Writing Challenge #8
 

I want to say welcome to the new people who have been posting as of late, as well as all the regulars - KEEP IT UP!

Special thanks to Ngdawg for giving this week's challenge!






Write using whatever writing form you wish, let your minds run wild :)

If you ever have ANY ideas/thoughts/suggestions, please feel more than free to PM me - this is here for ALL of us.

Never had much, Grandma Lucille and Grandpa Walt. What they did have was kids, 9 of'em, my daddy being #4. He'd tell stories of Grandpa Walt sometimes disappearing for a few weeks and Grandma left to feed 9 hungry mouths with little more than eggs and lard. "Daddy's off to do some work" was all she'd say. And Grandpa would come home, cash in his pocket, smile on his face and there'd be food again til the next time.
Daddy says they were poor in things, but rich in family. At first I thought that meant just having lots of kids, but I was wrong. His siblings were his best friends and not many people are lucky enough to have 8 best friends. They learned things you can't learn in a school-like how to get the most out of a chicken. How to share very little. How to wait your turn. And how to be a part of something bigger than yourself.
Of the nine, only one ever got into any trouble and that was Uncle Robby. Jailed at 18 for robbing a gas station. Daddy says Robby just lost his way for a while. Now Uncle Robby is a preacher, going to jails and spreading the gospel, so I guess he found his way again.
The closest brother to daddy when they were growing up was Uncle Ed. Grandma Lucille used to say they were two peas in a pod, even though there was 4 years between them. When Ed was 17, he enlisted into the Army and after a year, got sent to Vietnam. He died there, only 19 years old. Daddy says the whole town came to their house, like a parade, almost. He said Grandpa Walt never cried, but he changed after that. Daddy says Grandpa would not talk for days sometimes and to this day he hardly ever smiles.
Of the eight living siblings, only two didn't go to college, which I think is pretty good. Aunt Bernice started having babies soon as she got married at 18. I got 5 cousins just from her. And Uncle Matt is a missionary somewhere in South America. Never met him but daddy reads me letters Uncle Matt sends once or twice a year. He sounds like a nice man.
Now everyone's grown, got their own families. Most are doing pretty well and Grandma and Grandpa are pleased. I know everyone has offered to help them out, but daddy says Grandpa's got too much pride to take help, so they stay in their rundown farmhouse and do the best they can. Grandma's got sugar diabetes and gets sores on her legs, but she can still bake a mean apple pie. I love going to that old house and taking in the smells of it. It's like sniffing 50 years of love.

as I sit and stare at this photo, I realize that the future is my greatest fear. I do not wish to grow old, I do not wish to have a long and prosperous life. Every day my fear makes it way one step closer, I can only hope that it slips and falls.

Solidarity
long in life and long in love
my wishful ending

Accepting of age
Knowledge of life
Turning this page
Remebering strife
Trying to guage
The love of my wife
Closing the book
and ending my life

We never made much money, and Frannie broke her hip. But hey, we both have neat digital watches!

Looking at baby photos always brings back memories, it really is a shame that I feel I've missed out on doing so many things in the Hilbert phase of life. Growing young on the farm, life was limitless as two what could be done. Instead as I realize I will soon be looking for a womb to return to, I feel remorse.

Two thumbs up for who can guess the inspiration for this (in addition to the photo of course)..

What the hell is that box thingamajig? Dorothy, I think that young woman just stole our souls!

the wire lilly in profile across the screen door
waves below
the void between

his right hand like offering
or holding on without knowing
and being pulled toward the white frame

the relation of being photographed
to being pulled into a void

she is braced against his shoulder
she holds herself back with her cane
she looks away

the diagonal that links their hands
to the double wave
that undulates across
a surface of nothing

Grandma was sitting on the porch, feeling nostalgic for her days of youth, when she looked over at the fella sitting next to her... With a twinkle in her eye, she hitched up her skirt to reveal her pretty white lingerie... and ... taking a page out of the book of the boys of her youth -- she attemped the Yawn and STREEETTTTCCCCHHHH in hopes to grope grandpa sitting next to her...

Fade to black...

A few seconds on the porch
 

A black government car has turned onto the long driveway leading up to the farmhouse. Dust rolls behind it as it drives serenely, purposefully, up the road. The old man hears an engine approaching and he looks up, squinting to see if he recognizes the vehicle.

The man sees the shining black efficiency of the car's design -- and then, in just a few tumbling seconds, everything blurs. The sound of his only grandson's voice, the image of the young man's beaming face, the feeling of the boy's small hand as they walked down that same driveway twenty years ago, dust from the fields on their overalls. The man's chest tightens and he pleads with his eyes for the car to turn around, to have the wrong address. Anything to stop the sound of the engine turning off, the car door opening...

