Category Archives: Writing

The Iron Gate

PHOTO PROMPT © David Stewart

Friday Fictioneers writing challenge hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

The small notice stuck in a crack between the iron gate and the old concrete wall warned the water would be shut off if the bill was not paid within a few days. My Grandpa’s garden looked beautiful. An abundance of flowers and assorted edibles. I remember when this garden fed our family and most of the neighborhood. It was hard for Grandpa now to make ends meet on his meager Social Security check. After putting in so many years slaving away at that factory job, he had been laid off without pension.

Night Rider

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He had drawn the night watch. Twenty years herding cattle for so many spreads, he couldn’t remember all their names. He now rode for the Lazy Z. He hadn’t liked the owner from the time he signed on, but he was flat broke and couldn’t be choosy. Mr.Gage was a green horn from back East. He did not understand the importance of getting the most experienced cowboys and having enough horses on the drive. He was trying to get off cheap, but would find out the hard way when he lost a good part of the herd on the trail. They should be changing horses more often during the day instead of overtiring them. The horses were always loyal to their riders and gave them all that was asked. Tom looked sadly into their eyes, ” Ok boys, whose going to ride with me tonight? ”

The Witch

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“From her small balcony, the witch watched the world go by.” It was getting harder and harder for her to get up and down the stairs. The neighbors seemed to ignore her when she did venture out. The children would giggle and point as she made slow progress down the sidewalk. She often looked like she was lost in her own world.

“A penny for your thoughts,” said the mother to her little girl.

” I was just thinking about that old lady that lives up stairs. Some of the kids say she’s a witch! Do you think she’s a witch Mommy?” her face showing her apprehension.

“I think we should go up ask her if she needs anything from the market. It must be very hard for her to get her groceries,” the mother answered.

They quickly climbed the stairs and knocked. A strange light spilled out as the door opened. The luminous being spoke, “So glad you’ve come. I have finished my observations of this planet. I was going to report that your species is hopeless but you have changed my mind.”

Mondays Finish the Story

What You Can’t See

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“It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.” —Henry David Thoreau

She was glad the rain finally stopped as she took her dog for a walk. ” It’s just a pile of rags,” she explained to her companion. Her dog strained at his leash and whined. “Calm down boy! ” she said a bit louder as they drew closer to the mound. She didn’t want to look too closely fearing…what? Why was she afraid of a pile of rags. She was determined not to let anything spoil her vacation. Tired of reading all that disturbing news. What could she do about it? It didn’t affect her. Even the President hadn’t spoken a word about it while he was on his trip. If he didn’t care why should she? She was looking forward to reading the latest romance novel that had been recommended in her favorite magazine. “Hurry up, boy! ” she almost shouted as they scurried past the little body in the sand.

Mondays Finish the Story

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“The cemetery spread along the area known as Devils Abode.”

The cemetery spread along the area know as Devils Abode. This was not encouraging to the residents of Sunny Hills Rest Home whose facility butted up against its boundary. They were reminded daily of their next destination after their time on earth was over.

Sunny Hills was located on part of the old site of the Dixmont Psychiatric Hospital. In the early days it had been a large facility to house the criminally insane of the state. The remaining patients had been moved to other facilities years ago, except for one.

In all the confusion of the last days he was forgotten. He had hidden out in the old coal storage building ever since. He still made his daily visit to the cemetery to see some of his old friends. His cold empty eyes gazed over to the cheerful grounds of Sunny Hills.

Gingerbread_House_Essex_CT via wikipedia

Sunny Hills

Broad Strokes : Art Fix Friday

Spectacular Settings

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This is my contribution to the WEP challenge for August called Spectacular Settings. The first part is to include a paragraph from a favorite setting. I chose the book The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett and here is the setting.

Mrs. Medlock, the housekeeper, describes the setting ( Misselthwaite Manor) to the main character Mary: “Not but that it’s a grand big place in a gloomy way, and Mr. Craven’s proud of it in his way—and that’s gloomy enough, too. The house is six hundred years old and it’s on the edge of the moor, and there’s near a hundred rooms in it, though most of them’s shut up and locked. And there’s pictures and fine old furniture and things that’s been there for ages, and there’s a big park round it and gardens and trees with branches trailing to the ground—some of them.” She paused suddenly and took another breath. “But there’s nothing else,” she ended suddenly.

