Its always helpful when you can ascribe anything you disagree with to her well known "eccentricity." And I daresay she has a disarming way of agreeing with you the second you contradict her.
Nick woke into the cold cabin.The faintest orange in the stove grate. Daylight muted behind the snow piled on the porch and still climbing toward the top sash. Lynn’s head was under her pillow. Was it possible he’d brought his bride to be up on this mountain without knowing the weather report? He liked the idea that love is blind, better than the idea that he was irresponsible. She wanted to go somewhere warm for the holiday, at least a hot tub. He convinced her wood heat and no electricity was the way to go. Yes, love is blind.
I just drafted this for the flash challenge this month. Kind of works here too!
Clear
My grandmother kept week-to-week calendars where she noted in pencil and different ink - red, green, blue - her appointments, birthdays, the weather - cold, clear; rain all day; snow! - and then as she got older and infirmer in body and mind notes about medication, pain, and bowel movements began to crowd the days and spider across the pages, dense and intricate, nearly often illegible. My back hurt all day! Two Percocet! Hard, round stool. Diarrhea midnight. The entries tapered as the end approached, sketchier and lighter. The last word she wrote, a month before she died, in faint, slight, gray pencil? Clear.
Benny let go of the balloon when he reached for the candy, and it flew off, still tied to Lia’s wrist. “Come back!” he cried, but the balloon, and Lia with it, rose through the branches and above the tree. He stuffed the candy into his mouth and began to chew, wondering what his mother would say when she found out. Would she blame him? Would she ever let him go to the park again? Would she have another child to replace Lia? Or to replace him? “Lia!” he called, but soon her shrieking was too faint to be heard.
I've been hanging out in the Midnight Vault for the past two days, so these reads like a great beginning to a Twilight Zone type story. But I am seeing those everywhere now.
A very long chapter of a family memoir I am writing. How my parents ever went from that encounter in Marseilles (they had met initially three months before on an international student camping trip in Austria and so were not strangers, if not quite friends)to getting married (and moving to Chile, no less) is an extraordinary transatlantic love story by any measure.
As the otherwise silent bus makes its way from the Marina to Chinatown, he shouts: “Are you aboard or bored?” “Am I a man or a mouse?” “Are we going or gone?” “Are we driving or dying?” “Are we autonomous or automatons?” “Am I windy or wise?” “Are you happy or horrified?” When the traffic jams: “Is this a bus or a building?” “Are we passengers or prisoners?” The driver announces that safety prohibits disembarkation into traffic. Another passenger breaks the silence: “Is this a democracy or a dictatorship?” We vote and the driver opens the door.
We have been trying to get lost for days. Despite our best efforts, we end up in familiar places. Zigzagging, taking wild rights and lefts, hoping to find ourselves in uncharted territory, all we get is more of the same. It seems that there have been walls erected to prevent us from losing our bearings and glimpsing new vistas. We do not care if the places we hope to discover are ugly or uninteresting. We are seeking the thrill of being scared, of suddenly realizing that we don’t know where we are, and we may never find our way back.
He can’t stop laughing. It made sense in his head just a moment ago, but now he can’t remember why. Everyone is looking at him. Silent and appalled. He doubles over. Convulsing. Eyes closed and cackling. He can hardly breathe. A sharp elbow hits his ribs and the laughter finally falters. He sucks hard though his nostrils, lifts his head, opens his eyes. But the reverend is staring at him with such deep concern, up there beside the casket. His wife is in the casket— his wife, not the reverend’s— and again he bursts out laughing. And laughing. And laughing.
Mary, you have transformed Monday mornings to joyful expectation, as I wait to see what treasure you share with us. As the year winds down and I know you plan to devote yourself to other projects, just know that someone will be longing for you every Monday morning.
such a sweet message, Christine. Thanks so much. I'll pause this thing at the end of the year and then will come back in some fashion. So funny that I tried to stop after one year--and you were the one who talked me into 2025! Thank you for that push. I'm so happy I had another year in me! xoxo
Mary, I love your writing and am so inspired by it. I know we will continue to be writing together somewhere somehow. I hope you are traveling to spend thanksgiving with your new grandson!
