According to the Farmer's Almanac, the dog days of summer follow the summer solstice and last for 40 days.

The lake wasn't far, but walking in the shimmering heat made it seem farther away than usual. As she got closer, the rotten stink of dead fish assaulted her nose. Sometimes when it got this hot the lake would shrink and fish would get caught in the muck and die. She figured this summer was hot enough to kill some fish, but when she got to the lake it didn't seem any smaller. Then she saw the dead fish washed up on the shore. There were a lot of them. "Ew!" She said to nobody.

Prodding one of the dead fish with the toe of her tennis shoe, she watched a little crab scuttle out from underneath it's body and disappear into the murky water. She wondered if the crab had been eating the dead fish or had just been hiding in the shade. Probably, if it had been eating the dead fish there would've been a lot more crabs than just one, like ants on a watermelon rind at Aunt Clara's picnic last year. She shuddered thinking about as many crabs as there had been ants.

"It's the algae in the water."

She spun around and saw an old woman with shaggy, grey hair and a walking stick standing behind her. "What?"

"There's too much algae in the water. It kills the fish." The woman said, nodding down at the dead fish at her sandal-clad feet.

"What's al-gee?"

The woman cocked her head. "It's a kind of water plant."

The girl shook her head. "Plants don't kill fish, animals do. Like...like," she struggled to remember an animal that ate fish, "bears."

"Not many bears around here."

The girl glanced up and down the beach. It was true. She'd never seen a bear eating fish at the lake. Or had ever actually seen a bear. Only pictures in books. Marcus's books mostly. Boy books had way more pictures of animals like bears and sharks than girl books did.

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Following the rise of the star system Sirius, the dog days of summer bring sudden, violent thunderstorms, lethargy, drought, mad dogs, fever, and bad luck. (ref. Wikipedia).

She stretched out in the tall grass and watched the cottonwood seeds drift by overhead. Marcus had called it summer snow. She liked that. He'd always had a cool way of describing things. Sweat pooled along her back making her T-shirt stick and her hot skin itch. No doubt she'd be sunburned by the time she got home. A sudden moving itch on her bare leg made her jolt upright and brush a big black ant away. Why did the outside have to be ruined by so many bugs? She and Marcus would've stayed up and caught frogs at night if it weren't for the clouds of mosquitoes. And how many times had they been driven from the shores of Tawny Lake by the biting flies?

She stared out across the field. The wildflowers were wilting in the heat and the grass was tinged brown with drought. Papa said that if it didn't rain soon, he'd have to pay Jonas to irrigate the fields again. Summers that Papa had to pay Jonas meant that she'd have to wear last year's clothes to school in the fall and that she wouldn't have any milk money. She glanced up at the robin's egg sky and frowned at the lack of clouds. If Marcus were still around, he'd probably suggest they do a rain dance or make an offering of spit or blood or piss to the rain gods. It was too hot to dance around, but she considered making an offering. After all, she still had the pocket knife she and Marcus had used to become "blood brothers." But no. She'd already gotten punished for cutting her hand the first time and she was too thirsty for the other offerings.

A bee buzzed passed and landed heavily on a blue flower next to her. She watched it scrounge for nectar and pollen while the stem drooped, then makes its way noisily to the next blossom. Papa once stepped on a bee hive in the back pasture and got forty-two stings before he reached the creek. Mama said he could've died. She wondered how this fuzzy creature bumbling among the flowers could possibly have chased her father from the pasture to the creek. It looked too heavy to even fly from one flower to the next. "It's so slow, I bet I could catch it." She told no one. But what was the point of catching it if no one was there to see it?

She wished Marcus was there to watch her. He'd once caught a fish with his bare hands in the pond. He'd stood very still in the water for a long time with his hands under the water and then scooped up a minnow when it swam over his hands. She'd dared him to eat it, but he'd let it go instead. If she'd caught one, she would've eaten it. There's no sense in catching fish if you aren't going to eat them.

Sweat dripped into her eye and made it sting. Maybe Papa could just hold her over the crops and she could sweat on them. She rose and wiped her damp hands on her shorts. Sitting in the grass wasn't as fun as it used to be with Marcus. Glancing around her, she headed toward the lake instead of home. She wasn't supposed to go there by herself, but now that Marcus was gone she didn't know who would go with her. Mama was busy with washing and cooking and Papa was busy with the crops. Or had he gone into town today with Mr. Butler? She couldn't remember. One hot, cloudless day bled into the other and stretched out as far as she could think.

