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.
Another trip down memory lane. It took me almost a year-and-a-half to have my family over so I could share with them what I had learned with Cook in Tuscany in September 2016 – the full account of the soirée can be found here but these 33 words somehow triggered, though have nothing to do with at all! Funny how the muse works.
You ever have an idea, clear as the light of day, in your mind, but come time to put it down, nothing works? Take three, four, whatever, I have decided to just put it out as is. Thank you, Ms Crispina, for your wonderful challenge. It always is, for me, to come up with something and I couldn’t NOT participate in number one hundred, right?
Like father, like son. You have the lean perfectly, my boy. But why, for goodness sakes, did you plant yourself in the middle of the path?
You told me I needed to forge my own way so…
You might have tried a little further up, just saying.
Haha! You did the same, my son. Only befitting your son do the same. Of course, you can’t see it now with all the new arrivals. But once, you, too were right in the middle. Maybe you’ll end up like me one day, alone on the edge.
Or like us. No longer feeling part of nature as asphalt has been spread on what was once beautiful earth. ‘Tis the way of it, I suppose.
One day, though, I like to think we will take it all back.
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. Thank you, Sammi.
I really wasn’t going to touch this one. And then I couldn’t help but go back 23 years. This week’s photo is supplied by Roger Bultot. Thanks, always to Rochelle for hosting this weekly gathering. If you want to play along, just click on the frog below and add your link to your 100 words.
I didn’t throw it out, I left it on the curb for anyone to pick it up. It’s not like we need it anymore.
What if we have another baby?
What if we don’t? What if he was our one and only? I can’t walk past that thing just like I can’t leave his room the way it is. I’m turning it into a reading room.
I get it and I’ll help you. … Do you think one day we can try for a family again?
I know I promised you the moon today, Marina, but I feel compelled to write something else. Tomorrow good for you? I sure hope so.
I am sitting in my quiet house, having just returned from Patrice‘s funeral. The boys stayed behind with their gang to celebrate him the way twenty-somethings “should” – starting with a shotgun beer in the parking lot, no doubt, followed by who-knows-what and I should not know.
Visitation was held from 10:00 am till 3:00 pm today (plus four hours yesterday from 4:00-8:00 pm) followed by the religious ceremony in the chapel, which was the room right beside – a rarity, not the chapel, but the religious ceremony. Most of my family came and it was no easy feat for all the “kids” who had hung out with Pat on the cruise. It was just so surreal.
There is a different dynamic when the deceased is a twenty-two-year-old healthy, full-of-life type. I’ve been to far too many forty-somethings and fifty-somethings funerals already since, let me see, 2001 – so almost twenty years. And I thought THEY were all too young. So this? No. Almost impossible to wrap one’s head around it.
Life celebrations have gone from boards with pictures or albums on tables showing the life of the loved one to movies or montages of their life scrolling in an endless loop. I thought seeing a fifty-year old’s was hard. This was a punch in the solar plexus. They had a corner for Pat’s art, a long table with various pictures and favourite pieces such as a hockey shirt, his football trophies and such and, of course, a beautifully done video. And, oh Lordy. I was not ready to see him lying in his coffin. Everyone gets cremated now. Visitation is an urn with a 16″ X 20″ (or two) photo beside the urn. Not this time. They went old-school for this.
The place was packed with mask-wearing mourners of all ages. the priest came in and told us that he would give one prayer and then ask us to make our way next door to the chapel, leaving the family to say their final farewell in private.
Standing by your bench, watching your own twenty-two-year-old and his four friends, plus Pat’s cousin, roll the casket to the front, while this song is playing is sobering. These young men were doing their best to hold it together as they performed their solemn duty, then sat together and let their emotions do what was needed. This song just about killed me.
Father Sylvain was perfect. He said beautiful things and asked those who pray to pray; never preaching
Jules, Marilyn and Maude (his parents and sister) came up and Jules spoke for them. He started off by saying he promised Pat he wouldn’t cry and he spoke beautifully, his composure cracking only at the end; his wife and daughter on either side of him, giving him what he needed to push through. My heart broke for them.
I know Pat’s family chose music that he loved and when this song played, I watched as their heads bopped to the beat. I know it wasn’t the lyrics they were feeling.
Father Sylvain introduced Charles-Olivier to come and say a word and the five young men stood up as one, the four surrounding him as he read the beautiful post he wrote the day he found out he lost his friend, his gym partner, his clown, the one who always said how much he loved them who was now his guardian angel.
There were the usual blessings and the thank yous and, as the following song played, we were all invited to come up and use the provided Sharpies (and Purell) to write something on the casket. Now THAT is a beautiful thing.