I'm counting down my 100 last words. My horoscope said: "You only have a hundred last words, then you die, so choose them carefully. And make them famous." So which words? How do I make them famous? After considerable self-reflection, I swallow hard, preparing to speak. I clear my throat. I've been counting, and now I'm down to just thirty-five words left. I've wasted seventy-four just getting to this point! What can I say in — now — only seventeen words? Eureka! I know! No need to recheck the math: my famous last words are —
She doesn’t remember how she got into his bedroom. Maybe the martinis had something to do with it. But there she is thrown onto the bed of a man 20 years older than she is whose intentions she now sees are not fatherly. He’s bigger than she is. He’ll win this battle if it comes to that. On the wall, she sees photographs of his two sons laughing at an apple picking trip, the golden retriever jumping joyfully in the frame. She manages to loosen his grip and gasp:”What would your sons think of what you’re doing right now?”
crouched behind a pile of pallets, his pulse racing. It was dark but he could hear the shouts and protests as the others were rounded up. What was happening? It had been quiet and peaceful during the night. Bill had been his usual friendly self at the evening meal. And now this; screams, running footsteps, chaos. He made himself low to the ground, terrified. A flashlight lit up the darkness. He closed his eyes. Then rough hands were grabbing him. “That’s the last one!” The truck from Bill’s Fresh Turkeys pulled out into the early morning traffic. Happy Thanksgiving.
Ellen put down the potato peeler. “You want to tell me that again?” she said quietly.
Her daughter, familiar with the tone and implications, looked away to gather her strength before returning her gaze towards her mother. Ellen had crossed her arms over her chest.
“Chad and I are going to elope.”
“You are sure?” inquired her mother.
“Oh yes.”
Ellen’s voice softened. "Usually people just do it and then tell others after the fact.”
“Oh. We didn’t know there were rules. I didn't want you to worry.”
Ellen hugged her daughter. “ Let me know when you get back.”
Yup. Digging a bit more into who Simon is. This is the result of putting my Midnight Vault submission into the hands of an editor last week. It bled rivulets of prose, but I learned so much. So I am turning to my novel with a scalpel to dig under the surface.
(And I will revise the story I submitted at some point. 🤣🤣)
Thanksgiving
Drew is not speaking to Brian.
Brian is speaking to Jack and Joanne, but not to Drew.
Margo is not speaking to Jack.
Joanne speaks to everyone.
Julia still speaks to Jack, but not easily.
Drew speaks to Margo, though he didn’t speak to her for five years.
Drew’s wife, who was once Margo’s best friend, isn’t there.
Hilda is trying to keep track of who is speaking to who.
Denise is eating her sixth donut.
Greg has to leave early for some reason.
Cousin Frank died, and everyone tries to talk about him, but no one remembers much.
Right. Happy Thanksgiving Drew, Brian, Jack, Joanne, Margo, Julia, Hilda, and Denise, and Greg. Lucky Frank.
hahahahaha!
A story told mainly in absences, plus a donut that just has you licking the sugar from your lips, delicious.
A dispassionate narrative voice but plenty of passion.
Nothing much going on, and all of life going on.
Very. Enjoyable. Indeed.
It prompts that lovely, warm feeling of 'ah, I'm being told a story by someone with a justified confidence in their craft!'
Don't we all LIVE for that?
Thank you, Niall!
And they didn't even get to politics yet!
Or white v dark meat.
ooh. poor cousin Frank. forgotten. I'm with Denise and the donuts!
I loved this Mary! What a rich scene… and characters!! Also, great pace. Reads like a poem.
Thank you, Imola!
I say Joanne, Hilda, and Denise should leave with Greg and find the nearest bar. Let the rest of them sort themelves out.
