Weekend Writing Prompt #159 – Intrepid

Posted on by | 54 Comments

My laptop is giving me a hard time, lately. OK, I did drop it and catch it in such a manner as the screen is disconnected, sorta from the keyboard but still. I’ve not been able to connect to the internet very well so when it works, great; when it doesn’t, not so great.  I’m behind in reading other participants in the various challenges… I’m doing da best I are!  This was written two days ago (just to give you an idea!

A word prompt to get your creativity flowing this weekend. How you use the prompt is up to you. Write a piece of flash fiction, a poem, a chapter for your novel…anything you like. Or take the challenge below – there are no prizes – it’s not a competition but rather a fun writing exercise. If you want to share what you come up with, please leave a link to it in the comments on Sammi’s blog.

 

You should have been a fish

But you were too cozy

More than two weeks late

You decided you were ready

You had to be born a ram

You’ve been charging forward since

Seeking the next thrill

Taking life by the horns

Wanting to try it all

Intrepid

Thy name is Iain

 

Ponte Vecchio – Crimson’s Creative Challenge #81

Posted on by | 63 Comments

Good Thursday afternoon, my peeps!  I haven’t played in a while but when I saw this photo and knew I would this week.  Crispina is most generous in her rules and regulations and to find out just what she expects of those of us who participate, just click here. You’ll see, just about the only thing she stresses is not more than 150 words, which I, phew! did not surpass.

Ponte Vecchio

Diana and Anne sat on the wall beside the river, under the bridge, and watched the slow flow of the river.  Anne was regaling Diana with her stories filled with imagination.

“Let’s pretend we are in Florence, or, like they say in Italy, Firenze!  We are walking along the Arno River and come upon the Ponte Vecchio.  Isn’t it just the most romantic thing, Diana?”

Diana could only nod her head, unable to add a thing.

“You’d have your beau and I’d have mine—”

“Gilbert Blythe!”

“Bite your tongue, Diana! He’s vile and I’ll have nothing to do with him!” Anne’s eyes flashed.

“You doth protest too much, my friend. But please, do continue with your story.”

“Hmph! As I was saying, you have your beau and I have,” she looked at Diana with warning, “mine.  We would secure our love forever with padlocks.”

“What a silly thing to do!”

 

Word count: 150

The above picture is the central part of one of the bridges crossing the Arno, and the one that inspired my little visit with Anne of Green Gables.  (Don’t ask, it’s a mystery what goes on up in my noggin, at times.  For those unfamiliar, Diana is Anne’s best and bosom friend and kindred spirit.)  The story went in a whole ‘nother direction than planned.  As can happen, right?

Below are two pictures of the real Ponte Vecchio I took during my dream trip in 2016 and I cannot believe I have NONE with all the locks!  There were so many people in front of it, I thought I’d pass by later but guess I didn’t. Oh well. Thought you’d enjoy nevertheless.

Daytime
Twilight

 

 

 

Bringing Light – Friday Fictioneers

Posted on by | 137 Comments

‘Tis Wednesday, is it not?  Yes, yes it is.  So that means we receive the photo prompt from Rochelle some time during the hours we are hopefully in the arms of Morpheus.  Unless you live across the pond, that is.  That said, here I am, looking at David Stewart‘s beautiful photo thinking… I got nuthin’.  I’m gonna have to steal Tannille’s idea and have a fight with my muse.  Instead, I showed it to my youngest and asked, “What do you see?” The answer was “Romance”.  Okay then. Romance it is!  Click on my lover frogs below if you come up with something yourself and would like to share and add your link.  Or read other stories.  Up to you, of course.

    Click us!

Bringing Light

They sat, nestled, on a bench in the square. He held her hand, drawing circles in her palm with his finger.

It was a beautiful evening, the sky a deep violet, their faces lit by the fountain’s glow, its spray barely misting them.

“You are like that flower to me,” he said, his voice, low and gentle.

“Why is that? she asked, turning to him so she could look see his face.

“You are the bright spot in my life. You shine like that flower and bring light into my world.”

Her eyes brimmed with tears. “I love you, too.”

 

 

I Had a Room of My Own, Once

Posted on by | 142 Comments

I had a room of my own, once

We officially called it my office

It was important to me to have my own space

Separate from mothering and wifing

Where I could be a woman

Free to create ~ something

 

I’d holler down below, to

Tell him his music was too loud

But it was just an excuse to say

“Hey, how’s it going down there?”

To let him know that I was still there

Should he want to interrupt me

 

I had a room of my own, once

A place to call mine, not shared

And now that he’s gone

I no longer want nor need it

It’s purpose has lost its appeal

Besides, I’ve taken over his chair

 

Sometimes choices are made for us

And our needs and wants change accordingly

We adapt, we learn, we grow

And now that I am in charge of my destiny

That room of my own, once needed

Now feels more like a place where I hid

 

Every now and again, dVerse calls me to participate.  This week’s host is Laura Bloomsbury who asked us to “Make Some Room”.

 

 

 

 

Weekend Writing Prompt #158 – Downpour

Posted on by | 85 Comments

A word prompt to get your creativity flowing this weekend. How you use the prompt is up to you. Write a piece of flash fiction, a poem, a chapter for your novel…anything you like. Or take the challenge below – there are no prizes – it’s not a competition but rather a fun writing exercise. If you want to share what you come up with, please leave a link to it in the comments.

I almost didn’t play this week, then remembered an August evening in 2018…  Even though I wrote about it here, I figured it was worth a little redo.  Thanks for hosting Sammi!

