Daily Writing Challenge, Nov 20 – Gran

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cinnamon, warm, sentimental

My gran was the warmest woman I ever knew. She was always welcoming, but she expected you to pull your weight whenever you went round to her place.

She had an apple orchard, and when the fruit came in season, she called for all hands on deck to harvest them.

Once that was complete her kitchen became a production line of peeling, stewing and preserving.

She laced her stewed apples with cinnamon as she argued the cinnamon was important in good health and she’d then point to herself as an example of living a healthy life thanks to her apples and her cinnamon.

Years later long after Gran passed and when I attend the local fairs and look at the entries in the preservative section, I have a sentimental spot in my heart for stewed apples in cinnamon as they remind me so much of my gran.

 

Written for: https://thehauntedwordsmith.wordpress.com/2018/11/20/daily-writing-challenge-nov-20/

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Reena’s Exploration Challenge #Week 63 – The Woman

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Image: Harvey Kraft on LinkedIn.

He wasn’t sure why it was he reached out to her that day. After all, she appeared far more disabled than he was.

At least I’m upright he told himself as he looked down on her. She seemed quite comfortable in her state of dishevelment, lying there you could have been mistaken for thinking she was one of those council statues placed around the town symbolising the history of the place. Though wanting to commemorate the down and outers of society wasn’t what the town leaders thought might be a positive town image.

Initially, she had spurned his help.

“Fuck off,” she screamed at him, and turned away covering her body with the one blanket she owned, which was more a dirty rag than anything else.

“I’ve food,” he said not offended as her language was the language he knew.

“You have? What you want for it?” she asked sitting up and letting the rag slip from her revealing a tired old breast all shrunken and showing no interest in the world.

“Thought I’d share with you for some conversation is all.”

“Conversation? I’ve got nothing to talk about, nothing to give, but if you like I can sing you a song?”

He reached out a hand, the only one he had as the other had been blown off in the war and pulled her up. She was dirty, just like her rag and she smelt as foul as anyone could.

Once up in the sitting position she reached out a hand for the food he was sharing and ate greedily.

When she ate she ignored everything and everyone around her and focused her attention on the job in hand.

He watched her and wondered what she must have once been, her present state prohibited him from thinking anything but the most disgusting of thoughts, but he had learned that not everyone was as they appeared.

She wiped her mouth with her rag and looked over at him and then burst into a song with a voice that held him in awe.

 

Written for: https://reinventionsreena.wordpress.com/2018/11/15/reenas-exploration-challenge-week-63/

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JSW Prompt 11-20-2018 – A Happy and Holy Occasion

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It was a happy and holy occasion with the family gathering to celebrate the success of the eldest son. He’d just that day graduated a doctor, and his elevation brought great joy and pride to the family.

They were from a poor part of town, and in the eyes of most townsfolk, they were bottom of the social ladder. Now with a doctor in the family, they could hold their heads high.

The son had a propensity for the dead. He saw himself as specialising in the art of taxidermy.

His practice flourished among the poor, they came in droves to be treated by a doctor who was one of their own.

Many of his patients were too far gone in illness to allow a lot of hope, and so he found a growing number of bodies flooded into his practice.

He built a room for the dead, as he called it, a shine in which he could practice his macabre interests.

It was a room in which one whole wall was covered in shelves, shelves containing bottles, bottles containing body parts, body parts that were once living.

He wheeled in his latest deceased patient and with a smile selected his sharpest scalpel. He uncovered the body, looked at it and remembered the first time the patient had called to see him and inside he had lusted for this day.

As he pierced the skin, the thrill through his body reached a crescendo of stimulation, and he gasped at the thought of what a happy and holy occasion this was.

 

Written for: https://athling2001.wordpress.com/2018/11/20/jsw-prompt-11-20-2018/

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Sunday Writing Prompt “Harlequin’s Mirror” – The Mind’s Challenge.

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Stepping through the mirror was the easy bit. Adjusting his mind to the reverse of what he had previously experienced was where the hard part began.

What challenged him most was his mind was pretty organized, it knew what it liked, and this was something which didn’t sit well with him.

The week before he had had his palms read and now when he looked at his palms everything was wrong. His mind was curious about the predictions from a week ago, would they be now reversed?

The reader had told him love was long gone, he would be alone and he’d travel, and illness could possibly befall him so he’d best stay clear of tropical locals as he had a susceptibility to tropical illnesses.

He looked around at the desolate landscape and wondered if the fork in the road ahead was a sign he should take the road less travelled as he’d tried the well-travelled one and look where that had led him.

The less travelled one was overgrown; the track slowly being eaten up by the spreading vegetation and appeared to be leading over the hill. Apt he thought as he was by now in life, “Over the hill” as they say.

Around him, as he trudged along the vegetation took on a sorry sight. The trees were read, their bare branches reaching out as if seeking anything that might sustain them. He came to a stream, interesting in that it appeared to be flowing upstream, but upstream to what he wondered.

Was that a sign, a clue he asked himself as he took the hint from the stream and headed off up the rise.

