SANDRA THE VANGUARD - Flash Fiction

As ofttimes would have it, I'm presented with a picture prompt that I have to scratch my head for an idea to make a story of it.  Animals and nature are ripe for conflict. I came up for the idea when I thought back on a time when I was out 4-wheeling and came across a hoard of Ladybugs much like I depict the ticks in this story. Ladybugs are cute and colorful but when found in the forest in numbers like I have in this story is a bit disconcerting. I wasn't afraid, yet, I felt a high degree of uneasiness. 

Another component of this story is the teapot. To incorporate that I had to elevate the spider's intelligence with a tad bit of personification. It gives the story a slight fantasy feel to it, or maybe a lot. You'll note there is no dialogue as we know it because that isn't the way spiders communicate. 

Rose Tursi at www.tursiart.com

SANDRA THE VANGUARD

            Martha saw them first.  A massive swarm of ticks moving along the forest bed like lava, slow and invasive.  The ticks moved up the sides of trees, covering boulders, turning bushes black with their bodies.  They were smart also, swarming over a downed log to cross a creek. Martha estimated their numbers to be that of a large deer, thousands, tens of thousands of the ticks.

            The little black dots were terrifying and yet succulent looking. Martha swung on her thread and scampered over the bushes and trees until she reached the Great Tree, the home of her and her kind.  Sandra had to be told. If left undealt with the ticks would consume them all.

#

            Sandra was found in the center of her high web.  She had a favorite spot to catch fliers.  Fliers were her favorite meal. As the leader of Great Tree, no one impinged upon her place. 

            Martha reached the bottom of Sandra’s web and strummed a pair of silken threads.  Sandra whirled around at the first vibration and fixed her eyes on Martha.  Their language was in vibrations and imperviable tones.

            Sandra understood the gravity and opportunity at the same time. She instructed Martha to string a thread through all the webs around Great Tree and find her at the base where the mesquite nearly touched.  Sandra would take the end of Martha’s thread there.

            By the time Martha had finished her task, it was dark. All the spiders had retired for the night, but she did as she was told and found Sandra weaving a massive web at the base of Great Tree.

            Sandra tied off the end of the thread and asked Martha to help complete the work of the web and retire for the night.  Sandra would transmit instructions in the morning to all their kind.

            As the first rays of light rose in the East, spiders were taking their places in their webs. Sandra waited until they had all settled in and played her message on the strand of silken thread that touched all the webs.

#

Martha had gone to check on the progress of the ticks.  They were close.  In an hour, they would be at Great Tree.  A sense of impending doom washed over her as she scurried back to report to Sandra.

            Sandra didn’t appear to be the least bit perplexed over the invasion coming.  She instructed Martha to fix a pot of tea and bring it to her as she dangled near the bottom of her web that fully encompassed Great Tree. 

            The swarm of ticks approached.  A fat bulging tick lead the horde.  He leaped from a bush and landed on the web below Sandra. 

            Would you care for some tea? Sandra strummed.

            The tick bared his fishhook like barbs in his hypostome. 

            From Martha’s assigned place, her heart nearly stopped at the site of the tick’s show of ferocity and the horde behind him lining up to leap upon Sandra.  Martha could practically feel the chelicerae cutting into her flesh, the barbs hooking on, and the life essence being sucked from her body.  Only her trust in Sandra kept her from fleeing.

            Sandra took a sip of her tea.  Very well, bring it on!  She plucked a tune on her web and scurried to the top of it.

            Martha waited as instructed until the ticks had saturated the web all around Great Tree.  The base of the tree was a black writhing mess as the ticks tangled up in the webbing.

            Stuck to the sticky strand, the fat tick was buried in the horde.  Too bad, Sandra had her heart set on that one.  But the nearest would do.

            Sandra struck with lightning speed. Injecting the nearest tick to approach her with her venom.  It instantly paralyzed.  Martha and the rest of the spiders took the cue and dropped from the limbs above onto the ticks rendering them immobile one after another. 

            The ticks were frustrated with spiders all over their backsides, and although they outnumbered the spiders three to one the ticks quickly succumbed to the spider’s poison. Not a spider was lost to the hoard.

             After wrapping the hideous little tick creatures in sticky silk, the spiders carried them off and deposited them in their webs surrounding Great Tree.

            Sandra called for a holiday.  Tonight, they would all drink tea and feast together.

