to the course of many lives
What is your purpose
To leave an unmarred surface
Or to make a big splash?
Couple Counselling by Anne Goodwin
Laying the printed sheet on the table, she smooths out the creases. “Sorry about your questionnaire.”
“Butterfingers splashed red wine on it,” he says.
Quite a splash. The pink colour-wash obscures half the words.
“He jogged my arm.”
“She hogged the remote.”
“My programme hadn’t finished.”
“She knew kick-off was at eight.”
“Who’d watch football on his wedding anniversary?”
“May I interrupt you a moment?”
They look up like naughty children. “Give us another,” he says. “I won’t let her mess it up again.”
“No need.” I toss the questionnaire in the bin. “We’ve plenty to work on already.”
Front page Splash by Hugh W. Roberts
London, May 1965
All his fears had come true. Had it been worth it? Yes. But here it was splashed all over the front pages of every newspaper.
As a single, 33-year-old, man who had just been elected as a minister of parliament, the woman he had slept with had done all the hard work in persuading him to have a sexual relationship with her. He wondered how long it would be before the police came to arrest him.
As he lay back on the bed, he questioned if there was a parallel universe where heterosexuality was not illegal.
Envy by Violet Lentz
Half-way through Mr. A’s lecture, Evie grabbed the bathroom pass and dashed into the hall.
Without even securing the stall door, she flung herself to the floor in front of the commode. Her empty stomach writhing and heaving against itself. She retched violently, producing only a thick strand of greenish spittle that clung precariously to her lip for what seemed like forever, before splashing silently into the placid waters below.
Just then, the bathroom door swung open.
“Did you see Evie last night? She heard Jocelyn Medgar exclaim. “She was hammered!”
“God I wish I could drink like that!”
Ocean Waves by Susan Zutautas
The waves were splashing against the shore and it was the perfect time for bodysurfing. Sandy just needed to get out a little farther to ride them in. What she wasn’t expecting though was that there was a strong undercurrent and on her second ride in, down she went, under the water, the undertow dragging her across the sand. She felt as if she was about to drown and knew she had to fight her way back to shore. Disorientation caused Sandy to stay underwater not knowing that she was close to shore until she bumped into another person.
Bowing Out by Valerie Fish
Lucy knew exactly the date she was going to depart this mortal world, and she was going out with a bang, she just hadn’t yet decided how.
Slitting her wrists was out; Lucy couldn’t stand the sight of blood; or stick her head in the gas oven as she was all-electric.
The job had to be done properly, nearly but not quite dead wouldn’t do.
The decision was taken out of Lucy’s hands when, so engrossed was she in her dilemma, that she stepped off the pavement into the road straight into the path of the 223 to Uxbridge.
The Dream by tracey
Jan worked on her novel off and on for years, decades. Long off periods: moves, jobs, babies, cancer. But she never totally gave up. She wrote and edited, wrote and edited some more. On her 65th birthday she decided it was finished.
Jan left the book sitting on her desk, printed and bound by the local UPS store. Her granddaughter found it, read it and self-published it on Kindle. Turns out it made a big splash in the mystery genre. Meryl Streep played her heroine in the movie adaptation.
If only Jan had lived to see her wonderful success.
Splash by Anita dawes
I am looking through my rain painted windows
Waterlogged drowned gutters run
with rainbow coloured bubbles
Rain, when pouring, dancing to its own tune
Children finding the best puddles to make a big splash
Returning home to drip rain indoors
Red cheeks, happy faces
Safe in front of warm fires
Snug under cosy blankets
The deluge continues as you gaze
through your kitchen window
The heavens open, turning your garden pond
Into a tidal wave
Gold carp dancing in water lifted
Spinning lights flashing
Golden doubloons dropping
A big splash, smooth water once more
Cup of hot chocolate calling…
Unmannerly Speaking by D. Avery
“Pal, yer goin ta hell in a tote bag.”
“That’s ‘in a hand basket’ Kid.”
“Mebbe yer goin ta hell in a box a rocks.”
“No, Kid, that’s ‘dumber ‘an a box a rocks. Figger ya’d know that idiom.”
“Yer callin’ me a idiom?”
“If ‘n the boot fits.”
“Well, you kin take a long walk off a short pier, Pal. Make a splash.”
“Speakin’ a short peers, how ‘bout thet Shorty? Didn’t useta have a ghost of a chance, now she’s chancin’ upon ghosts an’ rubbin elbows with writin’ idols.”
“An idyllic life!”
“Yer still an idiom, Kid.”
Splash Down by D. Avery
“Hey Shorty. Kid’s up in the Poet-tree agin. Says it flows up there, kin git words down easily.”
“Jist hope Kid also gits down easily. Really pursuin’ that buckaroo-ku, huh?”
“Yep, seems like. Kid’s real het up on doin’ some writin’ lately. Wants ta make a splash.”
“Hey you two, I kin hear ya. Hang on, I’m climbin’ down with what I writ. Whoa, oh, ohhh! Oooh. Ow.”
“Kid, ya made more of a splat. But don’t give up.”
ripples on the pond
lead away from the tossed stone’s
lilies nod at the passing splash
Limrickin’ by D. Avery
Headquartered in a state appendicular
Way up on the Keweenaw Peninsular
There’s no need to fret
Because of the net
Worldwide, the Ranch is not at all insular.
“Knock it off, Kid, limrickin’ gits my Irish up.”
“Yer Irish, Pal?”
“No, thet’s an idiom.”
“Ah, stop with the name callin’ already. Oof, speakin a limb wreckin’, I’m some sore from fallin’ outta the Poet-tree. Was up there spinnin’ tales, then was in a tailspin.”
“Mebbe ya shoulda hit the ground runnin’, Kid. Or flapped yer arms ‘stead a yer gums; soared ‘stead a sored.”
“Someday you’ll pay, Pal.”
A refreshing collection that may send readers to the grocery store, farmers markets, or backyard gardens. The combination of fruit and herb brought out recipes and food-based stories. As with any evocative detail, strawberries and mint also inspired stories to explore emotions and situations, some weirder than you might expect from standard summer garden fare.
Writers bellied up to the challenge, took to the streets, bars and brambles to bring tasty stories to the page. No matter your weather or hemisphere, let strawberries and mint wash your cares away with a good read.
The following are based on the May 30, 2019, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that includes strawberries and mint.
PART I (10-minute read)
Strawberry Queen by Kerry E.B. Black
Mont loved her the moment he caught her stealing strawberries from his Grandmother’s back garden. Her dark hair waved secrets, secrets he longed to share.
Footfalls crushed mint as he crept closer where she gathered berries as if they were rubies.
His family would disapprove. Old money protected itself, especially from dark-eyed thieves, be the theft strawberries or a young heir’s affections.
When she bought silence with a strawberry pressed to ripe lips, Mont cast aside titles and inheritance, his the disregard of one who’d never done without, and pressed a crown of mint onto his strawberry queen’s head.
Sweet Competition by Jo Hawk
Edith set the heavy mixing bowl on the counter and surveyed today’s haul. She absentmindedly patted her chest with her right hand as she thought.
She was tired of strawberry shortcake, and Elenore’s receipt had won for two years running. Strawberry pie was too simple, and Edith’s strawberry jam cookies had competition from Ruth.
She caressed the velvety surface of a large berry.
“Red velvet,” the words slipped from her lips, and an idea formed. Red velvet strawberry cupcakes with minted whipped cream, topped with a huge glazed berry.
“Eat your heart out, Elenore,” she said with a smile.
Angel on the Bridge by TN Kerr
I met Lavinia in early July
at The Angel on the Bridge
where I came to see the regatta.
I was smitten
I sought to impress
To ply her with food
Strawberries, cream, and a sprig of mint
She turned up her nose
I strove to impress
by quoting the Bard,
Demetrius in Titus Andronicus,
“She is Lavinia, therefore must be loved”
She laughed as I obviously knew not the story
I hoped to impress with my wealth
Alas, I had no wealth, but
She sat with me on the riverbank
She took my hand
Incompatible? by Anne Goodwin
Her taste is traditional, her habit a herb. Whereas he was weaned on fruity flavours and won’t give them up. When they kissed for the first time, their breath was tinged with garlic; tomato and marjoram layered underneath. Neither of them noticed, having picked the same starter and main. At the time, she thought that signalled they’d be soulmates; she happily skipped desert to go back to his flat. Now, rummaging through her washbag, she wonders. When her torso presses closer, her mouth might pull away. Afraid his cloying strawberry toothpaste would defeat her clean fresh shield of mint?
Double Play by Pete Fanning
Billie sat back, her jaw working the gum. A shortstop with a pitcher’s gleam in her eyes, she blew a bubble, sucked it back in. “The entire team signed this hat, Darryl Strawberry, Len Dysktra, Dwight Gooden, so…” She shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”
I leaned closer. “Why do all the signatures look the same?”
Pop went the bubble. Billie stood. “You know what….”
“Wait.” A lasting glance at the mint condition Ken Griffey Junior rookie card. But that hat, the signatures. I took a breath. “Deal.”
Billie swiped the card. “No take backs.”
Then she was gone.
Light Up by Ruchira Khanna
“The usual!” Sarah said with a heavy accent to which the bartender was quick to nod and started preparing the concoction.”
She sat there with one of her hand supporting her face while the other was fidgeting with her long brown curls.
The bartender noticed her and could not resist, “Long day?”
She nodded with a yawn.
“Here, this could cheer you up!” he brought the big glass towards her.
Her eyes lit up after a sip, “Wow, who would have thought strawberries and mint could compliment my Screwdriver!”
“Yup! these ingredients can light up anybody’s screwed up day!”
Flavored by Reena Saxena
They would have flavoured water served to the guests – strawberry, mint and lemon. The mocktails would have pineapple, coconut water as the main ingredients, other than the ubiquitous tomato juice.
It’s not easy planning a party for vegans and teetotallers. She has spent two days scanning recipes online, writing shopping lists and buying the ingredients.
“I told you to have three different flavors of water, not mix strawberry and mint in the same glass. Florence likes strawberry only.”
“It tastes nice. She liked the combination.”
How could I tell now, who had consumed the poisoned glass earmarked for her?
Blood from a Stone by Jody Perejda
The red flesh of the strawberries entices the birds. Targets for my slingshot practice. I wait. I smell the mint my mom grows to keep ants away from her garden. A sparrow, brown fluttering wings and short beak, hops toward the bait. Left hand holding the Y-shaped frame, right pulling back rubber straps, I let the stone fly. The bird cartwheels. Rigid, stick-like legs point accusingly. I never thought I’d actually hit one. I retrieve the fragile body. I’m shamed by its stillness. I dig, burying the bird, and stab the slingshot into the earth as a grave marker.
Strawberry Mint Lemonade by H.R.R. Gorman
Jack sidled up to the bar where a single woman sipped her drink. The shimmering lights of the disco ball moved over his face as he waved down a bartender. “Whiskey.” The bartender slid the glass over.
She bit her straw seductively.
“What’s your name?”
“Strawberry.” Her voice had a strange accent. “Strawberry Mint Lemonade. Good to meet you, Whiskey.”
He chuckled. “My name’s Jack – whiskey’s what I’m drinking.”
The beautiful woman tilted her head further than natural. “Is not saying of humans, ‘You are what you eat’?” She grabbed him by the wrist. “What does ‘Jack’ taste like?”
Strawberries and Mint by Deborah Lee
Becca sips from her garnished glass. “What is this?” she asks, surprised.
“Strawberry and mint,” Michelle tells her.
Becca sips again. “Not bad, for fancy food.”
Becca gulps. “New-fangled. Yuppie. Millennial.”
“New-fangled? My grandmother made this, like her grandmother did. It’s old-fashioned as the hills.”
Becca frowns, sips again, raises her glass to Michelle in appreciation. “I was raised by a mother who thought broccoli and eggplant were ‘weird food.’ Her only seasonings were salt and pepper. I learn something new with every meal invitation I get.”
“What shall it be next time?” Michelle laughs. “Saffron? Or lavender?”
Strawberries and Mint – The Devilish Mojito by Sally Cronin
The witch’s handbook – Spell # 356 – Removal of inhibitions.
The Devilish Mojito
Ten fresh picked Strawberries
Juice half a lime
Six crushed mint leaves
Two ounces white rum
Two ounces dark rum
Pour over crushed ice
Dash of club soda
Sprig of mint to decorate.
One drink will increase desire to wear frivolous clothing.
Two drinks will increase desire to dance on tables.
Three drinks will increase desire to remove frivolous clothing.
Four drinks are not advised.
Disclaimer : The handbook accepts no liability for the actions or consequences resulting from the over indulgence of this potion…
Opportunity Knocked by JulesPaige
memories as well as plans;
pipers played minuets
The carriage returning the ladies from an afternoon picnic where they had feasted upon wild strawberries and mint tea. T’was embellished that tea. The ladies were feeling no pain. So while through the purple moors they road home by moonlight ignoring the tempest of threats that the Highwayman might strike were ignored. Their driver well thought the ladies welcomed trouble.
“The tread of time is so ruthless that it tramples even the kings under its feet.” Claude spoke to his troupe, when he heard rambling wheels, “Time to dance!”
Pimm’s O’Clock by Ritu Bhathal
I’ve laid all the components out.
The lemonade is chilled and ready.
Succulent red strawberries just waiting for me to slice them.
A firm, green cucumber, already transformed into slices, then quartered.
A big, juicy orange chopped into little triangles; peel still attached.
Ice. Lots of cool, refreshing ice.
Fresh, minty leaves.
And that beautiful bottle of fruity gin liqueur.
I slowly pour in the alcohol, and add the lemonade, watching the bubbles fizz up.
A big handful of ice, then the assorted fruits.
Just a few leaves of mint.
It’s Pimm’s o’clock now!
Strawberry Delight by Susan Zutautas
Meg was anxious to make Aunt Alice’s delicious strawberry dessert and was sure that Ian would love it too.
Stopping at the fruit stand on her way home she found a basket of huge berries. Perfect she thought, now to get a lemon.
Back at home she washed the berries, sliced them into a bowl, added the zest of one lemon, then added three tablespoons of sugar, and mixed gently.
After dinner that night Ian commented on the strawberry dessert. “This was really good Meg, have you ever tried making this and adding some mint?”
“That’s what I forgot!”
Different Tastes by Joanne Fisher
“Ugh! Why do you keep eating strawberries and mint together? I think it’s a disgusting combo!” exclaimed Linda.
“Says the girl who slathers mustard over EVERYTHING! What did I catch you eating the other day? A sandwich with fish fingers, tartare sauce, pickled onions and MUSTARD! It’s like I don’t even know you sometimes!” Rose answered.
“I like mustard. it gives a nice zing to everything.” Linda said defensively.
“Some days I wonder why I married yer.”
“Obviously for my stunning good looks and exquisite taste!” Linda replied beaming a smile at Rose.
They both broke out into laughter.
Strawberries and Mint by Anita Dawes
Strawberries and ice cream
Under the summer sun
With ice cold lemonade
And a sprig of mint
The best seat at Wimbledon
Venus and Serna playing at their best
Throw in Boris when he was young
Andre Agassi, not forgetting Martina Navratilova
Turn back time, watch Pat Cash climb the stands
Andy Murray, fight year in and out
Henman Hill should be called Andy’s hill
He has earned his place in history
When day is done, I sleep to dream
I am playing each one on hallowed ground
The crowd grow wild as I slay each one…
Friendships by Saifun Hassam
Teresa loved to eat lunch at the Saturday Farmers’ Market. Her friend Hannah, the owner of “Spuds”, served sandwiches, salads, and one of her special dishes. Today there was pan-fried perch redolent with the aroma of onions, garlic and cumin; fried potato wedges with red pepper flakes; and garden mint chutney.
She was a nurse physician at Lynn Valley Hospital where Hannah’s mother Bev, a former nurse, was a patient counselor. Bev was a wonderful listener, a sounding board for Teresa. They chatted as they enjoyed Hannah’s strawberry pound cake and tea with a hint of ginger and mint.
Mint Julep by Kelley Farrell
“I love strawberries.”
Helen watched her son pick the pieces apart and stuff them into his waiting mouth.
“What’s your favorite fruit momma?”
Helen never cared much for fruit. A flash of regret seared through her. She ruffled the small boys blonde hair, so different from her own.
He was the reason she was alive so how did he manage to remind her of every failure she possessed?
“I like mint.”
“Is mint a fruit?”
“It is when I add it to my special drink.” No amount of sugar could keep the bourbon from burning all the way down.
Bedtime Dilemma by Brendan Thomas
“It’s difficult,” Emma exclaimed.
Her father looked exasperated holding pajamas aloft in both hands.
“The strawberry pj’s are my favorite,” five year old Emma said, “But tonight feels minty.”
“Great.” Her father offered mint.
“Hmmm,” Emma said looking at the strawberry.”
It continued until patience was lost, pajamas thrown on bed. “It’s too late. Make a decision, see you tomorrow,” Emma’s father declared retreating from the room.
Emma arrived at breakfast strawberry top, minty bottoms.
“Good compromise,” her father said.
“I woke up and changed from minty top and strawberry bottoms during the night,” she said with a smile.
Strawberries and Mint by Floridaborne
I remember the day he asked, “Wanna dance?”
I couldn’t say no to those intense brown eyes and six feet of sexy man.
My Roman nose made a platform for glasses so thick they’d never fall off my face, and I hated the space between my teeth. I was wearing a horrible dress with a strawberry and mint design that my mother made.
One glorious night ended in a police raid. I’m pregnant by a serial killer who never got to use the nightmares under his bed.
They say I’m lucky to be alive. I hate strawberries and mint.
PART II (10-minute read)
Grandma’s Garden by Norah Colvin
Jess blew kisses to Mum, then raced Grandma into the garden. She pulled on her boots and gloves and readied her digging fork. Emulating Grandma, she soaked up explanations of magic combinations that helped plants grow. At the strawberry patch, they filled baskets with ripe red berries. On the way inside, Grandma clipped sprigs of mint.
They dipped strawberries in chocolate and garnished them with mint.
Jess inspected the chocolate bowl. “All gone.”
“Stawbwee?” said Jess, pointing to the remaining few.
“For Jess,” smiled Grandma.
Jess munched strawberries and Grandma chewed mint.
The Garden by Allison Maruska
I clap the dirt off my hands, admiring my work. Rows of vegetables, berries, and herbs adorn my new garden.
“Pitty pwants!” my toddler screeches.
“Yes, pretty plants.” I spot my pre-teen on the deck then focus on my youngest. “Stay here with Sissy. I’m going to wash up.”
Inside, I scrub grit from my fingernails. As I turn off the water, a small voice startles me.
“Pitty pwants!” JJ holds up strawberry plants and mint.
Sighing, I take the greenery that had been in the ground a whole ten minutes.
Maybe it’s a sign to make a mojito.
Love Game by Liz Husebye Hartmann
Heather clicked the radio buttons, desperate for a station that didn’t play classic rock. She snuck a shocked glance at Mom, behind the wheel, as MGMT’s “Little Dark Age” floated from the speakers.
Mom said nothing, minuscule smile quirking her lips. One point, Mom.
Heather grunted. “Look, I’m going on this lame hike because you’re taking me shopping after.”
“So happy to have your company,” Mom remembered her sparring teen years.
“What’s this?” Heather opened the tin of strawberry breath mints. “Disgusting!”
Heather tossed one in her mouth. “S’good,” she mumbled to the window.
Game, set, match!
Said No Child Ever by tracey
“Mom, there’s nothing to eat.”
“Sure there is.”
“I can’t find any chips, mac and cheese or lunch meat.”
“Try the garden.”
“You know, that thing I am always weeding and watering.”
“But that’s just vegetables!”
“So? You like vegetables.”
“What did you find?”
“Spinach and strawberries and green onions! I’m gonna make that salad you made last week. Where’s the recipe for the dressing?”
“This is so good, do you want some? I made extra.”
“Thanks. What’s that in your water?”
“Mint. Quite refreshing in this heat. Want some for your water?
Mix and Match by Di @ pensitivity101
‘This diet is so BORING! Fruit and salads are so dull!’
‘Have you thought about mixing and matching?’
‘It’s all right for you, you’re already skinny.’
‘I had to work at it though. Have you tried adding a chopped apple to your prawn salad?’
‘No. Is it nice?’
‘Well I like it, and it adds a tangy bite to the lettuce.’
‘OK. What else?’
‘How’s about including cucumber in your stir fries?’
‘I could try that I suppose with mushrooms and sliced carrots.’
‘Cereal and yoghurt?’
‘Duh. Double boring.’
‘Maybe, but add some strawberries and a sprig of mint…’
The Annual Extravaganza by Roger Shipp
“Dwight, many of the strawberries are ready. Take the basket and pick the ripest; I’ve a mind for a shortcake trifle for the picnic.”
Strawberry trifle was his favorite. Dwight was out like lightening and soon returned with the finest strawberries mouths could desire.
The guests arrived; ravenous men with their genteel lassies. Dinner completed, they went out back for their annual Horseshoe Extravaganza.
“Don’t worry ladies. The icebox is ours.”
Upon its opening, the upper shelf was lined with iced strawberry mint smashes. We adjourned to the Adirondack chairs out back to enjoy the swearin’ and the fuedin’.
Perennial Memories by Ann Edall-Robson
Occasionally the ranch hands were asked to help thin perennials around the edge of the garden. The greenhorn had been sent and stood smiling beside the compost heap.
“Heard you needed help. Thought I’d get to it.”
Standing at the gate to her dynasty, Mrs. Johnson’s mind staggered. All of her precious mint and wild strawberry plants were gone.
His smile quickly faded to an ‘oh shit’ look of terror on seeing Hanna striding towards him, and Mrs. Johnson had disappeared.
“Do you have any idea what you did here?”
“Pulled weeds. What’s the big deal? They’ll grow back!”
Lady of the House by Bill Engleson
She was an elegant woman. Even a scruffy twelve-year-old paperboy could see that.
Her mansion, my only mansion, was crawling with ivy.
The lot, pared down by time, by intrusion, rested on a busy corner.
A harried highway.
Usually, my monthly collection, and generous tip, was left in an envelope by the door.
This late summer day, she was there, inviting me in, through to a small, inner rose-infused courtyard.
“Jacqueminot roses,” she said, “A fading passion.”
She smelled of peppermint gum and blossoms.
“I so love strawberries with my tea. Don’t you?”
Decades later, I’m still not sure.