Over the rise there was a huge valley, it looked healthy, colours were vibrant, he could make out farming taking place in ordered paddocks, cattle grazed on a near field, and a man could be made out herding a small flock of sheep.

It looked all so normal.

As he drew closer it was anything but normal, in fact, it was nightmarish.

The sheep growled at him, the shepherd, chased him with his crook which appeared to have a sharp blade where the crook should have been and the road he found himself on grew harder to navigate.

Exhausted he sat down under a tree he didn’t recognize and was immediately flooded with the burning rays of the sun as the tree parted its canopy and allowed the sun to shine onto him.

Away to his left he saw the mirror, he knew he had to get there, the mirror was his salvation, he stumbled forward, his mind focused on one thing. Each step he thought drew him closer….or was it?

 

 

Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2018/11/18/sunday-writing-prompt-harlequins-mirror/

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Daily Writing Challenge, Nov 18 – Grabster’s Hotel.

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Today’s words: Forgotten, anniversary, spartan

Pulling into Grabster’s Hotel was always a risk, a gamble and never without an element of adventure.

Grabster was one of life’s forgotten characters. An ornery man on any good day and almost pleasant on the other ones.

The OPEN sign at the entrance to the Hotel was often deceiving as Grabster didn’t turn it off at any time whether he was full or not.

Hotel reception was a tiny space with a worn desk, spartan you might say save for the key board above his head, and that always seemed like something he has grudgingly conceded to in the reception design. There was just enough space for him to turn around and that became more and more a challenge as he aged and his girth expanded.

The reason for my visit this time was the anniversary celebrations organized for Carl and life long friend who had reached the grand age of eighty years and his long-suffering wife, May, had invited me down to help spread a little cheer as Carl was not given these days to being cheerful. His new mantra, “Life sucks, getting old is worse” had become a daily pattern of behaviour and May was hoping we might be able to show some love his way.

“Yes?” asked Grabster, shaking me out of my memory of Carl.

“Good evening Mr Grabster, a room for the night if you might be so kind,” I said sounding my cheery self.

“Just one? No midnight visitors? No gambling games at one in the morning?” he asked as if that was some kind of common practice.

“No just the one room, one night,” I replied. Respite my regular visitations to the town and my loyalty to Grabster’s Hotel he never treated you as anyone he recognized from earlier stays. It was the same old routine, same old inane questions, a grubby key shoved your way and a grunt of thanks as you took your leave. I was convinced Grabster disliked his job but found himself in one of those situations where the eternal OPEN sign meant he was locked in with nowhere to go.

 

Written for: https://thehauntedwordsmith.wordpress.com/2018/11/18/daily-writing-challenge-nov-18/

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November 15: Flash Fiction Challenge – Mary

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November 15, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that uses scraps. It can be scraps of dried flowers, paper, metal, fabric, food — any kind of scraps you can think of. Then write a story about those scraps and why they matter or what they make. Go where the prompt leads you.

 

When I met Mary she was scrounging throwing items into an old shopping trolley.

The trolley contained everything that was important to her. When I asked her about her life she pulled an old photo album from the bottom of the trolley and laid it out on the ground. “My life,” she said pointing to photos of a young girl, a woman in uniform and finally a woman with child.

“I’m not a scrap of good anymore,” she said shutting it up and burying it again. She shuffled off, the scraps of her life moving in front of her.

 

Written for: https://carrotranch.com/2018/11/15/november-15-flash-fiction-challenge/

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Thursday photo prompt: Shadows #writephoto – Frozen Shadows.

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“They are there,” she said holding my hand tightly.

“What’s there?” I asked looking forward to exploring the old site.

“The things we fear, they are there in the shadows, waiting, always out of sight.”

“Don’t be silly that’s all old nonsense.”

“It’s true. You know that feeling you get when you are in a place where the shadows are around you, and you think if you placed your hand into one you might be grabbed? That’s what I mean, and it’s scary.”

“Well it won’t happen here, this place is visited every day, thousands come and go, and I’ve not heard once of anything unusual happening. If it did, there would be a mention of it in the guide book.”

She took my hand tighter than before as we crossed the courtyard and I couldn’t help but notice the cloisters on either side were swathed in shadow looking more foreboding than I’d first noticed.

Our guidebook pointed us to the left where an exhibit called the Shadow Grotto had already attracted a few visitors.

We joined them only to discover the ‘visitors’ were, in fact, people frozen, statues I first thought, but on closer inspection, they were people, like us, on holiday.

I turned to my companion only to find her now consumed by the shadow and frozen like all the others.

I wanted to run, but the shadow was quickly appraochi……

 

Written for: https://scvincent.com/2018/11/15/thursday-photo-prompt-shadows-writephoto/

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Finish the Story, Nov #4

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The Secret Hymn

Pews were packed in the old church, just as they had been for the past six weeks. There was a new life breathed into the church when Father Gregory assumed his position. He was young, had longish blonde hair that brushed the bottom of his collar, and a way of speaking to a crowd that made everyone feel like he was talking just to them. He was the complete opposite of Father Baker.

No one knew Father Baker was leaving, or where he even went. Father Gregory just showed up that bright, Sunday morning and the town was memorized. Even the children behaved in church. Soon, everyone in town was clambering to come back to church.