Soon the man's wife will see the car and understand, too. But in this one moment, his eyes have betrayed him; he is alone in his loss of gravity, in his silent clawing for memories. For those few seconds his wife is still safe in her belief that their cherished grandson is alive and well on the front. But now the old woman hears the car; she is already moving, stretching, about to shift her eyes from the porch to the driveway. Even in the man's shock he desperately wants to shield her, to stop her from knowing what he knows. But he can do nothing. In one second her eyes will focus on the car and she will add her grief to his own.

Very very sad abaya.

Quite a powerful piece.

::sniff::

Abaya, that was very good, and very sad. Although, they do seem a bit old to have lost a son to war. Their son must be in his 40's, so I'm thinking grandson? Maybe their adult son lives with them, and the car is coming to deliver the message that their grandson died in the war. Still, it's a powerful piece :)

Hmm.. I wonder what that is.. Is it a person or an animal making that cloud of dust?
“Honey, what do you think that is?”. Maybe she can tell.
“Probably some car..”
No.. That’s not a car. I can hear a rhythmical noise. A galloping horse? Maybe. Wow, this suddenly looks so shiny now that the sun is hitting it. What is that?
“Look! That's a guy on a horse! He has a suit of armor!”
She’s right.. I wish my eyesight was better. Did that guy just run out of a renaissance faire? But there aren’t any in the area. Hmmm.. Maybe some freak.

“Fine man, I have lost my companion Sancho Pancha. Have you seen him? He’s a short pudgy man, but a fine companion indeed. Except that he gets lost sometimes”
Sancho?? Isn’t that from that story… What is it called..
“That guy thinks he’s Don Juan!”
Juan? No, the other Don…
“Don Quixote, honey”
“Oh yes you’re right.. That one”
“Indeed I am Don Quixote. I see my reputation has preceded me in these lands. So have you see my Sancho?”
Stop poking me honey, I won’t get the shotgun. He just seems like a weirdo, not a killer..
“No we haven’t seen him.”
“I see, noble sir. Well I must continue my search then. Farewell. And remember, 15 minutes can save you 15% or more on car insurance.”

Thanks for the kudos, cellophanedeity and mojodragon. Mojo, you're right about the age... I hadn't even thought of that! Maybe I should go back and edit "son" to be "grandson," just to make things more coherent. I'll think of somethin'... stay tuned to see what I edit. And thanks for paying attention to detail... I like that in a reader. :D

Isn't the best part of inspiration that it's only a guideline? I think you can let it slide. Then if questioned, you could suggest that the couple whithered at the news of their son! ;)

Cellophane: True, true... thank you for the reminder. But I still went back and changed it. :) It's alright, I like for little things like chronology to make sense for the reader (which applies here, since the reader can see the picture for themselves). Plus I am crazy about editing my own creative writing... there's always something to change. But I promise it will stop here! :D

Ngdawg, that's a sweet piece of writin'!! Same with all the rest of you. Nice work.

Great job everyone! I'm really glad to see so many different interpretations of this picture :)

Charlie and Cora sat on the front porch just watching another day go by. Years had passed since either of them had done anything meaningful. Neither one was much for socializing with the neighbors, not that there were many of them left in this forgotten mining town. But none of that mattered to them. They were content to spend their afternoons sitting on the porch watching the scant traffic and listening to the sounds of the impending night. Some in town said the two of them were waiting for something on that porch. Some suggested they were waiting for death, though it was said in jest many thought there was a bit of truth to the statement.

On this particular day, as Cora and Charlie sat, not saying much of anything, a slight, older gentlemen dressed in a tidy suit strode up their walk. Charlie and Cora smiled politely at the gentleman, no words passed between them. Cora, Charlie, and the gentlemen all found their way inside. First Cora, then Charlie, followed by the man dressed in the tidy suit. Once inside nobody knows what happened. What people do know is that neither Cora, nor Charlie have been seen since. Some say death did visit them that day, but nobody knows for sure. If you find the man in the tidy suit, maybe he can tell you.

one two the tatoo beats in echo's produced by paul's floorboard, nailed
no more, the underground reaches back calls forth winds the twines and pines to lie
together. a creek funnels out, the rock backs the building that was a word.
rickets and holes ales and fails, the book rests open, john or luke, dust and the rest

yes mother, right away, but what, my dear, does the leech know. 7 years in diapers
i spent 7 once, a human diaper. shit on me, if you would be so kind, that i might
confirm my existence in faith.

the filtered tincture ebbs over a rising carribean tundra, the kind that pulls salt pores
and lays desert. a forest once stood there, here rather, a windblock now. tumbleweed
time, sun dials back the day, to when time spent in days was chickedscratch. No mother,
I think I'll keep you in me today, then you will hear, i know you can - just not here.