The Universe is funny. Here I was, trying to put into words this sudden, heartbreaking event and along comes Merril with her dVerse prosery prompt that is exactly what I need. We had to use the phrase: “when it is over said and done / it was a time / and there was never enough of it.” –Allison Adelle Hedge Coke, “A Time” Truly. I could not have asked for better. My son lost his best friend in an accident this weekend. We are all trying to come to grips with it. My heart is broken. As there are still questions to be answered, I could not do the post I truly wanted to do so this is just perfect. Then Iain showed me this drawing by Pat, dated September 24, 2017. I shiver.
“The problem is you think you have time… ” drawing by Patrice Chevalier, September 24, 2017
Born at the age of nine, a friendship for the ages. At ten you went away to summer camp, doing who-knows-what that shall remain a mystery. At twelve, you went to the same high school and made the football team, where, in your first year, you were undefeated. By fifteen, you two got kicked out for your “entrepreneurial skills” (which shall remain unnamed – one of many stories to tell in your old age) and to different schools you went. Yet that glue was a good one, its bond secure.
As young adults, you have travelled and experienced thrills most people only think of. When it is over, said and done, it was a time. And there was never enough of it. You were supposed to do more, share more. You were to remain forever best friends. At twenty-two, your adult lives were just beginning.
I decided to participate in yesterday’s prosery for dVerse in which Lillian asks us to use one of two lines in Carl Sandburg’s Jazz Fantasia. My text has absolutely nothing to do with his fabulous poem. I chose “Moan like an autumn wind high in the lonesome treetops”. I did write it last night, then decided to wait until today to post, feeling it needed more fine-tuning. Needless to say, I played with it so much, I fear I buggered it up completely. Or maybe not. I’m putting it out there anyway!
I hike, breathing in the clean, crisp mountain air, revelling in my sense of being, as they say, one with nature. I wonder why I don’t allow myself to do this more often. To just be. To occasionally let go of all the musts, shoulds and needs that seem to take over everyday life. Why do we do that? Why don’t we take the time for ourselves? I know I was not taught to put myself last. Our family did not do this type of teaching, despite many hours of discussing pretty much everything.
I often read of people saying their parent taught them this lesson or that. I don’t. I sometimes wonder if I was simply not paying attention. Before I know it, I moan like an autumn wind high in the lonesome treetops, then howl, releasing restrictions I now know were self-imposed.
Wednesday and it’s Friday Fictioneers time. Why does a scene like this look way too familiar? Oh right. I live with two adult kids… Should you feel inspired to play along, click on the frog below and add your 100-words worth! Till then, a thank you always goes to Rochelle for keeping us neat and tidy and this week A. Noni Mouse’s photo was rather inspiring, wasn’t it?
I’m making you a feast! All you have to do is sit back, relax, and here, take this glass of wine. Go sit on the patio with your book and I’ll call you when it’s ready. No wait, It’s beautiful, We’ll eat outside. You don’t have to do a thing. Well, maybe set the table? I’ll do the rest. Consider this a thank you for all you do for us. We don’t take you for granted, Mom. Oh, and later, I’m going out with my friends, okay? But don’t worry, I’ll do the dishes when I get back. I Promise.
What? Yeah, well… yanno, sometimes there’s no explaining things. This week our lovely leader Rochelle has chosen a picture by Todd Foltz. You want to play? Click on the frog below and add your 100-word max story link.
Betsy loved spending the summers at her grandparents. She got to live a completely different life than the one she had in the city. A life that was simple and felt more real. She particularly enjoyed the chores Nana made her do. Waking up with the sun, collecting eggs from the chickens was one of her favourites. Who knew chickens could be so affectionate?
“Hullo Susie. Hey there Gertrude. You ladies have something for me this morning?” she asked as she scratched them under their chins. They clucked their responses rubbed against her arm.
Thought I was going to wait until tomorrow to post but got blown away by the wind outside and came in for a break. It is time for Crispina‘s CCC number 83. I seem to be in a reminiscing mood. Or the photo prompts are jarring old memories. Either/or. The horse in the background made me think of one of the horses at the ranch because he had the colourings of an Oreo cookie There was a fight between calling him Caffoon or Oreo, so they compromised and called him Cafforeo. The things that remain in my memory banks, sheesh…
I Wanna Do It Again!
Summer of ’75, our family vacation was at Golden Acres Ranch in the Catskill Mountains of New York. Think “Dirty Dancing” but with horses. And I dunno if we were the only Gentiles there, but it sure felt like it.
(My youngest sister, Tracy, has been a horse fanatic since she can talk and walk. She tried to convince Dad that we could keep a horse in our backyard and she’d take care of it, promise!)
We were having a lesson in the main ring when Tracy’s horse, Cafforeo, took off like a bat outta hell, Tracy holding on tight, a smile the size of Canada across her face.
Mom and Dad and Mike, our teacher, ran like crazy to catch up with them, now safely in Cafforeo’s paddock.
“What did you do to make him take off like that?” Dad yelled.
“I dunno! But I want to do it again!”
Didn’t have a picture of Tracy so here I am on my favourite horse named Muddy