PNWA Conference September 2019

I signed up for the Pacific Northwest Writers Association Conference held in Sea-Tac, Wa. Four days of whirlwind talks and workshops. For me, it was a rough go. Just to get this off my chest, I'm recuperating from cancer and boy, do I tire out quickly. I had to go to the car and nap a couple of times. That means, I missed some of the conference that I didn't want too. But it was either that or fall out of my chair and really cause a ruckus.


There were hundreds of attendees at the conference. If I were to guess, I would say that the gray-haired set of attendees outnumbered the youngsters by two to one. It was a unique experience for me. All we writers are not in competition, at least not directly. We all have different ways of telling our tales, be they fiction or not. And dozens and dozens of people were doing memoirs. I have some memoir work done, but with my memory - might be a bit of embellishment in there too.


Everyone was friendly. With the craft of writing as the common denominator, we could sit down at any open seat at any table and become fast friends in ten minutes talking about our stories. We would go off and lunch together, find other particular threads of people we know in in the world and perhaps find spouses for our wayward children. Hey, can always hope.


Let's talk about expense. All tallied, it cost me a little change over a thousand bucks. That took in registration, parking, gas, bridge tolls, food, hotel stay and materials bought on site. Here is the big question? Was it worth it?


My immediate take away is no. However, there is a caveat. I did get to pitch to one agent that said to send him my book. Two others politely told me to go pound sand. But there were a dozen agents and acquisition editors there that might have been interested had I been able to talk to them. The lines were long and plentiful. The pitch block - too short. Frankly, the meat of the conference is the pitch blocks. At least for me. I didn't want to spend another three hundred dollars to tout my work to, what - maybe three to six more people. I know, I know, one sell and that would make it all worthwhile. Otherwise, I didn't hear anything said by the speakers that I hadn't already read in how-to books even though the telling of their methods of writing was mostly entertaining.


Where would the point break be for me on cost? I'd say half of what I spent.


Another positive aspect of attending was that two of my friends from my writer's group were there. They both had attended this PNWA get together multiple times. They took me under their wing or dragged me around by my ear, if you will, that made the whole of the conference much more fun for me than it would have been otherwise.


My friends have clued me in on some smaller venues and are less expensive and more personal. I think I might try some of those. PNWA, to my way of thinking, may have outgrown their space.

Rain - Flash Fiction

Miss by Wang Ling

Rain

By Emmett J Hall

“Sweetheart, it’s time.”

“Oh, I don’t know Mom.  I don’t think I’m ready,” Sue raised her wide eyes from the Harlequin Romance in her lap. She unwrapped her legs out from under her in the soft overstuffed chair, dogeared the book, and set it on the end table.  The clock showed 11:45.

Sue had hoped that reading would settle the butterflies in her stomach.  The book only helped a little.  Now it was time, her stomach felt like a gross of cocoons had dislodged their winged inhabitants, and they were bursting to get out.  

“Get your umbrella and jacket. The email said your rain will start at noon.  It will only be for an hour.”  Mom opened the closet and pulled her light fuchsia umbrella out along with a matching short jacket.

Sue took the jacket.  “Do I need to put jeans on?”

“No, Sweetie.  It’s a warm rain.  You’ll see. I remember my rain like it was yesterday.  Your father was such a brooder.  His rain was so thick I hardly could see him in the column. You’ve heard the story many times.  I’ll just let you go.” 

            Sue stood in the threshold of the townhouse facing the narrow alleyway.  The sky presented a pinkish-gray overcast high in the air as though the sun would burn it off any minute from now.  No dark threatening, moisture-laden clouds showed. 