Strawberries and Mint by Shane Kroetsch
I swipe the sliver of tomato across the grains of salt and pepper on the plate and then pop it in my mouth. I lift up the glass but there’s only a drop of sweet liquid left under the crushed strawberry and browning mint leaf. It’s not worth the sip so I set it back down.
I sit back and interlace my fingers over my satiated belly. The sun is deep orange as it prepares to say goodnight. Off in the distance birds are chittering and singing. I close my eyes and smile, grateful for one last perfect day.
Maybelle Annabelle Lee by Chelsea Owens
She hummed and danced then danced and hummed, though only Maybelle Annabelle Lee would have called her actions musical. Perhaps a passing bumblebee might’ve appreciated the art, so similar to his own buzz-buzz to nectar from one drunken dip to another.
For that was what Maybelle Annabelle Lee was doing as well: dip, dip, dip into this leafy patch and skim, scoop, skim from that berry bush. As she wavered and wove down what may have been a path she somehow collected enough for her basket.
Then, just as coincidentally, she returned home; gatherings ready for a refreshing sunset.
Stream of Conscious by Susan Sleggs
This will probably be the last year I come to pick strawberries. It isn’t the same doing it alone. I remember the fun we had when I brought my kids here and then their children. Now, no one is interested in coming along. I wonder if I would hear about it if I didn’t make preserves for each of them anymore. Good thing I still have my mint bed, they do show up the day before they have a party to raid that so they have fresh mint for making mojitoes. Maybe I could make mint jelly next year.
Strawberries and Mint by Michael Groban
“You can’t kill it,” my neighbour said to me when he gave me a mint plant. “Just keep the water up to it and it will thrive.”
That much was true as the mint in his place had been growing in the same spot for well on fifty years. He had a green thumb, his strawberries grew strongly and produced huge fruit that melted your taste buds. My plants struggled no matter how well I thought I cared for them.
But they survived despite my neglect, and the strawberries look healthy though producing not much fruit to brag about.
The Global Warming Effect by Hugh W. Roberts
Strawberries and mint! She’d forgotten to order them.
The local shop was too far away to go and get any before her first guests arrived.
A few years ago, she would have gone out into her garden and picked both. How sad that the return of global warming had since not only turned her green garden into a dusty, bone-dry desert but had also robbed her of her love for gardening.
Looking out of her kitchen window, onto the vast Martian landscape, she asked herself again if the human race would ever learn the lessons of their past mistakes.
A Peek (from Miracle of Ducks) by Charli Mills
A hardbound journal lay open on Ramona’s bed. Danni reached for it, and paused, examining the pencil strokes. On one top corner, strawberry plants clustered with leaves, flowers and berries drawn in great detail. On the opposite bottom corner, mint vined in sweeping strokes. Danni smiled. Ramona liked to say, plant your mint across the garden from your strawberries. On the page, the two plants formed a continuous frame around two little girls with identical braids and short gingham dresses, holding hands. All she could see was their backs and the pond they faced. Were these the elusive twins?
Seeing Red by D. Avery
“Kid! Yer outta yer tree.”
“Yep, Pal, I figger the Ranch is at a safe elevation.”
“The Ranch is safe alright Kid. Not gonna set up in yer Poet tree and mint more buckaroo-ku?”
“Figger ya might need me. What’s her name is claimin’ ta be too busy, might not be around fer the roundup.”
“Kid! Ya done used my old red flannel shirt ta mend yer torn britches. Ya look like a baboon.”
“I like the color, like ripe strawberries. It’s a strawberry patch!”
“Kid, what’s the real reason ya clumb down?”
“Hopin’ Shorty’s gonna make strawberry shortcake.”
Lunar See by D. Avery
“Why’d ya git us out here, Shorty? It’s mighty dark.”
“I know; it’s the new moon.”
“Where? I cain’t see it. But the stars sure are sparkly.”
“Yep, stars are shinin’ bright ‘cause the moon’s outta sight. Ever’thin’s in alignment.”
“That sounds good, Boss.”
“It is good, Kid. New moon, new beginnings.”
“Ain’t you got enough started?”
“It’s all comin’ ta fruition. Think that’s why the next alignment’s the Strawberry Moon. Now help me pick mint.”
“Hmmff. Pickin’ mint in the dark a the new moon?”
“Yep. Mint’s fer hospitality. Gonna have a home, Kid, where all are welcome.”
The Finns of the Keweenaw have an enduring core of strength called sisu. An English equivalent doesn’t exist, but stories across place and cultures capture the ability to overcome adversity. Sisu is not short-term like a moment of courage. Sisu is life’s marathon.
Regardless of familiarity with the word, writers searched their experiences and imaginations to craft stories of sisu. It’s a world-wide look at Copper Country Strong.
The following are based on the May 7, 2019. Use the comment section below to share, read and be social.
PART I (10-minute read)
Sisu by Floridaborne
“Hey, mom!” Callie shouted. “I learned a new word today.”
Mom rolled her eyes and asked, “What is it now, skooder-do?”
“What!” Mom shouted, reaching for homemade soap to wash her daughter’s mouth out.
“It’s not a curse word, Mom! It’s a word that describes you.”
“This better be good,” Mom grumbled.
“You sew clothes from remnants, make all our curtains and you reupholstered our furniture,” Callie said. “You grow our veggies in the summer and can the rest for later.”
“We can’t afford anything else.”
“Mom,” Callie said, hugging her warmly. “You’re the strongest person I know.”
Bricktown Boys by Pete Fanning
Mom pulled me into her, holding me as she sobbed. “Sam, I’m so sorry you got hurt.”
I hugged her back. A stale, bitter smell clung to her shirt, to her skin. I realized it was the smell of our apartment. Of our lives. How we smelled to people. The stench of desperation, mistakes, of dating the same men over and over again.
She rocked along with sobs and apologies, but I wasn’t about to wait for Troy to hurt us again. I was tired of the stench. Of our lives.
I would take matters into my own hands.
Sisu by H.R.R. Gorman
“What’s this two year gap in your resume?” The hiring manager pointed to circled dates on the paper. “What did you do there?”
Joaquin clenched his fist. “There’s a Finnish word – sisu. It means to keep trudging through multiple adversities.” He tapped the circled words on the resume. “That’s why I’m here. I want this job because I can overcome my past.”
The manager scowled. “So you were traveling? To Finland?”
“No, I…” He coughed. “I was in prison.”
“Drug charges,” he squeaked.
She handed Joaquin his resume. “Thank you, but we won’t be needing your services.”
Abundant Optimism by JulesPaige
The man has sisu. Very close to living to that century mark. Served his country in the Navy. Got into computers at the git go. Loved his wife for over fifty years with unflappable devotion.
The Vets Administration told him he was legally blind at ninety five. Sold his car to a local dealership, who then drove him back to his house.
The man has sisu. He’s lived alone for over twenty years. Refuses to leave his home. Finally accepts help from the neighbors, on his terms.
enduring strength, life;
living as you choose daily
the man has sisu
Sisu by Brendan Thomas
Jane opened the door, I was shaken. Back to back to back Cancers took a toll on her body, but not her spirit. We sat, drank tea, talked, laughed long and loud, planned for future meetings.
“I can do that, I’m in remission. My calendar is filling up with fun appointments again.”
As I was leaving I remembered the t-shirt, removing it from the bag to give to her.
“This is for you.”
Unfurled it read SISU, blue letters against white.
“What does it mean?” she asked.
“It’s Finnish for Jane,” I responded. I’m not sure she believed me.
After The Funeral by Joanne Fisher
I had just come back from the funeral of my girlfriend. We had been in a car crash. I survived, she didn’t.
“How do I go on without her?” I cried out to my father who had come back with me so I wasn’t alone.
“With sisu.” My father replied.
“Sisu?” I didn’t understand.
“It’s a Finnish word for having determination, or possessing inner strength. I know you are strong Kathleen. It may not seem like it now, but I know you will get through this, like I did with your mother.” he told me.
I really hoped so.
Sisu – DNA by Sally Cronin
They found the old bones in a cave in Southern France. They were packed carefully and dispatched to a laboratory where they identified them as the remains of a woman in her 40s. This was elderly for her time, with arthritis and healed broken bones evidence of her hard life. Her mitochondrial DNA was matched to millions of women who migrated across the continent as ice thawed, populating almost every part of Europe and beyond. Her genes survived through the centuries and 20,000 years later matched to a young woman, who discovered where all her strength had come from.
More Strength Than Meets the Eye by TN Kerr
It is born from bitter winter cold
Not a nip or chill, but a biting, vicious cold
A cold that comes with long, nights, and
It has nothing to do with gain
It’s about diving into the water
Simply for the sake of it
It’s about laughing in the face of tragedy
It’s about mocking and defeating whatever adversity is thrown your way
Always getting up
Something akin to, yet more than,
Intensity that thrives in the long days of summer
You are stronger than any one of us, or even you, could ever imagine
Plowshares by D. Avery
Her little boy and her daughters worked chores according to their size and ability but he, the youngest, wasn’t scolded when he sometimes fell to playing. But this?
Flinging the stick, she stalked off to the barn.
“Ma, it was just pretendin’!”
He had never known his father and older brother who used to do the heavy fieldwork. ‘Back before harvest time,’ they’d said, left together, eyes bright with adventure.
Pressing her forehead against the horse’s broad neck she confessed her worries.
She wouldn’t allow another son to play at war.
She harnessed the horse and hitched the plow.
Snow Storm by Abhijit Ray
Mikka was out to do some fishing, catch up with reading and have some quiet time in his cottage up north. He must have missed weather forecast. Storm caught Mikka unprepared. Running low on food and fuel, and suffering from poor cell phone connectivity, Mikka realised the extra can of gasoline in the trunk will only last so long.
“Either I make an effort to reach home or freeze here to death,” Mikka reasoned and made his way following a weak GPS signal.
“Show Sisu, when in trouble,” dad taught him. In his country, “sisu” meant grit to overcome hurdles.
Make It Work by Kelley Farrell
“Find your inner strength. We all have something we’re good at. Something we’re prepared for, even if we don’t realize it. What ignites that fire in you?”
That was when Becky had one dollar to her name.
Joe was right of course. Everybody has something to be fanned from sparks of passion.
Becky had three mouths to feed and an extensive debt to the local sex shop.
“Made it work indeed!” Joe admired Becky’s new business locale. “Mistress Cyan’s Pleasure Room.”
“Number 1 in the city.” Becky smiled, “Want to try it out? No charge for my oldest friend.”
Dedication by Shane Kroetsch
Langdon sat staring at his hands. He scratched at the dry skin on his knuckles. “I did what needed to be done. It wasn’t easy, but I found a way.”
“That’s something to be proud of, isn’t it?” Emma said.
Langdon shrugged. “I gave my word. Not much more to it.”
“I think it says a lot about your character, the fact that you dedicated years of your life to the cause.”
Langdon’s lips went thin and he looked up to Emma. “Maybe it does say a lot. What it doesn’t say is whether it was worth the cost.”
Sisu by Anita Dawes
Sisu is woven into our DNA
lying dormant, waiting , trapped quicksilver
hoping the day never comes where we will be tested
Do we freeze, or jump into action to save a life?
where we meet a part of ourselves
we would not recognise in the mirror
the hero who hides behind that pinstriped suit
mild-mannered like the man of steel
we would you run into a burning building
because you heard a cry for help?
many think we could go one step beyond
if called upon to act
would you leap without thinking
does quicksilver run through your veins?
Sisu Book-su by Ritu Bhathal
Finally, time to sit down and read.
“Mum! I’m hungry!”
Don’t worry book, I’ll be back.
Child fed. Back to my book.
“Honey, do you know where my tie is?”
Tie found. Where was I?
Raised voices and screaming.
“What is the matter with the two of you? Okay, Tom, you sit here with that Lego. Amelia, draw me a picture over here. No, not near your brother!”
Ah, chapter two I think–
“Hello? Hi mum…”
Twenty minutes later.
“Okay, bye mum. Speak to you tomorrow.”
That book. I will get it read.
PART II (10-minute read)
Says You by Bill Engleson
In that moment, he prepared to let go.
Time had stopped.
Nothing moved in the room.
A spike of sun slipped along the ceiling.
No breeze ruffled the curtains.
Outside, there were street sounds.
Jill held his hand. Steady. No squeezes. Just steady.
“You’ll be fine,” he thought.
“Says you,” she said.
“Says me,” he thought.
“A lot you know,” she said.
“I know you,” he thought. “I might waver without you, but you, you have a steel spine. A Viking’s heart.”
A gust of warm wind blew in.
A candle flickered.
New Bride by Ruchira Khanna
“Dad, I can’t take it anymore!” the new bride lamented over the telephone.
“Give it some time. Don’t make a hasty decision.”
“But, Dad his family’s so different than how I’ve been brought up! They have weird tastes, and most of the time they live with us,” she sobbed.
“Look at the positive side; you have a loving husband. Give it some time; otherwise, we’re always there for you!”
She put down the phone as she wiped her tear, “For the sake of Sam, I shall become sisu for a few days and then decide what to do next.”
Cross Roads by Saifun Hassam
As a marine archaeologist, Pierre Yandeau loved exploring deep ocean waters. Then his fiance and colleague Georgina was killed in a diving accident off the Great Shelf Peninsula. Sisu. Pierre returned to his research at the Pacific Institute. He would never forget Georgina. He knew he had a decision to make.
The Great Shelf Institute invited him to join their ecological and archaeological faculty. He walked along the endless desert shores of the Shelf. Once this was under deep ocean water. Who had carved those ancient runes on the rocky plateaus inland? He would explore, he would learn. Sisu.
Sisu by Kay Kingsley
She’d been through a lot more than most but she knows it’s not as much as some others. Described as a rock, strong and sturdy, people were drawn to her strength like a magnet. And when she was young that need fed her soul, gave her purpose, direction, and she felt like a mountain.
But as the years passed, she learned that even the toughest rocks are worn smooth by a gentle trickle of water and strong winds can erode mountains into dust.
It’s a fine line she thinks between sisu and stubbornness and she walks it with grace.
Claire’s Sisu by calmkate
Claire a vivacious 32 year old roamed the world sorting out ‘awkward’ situations for a billionaire for over a decade. Confronted with aggressive breast cancer her imminent demise was her greatest challenge.
Resilience is our inner strength, our ability to deal with overwhelming even impossible challenges. It has a strong spiritual component supplemented by mental and emotional factors. Most don’t realise they have it until they are truly tested.
Claire had to dig deep and with the right support her sisu kicked in empowering her until the brain tumour took over. She died with dignity, love and real peace.
Seeding by Sascha Darlington
he rains come early. My granddaddy used to say: can’t put seeds in drenched soil.
Almost immediately it’s hot. The cool weather crops produce little. Too hot, too soon.
And then there’s more rain, and Daniel yells at me and the kids, while taking off his Cardinal’s cap, splaying his fingers through his crop of hair, his eyes searching here and yet remotely for answers that won’t come.
He sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. “The seeds rot in the soil, Cam.”
“We’ll start them indoors.”
“Might work. But we’d need a butt-load.”
Sisu by Ann Edall-Robson
Some mornings she watched the moon set as the sun rose. Night and day blended into each other. Days off became planning time for the days to come. Often the work made her brain weary and physically worn, yet Hanna continued to push herself.
Mrs. Johnson understood Hanna’s tenacity, her sisu. The older woman had seen it before. There was no doubt why the young woman would not rest until she had accomplished what she had quietly taken on.
Others didn’t understand Hanna’s attitude, but Mrs. Johnson could see the reasoning in her eyes, her stance, and relentless perseverance.
We Got Grit by Susan Sleggs
“Remember when we were teenagers, we thought we had the world by the tail,” Lillian mused.
“Those were the days,” Maude answered.
“Guess we learned life wasn’t easy didn’t we?”
“Yeah, about my 40th birthday I figured out I didn’t know sh*t back then.”
“Now you’re 90, what do ya think?”
“The truth; there are only tiny snippets of peace in any one’s life. Responsibilities, hardships, and illness are ever present and only thing means anything is how a person handles all the crap.”
“That’s grit my friend.”
“Good thing we both got it. It’s what’s kept us goin’.”
Paid in Full by Nicole Horlings
He sat down heavily. She looked up with disappointment. “No overtime?”
“Not today. And I may come home early tomorrow. The market’s been dead lately.” He leaned back and groaned. “I promised to provide for you.”
“And you are. I was able to pay all of our bills in full today.”
He looked surprised, then a grin broke across his face. “Really?” She nodded, and pulled a letter out of her pocket, handing it to him. “Your artwork won first place? That’s fantastic!” She grinned, took the cheque, and slipped it into a jar of loose change labeled vacation.
No Lion Sleeps Tonight by Susan Zutautas
One scorching sunny morning everyone gathered together by the Quiver tree, deep in the forest to discuss the shortage of food.
Leo starts the meeting with, “Good morning” to the pride.
“Tonight, we will go and hunt a zebra. I spotted a dazzle last night and if we’re quick and stealth there won’t be a problem.”
“Papa, papa, can I come too for the hunt?” said Leo’s cub.
“Yes, I think it is a fine time for you to join us, time to develop your sisu.”
“Okay all, we’ll meet back here at dusk, don’t be late,” said Leo.
The Animal Facts of Life by Chelsea Owens
“Elephants are pregnent fohr two years!”
“Uh-huh. Dhey also have duh biggest bwains of mammals.”
She smiled in the rearview mirror at her son. He sat hunched over his animal facts book.
“You know,” she ventured, “there’s a saying that ‘an elephant never forgets.’ Maybe because of their big brains.”
He didn’t answer. She knew he heard; he always did. That, the slight speech impediment, and his obsession with one topic made adults think he didn’t.
She sighed and rubbed her stomach, wondering how he’d handle being a big brother. Unlike an elephant, they only had nine months.
Targets Targets! by Anurag Bakhshi
“Get up,” he called out, insistently, incessantly.
I shook my head and tried to get on to my feet, but tumbled down, again.
It was just too cold, and my body needed rest, desperately.
But he just wouldn’t give up.
“Get up,” he cried out again, “they’re counting on us.”
And that, more than his pushing, is what led me to dig deep into my sisu, my inner strength, and with a huge heave and a loud wheeze, I finally got up.
Harsh winters or not, Christmas Eve was no time for one of Santa’s chief reindeer to sleep!
Sisu by Roberta Eaton
I have been thinking about my situation. Now that my headache has receded, I need to formulate an escape plan. I must exhibit sisu and find a way out of this locked room.
I have no idea why I have been locked in, but I know that my wife and son must need me. Someone brought me food and drink while I was sleeping so my superiors are clearly monitoring my movements. I need to find a way to fool the microchip in my head into believing I am sleeping. Then, when someone comes, I can make my move.
Something Evil in the Night (from Miracle of Ducks) by Charli Mills
Successive gun shots startled Danni from sleep. 2:04 a.m. She reached for Ike’s AR-15 resting between the dresser and wall. Years of Ike drilling her lent a strange familiarity to her husband’s weapon. But he was halfway around the world in Iraq. She dialed 9-1-1. The nearest deputy was 25 minutes away. Stepping outside, rifle cradled in the crook of her arm, Danni watched a silent pack of wolves run like liquid silver across the frozen pond in moonlight. Danni understood: Wolves run with sisu in their blood, outpacing the malevolence that follows – men with no regard for life.
His Darling Susi by Di @ pensitivity101
Her name was Susi, but to him she was his little Sisu.
From an early age, she had always been the stronger of the two of them. She had this way about her, would accept anything that life pushed her way and simply deal with it without complaint or fuss.
He’d read to her that night and like every other night, she told him she loved him.
‘Don’t worry Daddy,’ she said snuggling into his chest and pointing to his heart. ‘I’ll always be in here.’
God came for her that night, his darling Sisu, just ten years old.
Marathon Reversal by Anne Goodwin
At fifteen miles, she hits the wall. A stich in her side, legs in cramp, she staggers, sapped of juice. But she’d run through the pain in training. Today, the crowds and her fellow runners would cheer her on.
Wolfing down an energy bar, she recovers her mojo. But what the fuck? When she turns around to jog back to the beginning, they ask if she’s lost her mind.
If all goes well, she’ll do the distance. And a little more. She laughs at the thought of missing that marathon medal. ‘My way’ fills the hollow in her head.
Keeping Promises by Jo Hawk
Eino said caring for his invalid mother wouldn’t be easy, but his work took him abroad for months. The cabin had been her home since childhood. I didn’t imagine it would be this difficult. The closest neighbor lived miles away. We were alone.
Daytime was bearable. Aiti’s care and the daily chores kept me busy. I marked the calendar, counting days.
Then the storms descended. Howling winds crashed waves against the cliff, and spray pelted the windows. The house creaked, while my mind played games. The meager fire staved off ghosts while the clock counted the minutes until dawn.
Ranch Yarns by D. Avery
“Pal, you been on the ranch yer whole life?”
“Yep, reckon ya could say so. In thet I cain’t remember nuthin’ afore bein’ here.”
“Well, that’s a whole lotta hard work, all that ranchin’, day in and day out.”
“Yep, I reckon. Jist what a ranch hand does, Kid. Roll out ever mornin’ an’ jist do what’s gotta be done.”
“That’s sisu, Pal.”
“How is thet Japanese physical combat training?”
“Says you. An’ finish whut? Ranch work ain’t ever finished Kid. No matter the weather or season. But it’s who I am. It’s what I do.”
“Sisu, Pal. Means yer tough, resilient.”
“If ya say so, Kid. Jist know I like ranchin’, an’ this here’s a good outfit. Shorty’s good ta work for.”
“Ya sure ‘bout that, Pal? This job have benefits?”
“Lots uv’em. Fresh air, wide open spaces, good folks,—“
“No, Pal. Benefits. Health insurance, fer instance. What happens if ya git hurt on the job?”
“Reckon Shorty’d take care a me.”
“Ya’d let Shorty take care a ya?”
“Now that’s true grit. Heard she heps till it hurts. Might wanna talk ta her Cowboy ‘bout her care givin’ skills.”
“That’s cold, Kid.”
Exhaustion can grind down even the most energetic person. It fogs the brain and slows the limbs. Slumber, rest, reprieve, all or sought as remedies. Sometimes we get a second wind.
This week, writers overcome exhaustion to write about it. That doesn’t mean these stories will put you to sleep!
The following is based on the April 25, 2019, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that includes exhaustion.
