Ha! And I never even used it!

--This was the essay I ended up using for the literary non-fiction submission. Got an A. Eh...

I remember her fingers pressing a small pinkish cockle shell into the glue that covered the bottom third of our paper. Those fingers had always reminded me of the knotted willows down by the river--shriveled, rough, and permanently twisted in on themselves.
She had been diagnosed with early-onset arthritis at the age of twenty, and over the years her hands had been contorted so badly by the disease that when we colored together she had to use the same fat Crayolas I used in preschool. The pain it had caused her had been constant and difficult to escape. On her worst days I can remember her walking to her bedroom and opening the closet door to gaze up at the freezer bags that had been crammed full of pill bottles and tucked up on the highest shelf, but then she would just turn, smile and walk away. As far as I have ever learned, those bottles remained untouched until the very end, and over the years since my grandmother’s death I’ve often wondered what became of all the pain medications which had filled them through the course of my childhood. I have also never been truly certain of why she’d refused to take the pills, but I rather suspect that she had always known the hazards of mixing drugs and alcohol and just didn’t want to take the chance.

Alcoholism was another of her diseases that had been constant and difficult for her to escape. I don’t remember what she was like when she was drunk, but then my mother has told me in more recent years that that’s because she was never sober enough to tell the difference. Apparently, it had always been a source of heavy tension between the two of them. What I do remember about it is that her Kool-Aid had tasted horrible. Bitter and hot, it had burned my throat on the way down. She had warned me to never drink it, but I’ve always been more than a bit stubborn. She had actually been pouring me juice the morning I grabbed her cup from the table, but I had the patience of most small children and simply couldn’t force my tiny self to wait. I suppose the scent should have clued me in on the taste that would follow, but as always, pig headedness prevailed. After that day I had refused to go anywhere near Kool-Aid until I was a teenager. By then I had finally figured out that it was her drink’s vodka content that had tortured my poor tongue. I still don’t like Kool-Aid though.

 I also remember my family having to move when I was five. Before we moved, it had been my grandmother’s responsibility to walk me home from preschool every day. So, together we would wind our way down the short path through the woods across the street from the preschool, follow the dirt road to the old steel bridge that crossed the little river, and then cut through the back pasture behind our barn. One day we had stopped to rest and feed bits of bread to the catfish that swam close to the bank under the bridge. I had loved watching them come up with big, pouty lips, suck the bits into their mouths and dive back down.  As usual, my grandmother had begun spinning me a tale about the merfolk and selkie that lived in the sea and sometimes came to visit her under our “whisker fish bridge”, but that day she had grown silent while I stared into the water, hoping with each tiny ripple to meet a selkie for myself. She had fallen asleep and no matter how much I tickled her, called out or shook her, she just wouldn’t wake up for me. I’d eventually given up and walked the rest of the way alone.

After I had explained what I could to my mother, we both tore out of the house and ran back the way I’d come. My initially relieved mother had quickly become furious when we rounded the corner of the barn and saw my panicked grandmother practically running across the pasture toward us. I remember the tears had streamed down her tired face as she dropped to her knees and threw her arms around me. My mother had to help her walk back to the house. The stress my grandmother had put her damaged joints under had been more than they could take. My mother hissed and fumed and cursed the whole way.  She blamed my grandmother for passing out and decided that we should move out because grandma had become nothing but an “irresponsible drunk”. A few months later we learned she had been diagnosed with narcolepsy.

My grandmother died when I was twelve. By that time my family had permanently branded her an irresponsible alcoholic with debilitating arthritis and narcolepsy. My brother and I however, had never allowed ourselves to be so easily fooled by things like facts, and while we both eventually accepted the determinations of her doctors--the alcoholism, narcolepsy and arthritis--we always believed the accusation of irresponsibility to be an obvious misdiagnosis. In all the years of our lives she had never missed a birthday, report card day, achievement awards day, field day, Thanksgiving, Christmas or Halloween. She had always been there when we needed her, even if only in memory, and while some of my memories of her have faded into oblivion, a great many more remain, like the memory of our walks, the taste of her Kool-Aid and the small pinkish cockle shells pressed into glue.

Inspired by art...