            One step into the alley, Sue felt a drop hit her shoulder.  She snapped open her umbrella and raised it over her head.  The heavens opened, and a gentle rain fell straight in the windless alley.  Did it matter if she just kept walking or if she ducked between two buildings and took another path?  Would her soulmate still find her?  Suspecting he would, with her heart pounding, she didn’t vary and kept walking.     

~~~

Tim twisted his wrist, pulled back the sleeve to his dark leather jacket to see his watch.  11:58. He leaned his scooter against a light pole at the end of the alley that the email directed him to go to and withdrew his umbrella from the box perched on the end of his seat and pushed it open.

The instant he raised the rain-guard over his head, the rain began.  Tim was a long way down the alley before realizing he hadn’t taken his helmet and goggles off.  He meant to leave them in the box, but he spent so much time as a messenger on his scooter the protections were like a normal part of him.  Then again, he had to admit he might be a bit nervous. 

Rationally, he knew he didn’t have all that much to be jittery about.  He was studious, only two months from graduating with his Finance degree, had a job lined up to replace his part-time messenger job.  Tim considered himself good-looking if a person could get the headgear off him.  His mom accused him of showering with it on.  He took the jabbing with good spirits, although he admitted leaving life on a scooter behind didn’t bother him in the least. 

The most important chapter of his life had come.  The rain.  There was no surprise when the email came.  He expected it.  The perfect mate, a life partner to shoulder the rest of life with, was out here.  It was all a bit heady, like waiting for Christmas, knowing it was months ahead then suddenly the day was upon him.  Had he done all he could do to be ready?  He thought so, but then what could he have forgotten.  Doubt crowded out the moment.

The rain stopped.  Tim lowered his umbrella and looked up at the high overcast.  This can’t be good.  Had he, in one beat of his heart, become unworthy.  Was he letting his doubts slid him down a dark path unworthy of the perfect woman?  Way down the alley, he could see a column of rain slowly working its way toward him. 

It had to be her.  Oh, my gosh.  What am I to do?  Would she accept me without my rain? I will soon find out.  Tim couldn’t let the moment pass.  As much as he felt like turning and running back to his scooter.  He needed this woman.  She was the part of him that was to be the best part of him.  He prepared himself to be the best of husbands.  The girl deserved the best, and he was ready to be just that. 

“Here goes,” Tim muttered to himself.  He raised the umbrella again as he stepped down the alley, the rain fell on him.

Tim glanced up in his googles and whispered, “Thank you.”  All it took was for him to get over himself and think of his approaching love.

~~~

The young pair, the slender scooter boy, and the thin romance reader met in the center of the alley and stopped.

The rain merged. 

Sue said, “Hello.”

Tim said, “Hello.”

The End

Together - short story

Together

The tide retreated slowly as a high far out to sea pushed a cumulation of moisture-laden clouds into shore.  Such weather patterns were not uncommon in the northern climes of Maine in August.  The Sun had beat down on the providence for the past three weeks, baking everything it touched with ninety-degree temperatures.  Surprisingly, the only respite was the low humidity despite the coastline of the Atlantic Ocean a scant half-mile away. Nevertheless, everyone wore bonnets and hats or sported umbrellas on their shoulders if they needed to depart the protection of shade. 

            Jane and Martha met at the corner where an occasional customer entered or left Myers Bakery.  A youngster with a dark green welder’s cap pulled down to his eyebrows sat in the wide-open window and waved a massive bamboo fan that his thin arms could hardly manage, to force the cooling air from outside into the store.  Yesterday, the boy waved the fan the other way.

            Martha and Jane embraced without a word.  Pulling apart, Jane spoke first.  “We both are wearing the same apron today.”

            “You, silly goose.  You know I only have two aprons, and they’re both the same.”

            “I did.  Let’s go down to the water and enjoy this cooling spell for a while,” Martha said.

Jane’s bright blue eye’s sparkled.  “Nice to leave the bonnet at home.  I especially like your fiery red hair, so much like moms.  I got dads mousy brown.”

“Listen to you talk.  You don’t have to keep this unruly hair in place.  Your hair goes right where you put it and stays there.”

“Well, maybe.  But we both got grandma’s heftiness.” Martha said.  They laughed and stepped up the two grayed wooden planks into the bakery.

            “Let’s get a buttered bagel to eat on the way,” Jane said.

            “Mr. Myers, how are you this fine day?”  Jane asked the tall thin man behind a glass counter displaying croissants, a variety of loaves, and a basket of bagels with the accompanying aroma of bread.  He had a long-hooked nose that turned sharply to the left that was doubtful he was born with.  A quarter-inch wide pinkish scar ran from the start of his eyebrow, between the base of his nose and left eye before curving out to the middle of his cheek providing a town mystery.  He never talked about it. Guesses fell to rumors.  Jane figured he most likely got it when he was a cook on whaling ships.  A bar fight didn’t fit his demeanor. Yet, one never knew for sure of one’s past.

            “Good morning, Ladies.  I am well. How are the sisters?”

 “We are in fine shape today.”

“What may I get for you today?”

            A single bagel ordered and buttered.  Jane with half the bread in the right hand and Martha with her portion in the left hand, they threaded their way arm in arm through the dusty narrow walkway between Clemens Feed store and the dark, brooding cobbler that hunched over his sewing machine all day.  Jane made Steven go to the cobbler whenever there was a need to stitch a harness or re-sole a shoe.

