A Story in 21 Words

Brendan Myers issued a challenge: to create a story in 21 words. Last night, my dreams were so vivid that I woke up disoriented and had no idea where I was. In the dream, I had wandered through the streets of London with a friend of mine, and ended up in a loft space filled with paintings. The windows overlooked St. Paul's cathedral, and that autumnal scent of fallen leaves and woodsmoke stayed with me for some time after I woke in this world.

Aftermath.

From Jessicat: "Describe the aftermath of a significant event, all the details and fallout, without mentioning what the event is."

This is what life must have been like thousands of years ago, she thought. Small groups of people huddling together in the dark, taking turns standing watch against the Something that might creep out of the dark. Emma prodded the fire with a long stick to redistribute the coals and a few people shifted at the sound, just barely on the other side of sleep. Pulling her hands back into her sleeves to warm them, she settled back onto her heels and continued her vigil. Rain pattered down past the open doorway, as it had done every day for the past ten months.
Ten months, two weeks, three days.
Every day began with the slim hope that the rain might stop, but most folks had long given up on ever seeing sunshine again.
Emma looked out at the roiling grey sky and tried to remember what it had looked like when it was blue. She could barely even remember that colour now... everything was in varying shades of ash and mud, now. Her left leg had begun to cramp, so she stood up and walked around their encampment. Eleven people called this space home, and it was comfortable and safe enough, though there were still occasional raiders and brutes to fend off. She made her way over to one of the openings in the wall and glanced out at what used to be her city; from twenty-three stories up, the view was almost peaceful, and the inevitable screams from ground level didn't carry upwards very well.

No Life is Ever Saved.

"Are there any cliche phrases you really can't stand? Write about one of those."
You lot aren't making it easy on me, are you? Right.
...

"You saved my life! How can I ever thank you?!"
The man brushed some broken glass from his jacket and shook his head. "No I didn't, and I'm just glad I was here to help."
Emma grabbed his arm and drew him closer. "I'm serious. If you hadn't come along when you had, I'd still be stuck in that car..."
They both turned back towards the burning wreckage behind them, which belched out a gust of black smoke as though to help prove Emma's point.
With a tight smile, he removed her fingers from his sleeve and took a step backward. "I did not save your life, I just prolonged it for a little while. You're still going to die... just not today."
Her jaw slackened a little at that pronouncement and she pulled away from him further. "What do you mean? Are... are you a psychic or something?"
"Hardly. Just firmly aware of the ephemeral nature of existence, madame."
Emma blinked. "What?"
"Ephemeral, as in fleeting. Impermanent. Temporary. Everyone currently alive will cease to be so eventually; it's just a matter of time. It could be tomorrow, or next year, or several decades from now, but the expiry date will roll around eventually. Death is an inevitability for anything that lives, from bacteria to stars... so I'm happy that I was able to extend your life for a little while longer, but please don't think that's a 'forever' thing. Appreciate what you have in the moment, with full awareness of the fact that you might never experience it again."
"That's such a horrible thing to say! I don't want to think about dying!"
"Maybe you should. Maybe everyone should, for that matter. If every single person on the planet woke up each day thinking 'hey, this could be my last day on Earth', maybe they'd spend less time behaving like self-absorbed wankers and more time appreciating everything they have. Every latte would be a transcendental experience instead of just something sucked back while preparing PowerPoint presentations. Conversations with friends might actually be sincere and engaged, rather than everyone present checking their phones every few seconds. Wouldn't people's lives have much more gravitas and purpose if they knew that they might not be around tomorrow?"
She shook her head. "I can't think about that, I'm sorry. It would just scare me and depress me too much."
He shrugged. "It's far more depressing to walk through life in a bubble of self-distraction and superficiality, instead of really living. If that's what you choose to do with your gift, I should have just left you in the car and not bothered."

Bill and Helen.

No writing prompts today, so I thought I'd revisit a couple of characters I started scribbling about a while ago. I had some ideas about them in my mind, but hadn't really decided what I wanted to do with them, or where they belonged.

Bill

It had been a long time since Bill had examined any part of his body with particular care or interest, so it was fairly uncharacteristic of him to be marvelling at the wonder of his hands at 3:32 on a Wednesday afternoon. Over the course of the last hour, he’d watched as they had changed from their standard thick pinkness to paler rose, even turning to white on the ridges that formed as they pruned in the water. The crests and hollows were tiny mountain ranges creasing all over the digits, and the longer he stayed in the bath the tighter the ridges became.
Bill mused that he finally understood why infants seemed to be so fascinated with their hands; they really are miraculous, aren’t they? Capable of so many intricate movements, comprised of skin and sinew and bone, with all those wondrous textures. From what he could see of his toes, myopic as he was, they also seemed to have undergone a similar metamorphosis, as had his elbows. He could only speculate as to the state of his scrotum, but since that part of his anatomy had not been visible to him for several years, he couldn’t confirm his imaginings about it.