Love this one. There should be a scorecard at every place setting.
Poor old Frank.
its everything and more. Love love love
Oh, the Holidays! Buckle up.
How is it Joanne is speaking to everyone? She is either hopelessly shallow, or spiritually, very advanced.
She is very, very spiritual and also, I almost hate to say it, a touch mentally unstable in the best way possible. So everybody loves her.
Its always helpful when you can ascribe anything you disagree with to her well known "eccentricity." And I daresay she has a disarming way of agreeing with you the second you contradict her.
"Joanne: I love the pattern on this couch."
"Julia: Oh, I think it's a bit loud"
"Joanne: Isn't it though?"
It also helps that she's very, very funny. A winning combination--a bit off, very spiritual, super funny!
So good company, in other words.
right!
I'd like to think it is the latter.
Well, Mary had to slip in one redemptive character in this gathering of I'm-not-talking-to-him/her guests. I mean it is IS Thanksgiving.
Nick woke into the cold cabin.The faintest orange in the stove grate. Daylight muted behind the snow piled on the porch and still climbing toward the top sash. Lynn’s head was under her pillow. Was it possible he’d brought his bride to be up on this mountain without knowing the weather report? He liked the idea that love is blind, better than the idea that he was irresponsible. She wanted to go somewhere warm for the holiday, at least a hot tub. He convinced her wood heat and no electricity was the way to go. Yes, love is blind.
hahaha! Hope she still married him.
If she didn't freeze to death.
Trouble brewing.
Maybe.
Well, love is at least cozy.
“He liked the idea that love is blind, better than he was irresponsible.” That could say it all.
That's so romantic. Thick snow insulates from cold (relatively...), and the outside world. Snuggle in under the duvet and get to work, Nick!
So many variations on "romantic."
But that "irresponsible" part--
Well, if he didn't lay in a stock of dry firewood, that would be kind of irresponsible.
But there are too many anti-romantics around here...
Be good to think this had a happy ending, but you do worry...
I just drafted this for the flash challenge this month. Kind of works here too!
Clear
My grandmother kept week-to-week calendars where she noted in pencil and different ink - red, green, blue - her appointments, birthdays, the weather - cold, clear; rain all day; snow! - and then as she got older and infirmer in body and mind notes about medication, pain, and bowel movements began to crowd the days and spider across the pages, dense and intricate, nearly often illegible. My back hurt all day! Two Percocet! Hard, round stool. Diarrhea midnight. The entries tapered as the end approached, sketchier and lighter. The last word she wrote, a month before she died, in faint, slight, gray pencil? Clear.
I am also going to try a more conventional story.
Nice story, Polly!
Benny let go of the balloon when he reached for the candy, and it flew off, still tied to Lia’s wrist. “Come back!” he cried, but the balloon, and Lia with it, rose through the branches and above the tree. He stuffed the candy into his mouth and began to chew, wondering what his mother would say when she found out. Would she blame him? Would she ever let him go to the park again? Would she have another child to replace Lia? Or to replace him? “Lia!” he called, but soon her shrieking was too faint to be heard.
Love the pause before he calls for her.
Candy first, he's got his priorities straight.
Me too!
I've been hanging out in the Midnight Vault for the past two days, so these reads like a great beginning to a Twilight Zone type story. But I am seeing those everywhere now.
100 words, yet this works on so many levels. Great story, Masha!
Would she have another child to replace Lia? Truly the way a child would think. Very good!
I will never watch the Red Balloon with the same eyes again.
Haven't seen that one in years.
At the End of the Street
Marseille, 1951.
My mother has the name of a doctor
(who will call her ‘Madame,’ and wonder
why she takes the news so hard--
perhaps her husband does not want the child?)
She has never been to his office,
(because she has never been pregnant or married)
so she is asking a stranger for directions.
“Au coin de la rue,”
she is told, so helpfully.
She will emerge an hour later
dazed and in tears,
and will bump right into the man
who is not the father of her child
but will become mine.