Click here to view the inspiration!
The playful wind of a fair afternoon slid along Borexi’s back as he folded his wings tightly against his armored ribs. He let his tongue hang from a corner of his massive mouth. It flapped and slapped against the side of his head covering him in globs and droplets of thick slobber. He slowly approached the city of his new neighbors and began to dive down for a better view of the inhabitants. They were odd little creatures, small and furry. To Borexi they looked squishy. Very squishy.
They had tiny little arms and legs and circular ears that stuck out on the sides of their pointy little faces. He smiled down at them and waved his long thin arms in greeting. It was a beautiful day full of sights and smells and sounds that were all so new to him. He stretched his wings out and flapped hard to gain a bit more altitude as he prepared to fly across their tallest house. One of the little creatures stood on the rock pole high above its fellows and began waving back.
“Yes, hello down there little…whatever you ares”, he Borexi cried. What a nice lot, he thought, very welcoming indeed. Oh and look at that, they’re going to play some music.
He swooped low as the creature started beating a drum with the large mallet he had been holding in the hand that hadn’t waved. More drums were struck somewhere further down, and then more beyond that and even into the county side. The beats were steady and they echoed off the mountains where Borexi had claimed a small cavern as his new home. Oh what fun, Borexi thought as he clapped his hands excitedly, maybe they’ll throw me a welcoming party. He began a slow descent toward the great door at the front of the tall, spiky stone house, and as he closed in he heard them.
“To arms! To arms! Kill that dragon!” one screamed as it thrust a long metal toothpick into the air.
Oh no, Borexi thought. “I don’t understand. What are you doing?”
Borexi shoot back up toward the clouds as he heard the pounding of hooves on stone just above him. He looked for it. One of the furry little creatures was galloping toward him on horseback. Both were screaming. Borexi, never one to focus on anything for long, stared at the horse and tried to think of why food would be running toward him. He barely even noticed as the creature on its back flung itself toward him and barely felt the bite of the toothpick it jabbed into his neck.

--- To Be Continued ---

...naked tree in winter...

The object of the game was to begin our writing with the words: If I were a
Then, we had to randomly pick a slip of folded paper which held one of seven prompts. I got naked tree in winter.

If I were a naked tree in winter, with my slender branches trembling in the breeze, would you peer through your window at the edge of an icy dawn and still think me beautiful? I would still admire your grace if I were such a tree. My roots would hold fast to the center of your earth and each tiny twig twist and stretch to touch you once more. You could rest in the shadow of my strength, cool your hot skin against my frosted bark. And though the glory of my summer face lay half-rotted beneath the snow, I could dream you loved me still. And you'd have loved me and have kept me and have put the old axe down.

Hot Chocolate (about 6 moons old)

This one was a Smart Thinking exercise for school. The task was to take a segment of our day, write one sentence about it, and then turn that sentence into a paragraph of six or more sentences.


Starter Sentence:  I got hot chocolate and walked out to my car.

Three shiny, silver coins dropped into the pan with a hollow clinking sound. The brown paper cup with tiny, steaming coffee cups all over its sides slid down the shoot and came to rest on the metal plate behind the plexiglass door. I watched patiently while it was slowly filled with frothy hot cocoa. As the steady stream slowed to a trickle,
I slid the door to the left and retrieved my liquid relaxation. Breathing slowly, deeply, with my nose barely an inch from the lip of the cup, I made my way down the chilly hall toward the heavy double doors that opened into the parking lot. The scent wafting up and into my flaring nostrils was so delightful, it almost pained me to force the treasure laden hand out and away as I rammed my rump into the left door and shoved myself outside. I turned, glanced at the rows of vehicles littering the lot and lifted the cup to my parched lips. Stepping tentatively forward I took a small sip of what should have been chocolaty goodness. My lips twisted in agony, my poor tongue contorting with disgust. Stepping over to the grassy knoll, I tilted the cup and set free the offending drink. As I looked up, I noticed a guy staring at me. "I don't recommend the hot chocolate today," I said and headed toward my waiting car. –Abigail Morris

Storytellers Stone (also about a year old)

The small group of exhausted villagers gazed at the man in the mist. Though their village had been destroyed by ruthless invaders and they had been traveling for more than a month with little food, you could still see hope shinning like saphires in their moonlit eyes.
Their wise woman had died on the first night of their journey, but as she lay, wheezing and coughing blood, she had told them of her vision. She had seen the evil men coming, the village burning, the long journey and it's destination.

"You will go east", she had whispered, "to a high mountain and in the valley you will find a cloaked man. You will follow him and he will lead you home."

The displaced people had heeded her every word and made the long trip east. Now, here was a cloaked figure in the mist of the valley below the high, dark peaks of a foreign mountain. He beckoned to them and they followed.

They followed him to a large stone jutting from a shallow stream.

The stone held their gaze almost as much as the stranger had. It was slightly higher than a their tallest man and covered in smooth, slick moss and lichen. The larger portion seemed almost perched atop the sloping base and the midnight moon gave it an almost magical glow.

They watched in silence as the figure stepped on to the stones glistening bottom ridge and leaned his back comfortably against its sloping top. He reached up with a pale hand, pulled the hood from his shaggy white hair and slowly licked his shadowy lips.

