Weekend Writing Prompt #183 – Wrangle

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.

Wrangled up the necessary ingredients

To make a Tuscan feast to be shared

Invitations sent and accepted

A fun time, expected

With great company, delicious food, divine wine

And some friendly wrangling, unavoidable

 

 

Hanging On

De from Whimsygizmo is hosting dVerse (okay, it was yesterday and I’m late!) and has told us the sky is the limit for this week’s quadrille.  Now, many of you know I’m partial to clouds and sky so choosing just one photo from my rather large collection was difficult. And probably the reason I couldn’t focus on what to write!  Na’ama assured me the sky was not falling (she checked) and that I could always post today.  Seems she was right, so here I am, after all!

Thoughts and memories

stretch like clouds across the blue sky

Try as you might

to hang on to them

(the good ones)

some will dissipate

gone forever, leaving no trace

Others refuse to let go;

remain part of your story

to nurture

to comfort

 

 

No Longer Needed – Friday Fictioneers

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.

©Roger Bultot

High Chair — Nee & Wee

No Longer Needed

Why did you throw out the highchair?

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?

Yes.  When my heart doesn’t hurt so much.

 

Austin’s Room

 

 

 

A Proper Send-Off

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.

May I say that I do not want to do this again.

 

 

Weekend Writing Prompt #172 – Endless

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. The shorter the better for this challenge!  Thank you, Sammi.

Longing for Childhood

Grass tickling legs

Lying on your back

Head cradled in hands

Gazing at endless clouds

Believing in forever

 

Weekend Writing Prompt #156 – Home

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.

Wow. Congrats to Sammi for doing this prompt for three years already!  Looking forward to what’s to come!

There is always that one house on the block where people congregate. As kids, it is the meet-up or the hang-out place – if the mom says it is okay – and if she says ‘no’ today, it will not stop you from coming back tomorrow. There is nothing obviously special about this house. It is like everyone else’s in size and shape and number of rooms. And yet, the kids know. Here, they are welcome. Here, they can be kids, and whether related or not, will be yelled at if they get too much. Here, they feel like they belong, part of a family. Here, this is not a house. It is a home.

Mine.

 

 

A Monument for Christmas – Friday Fictioneers

Good Thursday to all, or Boxing Day. to Canadians and Brits.  Though we got our prompt a day early thanks to Rochelle‘s generosity, I could not squeeze in a story. And then I was glad I waited because this gave me the time to dedicate this post to my blogging friend David Kanigan, who sadly lost his brother, Lorne, in the first minutes of Christmas Day.

 

©Sandra Crook

Click me for more stories

A Monument for Christmas

It was time to stand tall and strong. He had to try to keep his anger in check as he knew it would serve no purpose now.  To rail against the system or whatever powers that be, that he wasn’t quite sure he believed in, would serve no purpose now.

He had to focus on the good that was before, and the end of all the suffering that had gone on for too long.  It was a small comfort.

He wanted more time.  And he didn’t want Christmas to be a monument to the day his brother’s light was snuffed.

 

What’s Left – Friday Fictioneers

It’s a glorious Wednesday out there, I’m not working and I’m on slo-mo. Zeke is not pleased with me so before he decides I am no longer his buddy, I better send this out into the ether, grab his leash and get a move on before the sun disappears!  Thanks always to Rochelle for hosting this weekly party and thank you to Ted Strutz for sending most of us down memory lane. (I assume, which is not smart, but I never claimed to be.)

©Ted Strutz

Click me! Click me!

 

What’s Left

I’ve since gone digital, but I still prefer the old pictures. In all their glorious mess. You know what I mean, don’t you?

Most of us have them. Boxes of old photographs. I have Dad’s, with so few pictures of him as a kid. My aunt has my grandmother’s. Mom has “gifted’ me with hers, as she wants me to scan each one into digital form ~ I must start before it’s too late. And I have my own. Filled with memories, still to be sorted.

In all those boxes, dates and names are a scarcity.

And this is what’s left.

When Autumn Comes – Crimson’s Creative Challenge #43

I knew where I wanted to go with this one. Then I had an internal struggle. Then a physical struggle. Then the words would not come in the format I had envisioned. They say that is part of the process, writers do, say it, that is.  So I took a step back and started over.

Welcome to Crispina‘s weekly challenge. Anything goes, as long as you don’t go past 150 words. Click on her name, the rules and regs, soft as they are, are right there!

When Autumn Comes

It hangs on a hook, waiting till autumn comes.  Different garage, different hook.  Yet it was placed there as soon as we arrived. I don’t even know if it was me or one of the boys who hung it up.

It’s just a stupid flannel sweater-cum-jacket.  Older than – hell, I have no idea how old it is!  It seems like it has always been there. It has been worn to rake leaves, tie bushes, change tires. It has been thrown on in dead of winter just to cross the street to get to the convenience store.

I wear it now, when autumn comes.  I rake my leaves, do my best to do the yard thing. No, I don’t change my tires – that’s what family are for!

It is the first item I reach for when I’m doing the stuff you used to do. When autumn comes.

 

Word count: 146

 

Adventure at the Beach – Crimson’s Creative Challenge #37

Time to participate in Crispina’s Creative Challenge… I have totally cheated as there is one little umbrella, or parasol, in this pic, whereas my story involves hundreds. Still. It is where this photo brought me and I’m feeling particularly mushy this evening so. There. The pictures I have added are not from the time of my story but close enough and damned if I can find them anyway in the helter-skelter that is my basement.  I fear there will be no order till way after golf season, and we are comfortably buried under at least four feet of snow, so please, bear with me and use your imagination…

 

Adventure at the Beach

“Mommy told me to make sure I know where our umbrella is, just in case.  She worries too much. I’m going on an adventure.” He made his way to the beach, intent on finding some shells

 

“Where’s Aidan?”  Panicked, three of us four adults went searching, while I stayed put with the other kids.

 

“Where’s our umbrella? They all look the same.” Aidan started to cry. A lifeguard found him and brought him to us.

 

My poor husband had walked far, searching. He had worked himself into a tizzy, already running in his mind what his son was wearing, how to describe him to the police… We had no cell phones then and couldn’t notify him so we had to wait for his return.

By the time he did, he was a complete basket case. He broke into tears upon seeing his baby, safe and sound.

“Don’t you ever do that to me again!”

 

Word count: 154.