Curiosity

An interesting, amusing, or startling photograph

has the power to spark creativity

and arouse the writer within.

 Source

The village was silent, a dusty silence that floated in the air.  We could breathe in the silence and feel the fear.

So many trucks had driven through here in years past.  Those trucks brought guns and ended in screaming.  Then the silence when they left was profound and devastating.

Our truck brought food, clothing, and people.  These people carried medical supplies and they brought the hope through Christ in the Bibles they had packed.

As we stood around the truck and the translator spoke to the village, a curtain cracked open, just a little.

Then a little face peered through.  Brown eyes examined us, questioned our purpose.

Then those sweet little child eyes opened wide.

There was a hint of a smile.

Hope.

See*Photo*Write

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Sipping her tea as she watched Cameron with his friends, Sharon remembered every word she and her teenage son had exchanged that morning.  They were bitter words, angry words.

Sharon watched her son laugh with boys just like him, and wondered if they had also fought with their mothers that morning.  The boys erupted into an impromptu football game, showing off their prowess.  ‘Almost men, still little boys,’ Sharon grimaced as one boy hit the ground with a loud grunt.

Jake came into the kitchen from the garage, and wrapped his arms around her.  “Whatcha doin’?” he growled into her ear.  Then he looked out the window.  Jake laughed when Cameron leaped high to catch a bad throw, and landed gracefully.

“Oh, just watching our son.  You hear the fight this morning?”  Sharon walked to the range where a big pot of chili was simmering.  The cornbread in the oven was almost done.

“Oh, yeah, I heard it.  The neighbors probably heard it, too.”

Sharon sighed.  “Oh, Jake.  I am just so scared for him.  He is too young for this football camp…and I know, I know.  It’s his chance for a college scholarship.  But he is so young, so impressionable.”  She stirred the chili, and pulled the steaming hot cornbread from the oven.  “How do we know he will be okay?  That he won’t be pulled into…bad habits.  Ya’ know?”

Jake heard her.  Without a word, he took down a framed photo from the wall.  “I know, because of this.”  He held out the photo.  “This was taken when we were at a Father/Son Church Camp.  He found Christ that year, and hasn’t taken his eyes off God since then.”

Sharon took the photo, and looked at her two men.  Both loved God, and were loved by God.  “God will keep Cameron in His Hands…”  She hummed the old tune.  “Hey, call the boys in for supper.  They must be starved by now.” 

Sharon set the photo on the table, right in front of Cameron’s place.  ‘It’s a great conversation piece’ she thought, as the boys rumbled into the kitchen.

Samuel vs. Ginger

Thanks Pam and Dawn! See*Photo*Write

Heavy rain pelted the Old Church door and Samuel coughed.  It was a wet cough followed by yellow goo from his nose.  Misery was running high.

The Mommy had cleaned him up, wiping his nose again.  ‘Just let it flow, woman!’  Samuel had already found the sofa and chairs useful enough. 

The doorbell rang, and Aunt Tammy came whooshing through the door.  An irritatingly cheerful woman, “Oh, whittle Sammie Whammy has duh sniffuls?” as she scooped him up.  “Oh, who’s duh cutest…” 

Samuel let loose with a full-bodied sneeze right into her open mouth.  ‘Just for you, Tammy Whammy!’

The Mommy carried in a gift from Tammy’s car:  a round fish bowl with a deep-red fish swirling around, its fins fluttering in clear water.  Setting it on the table, she wiped Samuel’s nose again and took him from the retching Aunt Tammy.

Putting Samuel down by the table, the Mommy called, “Here’s some tea!”  Tammy stumbled, retching all the way to the kitchen, leaving Samuel.  Eye level with the fish bowl, Samuel considered it.

Ginger-the-old-fat-tabby appeared on a chair next to Samuel.  Their eyes met, thoughts were exchanged, and challenges made.  Who is faster?  Who is better?  Who will win this battle?

Samuel saw only one way. Giving it his all, Samuel screamed and cried, “Whaaaa!  Mommmmmmammmmmmaaa…”

The Mommy came, saw the crying child pointing at the cat, and grabbed the Ginger.  She scolded the old cat all the way to the front door.  Ginger and Samuel exchanged looks.  ‘So this is the way it is to be,’ Ginger glared through slitted eyes.

Time enough.  Just time enough.  Samuel grabbed the fish bowl between snotty hands, pulling it to the edge.  ‘Be free, my friend.  Be free.’  The bowl dropped.

Samuel Returns

Time passes, and Samuel found himself in a high chair with a small cake on the tray.  Two candles had been lit, and he was surrounded by adults singing with silly smiles on their faces.  'Okay, fine,' he thought. 

Samuel blew out the candles and obliged his worshipers by squishing the cake beyond recognition.  When Grammie came close, he lobbed a big chunk straight at her.  'In your face, Grammie! Heh, heh!'