            The heat had baked the mud of wagon tracks into concrete.  The ruts crisscrossed in the narrow road that led to the rocky beach and the town five miles away, where a port harbored whalers and merchant ships in a natural deep-water bay.  The sisters chatted as they walked along in the short brown grass to the side of the road.

            They passed a field of bright red bricks.  “Hi, Mr. Anderson,” They called out and waved in unison.

            He waved back and returned to stacking bricks on a flat cart.

            “I’ll bet he’s been making the most of this heat to dry his bricks,” Martha said.

            “Oh, I’m happy for him.  I heard he got a commission to supply the brick for the schoolhouse addition.”

            “That’s wonderful.  Mr. Anderson does make lovely bricks.”

            Jane’s eye’s widened.  “Isn’t that Mr. McFarland up ahead?”

            “Why, yes, it is.  Seems he has broken a wheel.”  When they got alongside. “Mr. McFarland, do you need a hand? I see you have a cart full of produce.”

            “Yes, indeed.  It would be most appreciated if you two lovelies could set this new wheel on the axel when I lever the side.”  McFarland was of average height and worked as the middle man between the farmers market at the harbor and the outlying providences. “The heats been a terror on my produce this past month, it has indeed.  I welcome this cool spell.  It’d be nice if it rained a bit.”

            Jane immediately grabbed one side of the whole wheel, propped up alongside the yoke. “Martha?”

            “Certainly, my dear.  It looked as though you wanted to do the task all by yourself.  You do realize I need to pull the broken wheel off before we can set the new one.”

            “Jane’s eye’s narrowed.  “Of course, I knew that.”

            Mr. McFarland jammed a thick branch between the bed of the wagon and a dark, greenish stained barrel no more than a foot and a half across and readied himself to lift the cart.

            “Mr. McFarland,” Martha asked, “will the barrel hold the weight?”

            “Yea, Lass.  It’s fire-hardened oak of pickled herring.  Are you ready?”

            “Yes, lift,” McFarland grunted and rose the wagon to level.  Martha jerked the remains of the old wheel off and let it drop to the roadbed with a resounding thunk.

            Jane stood up the new wheel straight, and Martha took hold of the rim, and a spoke, and they lifted together.  “This a bit heavier when whole,” Martha remarked.

            “Ah, this ought not to bother you with all the oats you beat down into meal.”

            “Different muscles.”  The sisters hung the center of the wheel on the axel and wiggled it into place.

            After spinning the on the axel nut, McFarland slipped the locking pin through a hole in the axel and bent the ends over.  “You two are right handy gals to have around.  I’m thinkin’ your husbands are right proud of you two.  Thank you for your timely assistance.”  His mouth twisted into a lopsided grin. “Help yourself to whatever you’d like from my cart.”

            Martha moved to the back of the cart and slipped on the edge of a rut and almost fell.  Jane clamped her by the elbow and kept her steady.

            “Thank you,” Martha said.

            The cart was replete with all sorts of edibles. Bushels of lettuce, cabbage, and potatoes lined one side.  On the other were apples in reds, yellows, and greens.  Down the middle were closed barrels.  McFarland was hiking the one he used to fix the cart back up into the row.

            “Jane, look.  I’ve never seen an apple so yellow as these.”

            “Neither have I.  Mr. McFarland, what kind of apples are these?”

            “Those there apples are wonderful.  They’re called Golden Delicious. Quite a handful one of them is.  Try em out.”  McFarland pulled two of the largest, blemish-free apples and handed one to each of the sisters.

            By the time, Jane and Martha reached the rocky shoreline, they had finished their fruit and tossed the cores into a patch of wilting reeds.

            “Mr. McFarland is right.  Those are going to be popular.  I don’t think I’ve ever had a sweeter apple,” Jane said.

            “I agree.  Let’s see if he left any at the General store when we get back.”  The light breeze picked up its pace and threatened to toss Martha’s hair under her faded ribbon.  “Let’s sit here on the giant’s teeth for a while before we go back.”

            “Splendid idea.”  They sat.  “Where do you suppose the giant’s teeth name came from?

            “I don’t know.  I supposed it was because this short wall of rock looks like teeth.”

            Jane sat quietly as did Martha.  The sisters occasionally laughed when some boy tried to grab something out of a tide pool and jumped back with a yelp as though there was a shark in residence.

            Martha noticed the fellow first.  “Jane, look over there.”

            Jane turned her head and cocked it to the side.  “Isn’t that Mr. Homer?  What’s he doing?”

            “That stand he’s sitting at is an easel.  He keeps looking our way.”