PART I (10-minute read)
Comfort Food by Saifun Hassam
Diamante struggled with the Abbott’s decision. To be a scholar, yes. But to be a priest? He loved to teach the village children. Being a guardian of the ancient temple was fine. He was exhausted emotionally and mentally, trying to find a way out.
From the cliffs overlooking the sea, he trekked down to the ancient temple. He sank into the shadows and fell asleep. A fragrant aroma of mint and giggling laughing children woke him up. A feast was ready for him: potato patties, fried fish and sun drenched peaches. He would find a way through his dilemma.
Exhausted by TN Kerr
“Raul, please rest. You can’t help us if you’re dead.”
“I’m sorry, Alondra. I have to finish before the rains come.”
She shook her head and returned to the house, where she made a big jar of Sandia Agua Fresca. Then she made Pambazos and wrapped them in a napkin, to keep him going. He was bleary-eyed when she returned with the food.
“Raul, you need to rest.” She took his hand and led him to the cool shade of a large Alamo tree. They ate. They made love in the dappled sunshine. Afterwards, she watched him sleep, exhausted.
Making Hay by D. Avery
“Hey. I’ve got dinner warmed in the oven. You’ve been haying since before sun-up till after sunset. You must be exhausted.”
“No, just tired.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Hmm. Well, this is good work that matters. It had to be done, especially with the rain forecast. Luciene helped us then I helped him. Our cows are provided for and our families. I’m a little sore and tired but it feels good. Especially coming into this kitchen seeing you, knowing our Hope’s asleep upstairs, safe and sound.”
“Hmm. Are you too tired? For more good work?”
“Not if we’re working together.”
Exhausted Love by Bill Engleson
He went to bed late. It was after nine.
He told the cat, “You should’ve reminded me.”
The cat squawked as if to say, “Yeah, right.”
It was only him and the cat these days. Sal had packed up and split a month or so earlier.
He’d said at the time, “The cats yours,” meaning quite clearly, he thought, “take the cat.”
All she said was, “I can’t hear you.”
He thought that an odd thing to say but he didn’t tell her.
There would’ve been no point.
The upside was, he’s almost sure the cat listens.
Exhaustion by Pete Fanning
I couldn’t believe she would show up like this, tapping on my door. Like I had nothing to do but sit and wait for her. She was drunk, or close, her hair up in a lazy bun, curls dangling, spilling in a way Hollywood could try to replicate but never get right.
She was breathtaking. And she knew it. And she wasn’t supposed to be within 100 yards of my door.
Her smile widened, like her path of destruction. “Hi.”
I closed my eyes. From exhaustion—no, to stop seeing her, stop wanting her—when her lips found mine.
Heavy on Dark by Michael B. Fishman
Table, paneling, carpet, the room was heavy on dark.
She cited “irreconcilable differences”. Two dark words.
I said, “Is there anything in life that’s really irreconcilable? You know, outside of death and taxes.”
She looked at her lawyer and said, “See?” He looked at me like I was a child and offered a dark nod.
I said, “Would it have been easier if I’d cheated?”
She and her lawyer exchanged a dark glance and they both gave me the disapproving parent look. “You’re exhausting, you know that,” she said.
I signed the paper. Stood and walked into the light.
Catching a Nap by Susan Zutautas
Flopping down on the couch with pillow in toe, I knew I’d be asleep in no time at all. Hopefully Sandy would let me get an hour’s sleep or so before calling me. Exhaustion had kicked in and out I went.
I woke with a startle, looked up and saw Ian standing there.
“Oh no, I hope I didn’t wake you, Meg.”
“No, that’s okay I was just sneaking in a few zzz’s while your mom was resting. I should get up and check on her.”
“No, no, you stay put, I’ll tend to her for a few hours.”
Bonding Via Fabric by Susan Sleggs
Lillian leaned on her cane and perused the only two shelves of fabric she had left. She needed four complimentary ones to make the project she had in mind. After trying many combinations she exhausted her options so limped to her chair and eased herself into the worn seat. After a little nap, she called her granddaughter. “Would you have time to take me shopping.”
“I can on Friday.”
When they returned from their excursion, Sally said, “My youngest starts school in September. Could we schedule time to sew together?”
Lillian’s misty eyed response was, “Of course my dear.”
Exhaustion by Anita Dawes
There isn’t enough hours in the day to do all that needs doing
I can’t afford a maid, I don’t have a rewind button
Although I could do with having one fitted
Maybe some new batteries, like the ones that keep the bunny running
Now I don’t have the strength to run, to hide just for a while
Sleep does not help much, I awake with a backache and sore feet
Head spinning with the thought of all that is yet to come
The day is full before I start
I can get through another one because of love…
Taking What it Wants by Dorinda Duclos
Exhausted. The mere thought of the word makes me tired. I suppose staying up until the wee hours of the morning isn’t the best way to overcome it, but writing has a way of taking what it wants. There’s never a choice.
Still, finding the chance to sneak a few winks before Marsha shows up is difficult. Once she is here, there is no hope of relaxing. She is a spitfire, a jumble of energy. I am just a tired old woman. She never understands. But then again, editors never really do.
Chapter 1… my mind is a blank.
Sleepless in a Dormitory by Anne Goodwin
What an eventful day! Matty could sleep standing up.
Yet she lies on her back. Then on her side. Her thoughts racing, jumping, spinning: packing one away, another springs up.
When the guests retire, she must contend not only with her own mental disarray but the groans that are the external manifestation of theirs. Could she smother them one by one with a pillow? Simpler to step outside.
Shivering in the cobbled courtyard, she cinches her dressing gown. Finally soothed by the diamond-studded sky, she makes to go indoors. But, when she tries the handle, the door won’t budge.
Exodus by D. Avery
“I know she’s old but just two days ago she was walking and talking and taking meals with us. You try talking to her.”
“Come in child, sit. I’m old it’s true but I see and I hear. Come, talk with me but do not talk to me of getting out of bed, of eating food. I tell you, I am done.”
“Why? Why are you giving up on life?”
“I’ve seen enough. I’ve seen too much. When I was a child. And now in this country. At Passover no less. I’m tired of the hate. I’m exhausted.”
Getting The Right Signal by Geoff Le Pard
‘You look exhausted, Morgan.’
‘It’s mum and her death wish.’
‘Well, wishes. This whole “when I go…” malarkey.’
‘It was the music last week…?’
‘Oh that was easy. She told me yesterday she doesn’t trust me to carry out her wishes.’
‘She still hasn’t decided on cremation or burial?’
‘That’s part of it. It’s after that.’
‘She doesn’t want to be lonely.’
‘If she’s cremated how can she guarantee I’ll spread her ashes near her friends so she can keep up with the news.’
‘She’ll take a radio but will she get a signal?’
The 36 Hour Day by tracey
Last night’s game had gone thirteen innings followed by a long flight across the country. A 5:00p first pitch the next day left no time for a nap.
The radio announcer found himself giving an involuntary snort of laughter over the airwaves. An unexpected foul ball in the booth started the infectious chuckling. The announcers couldn’t look at each other for fear of bursts of mirth escaping. Their words came out strangled with laughter.
Punch drunk with exhaustion the radio announcers lost it in the seventh inning. Baffled listeners were confused, not recognizing sleep deprivation when they heard it.
Night Watch by Joanne Fisher
They had spent the entire day walking south and now they were both exhausted. In the darkest part of the night Aalen kept watch. She could see quite well in the starlight.
She looked at the sleeping form of Ashalla covered in a blanket. She had grown fond of this human. She would never have thought that possible. All her life she had been trained to keep humans out of their forest, or to hunt them down if they dared to enter. And now she was friends with one. Maybe they weren’t all as bad as she’d been told.
Exhausted by The Dark Netizen
Living on as a survivor is not easy in this wretched world.
I have fought countless battles through my life: For glory, for food, for money, and some times for the sheer fun of it.
In my youth I courted war, but as the years passed, my disgust of those who fuelled conflicts began increasing.
Every man that I have ever killed, every instance when I ended a life, sometimes swiftly, cleanly and sometimes slowly; they are still fresh in my memory.
I am exhausted now, awaiting a quick death.
However, my blade still remains hungry for more blood…
The Royal Bodyguard by Anurag Bakhshi
The sword almost slipped from his hand, as his opponent feinted sharply. He was weary with exhaustion, but giving up was not an option.
Giving up meant breaking the trust of the king who had made him his royal bodyguard.
And so, he dug deep into the inner recesses of his soul, and attacked, one last time.
A fountain of blood spurted out, followed by a cry that shook the palace to its core.
And as he looked in alarm at the king’s bloodied nose, and the triumphant fly flitting about, all that the monkey could say was, “Oops!”
Exhaustion by Shane Kroetsch
“I can’t do this anymore.” Sabine said.
“Do what?” Kalvin said.
Sabine spread her arms wide. “Any of this. Put up with people who refuse to use their brains. People who care so little about their own responsibilities that they don’t see the rest of the team struggling to pick up their slack. Why should I be the one working after hours and losing sleep over whether or not the job that these idiots refuse to do gets done?”
“Come on, Sabine, we can figure this out, can’t we?”
Sabine shook her head. “No. It’s too late. I quit.”
The Hard Life of a Hector by H.R.R. Gorman
Home defense is no joke. I thwart dozens of attempted break ins, assaults, and thefts every day.
Look at that two-legged creeper. “BARK!” I shout, warning him that my house is occupied by a threatening set of teeth.
“WOOF!” I combine it with a growl to ward off that four-legged menace. Other dogs make me so mad – sometimes I get a little over the top and attack the walls. Hooman doesn’t like that, but at least the house is still standing, I say.
Guard duty’s exhausting. It’s nice to settle down with a peanut butter Kong and a snooze.
DIY by Di @ pensitivity101
‘My get up and go has got up and left,’ Hubby said.
‘Lucky you,’ I replied. ‘ Mine hasn’t got the strength to actually get up!’
These days, our energy levels are a fraction of what they were and it takes weeks to get over any additional exertion.
Despite being exhausted though, both of us have had restless nights this past week, managing only a few hours sleep.
Our routine is the same, and we take our cue from Maggie who puts herself to bed at 9pm. Wish we could sleep at the drop of a hat like she does!
PART II (10-minute read)
The Author of a Long Night by Chelsea Owens
The cursor blinked from an empty screen, the only light in a night-draped house. Walls slept; world slept; he, for a moment, slept. She looked over at his backlit-shadowed features; they frowned.
She sighed and could not frown. Or smile. Expressions felt as elusive as the absent story arcs on her page.
I must write something, she thought.
Blink, answered the screen.
Then; through morning oatmeal mind mush, an idea came. Her fingers poised to type…
He groaned. Sat up. Named her.
She turned to his care.
The cursor sighed, yawned, and went to sleep without her.
Life in a Wakeful Trance (two parts) by JulesPaige
You know you’re a parent when you seem to be exhausted all the time.
Especially in early years when multiple night feedings happen.
Or when the little tyke has regular two and four o’clock nightfrights.
To bed by ten, and up at six the child; not remembering the screams.
The advice is; don’t turn on the light, coo and calm the itty bitty.
And you wonder how many months or years this is going to go on.
the confident adult who
just now needs some sleep?
Life goes on, they grow up, move out; and you retire?
You know that you’re a child when you seem to be exhausted all the time.
Especially in years when multiple calls to your old folks occur.
When your elderly parent starts to have memory and health issues.
You’ve the same ten minute conversation three times in thirty minutes.
Mother or Dad never seem to sleep or be awake when they should be.
You offer support, loving them; trying to keep your own sanity.
that confident adult who
you wanted to be?
Life goes on, and you can only that hope your own children remember you… with kindness too.
The Longest Days by Susan Zutautas
Meg never realized how fatiguing it would be being the main caregiver for Ian’s mother who’d fallen and broken her hip.
It had only been four days since she’d been released from hospital and Meg still had six to ten weeks of this to look forward to.
If there weren’t so many stairs in Sandy’s house it would be so much easier but at the same time, Meg knew she was helping someone and getting exercise.
On one trip Sandy said to Meg, “I’m so lucky to have you and so is Ian.”
That made all the exhaustion worthwhile.
Exhaustipated by Ritu Bhathal
Seriously, you don’t have a clue.
Yes, so what? You get up, get ready, catch a train and work 9-5. The evening commute is hard, so you need a drink at the end of the day. Then you sleep. And repeat.
At least you sleep.
I’m not sure what time I wake up, because I’m not entirely sure I go to sleep. It’s an endless round of feeding, changing, getting housework done whilst he sleeps, then all over again. Babies don’t have a clue about tiredness.
No. I’m exhaustipated.
Simply too tired to give a sh*t!
Exhausted 24/7/365 by Ann Edall-Robson
“You’re exhausted?” Hanna’s voice reflected her disgust.
Tal lay stretched out in the shade next to the hay bales. His hat covering his face so he didn’t have to see the look in Hanna’s eyes. He knew what was coming next. She was right, but it still didn’t make it any easier to watch her work as hard as everyone else. She shouldn’t have to. She was a woman, but he would never tell her that.
“You’d think by now you would have learned that ranching is 24/7/365. It doesn’t stop just because you think you’re exhausted!”
Expedition by Miriam Hurdle
It had been thirty-five days in the ocean desert. Their boat was beat up brutally. The sun was on their right, but the boat was drifting.
“We have exhausted the food supply and fresh water.”
“Such a pity we couldn’t pass Cape Town.”
“We set out together and will end here together.”
“Some of us could hang in a little longer.”
“We’ll draw the lots to decide who goes first to sustain us.”
“What? I’m throwing up.”
“I’m in the same boat. Here are three straws in my fist.”
“Wait! I spotted something.”
“Ay, the land.”
Exhaustion by calmkate
Emily was totally exhausted after another sleepless night.
All that worry and anxiety caused her so much fright
The abuse had been hideous, nobody had the right
to violate a child who always felt as if no end were in sight
Her experience had left her with nightmares pale and white
Victimhood wrapped tightly around her with all her might
Family and friends tending to avoid her odious plight
could she now become victor by wise choices in spite!
Experiences shape us but our attitude and choices define us
Forgiveness can heal although we never forget such blight …
Exhaustion by Floridaborne
We run, from church to church, telling our story.
People smirk, as if they know it can’t be true. Then the accusations begin.
“No one bombs a peaceful congregation. What did you do to enrage them?”
“We prayed,” I said. “And they beheaded our children for believing in the wrong religion.”
Still, it gives me no joy to read about another church being bombed, or burned. Exhaustion is our constant companion as we make our way north.
We have lost our family, our home, and tire of arrogant people who will not listen. Perhaps the human race deserves extinction.
Our Hero? by Joanne Fisher
She walked out of the smoking crater in the middle of Kingsport City. A crowd stared at her in fear and excitement and at the blasted remains of Dr. Hat, the latest super-villain to threaten their world.
“I am so exhausted.” Giant Explosion Girl said. The Mayor congratulated her.
“It’s amazing the job you do for us. Can I ask a question?” The Mayor asked.
“Sure.” she replied.
“Why do you put your life on the line to defend us every time?” She looked at him.
“Because I want it to be me who destroys the world, not them.”
Drama Lama by Annette Rochelle Aben
Legs with the strength of over cooked spaghetti, kept her from being able to stand at the kitchen sink. If she could raise her arms from the dead, she’d move the shock of hair that had fallen, blocking her view. Instead, she made a feeble attempt to blow it out of the way.
“I am sooo tired!”
Mother had heard it all before. Of course, her daughter didn’t have the energy to get the dishes washed. If she expended all that effort doing chores, then she’d have no energy left to spend the evening with her friends.
Bad Decision by Tina Stewart Brakebill
God she was exhausted. The constant questions. The scrutiny. Knowing she was being judged. Constantly. About every single thing.
Her friends had tried to warn her but she didn’t listen. “It’s not like I’m new at this this.” Her naïve arrogance dripping off her words. But California isn’t like New York they insisted.
Now she believed. Too late.
What it would feel like to escape it all? Just run. Dive in. Sink. Just rest.
“Ms. Emma? … Ms. EMMA!”
The kids weren’t even the worst. It was the parents. Private school teacher in Malibu. Worst decision ever.
Pilfered by Violet Lentz
The pen wasn’t worth anything, but Maddie pocketed it anyway. It wasn’t about the pen. It was about the rush. Stepping so far outside of her exhausted reality, that she could feel the hair on the back of her arms standing at attention.
Sometimes Maddie believed, stealing was the only thing that made her life worth living.
Mindlessly whisking her toddling two year old into the car seat, Maddie caught a glimpse of something sparkly dangling from her daughters tightly clenched fist. A necklace pilfered from the display adjacent the cash register, where Maddie herself had pocketed the pen.
Tramp’s Heartbreak by Sally Cronin
He had been walking in the lashing rain for hours. He contemplated the long straight road ahead known as tramp’s heartbreak and bowed his head in exhaustion
Cars had ignored his raised thumb all day as they sped past. In the distance he heard a vehicle approaching and braced himself for icy spray. Instead the truck stopped.
‘Hey old timer, hop in’. The teenager smiled from the warmth of the cab.
The lad chatted away as he sat in grateful silence. His eyelids fluttered and he slept, leaving his fate to a boy with the heart of an angel.
Exhausted Possibilities by Norah Colvin
Jolted awake when the bus reached the terminal, they grabbed their belongings and stumbled out. The driver shrugged when asked about accommodation.
‘NO VACANCY’ signs flashed along narrow streets. ‘NOT WELCOME’ lists accompanied the few with vacancies.
Trudging back to the terminal, hoping for seclusion, a ‘VACANCY’ appeared where none before. An old man bade them enter, waved away their money and installed them comfortably.
“Thank you. Thank you,” they bowed, and collapsed into sleep.
In the morning, they were alone. A note lay on the table:
“When you think you have exhausted all possibilities, there is always more.”
Tired No More (from Miracle of Ducks) by Charli Mills
Trench work became harder with an archeology field school of newbies. The questions exhausted Danni more than digging on her knees.
“What’s this,” was the most common question.
By late afternoon the scrape of her trowel sang a different tune. Instead of soft forest duff, the trowel made the higher pitched scrape against something hard. “Do you hear that,” Danni shouted to any close enough to hear. They all came running.
As she revealed the flat of something large and human-made, they all lost their sense of exhaustion. Curiosity woke them up and eased the aches of hard digging.
Exhaustion by Reena Saxena
Feeling exhausted is not worth it, when a world of opportunities awaits out there. Maybe, it is time to shed old skin and don new apparel. Maybe, it is time to refill the tank. Maybe, it is time to find new inspiration.
The immediate world around has shown its true colors, and changed those again like a true-blue chameleon (or is it true-green?). I’m ready to paint on a new canvas.
Moving on is not quitting. It is well, just quitting something that has outlived its course.
To be exhausted speaks of a limited stock. And I am unlimited…
NanoWriteMore by Liz Husebye Hartmann
She dropped her pen, hand cramping. Why had she defined success as the number of pages she filled?
She’d been sure that using paper and pen would slow her thoughts, access a deeper, more creative part of her brain, that would result in less typing and less editing.
She squinted at the stack of curled, etched paper, unable to decipher her scrawl.
Certainly what she had was good, publishable work, ready for the next stage?
Except her hand was cramped, her vision blurred, and her stomach roiled with hunger and nausea.
And most of all, she needed a nap.
If Ya Try Sometimes Ya Git What Ya Kneed by D. Avery
“Hey, Pal! Where’s Sho-mmmfff?”
“Kid, I will remove my hand from yer big mouth if ya kin hush and jist whisper. Okay?”
“Where’s shorty at?”
“Shorty’s Cowboy finely got inta the sawbone’s. Done got a new knee.”
“Tellin’ ya Kid, ya wake Shorty up whilst she has a chance ta rest, I’ll more ‘an cover that mouth a yers.”
“Ah’m whisperin’. Shouldn’t Shorty be celebratin’? This is good news at last.”
“Ain’t really news, Kid, more like the happy endin’ to a long story a the frustrations a gittin’ ta here.”
“Reckon Shorty’s exhausted.”
“Now Shorty’s heppin’ her Cowboy git on his feet after the surgery.”
“She’s some sweet on that Cowboy. An’ he let’s her wear his shirt.”
“Don’t be givin’ Shorty shit over that shirt Kid.”
“Who’d ever give Shorty shit over a shirt that her sweetie shared with her?”
“Mebbe a shithead thet don’t know enough ta look where he’s steppin’.”
“Reckon Shorty’s Cowboy’s gonna have ta learn ta walk right agin. Pal, with jist one good knee ain’t there a possibility he’ll end up walkin’ in circles?”
“Reckon thet’ll make it less exhaustin’ fer Shorty ta track him.”
From high above, a distinct vantage point is set. A view from an eminence of land, a hillock, the hump of an anthill, a sand dune. People can also place themselves above others and claim a position of eminence. Those who bow and scrape, acknowledge, “Your Eminence.” And some confuse the word for a white rapper.
Playful or serious, writers set out for the hills to wrangle stories from eminent advantages. A few even found spiders and webs along the trail.
The following is based on the March 26, 2019, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that uses the word eminence.
PART I (10-minute read)
Eminence by Michael Groban
His Eminence the Good and Virtuous Cardinal read the morning paper and cringed as he read of another abuse claim.
He felt a twinge of guilt as he read the charges against one of his priests. It wouldn’t be long before they’d come knocking on his door. But he was a cardinal, and they’d believe his story over any kid who claimed he knew or did anything.
He’d taken years to reach this pinnacle within the Church. Hiding and denying, who’d a thought he be so good at it. He took up his pen and started on the crossword.
What You Don’t Talk About Doesn’t Exist by Papershots
He took a milk carton from a kitchen cabinet, then put it back there even though it was now open – it should have gone into the refrigerator. He took a sip of water. The smell of oranges about to go bad wafted from the fruit bowl on the table (made of wood ever so slightly darker than that of the fruit bowl.) The party at His Eminence swirled in his hangover – its theme: “What You Don’t Talk About Doesn’t Exist” – they called him His Eminence after his ascetic countenance by day, and his “torrent of bizarre gaieties” by night.
Mongolian Pie by H.R.R. Gorman
The jester bowed before the king and queen. His coat, a tattered, borrowed thing, seemed unfit in the presence of royalty’s eminence. “I will sing you a traditional overtone song of my people.”
The jester pulled the bow across his khuuchir, and the two-stringed instrument wailed. The voices of the people came from his throat, some deep and worrisome while others were clear, melodic.
After the song finished, the king stood from his seat and clapped. “Excellent show!” He bent to look down on the jester.