Helen

Gnawing on a piece of overcooked pork chop, Bill gazed intently at the woman sitting across from him at the dinner table. A fairly attractive lady in her late fifties, Helen Ivanchuk (nee Wallace) still wore her hair in the same style she sported when she and Bill first met, nearly forty years before. He’d always disliked the hairstyle, but never had the heart to tell her so. He thought the bland, shoulder-length bob made her look rather horsey as it accentuated the gaunt length of her face, and the ash dye she used washed all the colour from her skin. Unbeknownst to him, she hated the hairstyle and had been longing to change it for years, but since her husband had complimented her coiffure once several years ago, she assumed he liked it the way it was and so had kept it the same, lest an unexpected shift in appearance alienate him further.

Snippet.

"You said that you're working on a novel... can you share a small excerpt of what you're working on?"

I'm having a hideous brain-fog of a day today so I'm taking the easy way out and going with this writing prompt, courtesy of a curious friend across the pond.

Traveling in the Between is a lot quicker than over land or by air: you just focus on where and when you want to be, and you sort of shimmer your way through various layers of existence until you pop out close to your chosen location. I did exactly that, riding the shimmer until I was just on this side of the Ever so I could make sure that I didn't interrupt anything when I stepped through. One of the main reasons why so many people are leery about spirit beings is that most of us tend to just jump out to say whatever's on our minds, and that ends up frightening bodied folks out of their wits. Ada, the woman I had come to speak to, was sitting and reading at her kitchen table, a steaming mug of something or other within easy reach. I always loved the colourful chaos of this room, with its eclectic decor and herb bundles hanging to dry in between ancient cast iron and copper pots. If I were able to smell anything in this realm, I'd probably catch whiffs of deliciousness from every corner.

"I know you're there, so you might as well just come out and say whatever it is you came to say."

If there's one great thing to be said for seers and magic folk, it's that we don't have to tiptoe around them for fear of freaking them out: they can either sense us a mile off, or had advance warning that we'd be showing up. I stepped through into her kitchen and smiled in greeting. She arced a brow and pursed her lips at me in turn.
"You again? Mighta known you'd be back 'round these parts eventually."

"Nice to see you, Miss Ada. Am I interrupting anything?"

She held up the book just long enough for me to see the rather torrid cover before plopping it down on the table. "No more than usual. I'm assuming you need something?"

(c) Catherine Winter, 2014

"Write about a chance encounter with a wild animal."

Once upon a time (which is the way that all tales begin), there was a girl who lived within an old walled garden. The garden was filled with all manner of roses and rare flowers, and was a place of immense solace and serenity.

This girl in the garden was the embodiment of kindness and gentleness. The light within her was so radiant that small animals would draw near her just to bask in its glow, and one smile from her could lighten the hearts of anyone who visited her.

Of course, every light casts a shadow of some sort, and although the girl was kind, and gracious, and luminous, one only had to look into her eyes to see the sorrow within them. It was not uncommon for her to be found curled up within a tree's roots, weeping, though she would smile through her tears if a visitor came along, and do her best to make them welcome.

A fox happened to pass through this magical little garden one day, and was startled to find the young woman sitting near the creek bed. He approached her with caution, as wild animals have long discovered that not all humans are kind, but he had never seen anyone cry before, and was curious. Her shoulders shook as she wept, and it was only when a small twig snapped beneath one of his paws that she discovered she was no longer alone.

"Good day to you, Mister Fox. My apologies - I did not hear you coming." She smiled softly and smoothed her skirts, seeming to brighten at his company.

"Why are you crying?" the he asked her. "I have travelled the land for many years, and this is one of the loveliest places I've ever visited. How could anyone experience sorrow here?"  

Wiping her eyes on the back of one hand, she held the other out to the fox and opened it to reveal a small, glowing coal.

“This is why I cry”, the girl said. “It burns me every moment of every day, and though I can pretend to forget about it for a little while, now and again, the pain eventually becomes too great and I have no choice but to curl up and weep for the agony of it.”

The fox moved a bit closer to her so he could get a better look at her hand, and noticed that there was no cord or chain binding the ember to her body.

“Why do you hold onto this coal if it causes you so much pain?” he asked. 

The girl blinked as though confused. “What do you mean? How could I possibly let go of it? It has been with me for as long as I can remember, and holds countless many memories for me. Even though it causes me great suffering, I love it, in my own way. It’s part of me—of who I am.”

