Tag: Prompts

Letter to Writer’s Block (Marian Bron)

~ Marian Bron ~ Leave a comment

Dear Writer’s Block,

Social conventions dictate a polite opening sentence. I’d ask how you are but I don’t care. You are still here, have been for quite a long time in fact, so I know how you are. Persistent, annoying, ever-present, relentless.

It’s time we parted ways. I need the sense of accomplishment that comes with finishing a story, a chapter or even a well-written paragraph. I need to lose myself in a fictional creation, another life that isn’t mine. I need the escape.

You see the sameness of life is getting to me and you are to blame. I miss those productive two hours surrounded by books, sitting at my old secretary desk. The one I spent a summer refinishing in my teens. A desk that connects me to my youth and more stories.

To be fair, writer’s block, you aren’t completely to blame. My insecurities are part of the problem. In capital letters they scream, “YOU SUCK! YOU’RE NOT A REAL WRITER!” But I write, therefore I am. So there. I may not have the ten-thousand hours or whatever is needed to perfect a skill, however I am getting there.

Let me throw myself into a good story. Let me create. Let me cry and giggle as I write. Don’t block me with your presence. Scram, get lost, let me be.

I am a storyteller. I come from storytellers. It’s in my genes. It’s who I am.

I’d ask you to go bug someone else but I don’t wish you on anyone. Disappear, vanish. Don’t take the high road, just get lost!

Wait on second thought, I know where you can go. There’s a guy named Donald down in the U.S. that I’d like you to visit.

I’m not closing with a friendly sign off, simply,

From

Marian

A CAR NEGOTIATION FROM PERSPECTIVE OF THE CAR (Diane Chartrand)

~ Diane Chartrand ~ Leave a comment

“Hey mister, isn’t my red awesome?”

“Well, it’s nice, but a bit bright for someone my age.”

“Your age? You look to me like someone who loves to show off your car.”

“Well, yes that’s true.”

“Check out the engine. I think it sings and purrs like a kitten.”

Melvin turned the key and listened for a bit and turned back to the car. “Actually, it sounds a little rough to me.”

“Rough man! You have to be joking. I think that I’m just what you’re looking for. Smart looking, a few years older, and sounds content.”

Melvin walked around the car again. He could agree that it seemed better than all the other ones he looked at so far.

“I have one more perk for you.”

“Oh yeah, what’s that?”

“I come with an eight-track player and a CD player. Now, where else can you get that. I think all the new ones on the lot have gone to just a radio. Please say yes sir. I will always be faithful to you and never let you down.”

Melvin called over the salesperson. “I’ll take this one if I can drive it away today.”

After all the paperwork was done, Melvin climbed into the driver’s seat, turned the key, and said, “Okay sweetheart, the wheel is yours.”

Maybe in Another Life (Diane Chartrand)

~ Diane Chartrand ~ 1 Comment

As I was drifting off a thought came about. Maybe in a different life. A world appeared with a young high school girl. She was popular and smiled all the time. As I looked closer I could see that girl was me.

I was taken through her time in high school and then to university where she became a teacher. She, that girl, was me. What a wonderful happy life was happening right before my eyes.

The other me was happy, accomplished, and had so many friends. Somehow my dream cycle was now doing a comparison of the current me and the different life me. What was it trying to get me to see?

My time went back to watching a life of joy, fulfillment, and moving forward. There was love, marriage, and a couple of children now growing up in a happy environment. I felt good there and hoped that maybe that could be my life now.

How can I swap that one for the one I am in now. I did ask but no one answered any of my questions. I now knew that we could have and experience a different life but only in our dreams. The life we have is the one we have, or maybe, just maybe I can do something to make changes and fulfill myself with what I saw and experienced in that different life.

Abruptly, I jumped up in bed shaking. I took a drink of water and calmed myself now being able to remember what just happened and where it took me. The rest of the day my head kept telling me, “Do it, do it, you can do it.”

Sunday Shopping (Marian Bron)

~ Marian Bron ~ 1 Comment

No Sunday shopping. No if and or buts. No Sunday shopping period. But the chocolate cupboard was empty and I needed chocolate. To say needed was a bit dramatic but I can always blame hormones. Still, no Sunday shopping or as the expression went in the circles I grew up in: niet op Sondag. Translation is obvious: not on Sunday.

