Tag Archives: Creative Writing

Photo by Neepster from Phoenix, USA.

Part One of this story.

Sleep found Daphne in skittish catnaps when night fell. She woke up the next morning with a stiff knee and sore shoulder from racing up the hill and sleeping on a cold, hard surface but Lemon seemed no worse for the wear.

The desert had slurped up all but a few muddy patches of yesterday’s flood so Daphne packed up the blanket began her short walk home. The red-headed stranger was nowhere to be seen but she walked slowly past the tree that had sheltered him hoping to find clues about his identity.

There were none.

By the time Daphne limped up to her small, adobe shack she had created and discarded half a dozen theories about the strange’s man history:

• He was looking for a husband or wife. With such low population densities it was easy to be related to everyone in your community. Some folks married a first or second cousin, others visited nearby towns in the hope of meeting someone from a new family.
• Arizona was finally reintroducing their state government and this politician (?) was travelling around to spread the good news. Daphne hadn’t been born yet when the old one disbanded but her grandfather had vivid memories of what life had been like back then. 
• A distant community wanted to set up a trade route. What, exactly, either side could afford to trade was something Daphne hadn’t figured out yet. No one was as hungry as they had been when Daphne was a girl but there still wasn’t a surplus of food in any house.

“Glad to see you’re still alive,” came a husky, droll voice from the entrance of Daphne’s adobe hut. “I was beginning to think I’d lost my least bothersome neighbour.” Nevaeh stood in the shadows, her sunhat pushed back from her brow. She was a tall, angular woman in her early 40s whose short, thin, curly black hair stood nearly on end.

“It’s good to see you, too,” Daphne replied. She hesitated for a moment before telling Neveah the story of the flash flood and the stranger she’d seen fall into the water.

“No, can’t say that I’ve heard of any strangers in these parts,” Neveah said, taking off her hat and scratching her temples. “MacArthur lost a few sheep to that damn flood and no one has heard from the Reeds yet but everyone else muddled through it ok. Your fields are looking healthy, too. You lost a few seedlings but you should still have a good harvest. I checked them this morning before starting my rounds.”

Daphne had expected as much. No one and nothing passed through the valley without Neveah’s approval. At times her strict attention to every jot and tittle of daily life was a little overbearing but Daphne was grateful to hear that she’d still have something to eat over the long, hot summer.

“Have you heard from your daughter yet?” Daphne asked. Neveah’s only living child had settled down to raise her children a few miles away from her mother.

“No, I was planning to visit her next.  Would you like to come with me and sit a spell? No one knows how to soothe that fractious baby of hers like you do.” Daphne rubbed her sore knee and declined. What she really needed was a hot meal and long nap.

The next two days passed uneventfully as Daphne’s knee healed. For a time it was all she could accomplish to weed and irrigate her nearest garden. Lemon wasn’t used to spending so much time at the house and had grown as restless as his human by the time she was feeling well enough to walk any further than necessary. He soon began flushing rabbits out of the underbrush and chasing them around while Daphne napped. She didn’t like it when he startled her furry, little friends but both Daphne and Lemon knew that he wouldn’t know what to do with a rabbit even if he ever managed to catch one.

The small house that improbably housed Delphine, her husband, their three children and several thin dogs was bustling with activity when Daphne arrived on a warm afternoon. MacArthur Everson was cursing up a storm as he described how the flood swept away three pregnant ewes  before he could do a damned thing about it. 

“How in the hell am I going to feed my family this summer when half of my breeding stock is gone?” he asked with a sour grimace. “A man can’t live on vegetables and nuts alone.”

Daphne smiled. MacArthur had grown to adulthood in one of those rare pauses between droughts and had never quite adjusted to the idea that sheep were more valuable as a renewable source of wool and milk than as a few hearty meals. Old or sick sheep might be slaughtered but none of his neighbours tasted meat more than a few times a year. It was simply too wasteful to consider any other option.

As she lifted her head Daphne noticed Sean Reed walking up the path carrying a soggy satchel. They lived on opposite sides of the valley and rarely spoke to one another. A young, extroverted man who spent all of his free time organizing community events and had never cared to learn how to read or write didn’t have much in common with a quiet, literate woman who preferred to keep to herself. Sean’s boots were muddy and his face was grim.

“I found a body,” he said. “but he wasn’t one of us.” Immediately the buzz in the room ended.

“Was he thin, pale and red-headed?” Daphne asked. Sean nodded and described how he’d had to dig a makeshift grave for what had once been a man. The corpse had been badly damaged in the flood and was in no condition to be examined for further clues even if their community still had a doctor. She explained her earlier encounter with the stranger briefly. No one else had experienced a similar event or heard anything about the stranger.