            “Oh, I didn’t know he was a painter.  Do you suppose he’s painting us?”
            Martha stood.  “I don’t know.  Let’s go see.” 

            

Looking Out to Sea by Winslow Homer

Innocence - Flash Fiction

                                                            Innocence

The instruction came to her in a dream. In four days, she had to be at the pinnacle of her building at midnight on the fourth day of the fourth month in her fourth year.

At supper, Celeste without qualm announces her dream to Mom and Dad.

Mom made a furtive glance at Dad.

“Remember, we agreed,” Dad said.

"Mom, Dad. What is the highest part of our building? That is the pinnacle, right? Jimmy said because they put a cell tower on theirs, it made them taller than us. When will they set a tower on ours?"

"Yes, Sweetheart. Pinnacle is the tip-top of any structure, the building, a mountain, or anything else. I'm not sure about the tallest spot for our building, Honey," Dad said, "but I think it's the middle air-conditioning unit. It feeds all the common areas like the hallways, recreation room, and lobby,"

Mom grinned. "I think Jimmy's building has always been taller anyway. They wouldn't put a tower on us because other skyscrapers are much more suited to their purpose than ours."

"Oh, okay," Celeste said. The time came to ask. “Mom, will you take me to the roof in four days?” The roof at night was no strange place to her. Mom had taken her up there a few times after dark to explain the absence of stars were due to light pollution from the vast city stretching for miles around. Celeste accepted mom's explanation and wasn't sure what she was to expect at midnight on the appointed night.

Dad nodded.

“Alright, Honey. I’ll take you up. You have set an alarm and wake me. I can tell you we are not climbing on the air conditioner.” Mom said.

The final declaration of mom’s agreement bothered her. The dream was explicit. Go to the pinnacle. “Thank you, Mom.”

#

The next day, Celeste snuck up to the roof to double-check for the pinnacle. The air conditioner was much too tall for her. Getting onto the unit worried her. There appeared to be no way to scale the tall sides. Hopefully, Mom will relent and figure a way to get up there. On heading back to the access door to the roof, she realized it looked taller than the air conditioner as it jutted up from the smooth rubberized roof.

Circling the access, she found a sloping ladder affixed to the back, heading up to the top. If she were to go to the tallest part, then the creator of the dream would provide a means for her to do so. Celeste accepted the ladder as divine providence. 

On the third day, with two days to go, Mom pushed through the access door and stepped out on the roof with Celeste.

“Over here.” Celeste lead Mom around to the back of the access.

“You think this is the highest spot?” Mom asked.

“I think so. Look at it, isn’t it higher than the air conditioner?”

Mom studied the two and decided. “You’re right. It is.” 

Sleep eluded Celeste as she lay awake, waiting for 11:45 to come. She was a special little girl; mom and dad told her so, they never talked baby talk to her. They conversed with her like an adult. They explained things she wondered about and much she had not. She had not doubted for an instant that Mom or Dad would not have permitted her to go to the roof at the designated time. They had always promised they would listen to her.

She understood those things; she had been reading chapter books since the age of 3 and got the gist of the concepts the authors tried to convey. Celeste heard her dad tell a neighbor one day she was a twenty-year-old trapped in a four-year-old body. 

Celeste climbed out of bed and tip-toed out the door and headed down the hall and tapped on Mom and Dad’s bedroom door. “Be right there.” Mom emerged from the bedroom fully dressed. “Let’s go.”

Mom waited at the bottom of the ladder as Celeste gained the roof of the access. The sky appeared the same as she had seen before, dark with a few sparkles. “Stay in the middle.” Mom instructed as she made no move to climb.

“Okay, Mom.”

In the distance, a clock tower began to chime. The sky lit up in bright blue specks of light blending in with the city lights. A lovely cloud of pale blues and purples with dashes of red presented a heavenly scene.

Celeste satisfied God had called her up at this time to be a witness. In the light gray-violets of the cloud, he appeared. 

The little girl, Celeste, could not have been more pleased to learn God was a Bunny Rabbit.

Lisa Falzon - Kissed by starlight

BROWNIE - Flash Fiction

Sunlight Effect Under the Poplars by Claude Monet.

BROWNIE

            “Brutus, our black Lab, found some baby rabbits, Madam,” Katy said.

            “Oh, no.  He didn’t harm the rabbits, did he?  Brutus is such a large dog.”  Victoria put three fingers to her chin.  She hoped the little bunnies were all right.

