Friday Flash - Drought

Something has deserted me. I no longer feel the vibration, the hum of existence. The things that once begged to be given voice have now silenced themselves. I no longer hear whispers in the rain or wind, no longer see the story behind the faces on the street, no longer understand the unimportant things. Hours pass with indifference. I have nothing but a page, a bottle, a soul – all empty.

A Penny Saved at 6S

My six sentence piece A Penny Saved is up at Six Sentences today. Thanks to Rob for his continued support and for creating the whole concept of 6S. Six sentences is a fun challenge, much more difficult than it seems.

For anyone unfamiliar with 6S, it has been named by Writer's Digest as one of the top 101 Websites for Writers. Check it out.

Writer's Block? If only!

Writer's block has quite a reputation. Word on the street is that it is the worst possible thing that can happen to a writer - the bane of a writer's existence. That's load of hooey. Writer's block can be cured quickly and easily with a treatment of long walks, good music, and little reading. Coming up with an idea is easy. Getting time to write about it is the hard part.

I once read somewhere that writers are terrible company. Writers who are working have no time to socialize, writer's who are not working are cantankerous and impatient. Then there are the writers like me, who would love to sit and work and have plenty of ideas and concepts and phrases begging to become something substantial. Unfortunately the mere gesture of placing my hands on the keyboard seems to invite interruption. There is always something that needs my immediate attention. Therefore, when I am socializing my mind is always elsewhere, usually back at my desk working out how to reword that awkward sentence. Body is present, mind is noticeably absent.

In an ideal world I would have a space of my own, a cozy little corner away from outside distractions. How nice it would be to put out the do not disturb sign, close the door and just write. When your desk sits in the wide open space between the kitchen and the family room quality writing time depends on how well you can train your family to realize that desk time means writing time.

I am a very poor obedience trainer.

The solution to this is to squeeze writing into those moments during the day when I am least likely to be distracted or interrupted. This rules out every day from 8:30 am to 9:00 pm and most weekends. I am an adaptable creature, and the voices in my head cannot be ignored, so I have become creative in order to increase my creativity.

Right now I have nine stories in various stages of completion. I am honoured to be one of the thirteen writer's taking part in Erin Cole's 13 Days of Horror. I have a story, even have a first draft completed, but it is near impossible to get the quality quiet time I need to really concentrate on getting it done.

So now I have a plan. Early mornings have become important writing time for me, and I have learned that I am very productive in the wee hours. I keep a notebook and pen on my person at all times. As a result I have pages and pages of barely legible scrawl waiting for transfer to my hard drive. The long line up at the recycling depot and the forty-five minutes of waiting around at swimming lessons have become valuable work sessions. I'll take whatever I can get.

For now, my ambitions of being a writer are squeezed into tiny moments throughout the day. It's a struggle, but you don't find time - you have to make it. One day I'll have lots of time and that space of my own. For now I'll keep sneaking away during the rinse cycle.

It took five days to write this entry.

The Darkness - #FridayFlash

It was difficult to remember how it was before The Darkness. They had always been there, or so she was told. There in their midst, working, playing. There was little to distinguish them from the rest. She hadn’t known any, of that she was sure. She would have known, somehow she would have sensed it. She heard the stories. As a child they were told around the campfire, stories of blood-thirsty predators living among them. Creatures with razor teeth made for tearing meat from bones. Monsters in all but appearance. They were only stories she thought, tales to frighten foolish children. And then it started.

For hundreds of years they lived among them and hid well the darkness inside them. Perhaps it started with one; one lone creature tired of pretending. Soon there were whispers. She would hear her brothers talking at night while she lay in bed. They heard the rumblings of discontent and they worried. She caught pieces of conversations, frightening words. It was going to happen. They couldn’t stay.

Plans were made. Her father, a carpenter, had gone to find work over the Eastern Mountains. He found work in Logan, a small town on the other side. The family would pack their belongings, only what they could carry, and take the carriage over the mountains to father. The journey would take two days.

It all happened so quickly. She and mother had been wrapping the tiny white and blue porcelain vases in paper. They had been wedding gifts and mother treasured them. They chatted as they worked, deciding what to bring and what to leave. There was no warning, no change in the air or sound to alert them. It came through the window, a young man no more than fifteen, but faster than any human, and stronger. She remembered nothing else, but the noise and the broken pieces of mother’s favourite vases, white against the crimson blood.


This is an excerpt from a much longer story that I worked on, put away, and have recently dusted off again.

Look Here - #FridayFlash

He sits quietly, hand under his jaw, eyes glazed and dreamy. He could be looking at any of the things outside the café window; a young couple embracing on the corner, bundled against the cold, a fat ginger cat strutting down the sidewalk, a plastic bag flapping in the wind, desperate to escape the grasp of a winter-bare tree. There are so many interesting little things in that outside world on which the imagination can catch and feed.

His eyes fly suddenly open, mouth briefly forming a round oh of surprise before collapsing into a grimace, breath hissing through clenched teeth. His hand clasps the place where my pointed shoe met his shin.

If there’s one thing I hate it’s being ignored.