“Daphne, I was wondering if you could read his documents for us? Most of the words were washed away in the flood but I think there are a few sentences left.” Sean pulled a slim, waterlogged book out of the bag.

Daphne suspected that the person who had copied it had used a water-soluble ink.  Some of the words were terms she’d never heard of before but Daphne pronounced them to the best of her ability as she read aloud the bits and pieces of the book that had survived the flood:

…Your territory manual…

…Battle of Fort Evergreen…

…signed the Declaration of…Henderson, Nevada… 2212. Your assigned representative is..

Hemorrhagic hantavirus…If your community requires more doses of the vaccine contact Ma…

Tax collectors will begin…

As confused as Daphne was about how, exactly, a “vaccine” could reverse the course of a disease that even the gods feared she was even more intrigued by the last decipherable line:

For more information see our website…

 Next chapter.

Photo by Bernard Gagnon.

Daphne had never worried about drowning in the desert before and she wasn’t about to start now.

An old, familiar ache in her left knee flickered back into life as she scrambled up the hill. Lemon scampered up inches ahead of her with a dull whine. The water frothed brown and kept rising.

She’d climbed as high as she could now. All that was left to do was keep Lemon away from the current and hope the flash flood didn’t sweep them away. Daphne wrapped her arms around her companion and struggled to slow her ragged breathing as the water uprooted a long-dead White Thorn Acacia with a sickening snap.

Lemon growled as the tree was slowly dragged away. She stroked his damp, yellow fur and thanked the gods he was so good at following commands quickly in an emergency. Six hours ago ago he’d been napping lazily in the shade as she irrigated one of her gardens.  Three hours ago they’d huddled in a cave as an unexpected thunderstorm dumped several inches of water onto the desert. Now they shivered in the anemic winter sunlight as the temporary river rose.

Daphne opened her pack and examined its contents: two flasks of lukewarm water, a  wool blanket, a spade, one serving of Arizona walnuts, a sharp knife, and a tinderbox. Without a safe place to light a fire or enough flammable materials to sustain it sharing the blanket with Lemon would have to do if it wasn’t safe to return home by nightfall. As much as she missed her sons Daphne was grateful they were old enough to look after themselves now. They were no doubt better off up in the mountains than they would have been had they stayed in the valley with her this winter.

A flash of unexpected color drew Daphne out of her thoughts. She could just make out a pale, gaunt, red-headed man clinging to a tree about three hundred feet away. He pushed his hat up and offered a weak wave. Daphne waved back, briefly wondering who the stranger was and what he had been doing in her valley. She’d lived in and around the Mingus Mountain area since early childhood and knew every one of the 204 men, women and children that eked out a living there. None of them were redheads, very few were as ghostly white as this stranger and absolutely no one visited her valley without letting her know they were in the area! Had he been kin to anyone from her community she was certain they would have explained local customs to him if not brought him over themselves for a neighbourly visit.

Everyone knew Daphne liked a quiet, private life but she certainly knew how to entertain visitors! The gods knew they didn’t receive much news from the rest of the States these days. Severe droughts had lead to food shortages and limited the time and energy most folks had for walking or riding a horse into parts unknown. To tell the truth Daphne missed the way things had been when she was growing up. Not all of the visitors had been friendly, of course, but most of them were kind men and women who saw glimpses of a little daughter or sister left behind months ago in the shining eyes of the small girl who listened shyly to their stories about what life was like in South California, Nevada, or New Texas, or even (once) a mysterious place called Tennessee. Spending a few days with them before they journeyed on was a refreshing break from seeing the same faces over and over again.

The sun was slipping behind Mingus Mountain. Daphne noted with regret that while the flood was slowly soaking away it was still too deep for her to safely cross. She wished there was a way to share her food and blanket with the strange man who at this point was staring down at the water and wiggling his feet. His face was too small and far away for her to gauge what he was thinking but she hoped he knew enough about flash floods to stay put for now. Even if he knew how to swim the current could become unexpectedly deep and strong over uneven terrain and there was always the risk of being hit by debris.

Slowly but surely the man was climbing down the tree.

“No!” Daphne shouted. “It isn’t safe!” For a second he paused as if he’d heard her but then continued his descent.