The jester reached up and snatched the king’s gloried crown, then dashed away.
Oh to Be in England on Non-Brexit Day! by Anne Goodwin
We voted to abolish experts. Let the people have their say! Don’t bore us with details, wave your magic wand and make it happen. Would a surgeon go through such a back-and-forth to amputate a limb?
Yes, the Leave campaign deceived us. Yes, the rich will win whichever way we go. We’ll wave our flags as pigs fly in eminence above us. We’ll plug our ears when boffins threaten to explain.
We are the mother of parliaments. We are the brave who take back control. We are the laughing stock of Europe. We are the fools of the world.
Long Live The King by Nobbinmaug
His rise to eminence was halted by my hand. He wasn’t hard to find. Everybody in town knew where he hung out.
I pulled out the gun I took from dad’s nightstand and pointed it at him.
“Whoa! What are gonna do with that, little man?”
“I’m gonna be 10 next month.”
“All right, big man. Put it down before you hurt somebody.”
He reached for it, and I pulled the trigger. The kick knocked me down. The bullet knocked him down.
He was the only person I ever killed. My sister was the last his drugs would kill.
Portrait of Marion Gray by Liz Husebye Hartmann
Marion stared at herself, staring at herself, daring the other to step over the line.
“What d’you want me to do about it?”
“Can’t you absorb one more?”
“I’ve run out of room to absorb your blemishes.”
“Just one more. I’ll never ask again…Promise!”
“You said that last time.”
She stared at herself, daring herself to step over that line.
“Fine, but come closer. Touch your nose to the glass.”
A moment’s touch, the eminence was grabbed, pulled in.
Marion stepped free, no longer the face in the mirror.
She waved farewell and turned the mirror to the wall.
Your Eminence by Sally Cronin
As I pass him on my way to the village, I remember to say ‘Good morning your eminence’. To ignore him is to invite untold misfortune. Wise ones tell of signs of impending death if he is seen close to your window. And should that be open to the spring air, thefts of gold and silver. I laugh at the warnings, for I am young and carefree, but ancient beliefs stir in my blood, for lone magpies bring sorrow. So I pay him respect, wishing him a mate for life, to bring joy to those who see them together.
Prelude by Joanne Fisher
Aalen and Ashalla were hiding on an eminence looking down on the soldiers in the distance. Aalen’s wolf Vilja lay between them.
“Last year there was a drought and game was scarce. These soldiers came to our village demanding food. When we refused because we needed our food stocks for the winter they began killing all the hunters until we acquiesced. I came back to find my brothers had been killed. I painted my arrows black and started hunting them down.” Ashalla said.
Aalen looked down at the army. Once they set up camp, that’s when they would attack.
My Scar by The Dark Netizen
It is rightly said that behind every scar there is a story of survival.
My story took place many years ago, during the invasion of the dark king.
Led by our Prince, we were fighting for our survival in a battle that defined ages.
Our Prince’s eminence in warfare was unquestionable on the battlefield, as he skewered numerous dark minions in front of my eyes.
In the heat of battle I saw one minion slip behind the Prince, ready to end his life, when I jumped in between.
My sacrifice won my kingdom’s freedom and won me this scar…
Shattering Illusions by Jo Hawk
Jules was his father’s second son. He was deemed the spare heir to the kingdom. Always second best, he fought to win favor, to stand free from his brother’s shadow. Each passing year, the competition between them grew.
Their rivalry forced his vision higher, to the eminence of Mont Aiguille. He imagined looking down onto his brother’s domain. Determined, he focused on his goal, fought through doubts and fear until his kingdom became a reality.
He grew stronger than the mountain, hardening his heart he stood alone, freed from the shadows, he realized there had been nothing to prove.
Cross Roads (from “Diamante”) by Saifun Hassam
Near the ancient cypress and olive trees, silky spider’s webs interlaced thorny yellow thistle. Early morning dew drops on the silvery threads glittered like tiny jewels. Fleeting and fragile, the jewels would disappear into the warming air.
From an eminence of boulders on the cliff, Diamante gazed out at the seashore. He would miss the coastal villagers deeply. He was a village teacher and became a temple guardian after Father Martinez died a year ago. The Abbott was sending another priest and he had plans for Diamante to enter the Dove’s Ministry, to become a scholar. And a priest.
Glad Tidings of Nymble by Chelsea Owens
Nymble didn’t stand so much as gently flit above the waving grass, the first of the season’s signs of change. Leaning back as much as her grass and sunlight mote companions; she drank the deep, fresh air.
“Spring,” she whispered. She breathed.
A smile tickled her dimples. It pushed at her mouth-corners. As she looked out and over the gathered folk and fae, the smile spread to every feature of her pointed face. She grinned and opened her arms to hold the warm sun from toe to wing tip.
Atop the eminent rise, she addressed the expectant crowd. “SPRING!”
Owls and Auks by TN Kerr
He chose to stand atop a grand eminence, banked by steep outcroppings; a sentry, ever vigilant who watches over the Pacific. He has stood this post for more than fifteen hundred years. He is a giant towering over 300 feet high. He is massive, with a base of more than 30 feet in diameter. A Giant Coastal Redwood, a landmark with owls and auks living amongst his branches.
I come here to admire him from time to time. I always come alone. I am humbled.
Majestuoso y eminente, por derecho propio, es bien conocido a lo largo de esta costa.
The Judge by Roberta Eaton
The judge sat on a chair high raised high above the platform to ensure the accused understood his eminence. My son was forced to tip his head back at an unnatural angle to meet the judge’s eyes while stating his case. The comments made by the defendant were meaningless. Any defaulters who ended up on trial in the arena knew they were guilty in the eyes of the law. The punishment for wasting limited water resources was a swift death. The bodies of the guilty were buried in the surrounding forest to fertilise the trees that provided vital oxygen.
Eminence by Tracey
I dragged myself into the kitchen and apathetically checked the fridge. Spouse and small child would be home soon and looking for dinner. That was part of my “job”, cooking, meal planning, grocery shopping. I could feel the surge of pre-menopause hormones coloring my brain. I wasn’t even hungry, why should I cook dinner? I checked the freezer. The emergency frozen pizza had already been eaten this week. I started to cry and told myself, “enough”. The eminences would have to fend for themselves this once. I retreated to the couch and a movie. “Double Indemnity” suited me perfectly.
Age of Imminence by D. Avery
“What? Her Eminence drinking alone? Where’s Ernest?”
“Can’t I be somewhere where Ernest isn’t, Nard? Like you should talk. Where’s Kris?
“Visiting his mother. I just couldn’t.
“Hey, Lloyd tells me Ernest gave you a ring.”
“Thought you gals were supposed to be all giddy at a time like this.”
“Ernest’s giddy enough for the both of us. Driving me nuts.”
“Am I a peckerhead for being glad Kris is gone for a couple days?”
“Not if you’re looking forward to him coming back.”
“We’ll have to get used to being happy, huh, Nard?”
Two Meanings by Susan Sleggs
“Look at all those eminences in the back yard.”
“What are you talking about? Speak English.”
“If you did crossword puzzles like I do, you would know I was referring to all the little mounds of dirt.”
“Oh, yes. We have a mole problem.”
“And if your furry, four legged friend lounging in the sun over there knew she was a cat instead acting like a feline eminence, she might go outside and kill the moles.”
“She’s an indoor cat and I don’t think it’s funny that you used the same word with its opposite meaning.”
“Glad you noticed.”
Lost In Translation by Geoff Le Pard
‘You look smart, Morgan. In court?’
‘Ha. I’m meeting a rather special person. Very influential. I hope he can help me.’
‘He understands how the system works, you know, all those back passages.’
‘Corridors of power?’
‘A sort of eminence grise.’
‘You what? Immense Grease? That sounds like what you get before an outbreak of spots.’
‘Eminence Grise. Someone who works in the shadows.’
‘He had the lights on when I saw him.’
‘It’s just a figure of speech.’
‘Like Imminent Cheese?’
‘Is it French?’
‘Thought so. They’re greasy and like cheese.’
PART II (10-minute read)
Your Eminence by Norah Colvin
She glided in, regal robes flowing, loyal subjects lining the path.
“Your eminence,” they bowed as she passed.
She occasionally extended her gloved hand to receive their kisses of adoration or stopped to bestow a gift of royal chatter.
Though her crown and responsibilities weighed heavily, she held her head high as she proceeded towards the throne.
Decorum dictated every move. She dared not breathe out of sync. Her subjects depended upon her.
When seated, she motioned for all to sit. They obeyed, listening respectfully.
“I decree– “
“Lunch is served, Your Majesty.”
Blessing by Anita Dawes
My school was buzzing today, the nuns were all running around like deranged penguins. We were to receive a special throat blessing from the Bishop and were to address him as Your Eminence if spoken to.
The blessing involved two large candles joined in the shape of a V.
Sister Margaret held my hair away from the flame as the candles were placed around my throat and I have never suffered from a sore throat since.
Not bad going for 72 years.
I have wondered whether it was the blessing or just good luck
It still puzzles me today…
A Special Guest by calmkate
“It’s highly eminent that His Eminence will join us for tea in the forecourt this morning. So please ensure that our sandwiches have more than an eminence of cucumber!”
“But in high society the bread and filling must be thin to tempt. A sliver to tease”
“Please indulge my preference for something a bit more substantial”
“Will His Eminence be requiring a particular blend of tea or the usual earl grey?”
“I would prefer that you serve a selection of three or four for this highly honoured guest.”
“Your every wish is my command sir!”
“Thanks so much Jeeves”
Eminence by Deborah Lee
The house is a lovely lakeside pile on a low eminence above its neighbors, cocooned among trees. Jane lugs her few belongings up the slope easily, eagerly. Hangs her few clothes, arranges her few toiletries.
Hers, hers, for six whole weeks, in exchange for being present and tending to the animals while Audrey is in Europe.
The kitchen gleams, the den lulls, the shady deck beckons. But, she decides, luxuriating, paradise is a bathtub. And it hits her, making her sit up so abruptly she sloshes wine and bubbles. Is housesitting something she could do as an actual career?
Celebrity Chef by Macy Brown
As I locked my office door and headed down the stairs to leave the building I heard all kinds of commotion coming from outside. What could be going on?! I thought to myself. When I stepped outside I saw a crowd of people surrounding a town car that was parked in front of the building next door. A thin blonde in a perfectly pressed skirt stepped out of the car and the crowd went wild. I did not know who she was, but based on the people around her, her eminence was clear. Maybe she was a celebrity chef?
The Leader of The Pack by Susan Zutautas
From the day we brought Bruce home Maggie let him know that she was the leader of the pack.
It was sad to see how she showed her eminence over him. Bruce was such a laid-back kind of guy that we were never sure if this bothered him.
I’m sure they had this telepathic thing going on between them. Bruce would go to eat his food and Maggie would look over at him as if to say, “Leave it”. He’d not eat until she had left the room or until she started eating.
I suppose dogs have pecking orders.
Power by Janice Golay
“So I hear you are your husband’s eminence grise. “
“His imminent grease?”
“No, my dear. His gray eminence. The power behind the throne. That shadowy figure, peering from behind a velvet curtain, who holds and wields the real power.
“Well, we don’t have any velvet curtains in our house, just over-laundered hangings from Bed, Bath and whatever.”
But if you really wanted some velvet curtains in your house, they would appear. Right? You could manage that, couldn’t you?
Of course! But if I had the power and wished for velvet curtains, I tell you they wouldn’t be GRAY!
On the Couch by Michael B. Fishman
“Did you see ‘his eminence’ on the news today telling us how good everything is?” she said.
“You’ve got M&Ms?”
“I don’t watch the news anymore. You really got candy?”
“I’ve got M&M’s.”
“It’s all a front, you know.”
“Let’s both have some candy.”
“Plain or peanut, I’ve got both.”
“Then let’s have both!”
She went to the kitchen and returned with two bags. “Guess what?”
“Dead Reckoning is on.”
“Ooh, Lizbeth Scott.”
“You like her.”
“Not as much as I like you.”
“Not as sweet as those M&M’s.”
Feeling Like A Fraud by Ritu Bhathal
“Jill, could you just glance over this, please?”
Nancy thrust a piece of paper in Jill’s hand.
“I’d really appreciate your opinion. Would you mind?”
“Sure, why not.”
Jill smiled and turned around, surreptitiously rolling her eyes.
Ever since her book had been released and had shot to the top ten in the charts, she’d been inundated with ‘friends’ who wanted her advice on their writing. It’s like her eminence in word craft meant she was now a fully-fledged expert.
But that was furthest from the truth.
All she’d done was write from the heart.
And readers had appreciated.
Teaching by Reena Saxena
“It took twenty-eight long years of struggle to reach eminence.”
My father’s story was interrupted,
“Granpa, are you Eminem?”
“No, darling, the word is eminence. It means reaching a certain height where you tower over others – metaphorically.”
“Two difficult words – what is metaphorically?”
“Like, you are the magic which transformed my life, when I was about to give up. You are not magic, but I describe you as such.”
“Me? Okay, show me which Eminem…”
“I received the Best Writer’s Prize for 2018,” he pointed towards the trophy.
“Can this Eminem sing and rap?”
Teaching is a tough job.
Eminence by Floridaborne
Their Jaguar stopped, rolling down the tinted windows to sneer at me. I knew the look, people of eminence…northerners!
He frowned at my ramshackle house and asked, “Is this Azalea Avenue?”
“Yep,” I replied, stroking my beard. “Why?”
“We might buy the property across from you.”
“It’s full of rattlers. “
“Rattlers?” A teenager with a Gucci bag asked.
“If you don’t kill the 8 inch daddy long legs, they eat 3 inch roaches like this one,” I said, pulling one out of my pocket.
And another irritant flees the trees, never to know my doctorate is in entomology.
Eminent Domain (Or, Why I’m Moving Out Of My House) by John Rieber
I was just stepping on the front porch when Jill screamed: “SPIDER!”
The Tarantula was a BIG one. I instinctively jumped backwards as it raised itself up on eight powerful legs and announced its eminence. Jill raced to the back of the house and grabbed a bottle of bleach. I poured it on our guest. It got angrier.
In a panic I called Animal Control. “We have a Tarantula on our porch!”
“No you don’t”, the voice calmly replied.
“Yes, we have one!”
“No,” they said again, “you have many. They never travel alone.”
I still miss that house.
Queen Wolfric Returns by Joanne Fisher
Her Royal Eminence Queen Wolfric III returned to her Court in the cellar after inspecting her Royal Domain. She addressed her assembled subjects:
“It’s great to be back. While it is true I got caught Upstairs, one of the giant denizens that live there managed to free me, but not before another one of them performed a rather energetic dance before me in my honour. I was most impressed.
All this said I think it should a while before I tour those regions again. Those giant denizens seem friendly, but if the truth be told, they really terrify me.”
The Weight of Time by JulesPaige
From the edge of the field, five deer emerged from the wood line, a brief view.
The car on this long highway emerges from fits and starts of traffic.
Heading south from seven hours north I see emerging signs of late spring.
While away yellow daffodils emerged in the side and front gardens.
A soft smile emerges from my lips, the front of my home looks happy.
On the road home an emerging issue from a distance; Hubby’s work
his eminence to
solve issues drains our time
rising ground slip slides
Heavy sighs emerge, shoulders sag… as day ends
Eminence by Frank Hubeny
After moving to the beach town whose eminence attracted him he no longer got up early to join the seagulls as the sun rose above the ocean. He no longer paid attention to the tiny lizards running on the sidewalks. He stopped celebrating the tropical climate and started complaining about the heat.
It shocked him to realize that he no longer wanted to go to the Cuban-run bakery for a cortadito. He made his own coffee.
His relatives from northern lands were still awed by palm trees and lizards, but by moving to paradise he had become a local.
Find What Glints (from Miracle of Ducks) by Charli Mills
Eminence of sand rolled across flats, forming dunes. Danni recalled following an old pioneer trail across the Forty Mile Desert of Nevada in her dad’s Jeep, top down, spring sun beating warmly. What was that he said? Turn around and look for the glints among the dunes. Every time he pulled over, Danni scrambled among the hollows of sand, sun to her back. She trotted toward the glints – a purple glass nob from a dresser, a marble, an obsidian arrowhead. Even today, trained as an archeologist, she heard her dad’s voice coaxing her to find the discards of history.
A Legendary Demise by Anurag Bakhshi
The old man rasped sharply,”How many times did they shoot me?”
The younger man asked tentatively, “Twice?”
The old man immediately corrected him authoritatively, “Make that three times…and… just add that I was poisoned too.”
The younger man nodded, and had just shut his notebook when the old man said, “And just for kicks, also say that I almost managed to claw out of my grave in the frozen river.”
As his PR Head left, Rasputin smiled in contentment.
Nothing went further in helping one attain a position of eminence in history, than a death that was legendary.
Typo by Sarah Whiley
The neon glow enveloped the city built by and for corporations.
It was late and Sandra was alone in the cavernous office. Pounding the keyboard furiously she tried to finish the never-ending paperwork her boss delighted in giving her.
Bastard, she thought. He actually enjoyed the power, dictating when she could leave and knowing it was her weekend with her daughter.
Her email pinged.
She despaired as she saw yet another assignment.
Gazing out at the city lights, Sandra contemplated her reply. His eminence wouldn’t like it, but life was too short.
Smiling, she typed two words.
His Eminence by Ann Edall-Robson
On Hanna’s first day of the job she figured she would meet a few people, be shown some of the ropes, and get her bearings.
There was no surprise when the foreman drove in the direction of the outbuildings.
Along the way, he showed her where she would stow her gear, pointing to the living quarters and the cookhouse. Both, he explained vehemently, were Mrs. Johnson’s domains.
The barnyard came into view, and so did a large grey cat wandering out to meet them.
“That,” muttered the foreman, “is His Eminence. He thinks he runs the show around here.”
Crowned Eminence by D. Avery
“Kid, yer emanating fear.”
“I ain’t afeared a nuthin’.”
“Ever one’s afeared a somethin’ Kid. It’s okay ta admit it. Then ya kin face yer fears. So jist admit what yer afeared of.”
“Well, what are you afraid of, Pal?”
“Me? I ain’t afeared a nuthin’.”
“Huh. Was afraid you’d say that. But you gotta admit yer fears Pal. You said.”
“Well. I don’t like spiders Kid. Jist don’t.”
“Right? All scrunchy and hairy and sudden moves. But do ya fear ‘em, Pal?”
“Mebbe… Why ya pushin’ this Kid?”
“I’m afraid one’s bein’ an eminence on yer hat, Pal.”
What does it mean to chisel? To begin with something raw and peel back layers until a shape emerges. What does it take for a sculptor to chisel marble, a woodworker to cave wood, a conman to chisel money from someone unsuspecting? So many questions for writers to explore with the unusual prompt.
Many felt stumped. Chisel? Others jumped in with characters who possessed chiseled cheeks and rippling bodies. All pushed through and came up with a fascinating look at humanity. Put a tool in an artist’s hands, and you’ll be surprised by the results.
The following is based on the March 14, 2019, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that includes a chisel.
PART I (10-minute read)
Red Carpet by The Dark Netizen
He put on his best smile, and began walking down the red carpet, flashing his perfect set of teeth to the cameras.
The paparazzi had all gathered to one side of the carpet.
He was unperturbed even when he knew the press wanted a piece of him.
He had been nominated for best actor this year, as he showed flashes of sheer acting brilliance, in addition to his chiseled features.
Dressed in his well fitting tuxedo, he posed for the flashing cameras.
The fitting had turned out quite tight, and as he turned, he ended up flashing the cameras…
Deception by Ann Edall-Robson
His chiseled features had softened with the years. Still handsome, with a rakish look, and eyes that flashed like lightning bolts when his thoughts turned to what his son had done so many years ago.
He stood with his hip leaning against the workbench, looking out the window of his saddle making shop. The cloudy expression changed when he spotted his grandson working with a young colt in the corral across the way.
Watching the young man, he could see himself at that age. The family traits, and looks had definitely not missed a generation, but would the deception.
Chisel by Robbie Cheadle
Dan slammed his toolbox down on the table. “My new paint scrapper is missing. I haven’t even used it yet.”
“Are you sure it’s gone?”
“Yes,” he opened the box. “See, it’s gone. You haven’t seen it anywhere, have you?”
“No,” said Julie, thinking of the little fondant man who was reposing on the paint scrapper in her art cupboard. It was a great tool for moving her artworks with and she planned to keep it.
She smiled at him. “Why don’t you leave your toolbox in the kitchen until you find it?” His chisel had caught her eye.
Princess and Pauper by Abhijit Ray
Princess Pihu had five maids taking care of her every needs. Laborer Ramu had to take care of needs of his family. Pihu had never done any work, Ramu had not done anything but work.
Watching Ramu’s sweat soaked body, chiselled by hard labor would evoke unexplored feelings in Pihu.
Land lord’s daughter has fallen for the daily wager’s son was the story in the grapevine. Jealous coworkers, raised the matter with Pihu’s father.
Pihu saw Ramu being beaten up tied to a pole. Neither Pihu nor Ramu uttered a single word. Pihu was mute and Ramu was deaf.
The Assault by Anurag Bakhshi
I woke up to see someone leaning over me, as if he had just kissed me, and was about to do so again.
The man had blue eyes, a chiseled jawline, an equine nose, and that blind confidence that only comes from lifelong entitlement.
“You creep,” I screamed, as I pushed at him, hard. His face registered shock as he went flying back.
I jumped up, and landed next to his supine figure. The last words I heard before I choked the life out of him were, “I’m Prince Charming, Sleeping Beauty….”
I wonder why he called me that…
An Interlude by Joanne Fisher
Aalen had made camp for the night. Not feeling like sleeping she had found a piece of wood and used a sharp stone for a chisel. She began chiseling it into shape, though she had no idea what she was making. She heard movement in the bushes near her and then there was a loud panting by her ear.
“I wondered when you were going to show up.” Aalen said as she looked at Vilja. “They’re all dead Vilja. Killed in cold blood. We need to make things right.” She hugged her wolf and wept. Vilja licked her face.
Those Beaks Are Made for Eating by Susan Sleggs
Outside my window suet feeders for woodpeckers hang on the crabapple tree. They are chained because climbing critters like to steel them. The little Downy Woodpecker feeds with the tiniest beak, the size of a push pin, but it’s the fiercest of the bunch. The Hairy is next in size and its beak resembles a small nail. The Red-bellied sports a picture hanging nail and the Flicker’s beak is long and sleek, like a sharp needle. The extra large Pileated Woodpecker has a huge beak in comparison. It looks like two chisels on a hinge. He takes big bites.