 

Who Needs an Umbrella?

The two friends walked twenty blocks from the restaurant to the theatre.  Summer in Montreal meant Ste. Catherine Street was closed to cars and filled with pedestrians enjoying the warm summer evening.

After the show, they made their way to the exits, talking about their favourite parts, stepped out…

It was not a drizzle, nor a sprinkle. It was a veritable downpour!

“You game?”

“Absolutely!”

Laughing, they walked and skipped like young girls, arriving completely soaked.

“You know, I have an umbrella in my car.”

“So do I!”

Before the show
After the show

 

Come For the Music, Stay for the Beer – Friday Fictioneers

Posted on by | 126 Comments

Wednesday evening and a story finally came to me.  A kinda-sorta story, anyway. Montreal hosts a slew of festivals of many genres so, why not? Thanks to c.e. ayr for the use of his photo and to Rochelle for keeping the home fires burning week after week.  Should you wish to share your 100-word story inspired by the photo, click on the frogs and add your link!

©c.e. ayr

 

     Click Me!

Come for the Music, Stay for the Beer

“This place is really buzzing.  Check out all the different booths!  Gonna have fun sampling beverages and bites.”

“And we get to listen to good music, to boot, right?  Ever heard of the band on the roster?”

“Nope.  Don’t care.  All I wanted was to spend the afternoon with you and if the music’s good, bonus!”

“Gotta love a guy with an open mind.

“And an empty stomach.”

Oh, look. Here comes the band.”

Screeching guitar riffs filled the air.

“Good God!  What the hell was that?”

“The sound of us leaving the stage area and heading for the beers…”

 

 

 

 

 

Spring is a Good Time to Go

Posted on by | 143 Comments

I had planned on a Sunday post filled with flowers…. Here we are Monday.  Spring means life even if it also brings death. And in this case, my mother-in-law, Jean, aged 85 and almost two months, passed away just before midnight on Saturday – another COVID casualty.  I guess it was fitting for her to die on a Saturday; she did like to go to Church on Saturdays.  She went four-five times per week but loved the Saturday service best. Makes one wonder just why she needed it so much. I have my theories but I shall keep them to myself.

Mother’s Day 2015, first one without Mick

We had a strange relationship, Jean and I. She was not an easy woman to deal with. In one breath I was the best wife, mother, cook; and in the next, I was the bitch who had her locked up.  If she only knew it was me who pushed her son to go get her, to return her calls, to keep her updated on us.  Or that I did what I could to have her be able to stay in her apartment, even if just for a while.  Neither here nor there, now, is it?

She was not a loving mother to her only son during his childhood, though I think deep down she did love him, in her way – it was just a really tough kind of love.  Neither one of them forgave the other completely for past pains.  And they both had plenty.

She did love her grandchildren, even if she could never get them straight.  Austin was the easy one to remember because he died.  And she focused on death.  All. The. Time.  Conversations were always of the genre:  “Clara (or insert any name) died. Cancer/heart attack/insert malady.”  “Who’s Clara? (again, insert name never heard till now)”  “A friend.”  “So sorry to hear that.”

Reading at Austin’s baptism, July 1996
January 2011 with her grandsons

We only saw her once or twice per year; three, on special occasions.  Mother’s Day and Christmas Brunch, Mick would drive the 45 minutes to pick her up, bring her to our place or the restaurant, and, after the event, do the same trek.  We’d offer to take her out once and again and she always refused, preferring to come to our place.  Despite my being the “best cook and baker”, she didn’t enjoy food.

Her relationship with Mick was very complicated.  Mick had shared with me his version of his history and I tried to get her talk about hers. She didn’t divulge very much but got very defensive.  I came to the conclusion that both were pigheaded in their refusal to accept their part!  Still, when we take the time to see, she did the best she could with what she had and she was alone to do it.  And, when push came to shove, Mick was there for her (and then I was) and she was there for him (and for me after he died).  Even if it was by duty.

Mother’s Day brunch 2010

She was pretty pleased to be the mother of the groom.  This was definitely one of her happy and proud days.  Mick insisted on treating her to a shopping spree, make-up and hairstyling as she was not one to splurge on herself. At all. So it took some doing and a threat or two on his part for her to acquiesce.

September 14, 2002

It is hard to say how I feel as I wasn’t truly in a position to create a close relationship with Jean.  Her son kept her at arm’s length and I had to respect him.  He had his reasons, after all.  After Mick died, I kept up the annual pilgrimage to pick her up and bring her over for Mother’s Day until her fall in July 2017.  At that time, it was discovered she was in the beginning stages of Alzheimer’s and would not be abe to return to her home.  I spent a lot of time going back and forth doing what I know Mick would have done no matter how much he bitched about it. Because deep down, we do care.

Mother’s Day 2014 – last one with Mick

So my visits with Jean, with or without the boys, were every few months.  With each visit, it took longer for her to remember who I was and always asked why Mick wasn’t with me. To which I would reply because he was “working” – what would be the point of making her cry about her son’s death when in five minutes she would ask me again how he was and why wasn’t he there? And, of course, she never, ever, stopped asking to go home. The staff at Lev Tov said she asked every single day.  Drove them nuts with it.  She was a proud woman who had always taken care of herself and loathed her lack of independence.  She was not a happy woman but those in her circle loved her and thought her such a nice lady.

After a hair-styling at the residence

I hope she has finally found peace, wherever she is.