This glare emptiness of purpose you feel it too and long to know how I kept it inside
kept it down, ground the grind, all in the grind, too coarse or thin and it goes to shit
well and it goes nonetheless. To be pingeonholed what I'd give, at least you lust.
Three toes walked off to my urn last week, following mothers knees and hips, her
ankles i keep in a locket pinned to pacemaker, her cane i fashion from my will
oak once though i think birch or bamboo already.

Old Woman Thought Bubble: "Goddamn, I wish Harold would eat me out!"

Old Man Thought Bubble: "Oh crap. She wants me to eat her out again. Is Dr. Phil on yet?"

or just that they're so old they think the govt car comes everyday

"What's that Ma? Hmm?
Huh? Who? What d'ja say?"
An old couple many years young,
and this funny game they play.

"Howdy there, friendly stranger,
kindly visiting to hear stories of old,
on this porch where our time's spent,"
the place these tales were first told.

"In my day, when I was youngin',"
the man said, forgetting the rest,
beware of lifetime's true tempo,
as it often erases memory's best.

Always walkin' uphill barefoot,
to a schoolhouse in the snow,
later generations roll their eyes,
to the fantastic stories of long ago.

"Now we ain't as young,
as we once use'ta be,"
the old man's hearing's gone,
his aging wife can barely see.

"Now, Jonathan, hush up,
'cause yer mumblin' again,
as my Pa woulda once said,
a quiet man is worth ten."

"Eh, Sarah? What's that now?"
Sarah looks over his way,
his deafness gets annoying,
her expression seemed to say.

"Sometimes, one of our sons,
visits with family in tow,
but youngin's and their energy,
for them, we move too slow."

"Both of our boys' are businessmen,
and they buy lots of nice things,
givin' us new watches or socks,
soft fingers display shiny gold rings."

"Our girls' all have forgotten,
the hardships endured of yore,
avoidin' us 'cause we embarrass,
makin' the truth easier to ignore."

A great time was had that day,
many stories they eagerly shared,
two elderly people were befriended,
by one kind stranger who cared.

In the moment the snapshot was taken,
during that unique and special day,
possessing a story all it's own,
precious words forever frozen this way.

Today, the stranger heard Sarah's news,
the picture the stranger endearly kept,
Johnathan's funeral was held last year,
last night Sarah died while she slept.

The stranger had become a loyal friend,
a vision that life's tempo is unable to erase,
strength empowered by the purity of love,
reflectively held in a kind strangers face.

And as we age and grey with time,
once a kind stranger, now I'm a friend,
friendship helps our old hearts to thrive,
so that their lessons live on without end.

Scarecrow on a wooden cross,
Blackbird in the barn...
Four hundred empty acres
that used to be my farm...

wait...that's been done, hasn't it? (sigh)

Okay...this one stumped the daylights out of me this week, so I'm gonna have to toss a thrown-together submission at it, lick my wounds, and hope for a better fire under my ass next week :(

(read: Must.....move.......on........do not obsess do not obsess do not obsess.........)

Perhaps a dash of shock value will redeem me for the time being ;)

Jasper and Hazel were brother and sister.
Ol' Jasper decided he couldn't resist her,
So Jasper, that cad, was naughty and kissed her
(The sort of a kiss between 'missus' and 'mister').

They moved far away and were secretly wed,
And scratched out a living on their small homestead.
They didn't have children because, it is said,
They couldn't afford to feed kids with two heads.

A couch on the porch and a purty screen door
Kept Jasper and Hazel from feeling too poor,
But Hazel kept dreaming about something more,
It kept her awake at night, pacing the floor.

Their folks passed away and some money came down.
She grabbed up her half, and his too, then skipped town.
He loaded his .12 gauge and, when she was found,
He peppered her shin with a number eight round.

Soon all was forgiven, but medical bills
And patches and canes and painkiller pills
Depleted the money from Mom & Pop's wills
So, soon, it was back to a life of no frills.

The moral, Wise Reader, is easy to see,
Never pick fruit from your own family tree.
And keep your inheritance locked with a key,
'Cause nothing can settle sibling rivalry.