Wow. What a story! Great job in only 100 words.
Ooh. This is a whole book chapter in 100 words, Mark. Well done.
A very long chapter of a family memoir I am writing. How my parents ever went from that encounter in Marseilles (they had met initially three months before on an international student camping trip in Austria and so were not strangers, if not quite friends)to getting married (and moving to Chile, no less) is an extraordinary transatlantic love story by any measure.
30-Stockton to Chinatown
As the otherwise silent bus makes its way from the Marina to Chinatown, he shouts: “Are you aboard or bored?” “Am I a man or a mouse?” “Are we going or gone?” “Are we driving or dying?” “Are we autonomous or automatons?” “Am I windy or wise?” “Are you happy or horrified?” When the traffic jams: “Is this a bus or a building?” “Are we passengers or prisoners?” The driver announces that safety prohibits disembarkation into traffic. Another passenger breaks the silence: “Is this a democracy or a dictatorship?” We vote and the driver opens the door.
"Are you abroad, or a broad?" Sorry, that's all I could think to say.
Ha! This is just great!
Ha. Great ending.
I have the urge to snap my fingers and mutter, yeah man, I dig it.
[I promised myself I'd actually write something today...Glad it's just 100 words.]
removed
I love the quiet that comes with snow. I miss that now that I live in los angeles.
Quiet or silence is such a sacred state of being, and harder and harder to find in this crazy world.
We have been trying to get lost for days. Despite our best efforts, we end up in familiar places. Zigzagging, taking wild rights and lefts, hoping to find ourselves in uncharted territory, all we get is more of the same. It seems that there have been walls erected to prevent us from losing our bearings and glimpsing new vistas. We do not care if the places we hope to discover are ugly or uninteresting. We are seeking the thrill of being scared, of suddenly realizing that we don’t know where we are, and we may never find our way back.
Nicely done. I love the truth at the center of this one.
He can’t stop laughing. It made sense in his head just a moment ago, but now he can’t remember why. Everyone is looking at him. Silent and appalled. He doubles over. Convulsing. Eyes closed and cackling. He can hardly breathe. A sharp elbow hits his ribs and the laughter finally falters. He sucks hard though his nostrils, lifts his head, opens his eyes. But the reverend is staring at him with such deep concern, up there beside the casket. His wife is in the casket— his wife, not the reverend’s— and again he bursts out laughing. And laughing. And laughing.
Sometimes I laugh when I mean to cry.
Mary, you have transformed Monday mornings to joyful expectation, as I wait to see what treasure you share with us. As the year winds down and I know you plan to devote yourself to other projects, just know that someone will be longing for you every Monday morning.
such a sweet message, Christine. Thanks so much. I'll pause this thing at the end of the year and then will come back in some fashion. So funny that I tried to stop after one year--and you were the one who talked me into 2025! Thank you for that push. I'm so happy I had another year in me! xoxo
Mary, I love your writing and am so inspired by it. I know we will continue to be writing together somewhere somehow. I hope you are traveling to spend thanksgiving with your new grandson!
Yes, to all of this!
Can't wait to see what fashion you come back in.
Long as it ain't Shein.
Never!
After looking up Shein I have to agree.
I am happy you had another year in you too! And I'm wishing you all sorts of fun both during the pause and when you return.
Thanks, Deborah!
More than one.
FAMOUS LAST WORDS
I'm counting down my 100 last words. My horoscope said: "You only have a hundred last words, then you die, so choose them carefully. And make them famous." So which words? How do I make them famous? After considerable self-reflection, I swallow hard, preparing to speak. I clear my throat. I've been counting, and now I'm down to just thirty-five words left. I've wasted seventy-four just getting to this point! What can I say in — now — only seventeen words? Eureka! I know! No need to recheck the math: my famous last words are —
We should all be so wise.
Should have used a calculator.