Carve the Cake by H.R.R. Gorman
The cake melted like butter beneath his carving knife. He chiseled through the icing and fondant, into the raspberry jam and vanilla center.
“What did you wish for, Pop-pop?”
Pop-pop gave the granddaughter a toothless smile. Though his eyes were clouded from cataracts and his body now feeble, he put the knife to the table smoothly and handed his “little pet” a slice of cake. “If I tell you, will you promise to make it come true?”
“I wished to share another cake with you next year, sweetie.” He pinched her cheeks and cut another slice of cake.
The Hospital Closure Is Announced by Anne Goodwin
Excitement flutters inside her like the start of a baby. Could it happen, or is it a fairy tale? Amy Johnson flying so high she could chisel a chunk of cheese from the moon.
“Who decided the hospital had to close?” A woman jabs a gnarled finger at the Belgian. “Was it you?”
Rather than solving a mystery, the detective has created one. But, Mrs Christie having summoned him for a reason, Matty wracks her brain for a solution that would appease her guests. “Buck up! We must all forgo some comforts in wartime. Even our dear King George.”
Scraped by Tanushka Dangayach
I found myself Lying on the ground. Silver and metallic, scraping the ground. I glance around the area. Shoes lay about on the ochre ground. Kids loitered in the parking lot. Lying there, I looked up at the sky. The sun shined in my eyes, bright and brilliant. Shoes thudded on the pavement. Dropping down on the ground, a person bent down grasping my handle tight. “Aah! Look what I found!” said the raspy voice. Picking me up, he pushed my head against the ground.
I walked up to Larry. There he sat with a chisel in his hand.
Learning Curve by D. Avery
“What did you say Marlie?”
“Basswood. Google said it was a good carving wood, and then I learned we had it in our front yard, except we’d been calling it Linden, and I cut a piece of it to carve. Daddy taught me how to carve, Mommy! Mommy! You’re not even looking at my carving.”
She wasn’t, either; she was looking quizzically from Marlie’s bandaged hand to Marlie’s quiet father.
“Daddy taught me how to be real careful with the knife and chisel, but that was after I’d used the limbing saw. That’s when Daddy taught me about first-aid!”
TImeouts by Ruchira Khanna
“I don’t want to go to school tomorrow!” Nate announced loud and clear when he entered his home and sat down with a sulk.
“What happened, honey?” Mom was quick to take the eight-year-old in her lap.
The Mom continued to tickle and caress.
After a couple of minutes, he blurted, “My teacher gives me a lot of timeouts!”
There was silence.
“I’m sure you cannot identify what is right and what is wrong,” said Mom as she gently stroked his arm, “These timeouts are like a chisel. They will help you recognize and analyze your behavior, going forward.”
Perspective by Norah Colvin
The monumental task cast a shadow deep and long, miniaturising the toolkit at his feet.
He shook his head, muttering complaints and impossibilities.
The supervisor appeared. “Better get started. No time to waste.”
He rummaged through the toolkit, lifting, inspecting and replacing each implement in turn.
“What’s the holdup?” bellowed the supervisor.
He grabbed the mallet and whacked the stone. “Take that!” Chunks smashed around him. He wiped his brow and whacked again.
“Great. You’ve started at last,” encouraged the supervisor.
Later, as the light turned, the shadow faded and diminished. He lifted his chisel and refined his work.
Perfection by Reena Saxena
“Don’t be afraid of gathering enemies! It shows that you have chiselled your life to perfection.”
“How can enemies make a life perfect?” She was still reeling under the impact of a breakup, and the threats she received after that.
“Chiselling involves making a choice – you keep what you like, need or want and delete the rest. You revise your opinion on seeing the final outcome, and then, refine it a little more…”
I’m happy to see the glow in her eyes. Happiness shows in the pink flush of renewal on her cheeks.
“Welcome and embrace the New You!”
Chiseled Cheekbones by Susan Zutautas
You’re so bubbly, Sarah? Her mother said. What’s up?
It was going to be a surprise but I’m going to get my cheeks done.
Oh, for heaven’s sake don’t tell me you’re serious!
Sarah’s father was in the other room and heard the conversation. He went out to his workshop to grab a tool thinking he might be able to change his daughter’s mind.
See this Sarah, showing her a chisel. This is a tool they use to chisel your cheekbones.
Oh, Dad, you’re so silly, the one they use is much smaller and besides I won’t be awake.
A Muse by Goldie
was styled to perfection.
A stray lock,
gently hanging off the side
of his forehead added
to his “good bad boy” attitude.
The piercing blue eyes
beckoned to me,
causing me to almost get lost in the moment.
The face chiseled.
with pronounced cheekbones
I kept analyzing him further.
An impeccable six-pack.
An ideal specimen.
Could be Praxiteles’ muse.
“There’s pressure on men, too…
Not only women need to look a certain way.” –
I thought with contempt,
As I put the glossy magazine away.
Even if Flawed by Kerry E.B. Black
Michaelangelo saw the angel in marble and carved until he set it free. The world admires him. For hundreds of years, people have clamored for a mere glimpse of his work.
I’ve studied, learned every technique.
My teachers whisper appreciation of my creations, yet I’m poised with a chisel, too pertrified to begin. I touch smooth, unblemished stone so flawless it glows.
Yet I imagine my inadequacies disrupting its natural perfection.
The master’s words return then, and an angel’s wings pound beneath the placid surface.
Art must be freed, and even if flawed.
I place the chisel and swing.
The Fisherman by TN Kerr
My father was an artist; a sculptor, usually working in clay or stone. One day he, and six of his drinking buddies, brought a large stone and sat it in the centre of his studio.
“What are you going to make from that, Papa?” I asked.
“I won’t make anything from it,” he said, “I think I can find something.”
He told me that he believed a fisherman was hiding in the stone. That he would find the fisherman by knocking off small bits and pieces. He promised he’d take care not to cut the fisherman with his chisel.
Laurie’s Nature Journals by Saifun Hassam
Laurie often visited Mira and Jade at the Farmers Four Market. Their intricate designs in jewelry of metal and precious stones fascinated her. How had Jade captured bluebirds and wispy clouds in that silver filigree pendant?
She remembered her grandfather. With his keen eyes, a deft hand and a fine blade chisel, his oak and butternut wood carvings captured rich details of woodland deer, fox, owls and eagles. His chisel weaved along the grain of fallen logs, vividly portraying backyard visitors: sparrows, woodpeckers, hawks, mice and squirrels.
That had sparked Laurie’s own passion as a nature observer and writer.
Rain Pending by calmkate
An eerie stillness pervades
following some super hot days
a clear warning to one and all
that calm before a big storm
as I reel off some mantras [sacred sounds]
awareness arises fully aroused
heavy clouds drift swiftly over
as swallows dart and glide
eagerly catching erratic currents
to glide and play up high
as more dense clouds
skid across the sky
the birds call out warnings
each species on high alert
to the pending deluge
do they tuck each other in
sounds and visions gently collide
emotions deeply chiselled inside
all creatures weather together
whatever nature does provide
PART II (10-minute read)
The Master’s Hands by Jo Hawk
Turner’s left hand skimmed the tools on the workbench, each tool in its assigned space. To his right, the lathe hummed, a familiar cadence to the master’s tune. His ear told him his piece was unbalanced. Spinning at twelve hundred RPM, the music didn’t sing.
He found the required chisel and returned to his work. Touching his chisel to the spinning form, the tool bounced, and the wood chirped. Firm against the guide, severed wood spiraled in curls, deflected by his visor, the continuous curls covered his hands. He worked meticulously, immersed in the rhythm of his spinning reality.
The Attic by Anita Dawes
Clearing out the attic
I found Grandads chisels
carefully wrapped in cloth.
He is no longer with us
But I remember him telling me
Always look after your tools.
He was the same with all his tools
Paintbrushes must be thoroughly cleaned.
Unwrapping the cloth, five chisels
as good as the day he bought them
Rosewood handles, each blade sharp
as the last time he held them.
I could feel him beside me
nudging me to find the wooden train set
he made for my twelfth birthday.
I found so much more, I rediscovered
My grandfather, his lost wisdom…
Seeing by Nascent Ederren
It is that secret joy, which none may ever notice, those things stolen in a moment yet still left behind.
It is not loneliness which drives the urge to see. But a pause, a thought, a reason to remember why the silence is so blessed.
To come and go unnoticed, to spend time with and without. To stare at all around, and chisel into memory, the thoughts and faces all left behind.
It is time to retreat again and listen to the silence. Where words echo so loudly though spoken long ago, and flame alone will light the world.
My Grandfather’s Chisel by K. J. Watson
I never met my paternal grandfather. I have two mementos of his life, though: a photograph of him in his silversmith’s workshop, circa 1947, and a chisel with a split handle. In the photograph, my grandfather leans over a clamped silver dish, a chisel in his hands. The chisel is possibly the one I now possess. Family lore says that the V&A Museum in London has a silver cup with a design my grandfather conceived and engraved. I did go to the museum, but I could not find the cup. No matter. I have the photograph. And the chisel.
A Light in Dark Places (A true story from the Curious Archaeologist) by Gordon Le Pard
He struck the chisel with the wooden mallet, carefully. There was hardly any light as there was firedamp in the mine. Any flame or spark and the explosion would be devastating.
Then he saw it – a flame. It was approaching, he had nowhere to run, he shouted.
“Stop! there’s firedamp, stop!”
The flame approached, he continued to scream, the man was trying to shout something but the miner didn’t hear, as he fainted in terror.
He came too to see his vicar looking down, by the light of an impossible flame burning in – the world’s first safety lamp.
Dumbfounded Duplication by Papershots
“It’s in that drawer.” He marched to it confidently. “Found it?” He opened the drawer but found various types of tools, of which, let’s see… pliers, a kind of screwdriver… this looks like a hammer with a double blade at one end, it has to have a name, and, hold on, two more. So one is a chisel, the other is not. They do look similar, though. Small chisel and big chisel? “I didn’t know which size you preferred.” She grabbed the small one. “You do know that’s not really a chisel?” “You mean the big one?” “Yes.” “Yes.”
Technology: Chisel by Frank Hubeny
Brad knew he didn’t have the proper tools to do the job right, but he rarely did. The door and opener cost under $50. He’d reuse the old hinges.
He did have to buy a chisel. They told him he couldn’t return it when he was done. He could live with that.
After sort of measuring everything, he realized it wasn’t as easy as he thought to carve out where the hinges should go.
Eventually in spite of everything he hung the door.
Happy wife happy life: she was happy. For the most part the new door even closed.
Businessmen by Macy Brown
My stomach did back flips in my body as I mentally prepared myself for what was about to happen. My whole life, everything that I built, was on the line here. One wrong move and it could all be over; all of my hard work and late nights all for nothing. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. I force my feet to move into the room as I repeat the same words to myself over and over again, “I will not let them take control over my company. I will not let them chisel into my hard earned profits.”
Repeat Offenders? (subtitle: For those ‘Groupies’ who need to get a different grip!) by JulesPaige
I want to chisel off the barnacles.
Those leeches, those hanger on’ers
That have no connection to my creativity.
I’ve just got a simple sailboat
I do not run with the ‘big dogs’
Yachts, cruise ships; not for me
I’ll get my news from where I choose
Not from another’s opinionated feed.
I don’t do greed…
I have chiseled out my own niche
Letting the wind blow through my hair
I set my own course, by my own rules
I use my eyes to see, ears to listen
If you’ve been asked to leave;
Then please, just go away…
Charli the Chiseler by CG Brik
Charlie wandered the streets of Dublin chiseling everything he could.
Bread from the baker, pills from the apothecary, meat from the butcher, shoes from the cobbler, kisses from women, dosh from men.
Sauntering and swaggering, smiling to all who passed by, fingers too quick to catch, hands seemingly perpetually in pockets.
One day a bobby had enough, knocked him upside the skull with a billy club.
Charlie had no business being in prison, but he never stopped chiseling.
Cutlery from the kitchen, brushes from the bathroom, and he’d bring his booty to his secret corner, every day, always chiseling.
The Dancer by Sally Cronin
His chiseled good looks and toned body set the dance floor alight as he twirled one girl after another around to the music. But he was performing for one particular beauty, sat in a booth with her friends in the corner. Finally, having discarded his latest partner to return desolate to her table alone, he sauntered over to his quarry.
‘Wanna dance babe?’
Without replying, the stunning blonde stood and brushed passed him. She gathered all the girls he had danced with before, and led them onto the floor, where they boogied for the rest of the night together.
Drop Dead Gorgeous by Ritu Bhathal
All the ladies stopped what they were doing and stared.
Zeus sighed. He was used to it.
No matter where he went, the first sight of his chiselled features always rendered the opposite sex speechless.
His mates would often comment jealously about his ability to have any woman he wanted, falling at his feet.
But it’s not all it’s made out to be, being drop dead gorgeous.
A mute partner, who is always staring at him gormlessly, falling at the sight of him, or even dropping dead on occasion…
Not quite the kind of relationship he was looking for.
Chinese Whispers by Geoff Le Pard
‘What’s made you look so smug?’
‘Sure. I know you, Morgan. Spill.’
‘That woman over there? The one with the purple hair…’
‘A fine arbiter of good taste…’
‘She told her friend I look chiselled.’
‘Is that so strange?’
‘Oh come on. Your Mum might call your features angular but even Lego people have more curves.’
‘Sure. Have I chiselled you out of a compliment? I’ll check. Miss…’
‘You don’t… Bum.’
‘They said you look frazzled, not chiselled.’
‘That comes from knowing you.’
‘I love you, Morgan, just the way you are.’
‘Bog off, Logan.”
A Corrosion of The Heart by Bill Engleson
I see them there, burning the proverbial midnight oil, hunched over their devices, adding wealth where it likely isn’t needed, chiseling away at social programs.
Out in the hinterland, their minions, the simmering feudalists of hate, wind up their scabrous hearts, seek out their weaponry, plot heinous acts, all in the name of their purity, their virtue.
They meld, these separate trajectories, the political, the wastrel, the fanatic, the idol.
They serve each others darkest desires.
And where am I in this collision of hateful terrorist evil?
What part do I play?
Am I simply a shaving?
A Classic Swindle by John Rieber
“He chiseled me out of my savings!” Perhaps I shouted louder than I needed to, but he was walking away.
“Come back!” No one was really paying attention. Perhaps this scene was normal to them, but if they had been cheated the way I had, they’d be screaming too.
As I turned to leave the “Chiseler” returned.
“Mr. Turner,” he said quietly, “we warned you about volatile investments.” He leaned in closely. “But I do have a tip for you…”
He winked at me and I reached for my wallet – we both knew it was time for a comeback.
Sunday Morning by Michael B. Fishman
“Hey,” she says. “Trick or cheat.”
“Trick or cheat.”
“You mean ‘trick or treat’?”
“No, trick or cheat.”
“I don’t get it.”
“The crossword puzzle, doofus.”
“How many letters?”
“Sure I’m sure. Don’t you trust me?”
“When I’m using a pen I don’t even trust Will Shortz. Wait… Fits, OK, I trust you.”
“As you should.”
“What’d you say?”
She gives me a sidelong glance. “You said something.”
“Your ears OK? I said I love you.”
She leaned over, kissed the top of my head. “That’s what I thought you said.”
Necessity by D. Avery
“Jeez, Marge, you’re turning the trailer upside down these days.”
“It’s needing a good spring cleaning, Ernest.”
“Now with a hammer and chisel?”
“Ending the ice age in your freezer.”
“That’s a brilliant solution, Marge.”
With a sculptor’s eye Marge placed the chisel and hammered out great chunks of hoary frozen food while Ernest looked on.
“We should name our kid Invention. Get it?”
Marge told Ilene about it on their walk.
“Ha! Good one. You, the mother of Invention.”
“Ilene! I don’t want to be a mother! Damn it. Things were so good.”
“Go talk with Ernest, Marge.”
First Day Volunteers (from Miracle of Ducks) by Charli Mills
“I found something, Dr. Gordon.” Danni followed the volunteer who grinned.
She noted the group was digging near the mystery foundation. She expected these greenhorn volunteers to soon lose interest. Ruby City held no treasure. Danni confirmed the woman had found the edge of a tool. She instructed the group to continue peeling back layers centimeters at a time.
To her surprise, they did. At the end of the day, the volunteers left what looked like a chisel in situ. Two days later they cheered its liberation. Danni realized her first day fear of volunteers was unfounded. She grinned.
Tea with Mr Windsor by Anne Goodwin
A street so grand the houses had names chiselled on the gateposts. Like gravestones. As at the cemetery, trees lined our route, pushing through the pavement at intervals, as if Briarwood was so healthy, vegetation reigned over stone.
I did not slurp from the saucer or forget to extend my pinkie on raising my cup. I did not drop jam on the Chesterfield or gobble up the dainty sandwiches in one bite. But I thanked the lady who offered me the plate as our host’s wife. How could I know she was the daily woman if she wasn’t introduced?
Like Michelangelo by Kelley Farrell
Why couldn’t my parents be dream crushers? My proclamation of wanting to become a marble sculptor should have scared them.
Perhaps the pieces which are grand are worth it but starving artist isn’t just an expression, and who buys marble sculpture anymore?
Men who spend on everything and still afford sculptures of themselves. Naked.
“Make sure it’s a testament to my … manhood. Like Michelangelo.” The man, overweight and sweating, purs.
“Michelangelo was the …” Not worth it. “If you insist on staying you’ll have to be quiet. I’d hate for my chisel to slip and … reduce your manhood in anyway.”
My son is a woodworker. He does chip carving.
The tools he uses for this type of woodworking are a knife and a gouge rather than a chisel. However, one day he would like to try different types of woodworking, some of which involve the use a chisel.
People worry about him working with sharp tools. They say that he should beware when working with gouges and knives. It is true that he must be prudent when using imprudent (or perhaps impudent) tools. However:
The cuts that hurt worst
Come not from the sharpest knife
But from jagged edge
No Means No by Annette Rochelle Aben
She hated their Michigan Basement; cement brick walls and a dirt floor. If not for the washing machine being down there, she had no reason to be down there. She started her laundry and turned to run back upstairs, when the sight of her father’s work bench caught her eye.
Hammers, hand saws, baby food jars of nails, all lined up neat and tidy. She noticed, but wondered why he didn’t, that something was missing. A shudder ran through her body to think what would happen if he found that she stashed his chisel under her mattress and why.
PART III (5-minute read)
Some Things Are Not Chiseled in Stone by Sascha Darlington
Conversations weren’t easy with Dad after Mom left. What he said, went. Case closed.
The case for my art didn’t close, not for me. I spent hours at Megan’s in her father’s workshop chiseling aspen, Foo Fighters pounding through my head. When I qualified for the art competition, I lied to Dad about where I’d be and forged his name on the permission slip.
At the show, Dad stood by my carving of our dog, Dali. My stomach dropped.
“I’m not a monster,” he said. “You lied.”
His finger drifted across the first-place ribbon. “We should talk.”
Chisel by Eluminora
Her mouth is the last thing to chisel into existence. He does not know why he left it until the end, when all the rest of her is already finished. Perhaps she does not need a mouth. The smooth plain where it should be intrigues him. But she is his companion, the fulfillment of a promise to himself: he will no longer be alone. Damp with effort, he lowers his chisel yet again until its tip barely touches the stone. Sweat beads on his temple as he strikes the first mark. Then his hand slips and gashes her cheek.
Poured Out by Alexander De (Zander)
“Chisel me this, Batman!” she said, laughing.
“Riddle,” I corrected her. “It’s riddle me this.”
She silently shuffled the salt and pepper shakers. I drank my coffee; stared out the window. Cars passed.
She always says the wrong thing, like she doesn’t quite get the punchline and I feel this stupid need to correct her. Me, and everyone else.
“I don’t really fit in the world,” Her sadness slipped into a smile.
I smiled back, took her hand. Held it, as it turned out, for the last time over pancakes.
She poured out the entire syrup jug, slowly, deliberately.
Ruth Signs Up for a Woodworking Class by Molly Stevens
“What in blazes are you gonna do with a chisel?” asked Chester.
“It’s for my woodworking class. I signed up for a two-day session in Rockport,” said Ruth.
“Dadblast it, woman! I suppose you think because you’re goin’ outta town, you’ll learn more. That class is likely run by some hippie who moved here from California who doesn’t know his dovetail from his biscuit joint. And I bet he learned it all by watchin’ YouTube. You’re wastin’ money! Why didn’t you ask me to teach you?”
“Because for all your experience, there’s something you don’t have.”
She Knew Him So Well by Di @ pensitivity101
The smile brought out the dimples in his cheeks, creating a path to the laughter lines around the eyes perfected to capture their charm, sparkle and warmth.
His chin showed strength of character. She had even managed to reproduce the scar he got from horse riding as a child.
It was her best work, but there was something not quite right.
She studied the photograph again, tracing the lines on the image and comparing them to her art.
Taking her narrowest chisel, she gently scooped away the blemish.
Not on her beloved’s face, but a blot on the photograph.
Chiseled Beauty by Nancy Brady
Julie and her friends had gone to the art gallery. She saw him first across a crowded room. He was tall, lean, and his face was chiseled, the penultimate male. He was the man she had seen in her dreams so many times even though he was turned away from her. She would have recognized him anywhere, but he was surrounded by many admirers.
She just had to get closer and hope that a few of those hangers-on would have left. She would be patient. She slowly made her way towards him, waiting to see Michelangelo’s David up close.
Three Spirits by Sarah Whiley
The djembe is West Africa’s best known instrument. This goblet-shaped drum is traditionally carved from a single piece of African hardwood and topped with animal skin. Its name is derived from “Dje” (gather) and “be” (everyone).
It is said, each drum contains three spirits – that of the tree, the animal whose skin is played, and the carver who chiseled and shaped the wood.
The djembe is a vessel for these spirits to come through. The sound is past, present and future; that which is not in us until it comes into consciousness through our hands and into the world.
Wood Be Artist by D. Avery
“What’re ya doin’ Pal?”
“Bless you. Looks like yer carvin’. When’d ya learn ta carve?”
“I’m a learnin’ jist now as I’m a doin’, Kid. Try it.”
“Oh, I cain’t carve, Pal, not even a whittle bit.”