            “No, Mam.  He brought one to the pantry door in his mouth but was gentle with it.  I put on a fresh pair of neoprene gloves to handle it.  You know there are bacteria on human hands that will sicken and kill baby rabbits if handled before they’re are weaned.”

            “I didn’t know.  We don’t have much wildlife in the city.  That’s why I enjoy coming out to Uncle’s plantation in July.  The last time I was here, I saw a fox.  What did you do with the poor little creature?  I bet its mother is missing it.”

            “I put it in a freshly washed pan.  I saw Brutus hopping around in the field by the Poplars.  He was digging in the wildflowers in the tobacco field Mr. Warren put to rest after last season.”

            “May I see it?”  Victoria asked.

            “Certainly, Ms. Victoria.  I knew you would ask.”

            “Call me, Vicky.  Lead the way.”  Victoria followed Katy through the kitchen and the butler’s pantry to the back door.  On a wooden bench on the back stoop, a silver pan sat with a tiny brown rabbit with white paws and a white tummy.

            Victoria wanted to pick it up but remembered about human hands being harmful to newborn rabbits.  “It is so cute. Can we return it to its nest, hole, or whatever it’s called, home?”

            “Yes, I think I can find it,” Katy affirmed.  “Best bring your umbrella, the sun is nearing noon, and the temperature is already near eighty.”

            “Oh, yes.  I’ll change into a white dress, too.  I would love to see all the baby rabbits.” 

            Brutus followed Victoria and Katy into the field.  Katy set the pan down in the shade of the Poplars.  Victoria and Katy began searching.  Brutus ran and leaped through the flowers. 

            Victoria saw a dark shape jump up and run by Brutus, who immediately took up the chase.

            Katy ran over to where the large rabbit charged by Brutus, searched around a bit and knelt.  “Over here,” she called out to Victoria.  “Bring the baby over.” Katy held another bunny up for Victoria to see.

             Victoria clutched the pan with the little rabbit and strolled over to Katy, keeping the baby in the shade of her umbrella.  “Here’s Brownie.”

            Katy grinned.  “You gave it a name?  You know, if it survives, you’ll never see it again.”

            “That’s alright.  It’s so cute.  It deserves a name.”  Victoria defended herself.

            “No problem, Madam, Vicky.  I think that’s endearing.”

#

            Overhead the sky was gray and threatening to rain.  The driveway was damp from rain through the night when Victoria parked her car.  It had been almost four months since last she visited her Uncle’s.  As she approached the steps to the double-entry doors, a large rabbit, brown with white feet dashed across her path, stopped, sat up showing its white tummy and looked at her.  Then dived into the junipers on the side of the mansion entry. 

Victoria’s heart leaped in her chest, and she grinned. Before she knew it, Brutus dived into the bushes.  Victoria gasped.  In a flash, three bunnies chased Brutus out of the bushes and across the drive.  The rabbit, brown with the white feet stopped again, and Victoria would swear he waved at her as he raised his paw in the air before taking off after the others.

            She watched Brutus dodge and weave across the field toward the Poplars as the three rabbits played with him.  She headed into the foyer.  Katy has to know what she just saw.   Brownie lived.

The End

First Snow - Flash Fiction

Picture is "December" by Zoe Persico and can be found on her website at http://www.zoepersico.com/Illustrations

First Snow

            My recliner is by the front window.  I was in it reading a great book by Samantha Bryant when I noticed dime sized snowflakes danced their way to the ground in the porch light.  It was about nine PM. 

            I dog eared my place in the book, sorry Sam, and reached up and turned off the reading lamp.  In the flickering flame of the gas-powered fireplace, I pushed back on the soft cushions to enjoy the snowfall.  Already it was beginning to accumulate.  I muttered, “Well, well, looks like we are going to get that white Christmas after all.”  The weatherman had been teasing us with the forecast of snow for the past three weeks with no results.

            I snapped the recliner closed and retrieved my camera from the charging cord on my desk.  After I flicked off the porch light, I opened the door and popped a shot of the snow.  The auto-flash went off and lit the flakes brilliantly.  I laughed.  On viewing the picture, it looked like my great-granddaughter had scribbled on black construction paper with a white crayon.  I kept the shot; come summer, no one would be able to guess what it was.  I turned off the flash, opened the f-stop, and took another picture.  Perfect.

            I turned off the fireplace and went to bed.

            Oh my, it was chilly in the house the next morning.  I pulled the covers up to my chin, stirring up Davy, my nine-pound Havanese stretched out along my side.  He is genuinely the Velcro dog the bred is reported to be.  He decided it was time to play and nipped at my hand and jumped on my chest, sticking his nose in my face.  Maybe he thinks halitosis is a treat source.

