Friday Fictioneers, here I come again. Now, the rest of you can sit around with Doug with your feet propped up if you want to, but I’m going exploring for an ancient city. Anybody else who would like to try your hand at creating a 100-word story based on the unique picture below – Douglas M. MacIlroy’s picture, by the way – hop over to the FF home place and check out the details of how and why. (Also, hop over to Doug’s site and check out his header: amazing — mesmerizing — see for yourself!)
My story’s below the photo.
HOME
The aged archaeologist sat gazing into the fire, owning contentment for the first time in his 85 years.
He journaled these words: “At age 15, I sat in a classroom gazing at a tablet. Suddenly, it disappeared, and in its place, as through a window, I saw a mountain. I knew it, yet I didn’t. But I knew I’d find the ancient city – this city — carved inside.
“I was born here, but can’t remember how or why I left. I only know it’s beckoned me in my dreams all my life, and I’ve searched the world for 70 years.
I’ve been forgetting to try the 5-Sentence Fiction challenge the last couple of weeks. And I’m almost too late this time around. The page says I have only about 3 hours left. The prompt this week is “Marriage,” and since I’m watching the clock, I ran to my poetry file because I remembered a poem I wrote about a year ago that had just about enough material for five sentences. The only problem was that I didn’t use sentences at all in that poem. So I borrowed the material (from my own work) and added the necessary subjects and verbs to give me five complete sentences. Whew! It’s been almost as hectic as actually getting married. My “story” is below the picture.
ANTICIPATION
Coming and going, to-ing and fro-ing, thoughts in a dither, stomach a quiver, I’m scared.
Scurrying, worrying, phoning, conversing, weighing last doubts, I still could bow out if I dared.
Checking all pockets, fastening lockets, sniffing the bouquets – fragrant sublime haze – I’m okay.
Guests in their places, smiles on their faces, music at high tide, “Here Comes the Bride”: IT’S MY WEDDING DAY!
There’s just something about sharpened pencils – lead pencils, colored pencils – it doesn’t matter. There’s just something about sharpened pencils that brings out a craving in me: a craving to write! I’m not alone, of course. It happens to all of us who were born to be writers. In fact, that’s one of the ways you can know for sure that writing is in your genes – in your soul – in your gut.
I suppose paintbrushes do the same thing to the artist, and adding machines the same to accountants. As a matter of fact, I’m going to make it a point to ask my accountant friends if they feel this uncontrollable itching to punch buttons when they see an adding machine sitting there with a pristine roll of paper tape rolling out of the top and just begging to be imprinted with numbers. I’m sure they do.
That’s what happens to me when I look at sharpened pencils. I have this almost insurmountable urge to pick up one – or more – and start moving it across an untouched sheet of paper. At least my preference is untouched, uncontaminated paper, but when such is not available, I have been known to grab a napkin, a piece of cardboard, or the back of a used envelope. But write I must.
Or if I’m sitting and looking at a cup full of freshly sharpened colored pencils mixed in with the lead pencils, as I was today, I run for my sketch pad and begin to draw. Am I an accomplished artist? No. But I can no more keep myself from putting those colored pencils to paper and moving them across it in gliding, soul-satisfying strokes than I can keep myself from reaching into a just-opened box of chocolate candy and taking a piece.
However, whether lead or colored, when the point is no longer sharp, then I must change pencils. That is the other cardinal rule that governs this addiction. Dull pencil points will absolutely not give me the fix that I need.
So what do I write – or draw? Now, honestly, that part really doesn’t matter where this addiction is concerned. The requirement is that I write (or draw) SOMETHING. And therein lies the only real advantage of this craving: by giving into it, I am put in a position of creating something that never before existed – something out of my own being, my own entity – something that relays who and what I am.
When I’m writing – which is what I do most often, of course – the product may turn out to be superfluous words that don’t make any real difference in this world I live in. But more times than not, those words – once they are tweaked, re-arranged, and polished – offer something satisfying, inspiring, entertaining to myself and others who read them.
And truthfully, this addiction doesn’t require wooden pencils to have its effect on me – or on the rest of us who call ourselves writers. A computer keyboard and a blank white document page on the screen in front of us will do exactly the same thing.
But we are not quite as susceptible to the keyboard and screen, because unless we are sitting in front of them already, they don’t pull on us the way that pencil does. We are likely to run into those pencils almost anywhere. And when we see one – that is if it’s nice and clean and sharp – look out world: we just may unleash our greatest masterpiece on you before you know what hit you.
