My good friend, Norah, shared this sweet short fiction piece:
This week at the Carrot Ranch, Charli Mills challenged writers to In 99 words (no more, no less), write about tools. Whose tools are they and how do they fit into the story? What kind of tools? Go where the prompt leads! Charli, of course wrote about writer’s tools and provided a multitude of links […]
Grandpa’s Tool Shed #flashfiction — Norah Colvin
I don’t participate in popular social media events -unless I do so my way. When others share 10 Things I Hate, I share 10 Things I Love; if they tag a friend for One Photo Each Day No Description, I tag myself and post the most humorous artistic-looking picture in my feed.
November is no different. Sure, I’m grateful for stuff. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, after all. The reason I love it, however, is because it’s untainted and wholesome. It’s mine and my family’s. If I start telling everybody what I’m #blessed with, that’s bringing the public to a very private thing.
But, since November 20th, my Twofacebook feed has been different. People I hadn’t seen in ages, people who were only sharing political agendas, and people who only brag have all been giving thanks. It’s fantastic.
I have, too. For, I’ve loved the very different feeling I’m experiencing. I love the new stories about relatives shared by a cousin, the baby and grandbaby pictures from my neighbors, and all the photographs of nature and sunshine and happiness…
So, give thanks. It’s beautiful. Happy Thanksgiving.
…and, yes, I still share things my way -but I am participating. 😉
©2020 Chel Owens
“Celebrate your ‘somedays’ and the ‘somedays’ to come.”
My friend, Pam Webb, is PUBLISHED! Her beautiful picture book was inspired by her thinking of what she and her sweet granddaughter would do together, someday. As she points out in her video, the current quarantine situation means this book applies to everyone.
I cried.
Besides recommending this book because it’s excellent and I love my Cricket Muse, I am also sharing because she’s offering a free signed copy if you respond to her book launch post.
Congratulations, C’Muse. I couldn’t be more proud.
After composing a beautifully-worded rant against the stupidity of humanity, I decided the world would benefit more from a picture of my baby boy.
This is from shortly after he began smiling socially -about two months ago, I believe. In all the chaos outside our walls, he is my motivation to stay well and my reminder to be happy with who and what we have in life.
—————-
And here’s my writings from the past week:
Wednesday, April 1: Thought about where things are going in “Let’s Make Some Order in This Chaos.”
Friday, April 3: Winner of the Weekly Terribly Poetry Contest. Congratulations to Writerinretrospect!
Saturday, April 4: Announced the next Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest. The theme is a senryu about a small, innocuous animal. PLEASE ENTER!
And, an update on Coronavirus and life happenings ’round these parts.
Sunday, April 5: “How to Wake a Teenager,” in response to Carrot Ranch’s prompt.
Monday, April 6: An inspirational quote by LA, of “Waking Up on the Wrong Side of 50.”
Tuesday, April 7: “Going Postal, IV.” Poor Ron.
Wednesday, April 8: Today.
I also posted on my motherhood site. I probably ought to log in and check that sometime… Apparently, I wrote “This is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things.”
©2020 Chelsea Owens, including photo
Swirling nighttime sand pummeled and rocked the old Suburban. Sequoia made for a poor windbreak, but Clara knew that was all they’d get.
“Mama?!” little Janey cried. “Papa?!”
“I got ‘er,” Dan said, stumbling over cans, blankets, and sleeping bodies to reach their youngest.
Clara settled back against the cold car wall. She needed to think. The endless roar of haunted desert souls echoed the wails in her mind, of the dying world they’d left behind.
“So,” Dan sat next to her and laced his fingers in hers. “What next?”
Clara narrowed her gaze, resolute. “I have a plan.”
©2020 Chelsea Owens
Pictured for Carrot Ranch‘s prompt this week:
March 26, 2020, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story in which a character takes charge. Who is this character, and what situation calls for their action? It can be playful or serious, fantastical, or realistic. Go where the prompt leads!
Respond by March 31, 2020. Use the comment section… to share, read, and be social. You may leave a link, pingback, or story in the comments. If you want to be published in the weekly collection, please use the form. Rules & Guidelines.
Terrible Poetry winners will be coming soon! In the meantime, enjoy this video a former schoolmate of ours posted about love in the midst of family life:
Jakob went first, allowing their father to walk with Wil. Dr. White, with a, “Please call me with any questions,” offering of business card, and final wistful look, departed. The three remaining members of the Winters family walked down the hallway in silence.
Each time a doctor or nurse and patient came hurrying past, Wil was surprised. She saw her father, heard his solid steps. She saw her brother, heard his solid steps. Yet, she also saw herself, from a panoramic view apart from feeling. How curious, that dark-haired, serious-faced girl! Her eyes saw somewhere beyond the flurry of a busy hospital while her boot-clad feet carried her on and on.