"I found this sanctuary when I was but a boy." He began, his voice raspy with age. "My parents had been killed and I had traveled to many villages along the way, seeking food, shelter and comfort. The people I met were not kind."

Several heads bobbed in agreement.

"They had no place for me, no room, no food and above all no interest in hearing my story. It was the same at each place, my story did not matter, my life did not matter. It did not take me long to simply give up. The only people who had cared for me were gone and others were too occupied with themselves. And so I began walking east. I knew then that life had abandoned me and death it seemed also did not want me. Starved to the bone and exhausted I finally arrived in this valley. I was spellbound by the way the moon lent her beauty and the sun her loving grace to this place. In this place berries were plentiful, fish abundant and the wildlife tame."

The stranger smiled down at them and gestured that they should look beyond their own ranks. As they did, several gasped at the sight. Animals of all sorts lay on the banks and tall grasses. Mountain lions, mice, wild sheep, rabbits, birds and more. They were calm and attentive. Their eyes focused not on the villagers, but on the thin man lounging peacefully against the stone. The villagers looked back to the man, marveling at his apparent magics. He continued.

"All was well here, but I found I was still lonely, abandoned. One night, as the cold mountain rains came and the stream began to swell, I climbed atop this old weathered stone and cried. It was then that I first noticed the magic of this place. As my tears fell upon it's smooth, carpeted surface", he patted the stone affectionately, "I began to tell my story. I began to tell the stone, the mountain, the water, and the moon. And, I began to feel better. So, I continued. I told every story I knew and made up even more. With each new story the moon glowed brighter. With every new tale more beasts came to listen. From the moment I arrived, this valley was peace, nurtured by the sun, smiled on by the moon, rhapsodized by the waters, kept company by it's creatures and protected by it's mountain. But now, with the only thing I had to give it, it became paradise. My paradise."

He gazed upon the villagers now smiling faces. Their cares washed away, and their boundless hope flowing free.

"This is my paradise, and now it shall be yours. I am old and though the magic here has kept me for many long years, my time draws near."
A muffled cry rose from valley. The beasts hung their heads and tears trickled down many of the peoples cheeks as he went on.

"You will find all you have ever needed in this place. You will find happiness and more. The valley will keep you for all your days, but, you must also keep it. You must share your stories, weave cleaver, happy and even tragic tales for her. Love her with your words and she will give you everything. You are all story tellers now. Remember this as you climb upon her ear."

He ran his white fingers along the mossy edge and rose. In silence he pulled his hood over his head and stepped down. They watched as he slowly turned and began making his way through the glassy water toward the mouth of the valley, and as he disappeared into the mist from which he had come they began looking to one another.

From deep within their circle the young son of a farmer rose with a sly grin and made his way to the stone. He did his best to position himself as the old man had and as his lips slowly parted and his first words slid past, the lost people of a dead village knew they were home.

Born of Blood (this one is about a year old)

As a child of servants I had never expected to become anything more than a servant. I could never have seen the events that brought me to this moment. As I placed my hands upon the cold stone of the low balcony the past few weeks flashed through my exhausted mind. I remembered waking from a dreamless sleep to the sound of knocking, and the king’s advisor rushing in and rousing the old man. The two of them spoke frantically and then the sound of running feet began echoing from the down the long corridor. The rest was so blurred by my anguish I could not find the defining moment, that one single moment when my life had been changed forever.


I shook myself and focused on the present. Gazing at the huge crowds of people that had gathered beneath the balcony, I shifted my weight uneasily and looked to the north, east and south. The fires were nearly out, but smoke still billowed from many of the people’s homes and businesses. Splintered planks and charcoal beams rose to meet the fringe of morning sun. Fields lay wasted. The crops that would have fed the people were torn and mangled beyond salvage, and a pile of corpses rotted beneath the broken city wall. A few random men were still hauling more bodies, as delicately as they could, to the edges of the morbid hill. The air stank of smoke, blood, maggots, filth, and death.

As my tired eyes lit upon each offense my heart fluttered with agony, knowing what must come, what I must do now. I cleared my throat and spat the thick phlegm on the stones at my feet finding myself caught, for a moment, by how even and smooth they were, no doubt having been worn down by the slow, troubled tread of many kings who had come before. I let my eyes trail from them, up along the gnarled twists of thin brown vines that clung with tiny fingers to the crevices between the stones and, finally, to the masses of people waiting for my words. They looked so tired and dirty, worn as I had been by the past weeks of labor and feud.

