Inspiration

“If you would not be forgotten as soon as you are gone, either write things worth reading or do things worth writing.”

~ Carson McCullers

Dust to dust

Entombed

Dearly departed
Unto dust thou shalt return
The circle endures

Rebecca, wife of Thomas, died January 27, 1869 at the age of 50. She is buried, surrounded by her family, in St. Michael’s Cemetery in Pensacola, FL. Her white granite gravestone is encased in the base of an old oak tree. The bole is at least 9 feet in circumference. That would mean that the tree began to grow about the same time as Rebecca’s interment. Perhaps it was planted intentionally at the same time.

The spread of the base covers her entire burial plot. I can only imagine that the roots of this majestic oak have encased her casket as snuggly as her gravestone.

5, 7, 5

Haiku Friday is hosted by Lou at LouCeeL.

Rebecca

Memorandum

A conversation

A conversation starter

Unable to interrupt the tantrum the person was throwing on the other end of the call, Gail held her phone out at arm’s length. With the other hand, she folded down three fingers, forefinger to her temple, thumb cocked, then pulled the imaginary trigger. Making the most grotesque face she could, she fell to her couch in an emotive death scene worthy of an Oscar. She was grateful she was only talking to her mother and not Skyping.

She heard the other woman take a breath and jumped at the opening.

“Where on earth have you been getting your information? No, I have not quit my job. I have also not emptied my bank account, and I’m not planning to beg on the street in rags.”

Sitting on the edge of her couch, Gail covered her face with her gun hand, listening with growing frustration. Mouthing a silent, “Oh. My. God,” she attempted another pre-emptive strike.

“Mother, it’s only a Religious Studies discussion group. He’s the discussion leader, not some doddering old fool sitting in the corner drooling on himself.”

Flinging herself into the back cushions, Gail shook the phone in both hands, trying to strangle it in effigy.

“No, Mother we are not being forced to read subversive, anti-Christian text. We are reading the NIV Bible, the very one you gave me when I graduated high school. We take the Parables of Jesus and discuss how they would apply to contemporary situations.”

She was now thrusting a pretend knife into the phone’s screen, while eeking the theme music from “Psycho.”

“You do realize I am a grown woman, right? Living on my own, paying my own bills, making my own decisions. Yes, Mother even making my own wrong decisions.

“Tell you what, you get your Esther Circle to pray for us, then your conscious will be clear when we’re all damned to hell.”

Gail listened intently to her mother’s final words.

“I love you too, Mom.”

Rule of thirds

Trifecta, a weekly one-word prompt, challenges writers to use that word in its third definition form, using no less than 33 words or no more than 333. The week’s prompt is: Fool [noun \ˈfül\ 3  a : a harmlessly deranged person or one lacking in common powers of understanding]

A string of prayers

I love the smell of antique stores. The sweet musty scent of time and mystery.

Stepping inside the old, ramshackle house I instantly felt that tingle of anticipation. There was a treasure here waiting to find me.

Wandering through the crowded rooms of cedar and mahogany furniture, and tapestry covered divans, I ran my fingers gently over the blue flowers of a china pattern, and inhaled the words captured in the leather bindings of old books.

Histories and tall tales haunted each corner, but none lured me into their story. Pulled back to the front of the store, I stood in front of a long, low jewelry cabinent. The proprietress, a women of indistinguishable age, had brilliant emerald green eyes which held me in an almost hypnotic trance.

Crystal

Before I could speak, she had brought out a black velvet lined box which held two rosaries. One a magnificent strand of lead crystal stones, accented by a large sterling silver filigree crucifix. Coiled beside it, a humble string of well-worn, wooden ebony beads and crucifix.

With reverence and awe, I picked up the crystal rosary, thumbing each bead, counting through the decades. The facets of the stones felt cold and closed to me. A beautiful icon, a religious masterpiece, but it didn’t reach out to me. I returned it to its place in the box.

I stared at the other string for several minutes before finally holding it in my hands. Instantly I felt a warmth spread through my fingers and up my arms, engulfing my chest and seeping into my heart. I felt every prayer cradled inside the beads. Prayers for eager supplicants, for couples declaring their love before man and God, for newborns fresh to the world, for the souls of the sick and dying. Prayers of joyful thanksgiving and prayers begging for forgiveness. I knew this was why I came to this store.