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The slanted summer sunlight called to her. Come out, come out! I am light, I am warmth! I am flowers lilting in the breeze. I am the buzz and hum and frenzy of the day. So she went out into the world of bright yellow rays. The sun beat down hot and steady and the warm wind tilted the flowers, but did nothing to slake the daystar's burn.

The tall, majestic trees called to her. Come here, come here! We are shade, we are shelter! We are leaves rustling in the breeze. We are the coolness and peace and safety of the forest. So she went forward into the dense thicket and into the world of green. The woods were dim and close and the movement of the leaves was a soft symphony, but the air was moist and mosquitoes pricked her skin.

The wide, deep cave called to her. Come in, come in! I am dry, I am hidden. I am smooth stones beneath your feet. I am the dark and stillness and chill of the earth. So she went down into the secret grotto, drawn to the quiet and a world of black. The chamber was silent and filled with shadows, and the cold stones were soothing on her feet, but the darkness was frightening and she was getting thirsty.

Her frantic mother called to her. Come home, come home! I am lonely, I am worried. I am strong arms to hold you. I am the comfort and soothing and joy of family. So back she went, up from the cavern, there through the forest, into the sun. Her mother was soft and gentle, and dinner and drink were waiting for her dry tongue and empty belly, but the summer whispers still filled her ears.

The high, silver moon called to her. Come away, come away! I am magic, I am night. I am the marriage of the day and the trees and the cave. I am the danger and the excitement and the mystery of a dream.

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In dappled sunlight she walked, the crunching of gravel underfoot mixing with birdsong and wind sighing in the trees, but she heard only the beast. The warmth of the day did not penetrate the frost of fear within her. She'd been trying to tell herself that everything would be okay, but the words were brittle and crumbled as the path stretched out endlessly before her. "You're okay. You're fine." She whispered in case it was listening. A rumble in the distance made her glance over her shoulder, but there was nothing to see but the path disappearing into the trees.

If it comes I'll hide in the woods, she thought, but then the sides of the trail slipped away into steep slopes and she knew that she'd never reach the safety of the trees in time. Her breath came ragged as she increased her pace, heart flopping in her chest like a fish on the dock. Why had she come here? Why had she tempted the roaring creature who owned this path? A hint, a promise, a hope? All withered to nothing now. No, not nothing, a trap.

Another echo of something large and menacing chased her down the path, and she ran, startling a deer down in the valley below. I am hunted and alone, and no one will know where to look for my bones. Too frightened for even tears, the stones blurred by under her feet. But then the distance shimmered and a crossroad appeared. She'd known it was there, but still it seemed a miracle. I'm so close! 

Phantom shadows and low vibrations bore down on her, but she didn't dare look behind her this time. Terrified that she'd trip or that her legs would give out, she kept her eyes to the ground. No stray stone would be her downfall. Please oh please!

Then suddenly she was free. Turning away from the path once so enticing, she didn't look back. There was only one way forward now, and if she stared behind her into the monster's eye it might pull her back again, its massive form a gravity of horror calling her like a tossed stone to the ground. Hidden now, she slowed, but her mind would not be stilled by any distance. Her feet had touched its path, and the beast had her scent now. The memory of fear was fresh and alive in her mind and much harder to kill. She would never escape.

Outside there is cold and a dusting of snow; a semblance of winter. Where is the soft, deep blanket of white tucking us into our winter slumber? Where is the icy majesty of frost in the silence of the frozen world? This is a loud and naked and echoing chill. Bare branches clatter together with no snow to muffle them, and the brittle ground crackles like thunder underfoot. On a hill with sharp green blades of grass sprinkled through with white overlooking the black skeletons of trees of a mocking forest, I am alone. The wind is a blade cutting through my clothes, my skin, my bones, but it is not a winter gale. It is the breathe of a different season, a new unnamed season of death and want. Not winter with its crystalline beauty, gentle quiet, restoring dormancy, but a semblance of winter.