West Coast Adventures - Gros Morne National Park

With summer coming to an end and fall weather already sneaking in among the warm days, we were eager to get to the last of our summer adventures - camping among the Long Range Mountains at Gros Morne National Park. Described by some as "Scotland on Steroids", the west coast of Newfoundland is an outdoor adventurer's dream. Kayaking through Western Brook Fjord, or hiking the eight hour trail up Gros Morne Mountain are highlights of camping on the west coast, but our adventures this trip would be much different. We were camping with the kids.



The adventure started with the eight hour drive to the park. By hour six we were hearing a lot of "are we there yet?" and "how much longer?" Thankfully the wonders of modern technology provided us with a means of keeping the kids occupied with video games and movies for most of the drive. When they tired of that we fell back on the old car trip stand-bys of I Spy and The Sign Game.



Several of the Gros Morne campsites allow campers to pre-book a site, therefore guaranteeing you a place when you arrive. We opted to camp at the Lomond site. With no pre-booking option we ran the risk of not getting a site, but the view from this campground was worth that chance. As it turned out, the traffic through this campground was slow, so we were in luck. We arrived in the late afternoon and immediately picked a site and set up camp.



Tenting in Newfoundland poses a unique challenge - getting the tent pegs into the ground. The soil here is so rocky it is difficult to get the pegs in deep enough to hold the tent in place. This campsite proved especially difficult and it took much longer than usual to get set up. After much rearranging the tent placement, several corkscrewed pegs, and some questionable word choices from Jonathan, we had everything ready and we set off to explore the area.



Lomond campground is situated directly under Killdevil Mountain which provides a breathtaking view from anywhere on the grounds. We wandered down to shore, letting the kids skip rocks on the pebbled beach. As we neared the dock, a flash of black moving over the large rocks caught my eye. A mink stood only a few feet away, curious enough to stop and give us a good look and a sniff before disappearing into a hole between the rocks.

Our walk was cut short as the sky darkened and the rumbling of thunder could be heard in the distance. We just made it back to our site when the first rain drops began to fall. For an hour and a half lightening lit up the sky and thunder echoed off the hills. The rain lasted all night but thankfully our tents were mostly waterproof. There was only a minor leak in the older of the two. I spent the night in a sleeping bag with our three year old, listening to the patter of the rain and the shuffling sound outside the tent. I had visions of a black bear barging in, but it was most likely a fox curious about the new smells.



Our plan on the first morning was to take a swim and then go for a hike on the Berry Hill trail. Just as we were leaving the campsite for our swim we had an unexpected visitor. A magnificent bull moose wandered across the meadow adjacent to our campsite. He stopped and watched us for a moment, then continued grazing before moving on into the trees. These up close glimpses of nature, of wildlife so stunning and powerful, is worth the bent tent pegs.



Camping with the kids meant that quite a few of the outdoor activities would be too difficult, but there were still many things to do that made the trip interesting for everyone. There are trails for hikers of every level. We chose two of the less strenuous trails.



The first walk was on the Berry Hill trail. This was a steep hike, but even the littlest one made it up with no problems. Stairs made the steeper areas easier to climb, and we took advantage of some of the rest stops along the way. The view from the top of the hill was magnificent; "Pine clad hills" spread as far as the eye could see, dotted with shimmering pools of blue.



The second trail we hiked was very different. The tablelands walk was flat and barren, home to rare vegetation and rugged vistas. The landscape is quite alien, and our eight-year-old commented that it looked like Mars. Tiny shrubs and bristly flowers poked defiantly through crags, offering tiny spots of colour along the barrens. I found the return trip most interesting as you could see the divide between the hills, barren rock on one side, green hills on the other. It was quite inspiring to walk along rocks that had been pushed to the surface by the collision of continents.



We took the one rainy day to do some sightseeing in nearby communities. This included a stop to see the Old Man in the Mountain, a unique formation in the side of a cliff face that resembles a man looking down toward Shellbird Island. The story goes that pirates buried a treasure on the island and the old man is a marker for that treasure.



Another stop on our rainy day was the Insectarium - a three story building dedicated to bugs of all sorts. Displays feature mounted bugs as well as live specimens including an entire level dedicated to spiders, a working bee hive, and a butterfly observatory. The kids had a fantastic time and were thrilled to have to opportunity to hold a variety of stick bugs and a hissing cockroach. Little hands gently held stick bugs and didn't flinch when tiny hooks refused to let go. Even the teenager was captivated by the many legs and antennae.



Our evenings were spent near the campsite, watching the numerous birds that perched and sang nearby. We saw an abundance of warblers, sparrows, chickadees and finches during our short stay. They woke us each morning and sang us to sleep each night. After supper we would walk to the beach for pebble throwing contests and stayed combing the shores for as long as the mosquitoes would allow, finding treasures of sea glass and driftwood pieces. Of course, no evening would be complete without a campfire complete with smores, hot dogs, and Jiffy Pop popcorn.



Gros Morne is rugged and beautiful and endlessly exhilarating. For us it was the perfect place for a family vacation. Camping here means being flexible with your plans and expecting the unexpected, but who doesn't mind a little extra adventure?

Fall

The street was littered with leaves of all colours. Nature’s confetti. Some, newly shed, floated to the ground, twirling on the breeze. Others whirled across the sidewalk, swept by the wind into a frenzied waltz.

My attention was drawn to the canopy above; some leaves like golden coins, others red like cardinal feathers, all of them whispering, whispering.

I should have kept my eyes on the brown leaves, dry and grounded. Perhaps then I would have seen the open manhole.