The second part: Why I like this setting.

I love mysteries and this setting is very mysterious. A six hundred year old mansion on the edge of the moor with a hundred rooms, and most of the rooms closed off. A secret garden, a sad reclusive uncle, and a child heard crying at night. I love when Mary starts to explore the gardens and then one day, when it rains and she can’t go outside, she decides to explore the house. What will she find down all those dark corridors and behind those closed doors?

The third part: Part of a story I started to write.

The Journal is discovered

I was exploring an ancient oak grove near my new home. I had been hiking for quite a while and the weather was quite warm. I decided to take a break and sat down under the shade of a gigantic old oak tree. I put my jacket down, as a blanket, and lowered myself to the ground. I leaned back against the large trunk feeling a comfortable protected feeling in its presence. I was settling into a peaceful place when I felt something poking me. Just when I was getting comfortable too, I thought, I would have to sit on a rock. I rose up on my knees and moved my jacket out of the way determined to remove the offending object. I saw what appeared to be a piece of leather. I found a stick nearby and dug around it until I was able to see the whole thing. It was a book of some kind. I carefully lifted it out of its burial place. As I opened it I swear I saw some tiny lights twinkling like stars. I saw there was writing and it was very old. I did not recognize the language but as my eyes traced over the letters I found I was able to read the words.

“My name is Aine. I have set down my story here so that whoever may find this journal will know the story of my time on earth. I am a Druid priestess. I practice the old ways. This is my story.”

I felt very drowsy and decided to put the book in my backpack and save it for later. I sat back down under the old oak tree. I will just close my eyes for a few minutes…. “I am flying high above the oak grove and can see for a great distance. I love to fly and feel so much strength in my wings. It has been five years since I shape-shifted. I am Aine.”

Critique/comment preference: MPA

Word count 333; MPA and Comments appreciated 🙂

SOCS-Foreign Correspondent

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I have been in a quiet period in my writing. A dry spell, dry as a bone. I am in a quiet period where things are being gathered up and mulled over. When I think of something I’ll phone it in. That is what the newspaper reporters used to do, phone their stories in to the paper, if they were in a hurry with a breaking story or far away like a foreign correspondent. Foreign correspondent sounds so romantic, exciting and glamorous. Note the title correspondent. Like writing a letter. So beautiful.

There was a time when the foreign correspondent could not phone in a story because there were no phone cables across the ocean. Stories had to be sent by sea on a ship. Until the Transatlantic Cable was laid along the ocean floor, you had to wait to hear the news from other countries. I think in many ways that was better. You did not have to hear so much and so soon.

So think of me as an old time foreign correspondent. I will be sending in my stories but they will take a little longer to get here.

|Lindaghill|

Hard to Believe

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200 Posts on Notes Tied On The Sagebrush

I received notification the other day that I reached this milestone. It is hard to believe I have this many posts. I started my blog in the Summer of 2014. So happy to have connected with other bloggers and my readers. It has been an interesting experience. If anyone had told me I would be blogging I don’t think I would have believed them.

I am still finding my way in the writing journey. Thanks for your support readers and fellow bloggers. 🙂

My posts have been going in different directions to match issues that hold my interest. I am still involved in Education and work with kids with learning differences. I am interested in issues impacting women, the environment and ageing. I like participating in some writing communities. I am thinking how I can organize my blog around these themes. A work in progress. 🙂

Silver Threading Writer’s Quote Wednesday

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“Think before you speak is criticism’s motto; speak before you think, creation’s.”

–E. M. Forster

E. M. Forster (1879-1970) a well known and acclaimed English author who wrote A Room With a View, A Passage to India, and Howard’s End. All were made into films. I have seen all these films but not read the books. His books dealt with the class system in England, their values, and the shifting of power that was occurring in the early 20th century.

|SilverThreading|