Amie and Sarah sat with their parents in the back pew and listened as Father Gregory spoke of the Four Horsemen.

“At least that would give us something to do,” Sarah whispered.

Amie silently giggled. She was as bored as her sister was with New Hope and its old ways. A little excitement never hurt anyone.

Amie pulled out the hymnal and let it fall open to whatever page it wanted and gasped. “Sarah, look at this,” she whispered, pointing to ….

Morpethroad wrote:

….an old pressed flower hiding the words of ‘The Lord is My Shephard’. The flower had been laid out in a deliberate fashion and on closer inspection there appeared to be blood stains on the petals.

The drop of blood had separated the petals enough for the words: “He restoreth my soul” to be clearly visible.

Amie tried to lift the petals from the page, but they were old and so fell to pieces in her fingers. The two girls looked at each mystified by their discovery.

Father Gregory as if aware of the girl’s discovery stopped his homily and waited for the girls to return their attention to him.

“We are all sinners,” said the young priest, “some greater sinners than others but a sinner is a sinner in God’s eyes, and eternal damnation will reign down upon you if you refuse to repent and accept God’s love into your heart.”

The girls sat upright at this. They had heard Father Baker say the same things and in the same way and that sent a shiver down their spines.

Father Gregory raised his hands above his head and announced that those who recognised themselves as sinners should stand NOW! The entire congregation stood, and he applauded them all. As they collectively sat down the statue to his right turned on its axis and the young priest…..

I pass the tale to Good Sir Fandango at https://fivedotoh.com/

 

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Tale Weaver # 197 – Life’s Journey – 15th November – Cyril Rum’s Observations.

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Cyril Rum, Angel on sabbatical, had come to earth for two reasons. One was to have a break from all things angelical, for after all eternity was a long time to be doing the same job and secondly to see first hand how complex mankind was.

Unlike Angels man had been given definite time periods in which to live.

To Cyril’s observations, man seemed to make the most simple thing into a complex matter.

Living, Cyril observed was fraught with danger. It was no straightforward event when you considered that from the moment of their birth, man was headlong in a rush to die.

Cyril had settled in a quiet street in a quiet town with a neighbour who provided him with a never-ending account of man and what he was on about.

Her name was Mildred Thrupp, a single woman, but one whose knowledge of those around her never stopped amazing him.

Cyril had discovered early on in his visit when asked to a social gathering by Mildred and asked the question, “Where have you come from?” that this might be a way into the community.

Cyril, however, with no concept of time started to tell his story and after the three-hour mark noticed most people had moved away to the buffet and the one remaining person had a glazed over look. Since then he had found a simpler response of, “Here, there and everywhere.” was sufficient to send the questioner on their way.

Mildred taught him much about life on earth, he found it sad so many died in wars and what he concluded were futile wars, with man being an organic being he understood that their bodies broke down and that fact led to their deaths.

He attended many funerals as an observer because he had no concept of grief or loss and the outpouring from surviving relatives never ceased to amaze him and make him realise how complex humans were.

There were moments when he saw man as being compassionate and loving when circumstances led him to believe man was capable of so much good. Those experiences gave him hope for the people around him.

The earth was a good place to live he concluded, it had so much going for it in terms of natural beauty he just wished man would take better care of it.

Each evening he sat in his back yard in one of the white wooden seats he had there. He watched the sunset behind the giant gum trees, and he marvelled at the beauty of nature.

Cyril Rum enjoyed his ‘life’ on earth. His neighbour Mildred would call to him and appear with a cake in hand and a hot pot of tea. Humans ate too much thought Cyril as he downed his third slice while Mildred prattled on about the people at the end of the street who much to her disgust had brought another child into the world when they struggled to feed the five they already had.

“Choice,” said Cyril, “Man has choice, you chose to live a single life, they decided to have children. Whatever you choose in your life there are consequences. You deal with loneliness, they deal with poverty. It’s all relative.”

There were occasions when Mildred wondered just who this neighbour of hers was.

 

Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2018/11/15/tale-weaver-197-lifes-journey-15th-november/

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Daily Writing Challenge, Nov 14 – Poseidon Ages.

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Today’s three words: King, Power, Eternal

There was a problem with being a powerful King and living for eternity.

It meant you had a lot of time to yourself and at your disposal and in time you suffered the fate of having that fact to contend with.

Being a mythological creature didn’t make it any easier. In Poseidon’s case, there were expectations of grandeur, loudness and being constantly wet.

After several millennia he did grow tired of the wetness, the constant feeling that at any moment he might start to rust did bother him because he knew he had an image to uphold.

Rising up from the ocean depths to assert his power over all around him and creaking and squeaking as the rust set in hardly made him the character he once was.

He had to face it, as time went on, and he was beginning to get rather cross at time, in that it moved on, and he didn’t seem to be keeping pace with it, he was becoming less a figure of might and power and more an idle curiosity of the past. Such was life he thought as he rose up spitting out another fish caught in his teeth.

 

Written for: https://thehauntedwordsmith.wordpress.com/2018/11/14/daily-writing-challenge-nov-14/

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