Julia gave us a picture prompt this week for our 100-Word story. If you’d like to challenge yourself and take part, hop over to Julia’s Place and get the details
THE DANGLING DECISION
I’ve lived on this bayou all my life. Habitually sitting on this pier, dangling my feet in the water, thinking, dreaming, planning new adventures in sophisticated environments.
But when I was 16, sitting here, dangling my feet, Daniel kissed me, and I knew all my dreams were wrapped up in him, and we’d share those adventures.
Well, today, Daniel bought this property that includes this crumbling, unsafe pier, and his fondest dream is to rebuild it and live HERE the rest of his life! He proposed.
I must decide, but … darn! … I have no place to dangle my feet and think …….
Clover nuzzled the sweet-smelling ground cover that had inspired her name. She lived here now, on Old Jake’s homestead, having stumbled onto it by accident – or by Divine intervention – after being beaten by her previous owner and barely escaping. Limping through the stormy night, she’d eventually collapsed in this sweet-smelling field.
Next morning, Jake had found her, huddled in pain and traumatized by her injuries. He’d bathed her wounds, fed her, petted her, and made her his own. She had the run of the farm, but her favorite spot was this field of sweet clover where she spent quiet days being grateful to Old Jake for his love.
~~~ The V.V. challenge this week is the word “Clover.” If you’d like to join the fun and add your 100-word story, hop over to the V.V. home right here:http://www.velvetverbosity.com/
Groundhogs can be pretty destructive when it comes to property, but they are cute as a button. We had four new babies on our block last summer, and this year, we have two new ones. They actually live across the street from me, on property that is awaiting a probate decision before new ownership can take effect. A woman in our block feeds them, and I suppose as far as the little babies are concerned, they consider themselves town critters.
I’m a couple hours past the deadline – on my own challenge – can you believe it? But, be that as it may, I have finally finished my story, so I’m ignoring the deadline. If anyone else out there still wants to write for this challenge, please feel free to do so any time this week as well – and be sure and post your link on the original challenge page.
LOVE WILL FIND A WAY
“Gabriel Bay Lighthouse: Antiques and Unique Gifts – Martee Somersby, Owner.” Those words were music to the ears of Gabriel Bay’s newest entrepreneur. And this business, in the renovated lighthouse, was a life-long dream come true.
The grand opening had been a huge hit, and business had been brisk ever since. She even sold fresh fruit and vegetables from local farmers, and that drew even more customers. In fact everything had gone exactly as Martee had dreamed until about three months ago, when she’d walked into the store and found the huge wooden Indian maiden gone.
The sheriff and his deputies had searched the whole store and every inch of the property. Nothing else was missing, and there had been no sign of forced entry – but not another living soul had a key.
“Why?” she asked the sheriff. “Why would anyone want to take just the wooden Indian? It wasn’t even worth much money, but I bought it because it was such a lovely piece and meant something to me.”
“Well, beats me. But I guarantee you we won’t stop until we have the thief, Miss Somersby.” He stopped and cleared his throat. “I understand you keep a gun on the premises.”
“Yes, I do.
“Well, m’am, I don’t think I have to tell you to be careful with it, but if you have any more trouble, I’d sure like to think you’d call on us instead of trying to handle things yourself with a gun – if at all possible.”
“You can count on it, Sheriff,” she’d told him. “I have no desire to become some kind of heroine.”
Weeks passed, and she’d pretty well given up the hope of recovering her property. Her real sorrow wasn’t so much the money involved, but the fact that she felt particularly attached to that one item. She’d loved wooden Indians since she was a child and had seen her first one outside a modern trading post in Arizona. She’d been amazed by it, and her Grandfather had told her the history of the life-size carving.
A couple years later, while listening to the radio, she’d heard the song “Kaw-liga” — the story of a wooden Indian in front of a store who fell in love with a wooden Indian maiden in front of a neighboring. But he never declared his love — even when she was sold. Martee’s childish heart had imagined an entire story about Kaw-liga and his Indian princess, and from that day on, every place she traveled, she made it a point to look for and visit every wooden Indian statue she could find. When she’d discovered this particular carving of an Indian princess, she’d bought it without hesitation.
More weeks passed, and still the crime was not solved. Martee missed her Indian princess so much that she got out her copy of “Kaw-liga” and played it over and over. In fact, she often played music in the store and included that song in the mix. People from the area sympathized with her and stopped by periodically to mull over the possibilities of what could have happened.
