Written for: https://katmyrman.com/2017/05/09/twittering-tale-29-9-may-2017/
This week’s words: Pile Smart Pâro ((n.) the feeling that no matter what you do is always somehow wrong—that any attempt to make your way comfortably through the world will only end up crossing some invisible taboo—as if there’s some obvious way forward that everybody else can see but you, each of them leaning back in their chair and calling out helpfully, colder, colder, colder.) Vicarious Mash Nasal Disagree Witch Shed Primitive Wedge Scrawny
It was never easy being a witch or for that matter an apprentice witch. Amelia Marble was a scrawny kid who spent her time, well as much as should, hanging around her grandmother and learning as she went along the ins and outs of witchery.
Always in the time they lived was there the sense of paro. Always there was the threat of accusation, the threat of being arrested and the very real threat of being hung. People were very sceptical about the powers a witch had. It didn’t matter that her grandmother concocted a range of herbal mixtures which did actually work. For there, lay the problem.
In a world beset with superstition, anytime a cure was achieved it was felt it was more the hand of the devil than the hand of God.
Amelia being a smart girl quickly caught on that a small pile of herbs in the right hands could yield a power that had to be seen to be believed. Her grandmother working in primitive conditions in the shed behind her small house at the edge of town kept as low a profile as she could so as not to attract attention.
They had their share of disagreements. The church elders saw them as meddling in God’s divine plan, though Amelia was never quite sure what the divine plan actually was when around her there seemed to be as much sickness as there always had been.
The elders wanted more than anything to drive a wedge between the community and herself. But no amount of haranguing by the elders could stop the vivacious nature of the relationship between Grandmother and community. They needed her grandmother’s help, and she needed them to provide a living for herself and her family.
It was the nasal infusion that really set the boat within the town a rocking. From eating the rhubarb mash, a staple within the village, many people developed a nasal complaint. Their noses ran, in some pus was excreted, in others, the complaint extended to their throats. Amelia’s grandmother developed an infusion of herbs that when boiled produced a vapour that when inhaled produced an instant sense of relief.
This was too much for the elders who campaigned to have her grandmother arrested on the grounds of performing witchcraft. No matter which way anyone turned, or bent over backwards, paro was the name of the game. The elders argued against it, citing the cure of Elise Parker as evidence of his evil qualities. Elise was a harlot in the village, who never attended church but who like so many attracted the nasal complaint. Grandmother Marble’s infusion helped her and she was back on the job within hours. Only evil could inspire evil they said as they dunked Elise in the village pond hoping she’d sink and die. All they got was a pile of wet clothes attached to a grinning harlot.
Elder Grateful contracted the complaint and secretly purchased some of Grandmother’s infusion and was cured instantly. His remarkable recovery evidence that the infusion may well have been sent by God. There was rejoicing all round and Grandmother Marble was once again left alone.
Amelia saw all this and stored away her thoughts on people and their superstitions. Paro was not something she looked forward to. Disagreements could be dealt with in more subtle ways.
As for rhubarb mash, that substance could be assigned to history as she didn’t like it much anyway.
Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2017/05/08/wordle-154/
This week’s challenge: May 4, 2017 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about comfort food. How can this familiarity influence a story or character? Is it something unusual, like Twinkies from the 1970s? Or is it something from home, from another place or time? Go where the prompt leads.
It starts with a cup of self-raising flour, two cups of rolled oats, butter, an egg, a teaspoon of both cinnamon and ginger, throw in some apple sauce and away you go.
My comfort food. Baked for twelve minutes they have become a food I enjoy several times a day.
As a part of my diet, I take them wherever I go, packed in a sandwich bag, stowed in my trusty cooler I can devour them at any given time. In summer, they are best eaten frozen, in fact as I write this I am happily munching on one.
Written for: https://carrotranch.com/2017/05/05/may-4-flash-fiction-challenge/
Old Bert maintained the obelisk was there as testament to his virility.
His girlfriend Rona said he was dreaming.
Old Bert did a lot of dreaming.
But one thing he didn’t dream about and was grateful for was what he witnessed below the obelisk when he was only fifteen years old.