Wow. Rainyshoes, I :love: your work...I just came from the Limerick thread and your work is incredible. You sure you're not cheatin'?? ;)

Rainyshoes and Amnesia - WOW! *me throws out yet another try *

Ohhhhh, Amnesia...if you'd only seen the two pages of tripe I was struggling with for the last three days, your question would have been "You sure you're not brain dead?" :lol:

Poetry is fun, but I'm feeling locked in a rut with it...which is why this felt a little bit like a cop out :( I was really, really trying for a dramatic free-form tale, but the only thing even remotely dramatic was that it ricocheted off the cat and bounced straight into the wastebasket when I crunched it up and surrendered.

Thank you for your nice words, and they're mucho appreciated, but I've got to say with all sincerity and no shame...your work, and many others' around here, amazes me. Seeing the way everyone bends their minds differently around the same things is very inspiring, so thanks :thumbsup:

Are you serious? We have to get back up? That was only a 20 minute break. My feet are killing me and Flo’s back is killing her. How much longer do we have to stand in front of this old house, in these lame clothes, holding that stupid pitchfork?

This aint worth the Five bucks you are paying us…

the wind and sun, will scorch the earth
the clock runs backwards, till all is left
And all is left, and all is left.
The old man and the young
Witness and testify
But there is nobody
In the sky

The sun will scorch
The wind will kill
And everything that you ever knew
Will be no longer
Time's prisoner
It finally implodes
All around you
Your skin covered in bruises
And marks, nuclear summer
The ground is hot, there is a bag
In a warehouse, 250 miles out West
With your names written on
That you'll never wear
And into the valley of the shadow of death
Rode the old man
And rode the old woman
And...
No...
No More
No More.

There comes a time, beyond age, past the point most folk give up. Don't get to see it if you got a weak constitution, so lots never get to see it. Fanny and me been through some bad times, and good ones. When Bobby was killed in '74, almost lost Fanny to the blues, she's powerful strong though.
Funny how little stuff makes all the difference when you get ready ta meet your maker, Like paintin' the house. Didn't think much about it when doin' it, but 'ol Fanny an me was closer then than ever, just paintin' and talkin'.
Guess I'm ready to go....I know Fanny is, she said as much last night. Nothin' for it now but to wait, and paint.

A sun shines, fresh air they want to meet
It was only supposed to be a short walk
a show shuffle dance of cane and feet
Back home again to find the door locked

No memory of the act and a key misplaced
So again they settle down a while to wait
A trip back in time to a day they both faced
A kiss, a ring, and a promise seal their fate

A neighbor passing by smiles at the pair
It's not the first time they've been in view
As often in love as in each other's hair
But of these time tested, there are so few

All I have left of you
Is a black and white picture;
Vintage collection,
Chipped in the corners
And curled up edges, locked away
In my scrapbook;
With a scent of rose petals.
My notions of you are radiant and lifting,
Never a dull avail, knowing that I originated
From such vanity and grandeur.
I picture your smiles to be
The most subdued of all,
Like the falling of the sun into
The extremities of the ocean.
I envision your voice to be
Ardent and wistful,
Caressing the words as you speak.
In my black and white image of you,
The sun is reflecting off the softness of your hair
And the resoluteness of you,
Quite enthralling each time
I look at you knowing that I am your creation,
And from your lineage, my heart found its beat.
Anyone can be a father,
But it takes an exceptional man to be a daddy,
And whether you are with me or not
It suits me perfectly acknowledging that
I am the child whose smiles made you content.


(Looking at the picture above definitely reminds me of my father, so here's my piece)

Everyone treats them like they're at their end, but they're still here. They're still just as alive as they always were. They still probably have something to say, so instead of analyzing, maybe we should listen, just as we always should have.

*DISCLAIMER* I wrote this before I read anything in the thread so as to keep it untainted. However, the dead son theme is also in Tecoyah's writing. Purely coincidental, but not unlikely given the tone of the photo.

******************************************

Bill looked out from his ramshackle porch at the cloud of dust moving up the road. In his lonesome chunk of Texas he had had three unexpected visitors in twenty five years. One teenage boy on a silly spiritual drive by of his state and another had been an Army Colonel, come to bring news of his sons death in an African nation.

The third had been a social worker from Bowie, looking to see if Bill and his wife were still alive. After all, Bill hadn't been in town for nearly three years at that point. A young boy from Forestburg brought Bill groceries every month though. He didn't like going into town much. Too many people and too many faces he didn't know or recognize. Besides, ever since Mary's mind had started to fade he didn't like to leave her alone or give her any stress. The social worker had left a month before and the agony of meeting an unknown entity still frustrated him.

