Photo prompt courtesy of CJ Ross
Darkness struggles to stay confined,
pushing and pressing against that fine line.
She fights to keep it a hostage of her mind.
The #3lineThursday challenge is to create a 3 line story based on the photo provided by Boris Boden, using no more than 10 words per line. This is my entry:
spinning through time, elements,
and seasons, too much.
I was thrilled yesterday to find that my story had been chosen as an honorable mention this week! Below are the kind words from judge Benjamin Grossman
“A CLEVER PLAY ON WORDS WITH CYCLES. THIS PIECE IS NOT ‘TOO MUCH’, BUT RATHER JUST RIGHT.”
I’ve never been a big fan of Valentine’s Day as an adult. Sure, during my early twenties, before I came to believe that February 14th was no more than a day to get all “show offy” with romantic gestures because we had all been so crappy toward each other the rest of the year, I stressed over planning the perfect expression of my undying love, which usually manifested itself in the form of an overpriced dinner at a restaurant that made both me and my date completely uncomfortable paired with the obligatory flowers and chocolate. When I see those boxes of tooth shattering candy hearts with their sappy beseechings and earnest promises begin to takeover shelves and endcaps of every grocery store, I’m not overcome with a longing to wine and dine anyone; no offense to my partner. This year I discovered why I am so strongly indifferent to the holiday as it’s celebrated today and why I want something different.
The first thing that invaded my thoughts as I woke this morning was a note that was included in the Valentine care package my mom sent me when I was 24. Even though I didn’t know it at the time, it would be the last I would receive from her; less than a year later she would be rendered incapable of putting together care packages or writing notes. Somehow, despite the fact that I’m a fervently adept minimalist, this note managed to survive that time when I was unaware how important it would become and has made every move with me for the last 22 years.
This note got me thinking about the Valentine’s Days of my childhood. It made me think about the year that Dad bought a single red rose for all three of his girls. It made me think about how Mom required that I bring a card for every student in my class, even those I didn’t like. “Yours may be the only card someone receives. Think about that.” she would tell me, needing no further explanation to make her point. It made me think about all of the special dinners Mom planned for us to share as a family. I’m sure there were times when Mom and Dad celebrated as a couple, but it always seemed more important to them that the holiday have a wider reach. It was a day to share with all your loved ones, not just your romantic partner. So, when Dad called to ask if he could take us all to brunch I guess it wasn’t surprising. It made perfect sense for my sister and I, our partners, Dad and his girlfriend, and our aunt to all share a meal today.
As we reminisced over old photographs of those family members who are no longer with us and laughed as long forgotten stories were remembered, I could feel Mom there too, urging us to make this our new Valentine’s Day tradition. I’m pretty sure she also told me to get a frame for that note if I intend to keep it from getting ruined.
I’ve been thinking a lot about softball lately. From that moment a few months ago when it popped into my head and gave me the name for this blog, to now as I sit here trying to find a story, the memories of my childhood passion are always ready to help.
I don’t recall what year it was exactly, late 70’s or early 80’s most likely. The Vancouver Girl’s Softball Association(VGSA) had finally secured a home of its own. A portion of the old Klineline sand and gravel pit land would be cleared to make way for the complex. In those early years, before there was money to pave the parking lot or even procure an official sign to mark the entrance, making our way into the facility felt like an off-road adventure.
This is a submission for Monday’s Finish the Story challenge. Write a story of 100-150 words excluding the first line provided and incorporating the photo prompt.
Dropping her line into Fool’s Lake she patiently waited for something to bite, casting out the negative thoughts and doubts that constantly swam through her mind and nibbled at the edge of her consciousness. She had never tried her luck here before, always sticking with what she knew and using proven bait. As she teetered and swayed slightly, absorbing the waves of heat from overhead and begging for even the faintest ripple, time seemed to stop. Then, mercifully, the strike came. They laughed! This wasn’t just an obligatory,head shaking ‘Man, do I feel sorry for her’ type of chuckle either. The convention hall was filled with ‘I just about drowned in my cocktail’ kind of laughter. The joke she had worked on for weeks had hooked them. Now it was time to reel them in.
Click the frog to see stories from other writers who have accpeted the challenge this week and to submit your own.
Friday Fictioneers is a writing challenge hosted by the talented Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Writers from near and far use the photo prompt provided to create a 100 word piece of fiction. Click the frog below this post to add your own story and check out everyone’s submissions.
I seem to be seeing the brain, specifically my mom’s brain, in every challenge lately.
Her thoughts and movements were like a troupe of actors reinventing themselves, weaving through the maze of roles that were new and more difficult to them. Their greeness kept her trapped in a maddening script of continuous wrong turns. Lefts pretended to be rights and rights swore they were lefts. She shuffled and bumped into the shadowed corners of their stage, stuck until the faint memory shone through and illuminated her mark, briefly. When darkness returned, as it would today, tomorrow, and always, rehearsal began again. She’d practice, not knowing the curtain would fall before she ever perfected her part.
Monday – February 2, 2015
All day I felt down, kind of depressed. Blank. Physically I wasn’t at my best which could have been a contributing factor to my less than perky mental state. My body was working double time to correct all of the bad decisions I made on game day. But a hangover created from pulled pork tamale pie, what seemed like gallons of mimosas followed by beer, and a grand total of about three ounces of water taken in over the course of twelve hours wasn’t the sole perpetrator of my condition. Sure, the game itself, or more accurately it’s outcome, was weighing on me too. Shaking my head everytime that final down replayed itself in my mind only served to worsen the migraine that was stabbing and thumping behind my eyes, but I couldn’t stop myself from doing it. That innate response to disbelief and disappointment couldn’t be controlled. Three feet and three chances squandered. Gah! Commence skull cracking head shake. But the Seahawk’s loss to the Patriots wasn’t really the true culprit in my sulleness either. Super Bowl Monday has, for a very long time, been a day of discomfort born of something much more than who won and lost or my level of indulgence from the previous night. Continue reading