Resigned

Ideas brimmed just behind my eyes as I pulled my computer out of my little red bag. Setting it up, my fingers practically trembled to touch the keys once again. It had been too long. Way too long since the last time I had been able to spill my thoughts without concern, without checking my work meticulously. A sigh of relief escaped as the little cursor blinked its readiness. My hands hovered over the keys.

Yep. The ideas had fled. They didn't exist any longer. Resigned to fate, I closed the computer again and went back to my homework with sadness.

***Daily Writing Practice ***

Fall In The Orchard

Each step was painful. Arthritis had settled deep into the cracks and fissures of Richard's bones many years ago. Being on the orchard was the only life he knew and the only one he had imagined as a child. It grieved him to watch each of his children flee to a life in the big city. No matter of begging or cajoling had worked to get them to stay. With each child's refusal, he mourned the loss of the orchard as a Perry property more deeply.

Another step up put him within reach of the peaches. He picked them, two to three at a time, and then placed them gingerly into the bucket hanging from the side of the ladder. Another step and another until the good peaches had been picked and the rotten ones hung waiting for the wind to push them off the branches. As he picked he pondered which offer he should accept and what conditions he could put on it.

He took another step up. His eyes were even with the top of the tree. He didn't want to be moved from his home for the remainder of his years. He didn't think he could live among the concrete, planned parks, and carefully landscaped yards that his children preferred. He needed the feel of soil beneath his feet when he walked, the sweet aroma of the peaches in the morning, the sound of wind whipping over the tall grasses in the neighboring prairie to sing him to sleep. It would be humane to ask him to leave.

Nor did he think he could watch other people take over the operations. Big machines would be moved in and the people who helped him harvest would be moved out. He wondered if that could be a condition, at least until those families chose to leave. He'd want them replaced with other warm bodies, but knew it would be too much to ask of the modern farming companies that showed interest in his orchard. He climbed another step with little thought and found himself looking over half the orchard.

God light touched the top of each tree. It was a beautiful sight, stretching on for quite a distance. He wanted to see this blessing fall upon all his trees. he took another step, balancing precariously on the very top of the ladder. God light fell across his face, illuminating him. It was warm, comforting. Wind caressed his skin, kissing his face softly. He heard bird song more sharply without the leaves to dampen the softer undertones. Richard bowed his head, sad that his children were unlikely to ever experience such a moment.

His knees felt weak. Carefully he kneeled down, reaching his left foot out for the step. Placing his weight on the step, he stepped down. A deep exhale and a sudden slip caused him to fall. He lay, looking at the peaches swinging above him, as he bled. The orchard was all that Richard ever knew.

*** Daily Writing Practice ***

The Jester's Journey

The King and Queen would accept nothing but the best, their desire to out shine their newly won subjects higher than their senses. The subjects, he knew, would be sequestered against their will and required to pay homage with bended knee and bowed head before all their dead were laid to rest. In the midst of their mourning, it would be his job as jester to illicit smiles and laughter from the downtrodden crowd. So, he'd planned how he would end the Winter Festival at Sarah Lucia's vast garden estates with great care.

The dinner bell rang in the dark and bitter cold night as he donned his evening's attire. It was a new suit he'd had made just for the event. Two tailor's took part, each a different portion. Then, he had personally sewn those two pieces together to ensure the surprise kept.

Quietly he made his way to the stairs that lead to the narrow balcony that over looked the great room. There, he draped a banner heavily over his neck and whispered a prayer. Looking over the crowd, he heard the forced gaiety floating up to him like notes of music.

"Beautiful ladies and even prettier gents," he called clearly and loudly to the crowd below. Eyes followed the sound of his voice. He paused until all rested solely upon him. "For your evenings pleasure or displeasure," he said gesturing gallantly as he placed his feet on the narrow banister, "I invite you to take a journey with me."

Gasps echoed off the walls as he flipped over the balcony. His body dangled several feet off the floor, his neck held firmly by the noose he'd woven into the ends of the banner. A few kicks and he ceased to fight.

The banner fell limply from his body. STAND UP AND FIGHT. DEATH IS A WELCOME FREEDOM UNDER THIS REIGN, it said.

*** Daily Writing Practice ***

The Gypsies

They stood tall as they walked through the small market in the center of the town. Stares followed them, filling their path with anger, mistrust, wonder, and joy. Sylvia made her spine longer as she walked by the men ogling her slim frame and calling rude, but lucrative, offers. Her troop wouldn't find it offensive if she chose to partake provided she shared her earnings. Having the heart of a gypsy and not the soul, she continued to walk to her wagon without a backward glance.