Wil thought of her mother. Although they’d seen her body and said their goodbyes, Wil realized she still expected to find her mother alive. This was the hospital they’d visited countless times; surely they were all walking to whatever room Cynthia had been checked into. Surely they would knock, enter, and find her mother and her kind, apologetic smile. Cynthia always apologized for the trouble she’d caused, as if she and they didn’t know about her incurable and fatal condition.
Jakob reached the door to the lobby. Ah, Wil’s feelings told her, We’re leaving the hospital and heading to the apartment. She’d see Cynthia there, at home. Her mother would be resting on the couch; again, with that recognizable smile.
“How was school today, Wil?” She’d say, and sit up. “Tell me all about it.”
A tear slipped down Wil’s cheek. She heard her mother laugh, cough, recover.
“Oh, Wil. Only you could have a day like that…”
The echoes of her mother’s voice and expressions lingered in Wil’s mind as she, too, exited the hallway and entered the small waiting area beyond. She saw Jakob had stopped; to her side, her father stopped as well. All stared as a woman rose from one of the pastel couches and strode toward them.
She was not someone Wil had seen before, yet her appearance seemed familiar. Long, dark, thick hair framed a pale almond shape. As she walked toward them; locks swishing, scarf waving, arms swinging with confidence; Wil noticed the woman’s blue, stormy eyes. They locked onto Wil’s and held her gaze.
“Hello, Wilhelmina.” The woman stopped before Wil, smiling a smile very different from Cynthia’s. “I’m Guinevere Greene, your mother. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
THE END
Continued from One Hundred Seven.
©2019 Chelsea Owens
Tonight I visit Stephen Black’s blog, Fractured Faith. As I wrote in my review of his book, The Kirkwood Scott Chronicles: Skelly’s Square, I’ve known Mr. Black for a long time. We’re like those college students whose friends were friends, and found ourselves drawn to the same awkward punch bowl at those friends’ parties.
Stephen’s blog deals mostly with life issues and his observations and encouragements in dealing with them. He also promotes his book, has hosted some writing prompts, written rap-reminiscent poetry, and occasionally talks about marathons and running.
In tribute to an old friend, I give you my attempt to mimic a typical Stephen Black blog post:
This morning en route to another working day, I was surprised to see into the back garden of a house I passed. I could see into their garden because the fence and tool shed were smashed in, done for. Debris from fence and shed, scattered tools, and the churned earth bore testament to what caused the damage, but whatever vehicle had done it was long gone.
I imagined the owners of the house coming out to the same scene as me. What if they only discovered their back part in pieces that morning? Would they feel the shock and surprise I did? How would they react to this unwelcome discovery?
Sometimes in my life I’ve felt like those owners, an unwitting party to unexpected disaster. I’ve written about some. My father’s death, for example. Failing to make the time I wished for on a run. Rejection e-mails or no response to my book queries.
At those times I did not react as would be best. I stood in shock at the damage. I turned to bad habits. I turned away from my wonderful, supportive family and toward shallow friends and the world’s attention. I gave up, and even granted power to the demons of OCD to tell me how wrong I was to try. I stood in the car tyre ruts in my back garden and despaired of any positive outcome.
But the old me is someone I don’t have to be anymore. I am not he. I can look over the scattered debris of my life and choose to act, instead. I don’t need to cry over broken wood and tools when I know I can pick up the pieces and move on.
Maybe cleanup will take time. I might need assistance from loved ones. I may need to seek professional help to repair the damage, to build a new fence and shed. It might take time or a few pints of honeycomb ice cream, but I won’t be alone to solve it.
We are masters of our lives, even when we do not feel like it. We may not be able to control whether something drives through our lives and leaves us in shock, but we can control our reactions. We can control what we do next. I know we can.
Have you ever had an unexpected event take you by surprise?
What did you do to recover and rebuild your life?
——
If you enjoyed my wee tribute, head over to Stephen’s blog and drop him a ‘Follow.’ The poor guy’s only got about 11,000 followers.
Photo Credit: Image by Thomas Schink from Pixabay
©2019 Chelsea Owens
Since I was a younger, smaller, Chelsea, I’ve loved autumn and winter. Perhaps this is why my favorite holidays have always been the autumn and winter varieties: Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas.
In truth, my affinity for the first and last were likely tied to what I received at each.
Still, that love has persisted into adulthood. When the air outside turns cold enough to nip, a piece inside me stirs awake. I’m a reverse-hibernation animal, stretching and standing -even jumping!- when the first snowflakes fall. I associate the drop in temperature with coloring leaves, jack o’lanterns, and the excitement of trick-or-treating.