“You could if you’d wood, and a knife. Jist try.”
“I don’t know how. It won’t turn out.”
“Won’t if ya don’t start ever. Here. Cedar wood.”
“Yeah, I see da wood Pal. An’ cain’tcha see I cain’t carve?”
“Jist shush. I’ll teach ya.”
“There a charge?”
“Yeah, sure Kid, pay me in bacon.”
“You chiselin’ me?”
“Maybe a whittle.”
A mouse in a house, a wardrobe, a Victor trap, rescued and orbited to outer space. Mice are everywhere, including our technology. Somehow the vehicle that takes us into the depths of the world wide web got dubbed a humble mouse.
This week, writers chased the tails of mice to produce mouse tales. They will take readers on a merry chase of imagination, tenderness and hard lines. Use your mouse to navigate through a collection arranged into 10-minute nibbles.
The following are based on the March 7, 2019, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about a mouse.
PART I (10-minute read)
Meanings Change by Susan Sleggs
“My mouse isn’t here,” my son lamented
“He better not be running loose.”
“I’m talking about my computer mouse, not Whiskers.”
“That’s a relief. Where could it be?”
“Probably at school. I used my laptop to work on an assignment about archaic words. I had a lot of windows open looking for examples.”
“Windows used to let air in, not information. Come to think of it, RAM, byte, virus, web, boot, spam, and cookies have all taken on new meanings in this techie age.”
“You’re a genius. I’ll write my report on those words and easily get an A.”
My Mouse by Sally Cronin
I am extremely attached to my mouse, small and demanding at times, but I need a muse that is easy to maintain, and doesn’t demand three walks a day and half my dinner. It sits quietly by my side, observing my every move, and eager to be handled at every opportunity. I have owned several mice in my lifetime, but this one has a special place in my heart, as it has supported me thorough my latest book and editing process. But it is showing signs of burn out. Perhaps it will perk up if I change its battery.
Other Worldly by Frank Hubeny
I move my black mouse and click. I know I should be doing other things.
“Like what?” That silent voice inside me asks.
Well, like watching this orange sunset or bothering that white bird sitting for no good reason on the railing or contemplating the other worldly mysteries of this grand universe.
Knowing I have no clue, I hear. “Really, like what?”
So I let my inner squeaky wheel, my imaginary “friend”, guide me downward into the depths of another suspicious, weedy, mosquito-loving rabbit hole I have no business exploring. But what else, really, do I have to do?
Due Credit by Reena Saxena
You won’t be able to use all those fancy products, if they are not tested on me. I put my life and limb to out to help you. I’m an extension of your hand, when you navigate that space you can’t live without. I think you call it the internet. I don’t find it very useful though….
You give me food and sometimes – space to live, but I don’t think the equation is balanced.
You need to do a lot more to give me my due credit. Killer cats and dogs have been honoured for too long now.
Chaircat Mao and Cheeser the Mouse by H.R.R. Gorman
“Chaircat Mao,” asked Cheeser the mouse, “Why don’t you ever chase me?”
Chaircat Mao rolled his rotund body over and readjusted his luxurious gray coat. “Well, have you ever chased me?”
“No, Chaircat Mao! That would be silly!”
Chaircat Mao closed his eyes as if the question were answered.
Distraught, Cheeser scurried onto Mao’s flesh. Without response, she balanced down to his nose and pulled on his whiskers. “It’s not right, Chaircat Mao! God made cats to chase mice!”
“Don’t be silly. God made cats to be worshipped. Now stop disturbing my nap.” So, at last, Chaircat Mao slept.
Wrong Mouse by Anita Dawes
Our cat Merlin loves to bring us gifts
I wish he would leave the mice outside
I told him the other day, it was the wrong kind
Jaye needs a new mouse for the computer
Of course, he didn’t take any notice of me
He loves to catch butterflies in his mouth
He lets them go unharmed
Maybe he likes the flavour of them
I have no clue, as I don’t speak cat too well.
After buying a new mouse, Merlin stopped
bringing his gifts for a while
was he trying to tell Jaye that
her mouse needed replacing?
The Mouse That Came in from the Cold by Di @ pensitivity101
I heard scratching and told partner we had a mouse in the bedroom.
He flicked on the light, looked around, then switched it off.
The scratching resumed. Another nudge, he got up to look.
I saw a shadow and turning on the light saw a little mouse disappear behind the wardrobe.
Partner threw himself out of bed and whacked everything in close proximity.
With the bedding wrapped around me, I was in hysterics.
Not that I was afraid, but the ridiculousness of the situation as he’d been charging round the bedroom stark naked, in all his dangly glory.
A Mouse Backfires by Norah Colvin
“Eek!“ shrieked Granny, toppling back on the chair, arms and legs flailing.
“Thwunk!” Her head struck the wall, silencing the children’s sniggers.
Granny slumped motionless, eyes closed, tongue lolling from her slack jaw.
Barney gaped. “D’ya, d’ya think she’s dead?”
“Don’t be silly,” admonished Eliza, older and wiser. “She couldn’t be. Could she?”
The children tiptoed closer.
“What if she wakes up?”
“What if she doesn’t?”
“I’ll check her pulse,” mouthed Eliza.
Suddenly, Granny jolted upright, eyes staring blankly.
The children gasped.
“Gotcha!” laughed Granny. “But that is a clever mouse.”
“How did you —?”
Granny winked. “Granny knows.”
What Happened to the Mouse? by Miriam Hurdle
“What is that box?”
“That’s my infrared camera.”
“What’s that for?”
“Did you see the oranges fell from the tree? Something ate up the cores. I wanted to see what happened.”
“What did the camera catch?”
“Look for yourself.”
“OMG! A mouse! I thought all the mice were dead.”
“I guess not. This one escaped.”
“Did the camera take the pictures last night?”
“No, these were taken two nights ago.”
“Was the camera on last night?”
“Did the mouse come back?”
“No, something else did?
“Oh no, I know what happened to the mouse.”
My Life As a Mouse by Macy Brown
Quickly I scurry across the dilapidated, plywood floor, covered in dust, careful not to step on the wooden contraptions my brothers and sisters have succumbed to. Last week dad went in search of food, but he did not return. Now it’s up to me to find food to keep the last of my siblings alive. I come around the corner of an old, water damaged box, and that is when I smell it – salty peanut butter; but before I have time to react I hear that ear shattering CLAP as a metal hinge comes crashing down upon me.
That’s Mice — A Conversation for Musicologists by Bill Engleson
“Ah, Mick, do you ever ask yourself where we belong in the grand scheme?”
“Gee, Squeak. Not a lot. Why?”
“Well, I was thinking. Take music. Sometimes we just pop up in a song…its neat.”
“Glad you asked. I’m thinking of that great Johnny Cash ditty, I Still Mice Someone. Sure brings a tear to my eye.”
“I do like Johnny Cash…but…”
“Or, Little Richard’s, Good Golly Mice Molly. That sure shakes the floorboards.”
“Squeak, don’t take this the wrong way but I think you oughta get your hearing checked.”
“I hear ya, Mick. I hear ya.”
Little Miss Mouse by Susan Zutautas
She was a tiny little woman with whiskery gray hair. At times she’d be talking to you and her little pink nose would rapidly twitch. Much like that of a rodent smelling something good to eat. Speaking of eating, sunflower seeds were always nearby but never an empty shell to be seen. Listening to her talk was quite annoying with her squeaky pitchy little voice. There were some days you would feel a swish of wind go briskly past you, only to find out it was Little Mouse. Yes, that’s what we had nicknamed her. It characterized her perfectly.
Mousetrap by Ritu Bhathal
It sears through my body.
I know no one will find me.
They were all much more sensible, listening to Mummy. I had to be the one who had to go and look.
Curiosity killed the cat. That’s the saying. Not the mouse, the cat.
But it was just so tempting.
I could smell it.
That whiff of cheesiness.
I knew it was out there somewhere.
And I found it too.
Sat there, right in front of me, was a huge chunk of the best cheddar.
How was I to know it was on a state-of-the-art mousetrap?
The Night of Forgotten Chores (from Miracle of Ducks) by Charli Mills
Snow crunched beneath Ike’s boots. Danni hastily stepped into them with her slippers, throwing a jacket over flannel pajamas. She grimaced against the blast of cold air. How did she forget her chores? The animals relied on her, especially when the weather turned. She pushed open the barn door, flicking on lights. Three mournful dogs glanced up from the cocoon of their cedar houses. Blackjack nickered his discontent, and the chukar fluttered in their cage. Sluggish with guilt Danni slid her hand into the grain bag to find the scoop. She yelped when instead she grabbed a live mouse.
The Little Ones by Ann Edall-Robson
The tiny flecks of dust shimmered like specks of gold in the early morning sunlight streaming through the six-pane window. The building was old, but it was obvious someone was keeping it weatherproof, save for the tiny knothole in the corner, near the back door garden entrance.
The wooden bung had shrunk over time, slipping to one side, going unnoticed in the overgrown flower beds, and allowing those who knew of its whereabouts to come and go as they pleased through its odd shape.
Thanks to the friendly garden mouse, the Little Ones now had a new home.
Laurie’s Journal by Saifun Hassam
On a sunny cold February morning, Laurie walked gingerly over the snow and ice-covered grass and stone steps, to the rose and blackberry bushes, pine and oak trees. Fallen branches, twigs, pine needles and acorns poked through the snow.
In a tiny space among the maze of roots, some snow had melted. A bright-eyed mouse sat quietly on a root. Laurie sat quietly on the old scarred log. Last autumn, she had found tiny tunnels running along the blackberry bushes. In her mind’s nature journal, she was already drawing and making observations of these tiny settlers in the garden.
Mouse in House by Ruchira Khanna
“Oh God! We have a mouse in the house!” I shrieked as I announced to my family. My son sitting on the couch was quick to pull his legs and cross them over. “Where! Where!” he inquired in an equally high-pitched scream.
“It’s in the bedroom!”
I was now waiting restlessly for my husband to take some action. Instead, he continued to work on his laptop unperturbed of what I just announced!
I repeated it this time in a higher decibel.
He looked up with a sense of calm, “Relax! It’s the door. It needs oiling at the hinges!”
Peace Offering by D. Avery
It had to be done. *I won’t have them on my countertops.*
In the hardware section she reached for the wooden Victors. *Can’t improve on those.* Very effective, though she didn’t like setting them, flinched if they snapped, worried about her fingers. *At least it’s just my fingers*.
She moved on to the toy section. *There, little doll dishes, perfect.* She took her purchase home to do what had to be done.
She cleaned her counters. The doll dishes, filled with tasty morsels, she set on the floor. *We can share the food. But please stay off the counters*.
Mouse by Janice Golay
I am a mouse. I say this without pride or apology. It’s just “I am.” Perhaps in a previous life I was someone or something else, someone bigger, stronger, who could roar or soar. But here I am with this life, making the best of what I am. For example, this morning I checked my winter stash of corn, seeds and old apples. Looks OK. It’s sunny today, so I poked my head out of the barn, saw a flying creature’s slow shadow — wide wingspan — soaring, searching…..for me! Pulled my head back in fast. Next life, please.
PART II (10-minute read)
Minnie and Me by Goldie
There it was again – an unexplained pit in her stomach. As if someone was watching her.
There was no one in sight, but she couldn’t shake off the uneasiness.
She tried to run, but tripped and fell to her knees.
A tall shadow appeared in the puddle in front of her.
She raised her head hesitantly to assess the situation.
“There you are, sweetheart” – he said, and extended his hand, but Emma remained on the ground.
“I said I would take care of you. I’d never let you fall” – he said, pulling her up by the hair.
Visitor by Abhijit Ray
Six months before, one night I woke up from my intermittent sleep. Something ran over my body. There he was eating my leftover meal. We have gotten used to each other.
He stares at me curiously. Sitting on his hind quarter he wipes his face and his moustache. I think he prepares himself for the dinner.
I wait for his arrival. He visits me everyday without fail. He does not need any permission or any pass. He is the only friend I have, as I count my days in death row for murdering my business partner and my wife.
Cosmopolitan Collapse by JulesPaige
The Fashionista thought she’d replace her dogs toy.
The only place she could find Mookies favorite
mouse squeaky toy was through the internet.
The Fashionista attempted to order the toy herself.
But there was a Troll waiting to capture
and sell her personal information.
The Fashionista used insecure protocols
allowing the nasty Troll to unleash a virus
that crashed and burned The Fashionista’s
personal site, the Pet Place and
several major operating systems.
The Troll thought it was hilarious
that his virus was called the Black Plague.
All because The Fashionista wanted
a squeaky rodent toy for her dog.
My Life As A Mouse by Joanne Fisher
Ever since a company began briefly downloading consciousness’s into other species the holiday industry has been transformed. Last year I spent two weeks swimming around the Pacific Ocean as a fish. When I returned to my usual body it felt strange for a while to have arms and legs again. This year I decided to be a mouse. I got some strange looks, but they’re quite cute. Though I did spend most of my time trying to find food. One time I saw some peanuts on the floor, as I scurried to them I didn’t even see the cat…
Experiments by The Dark Netizen
Mark my words, this novel research is going to put us right into all the books out there: journals, encyclopaedias, history books; maybe even novels and comics.
We are going to become celebrities not only in the science community, but even in the outside world.
Now, we only need to hope that this experiment works during the trials.
The serum should have the same effect as it had on mice.
If it gives the mice intelligence in comparison to humans, imagine what it would do for human subjects.
Aren’t you in agreement about starting human trials early, Dr. Mouse?
I’d Like to Mouse Wheel a Motion by Chelsea Owens
“Now, now, Mrs. Snigglewhiff; that’s hardly mouseylike. Would you please consider using the shavings over-
“MISTER Cheesebiter, if you wouldn’t mind-
“I say; what are you doing at that drink station? Refreshments are for after our-
“What is it, now, Whiskershins? …The Society for Capybara Welfare wishes to be heard? They’ll just have to submit their request in shavings like the rest of us!-
“My word! Will the ringtailed children kindly refrain from using the wheel till after our meeting has adjourned?-”
“I now call to order The Semi-Regular Meeting of Tame Rodentia. First item of business: queuing.”
Mouse by Robbie Cheadle
Yesterday morning I saw a mouse dash across the kitchen floor and slip under the dishwasher. We live near a bird sanctuary so we do get the odd furry visitor. My husband catches mice using a method involving rat glue smeared on a piece of cardboard. I hate it but we cannot have mice taking up permanent residence in our home.
The gluey cardboard worked and this morning I found the mouse stuck to the cardboard. It was still alive and had to be drowned in water. That is the down side of rat glue – it doesn’t kill quickly.
I Hate Those Meeces to Peeces by Geoff Le Pard
‘Why the long face, Morgan?’
‘Aunt Annette is coming.’
‘Is she a tyrant?’
‘No. We have mice; she hates mice. She’ll flip if I say or if she sees one.’
‘Get a trap.’
‘Can’t. She’ll see it and know.’
‘You’re screwed then.’
‘Could she stay with you? She’s as quiet as a mouse.’
‘What if I’m phobic, too?’
‘I’m not murophobic…’
‘… get you with the long words…’
‘… but I am syngenesophobic.’
‘Fear of aunts?’
‘Great, I’ll bring her round then.’
‘But I just said I’m sygenes…’
‘Sure, but she’s not your aunt, is she?’
Friends by Kay Kingsley
“Charles, help!” A shrill voice shouted from the living room.
Fearing the worst, he dropped the plate he was washing in the sink and came running. “What is it Ida?!” he said, panicked.
Standing on a chair Ida swore it was the biggest mouse she had ever seen. HUGE. GIGANTIC even.
“Sweetie. Come down off the chair. It’s not that big.” he chuckled.
“What? You knew it was in the house and didn’t get rid of it?!”
What he hadn’t told her yet was that since the accident, the mouse was the only friend he had to talk to.
Silent as a Mouse by Kerry E.B. Black
Make-a-Wish interviewed my daughter, Bear, and she wanted to be a princess. Her consultant clapped. “No better place to be a princess than WDW!”
However, costumed characters terrified Bear. I read the promotional materials and discovered what I hoped would calm her. “They don’t talk.”
Consoled, she reluctantly approached her favorite cartoon, Minnie Mouse.
We turned to leave when the dear costumed actress forgot her training and reassured, “It’s okay, honey!” She covered her perpetually smiling mouth with white-mittens, but the damage was done.
I wondered if little Bear would ever trust me again.
Little One by Sarah Whiley
The shadow of the moon danced on the lake. A light breeze whispered gently through the tress and the air was filled with a symphony of insects, clamoring to be heard.
Lucy trod carefully in the filtered light, glancing behind her guiltily. Her mum and dad would be furious but since the trap hadn’t killed it, Lucy figured it was a sign.
Kneeling at the fence line of their property, she reached into her pocket and tenderly scooped out the mouse.
With a grateful “chit” of thanks, it promptly ran into the darkness.
“Take care little one,” she whispered.
Of Mice and Girls by Nancy Brady
Mighty Mouse was Julie’s favorite cartoon; she sat enthralled on the living room floor every Saturday morning. When the mice got into trouble, he would fly to their rescue, saving them from the mean old cat. She thought him handsome in his tights and cape as he sang, “Here I come to save the day, Mighty Mouse is on the way!”
He was Julie’s hero, and she had a crush on him.
Julie had a little doll with a brown ponytail, just like her. When Julie played with her doll, she pretended she was Mighty Mouse’s girlfriend, his love.
Tasha’s Gift by Nobbinmaug
“Aaaahaaha! A mouse!”
“You’re such a woman.”
“Women can’t be sexist.”
“I think that’s also sexist.”
“Men don’t get to decide what’s sexist.”
“That is definitely sexist.”
“Will you just get the mouse, please?”
“Why? Because I’m the man?”
“Because your cat brought it in, and it’s your apartment.”
“You wanna move in?”
“Hell no! You have mice.”
“Tasha and her gifts. They’re usually dead.”
“Yeah, it’s gross, but they’re easier to catch when they’re dead.”
“I am not staying here tonight if that mouse is here.”
“I’ll get it. I’ll get it. I will find it.”
Bed Fellows by Annette Aben
A little girl needed a room of her own, especially when her siblings closest in age, were all boys. She was given the space off the bathroom. A space normally used for storage. Besides, she could lock the door. She could find privacy there.
She didn’t mind sleeping on an old mattress, covered in quilts. There was a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling, so she could read. She gladly traded the feel of the mice that ran across her legs at night over her father’s demands. She chose sleeping in mouse turds rather than her own blood.
Lionhearted by Nan MykelI
I smell a cat in the house. That means my time on earth is limited.Hmmn. What can I contribute to the world during my shortened lifespan? I know! The stepfather who sneaks into his stepson’s room at night silently, on tiptoes to molest him!There he is, stealthily approaching the sleeping boy. Now on his knees, pulling back the covers. Strike now! Nails extended, I rush up his feet, up his legs and high on his head. I dive triumphantly onto the boy, whose screams are echoed by the perpetrator. Lights throughout the house. Goodbye mouselife, hello glory.
Mighty Mouse by Jo Hawk
I stumble to my desk. The coffee sloshing in my cup slips over the edge trickles down the side and drips onto my freshly printed manuscript.
I blot the drop, but the damage is done. Adding insult to injury I mark the draft with a giant coffee ring. I have no fear. Mighty Mouse will save the day. The laptop purrs, Mighty Mouse chases clicks across the laptop’s screen while I sip my coffee.
The printer springs to life, spitting out pages as the Mouse commands.
The pristine draft restored, it awaits the torture session of the red pen.
Moondarby the Mouse and the Mischievous Macaroni Penguin by K. J. Watson
My pet mouse, Ellroy, is by my keyboard, twitching his nose at the computer screen.
“You dislike the title of my latest children’s story, don’t you?” I ask him.
He twitches more vigorously.
“Is it the alliteration? Or the name of the mouse? Or is it the macaroni penguin?”
In response, Ellroy darts across the keyboard: ]’pl[;ijokyguhrdtfwaesq.
“I assume that means you’re averse to it all?”
Ellroy stares at me.
“Okay. How about ‘Ellroy the Magnificent and the Naughty Cat’?”
Ellroy curls up on my notebook.
I begin typing and wonder: Who else has a mouse as a muse?
Focus by Tracey
“Guys listen up. This is the pre-mission briefing for flight 7044.”
She went quickly but thoroughly over the slides. Tanker crews liked fast and funny. No jokes today though, this was a new mission and she needed to keep their focus.
To the great surprise of the pilots she suddenly stopped in mid-sentence and jumped onto a chair. The entire room silently watched a mouse scamper across the floor and under the canvas wall.
The Lieutenant climbed down and resumed briefing the astonished pilots, picking right back up in the middle of her sentence. She had their full attention.
Mus Musings by D. Avery
“Rats, this is a tough prompt Pal.”
“You also complained when Shorty said cats. No pleasin’ some folk.”
“Jist sayin’, Pal. Ya know, Pal, there’s all kinds a mice.”
“So? The Ranch is a diverse place.”
“Reckon Aussie’ll write ‘bout kangaroo mice.”
“Sure, an’ D. Avery’ll write about deer mice.”
“Punny, Kid. *Mus musculus* is the house mouse. Deer mice and kangaroo mice are actually a different family. But yer not outta order, rodent’cha know.”
“Now who’s punny? Pal, how come it’s mice and not mouses?”
“Jist is thet way.”
“Mebbe all your grouses are grice.”
When a polar vortex slips its arctic boundaries and spreads across Lake Superior, two snowmakers clash. Keweenaw photographer, George C. Bailey, captures the lake in her many moods. While the vortex hovered, Superior’s waves pounded ice heaves on shore, illuminating sea mist and water the color of icebergs.
Writers followed sea mist into the photo. Journeys, emotions, and wisdom of the land emerged in the stories this week.
The following are based on the January 31, 2019, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about sea mist.
PART I (10-minute read)
He Never Left Us (BOTS) by Susan Sleggs
We called the seaside motel to book a room.
They said we’re closed for a private function.
Yes, we said, the funeral of the owner.
You know that? You may have a free room.
In a local diner dressed in our best we were asked,
Are you here for Dick’s funeral?
Our friend was very well liked.
His companies employed half the town.
A church so full, people stood.
Back at the motel well after dark.
The sea mist rose.
The fog horn sounded.
We knew Dick was still with us.
The horn will always be his loving voice.