*** Daily Writing Practice ***

Revenge

I steered the rental car into a small space in front of a hardware store, my thoughts racing through the next steps of my plan. I took a deep breath before exiting the car and then pulled my coat more snugly around me. It was 10:15 on a chilly morning in a small town off the coast of Oregon and I was on a mission. With long confident strides, I walked two blocks to a diner where I stood in front of the large plate glass window scanning the faces of the few costumers sitting at tables.

She wasn't there. I didn't expect her to be there at this hour. I didn't know her well. Really not at all anymore. We'd known each other a few brief years when I was in my twenties. Only recently had I stumbled across her again. The little information I had came from posts she'd written on websites I occasionally contributed to.

I knew a little bit though. She frequently self disclosed things about herself, perhaps without realizing it. Most likely she was walking down the cobble stone path that led from her home to the sharp sands of the bay. Sand made by the constant tearing down of rock and sea shells by blustery winds and the tides. Although I found it ironic, I was not surprised that she would chose to live near such a process.

I'd worn my fashionable, but functional, boots so I could also walk the shoreline. I didn't know if I would meet her, but my nose had begun to run and my fingers tingled in the cold. Movement would be good. I turned left and walked two more blocks before turning onto the pedestrian path that would eventually lead me to the bay area. The wind picked up, pushing back at me. Still, I walked briskly.

There were few passers-by. I studied each of them, looking for any of the tell-tale signs that I had become to know so well. I'd been walking for half-an-hour and had reached the point of the bay. Picking up a shell and pulling a thin length of ribbon from my pocket, I tied my tiny creation to a tree. She'd mentioned this tree in one of her posts. It was more beautiful than she had described. I saw the bits of decay and hopelessness she had gone on and on about in one of her posts. I watched the little shell dance in the wind. I could also see what she could not or had not. A place people came to hold onto and celebrate their hopes and dreams. I caught my tiny shell and rubbed my thumb over it's rough surface while I made my wish.

My heart beat lighter. With the wind at my back, I meandered back to the diner. It was nearing noon. My cheeks were whipped a bright red. In the warmth of the small diner, my eyes watered. A coffee mug of hot tea warmed my fingers as I chatted amiably with the waitress. We talked about the weather and history of the town. The clock said 1:00 as I finished my tea and settled my bill. As I stood to leave, she walked into the diner.

She wore her white hair short. Her deeply wrinkled skin made her look 10 years older than she really was. She carried a small notebook with her and walked with a sense of purpose. I watched her walk toward me, unaware of my presence. I took two steps, blocking her way. She dismissed me as if I were still the child in her classroom. I stepped back two steps and then raised my hand high in the air.

She hesitated a fraction of a second. It was too long. The slap rang across the diner. Having caught her largely off-guard, she fell into the counter. Her notebook and pen fell to the floor. She looked up at me, her hand instinctively covering her offended cheek. I saw a reflection of myself, 20 years younger, in her face. The shock and horror, the confusion and surprise. I smiled broadly. "Now you know how you affected me for 4 long years." Stepping past her, I walked to the door, my head held high. Nodding at the cute couple just walking in, I called to the waitress over my shoulder, "She's wrong. Breaking rules is fun."

A short vent

Okay. So hear it is. The naked, hard pressing truth. I am not a perfect writer and never will be a perfect writer. But to send a page and a half letter on how much I need to improve after reading a five page story of mine seems a bit......well, unusual. To do it repeatedly, never offering a positive remark is just cruel. I received that letter today. If it had come from a publishing company, magazine, other venue (not that I have ever submitted anything), or even someone whose opinion I trusted, I would be disheartened and ready to take action. From a stranger who appears to think he or she is God's gift to critiquing without any qualifications, well, that just puts me in a pissy mood.

I don't feel able to write anything tonight. I'm still too arrogantly argumentative.

Knight

Dark in body, cold in heart, eyes that shine as brilliant as the North star, he draws people to him. He romances shadows and the idea of danger even when neither is present. Women fall into open lover's arms, certain they are hidden by his arrival while children cower in fear, calling for their mothers to comfort them. He is an entity in and of himself.

The royal court calls for him. They ask to honor him and although he attends their call he always departs by morning, leaving their tokens behind and taking with him their vivid imaginations. He is the night.

And if he could be embodied, he would ride tall on a dark steed in a suit of pitch black with a lance as cold as deepest winter. A knight of a different sort.

*** Daily Writing Practice ***