Theme Thursday – The Duck Pond
Funny(haha) I just wrote a story about cycling (for Theme Thursday) last week. Soooo this week’s theme is “Bicycles.” Grasping at tires should be the title for this story.
This is child’s play she laughed as she jumped on the bike.
Then it started to shake and fall.
“Jureen when was the last time you rode a bike?”
“Well – I didn’t exactly say if I had”, she said with a sideways smile.
I started to giggle.
“How are we going to go on a three-mile bike ride
with the boys if you don’t know how to ride a bike?”
The girls had jumped for joy when they had gotten the invitation
by the two best looking seniors in school. The plan was to go for
a ride to the park, feed the ducks, and come back.
“Maybe if girls didn’t have to wear skirts and were able to wear pants like
boys it would be easier to ride these contraptions.”
I chuckled. My friend Jureen always had very modern ideas about women.
“They will be here in a half hour. No more talking you have to at least look convincing.”
So for thirty minutes the best friends laughed while one taught and the other learned.
It was a memorable day but not memorable in the way the girls had planned. They pulled each other up the back stairs tired, dirty, and sweaty.
“Ummm I think this iced tea may be the best part of the entire day.”
“Certainly not!’, Jureen giggled.
I was hoping Jureen wasn’t going to say anything positive about the boys
trying to “sneak a kiss” at the park.
“The best part of the day was when you taught me how to ride a bike.”
Both the girls grinned as they knew it was Jureen’s unskilled bike riding that had saved the day.
“I have an idea. Let’s ride bikes to the park next Saturday!”
‘We should definitely stay away from the duck pond the next time.”
Jureen with a knowing smile grabbed my arm, as we walked to the sitting room to tell mama our funny story.
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Another wonderful Theme Thursday – Thank You!!!
Thanks for the perfect photo: anthonychammond
Her Life Was Hounded
The little girl was awakened by a pounding sound on the door.
At first, she thought it was just a bad dream- one of many.
“Go away!’ she told the villain in her dream.” The pounding didn’t stop.
“Mommy what is that noise?”The frightened seven-year old said as she pulled on her worn flannel bathrobe.
Her mother was no more awake then she as she slid the door chain so someone couldn’t force their way in.
“It’s just me –Dan,” the voice slurred through the small opening. “ Let me in.
I love you and I just want to talk about us.”
The fumes, from the alcohol on his breath, were so strong that both mother and daughter had to move back.
“Please Felicity I need to see you now”, he whined.
Felicity calmly tried to get Dan to go home. She knew it would be unwise to allow him in the house.
She had never seen this side of the man she had dated for some time.
“You need a warm bed and some hot coffee. I will see you tomorrow at work.
We can have a nice lunch. Goodnight Dan.” He almost seemed like he wanted to cry.
Then he turned, got in his car, and drove home.
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It was a windy night and the girl, now ten, heard a scraping on her window.
She hated that bush- it always startled her when she was asleep.
Then she remembered-last week her mother had trimmed the bush away from the window.
Now the scraping of the branch sounded more like the scraping of fingernails.
Could it be him again? She frowned. Dan had a habit of drinking too much and coming by at all hours of the night. Sometimes the alcohol made him violent. One night Felicity was not in the mood to calm him.
When she laughed at him, he kicked the front door into pieces.
The girl had started fearing for her and her mother’s life at the age of eight.
Most nights she slept with a baseball bat and a butcher knife.
“Go away she yelled at the window. I will call the police again.”
He sneered. “It’s you. You are keeping her from me. If you were gone, she would love me.
The girl’s blood froze. “Mommy please call the police – hurry.”
Her mother, however, did not hear her; she had passed out in a drunken stupor.
“Please fingers help me dial the numbers. Yes - my name is Ginny McAlister and I live at 1151 Oak Dr.”
Her voice was shaky and conveyed terror. “There is a man at my window.
He is telling me he wants to kill me. Please won’t you come quick?”
“That’s another case of domestic violence at 1151 Oak. Leave it alone.
They need to deal with their problems.” “But sir- a little girl feels her life is in danger.
She sounded frantic.” “Well then send a car”, the officer said with a disgusted tone.
****************************************************************************
The young woman was leaving the police station after filing a lengthy report.
At sixteen, Ginny was tired of the drunken threats from a man named Dan.
Statutory rape, assault, attempted murder, child molestation…
She had begged her mother for years to break up with this fiend.
Felicity did not know how to say goodbye.
Now it was time for Ginny to do what her mother could not do.
Ginny would no longer be hounded by a drunken maniac.
Tonight she would sleep without the baseball bat.