A man was murdered there and Bert happened to come across the deed being done. Fortunately, he was never seen, for he feared for years after the impact his confession might have on not just him but his whole family.
He hid behind rocks on the edge of the headland and watched as the Gray brothers, the local town criminals at the time, bludgeoned the towns, Undertaker, Horace Casket, to death, over it was said a past debt.
Bert shook for days after holding what he had seen close to his chest and never revealing to anyone what he had seen.
There were stories within the community of what the Gray brothers did to those who grassed on them. Bert had no intention of becoming another in the town’s folklore.
So, to compensate and to put it out of his mind as he went through life he made up all sorts of ludicrous claims about the obelisk.
In fact, the monument erected in 1881, was there to remember the lives lost in the storm of 1876 when the ship, Botany, with fifty souls on board perished on rocks below the headland.
Bert was one for stories ranging from his great grandfather single-handedly dragging bodies from the raging sea that night to his grandmother running raffles to raise money for the erection of the obelisk.
None were true but the community loved it when after a few drinks Old Bert would begin a tale so plausible many did think it was true. One night he even had them all donating money to have the Obelisk polished up for its hundredth anniversary. It was at the time 1998.
Old Bert was my uncle and one night around the fire he told me about his experience at the Obelisk. Such was his telling I have no doubt to its authenticity.
Written for: https://scvincent.com/2017/05/04/thursday-photo-prompt-obelisk-writephoto/
It’s all snippets of memory. My young brother aged about three going missing and finding him hours later in bed asleep after mum had everyone in the street looking for him. Being in the car with my parents and hearing mum say the doctor said she should be in the hospital. The next morning she wasn’t in her bed, and I had a sister.
My dad’s family lived in Sydney, we lived in the country, and we’d visit at Christmas, meet various cousins and share a bed with them. Three across the top and two along the bottom.
Those were scary but exciting times sharing a bed that way. I find it sad that we have all grown apart.
**
** Photo taken one Wednesday morning at the end of Morpethroad.
It was just on dawn on Grimace Street and Miss Marble looked out her window to see the sunrise. Not just any sunrise but the sunrise she waited all year for.
Today she would harvest the sunrise.
In the same way, moon dust was useful capturing the sunrise and bottling it was a desired outcome as the uses for bottled sunrise were something out of this world.
When she was a young girl and learning her craft, an apprentice you might say to her grandmother, Jessie Marble, she had been taught an old and secret method to harvest the sunrise, but only the sunrise that occurred on May 4th each year.
Her granny had learned the technique from her granny and so the method had been in the family a long time. Miss Marble as has been revealed in earlier stories was an old witch even though she looked around fifty years of age.
Bottled sunrise was used, she discovered, to help men regrow their hair, and not just on their head. In an age of promiscuity, it wasn’t only your head that suffered from baldness. There were all sorts of nasties out there and bottled sunrise was just the medicine to fix that potentially embarrassing situation.
Apart from that it worked as a confidence booster for the nervous first date, it was very effective against warts and mothers would sometimes slip a drop or two into their children’s lunches to give their child that little extra to get through the day.
Right now, though Miss Marble needed to ‘up and at ‘em’, as she’d say. Taking her large gold umbrella, she went out into her back yard to set it up. The umbrella had a gold spike that absorbed the sunrise rays and transferred them into a vat she had hooked up to it. Once the sunrise was over she would take the vat into her kitchen, heat it for three hours thereby converting the sunrise rays into a liquid before bottling the liquid and storing it for those occasions it might be needed.
She knew that Henry Wordsmith would be around later in the day. Henry was a tad loose with his moral approach to society and he had learned the significance of May 4th. He would front up at Miss Marble’s door, his hat in his hands, his face sorrowful knowing full well that Miss Marble would know why he was there.
After confessing his sins, the same ones as he had confessed to the last year, Miss Marble would insist that Henry drop his pants to prove his ‘misfortune’.
Having done so, and experiencing that an inspection of his private bits by Miss Marble, was in no way a pleasant experience, he would dress himself, his eyes still downcast as he could hear Miss Marble fossicking about in her kitchen. She had long given up thinking the indignity of her checking him out may have brought about a change in his ways.
