"The Color Of Winter Is Blood Red"

was in a comment by the famous Ninja, author, blogger, friend, Alex Cavanaugh.  It started the wheels turning.  Turning wheels is a malady I can't seem to get rid of so here's the short Alex inspired with his comment.

Cabin Fever

It has been a long, cold winter.  Nothing but white as far as you could see. Even the birds were hiding. The pantries were full. The cabin was warm but that didn't keep the walls from closing in on them.

Yahtzee, five card stud poker, caramel pop corn, roasted marshmallows were all fun the first four days. They pulled out the Sorry game, Chest, Checkers, Dominoes and the S'mores.

Through the windows all they could see were growing drifts of snow.  Relentlessly it fell along with the camp fire fun.

After seven days each has chosen their own corner to read, to pout, to mourn the winter. The vast collection of family fun games had lost their appeal.  It was no longer an opportunity for quality time and was quickly becoming a volatile mix of boredom, claustrophobia, and frustration. 

Chopping the veggies and meat for a inside out warming stew for the evening meal the idea flickered through her thoughts and blinked out as quickly as it came.  

As each day passed the idea grew stronger and visited more often even though she fought it. She fought it with the love of a mother, with the love of a wife and with the love of KNOWING spring would come again.  She just wanted quiet.  No more games.  No more "Let's make the best of this".

She snapped.  The cleaver rose and fell amid screams of disbelief and horror.  Chop! Chop! The Chess was the first to go.  The checkers followed into the fire place.  The Trivia game was slashed and chopped and burned. As the Yahtzee dice bubbled in the roaring fireplace, she turned to her family, cleaver in hand.

Speechless, horrified, they clung to each other wondering, fearing what would happen next. There was no getting through to her.

She turned away opening the pantry and continued the same meticulous cleaving with the condiments that she had previously done with the "Snowed In" must haves.

Was the family next?  The dog?  Where would it stop?  No one thought to wrestle the cleaver from her iron fist...you don't mess with Mamma!

As the cleaver sliced through a jumbo size jar of ketchup, she crumbled, sliding slowly to floor. Cleaver still in hand, covered in blood red, she began to rock back and forth.  At first she mumbled but her voice grew stronger.  She chanted wildly, "NO MORE CHUTES AND LADDERS!  NO MORE CHUTES AND LADDERS!"

Outside the snow began to melt.

Addiction

Mindlovemisery's Menagerie, Collage 12 writing prompt and 

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads Tuesday Platform

i found out
i couldn't juggle
the ups
the downs

someone said
take this you feel good
I flew
into the dark stars

fell flat on my face
thought that
was worth the trip
looked for more

live only for more
don't make no difference
just a high any high
so's i could believe

i was somebody
i could juggle
i was a super hero
high

with ups there's downs
dark stars closed in
dark spaces between
kept the secret

it fried my soul
used up
nothing to trade
i fell into the fire

alone not high
with no real heart
i pick up pieces
to learn to juggle again

Thursday's Trauma Under The Porch Light

.

I could not move the blue line the computer placed although pleasant I do think blue should be in the skies, children's eyes and Morning Glories.

It was a perfect day to meander through the heavy underbrush and over the mossy glade searching for the perfect material to craft a Halloween Wreath.  The air was heavy with humidity and made the going slow but not less pleasant.

Running out of sun light quickly replaced with moonlight this time of year.  The cooler air gave me a shiver cool enough to wrap my sweater tighter and make sure the house was still in sight.

The crematorium smoked in the distance but I gave no thought of what was happening there.  My Bluetooth was visiting Bon Jovi from my youth and not even martial law was stopping that. 

"Wanted Dead or Alive" echoed.  I remembered beads, old robes, and justice demanded by the times.

Justice awaited the rodent who had continually stored away the pecans for winter.  Cast iron frying pan justice! I had captured his theft on a flimsy camera and this time he would not escape.  Pecan flavored squirrel, wonder how that would taste?  I carefully took aim.

I used every word!

Thanks for the fun prompt

Visit Under The Porch Light and be entertained. 

Two Photos By Daniel...The Story of Belle

photo: Daniel Murtagh

Magpie Tales prompt

 picture by Daniel Murtagh

THE STORY OF BELLE

Belle had been a young thing

with beauty and not much sense
She decided to take a powder
instead of recommence

She left her journal open
her last thoughts for all to see
followed the powder
with a snort of strong whiskey

She barely made it to her bed
where she disrobed shaking
her pose intended to tell
restraints were her own making

Of Life

I paint
and it's empty
colorless
from my view

I write
and it's empty
words mean nothing
they only
f
i
l
l
the page

I live
and it's empty
words mean nothing
all is colorless
from my view

Will Death fill the empty?
or will I realize
that
painting
writing
living
was, oh, so much more
than a dream could be?