            Davy stirred me up enough to climb out of bed.  I immediately hit the bathroom heater switch and took care of the three S’s.  Donning a pair of sweat pants, a T-shirt and socks, I headed downstairs and let Davy out.  It was pre-dawn, but the snow lit up the surrounding area.  One leap off the porch, Davy in his white coat disappeared into the two-feet of snow on the ground.  Like a dolphin at Sea World, he appeared then went invisible again, twice more until he made his way over to the bare ground behind the Laurel hedge next to the house to do his duty. 

            I called him in.  Davy leaped to the porch and plowed through the lighter accumulation to get inside.  He gave a vigorous shake to clear his long hair and started dancing around on his hind legs.  I gave him his reward from the treat jar.  He dashed off to the living room to eat it.

            By the time, I finish fixing my oatmeal, the sun peeked over a distant hill of our gated community where the plots are planned to provide optimum use for the family and preserve the natural landscape.  I was one of the first to build there.  At first, I was a bit miffed when the house on the hilltop next door went up.  It didn’t spoil the view as much as I thought it would, although I put a lot of effort into clearing thirty trees on that side of the lot to enhance the countryside view.

            I dumped a cup of diced peaches in my oatmeal and headed back to my recliner to turn on Fox News.  It was interesting to see what was going on in the alternative universe.  

            I heard a squeal. I turned off the television and directed my attention to the house next door.  Kids were piling out in their winter gear.  Their dad, Mr. Evans, had pulled out their sleds and snow disc last week in anticipation of last night.

            The kids took no delay in putting them to good use as they furrowed through the snow on their toys and slogged back to the top to do it again.  Their young Irish-setter made his way down the hill after them popping out of the snow like a salmon climbing a dam ladder.  I could see he was a smart pup.  At the bottom of the hill, he got into a track one of the kids made and worked his way back up the hill without having to break his back.  The kids at the top, ready to slide down the slope again were exasperated with him waving their arms and yelling for him to get out of the way.  Of course, he didn’t get out of the way until he reached the top.

            One girl took off, and the setter followed sliding on his belly behind her all the way to the bottom.  I wish I’d had my camera out for that one.  That was it for him.  After climbing back up to the house again, he dashed over and scratched at the door.  Mrs. Evans let him in.

            The kids were hardier and played all morning.  I remembered when my kids played on the same hill, and years later, their kids came up from the city and did the same.  Now the Evans owned the hill, and I’m glad for it.

            What can I say, the first snow is the best time of winter.

FEED - Flash Fiction

Picture by Tracy Dinnison

Feed

“Sweetheart, you do cut a dashing figure in that suit.  Of course, I told you that when you put it on in the room on the first day of the convention.”  Sybil dangled a cigarette in her fingers, not looking at Ralph as she spoke.

“You look mighty fetching yourself, my dear. Honey, you have to put the thing to your lips for me to light it for you.”

“I know.  I know.  Isn’t that Mr. Peterson, the convention organizer in the window seat? “

Ralph turned his head.  “Yes, it is.  He’s with Mr. Brunt, the English scientist that came up with all this nonsense.”

“I don’t know about that.  He made a compelling case for the hybrids in that last lecture.”  She sipped her martini.  “Tomorrow is the last half-day for the convention, right?”

“Yes.  Pricing and financial options will be laid out.  I don’t know.  This genetic stuff sounds pretty heady to me.”  Ralph caught the eye of Peterson and Brunt, raise his glass in a mock salute and sipped.

The pair raised their beers in return and went back to talking.

“Listen, Ralph.  I want you to be open minded. Even if what they offer is a quarter more expensive, we would come out ahead.  Not only us  but the whole cooperative.”

#

Sibel waited in the back of the hotel after putting their bags in the twenty-foot flatbed trailer.  She had put on her ankle length lightweight all wool flannel in maize with a leatherette belt cinching tight her eight sized waists.  It was a new outfit.  Although she called it an ensemble, it only came with a matching scarf.

Ralph came down the steps out the rear of the hotel clipping a strap of his green bib coveralls and tossed a bundle in with the bags.  “Thanks for leaving me a change of clothes.”

“Your welcome.  How did it go?”