Today old Benny Briggs sat with her. Benny was something of a legend in his own right, known throughout the county as a “mighty-fine storyteller.” He often told of the old Indian tribes who had inhabited the region and shared many of their legends – updated a little in Benny’s own style. He sat, drinking coffee with Martee on this particular day and listening to her tell the story she’d made up in her own mind as a child about Ol’ Kaw-liga.
Finally, he said, “Well, Miss, did you ever think that maybe this here Indian maiden you had was the one Ol’ Kaw-liga was sweet on?”
“What do you mean, Benny?”
“Well,” he said, rising from his chair and putting on his hat, “I been thinkin’ about it a lot. Woudn’t surprise me none to learn that Ol’ Kaw-liga finally got tired of livin’ a life without love and came lookin’ for his maiden. Once he had his courage up, when he found her, he’d have just whisked her away.”
“You know what, Benny: no matter how many times I imagined that story, I never could end it until Kaw-liga had married his Indian maiden.”
“Well, Miss,” Benny said, opening the door and then turning back to give her a wink, “I’d say maybe you managed to believe your story enough that it came true.”
~~~
Below, you will find a video of the song “Kaw-liga.” Hope you enjoy it.
The prompt for this week’s Friday Fictioneers 100-Word Story is the photo below: Copyright: Erin Leary. Hop over to Rochelle Wiseoff-Fields’ site and learn how to get involved and share your own story. My story’s below the picture.
THE FORK IN THE ROAD
Kelsey drove along the fence, ignoring it, his thoughts battling. He’d be at the fork in the road soon. The south branch would take him to Barclay; he could hop a bus to the other side of the country.
The north branch would take him home, with his invalid wife to take care of. The neighbor tended her when Kelsey worked. And work was his only freedom.
It was hard to love a woman who couldn’t be a real wife anymore.
But he’d promised: “… for better or for worse …” And she’d trusted him.
Julia is into birds this week on her 100-word story challenge. Here’s what she says: “I am very lucky to have a garden and even luckier that a variety of birds visit each day. At the moment we have 2/3 blackbirds who are really ruling the roost so to speak. They are beautiful song birds I know, but they are having a conversation. You can tell with the intonation of the sounds and the responses from another birds.
So, your prompt this week is to write that conversation!”
So I did. It’s below the picture.
OVERHEARD CONVERSATION OF BLACKIE BIRD AND HIS FAMILY
“Mama!”
“Mama … we’re hungry!”
“Yeah, we’re hungry.”
“I’ll check on Dad’s progress.”
“Honey, found anything?”
“Not yet. Those dang Cardinals grab everything in sight!”
“They think just because they’re so splendid to look at they should get the best of everything.”
“Hey, two worms! I’ll grab ’em.”
“Oh, look out! Kitty-Kitty’s comin’ at you at 2:00!”
“If I run, I’ll lose the worms to the Bluejays.”
“Barn-a-Bee’s on the roses. Call for help.”
“Hey, Barn-a-Bee, Kitty-Kitty’s crouched to attack. Help!”
“On my way. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz … SMACK!”
“MEOW!!#%$!!#$%!!”
“Great hit! Right on the nose! Thanks, Barn-a-Bee, old pal. I owe you one.”
~
I actually got the idea for this story from a whimsical poem my mother wrote many years ago, titled “Wish I Were A Bumblebee.” You can read it at this link.
It’s time for another “Tell Me a Story” Challenge. I always enjoy the 100-word writing challenges very much, and I take part in as many as I can. However, it’s also important to get good practice and exercise in writing short stories that are not “flash fiction” stories, but long enough to allow for the characters and plot to be more fully developed.
That’s why I generally offer a challenge that allows for at least 500 words. This week I am suggesting that the work can be as much as 700 words and still be acceptable.
Your assignment – should you choose to participate – is to “Tell Me A Story” — in prose or poetry either one — that includes the following FOUR things:
1. A Lighthouse
2. Fresh Vegetables
3. A Wooden Indian
4. YOUR CHOICE of a Gun – OR – a Set of Wedding Rings
Be sure and note that you have a choice for the 4th item. Use the gun OR the set of wedding rings, but not both.
Post your story on your own blog and hop over here to leave the link to it in the “Comments” section. Try to come back and check out stories by the other writers as much as you can.
Any length up to 700 words is acceptable, and the challenge will close Saturday, May 24, 2014, at 12:00 Midnight U. S. Central Daylight Savings Time.
The Happy Wordcrafter 
