Bert & Harv Reminisce

Crispina has posted another weekly challenge HERE

Everyone’s welcome to join in the fun. Here’s how it works:
Every Wednesday I post a photo. You respond with something CREATIVE
Here are some suggestions:

  • An answering photo
  • A cartoon
  • A joke
  • A caption
  • An anecdote
  • A short story (flash fiction)
  • A poem
  • A newly minted proverb, adage or saying
  • An essay
  • A song—the lyrics or the performance

You have plenty of scope and only two criteria:

  • Your creative offering is indeed yours
  • Your writing is kept to 150 words or less

Once you have your response posted, visit her blog and do a PINGBACK, or leave the URL of your response post in her comment box.

Here’s this week’s photo:

And here is my response, 150 words on the dot.

BERT & HARV REMINISCE

“Look at that, Harv. What’s it gonna be when it’s done?”

“Maybe it is done? Some kind of modern art?”

Bert scowled. “More’n likely. Folks nowadays know nothin’ about art. When we were young you could look at pictures and know what you were seeing. Today it’s all splash-dab and heaven knows.”

“Maybe it’ll be one of them water slides?”

“Maybe. Fool kids apt to kill themselves gettin’ up that high. Nowadays they need crazy thrills to keep ’em happy. When we were young, Harv, it was fun enough to…”

“And see those flimsy supports holding that tube. Any weight on them and down the thing’ll come.”

“For sure. Nowadays they don’t know how to build anything solid. Watched my grandson put up drywall one day. When I was young, builders tested plaster with a hammer. You take a hammer to today’s flimsy stuff…”

“Let’s get us some tea, Bert.”

Rowan Lane Cottage

The Ragtag Daily Prompt today is DANCE

And Crimson’s Creative Challenge is this quaint little cottage:

Every week the challenge is to post…

  • An answering photo
  • A cartoon
  • A joke
  • A caption
  • An anecdote
  • A short story (flash fiction)
  • A poem
  • A newly minted proverb, adage or saying
  • An essay
  • A song—the lyrics or the performance

You have plenty of scope and only two criteria:

  • Your creative offering is indeed yours
  • Your writing is kept to 150 words or less

So here’s my response:

Rowan Lane Cottage

Here we are. Rowan Lane Cottage, aka ‘Home of the Slashers’. Are you ready?”

Linna cringed, picturing blood red splashes throughout the house. “You’re scaring me.” She clutched Chapter One to her chest.

“Bwahaha! At these meetings we’ll toughen you up, gal. Our group is good at that.”

“Surely they go easy on newcomers,” Linna asked, fighting the urge to flee. “Encouragement builds confidence and all that?”

Tannis patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll be merciful. But today’s editors don’t dance attendance on writers; manuscripts have to shine from the first line or they won’t get past eagle-eyed gatekeepers. If you want to be a published author our group can help that happen, but it may be painful. We’ve some excellent writers attending and you’ll get a good critique. Believe me, your work will be better for it.”

Linna straightened up. “Yes, I’m ready.”

The door swung open.

Another Dream Gone Down

This morning while I was searching for facts to go with my last “ANNIVERSARY” post, I came across one that I’ve decided to pair up with Crimson’s Creative Challenge this week. Here’s her photo and details:

Every Wednesday I post a photo. You respond with something CREATIVE.
Here are some suggestions:

  • An answering photo
  • A cartoon
  • A joke
  • A caption
  • An anecdote
  • A short story (flash fiction)
  • A poem
  • A newly minted proverb, adage or saying
  • An essay
  • A song—the lyrics or the performance

You have plenty of scope and only two criteria:

  • Your creative offering is indeed yours
  • Your writing is kept to 150 words or less
Here’s this week’s photo

And here’s my response:

April 14, 1912

“If you don’t quit watching that ship and look where you’re puttin’ your feet we’ll be fishing you out of the drink.”

“But just look at her, will you,” Greg exclaimed as the ship sailed away. “Such a beauty! What I wouldn’t give to be aboard.”