Once October passes, my memories turn to the distinct taste of a turkey meal and a thousand side dishes. I remember pies as well: pumpkin, pecan, apple, cherry, banana cream. I love them all! As we gather up the Halloween decorations and prepare to host family, I also look forward to all the loved ones I will talk to and spend time with.
Then, of course, comes Christmas. I hate the commercialism of Christmas, beginning with the first trees the stores put up in July and ending with the children’s over-hypered aftermath late Christmas morning. The spirit and feeling of the holiday, however, are what I love the most. Every year, I try to do something to bring happiness in service -the true meaning of Christmas.
Besides its spirit, I also love seeing everyone think of everyone else. My neighbors give each other presents. Most businesses decorate their fronts. We have tradition, and love, and even more time with family.
Today, Mother Nature finally accepted that it’s October. Wind and chill forewarned of her incoming wrath, followed by a severe temperature drop and even a little snow. I stood in the flurry, barefoot and smiling, as the tiny white particles swirled around me in our porch lights.
Autumn is here. Winter is coming. I’m so excited for what they will bring!
Are you? Is your favorite holiday one of mine, or do you prefer another? What do you love best about your favorite holiday?
—————-
Here’s what I wrote this last while:
Wednesday, October 2: Wrote “Have We a Core Personality?”
Thursday, October 3: Nothing.
Friday, October 4: Distracted everyone with some funny onesies for babies.
Also, announced the winner of the Weekly Terribly Poetry Contest. Congratulations to The Abject Muse! Again!
Saturday, October 5: Introduced the 46th Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest. The theme is a spell, a witch’s brew, an incantation, etc. PLEASE ENTER!
Sunday, October 6: Shared Carrot Ranch‘s Rodeo contest. Charli will be posting a new contest each week, so enter one of them!
Monday, October 7: An inspirational quote by C.S. Lewis.
Tuesday, October 8: “Wilhelmina Winters, One Hundred Seven.” Next week will be the final, final, final, final post for Wil.
Wednesday, October 9: Today.
I also posted all last week at my motherhood site. I wrote “How Do You Dinner?,” “No Kids Allowed: The Death of the Family,” and “The Toilet Seat, a poem.”
Photo Credit: Image by Jill Wellington from Pixabay
©2019 Chelsea Owens
Wil sat. In the absence of father, brother, counselor she stared at the empty space before her. Empty wall. Empty room. Empty.
The clock hand scraped around its face. Footsteps beyond the door and wall stampeded down the corridors. The heating system bellowed. A rushing roar of thought rose in Wil’s mind and her heart drummed faster and louder and faster and louder. She raised her hands to her head to stop them -to stop all the noise trying to fill the awful emptiness.
*Clonk* *clonk* “Mina?” Rob’s voice came through the door. “Wilhelmina? You okay?”
Wil uncurled from her fetal position atop the chair. She tried to speak. Tried again. “Ye- Yes.” She thought he might not have heard, so tried a louder assent. “Yes; I’m fine.”
She heard nothing, blessed nothing, then her father cleared his throat. “Okay. Let us -” He coughed. “I’m here if –we’re here if you need us.”
The emptiness following his assurance did not fill again. Wil stared at the floor, thinking on his words. We’re here, she thought. We’re still here if you need us. A small flutter of feeling stirred deep inside, near her heart. Wil found herself able to move; rising, walking, drawing near to the bed on which her mother’s body lay.
Wil stopped and studied the form there, analyzing the beautiful, peaceful, strange woman atop the clinical bed. She looked so like Cynthia, her mother; yet, so different. The differences were not in the skin marks and swells of equipment attached and removed; but, as Wil first felt upon entering the room, in the missing aura of warmth Wil had always felt around her mother.
She took the hand nearest her. It felt limp and colder than hers. She stared at the face that once exuded happiness, patience, and near-unconditional love. Wil frowned, trying to match this shell with the mother she’d known for all her life. Looking heavenward instead, Wil whispered, “Goodbye, Mom.”
Replacing the hand and glancing at the body for the last time, Wil nodded. She turned. In sure, soft footsteps, she crossed the floor, clinked the curtain aside, and clicked open the door.
As she entered the hall, she also entered the warm embrace of both father and brother. They pulled apart and looked at each other’s faces. Each felt relief in the comfort and resolve he saw in his neighbor.
“Right,” Rob managed. “Let’s go home.”
Continued from One Hundred Six.
Keep reading to One Hundred Eight.
©2019 Chelsea Owens
chelowens.com 