“Stop!” she yelled. Either the canyon swallowed her warning or he chose to ignore it because in a few seconds his legs had disappeared into the muddy water and he was wading knee, waist, chest-deep across the newly-formed river. Daphne held her breath. The shadows were lengthening now and it was growing a little more difficult to see what was happening. Suddenly the man’s head bobbed underneath the water eliciting a small groan from Daphne and a whine from Lemon.

One one thousand. Two one thousand. Three one thousand. His head bobbed up again. Daphne hadn’t realized she was holding her breathe until she exhaled. He wasn’t a strong swimmer but at least he’d learned the basics somewhere. With such a severe drought going on most folks his age had never had the opportunity.  Twenty more feet of dog paddling and he should be safe. The man’s progress was slow but steady against the current.

A log slid around the river bend. Had it not been for her keen eye Daphne would never have seen something just a few shades darker than the water slipping up and down with the unforgiving current. As it was she noticed the danger just before the log slammed into the man’s head. Her stomach dropped as he sank into the water.

Four one thousand. Five one thousand. Six one thousand. He did not reemerge.

Next chapter.

A reader recently found this blog through this search phrase: life brings you? poem.

This is my answer to the question. Leave your version of this poem in the comment section. If you blog about it I’ll edit this post to include a link to your site.

Life brings you…

surprises. Some stories end too soon, others

are resolved just when you think it’s impossible

to squeeze in one more syllable on the page.

pain. It can be so sharp it takes your breath

away, so long-lasting you forget how it began.

But anyone who says it will never end is lying.

co-conspirators. You may find them right away

or gather a few at a time but the world is full of

kindred spirits. The lucky ones realize it early.

 Taxes. Need I explain more? 😉

The first snowstorm of the year had just ended.

In slushy, sloppy streets my sneakers squished 

through snow half-melted until tonight’s refreeze.

Tomorrow the sidewalk will reveal icy patches so

smooth and clear one misstep leads you to Oz.

Today the orange peels fly. One, two wavy sections

plop into the snow. The man in front of me tucks

wavy grey hair into a grey toque, his tan overcoat

flapping in the breeze as he throws out more peels.

It is only then I notice the scent of fresh oranges.

This poem came to me a few weeks ago as I was walking down the street behind a middle-aged man eating an orange and throwing peels over his shoulder.

I don’t know yet what this poem means. Sometimes I think it’s better if we don’t know what it is we’re writing although if you have an interpretation of it I’m all ears!

Photo by Reza Haji-pour

This is the story my mind told me the first time I saw this photograph. Feel free to share your own stories in the comments. 

Today was one of those exhausting, suffocatingly muggy August days that feels as if it will never end. As dusk unfolds slowly you slip down to the beach for a swim. The heat has leeched every sound from the world. Even the crickets are silent. You wonder why there are so many lights illuminating the bridge. A sudden gust of stale wind ripples over the water and the spell is ended as quickly as it began.

You’re suddenly aware of the creak of an old boat nearby. A quick tug and the rope anchoring it to shore falls away. The oar is surprisingly clammy for being exposed to such a warm night. You  briefly wonder what happened to its mate as you row to the bridge.

When you arrive at the nearest arch a small, wooden door warns, “authorized personnel only.” You enter anyways. As the door whispers shut you realize there is no alternative light source for this staircase . With one hand on each wall to steady your pace your feet count seventeen steps to the top. The light is too bright. It hurts at first.

Once your eyes have adjusted you notice a glass of iced tea, a small loaf of homemade sourdough bread and a plate drizzled with olive oil sitting on one side of the room. The bread is still warm. There is no one else there and no other exit through which someone could have slipped. As you hear the distant rush of cars travelling through the bridge you sit down and start eating. Either you’ll figure out this mystery or you won’t. Either way warm, homemade bread should never be wasted.

Photo by Cgs.

I love the anthropomorphism in this photograph.

What is this jar thinking?

Ahead of it lies a dimly lit sidewalk, a few splashes of green hunkering down on either side of the path.

In the summer this would be a cool, delicious walk on a humid day. In the winter, though, the icy shadows and curled tendrils of dead or sleeping plants would make the same journey feel far more isolating.

Now this is where things get interesting: the jar isn’t looking at the path ahead. It cannot see what’s down there without hopping past the mirror.

What the jar can see is itself dappled with sunlight. It can see another section of the path and  behind it the beginning of what looks to be a gorgeous little garden. It’s no more or less shaded than the rest of the path but somehow having several plants huddled together makes it feel sunnier.

Which direction does the jar prefer?

I don’t know.

But I’m having a wonderful time climbing into its (imaginary) mind to find out.

Respond

What do you think?

A few weeks ago an unusual search term prompted me to write this post.