“I bought a thousand bags for the cooperative, Bermudagrass Hay, Alfalfa and Ryegrass.  Manage to get the price down to only ten percent over normal pricing. I told them if it works out the coop will endorse them for the rest of the country next year. I feel pretty good about it.  I hope it’s as insect, blight, and mold resistant as they say.  We’ll save most of the crop this next year.  A lot of ranchers lost stock because the cooperative ran out of good feed.”

Sibel nodded and climbed up on the running board and grabbed the seat rung.  “Okay then, let’s go home and let the folks know.”

Ralph climbed up on the tall International and toed the starter button and the big diesel came to life.  He let it idle a bit and slowly closed the compression relief and levered off the hand brake and pulled down the throttle lever under the steering wheel.  The big tractor eased out on the road and accelerated up to 20 miles-per-hour.  People followed closely until they cleared the town.  Then six cars roared by.

Sibel shouted over the tapping of the engine, “We coming back next year to the Stock Feed Convention?”

“Yep, Sweetheart.  I reckon we will.”

A Case for Writers Groups

Last night a friend brought by his critique of my first novel beta read. He has excellent insights and a quick mind. He liked my book. Ha… I knew I liked him for a good reason. I'll call him Ralph for the sake of privacy.

Ralph is a relatively new member to the local writing group. I joined the group a little over three years ago. We talked for several hours about our work. I appreciated his coming by as I'm still recovering from surgery and haven't been able to attend my group meetings for the past six weeks.

Frankly, I was a bit surprised to see Ralph with my book. He hadn't been to a meeting for several months, and that isn't surprising as people come and go. They try us out and disappear. They come for a few months and disappear, some forever and some pop back up from time to time. I told him I had missed him at the meeting because his input has always been well spoken.

Ralph said he was working on his book and wanted to submit it for beta read when he finished it. Then he asked me, how much of a contribution would I ascribe to the group for the completion of my novel. I told him that the book I wrote wouldn't have been the book it is. That it would have been relegated to the heaping pile of horrible first novels that everyone says has to be thrown away. He was surprised to hear that with his thinking I was just that good. Don't I wish.

Local writers groups are priceless for many reasons as I see it. Here are a few:

1. A writing group is suitable for any level of writing skill. There are several in my group that have two or three books completed and are shopping for agents. There is one published author. We have beginners and advanced writers. We have pantsers and plotters. We have grammar police people and not so much so.

2. Having an advanced college degree does not necessarily a writer make. Hey, in the business world with a few exceptions, it's a truncated communications foray. Writing, especially in the world of email and memos, writing based on substance and way less so on the way it's written. I never had a boss send back a memo with red ink on it and tell me as soon as I clean up the commas, sentence fragments, and sentence splices, I can have the money for the parts needed to move the assembly line along. I'm not saying we shouldn't write clearly. We just write abbreviated.

When we get into a writers group. Oh my gosh, are bad habits hard to break. The writing group members, in a loving way, will let you know just what those bad writing habits are. And some people will tell you in no uncertain terms what to do to correct yourself. Thank goodness, I'm an old retired Navy Chief with a skin of barnacles when I presented my first short story to them. I had no idea that I had written such a great story so poorly.

3. Friendships are made. It can't be helped. Even with seeing each other once or twice a month we become close having writing as our baseline. We all write in different genres and even going through the critiquing process for material we'd usually never read gives us an appreciation of other styles.

Okay, people are people. Not everyone has a smooth presentation of their critique and could be a bit hurtful. Well - okay, some have been. Some people lose sight of the story and lay on the writer the onus of what was written. Generally, it's a ground rule that we critique the work and not the writer. I was asked not to come back to a group because I used the N-word for Black-Americans in my book set in 1936 and I only used it once in context. I was in two writers groups. The writers group that asked me not to come back had an average age a couple decades below the other group I've been in for three years. That's okay though, Spring came and they all melted.

We have had members suffer heart attacks (not because of critiques, I don't think), strokes, cancer, and deaths of family members. We've visited them in the hospital, taken casseroles to their homes and otherwise done what we could to extend comfort to them. Why? Because we are all friends.

4. To the meat of writers groups for good writing. Many eyes. I've moved chapters around because of the input from the group that I didn't see. I've changed POV's, fixed timelines and plot holes that I didn't notice. I've added story elements that I didn't think of, all because of the input from the writers group. No man or woman is an island - somebody said something like that. I added woman for modern day political correctness. Point is, my book is a product of synergy that came about from the writers group that I could never have accomplished on my own.

After relaying these thoughts to Ralph, he is rethinking his attendance. We all want to put out a readable and enjoyable writing people will like. I recommend joining a local writers group regardless of your writing skill level.