Sunset By the Bay by Nobbinmaug
The sea mist dances through the sun’s waning glow. Each droplet catches the light creating a rainbow shower. The distant clouds take on a hue of orange, pink, and a faint purple, as the fading disc melts into the horizon. Somehow, the roar of the waves and their crash on the rocks only adds to the tranquility.
The breeze catches the ocean, and it sprays my face. Though salt is all I taste, it’s refreshing on this summer evening.
There’s only one thing keeping this from being a perfect evening.
I reach for your hand, but you’re not there.
The Sea Wept by Di @ pensitivity101
Icebound, blocked, cracking,
This world is a mass of layers.
From the deepest depths
A blending hue
Of black and green
To four shades of blue,
Frothy curls of white
Crumble in the weak sun,
Rushing to meet the shore,
But falling short,
Layers forming, meeting
Joining, becoming one,
For many it amounts to
Uncertainty and fear.
Scrolls and wisps
The sea mist gathers,
Not to hide or cover
More to caress and blanket,
Holding the surface together,
Who is to say it is trying
To shield us from
Witnessing the sea crying.
Canned Sea Mist by Norah Colvin
No more than a hint of sea spray and she was flown back on wings of joy to carefree childhood days frolicking in the shallows, basking on golden sands, fossicking for hints of life in rockpools and amassing precious collections of shells and other treasures arranged for her pleasure by the tide. Lulled by a gentle breeze and waves whispering a heart’s rhythm, she dosed, uninterrupted by seagulls squawking, murmured conversations, hushed laughter, or the shuffle of approaching and receding footsteps. As the sun glowed bright above, she sighed her last, now and forever one with the sea’s mist.
Sea Mist by tracey robinson
Everyday for fifty-two years she went for a morning walk. No matter the season or the weather. Three miles. First alone, then with her partner, now alone again.
She loved all the weather she encountered, it made her feel alive. This morning a soft gray sea mist spilled over onto the beach, curling her white hair.
She tried not to play favorites, enjoying what each day gave her but secretly she liked the fog the best. Maybe because it was the rarest. Maybe because it softened the day. Or maybe because it obscured the fact that she was alone.
Have You Seen the Mist by S. Zutautas
Brings romantic illusions
Letting mind wander
Relaxed in a jacuzzi
Sipping a fine chardonnay
After a long day
As the warm wind blows
Across the lakes hardened ice
One can see, sea mist
Appearing as clouds
Close onto ground, thick moisture
Billows blocking sight
Lighthouses warn boaters
Vision obscured volatile
Mist has unfolded
Shining brightly the
Mist from the sea causes fog
Thickly stands resting
Will mesmerize you into
Over lakes and seas
Dawn or night you may see
The mist of the sea
Sailors have ignored warnings
Crashing into rocks
Erie Kai by Nancy Brady
From the Canadian side comes the wind. The sustained wind buffets the Ohio shore of Lake Erie, and we can hear the roar of the waves from a block away. The longer the wind blows, the louder the “Wildcat’s” roar. The lake is aptly named for the native American word for wildcat.
This winter the snow came as well as the northern wind, blowing wave after wave of water over the quarried slate blocks, which protect the beach. With dropping temperatures, the water begins to freeze, though, coating the blocks, forming a lacy, layered ice sculpture of sea mist.
Sea Mist by Sally Cronin
After tea and some shared biscuits, the little dog’s mistress sent him down to the quayside to wait for the return of his master. This late January day had been overcast and strangely still, with sea mist rolling in during the late afternoon. The boats were overdue, and wives anxiously peered out of their windows towards the shrouded harbour. The terrier’s ears pricked at a slight sound, nose lifting into the damp air. Whimpering he shot to his feet with quivering tail and one front paw lifted. A voice echoed in the fog “It’s okay Patch boy, I’m home”.
Landlocked Mist by Ann Edall-Robson
It settles again over the rocks, across the land. The morning mist portrays an eerie light to all who wake early to see the beginning of another day. Wandering along the craggy outcrops on the mudded gravel path, the damp penetrates to the bone. Hair and mittens become saturated from the fine spray slapping against faces, shrouding all signs of life with a wet, misty blanket. Landlocked, the mist will only go when the sun burns through and the temperature warms. It is a sign of real moisture to come in ninety days hence. So the old timers say.
Foretold by Reena Saxena
“Have you ever seen lightning strike water, and electrocute life beneath?”
The fortune-teller spoke with a furrowed brow,
“I foresee a clash of strong, opposing forces happening in your life, in the near future.”
I recall the legal notice sent by the brother I trusted most in life, over an inheritance issue. It can leave me with scarce resources in my sunset years. It caused ripples in the calm, placid waters of my life, but this guy is warning me of a storm.
The sea mist is clearing off, as I see people for what they are.
Master of the Sea by H.R.R. Gorman
A slender hand helped him spew water from his lungs. “It is good you lived, but I’m afraid your countrymen died.” Her queenly presence was clothed in radiant stones from the ocean, her hair glistened with sea mist.
She had a fin in place of legs and loose webs between long fingers.
“She was a good ship… and my friends were good sailors.” The man shook as tears welled in his eyes.
“Before the storm, you said you were masters of the sea?”
“Why not? His Majesty’s navy is the world’s finest.”
She flicked her tail and swam away.
Thar Blows retold by D. Avery
The giant Maushop shared whales and fish with the people. Only Maushop could stop the monstrous bird that ate children. The people showed thanks with gifts of tobacco. With ashes from his pipe Maushop made a second, faraway island. The fog from his pipe shielded for a while but was not enough.
Then the people took the others’ god. The others said he was the devil; Maushop obliged. He turned his children to fishes and his wife to a stone before taking to farther seas. They’d see him again, misty smoke now urgent spout of a great white whale.
Sea Mist by Floridaborne
“Once, this entire area was under water,” my geology instructor said.
I looked at the sun bleached sands and asked, “How did a place this dry end up underwater?”
“Eighty million years ago, when dinosaurs roamed the Earth, this was swampland.”
“My mental movie of dinosaurs frolicking in sea mist is ruined,” I sighed. “Why did the climate change?”
“Humans will never do as much damage to the Earth as the volcanic eruptions and asteroid impact that killed off the dinosaurs 66 million years ago.”
He laughed at my reply, “And I thought the Pacific garbage patch was bad!”
Behemoth? by JulesPaige
I just wanted to hurl at humanity and strike them all dead. My breastbone was fraught with fantods. I really wished the newsfeed would downgrade the Occam’s Razors they were slinging and really glance into my eyes. Perhaps if I just concentrated I could crash the video feed or even the whole system. And then in the darkness of everything absorb all the passivity of those who wished me no harm so I could extend my wings and fly away, into the sea mist.
I really wasn’t a monster. “They” only portrayed me that way… Mommy still loves me.
The Legendary Sea Mist Bite by Marjorie Mallon
Misha pushed her glasses up on her nose and wiped them with a tissue but it made no difference. Sea mist doesn’t wait. Sea mist consumes everything.
She didn’t know whether to move ahead or to turn back. A chill crept through her.
She felt something near her. She imagined jaws, and sharp teeth.
‘Look where you’re going, you idiot!’ said a crab, grabbing her ankle.
‘Something threatened to bite me!’
‘No, the mist did. Aren’t you wearing your mist specs?’
‘What are they?
‘They’re magical spectacles to protect you from the mist.
‘I don’t need protecting, I’m dead.’
Another Way by Jo Hawk
I’ve seen them walk into the sea. You know the ones, plagued by constant misery. Their eyes cast down, always looking at the ground. The sea mists rise, reaching for cloudy skies. All around, the grey days bring despair, and in the mist, I could surely drown.
I want something else as I stand here with the sand between my toes, struggling to survive. I’m amazed I’m still alive. But I won’t say goodbye.
They say there is another way. So even on the cloudy day, even in the misty grey, I keep my eyes looking for the sun.
A Turn of Event by Ruchira Khanna
“I hate my life!” Jaya kept growling with anger teary-eyed as she walked with stern steps towards a mid-sized wall that faced the ocean.
She climbed the wall and eyed her home with a sulk; then looked towards the ocean.
“I do not belong here!” she closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath to take the plunge.
Just then her face got wet by the sea mist. That made her freeze on her drastic step.
She was in tears.
This time for good since memories of Love, Care, Play and Laughter with family changed her mind.
Sea Mist by Kay Kingsley
I thought he was joking when he asked me to join him at the beach for a swim. “It’s minus degrees… in January!” He looked at me with a mischievous smile. His charm. Sigh. “Alright.”
We arrived at the beach to see the ocean violent and churning. It looked like it was at war with itself. We approached the shore as I shivered, chilled to the bone. Mark had already stripped down and was smiling ear to ear. “Three words… Polar. Bear. Club.” Yelling, “YeeHaw!” he ran into the surf as I watched the sea mist swallow him whole.
Mountain Passage (from Miracle of Ducks) by Charli MIlls
At the top of the pass, Ike pulled over. Danni radioed the lead forester to verify any logging trucks. The Forest Service road tapered to one-way traffic. For the next five miles, loggers used the narrow switchbacks to haul loads from an active site. If they met a truck on the grade, there would be no way to pass. Danni surveyed the steep ravine, waiting for a reply. Morning fog obscured the forest and hid the road. Before an affirmative crackled over the radio, Danni heard grinding gears in the distance like a rumble of surf beneath sea mist.
Dry Breeze by The Dark Netizen
The dry breeze stings my face.
This sand, this air, are slowly choking the life out of me. I want to get back to my old life. I had power, I had purpose, but most importantly, I had freedom. Here, I feel trapped. My injuries did not kill me, merely forced me to retire. However, I wish I had died before I retired. I wish I was buried at the sea, like a true captain.
I long for the darkness to find me, as much as I long for the sea mist to caress my face, one last time…
Unclear Clearwater, FL (Late December 2018) by JulesPaige
This isn’t normal.
Windswept, double bent,
facing the wind head on.
Feeling like a cartoon character
being pelted by every single
grain of sand from the beach.
But we get there to what was
the beach a few days ago anyway.
The rain may have stopped
but the misty hurricane air
sucks at closed shop door,
where we finally have chosen
to take some relief.
The door rattles and is threatened
to be removed from its hinges.
We’re at least a block from the shore line,
where the tourist pier, for safety was shut down.
At least we’re together.
Better Be Worth It by Teresa Grabs
The frigid sea mist stung as it slapped his face. At midnight, under normal circumstances, he would be in bed watching the late-night movie. Today had been anything but normal. He would not be standing by the lake in sub-zero temperatures had it not been for Meredith. She was the most beautiful woman who ever paid a moment’s attention to him. He just couldn’t say no. “No one can ever know,” she said, handing him the bag. He hoped getting hypothermia and frostbite was worth it. Seemed like a lot of effort just for disposal duty of teenage diary.
Sea Mist by quiall
Angelina and Edward walked hand in hand down the beach. Their feet gently sinking into the still damp sand as a soft mist enveloped them. They could hear a pod of whales singing just off shore. The day was still young, the sun had yet to burn off the swirling miasma of water laced air.
“Is it true? Have the scientists proven it beyond any doubt?”
“Yes, my love they have.”
“Edward, how can we tell people the truth? They will avoid the beach, our economy will collapse!”
“It’s the mist Angelina, they need to know: It’s whale farts!”
PART II (10-minute read)
Mist Agin by D. Avery
“Ah, Jeez, Kid, you writin’ agin?”
“Why not? I’m likin’ this prompt. Jist cain’t decide on my topic. Might write about the mornin’ mist in the river valley. Or the clouds that don’t clear the mountaintop an’ leave it sparklin’ with frost. Mebbe the steam waftin’ off the water trough or even the warm breath of the cattle like fog in the crisp air as they chew their hay.”
“Kid, you cain’t write about none a thet.”
“Why not? Jist goin’ where the prompt leads.”
“The prompt specifically said sea mist.”
“Yeah? Ever’ where I look I see mist.”
The Shoreline by Joanne Fisher
Aalen’s path took her northwards. As she went further the forest became more sparse until she came to the shoreline of a wide sea. She had never seen the ocean before and although her sight was partially obscured by the sea-mist hanging around the shore it looked as though it went on forever. She began to realise the world was far larger than she had ever dreamed. Where there other distant shores? Her heart yearned for revenge, but also to explore this world she barely knew. She watched the tumultuous waves and then turned away following the tracks eastward.
Not Here But There by Carol J Forrester
It reminded her of home. The sea mist rolling in onto the shingles.
Of course, it wasn’t quite the same.
Peat mist rises different. The earth sort of oozes tendrils that simmer and thicken on the low lands. Stretches of green that look beautiful and safe but turn to bog at the first hint of rain.
It’s similar enough though. When the mist rolls in and she’s standing inside it, condensation on her cheeks, damp in her hair… she can pretend it’s England. Pretend she’s inland, back where she belongs.
It never takes long for someone to wake her.
Avalon by Anita Dawes
Two weeks holidaying on top of the cliffs,
overlooking the sea and ragged rocks of Cornwall.
Sea mist rolling in, invisible hands unfurling a white carpet across the bay
between the cliffs either side. Nature’s magic moment.
This morning, the mist cleared quickly, there between the sky and the edge of the sea sat an island that didn’t belong there.
How can the mist have carried an island into view like something from Gulliver’s Travels.
No, wait. I believe I am looking at Avalon, the island where Arthur was carried
by the blind ferryman to heal, while Merlin watched.
Scylla and Charybdis by Violet Lentz
we remain rootedly positioned
between scylla and charybdis*
the chasm that separates us
to your truth, or mine.
clash- two worlds colliding
yours a rock and mine a hard face
your forlorn forced inflections
emanating from the belly of your god.
my belligerent brawling outbursts
clutching tight the hand-
of absolution sure demise.
just once, can’t we beg off?
let hoar fog obscure our fracas
cleanse us both in salt sea brine
cast off weighted chain and anchor
just once, let dead dogs lie??
foundation built of rock, on hard place
just this once- oh mother mine?
Sea Mist Dreams by Colleen M. Chesebro
I walk along the sandy path strewn with starfish and seashells which seems to beckon me toward the sea. Pearls and aquamarine crystals dot the trail. The salt water scent of the sea mist wafts over me as the sound of stormy waves crashing against stony cliffs draws me closer to my goal.
I imagine the mer-people, undines, water nymphs, and sirens who assist with the flow of life, balancing emotions with healing, cleansing, love, and beauty. I can’t help but wonder how I got here.
Childish dreams bring hope—
as past and present conspire
to present new paths.
Lookout by TN Kerr
Roger stood in the bow and watched the fog roll in. He hunched in his Pea Jacket to stave off the weather. His hands were in his pockets where he clutched a silver flask of brown whisky.
He felt it before he saw it. He watched it emerge from the haar that obscured visibility to the north. It was an old Soviet boat, running on the surface, twin screws churning the water.
Roger reached for the handset of the sound powered phone, “Bridge – Bow. Surface contact bearing tree fife zero, fife hundred yards, moving left to right slowly.”
Misty Majesty by calmkate
The roar of MiG jets draws our attention to the ocean out front. A majestic aircraft carrier peers through the mist billowing smoke appears ominous. But it’s a decoy as various aircraft chase one another with destroyers joining in from below. The earth vibrates as a few more bombs explode.
If all goes as planned nobody will die as four nations rehearse war games in our front yard. A regular feature for locals who grew up supplying refreshments to the chopper pilots training for Vietnam, their rotor blades had nominal clearance they had to master. Peace lovers abhor war!
Sea Mist by Faith A. Colburn
The waves looked soft as he peered through tropical rain. The island was only a ragged outline. Crawling down the rope netting into a landing craft, he watched it grow closer, more distinct. It would be his first combat. Would he stand up to it? Was he brave as he thought—hoped? Somehow he knew he would survive, but what about the others? Weeks earlier, in the middle of the ocean, he’d looked through a light mist silvered by soft by moonlight and realized survival wasn’t enough. Seeing the guy next to him fall—that’s what made him sick.
Sea Mist by Margaret G. Hanna
She stood on the pier, head cocked. Sea mist enclosed her in a shroud of impenetrable greyness, hiding the bay. Only sound existed. Unseen waves crashed against an unseen rocky headland. Unseen leaves rustled. Overheard, unseen gulls mewled. The sound she longed for – unheard.
Mist moistened her face, disguised the tears. Tears she had shed these past three days. Three days without sleep, three days of waiting, worrying, hoping. Three days with no news.
Behind her, in the house, a phone rang. A muffled conversation seeped through the mist. The screen door squealed open.
“Martha, they’ve found the boat.”
Out of the Mist – A Tale of Humanity in War by Gordon Le Pard
The privateer came out of the mist, the sailors had no chance, their ship was moored by the waveswept rock where the engineers were working.
The French captain laughed at their ridiculous tale, no one could build a lighthouse on a rock in the middle of sea, it must be a trick of the damnable English.
King Louis heard the tale, but he believed it, they could do such a wonderful thing. He released and rewarded the men saying;
“I am at war with the English, not humanity”
A year later the light shone from the Eddystone rock.
Figurehead by D. Avery
With Destiny tied to the bowsprit branch, Marlie took command of her tree fort. She steered the pitching ship into the roiling sea of fog-drenched backyard, the surf of snow rising underneath the plunging bow. Over the howling wind she barked orders at her frightened crew.
“Should they really be out there in this weather?”
“They’re dressed for it and they’re under cover in the tree fort. Tommy will let her know when he’s had enough.”
“Maybe. Oh, here he is now. Tommy. Are you okay?”
“I had to walk the plank.”
“There’s hot chocolate in the galley, Mate.”
Mist Opportunities by Bill Engleson
It rose out of the sea like a smack in the face.
“I can’t see the trail anymore,” I bellowed.
“Some leader!” came from behind.
“Oh, yeah. I suppose you can do better?”
I wasn’t in the mood to take guff, even if I couldn’t tell who my detractor was.
“I didn’t say that,” the voice said.
“I don’t know. Sounds mutinous to me.”
“What’s mootinus? You calling me a cow?”
“Hold your horses,” I said, complicating the emerging animal theme, “Mu…Tin…Knee.”
“Whatever! Hey guys, Old Tin Knee is lost.”
Street kids, I thought. You have gotta love ‘em.
Insult to Injury by Anurag Bakhshi
I could sense its presence much before it came into view, and the shiver that ran through my body had nothing to do with the ice-cold seawater. I knew the monster was coming for me.
I saw it now, piercing through the sea mist and looming ominously over me like a kraken. Very soon, it would attempt to hunt me down, and finally, vengeance would be mine.
I could forgive him the leathery taste of that rotten leg, but Captain Ahab deserved the tortures of the nine circles of hell for naming a majestic whale like me, Moby Dick!
Sea Mist by Joanne Fisher
Whenever the sea-mist came in the villagers knew to go inside their homes, lock their doors and ignore all sounds.
One afternoon Lilith had been away picking apples from the nearby orchard. When she returned she saw the sea-mist rolling in. In a panic she dropped the apples and ran to her house. She got to her door but couldn’t find her keys. Tendrils of mist were already snaking around her and she felt the chill. She started to frantically knock on the door when she suddenly felt the chill go through her. The other villagers heard her screams.
Sea Mist by Roberta Eaton Cheadle
“Come on,” Colin called, moving purposefully into the thick, swirling mist.
Mary hung back. There was something about this mist that disturbed her. She could hear strange and distant noises like an animal feeding. The smacking and slurping sounds upset her.
“Come on,” came his voice again, already sounding some distance away.
Mary took a deep breath and plunged into the whiteness which immediately swallowed her.
“I’m coming,” she yelled loudly. “Wait for me.”
Her ears suddenly filled with terrible screams, followed by a loud crunch. A fine spray of blood splattered across her face and dress.
Help by Kerry E.B. Black
Mist floated above the water, ghostly aspirations undulating as the river swelled and dipped like lovers’ sighs. Transient by nature, it fettered fine tendrils around Erin’s poetic heart.
She plopped to the moist ground and beckoned the cloud. Perhaps within its obscuring she could find clarity.
Waves lapped the shore with the steadiness of a heartbeat. Erin’s own inner workings joined the pace as though engaging a dance. Delicate as dew, fog surrounded her until all she could see was the problem at hand.
Thoughts thick with worry, she stared into a luminous blank and surrendered.
“I need help.”
It’s All in the Packaging by Deborah Lee
Jane hesitates at the entrance to the marina, fighting impostor syndrome. But the Lake Union Dreamboats antique yacht show is free and open to anyone, and it’s something to do.
Sleek vessels line the piers, shining even under cloud cover, and her breath catches as she steps aboard the Sea Mist and takes in the tiny space. Efficiency kitchen only big enough for one, built-in bed and furniture, handmade throws, gleaming teak, fresh flowers. Do people really keep flowers in vases with water at sea?
It’s not much bigger than her own tent, but what a difference accoutrements make.
Yandeau Harbor by Saifun Hassam
The evening sea mist threaded its way into Yandeau Harbor. Sailboats and yachts rode gently at anchor. The day’s work was done along Fisherman’s Way.
Mist drifted past Trevor Pierre Yandeau. He was a biologist, and had been an ardent fisherman all his life. Fishing was part of The Yandeaus’ lives from the days in Marseilles, and still influenced their lives in the New World.
Trevor grew up exploring and fishing along numerous bays and coves of the Pacific. He loved to return to Yandeau Harbor: it had sparked a lifelong commitment to protecting and understanding vital natural habitats.
The Eyemouth Disaster by Lance Greenfield
Despite the warnings, despite the storm, they rolled out to sea from Eyemouth on that fateful day of October 1881.
For weeks, they had been unable to sail because of prevailing weather.
They were not greedy. It was their livelihood. They just wanted to earn enough to feed their families. 45 boats left harbour; only 26 returned. 189 men perished. 93 women were widowed. 267 children lost their fathers.
Two days later, out of the sea mist, Ariel Gazelle returned with all her crew. Out of the darkness of tragedy, shone a shaft of light and life.
Depressurized by Jody Kish
It comes like the mist, creeping its way to the depths of my soul.
The anguish bears down, consuming every fiber of who I am.
And just when I’m overwrought; I see a beacon of light in the distance.
The sun blinks through the heavy fog. It transforms the grey and dreary to a Monet painting of purples, pinks, and orange that dance together in a harmonious symphony.
Until the next storm comes like a percussion of drums.
But for now, the haze lifts.
Like a defeated monster it dissipates.
I’m content once more.
Deep Waters Run Still (Part I) by D. Avery
“Cat gotcher tongue Kid?”
“Ack. I’m a pony.”