Thanks to The Tenth Daughter of Memory and the hounded prompt
Thanks to Greeblie for the photograph
The Perfect Draft (cycling)
It was the perfect day for a long ride. The cyclists clicked in and took off at a reasonable pace. The lead was a strong cyclist so he never minded pulling the group. Today was like most days. Not much flat, lots of hills, and something a little different. Today they were on the logging road- not only hilly but shady for a mid-day ride. The perfect situation presented itself – a logging truck pulled out from a diner. The group sprinted to catch what looked like a great ride.
“Sweet” you could hear all the way down the line. The other thought, in their minds, ” hope this guy stays off the brakes maybe one of us should tell him we are right on his rear.” One of the group had a near mishap recently when she was drafting off a truck. “One of the risks of drafting” – she shook her head and smiled.
The truck driver looked in his rear view mirror and smiled this wasn’t the first group of cyclists but perhaps the largest that had drafted off him. The car behind the cyclists shook his head; “they look like a bunch of ducks following behind their mama.” The driver was impressed these guys are clipping along at a good pace – not bad. The group managed to stick with the truck all the way up the winding mountain road. When they got to the top, they stopped for a water break and were surprised when the trucker pulled over.
“Hey you kids did a good job keeping up with me. I was thinking of slowing down but I didn’t need to.”
“Thanks – that was an awesome draft one of the cyclists chimed in.”
” It made for an enjoyable ride,” said another. The team smiled as the trucker got into the cab. “Anytime” he waved. That Saturday was the beginning of many drafts when a trucker named Sam and a cycling group met up at the top of a hill. Sometimes when Sam would try to pay for his meal at the diner, the waitress would show him a note and smile. “Thanks for the perfect draft .”
Thanks Theme Thursday for a perfect topic
Thanks for the photo: BigBlackBox
The Short Story
“No, I am not revisiting that memory again.” He closed his eyes. “I can’t go on loving her forever.”
Lust had been plentiful and had replaced any noble feelings I once had. I didn’t want to cherish and protect women- I wanted to use them.
At twenty, I was done with men. The last heartbreak had been too much for even this strong, independent girl.
Their one kiss removed all obstacles. They were transported to another place of love, lust, desire, and freedom.
The poet wrote on the page “What comes out of my lips is you- What is written on this page is you.” She didn’t want the statement to ring true on paper; she wanted it engraved on her heart.
The short story has a place all of its own in the writer’s repertoire. Poetry can stem from feelings, a pastoral scene, human experience. The novel can weave a story of lives – intersected by places in a complex array of feelings and events. The short story…
The short story has a special place in my writing folder. Like poetry it flows off my pen. The real labor is in the edit. The personalities must develop quickly, a concise scenario, the climax, and your done. The challenge is in creating a compelling story with few details. My writer friends would agree that part of writing is creating the scene, the relationship, the challenge. Writers are usually stumped when restricted by words. Go to Twitter if you doubt this statement. Most of us have to refer over to our blogs to get our point across.
So what is it about “the short”? Personally I think it’s a way to create single chapters without laboring through piles of details. People’s lives generally occur in chapters. The short is a fun way to look into someone’s life at one moment in time- a snap shot as it were. The short story can capture the best picture, the worst picture, or the most embarrassing moment picture of a character’s life.
This said- I just started writing a short story about a hotel in a third world country. This hotel has seen history; it’s been lived in by historical figures. I realized that I couldn’t pull one chapter from this hotel’s history. After all, which chapter would she choose? So my delightful short story has turned into a multi-chapter historical novel.
Write On!
The Scarlet Letter Revisited (a short story)
“Today is going to be a better day maybe nice enough to go to the park” I give myself a pep talk as I crawl out of bed. My forecast was not based on the weather outside but the weather inside my heart. It was the first night I hadn’t cried all night. My cries were softer. I’m getting ahead of myself. For you, the reader, have come in toward the end of my latest heartbreak.
Let me preface my saga with this: remember Hawthorne’s Scarlet Letter? I am living the sequel to that story of shame and injustice. The story of a woman caught in sin with a man; the woman and daughter receiving shame and public disgrace. Ironically, my name is also Pearl. I was not intentionally named after Hawthorne’s character but I know it was fate. I could give you an entire rundown of my childhood; suffice it to say I’m a modern day Pearl. She was intuitive and read people’s intentions well, add strong and rebel to the list and that’s me. I wear my mother’s letter “S” either because she is heedless or I am accustomed to the shame…
Does the opening make you want to read more??? I welcome any feedback. Hoping to publish the story.