Well. Time to face another one. The sedan pulled up in front of the porch, kicking up dust and grit. A young man stepped out, tightly gripping a leather case and looking nervous. Bill just stared while Mary listlessly looked into nothing. The young man fidgeted for a few seconds, debating on just getting back in the car and driving away. He knew Bill wouldn't mind a bit. Of course, then he would have to deal with the unholy anger of one Mrs. Cooper. Fine. He could talk.

"Mr. Martin?"

More staring. He didn't think that Bill, a worn out old seventy five on the coach, would stand six foot five. It was a little intimidating.

"My name's Douglas Kemp. Uhm, Mrs. Cooper sent me here, you know the lady from the Bowie social service center...and uh she asked me to check on your wife. She was, well you see, your wife has Alzheimer's and we...well Mrs. Cooper thought she would use a doctor. You know?"

"So she sent you?". Bill felt a little more at ease seeing the young man so flummozed.

"Yes sir..."

"Son. I think you better leave."

The young doctor shuffled his feet and looked at the sky. Then back to Bill who was standing two feet taller than him, thanks to the porch. He started to get in the sedan, feeling more than a little humiliated.

"Is that Charlie?"

Both men whipped their heads around to look at Mary.

"Charlie! It's you! Bless my heart! Your father and I have missed you so!"

Bill staggered over to the porch's couch and kneeled down next to Mary.

"Its' not Charlie, Mary. It's just a man from Bowie. He come to try and look at you..."

"Bill! Can't you recognize your own son? Charlie, come over here!"

Mary pushed herself off the couch with her cane. Kemp stood still while the sedan merrily dinged to let him know the door was open. She shuffled down the porch stairs while Bill stayed bent down by the couch.

"I always knew you'd come back Charlie. They said you was dead, but don't a Mother know? Don't she now?"

Mary wrapped her arms around Kemp's waist, her head just barely resting on his chest.

"Well doc. Can you help her?" Bill's voice rolled low and sorrowful across the porch. He was still kneeling, looking at the dusty porch floor.

"I can try and do something for her.."

"Well, go ahead then and try."

"Bill...She needs real medical care. What will she do when you die?"

Kemp looked down at the small woman grasping him tightly. She was so endearing and pitiful.

"Mom, I need to talk to you about something."

That evening Bill watched the sedan float back up the road in twilight dust. He sat back down on the coach and watched till it was gone. He opened the door and walked through the house. Past the kitchen, past the parlor, past his own bedroom. At the end of the hall he opened a dust coated doorknob. In his son's dark, unused room, Bill sat staring at the floor.

I fear the back wards
of mental hospitals

I fear prison cells

its difficult being schizophrenic.
i hide it well
pass for normal
or at least have
for all these years

It was the grey cinder blocks
that got me agitated
Almost like bricks they are
surrounding me on two sides

just that little bit
felt to me
that i was walled in

didn't know that woman
surprised when she sat next to me
but she sensed it
like some of them can
me going to pieces
while it doesn't show on my face

she was hesitant
to put her arm around me
touched my back with her elbow
a couple of times
but she knew
i needed it

might have not looked all that pleasant
when we finally embraced
but thats the watchers problem

the need for that never leaves
and it always makes things better
regardless of age
thankfully

The couple sat, content after all these years to simply pass their time on the porch. They were waiting for death, and they knew it. Yet, there was nothing wrong with that to them. Life was good, and death was just a part of that. They were happy as they sat, holding each other in their arms, just as they did in days past. Time did not change their love. It was a normal life, nothing interesting happened around here. They were happy with that. They lived in blissful ignorance of the world around them, and just did their best with the lives they were handed.

A shining light appeared on the old dirt road that passed their house. The man could not help but notice it. The light illuminated everything aorund, even in the burning mid-day sun. He sat forward and looked out with concern.

"Honey, do you see that?"

"See what dear?"

There was no need in explaining. If she didn't know, she didn't see it. Was this his end? Was this a stroke that would finally kill him? The light began to take form. He first saw wings, and felt sure his angel had come to carry him away. At first the man was comforted, but he soon saw the true form of the being in question. It was massive with six wings. A burning beast of flame that hovered over the ground.

Fear took the man as a booming voice echoed over the horizon. He heard his loving wife calling to him in panic, but he could not hear her anymore. He could only hear the divine voice of his call. It thundered through all of the lands. It seemed that all the earth echoed in response, and the man could not deny its call.

yukimura:

So often, stories of death are molded into something cheery or uplifting, or at least ambiguously hopeful. I like that you flat-out went the "creature of fire summoning to his death" route. Very nice.

Thanks analog. I was starting to worry that I over-worked the angle, so I'm glad to hear that people like reading it.