A few days ago someone found this blog by doing an Internet search for a world without sea cucumbers. 

Strawberry has a story for you, anonymous visitor. I’ve heard it’s been passed down among sea cucumbers for generations. 😉

In the beginning the world was very different than it is now.

You could swim as far as your fins or flippers wanted to move and you’d never find the beginning or end of the sea.

You could swim as far up or down as your fins or flippers soared and you’d never scrape the muddy floor or gasp those peculiar gases that stream over the sea.

There was only water as far as anyone could ever swim. If there was, in fact, anyone around to swim.

The sea was much less crowded in those days. There were other creatures- small, rounder, and less intelligent than us – mucking about but there were no sea cucumbers.

And then the seas split. Structures that looked like reefs jutted up out of the sea, some so enormous that they ruptured one sea into two. The water surged, growing shallow in places where it had been deep and deep where it had been shallow.

Everyone living near those reefs died. How could anyone survive without water, after all?Those left behind adapted to new habitats, learning to eat new foods and find shelter behind rocks or underneath mud on an otherwise barren ocean floor.

The best of these stretched out their tails, sucked in their bellies, absorbed their limb buds and became sea cucumbers. It took many generations for them to become as intelligent and curious as us, of course, but they eventually made it.

And that is how a world without sea cucumbers became a world with them.

you see there was this sea cucumber and normally they don’t talk but for the sake of the story…

Last week someone typed that run-on sentence into a search engine and ended up here. 

I don’t know who you are. I probably never will. But this is what happened next:

she did.

What she didn’t have was a name. She didn’t need one to be honest. All of the other sea cucumbers recognized her from the faintly-sweet taste of her hormones floating through the water. If sea cucumbers had names her would have been Strawberry.

But I digress.

One day Strawberry spoke.To her siblings and children (although she didn’t know the word for either of those concepts) the word looked like a tiny burp floating up from the ocean floor. Unremarkable.

What she meant to say was this: “Light.” They’d all seen it. Only she had noticed it.Strawberry swallowed her last mouthful of plankton and gingerly floated up.

The light grew strong and bright. The currents were stronger in the heavens. She found herself floating away from her herd.

A shadow fell across the water. Something large scooped her up in a painfully firm grip. She couldn’t breathe. Panic.

Pbbbth.

Some of her breathing tubes spilled out into his hands.

“Ewww,” the stranger said, dropping her back into the water.

She sank.

Down.

Down.

Down.

To the edge of her colony.

Plop.

Back onto the ocean floor.

Hearts quivering.

Her lungs grew back in a few weeks.

Her courage did not.

But sometimes when she had a fully belly and a quiet circulatory system she’d stare up at the surface again, looking at that light.

And when the eggs of her eggs hatch, when the moon hangs still and bright in the sky tomorrow, next week, next months she’ll hunker down with the hatchlings and tell them of the world without water.

A parable, of sorts.
Part one.
Part two.
Part three.

You’ve grown sleek and strong eating their food and drinking their soft waters.

“Are you ready?” One says.

“Yes.”

You didn’t realize how much you needed water until there was none to be had.

This land is strange. When the wind blows pieces of it coat your travelling clothes and sting your eyes. Your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth.

Suddenly she’s sitting on an old red rock.

“You look thirsty, friend.” Even her water tastes like the land, hot and gritty.

“We need to talk about the water people,” One says.

“What’s there to say about ignorance?” she huffs. “They swim with the dead, they pee where they drink. They have no respect for the water, the land or the rest of us.”

“They don’t actually know that land exists,” you say. “Or at least not in the way you think of it. Everything is different degrees of water to us.”

“Well, where do they think all of those tributaries come from?” she asks. “Without them the seas would dry up.”

“We think it’s endless,” you say.

“But it’s not.”

“No.”

“You should go tell them! There’s far more land than water out there.” You wonder if that is true, if the seas you grew up in are an aberration.

“They don’t listen.”

“Well, how did you learn how to listen?”

“A storm washed me to shore. I was too curious about the hard waters to swim back home.”

“See! If you can change so can they.”

“It’s not always that simple.”

Hmmph.

Days pass. The others of her pod vary in opinion:

“I’d always thought a valley full of water was a myth…”

“How could anyone be so wasteful? Water shouldn’t be used for anything but cooking or drinking. If you need to pee, find a rock.”

“Why would someone born in paradise want to leave it?”

“Imagine never running out of water!”

Your walk back to the foothills is quiet.

“Why doesn’t anyone understand?” you ask One.

“Well, why do you understand?”