The enemies had poured in by the thousands, and we had felled nearly all of them. The few who survived fled, all but the small clump which now stood, staring up at me from the front of my people. The deepest sorrow flowed through me as they watched my every tiny move, their eyes searching mine, pleading with me to show them mercy. I was the son of servants. I was the commoner. I was the only one who could save them, change their fates. My eyes rested on the smallest of them. She was just a child, maybe four years old, innocent. I wanted so much to spare her. She was not guilty of her father’s crimes. She had not brought the invaders to our gates. She had not plunged a knife between the king’s ribs. She had not betrayed her father.

The citizens began to grow restless, uncertain of my hesitation. They began muttering and milling about. Some still gripped the blood stained weapons which had won us our fight. My mind slammed back to the day after the enemies had first breached the gates. In the hopelessness and fear that followed the invasion the people had looked to me, because I felt none. It was my anger and the disregard for my own life that had elevated me to this station in mere weeks. Now I would have to finish the fight to keep it.

I stared down at the five prisoners before me. Tears streamed down the women’s faces, panic flooded the princes’ eyes, and the child. The child was calmly looping her thin, little fingers through the heavy chains that bound her to her parents. Slowly I released the stones that had given me comfort in their firm support and drew myself to full height. I would never fight for this again, I would remove all question. Lifting my right arm and clenching my fist until my fingernails had dug in far enough to draw blood, I stretched out my thumb. As the crowd grew silent, still, I slid the now bloodied digit across my throat, from one ear to the other.

Five axes whispered in the chill, and little more than dull thuds quickly answered back. The people cheered, chains clanked as they fell, and then, silence. An icy shiver rippled down my spine. I knew I would remember her always, her smiling face, her sweet laughter, the way she always tugged on the shirt of the servant who had slept on her grandfather’s floor when she had wanted the boy to smile, and now, the scent of her fresh young blood mixed with the morning dew. Fate was cruel, and I was now the one true king.

Well, here's the finished product...or nearly finished at any rate...

I had sat there in quiet contemplation while my fellow creative writing students worked with what bits of inspiration were playing across their minds. We were supposed to have been drawing upon our memories of days gone by to form lists of possibilities from which we were to write some muse-driven, brilliantly uninspired, or at least reasonably passable bit of a manuscript that would be due at the beginning of our next session. Sadly, as I stared at the pencil gripped tightly between my immobile fingertips, I could dredge precious little from the muck of my own mind.
Unlike those studious individuals around me, my own memories seemed to rest quite peacefully under mountains of thick dust, fragmented with age and well hidden. I generally prefer to regard them as the gems of my existence cloaked in the dust of days. As such, I have often found myself going on great mental expeditions with my hammers and chisels always at the ready, but only coming home with the moldy and broken remains of what once might have been a remarkable experience.


With pen and paper or monitor and keyboard I can usually set about the arduous task of reviving those splintered moments, so carefully exhumed. I can even work tirelessly on its creation, like one of those tiny, industrious ants that march ever on in its role as hunter and gatherer. But, alas, once a manuscript made of such bother and fuss has finally reached completion, I always discover it bears more of a resemblance to fiction than fact. The facts are so few and so fragmented by disuse that I tend to resort, without realizing it, to coating them with the glue of an all too eager imagination. So it has played out on many a day, and this one was no different.

As part of the grand project we, my few fellow writers and I, had banded together to discuss what we had included on our lists, those semi-random memories we each were considering cornering for the piece. Glancing at my pitifully white paper, I realized with a twinge of guilt, that my list seemed more than a little half-starved. Poor thing. I forced a smile as I focused on the two unlucky ladies I had been thrust upon. As we sat looking from one to another, our collective silence screamed so loudly that our instructor had almost immediately voiced his second thoughts at our grouping.

Rather than be separated into just as uneasy another grouping, I launched into some sort of a ramble that I am quite glad to have already had buried in the very back edge of my memory. The ploy had worked of course, and our three member cluster of mad sprites had been able to drive past the gate keeper and on into the forest of our own personal yores. From those dark spaces of memories flecked with silvery light we emerged mostly unscathed, I, the Lady Bones and the Timorous Pixie.

The details of my own doings that day are, as always, almost entirely lost to me, but oh the stories I could write from the memories of my momentary companions. Perhaps one day I will pull their tales from the best kept and best stocked shelves of my mind. They are there with millions of others, all fantastic legends just waiting to be born of a mind that is so well lit with the vibrant violet flames of imagination. Perhaps one day I will make room for my own memories here, my own terrific tales, but for now the shadows and dust of the pits of time can keep them and their mundane truths.

Procrastinating...again

So, I've created this blog because my Creative Writing Instructor suggested it. It was a decent way to kill time I suppose. That being said, I still prefer Live Journal.

Anyway, I've been trying to force myself to finish our assignment on literary nonfiction. A great humbug I say! Well, I may finish it, but it'll be no damn good. I don't write about me!!!