The Mommy then scooped Samuel up and took him to the master bathroom for a bath. She stripped him naked and hosed him down.  After the Mommy dried him off, she introduced him to ‘pull-ups’.  He knew what they were, sure.  Easy on, easy off.  'Heh, heh.'

The phone rang.  The Mommy answered it, leaving Samuel to roam around the bedroom.  Now very mobile, Samuel could get up a good head of steam when he wanted. 

That was when he saw the bed.  'A tree?  In here?' He wondered.  Walking around and eyeballing the brown posts and brown leaves, Samuel thought a bit.

Easy on, Easy off.  Samuel went to one post, took perfect aim, and watered it with yellow water.  He watered it soundly.  'Drink deep, tree.  Drink deep!'

The Mommy screamed.  Yanking up his ‘pull-ups’, she scolded him.

'Dammit, woman!'  He eyed her coldly.  'It needs fertilizer, too!'

I want to express thanks to Pam and Dawn who weekly discover awesome photos and post them for writing prompts.  I would love this bed.

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Who the heck is Samuel?  Go to:
Just who the heck is Samuel? 

The Waiting Bride

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Dorothy had seen the phantom bride of Bog’s Creek many times.  She was only six when she had skipped towards the creek, seeing the shimmering white form with lighted candles in a silver candelabra.  “Whatcha doin’?”  Dorothy had called.  The bride had disappeared in a mist.

Over the years, Dorothy had called to her.  The bride would hesitate for just a second.  Then she began to turn her head ever so slightly.

Each time, the bride remained just a little longer, turning her head just a bit more.  The candles flickered and glowed.

When Dorothy was almost 20, she again went to Bog’s Creek.  Twisting and turning the diamond ring on her finger, Dorothy’s steps were heavy and reluctant.  The ring was heavy, a burden almost, and a reminder of her looming wedding.

As Dorothy stepped within arm’s reach, the phantom bride turned, looking full into Dorothy’s eyes.  The candles illuminated her pale visage.

Dorothy gasped in recognition.  “You!  Your face is my face!”

The bride gestured to the water and then held out her hand.  Hand and hand, Dorothy and the phantom bride descended into the water’s depths.

p.s.  This is the third story in the Bride stories.  It has been greatly entertaining, and challenging to look at the same photo three ways!  Susan

The Boy with a Leaf

The Leaf Boy from 1st Writes

Sitting on his booster seat at breakfast, Jeffrey watched his older sisters race around the table.  “Soccer practice!...Library book?...Algebra test…Time to go!”

 Jeffrey could not hear the rest.  Unless he was quiet, the tornado of sisters and words could take him with them.

But they did take him.  Whoosh. Jeffrey was in his car seat.  Whoosh. At daycare.  Whoosh.  Back in his car seat.  Whoosh.  In his booster seat with a snack.  The tornado of sisters and parents whirled around him.

Jeffrey went out to play where he sat on his swing.  A breeze danced, bringing him a gift: a giant leaf.  It was bigger than his head with a perfect hole for his eye. 

With the leaf on his face, he went inside at supper time.   He announced, “Jeffrey is not here.  I am his tree.  I’m here.”  He sat down in Jeffrey’s chair and waited.

His sisters and parents stared at him.  Everyone shrugged, and began talking.  They looked at the tree with side-ways eyes.

The tree ate a carrot and a piece of chicken.  At bedtime, the tree used Jeffrey’s toothbrush, put on Jeffrey’s pajamas, and went to bed.

For two days the tree did most of the things Jeffrey usually did.

At supper on the third day, the tree came in to sit on Jeffrey’s chair.  The sisters and parents were gone!   

In their places sat big trees with leaves on their faces and perfect holes for eyes. 

Well, the tree did not know what to think.  Or to do.

What would you do?

This is intended to be a children book.  But the question still stands!

If I could do it over again....

If I could do it over again...

In 1953, Henry climbed off the bus in Santa Fe, New Mexico, with a battered army duffel bag and $57.38 in his pocket.  Korea was behind him. 

‘Nothin’ and no one can tell me what to do!’ he thought, striding to the nearest bar.  ‘I am my own boss…’ as he ordered his first beer.  ‘…ain’t nobody gonna tell me what to do and when to do it…’

A few beers later, Henry trudged up the steps of the dingy slop-house hotel, and threw himself across the narrow bed.  “I am my own boss…” were his slurred words as he dropped into a dark sleep. 

The next morning and every morning after for forty years, Henry would get up and go to the factory job he found through an old army buddy.  Every night for forty years, Henry went to the same bar and the same hotel room.

The factory and the bar were his family for forty years.   

Then in year forty one, Henry coughed up blood, and was told he had two months to live.  ‘…ain’t nobody gonna tell me what to do…”  He sat down on the steps to the hotel and read the doctor’s report from the VA hospital.  ‘…ain’t nobody…’

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