Turkey Buzzard

For Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

Who's Watching You?

photo credit: Gerrit Photography

Magpie Tales

Sunday's Whirligig

He had the luxury of watching unseen through the windows.  It made him feel a little dirty but not enough to stop him.  Leaning over his brick balcony railing he begin to sing love poems of 

shining horses dancing.  She never heard a word nor knew of his devotion.  

Later as she was passing his apartments, he spoke.  She returned a shy smile.

She never reached the end of the block. She never reached home. She was never seen again.

The alignment gremlins are working against me.  Sorry.  I can not fix it.  I will try later. Thanks for visiting.

Not A Love Poem

Written for Sunday's Whirligig

It was the birthday

of resentments

each move 

choking 

eroding

no take backs

no open gates here

no sparks

no dazzling smile 

for you

I pared 

my love 

to stumps

move on!

before 

i remember

where 

i hid the weapons

i

forgot

to 

say

you

can 

rot

for

all 

i

care

An Eye For An Eye

We buried Ma and the boys down by the creek when the scarlet fever took them. It wuz jus' me an Pa for a lon' time.  I turned suitors away 'cause Pa needed me.  I weren't leavin' him for nothin'.

Pa always said a liar was worse than a thief cuz sometimes there's reason to steal but thar's ne'er a reason to lie.

Tonight while I's out, that good for nothin' neighbor came to jaw with Pa some. He told a pack of lies and Pa believed 'im!

Pa wuz waitin' when I come in, white as a ghost and mad as a wet hen.  He had his double ought ready and gave me no choice.  His voice shook and a tear rolled down his cheek but his aim and his intent wuz steady.  

Said he'd heard I'd been sneakin' around seein' the new teacher and up to no good. I tried to tell him why I had been seein' Teacher but Pa di'na let me git a word in edge wise.  He cocked that scatter gun and said, "Git outta this house, girl. I don't abide liars ner whores!"

I packed my few belongin's in a bed roll and saddled my old horse, Isaiah, and left without lookin' back.

"An eye for an eye..." the Bible said cuz I 'member all the words Ma read to us by lamp light.  First I shot that no account neighbor for lying to Pa. Then I seen Teacher and tol' him.  He hept me writ a letter to Pa about what I'd done and the why of it 'n ask Teacher to read it to Pa after he'd cooled down some.

I's a murderer and they hang people for that but I weren't no liar, ner a whore, ner a thief. I'd been learnin' to read so's I could read to Pa at night jes like Ma usta do.

Ole Isaiah and I headed west.  I'd heard you could get lost out there.

Thanks, Tess!

Apples for Magpie Tales

image by Sarolta Ban 

Magpie Tales

with 

Tess Kincaid

Back in the days of rotary phones and unlocked doors people were trusting and welcomed strangers inside their homes.

On a hot summer day with all the windows open and the screen door unlocked a teen aged girl prepared a picnic basket to take to the creek where the youth group would gather after church for fun and swimming.  

Her parents had driven to church in the car earlier and she would walk there after she finished.  It was but a short distance.  She hummed Amazing Grace as she placed the last apple inside the basket and closed the lid.

A knock at the door surprised her.  Every one she knew was at church and she would be late if she didn't hurry.

Picking up the picnic basket and her Bible she hurried to the door planning to walk quickly to church and arrive before the opening hymn.

A stranger stood on the other side of the screen and the young girl had an uncomfortable feeling. She dropped the hook latch into place as she greeted the man, asking how she could help.  Looking at his feet, turning his hat in his hands, he spoke softly and asked for "Just a drink of cool water, Ma'am, if it's no trouble."

She smiled and said, "Of course, I'll be right back." Sitting her picnic basket and Bible by the door she went into the kitchen letting the water run a moment so the cool fresh water from the well would be what she gave him in the glass taken from the open shelf by the sink.

A strange sound made her turn. The man was pulling the screen door away from the latch. Dropping the glass, she ran to the phone on the kitchen wall, a rotary phone.  The kind before push button, the kind before speed dial, the kind before 911...she dialed O for operator as he entered the kitchen.

He ripped the handset from the phone as she gripped it tightly, frantically trying to reach the operator. Wrapping the phone cord around her neck, he began to drag her out the door he had just forced open. She tried to scream but the cord was so tight a scream could not escape.  Fighting and kicking as best she could he kept dragging her, saying not a word.  As they got closer to the door, she became more frantic and her kicks turned over the picnic basket, apples rolling, with the Bible falling onto the floor.

Silently, he bent and put one apple in his pocket as he dragged her down the steps.

Frantic, her parents left church early because Grace never missed especially with the planned outing she had been looking forward to attending.

When they pulled up they knew something was wrong.  The screen door was ajar and a little crooked on its hinges.  The apples Grace has so carefully picked were strewn from the door way onto the porch.  Her Bible lay open. No Grace anywhere.