But chocolate. Nice dark rich velvety chocolate. I am geographically far enough removed from my old circle that if I slipped into the local grocery market I won’t meet anyone I know. Of course, God would know but He’s the one who gave me these hormones. Sacrilegious but I can always give the homeless man at the corner a toonie as penance.

The store was busy. Niet op Sondag wasn’t a thing in this neighbourhood. Shelves were being stocks, carts filled, cash registered rattled, grocery trolleys squeaked. The grocery store was hopping.

I quickly filled my basket with dark European chocolate, brownies for good measure, a couple of candy bars, and a jug of chocolate milk then headed for the cash register.

The lady ahead of me pulled away and I stepped ahead.

“Hello,” said the cashier. “Do you need any bags?
My reply was cut off.

“Stop what you’re doing. Give me the chocolate.” The woman behind me had her gun pointed at my heart.

Her hair was a tangled mess, stuck to a giant piece of bright pink bubble-gum mid-forehead. The pungent odor of baby vomit wafted around her. Her socks didn’t match and the plaid shirt she wore was inside out.

“Don’t mess with me,” she waved the gun. “Give it to me.” It wasn’t the loss of carefully chosen hormonal chocolate that worried me. It was the teenager behind her filming us. In an hour two hormonal women would be viral. Niet op Sonday wouldn’t be a secret anymore.

Home Left the Dog (Catherine A. Campbell)

~ Catherine Campbell ~ 1 Comment

A dog stood, motionless, in the middle of the sidewalk. A busy sidewalk, many walkers, along a road with many cars.

“Where was she?”

His head swivelled; his tail wagged gently – then drooped. He sank to the ground. It wasn’t very far because his legs were short. His long body stretched along the wet pavement.

“Where was she?”

The dog, a dachshund, had been pushed out of a car several hours ago. It had sped off down the road. He had been standing in the same spot all that time. So, she would find him.

His head sank onto his paws, his eyes closing.

Startled awake he looked straight at the toes of polished boots. So polished his nose and eyes reflected in the gleam. A hand touched his head.

“What are you doing here, buddy? No leash, no collar. Did you run away from home?”

No, home had run away from him. “Where was she?”

“Buddy, maybe you should come with me.”

Pulling his ears back, hesitating. She might come back!

“Don’t think so, buddy.”

The dog looked up at the voice, up the pressed trouser leg, the leather belt, the uniformed jacket. A kind face with a 5 o’clock shadow. The brim of a cap shielded the eyes from the setting sun.

Setting sun! Where was she? His home had run away. The day was waning. She was gone.

Gentle hands lifted him to his feet.

“Come with me, buddy. We will figure this out.”

Policeman buying a doughnut in a coffee shop (Catherine Richards)

~ Catherine Richards ~ Leave a comment

Quiet afternoons made Officer Lincolnton bored and lonely. And maybe even a bit sad. In Spark Harbour, with its population of 500 people, these dull days were often the norm and so he made his way to The Crueller Stop at exactly 3:25 in the afternoon like he did every day. 

The Crueller Stop had been the meeting place for the town for many years. Uncle Stan had opened it up on a whim in 1974 when he won $8,000 at the bingo and didn’t have any other ideas on what to do with the cash other than he wanted a doughnut and the closest place to get one was 2 hours away. Since that day, he’s perfected his doughnut recipe but the décor hasn’t changed a bit. Yellow-striped, but faded wallpaper, folding chairs and plastic tables that have somehow survived since 1974. 

Officer Lincolnton pulled up in the parking lot and noticed the black ford focus with the License plate BZW 8L2. Not from around here, he thought. Officer Lincolnton knew all the license plates and their associated owners in town. It was a fun game that the handful of local kids would play with him when they saw him, they’d yell out “Hey BYLJ 2MN!!” and Officer Lincolnton would holler back “Arnie Stevens. 235 Amber Road North!”.  

Officer Lincolnton strolled up to the front of The Crueller Stop and opened the door. 

Inside, the stranger was wearing black Doc Marten boots, a black Adidas tracksuit set and a black Stetson hat. It was a real mish-mash of fashion choices. The stranger sat at the folding chair eating a Boston Cream doughnut, a dollop of cream slowly falling out and landing smack on the plastic table. Uncle Stan was behind the counter his hands clenching the edge of the countertop and his eyes were darting back and forth from the Stranger to Officer Lincolnton. Officer Lincolnton wanted to have his double chocolate doughnut in peace. He walked slowly up to the counter, put his order in and noticed that Uncle Stan’s brow was sweating furiously, strange for someone who had never exercised a day in his life, and his knuckles were slowly getting whiter the harder he gripped that counter. 