Fox tilted his head inquisitively. "But if you were to drop it, it would stop burning you. As soon as you let it go, you would begin to heal."

The girl sat silently for a few minutes, tears streaming down the sides of her face. "I’ve lived with this pain for so long that I'm afraid of what might happen if I let it go. I don’t know who I would be without it."

Photo by Katerina Plotnikova 

Ghosts

"A lot of people associate Fall with ghosts. Do you?"

Although I've had several experiences with what I believe to be ghosts, I can't say that I specifically associate them with autumn. One of the most vivid memories I have of a ghostly encounter happened one January night, when I was woken by a small voice calling "hello?" repeatedly, and when I opened my eyes, I saw a little girl standing by the foot of my bed. She was in a long white nightgown, and was staring at me with an expression somewhere between curiosity and awkwardness. I said hello in turn, and she fidgeted for a moment before blurting out: "I really like pie." Not really what one would expect a spirit to say, but I replied that I liked it as well, and we had a brief exchange about our favourite kinds before she said that she had to leave, and side-stepped into somewhere else. I remember that as clearly as if it happened yesterday, and never experienced any bit of fear or discomfort about it.
Other experiences have been a bit more unnerving, but I can't say that any of them have ever frightened me.

A few years ago, I watched a show called "Ghost Hunters", in which a team of parapsychologists
—along with their pet psychics and a very jittery film crew—travelled to various destinations rumoured to be haunted and conducted a series of experiments to determine whether there are, in fact, otherworldly energies and entities around. In one of the episodes I saw, the crew went to Latvia's Karosta military prison; a cold, damp, cruel place that's said to be one of the most haunted buildings in Europe.
Within the prison's walls, The Ghost Hunters' monitors picked up several disembodied voices from cells and hallways, but the most notable one was that of a woman calling out sorrowfully. Apparently, a female visitor to the prison had taken her own life there several years ago upon finding out that her fiancé  had been executed, and she is purported to have haunted the place ever since.

These scenarios make me wonder about the echoes that certain events may leave: In almost every "ghost story", we hear about a tragic occurrence led to a person's death, and as such, their spirit/energy/what-have-you gets trapped in the place where that tragedy happened. One theory is that these entities are caught in time loops, destined to repeat the tragedy that befell them over and over again for all eternity, almost as though the intensity of that painful experience created a rift in time in which that energy was trapped.

Do the ghosts we all carry within us create miniature versions of these rifts? Those echoes of betrayal, love, heartbreak, joy, friendship, despair...  Calling to mind certain events can often throw us right back into the emotional state we were in when experiencing them, so are these events actually as fleeting as we believe them to be? Or do they cling to parts of us whether we want them to or not? They certainly seem to whisper their way through us when we least expect them to, rearing their heads and unnerving us with the sudden rushes of emotion/endorphin they induce.

If past experiences are truly ephemeral, why do we find ourselves staring down our own ghosts and demons when faced with situations that remind us of times past? Why would a snippet of music tied to the memory of a past lover cause an aching pang in the upper belly?  Why does a scent take us into the past to re-live a past moment with startling clarity? I don't know, but I've experienced it countless times and will undoubtedly do so again... sometimes with nostalgia, sometimes with a bitter trickle at the back of my throat. "This is not then", I'll remind myself. "This situation, this person, this moment, is not that other time, not that other experience"—an attempt to cling to rationality in the hope of glossing over the flicker of déja-vu that leaps forth in full colour.

Of Strangers and Ash

She danced her way down the sidewalk, face turned towards the sky as raindrops pattered the spaces between her freckles. Autumn had always been her favourite season: leaves turned from cool green to match the flame of her hair, and the wind, tinged here and there with the scent of burning maple, held a crispness as it flowed around her. It was late, past midnight at the very least, but when she met up with her friends at the little cafe down the street, conversation often flowed into the wee hours of morning. Curled up on the mismatched couches, the group of them had chittered like sparrows over pastries and bottomless cups of tea until the wait staff had cheerfully shooed them out the door. Now, walking home alone, she smiled to herself as she remembered snippets of the evening's exchanges, aglow with the energy drawn from those she adored. This late at night, there was rarely anyone around to jostle her from her reveries: just the stars keeping her company on her journey.

Halfway down the block ahead, she saw a shape near one of the street lamps and slowed her pace to take a better look before she approached. Normally she'd be wary of an unfamiliar form looming in a shadow, but strangely enough she felt no fear, here. She was unsure as to why, but she just seemed to know that there was no threat looming ahead in the half-light. The street was deserted except for her and this other being, but despite the countless ugly scenarios that would ordinarily flash through her mind in situations like these, she felt comfortable. Safe, even.