After looking every where and no Grace, they went to church which was just being dismissed.  The whole community was there so the Sheriff and his deputy organized search parties and they began to search.

The ladies making tea, coffee, lemonade and sandwiches for those searching in between tears and prayers they waited.

A lady picked up Grace's Bible and noticed the section it had fallen open to...Hebrews 13:2 seemed to stand out.  It was read aloud. "Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares."

And somewhere in the deep woods, Grace lay with her eyes open and sightless as the stranger took his first bite of the apple.

Dark Winter

Peering through the ice
No one sees me
No one knows I'm gone

That happens when
You burn your bridges
Through life

Breaking all connections
Making bad choices
Again and again

Shamed to ask for help
I enter a plea of forgiveness
As my body waits for spring

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and Fireblossom Friday  Picture/IGWRT/Fireblossom

Pretty On Pink

her eyes
screamed
no one heard
but
on the base board
her blood wept
a name

A few words for Magpie Tales

The Holiday...

The gathering  after the harvest had morphed into a secular event.  Most were immune to the splendor unable to appreciate the plain beauty of the scattered leafs across the valley.

Outside "far from the madding crowd" I gaze reverently at the beauty around me.  The breeze touches my skin on it's way to rattle the remaining leafs, pulling them from their summer home.

In awe I wonder how anyone could be bent out of shape on a day with infinite gifts to give.

Joining the Sunday Whirl for Wordle 189

They's Two Kins of Truth

The Lord's truth and the people's truth and most times ain't the same. Comes a time the Lord's truth just bubbles up and runs over into the people's truth and every one pays.

Lillie May kept a journal.  It was just an calendar with the back pages blank but, Lordy, did that girl write!  She'd jot down things like how Pearl's boy had blue eyes and red hair when thar ain't been nothing but brown eyes in that family for six generations.  She wondered why the parson's buggy was in the cedar glade every time the Widow Smith was at the cemetery.  Little things caught her attention like that and she wrote 'em down.  I tod h'er not to, wern't none of our bidness and could get us in big trouble.  She laughed cause no one knew she wrote this stuff  exceptin' me and 'er. She wanted to know why Aunt Nettie's brother didn't come around no more since the girls took to bed with fits and had to stay inside.  They's well now but it was odd when their favorite uncle didna came to see 'em anymore sick or well.

Lillie May tole me it had to be writ.  That the truth would come out one of these days and she'd have an answer to 'er questions.  I tod 'er to let it be.  As chilun we was taught to be seen not heard but when older people gotta talkin' sometimes they dina see us younguns. Lillie May got to thinkin' and she writ a lot.

We all wondered when Elizabeth Ann up and moved to 'er aunt's house far away.  We'd always thought 'er and Richard would be married for shore.  We's a mining town and most peoples work there except the few that work in the mercantile, livery and the bank.  Richard was a promising husband prospect and one up on the minin' family Elizabeth Ann came from.

Sometime we just don't know how ner why things turn out.

I ne'er thought Lillie May would kill 'erself but she did. Jumped into a mine shaft on True Mountain. I heared tell it was over fifty feet deep 'for it turned. Since it wern't a workin' mine they buried her there.  Maybe all that wondering just got to 'er so bad she put an end to it.

The truth showed itself when someun showed a calendar page where Lillie May writ...I ain't able to carry on no more.

What's they dina know was I hid the old calendar so's no body could fin it.  I'd take it to the sheriff but he's been hangin' at the diner with Charles Floyd's wife and I ain't takin' no chances.  No, sirree, not me.

I stand careful at the edge throwin' wild flowers to my friend.  I say the truth will come out, Lillie May, the truth'll come out.

An Early Morning Tale

These hands pained me this morning telling a weather change was coming.  My hands did more work when they weren't knotted and gnarled from age and accidents.

Warming by the wood cook stove I waited for the coffee to perk. The percolator was a welcome sound that ushered in the day while I made plans.

These knotty fingers have sewn quilts and stitched up wounds.  They have birthed babies and spanked children when it was the common practice.  They have milked cows and have made biscuits all without a thought of them ever failing me.

Pulling my shawl around me and the chair closer to the fire I listened to the rhythmic sound of the coffee pot. Billy Jo, bless her heart, had brought an electric coffee pot.  It still sat in its box unopened. No reason to use it since there was only me.

Husband gone this past winter, two children passed before the age of reason.  Just me now in this old house that had been so full of life years past.  This is where my marriage bed was.  I did my duties for my husband all these years.  Tried to bear and raise my young ones, tried to a good wife and mother.  Here in later years the grands used to gather around this old chair eager for my words and stories.

They have their own lives now and it's just me and The Duke who warms by the fire with me every winter morning. 

Most of my friends have already passed.  That's the sad thing about aging; the people you know begin to die off.