“I don’t know. She might be cursed. What with everyone sayin’ even God can’t sink her, I’m afearin’ such pride’ may be over-grievin’ to th’Almighty. What if He decides to prove…”

Greg interrupted the pessimistic old salt. “The Almighty doesn’t give two pence what people are saying about her.”

“Lotta people aboard that ship.”

“And I’d give anything to be one of them!” Greg sighed and went back to winding cables on the dock. “Someday I’ll take that Titanic ship myself. See if I don’t!”

Come morning his dream was lost in the Atlantic’s icy waters, along with 1500 other dreams.

Memories of an Apron

Good morning everyone,

As I look out our window this morning I’m reminded of the line of an old song: “When I needed sunshine I got rain.” (Prize points to you if you can name it!)  We are longing for sunshine and spring, but we’re getting snow and more snow. The air’s full of lovely, fluffy white flakes now, but this is supposed to change to freezing drizzle later.

“It’s an ill wind that blows no good.” And “Every cloud has a silver lining.” I took advantage of the below-freezing temps overnight to defrost my upright freezer. It’s handy when you can set things outside in a tub and know they’ll stay frozen.

We have a lovely list of prompts this morning. Even if the weekend’s past, I’m going to dedicate this post to Sammi’s weekend writing prompt:

It’s a real challenge to write an actual story in 49 words; you don’t have enough words for more than the opening lines to a proper story. But here’s my response:

“It’s a keepsake from Grandma, I guess.” Anita displayed the faded apron her mom sent.

“Does she think you’re going to become domestic…baking cookies and all.”

“I remember Grandma gathering eggs, making a basket of this apron.”

“Fabulous! I’ll call the hatchery. Since we’re staying home these days…”

Maritime Morning

The Ragtag Daily Prompt word for today is GOODBYE.

I wrote this short story some years back, but I think it will be a suitable response:

Maritime Morning

It was the perfect day for sorrow.

Grey veils drifted across the sky and mist blanketed the sea, a reflection of the murky future. Only the tiny waves rippling toward the shore disturbed the ocean’s dark surface; only a gentle rise and fall bore evidence of the giant sleeping below.

A small row-boat bobbed up and down ever so slightly with each swell, its docking rope barely pulling at the mooring. The big fishing boats were still at rest, shrouded in the mist, waiting for the fishermen to fire up their engines and point them seaward. The sailors were still at home, lingering over their morning coffee, waiting for the fog to lift.

All was silent except for one old horse that plodded along the gravel road, still half asleep. Some farmer riding out to check his fields; saving gas and trusting his horse rather than his battered old truck. No danger of him losing his way in the gray mist; habit had mapped the route indelibly in the old horse’s brain.

Down at the wharf a boy sat all alone on the lower dock, legs dangling over, toes not quite touching the water. He gazed over the sea, recording the muffled cries of invisible gulls and sandpipers as they scavenged along the shore and the far off droning of some foghorn. He studied the small seabirds as they paddled on the water’s surface, appearing and disappearing amidst patches of fog. He strained his eyes to define the that elusive line where water met sky.

From his small space in the universe, he contemplated the power of the sea. That great expanse that fed them, that bobbed them up and down from one shore to another, that challenged and tested their mettle. One day it held them so gently on the palm of its mighty hand; the next day dashed and crashed them from towering peaks into deep green troughs. Troughs that could swallow a fleet of ships at a gulp, the old-timers said. He’d seen the tails of those big waves lashing these docks and he right well believed it!

The subject of his contemplation was at this moment as docile as a lamb. The expanse of sea was as gray as the sky overhead, as gray as the fog that blanketed the shore. The only variation he could see as he looked around was a thick dark line away beyond the clearing behind him; the woods were too big to hide completely in the fog.

Somewhere on the eastern horizon a red sun would be peeping over the ocean; his watch told him so, though not one beam penetrated the cotton batting that wrapped the small town. Yes, this was a perfect day for sorrow and regret, for leaving the people and the home you love.

He stood to say a last goodbye, looking around at every familiar thing, taking mental pictures, wanting to have these scenes filed away for the lonely days ahead. He wanted to drink in as much of his home as he could before the ferry left at ten.

The sea. Would he ever see it again?