Bartlett (Marian Bron)

~ Marian Bron ~ Leave a comment

Bartlett handed me a sword. A strange thing to be handed at eight in the morning, but then this wasn’t unusual for him. Besides, it matched the get-up he was wearing. A suit of armour. 

“I need your help,” he said. “Your family’s life depends on it.”

“My family’s?” I asked. The last communique from my mother and brother was about the chocolate covered crickets my brother was eating in Mexico. All was well in the world as far as I knew.

“Yes,” he replied. His tone suggesting that I should have expected it. “The sorcerer has cast a spell.”

He pushed past me and made his way towards the kitchen.

“Barlett,” I called trailing after him. “What are you talking about? Sorcerer?”

“Salt. Lots of it.” He grabbed the mostly full box from my pantry. “Stand still.”

He poured a circle of salt around me and tossed the empty box onto the counter.

“Don’t move until the threat has been neutralized.” He reached in and took the sword back from me. “You should be safe.”

“Isn’t a salt circle used for demons not sorcerers?”

His jaw dropped; his eyes went wide. “Right. Sorry. But it can’t hurt.”

He headed for the front door.

“Barlett,” I called after him. “What is going on? Is my mother okay? Do I have to warn my brother.”

“Too late. He—” an ominous weight added to he “—knows where they are.”

I stepped out of the salt circle. “This is ridiculous.”

It was obvious one of his role-playing games had gotten out of hand. He had slipped from reality into make believe.

“Go home Bartlett,” I ordered him. “Get some sleep.”

With a creak of a squeaky knee hinge he turned and opened the front door.

“Eek!” he shrieked.

A cloud of smoke, crackling with lightening, had settled on my front stoop. A mythical sorcerer, complete with peaked hat and midnight black robes stepped forward.“Is this the wench?” he asked the trembling Bartlett.

A Summer Trip on the Ottawa River (Madeleine Horton)

~ Madeleine Horton ~ 1 Comment

I am not a water person. Growing up on a farm in the Fifties, my experience with water was limited to the once or twice Sunday trips each summer to Port Stanley where I would venture out only far enough beyond the discouraging stones to splash a little and then float.

In my late twenties, with little water in between, two friends and I took a short camping holiday in Algonquin Park. My two friends were both experienced canoeists and parked me in the middle of the craft. I enjoyed canoeing small lakes joined by rivers. The rivers I liked best for the sense of being able to almost reach out and touch the branches of overhanging trees on either side. For the sense of being in nature, to my mind. And probably for the sense of security.

On the last day of our holiday, Elsie proposed we drive to the Ottawa area and go white water rafting. It would be the highlight of the holiday for her. Sheila in her always soft and firm voice at once said she would not go. She would happily wait for us on shore. My first impulse was to decline also. But Elsie did not want to inconvenience us both. I said I would go.

White water rafting was still rather new at that time. Elsie had heard of one outfit, probably the least expensive. I knew absolutely nothing of the different rafts used nor of the different reputations of the different companies. The company we went to turned out to be one with a reputation for being the wildest. The rafts were like large rubber dinghies with no fixed oars—a feature I was later told made for a larger, safer raft.

We were issued life jackets of a sort. I spied some helmets which were not offered and asked about wearing one. I suppose this caution came from always being required to wear a helmet when riding. I asked about having one. I was given one, with a bemused smile. No one else asked for one.

The leader for our trip was a young French Canadian, not a large man but wiry and well-muscled. He spoke little, gestured extravagantly, and used the expression “it’s a real rush, man” frequently. That perhaps should have been a warning.

We were led to to see the first set of rapids. I looked down at churning, rushing waters forced through what seemed a narrow canyon. The guide said these were the strongest rapids and  where people most often were flipped off the raft. Usually two or three per trip. With twelve trippers, the dreaded thirteen counting the guide, the odds did not sound great. We could choose not to do this part. Instead, cross a stream he pointed out, and meet the raft at a point a short distance away. My hand went up. He casually pointed to the stream some distance away and left with the group.

The stream flowed down a sharp incline. It was like a chute. Around two hundred yards from where I stood, it emptied into the river. I stood and looked down at it. .The water was crystal clear, several feet deep, and rushing. I looked across it. It did not look that wide. Perhaps three feet across. It must have been stepped over by others than me. The Guide had been offhand as he waved me towards it.