As she edged forward, the shape turned out to be a man standing perfectly still in the middle of the sidewalk. He seemed to be in his early forties, and was clad in a heavy coat that seemed to hang off his frame; he was so thin that his cheekbones strained against the skin of his face as though trying to break free of it. His mouth might have been almost a bit too wide, and there were lines around his eyes that caught the falling rain in tiny rivulets, but there was also a strange beauty to his features. She moved a bit closer to get a better look at him, and he turned towards her, suddenly aware of her presence.

 He was tall enough that she had to angle her head upwards to meet his eyes, and was startled at the intense grey gaze that met her own. They stared at each other in silence for a few minutes, and then he slowly held out a hand towards her. She reached out in turn, and there they stood, two strangers holding hands in the chill of an October night.

"We were all rain together, once," he said softly as he turned his eyes skyward. "All of us, storms and mist."

She squeezed his hand and peered at him a bit more closely. As if sensing her scrutiny, he turned back to her and they stared into each other once again. He wondered what it was she could read in his eyes—if she could see the countless nights he spent awake, desperately trying to channel the never-ending wordstream onto paper, knowing full well that there wouldn't be enough hours in his lifetime to get it all out. If she could imagine the empty bottles strewn around his office, the threadbare socks he couldn't be bothered to replace, the solitude he both cherished and despised. He often went for days without verbal contact with another human being, usually startled into awkwardness by those seeking conversation when he ventured into a public place to write. The words he'd just spoken to this young girl were the first he'd uttered aloud in over a week.

She saw none of those details, but merely sensed the pain this stranger carried. He was old enough to be her father, but such details never mattered. All she could think about was leading him by the hand she held (that cool, pale, thin hand with its graceful fingers — she imagined that he'd play the piano beautifully, if he tried) and taking him home with her. Home to the warmth of her tiny apartment, with the faerie lights strung over window frames and patchwork quilts on the furniture. Her haven of rainbow hues might melt through the misery he bore; her own softness could very well enfold him in gentleness and light. She wanted to smooth his hair and kiss the sorrow from those wide grey eyes until they shone silver. Her entire being was pressing this instinct, her heart pounding in her chest as she bit her lip, but she said nothing... just stood there, wishing for the courage to act on impulse, willing her mouth to open to invite him home with her.

The words just wouldn't come. The two strangers stood there for a few minutes longer before she pressed his hand one last time and turned away. There was now a noticeable pang twisting within her; a small one, like one of those poignant memory-pains that rears up every so often to remind us of things we'd prefer to forget. She would think about this night for years afterward, looking around every time she passed that street lamp to see if by some miracle she'd catch a glimpse of her grey man. At this moment, though, she plodded on towards home with that small empty space within her gnawing with "might have beens" and "what if?"s.

The man stood there for some time longer, gazing down at the hand the girl had held. A tingling warmth remained in it long after she had disappeared into the night, bringing to mind memories of days when autumn was sun-kissed and smiling. That warmth never reached his face, never washed the sorrow from his eyes, but somewhere within him there was, ever so briefly, a slight lifting of the ashen ache.

Lessons from Water

"Put your hand in the water outside and write about what it says to your skin."

Lessons from La rivière de la Petite Nation

Water was your first home, your first protection from the grey of the world, and it will always bring you comfort. Immerse yourself in lakes (or even baths) whenever possible, and have faith that the water within you will carry you wherever you need to be.

Although water shifts from liquid to mist, to ice, and back again, it never ceases to remember what it is; it merely changes form for a time. You'll go through many transitions in life, but they'll all be temporary—water is ever in motion, as are you.

Be aware of the fact that you will change constantly, as a river is changed every time it picks up a stray twig, but your true nature will always be apparent.

Sometimes your journey will be languid and smooth, other times it may be an utter maelstrom that will lash and bite. Storms pass and smooth rides get bumpy, so enjoy the moment while it's happening, but don't shy away from change.

You must know when to yield, and when to form an icy, protective shell. There is no instruction manual to let you know when to do which, so you'll have to sort that out for yourself.

Keep in mind that water can be gentle enough to soothe a baby's skin, and strong enough to break every bone in a body. It has the potential to be a bringer of life as well as death—most life forms will die without it, but too much of it can kill.

Above all, remember that every water molecule in your body has been part of countless beings before you, and that the water inside your body right now is temporary and transient; it will be passed along shortly to become part of another for a little while. Let that be a reminder of how important it is to be a steward and protector of waterways, as they connect all life on the planet.