I write these things in google docs with the word count thing on display while typing. Easier than a calculator : )
This should be required reading for all those who speak at weddings!
Love it!
Etchings
She doesn’t remember how she got into his bedroom. Maybe the martinis had something to do with it. But there she is thrown onto the bed of a man 20 years older than she is whose intentions she now sees are not fatherly. He’s bigger than she is. He’ll win this battle if it comes to that. On the wall, she sees photographs of his two sons laughing at an apple picking trip, the golden retriever jumping joyfully in the frame. She manages to loosen his grip and gasp:”What would your sons think of what you’re doing right now?”
Oh, this one could go so many ways. I'm really, really hoping it goes in such a way that she gets out of there safely.
She does!
Phew!
Aren't those golden retrievers always the give aways.
How she got there? He said "Come up and see my etchings". No?
Moral: no Martinis.
No martinis for the last 20 years! Glad you got the Etchings joke.
Tom
crouched behind a pile of pallets, his pulse racing. It was dark but he could hear the shouts and protests as the others were rounded up. What was happening? It had been quiet and peaceful during the night. Bill had been his usual friendly self at the evening meal. And now this; screams, running footsteps, chaos. He made himself low to the ground, terrified. A flashlight lit up the darkness. He closed his eyes. Then rough hands were grabbing him. “That’s the last one!” The truck from Bill’s Fresh Turkeys pulled out into the early morning traffic. Happy Thanksgiving.
You got me! Happy Thanksgiving, John! (Sorry, Tom.)
Happy Turkey Day and safe travels Mary.
Thank you, John!
Hi Mary, I was in a rush today so could only manage 50 words. Hope that doesn't mean a fail!
In the damp dusk, I barely pick out the figure on the opposite bank. Water washes against the embankment, a monotonous beat.
A light in the background illuminates the figure, still his face is concealed below a dented hat. He is lowering a sack.
Three seperate yowls. Before the splash.
You get a half-like, Terry.
I gave you a full-like back for that half-like, John.
For such a mysterious and scary story, you get full points. Hope that figure doesn't take note of the witness across the way....
Yes. We need a witness.
Ah! Mary. You just prompted the sequel…
Yowl. Now you have 50 words to flesh this out as it were.
Oh how dark.
Oh dear, poor things.
Acceptance
Ellen put down the potato peeler. “You want to tell me that again?” she said quietly.
Her daughter, familiar with the tone and implications, looked away to gather her strength before returning her gaze towards her mother. Ellen had crossed her arms over her chest.
“Chad and I are going to elope.”
“You are sure?” inquired her mother.
“Oh yes.”
Ellen’s voice softened. "Usually people just do it and then tell others after the fact.”
“Oh. We didn’t know there were rules. I didn't want you to worry.”
Ellen hugged her daughter. “ Let me know when you get back.”
Sweet, funny, and slightly sad, all at the same time. Well done!
Sweet. In just 100 words I know so much about this mother-daughter relationship.
“Who is he talking to?” The woman pointed.
Lily shouldered past the woman and ran. Her eight-year-old brother was sitting on a log now, writing.
As Lily reached him, he stuffed pad and pencil into his pocket.
”You can’t.”
Their eyes met; his slid sideways.
”She called me a weirdo.” Simon whispered, shoulders slumped.
Lily held out her hand. Looked back at the woman who staggered 3 steps and slumped against a tree.
He relinquished the notebook to her 10-year-old authority. She tore the page to bits.
The woman pushed off the tree. Strolled down the trail.
“That was close.”
Hmmmm. I'm guessing all will be revealed when your book is done!
Yup. Digging a bit more into who Simon is. This is the result of putting my Midnight Vault submission into the hands of an editor last week. It bled rivulets of prose, but I learned so much. So I am turning to my novel with a scalpel to dig under the surface.
(And I will revise the story I submitted at some point. 🤣🤣)
I'm a sucker lately for characters with magical powers - and the fact that it's writing that makes the magic happen makes it even better.