I did not make the opposite bank. I was swept away.

I remember that with absolute clarity. My life did not flash before me. I was on my back. My eyes were open. I remember seeing how crystal clear the water was above me. How far I was from the surface. I did nothing. It was so fast. I felt no pain. I made no struggle. I felt no fear. It was just sensation. Me and the clear water above me. 

I did not think then of those many in Greek mythology who sought to confound their fate, only to be forced to endure it. 

I surfaced in the river, further than I could ever swim. There were two canoes near me at once. I would not want a recording of my struggle to get into the canoe. They (I have no sense of my helpers) rowed me to the shore where the raft had pulled up. No one had flipped from the raft.

The Guide was enthusiastic in his effort to convince me to continue the trip. The rest of the rapids would be easier. He really wanted me to do it. It would be a rush.

Reader, I went. The Guide was more or less correct. Most of the rapids I do not recall. Except for one when the front of the raft went so high in the air I thought it was going to completely turn head over heels. (Would that be keel?) At the last second, the front bent forward and we continued on our way. 

Later, as my friends and I drove to find our last campsite I assessed the damage. I had lost a pair of prescription sunglasses. My left shoe had been sucked off my foot. That foot was swollen and bruised.  It was only when I was at home late the next day and looked in a mirror, that I saw a chain of large purple bruises down my spine that must have been caused by hitting rocks. I thought of my head and the helmet. A reluctant trip to a Walk-in Clinic confirmed a sprained ankle. 

Sometimes I think of the lessons I took from that experience. I wonder if they are the right ones.

Looking to the Future (Diane Chartrand)

~ Diane Chartrand ~ Leave a comment

Life has been so grim since March 2019, causing Brianna to stop dwelling on now and envision what is to come in her future.

She closes her eyes and lets her body relax, focusing on what she can see in her mind.  The first thing that comes up is the downtown core with people walking around and talking to others they meet.  No one has a mask on or standing far apart.  They at times hug or kiss.

The next thing that comes up is Brianna sitting at her computer creating a video for her next book to be published.  In the past, it was possible to go out and read portions of your book to a crowd of people or go to conventions to promote a new book. 

She sees herself signing copies of her book in several local bookstores.  The line is long and goes on forever all the way out the door, and someone said even down the street.

Tired from signing her name, she now looks further in the future to a vacation.  Water lapping on the shore and a cool drink in her hand as she watches the surfers maneuver the waves.  Yes, this is the future she wants.

Opening her eyes, Brianna now knows the direction she will be taking for the next couple of years. First, she will finish the two books already started and arrange with the local bookstores to have signing events and meet her fans.

Next, she will give herself that vacation she has always wanted to Hawaii, where she can sit on the beach with a special drink in her hand and watch everyone with joy. Then, she would visit the volcano and maybe all the other islands before going home.

Brianna can now see an ending to all that has depressed her over the past months.  Once everyone is safe and unable to transmit the virus, she will be free to have a future. Unfortunately, she has gotten to the point that the only place she can experience a future is in her mind, but it will all become real one day.

Going again to work at the library, visiting family who are far away.  That is the future she seeks, and she knows that it will all happen with a plan.  Won’t It?

She knows that planning a future is the only way to get through the now and move forward.  Pleasant thoughts, happy places are all there in the future, just to spend time with and breathe.

She knows taking precautions now will give everyone a future.  Yes, it will probably be a different one than everyone imagined a year ago, but it will be a future.

Brianna knows in her heart that everything will get better and all her visions will happen.  She just has to believe that in order to move on.  She will put everything that has happened over the past year and just focus on her future plan.

As like Brianna, we all need to look to the future and plan what we want to do or accomplish when we get there.  So everyone, pick up a notepad and start planning what you want to do in your future—Good Luck from Brianna. 

The Canoe and the Shrine(Catherine A. Campbell)

~ Catherine Campbell ~ 2 Comments

The Canoe

The garden spilled down the slope to the water’s edge. A Japanese garden oddly out of place in the less temperate Ottawa. Stone paths wound through shrubs. A gingko tree stretched up to one side, planted in memory of her son. A couple of little ponds, very little, graced the only flat spot of the property. A beautiful place, very peaceful. 

The Mississippi River flowed gently between the garden and the town on its other bank. An old canoe rested upside down, its keel battered, the paint worn away.