The coffee finally perked to perfection I poured a cup, black as I always take it, holding it in both hands for the warmth as the coffee cooled.  The tin cup that belonged to my mother's mother not only warmed my hands but also warmed my heart.

I continued to sit, rocking a little, smiling at old thoughts of passed times.

I patted the old dog.  He woke when I said, "It's just you and me."  The dog looked at me a moment and laid his head onto his paws to rest.

My grandson would be coming soon to take me to get some "staples" I needed.  

I smiled, closed my eyes and rocked in the warmth of the past.

~

~

The grandson arrived.  The smoke rising from the chimney caused his own memories to come to life as he walked toward the house to greet his grandmother.

The dog whined then howled as he reached the door. This was odd behavior even for The Duke.  When the knock and shout went unanswered the middle-aged grandson opened the door.

He found her in the rocking chair pulled up close to the fire.  Her favorite coffee cup laid spilled beside her.  

When The Duke howled again, the grandson knew the matriarch was gone.  Still warm in her chair she sat as always with a smile on her face that said the journey home had been a peaceful ride.

The Duke howled.

The grandson kissed his grandmother's cheek, swallowed his tears and reached for his cell phone, punching in 911.

Unexpected for Poetry Jam

Snapped...

For Magpie Tales

Those stairs taunted me

With each step

With each call

It was more difficult

To lift my feet and go

With a smile

Illness is an ugly thing

And comes in many forms

As I cared for the ailing

Sickness entered me

One more ring of the bell

One more weak cry 

I tried for patience

Love and understanding

I was tried and tested

The final test I failed

Empathy no longer inside me

I ended it

They found her

At

The 

Bottom

Of the stairs

I was smiling

Six Sentence Story for Two Shoes

She told no one she was walking the same path she had traveled with her father while he talked of cave safety and the history of it.  Today she walked alone returning to the massive flat mouthed cave that used to shelter Native Americans.

Reaching the entrance she remembered to look at the ceiling to see if there were fresh rock falls and used her light sparingly even though she had another.  During her previous visit she had spotted the entrance of another room but her father pointed out some fallen rock and said it was not safe to go further.

Reaching the opening in the back she crawled deeper as her flashlight illuminated drawings on the wall possibly not seen for hundreds or thousands of years.  Admiring the art and traveling farther than she had gone before the cave rumbled dropping rocks behind her and she knew she was never going home.

For Two Shoes in Texas Six Sentence Stories...Home.  Thanks for the challenge.

WARNING! DARK FICTION or Weird Wednesday

The noise was too much.  I frantically search finding a lady bug crawling on the lamp shade.  The clocks tick so loudly I remove the batteries.  I turn down the heat because the ignition drills into my brain with the noise.

The sound of carbonation is too loud.  The ice crashes against the side of my glass.  I can hear myself swallow so I no longer drink.

Outside my windows tree branches with ice crack and the birds songs pounds into my head.

Ear plugs do not stop the noise.  I wrap my head to block the sounds and lay under pillows to stop the NOISE.

No use.  No use.

SOUND still finds me.  There is no quiet place for me.

I push a thin blade into my ear hoping I will find silence.

DISCLAIMER:  This is not real, nor true in anyway.  Pure fiction.

Saturday Centus107

The prompt this week is the picture below. Number of words: 100  Style of writing: Any Pictures: No additional.

These are words Ms Jenny used for this week's challenge at Saturday Centus, a writing prompt.  Join the fun and visit all the entries.

Blocking the sun filling the air
The smoke rose everywhere.
People gathered to look
On the day the earth shook

What can this be?
Smoke was rolling
No one could see

One lad tiny and fair
Softly said,
I can get there.

He walked long and far
Using the muted sun
As his guiding star.

His dog and the lad
Armed with a stick
Walked from clear air
To where it was thick

Disappearing in smoke
The lad was last seen
Waving out the window
Of a big silver thing.

No trace found
Except for one dog hair
On the ground.

Mag 117...The Meal

A weekly writing challenge from Tess with no rules.

Flex your imagination muscles and join the fun.

The Meal by Paul Gauguin

Three children sat at their table
No forks nor spoons nor ladles
The knife still lay
Pointed their way
Parents lay dead near the cradle.

A Bit of Fiction

She cleaned the glass in the captain's quarters unaffected by the foot steps of soldiers long dead.

The fort where she worked summers has shown her many secrets:  a shimmering Captain working at his desk, glimpses of military formations on the common, and the indescribable feeling of sadness from the prison barracks.  All these she had seen or sensed during her late work hours at the fort.

People years gone had left their mark in the air, the wood, the stone of the old fort.

Clomp! Clomp! Clomp! The change of the evening guard was something she didn't look up for anymore.  Although they were all around her and she could sometimes feel a breath on her cheek, she worked alone.

One window pane at time, she cleaned.