Ebony

The emerald-eyed woman smiled knowingly at me. Wrapping my purchase in pale blue tissue paper, she handed the packet to me, holding onto my hands for a long moment. Finally nodding her agreement, she let go, waving as I left the store.

Sitting outside the store in my car, I carefully unwrapped my rosary. Sliding through my fingers, the beads felt familiar, as if they were crafted especially for me. A sense of well-being washed over me, and I relaxed for the first time in weeks. Maybe everything would be okay after all.

Dam burst

For Story Dam, an online writing community offering weekly and monthly writing prompts. This week’s theme is: Antique store find

I own several rosaries and crucifixes, with more than two dozen in my collection. I’ve written about them before, and how even though I am a non-catholic I see them as beautiful pieces of religious art. I’m also intrigued with the notion that they are filled with heart-felt prayers. Who couldn’t benefit from more prayers?

The beast

The beast

The beast was getting bolder. No longer satisfied to strike under the shadow of night, he had begun attacking at will. Another daytime raid ended the lives of an entire family of seven, helpless to defend against his brutal might…they were all gone.

It was standing room only in the council hall. Voices were raised in anger and fear. The village couldn’t simply wait to be completely destroyed. Something had to be done, action must be taken to stop the monster.

The council chairman called for order, his gavel thundering over the shouts of the towns people. A subdued rumble continued, as the general of the army stood to address the crowd. He spoke of feeble security measures. Cautioning residents to stay indoors whenever possible, to travel in groups for safety, and to report any sighting of the beast to the nearest defense captain.

His speech was drowned out by an angry roar of disbelief. Calls for his resignation came from all sides. Demands for military force were made. Where were his men when these attacks took the lives of innocents? Counter measures were needed, this monster had to be stopped once and for all.

One lone figured walked slowly to the front of the gathering. Taking a position at the council podium, he stood quietly, his right hand raised until reluctant stillness blanketed the hall. Young and small of stature, his presence was regarded with skepticism and hesitance.

In a soft voice, he outlined a simple idea for dispatching the beast. All that as needed was a small group to join him in implementing his plan. If successfully carried out, the monster would no longer be a threat to the town. The proposal was solid and well-constructed. Though it carried a high risk to life, it was a straightforward strategy.

Cheers rang through the hall. The general clapped the would-be hero on the shoulder, and the chairman hardily shook his hand. Turning to the exuberant crowd, the general called for volunteers. Asking the strongest and bravest to step forward.

The shouting stilled, and the hall silently began to empty. Soon all who remained were the general, the council chairman and the lone figure.

The general claimed he couldn’t join in the plan, he was needed in the village. Without him the town would be lost in fear.

The chairman begged out saying he was needed to keep calm after the killing raids.

The would-be hero left the hall dejected, but determined. Gathering what he needed for his plan, he headed toward the beast’s lair.

His slight body and natural stealth worked in his favor. Silently he entered the den, and found the monster sleeping. Working quickly, he tiptoed around the giant, climbing slowly over its massive body to tie a large silver bell around his neck.

Once secured, he quietly made his way toward freedom, almost escaping before the beast awoke and found the intruder. Though dispatching the village hero with one swipe of his taloned paw, the beast could not remove the bell, his every step, every move, setting off an alarm. The sound, filtering down into the village valley announced the hero’s plan had worked. When he didn’t return, they knew he had made the ultimate sacrifice.

The beast fled, his reign of terror ended and the village safe again, the villagers gathered to honor their hero. Shame and regret haunted the residents for not stepping up and aiding their hero in his quest.

A monument was raised in the town square in his memory, a reminder to all of his service and bravery. Engraved in the stone these words:

“The strongest man upon Earth is he who stands most alone.”

Peer challenge

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Leo challenged me with “The strongest man upon Earth is he who stands most alone.” – Henrik Ibsen. Work your post around this quote. and I challenged Chaos Mandy with “You can’t run away from trouble. There ain’t no place that far. – James Baskett”

*With an appreciative nod to Æsop

Bonfire

Funeral pyre

Stick by rigid stick
A wall built around my heart
Impenetrable

True love’s red, hot heat
Passionate, tempestuous
Ignited a blaze

A bonfire lit
Funeral pyre piled high
With old hurts and pain

Raising from the ash
A new heart tempered by flame
Indestructible