“Yeah, a little hoarse. I ain’t spoke fer ages.”
“Bet thet bothered you.”
“Dang right it did. Jist ‘cause D. Avery wants ta turn tail and hunker down, why do I have ta? What d’ya s’pose she was up to anyway?
“Ain’t my business. But mebbe she was hopin’ ta quiet you down.”
“Hee hee. It didn’t work. I got bored an’ wriggled all aroun’ her head with nowhere ta go. You sure musta missed me, huh, Pal?”
“Sure, Kid. Like a headache when it stops hurtin’.”
Deep Waters Run Still (Part II) by D. Avery
“Ya know, Kid, it ain’t about you.”
“I know Pal. I jist love it here is all. Where were you all this time Pal?”
“Was visitin’ ol’ Ornery.”
“Ta have some a his whiskey.”
“Mebbe. But he’d busted up his still. An’ all his Mason jars— shards. I found him sittin’ an’ listenin’ ta the waterfall freeze, a whispery tinklin’ sound. An’ if ya listen up close ta the ice ya kin hear water inside, gigglin’ about spring a’comin’. Here, Kid, it’s a Mason jar Ornery glued back together outta 99 shards.”
“It says Moans.”
“It’ll hold water, Kid.”
Can something broken ever be whole again? Life can be full of shattering moments. Broken relationships, broken possessions, broken dreams. Yet shards are not the end. Sometimes, it’s the beginning of a different appreciation.
Writers explored the possibilities of shards, this week. They explored the human condition revealed by the prompt, sharing different perspectives on who or what was broken.
The following are from the January 24, 2019, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about shards.
PART I (10-minute read)
Mommy by D. Avery
I am a ghost drifting formless
undead, unliving, in between
strung out at the margins.
You haunt me with your memories.
Leave me be.
Rattling chains of your broken dreams
piecing together shards
hopes cracked and scarred like my junkie arms.
My babies, chanting shamans
mediums; you’d have them draw me to the side of the living.
It’s so hard. I don’t come over.
My body is crumbling dust
my heart empty shortsighted eyes
searching for one thing only.
The next fix
might be the one
the last one
Will you dare dream again, for my children?
Picture Perfect by Janice Morris
The cardboard frame has yellowed and the picture of the young girl has faded but not her sweet innocence.
She looks wistfully out at the world. There is no bitterness in her warm gentle smile.
More and more I find myself wanting to linger in her youthful dreams, shards from the past, knowing they will soon end and she will be bound to walk in the weighty footprints that life has fashioned.
If I am to have solace, I think I shall find it in this child for she is brimming with hope and hope is what I seek.
Shards by Anita Dawes
The small church stands alone on the hill.
Beautiful stained glass windows,
sun streaming broken colours of ancient light
illuminating the walls, the floors, the pews.
People’s faces, colour changing
From red to blue, green and yellow
Those broken shards of light
every bit as beautiful as any pottery
found in any old Egyptian bazar.
A jewel made by man, lit by nature’s light.
How long will it last?
Will the light last forever?
Will the broken shards of light
keep shining through the woods
for my grandchildren, great grandchildren?
Will ancient shards of pottery still hold man’s interest?
Melancholy by Susan Zutautas
Remembering back sitting in a dark dingy room, my mind constantly thinking that all I wanted was to feel normal. No desire to eat or get out of bed but most of all I just wanted to be alone.
At times I would think so rigorously, try so hard to make sense of it all, yet concentration was impossible to come by and all I would do was escape into sleep. Darkness was my only friend and I welcomed it.
People would walk around me as if they were stepping around shards of glass.
When would this all end?
Shard by Robbie Cheadle
Her son’s death shattered her life like a stone hitting a mirror. The shards pierced her heart and soul making it impossible for her to experience love or joy in any way.
She stood with her sister’s baby in her arms. Little Monica looked up at her with large, trusting eyes. She walked around the room singing softly to the tiny girl just as she had sung to her own boy more than twelve years ago.
A burst of love surged through her, vapourizing the shards. Acceptance of the past brought her acceptance and a welcome sense of peace.
Shards from the Past Cut Sharper Than Glass by Anne Goodwin
When Matty awakes, she is hugging that dratted photograph. Brushing her hand across her torso, the glass splinters on the floor tiles, jingling like xylophone keys. The maid will sweep up the shards.
Of greater concern is Matty’s doppelgänger, now free to make mischief with no protective pane. Everybody knows Matilda told such dreadful lies, it made one gasp and stretch one’s eyes. But a dissembler gets her comeuppance eventually, and rightly so.
Matty must distance herself from Matilda, however, lest she be punished for her crimes. Otherwise, when Matilda shouts Fire! Matty would be mocked by Little liar!
Closing the Circle of Life by H.R.R. Gorman
I cup my mother’s hand and hold it tight. She stares at me with unknowing eyes, scared, reluctant or too weak to squeeze the hand in return. “Ma?” she asks.
I rub the wasting arm, glad that even a shard of a memory is poking through. It’s been a while since she’s asked for anyone. “I’m your daughter,” I answered. “Do you need something, Mama?”
The words come slowly to her. “Just sleepy.”
I smile, hand her a baby-doll, and tuck her in with a kiss on the forehead. “Then rest, Mama. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Darn Memories by Ruchira Khanna
“Thank heavens it broke!” Jules said with relief as she raised her hands in jubilation.
She was quick to call for help to clean up the mess.
As the helper was collecting the pieces that got scattered around the room; Jules watched with a keen eye.
Her fragile grey neurons of 80 years old were quick to make synapses as that cup’s history took her to her home surrounded with laughter, and then to an old age home all alone.
Memories were threatening to overwhelm her, but she would be seen fighting them with an expletive now and then.
Broken by Sally Cronin
She swept up the broken glass, briefly regretting throwing the vase across the room. It had missed its target, thankfully, since going to prison for murder was not the best start to a new life of freedom. It had been a wedding gift from her dead mother-in-law, who had never thought her good enough for her precious son. Sunlight streaming into the room was captured by a large shard that sparkled with brilliance, as if celebrating its release from the confines of the vessel. She laughed; perhaps the old girl was sending her approval from above at long last.
The Mirror Cracked by Di @ pensitivity101
The bathroom mirror was still cracked after all this time, a reminder of tempers lost and love destroyed.
Now suddenly the pieces broke free of the frame, crashing and smashing into the sink below. Was it an Omen?
Splinters, slithers and shards glistened up at him, each representing a part of what was.
The whole had been beautiful, reflective, serene. Now all that was left was an empty canvas having ejected the shattered remains.
It was a solid base upon which to build.
Taking the smallest piece, he put it in place.
Always best to start with the heart.
She’s Made Whole Again by Miriam Hurdle
“Oh! It’s strange. I heard my sons, daughters-in-law, brothers, sisters and niece.”
“Yes, they came to see you.”
“My sisters and niece from the US?”
“They said they loved me, Jesus loved me, and God loved me.”
“They still do.”
“There was an avalanche inside me. My sister called the nurse, said I was bleeding.”
“Your organs collapsed. The blood gushed out of your nose.”
“But… I look fine. I feel like dancing as I did for the Championship on November 4, 2018.”
“You’re made whole again. Come with me to enter the gate of eternal wholeness.”
Repurposed by Kay Kingsley
The voice on the phone stopped time in an instant and all she knew, everything she’d ever felt, exploded and as her world broke apart she lay in pieces on the floor and wept from a place so deep that she never knew it existed.
In time, she was able to locate most parts of herself, gathering them up with mixed emotions. She was happy to have found them again but the picture of herself that they made was one she needed time to adjust to.
Reborn, rearranged, repurposed, renewed, she now has more parts of herself to give.
Jeff (Crater Lakes) by Saifun Hassam
Millennia ago, Green Crater Lake was formed from a volcanic eruption. In this very unique environment, another crater lake formed some hundred miles away: Lizard Crater Lake, when a meteorite crashed into the lush green valley.
Lizard Lake’s shores were strewn with shards of obsidian meteorite rock, mixed with shards from Earth’s crust. Rain and snow melt drained away through cracks in the lake bed.
In the summer, the dry lake was home to lizards and rattlesnakes. Green Lake’s waters and marshes attracted songbirds, deer, and fox.
Jeff, a ranger for Special Ecological Habitats, loved to explore both craters.
Fooled Once by Ann Edall-Robson
The creek had become a fast-moving lake. Crossing the muddy water was for those who were stupid. Today, he would be one of the stupid ones. He had to check the cattle, regardless of Mother Nature.
His eyes were drawn to the West, and he smirked. The thunder was like a drum roll followed by the ebony clouds opening to brilliant shards of light streaming through. Was it another one of Mother Nature’s false hope sign that a break in the weather was on its way? He’d seen the sky like that before. Fooled once, but never again.
His Dream Graveyard by calmkate @ aroused
An unkempt blue tractor blocked our entry. We just managed to slide in the gateway when the majestic race horses nudged us demanding their feed.
I caste my gaze around and realise its full of shards of this man’s dreams. Specialised tractors left to rust. Large frames leaned against the corral … they only cost a hundred but the horses shelter was never built. The ice cream cart was rotting, tyres and rusted bits lay about.
It felt voyeuristic to wander through the graveyard of this man’s dreams. 73.8 acres paid for … could the bank reclaim that 0.2?
Shards by Faith A. Colburn
Entering the abandoned house, we tiptoed on shards of glass. The windows must have shattered long ago; the oak floors were badly warped. We smelled damp wood, wet wallpaper paste, molding plaster. This house once sheltered a family—our great grandparents and their ten children.
We couldn’t see shards of the lives lived there, the storms that destroyed a year’s income, the recession that nearly ruined the family, the trauma that resulted in hitting and punching.
Yet out of the love that survived in the house came this clan of descendants—the doctor, the lawyer, the merchant, the chief.
Shards by Floridaborne
An “A” student, high school cheerleader, her only worry what she’d wear to the prom, sat at the intake desk at a home for unwed mothers two states away from her parents wondering why, in 1960, no one cared that her drunken father …
“Every counselor here understands,” her mentor said. “It’s not your fault.”
“My mother said once the baby’s given up for adoption, you’ll help me find a job in another city.”
“With your grades, we’ll help you find a scholarship.”
“Someday I’ll be the counselor offering a shard of hope.”
Her mentor smiled. “I’ve no doubt.”
Vase by Nobbinmaug
The crash echoed throughout the house.
Sam and Pete stared motionlessly and silently at the shards of the former vase strewn across the floor. It was their mom’s favorite. It was her mother’s.
They both considered running, but where? It wasn’t a big apartment. The only way out was through the front door. That meant getting past dad. It was afternoon, so he had been drinking for hours already. He wouldn’t even drink his morning coffee without whiskey.
Before either could move, dad stomped down the hall with fists flying.
Sam broke the cycle.
Pete broke his daughter’s arm.
Having Faith, One Root Vegetable at a Time by Geoff Le Pard
‘Wassup? You look like someone’s shrink-wrapped your brain.’
‘It’s this prompt; I’ve to write about a shard.’
‘I hate that word.’
‘Reminds me when I broke Grandpa’s urn. Mum went bonkers.’
“Used it as a wicket…’
‘Morgan, you didn’t?’
‘Yeah. It shattered. Mum goes mental, Dad tries to rescue me. Told me to collect the shards to stick it back together.’
‘Mum said I’d about as much chance of remaking the urn as I had of remaking a potato from a bag of crisps.’
‘She a one, your mum.’
‘Tell me about it.’
“Two glasses of white wine, please.”
“Whatever you have will be fine. Sauvignon Blanc, maybe…unless you have Chardonnay?”
“I do. Coming right up…”
“How long’s it been, Jeannie? Two…three years?”
“The conference in Chicago. October 2016.”
“Right. Not that long.”
“In years, maybe. Sometimes it feels like a lifetime. You know…”
“Right! The clown in the White House. What a disaster. It’s like he’s grabbed everything we understood about the world and smashed it on the floor. The proverbial bully in a china shop.”
“Let’s not talk about him. It’s great to see you.”
Polar Vortex and Privilege by Liz Husebye Hartmann
Hunkered down in double socks,
Layers of wool and moisture-wicking long johns.
It’s a quick hike to the kitchen for more
Coffee hot soup the sweet pungency
Of Sumo oranges in a hand-turned bowl.
I could go out. I could stay in.
Do I trust the slippery overpasses for a writing class in a historic cottage supporting local art?
Grateful for my privilege, but feeling detached.
Worried for those living rough
On our Twin Cities streets,
And rural roads.
Predicted windschill 60 below: Our people may literally freeze to death,
Shatter into shards of never were.
PART II (10-minute read)
Shards of a Life by Tracey Robinson
The line of soldiers walked slowly, cautiously, testing each step. The IED detonated anyway, shattering the Sergeant’s leg and leaving him mercifully unconscious.
Thousands of miles away a phone rang. The love of his life found her heart shattered by words as easily as his leg by explosives.
Months passed. Months filled with hospitals and surgeries. A leg put together with pins and rods. A person put back together with therapy and exercise. A heart held together with patience and hope. A couple linked together by the past.
Their bodies may have been shattered but their love remained whole.
Chester Helps Ruth with the Crossword Puzzle by Molly Stevens
Chester flopped into his recliner, cracked open a beer, and turned on the football game. Ruth poured over the weekend crossword puzzle.
“What’s a five-letter word for fragment?” Ruth said.
“Chip away at ‘em with short passes!”
“I said five letters. Chip only has four.”
“One piece at a time.”
“Starts with ‘s.’ Piece doesn’t fit.”
“There’s the scrap you needed for another set of downs!”
“No, it’s not ‘scrap.’ The word ends in a ‘d.’
“Smash the defense!”
‘Smash doesn’t end with ‘d’.”
“Shard, the word is shard, woman.”
“I love it when we do the crossword together.”
Fractal Features by Kerry E.B. Black
After their argument, she retreated into the museum until she no longer heard the derisive laughter and tinkling of toasted congratulatory conversation.
Cold air buffeted from a neglected hallway. The percussion of her footfalls punctuated until the crescendo burst her dammed emotions. A torrent smeared makeup while suppression unknotted.
She beheld glass fingered with frost. Backlit, it reflected her amplified imperfection. Within the fractal features resounded his criticism.
Instead of accepting the carnival-mirror version of herself, she punched the unfair portrayal. The window shattered into a crystalline spider web. Pain shot through her wrist and left shards for remembrance.
Intermission by Pete Fanning
I was alone, near the stairs, clutching popcorn and beer when the lights dimmed, summoning me to seat 112 in Row EEE.
Dan stood at the entrance to the balcony, eyes panning the lobby. When he saw me he grimaced, motioned for me to hurry. I tossed the popcorn into the trash, corn and kernels falling like shards into the bag. I tried not to think about how I my appearance inspired such small misery—a small explosion in my chest. I washed it down with beer and walked towards my husband.
He turned and we entered the darkness.
Lead Came by Nancy Brady
It was Valentine’s Day, and Julie was working. She received a bouquet of flowers from her husband. Her customers would remark, “He really loves you” or some other platitude. It certainly felt like a platitude because she recently discovered that he had an affair with a mutual friend. One he denied up until now.
With two young children, what was she to do? His betrayal had cut her to the quick, and she felt she couldn’t go on. Her heart had been ripped to pieces. Would she ever feel whole again?
the stained glass heart
Broken by Susan Sleggs
The vinyl discs were from his high school and college days. When he left her for another woman she smashed them against the edge of their marble counter. Shards flew. She eyed the mess with a childish glee, feeling she had destroyed something of him as he had destroyed their life together. She slept well that night. The next day she purchased a shiny new bucket and filled it with every shard she could locate then left it by the turntable with a note; “Here is your record collection, in the condition you have left my heart and life.”
Shards by The Dark Netizen
I lay broken among shards of glass, broken like the window I had just fallen through.
It was a four floor fall. My consciousness was fading, just like my life had been for many years. The shards piercing my skin hurt so mucu lesser than the words that had pierced my heart minutes ago. The words I read on the note had struck me hard. It was a suicide note, signed by me. However, I had never written one. I realised only after I was shoved hard through the window.
The last thing I saw was my wife’s face…
Lovesick Mess by Belle Gram
“There are rose petals on the floor of our apartment.”
“There is a giant heart posted to the wall as well.”
“And you’re a little more flushed than usual.”
“I am quite aware of the obvious situation before me, including the complexion of my skin.”
“Is this one of your experiments?”
“Of course not. This pink mess is an abomination of nature.”
“It is a bit odd. Though the handwriting of their confession is curvier than yours. Not mentioning the decorative hearts and exclamation points.”
“You have no idea how odd it is about to get.”
Analyse the Detail by Norah Colvin
The artisan turned each piece to the light, this way and that, fitting and refitting, arranging and rearranging. Finally, it was done. Each piece necessary and perfectly positioned creating the whole— exquisite, harmonious, illuminating—not one greater nor outshining any other. It filled each open heart with hopes of dreams fulfilled.
Another sought to analyse its beauty, the power of its message to explore. He picked out all the pieces one by one and examined each in every detail. Too late he saw that, shattered and alone, not one shard revealed a secret. Only united did their meaning shine.
Porcelain Shards by TNKerr
The last of the dessert set goes into the furnace
Final firing for
cups, saucers, plates and bowls.
There’s a coffee pot and warmer,
a creamer, sugar bowl, and cake plate.
All done in a stylized violet motif
A signature design favoured by my father.
This time there is trouble in the kiln
Most likely the sugar bowl blew
I’ll never know for sure though. I lost that sugar bowl,
and it’s lid,
two cups that had been positioned close by.
Fine porcelain reduced to shards.
Doesn’t happen often, but its part of the game.
Move on, make more.
Intruder Alert by Anurag Bakhshi
Inspector Sparrow stared intensely at the silver-haired man in front of him.
The man started off, “The intruder was a tall man, inspector, well-built, and extremely handsome. In the dark, I saw him standing in that window, and froze. He moved left, I followed. I moved right, he followed. Finally, I jumped at him, and that is how the glass window broke,” he finished, pointing towards the shards on the floor.
The inspector carefully inspected the shards, and got up.” I’ll take your leave now,” he said,” but please feel free to have this broken mirror replaced, Mr. Magoo.”
What One Lady Gave Me by JulesPaige
The of Lady Lake Michigan gave me shards. I was visiting in Wisconsin In August of 2017
I traversed the length of the north and south beaches.
One little triangle white with blue hand painted lines like decorations; I’ve identified that coming from a piece of a Leeds Blue Feather plate.
The Lady also offered up something green on both sides; which I was told came from the 1856 Toledo shipwreck.
entrusted to me;
bit pieces of history
gifted by a lake
These pieces are a part of my Lake Michigan treasures. Bits of memories that make me whole.
Stories in the Shards (from Miracle of Ducks) by Charli Mills
Danni sifted dirt from Ramona’s garden through the screen and shards of glass emerged. She had built the box to hang on a tripod to accommodate her shorter height. Thick brown crockery and glass from household items emerged. Danni would take this year’s haul to her barn, scrub pieces clean, arrange by type, and document. Every fall, when Ike’s grandmother tilled up her tomatoes and zucchini, Danni sifted for treasure. Most people scoffed at broken glass, but to an archeologist, each piece told a valuable story. One day she’d figure out why the crockery and mason jars were there.
Shards to Read by Nancy Brady
A favorite author of mine, Jennifer Estep writes fantasy fiction for teens and adults. I actually stumbled upon her writing when I won a copy of her YA novel, Dark Frost from her Mythos Academy series.
Once I devoured that whole series, I branched into her other series like the Black Blade trilogy, the Bigtime series, the Elemental Assassin urban fantasy series, and the spinoff series, Mythos Academy: Colorado, which begins with Spartan Heart.
Her humorous, lighthearted style makes for fun reading.
My current read is Kill the Queen, the first in her newest series, A Crown of Shards.
Burying The Dead by Joanne Fisher
Aalen cut down all the bodies from the trees in the village. She spent the day burying her kin in the village outskirts. Every time saying a prayer to the Goddess while wiping away tears. She removed the sacred crystal shards from around the neck of the village Elder and buried her last. She cupped the largest one in her hands praying for a way to find the killers of her people. The shard glowing brilliantly in her hands showed the way. A rage filled her heart. She grabbed all her weapons and followed the path she had seen.
The Unexpected by Joanne Fisher
The vampire advanced towards her. Rebecca was backed into a wall. The vampire smirked. It had her now. Rebecca grabbed one of the pottery shards from a shelf beside her and just as the vampire grabbed her, Rebecca drove the shard into the vampire’s heart. The vampire looked surprised and turned into a cloud of dust. Rebecca sighed and walked to the door.
“Stupid vampire.” She said.
“Stupid human!” Said a voice behind her.
Rebecca turned to see the vampire she had killed with a dark smile on it’s face, just as she felt it’s icy hands on her.
Life’s Puzzle by Teresa Grabs
Ruth was obsessed with puzzles; the more pieces, the better. There wasn’t a puzzle she could complete in record time – except one. Her painful secret and desire remained locked away from her in a tidy corner of the attic. As with any puzzle, she began with the frame. Over the years, she managed to find the right combination for several clusters, but the whole puzzle eluded her. Every night she sat on the attic floor and stared at her reflection in the puzzle shards. A million hers – her true self – screaming forever, imprisoned in the shards of her reflection.
Magic Happens When by Reena Saxena
This is a magical shard, I’m told, and I believe it when it speaks,
“I need to join my counterparts again to be truly effective. The energy will flow only after we connect, and create a channel for the supernatural. Without it, I’m just a piece of glass.”
So, I set around looking for the remaining pieces. Some are retrieved from the bin, yet many others have left no trace. Suddenly, I note the color of the shard changing.
“What does that mean, my friend?”
“Your energy is now beginning to resonate with mine.” Magic was indeed happening.
Grandma’s Tears by Chelsea Owens
The sun-warmed beach felt wet and warm
To tiny feet through after-storm;
A woven bowl within her hands,
A flutt’ring hope within the sands.
Searching, searching patiently;
Seeking out a memory.
A glint! A glare! She shouted, skipped!
She danced in young explorer bliss.
For, bit by shining bit, she found
Crystal shards strewn over ground.
And, ducking leaping dancing low
They came to fill her basket-bowl.
Look, Gram, she told the sunshaft sky;
Laughing, she lofted basket high,
I fin’lly found your present, here;
I fin’lly found your star-shed tears.
Clouding sunset smiles played:
Snug’ling, warming, happy rays.