Anne wandered down lured by the motion of the water. She tipped the canoe over and slid it down. The sun was barely visible on the horizon. Dawn yet to come. Sleep had not and Anne was looking for solace. She clambered into the canoe. Picking up the oar she pushed out into the current. The canoe rocked gently and floated slowly along. There was no need to row – just slide the oar into the water to redirect the canoe away from shore.

The bench seat was uncomfortable, so Anne slid down into the rounded interior of the vessel. The rhythm of the water was hypnotic. She felt herself drifting off, finally, to sleep.

The canoe bumped intermittently against the shore and then continued along guided by the river. No destination in mind.

The sun rose and the surface of the water glistened with its reflection. A breeze came up and the canoe moved a little faster. Anne slept on. Oblivious.

Another boat headed up the river against the current. The boater, a young man, from several miles down-river, was actively paddling. Thinking the canoe was empty he pulled up to check it out. Seeing the inert form in the bottom of the canoe he called out. No response. He reached over into the canoe and touched Anne on the shoulder. No response. He grabbed her shoulder and shook. Now she moaned. The fog of her sleep clung to her. She had been awake for so long and desperate to rest.

The young man spoke to her gently. “You are getting close to the rapids, ma-am. You need to turn around.” Anne stared at him blankly not seeming to understand his words. “Would you like me to tow you?” he said. Seeing the tie rope at the front of the canoe he reached for it and tied it to the bench of his boat. This was going to be a tough row he thought.

“I think I know who you are”, he said. “The lady with the gardens. I have seen you walking and remember the canoe at the bottom of your hill.” Anne nodded and slowly sat up. The sun was warming the air. She had not taken a sweater or a life jacket. 

She acknowledged her saviour. No question had she hit the rapids still asleep the outcome would not have been good. Still disoriented she told him. “I think I can paddle now. Please go ahead with your morning row.” Anne picked up the oar as the young man released the canoe and headed back towards her garden. She sensed that he was going to “escort” her home and found that strangely reassuring. About the age that her son had been when he died. She felt like he had reached out and made her safe.

Pulling the canoe onto shore she waved him goodbye. A tear slid down her cheek.

The Shrine

Wiping the tears from her cheeks Anne slowly wandered up the stone steps that graced her gardens. Thyme ground cover spilled over from between the stones, soft lime green and, bruised, let off a pungent perfume. Anne shook her head trying to clear the foggy fallout from her stuporous sleep in the canoe. Maybe a green tea would help. She pushed open the side door to her bungalow, stepping directly into her kitchen. Turning on the element on her stove she filled the kettle. She scooped tea leaves into her Japanese tea pot and found a mug. As the tea steeped, she wandered into her studio. The light this early morning was soft and warming. She loved the luxury of working on her art in a natural light. Not that she had done much work for months now. The shock of the news of her son’s death had yet to dissipate – she had tried to sketch but there was no spark.

“Derek, oh, Derek.” He was going to come to visit her for her 65th birthday. She knew he was going to. And then he was dead. “I don’t believe you, Joy.” she had told her daughter-in-law. Joy had tried to ease her pain by telling her that Derek could never have made the trip. He was too ill. “No, he was going to come. I know it in my hear he was going to be here with me.”

Anne poured her tea and sat cross-legged in front of a small shrine.

The shrine had been put together piece by piece in the days after she learned of her son’s death. She had been inconsolable in her grief – keening, rocking, pacing, striking her body to share the pain she believed he must have suffered. Her daughter had come to the house to try and help. Nothing she could do or say would draw Anne out.

Looking at a copy of the last poem she had kept, that Derek had written, she moaned. The mug was too hot to hold and she set it down beside a photo of her son from before he left to go live in Dorset, before the birth of his two children, before he descended into despair and alcoholism. Long before he contracted pneumonia and died in hospital – just 24 hours after being admitted. His wife had turned him out of the house and he had lived on the streets before finally coming to terms with his drinking. He was getting better. He was getting better and he was going to visit her.

It seemed in a way that he had – just now, on the river. Anne felt a strange warmth, sense of peace. Her daughter had talked about Derek visiting her in her sleep, telling her that all would be well. He had brushed her hand, his hand calloused and rough just like it always was. 

There was a presence – a wispy presence – in the room. Anne moved over to her easel, tea in hand. Setting it down on the window ledge she picked up her charcoal and began to sketch Derek’s face. His anger, his disappointment, were gone – just his poetic, intelligent presence. Anne sighed and slowly smiled as she touched his cheek.