She would return to find him his annual chastened self. He would gratefully accept the small vial of sunrise to take home and administer.
As he left and stifling a giggle, she would say: “May the 4th be with you.”
Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2017/05/04/tale-weaver-118-4th-may-sunrise/
Image: Loretta Notto
It was the annual wood block convention.
From all around the country blocks had gathered. There was much catching up to be had and everyone was always happy to hear of one’s success. Some blocks had moved on from fire wood to furniture and some had even made it into the auspicious company of the wood turner.
To the uninformed, the pine all looked the same. But for one pine to another, there were always clearly defined differences. As it was the pine had a much more amenable personality to the hardwood. They joked, they played games and were constantly kidding around with one another. They knew the future was there’s and were more than willing to exercise their long lasting qualities. The main one being the average joe could lift them.
They all waited patiently for the conventions occasional address, this year given by Professor Green Bark of the Oregon Pine Reserve, his address entitled, “Oh to be a chip off the old block”.
Written for: https://flashfictionforaspiringwriters.wordpress.com/2017/05/01/fffaw-challenge-week-of-may-2-2017/
Image: – Matt Dixon
Harry the Tin Man had an idea. It was unusual and took everyone by surprise as Harry didn’t normally have ideas.
Such was his idea that he liked the notion of a light above his head signalling his new found good luck.
Mostly Harry lived a life predictable and lacking in any sort of excitement. He accepted his lot.
He had once had another idea that the girl in the weaver’s shop might fancy him but she didn’t. She called her father who grabbed Harry and threw him into the village pond. He was rusty for weeks. No amount of oil would quieten the squeak between his legs.
He didn’t like being oiled between his legs, he thought he was deserving of some dignity.
But no. The village blacksmith, the apothecary and the tinsmith all attended to his rust spot.
He then took a vow of isolation. He would approach no one and in that way, generate no animosity.
But today he had an idea and as it was a revelation to Harry he was determined to see it through.
Gladys the Scare-Crow had winked at him. It was a sign he was sure. He decided to give himself a jolly good polish and creak his way to the paddock where she stood day in and day out.
As he approached her she noticed his arrival. Her straw took on a sheen Harry had not seen before, he felt confident, he felt empowered.
Then it rained. Steady at first but then a torrential downpour.
Harry opened his mouth to say his first ever words of love but found himself once again, wet, seized up, his idea light extinguished.
He felt downcast. He stared at the ground.
Gladys, he noticed still had eyes for him.
She winked again. She smiled at him.
His tin bits stirred, the point of no return had arrived.
Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2017/05/02/photo-challenge-163/
You ruined my shot.
She stamped her foot.
Sorry, had to sneeze.
Never again my one opportunity lost.
Come let’s follow the flock.
Oh, flock you.
Written for: https://katmyrman.com/2017/05/02/twittering-tale-28-2-may-2017/
This week’s words: Quarrel Man Singing in Bedlam (Being completely barmy/insane, but being happy with it.) Rotten Sheen Whitewash Scramble Price Narrow Visible Smatter Masquerade
It was the man standing on the street corner singing in Bedlam as we’d say that caused the quarrel. It could have been he was singing off key, it could have been he was singing the wrong words but whatever it was it was also his happy go lucky attitude that no doubt rubbed people the wrong way.
He didn’t care, his singing was terrible but that is not to whitewash over the incident as there is so often a narrow line between what one man considers good and another horrendous.
With the quarrel escalating, the sheen had obviously been taken from his performance and what followed was nothing short of a rotten exchange between the two protagonists.
Being visible to every passer by people began to scramble for position to get the best view for on a sleepy Thursday afternoon what could be better than a full on stoush, accompanied by a smattering of expletives.
The singing in Bedlam man now feeling crushed by the attack on his abilities masqueraded an air of hurt and upset that his honest and happy singing had been so offensive to this particular passer-by.
Such was the onslaught that the price he paid would haunt him for some time. Not a man to quarrel, he gradually slunk away, his tail between his legs as his attacker regaled everyone around him of the need to keep such singing in Bedlam in the place it deserved to be, in Bedlam.
Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2017/05/01/wordle-153/
Morpethroad 