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When the summer sun starts to slant in the sky and the breeze takes on a chill; this is when autumn begins. It is the briefest and most beautiful of seasons. The fall doesn't need flowers to brighten, for the very leaves explode with color. It is a time of abundance before the winter with fields full of gourds and trees full of apples. Sitting, watching the dappled sunlight dance through crimson leaves, sipping a cup of warm cider and breathing the chill air of fall is a perfection too sweet to last. We, lovers of the ephemeral fall, are those doomed to longing. There are poems lamenting the long winter and those wondering at the endless summer, and the spring that comes between these seasons is but a herald of warmth and life to come. But autumn is a wonder that fades quickly, leaving us with bare branches and cold, hard earth soon to be covered by blankets of snow. Every leaf that spirals to the ground is a reminder, like a grain of sand in an hourglass, of fall's demise, of cold, of death. Give me not daffodils or roses or a sculpture of ice, but a bouquet of autumn leaves frozen forever in their nameless fleeting colors. Capture for me that ephemeral fall, for that is where my heart will be. That is where I will wait for thee.

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The deep purple orange of the pre-morning sky was slowly giving way to blue. Amanda stood on the bridge overlooking black, swirling waters. Strong arms encircled her waist and she wiped away tears.
"What is it love?"
She turned almost unable to meet Grayson's dark eyes. "It's my birthday."
"A day of celebration."
Amanda buried her head in his shoulder to hide the betrayal on her face. "Often."
"Then what shall we do today? Climbing trees? Hiding and seeking? What will make you happy?"
Amanda pushed away from him and forced herself to meet his eyes. "Not today."
She brushed a tuft of Grayson's white hair off his forehead and allowed her fingers to trail down his cheek. He grasped her hand and kissed her palm.
"Then what?"
She lifted her other hand and showed him an old and battered jack-in-the-box. "It's time to say goodbye."
For the first time she could ever remember, his sharp, pixie-like grin turned down into a frown. "Goodbye?"
The tears came again. Her eyes were sore from crying. "The time has come to set aside childish things."
Grayson's bushy white eyebrows furrowed. "Words from The Book."
Amanda nodded and turned back to the dark waters. He placed a hand on her wrist. "Don't. Please."
"The time has come..." Raising the box, she couldn't finish.
"But I love you."
Amanda let the box drop from her hand and with a splash it disappeared into the darkness. She was alone.
"I know."

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Tika was hiding. Not play hiding like she used to do with Toby, but real hiding.
"Tika!...Has anyone seen Tika?"
Tika spied her mother's legs through the slatted closet door and tried to hold still so she didn't give herself away.
"Don't fuss Molly. The house is sealed, she's probably just playing."
Tika stifled a giggle. Tika's mother told her not to fuss all the time, so Gamma Dora telling Tika's mom not to fuss was hilarious.
"Come help me with the stuffing."
Tika watched her mother's legs pause, then turn and follow Gamma Dora's voice back out towards the kitchen. Tika sagged against the vacuum cleaner. It was dark and quiet in the closet, which was nice, but she wished that Toby was going to come looking for her. Her mother wouldn't actually look like you were supposed to, but would just call Tika and then add on punishments until Tika came out. That wasn't any fun. Toby would look everywhere for her. Even in drawers that he knew were too small for her, all the while saying things like "where could Tika be?" She used to look forward to the day of turkey and pie, and seeing Toby, even when the Black came and the adults got all sad, Tika still enjoyed her time with Toby. Now she hated this day. She hated all the adults fake-smiling as they stuffed their faces full of food, watched the picture-screen box, and pretended that tomorrow wasn't tomorrow. Tomorrow was the Black and the Black had taken Toby. The closet door opened and light spilled down onto Tika.
"There you are, Tika."
It was her Aunt Carene, Toby's mom. Her eyes were always red and her hair was always messy now.
"It's dinner time."
Tika didn't get up. "I don't want to eat dinner."
Her aunt knelt down beside her. "I don't either. But we have to."
"Why?"
"We have to sacrifice the turkey to the Black. You know that."
Tika shook her head. "It didn't help Toby."
Her aunt's lower lip trembled. "It doesn't always work, but we have to try."
"Why?"
"So the Black doesn't take you too."
Staring into her aunt's eyes, Tika thought that without the red, they would look like Toby's eyes. "Is that why you still eat dinner?"
Her aunt nodded.
"Even the yams?"
Her aunt smiled...well as much as her aunt ever smiled now.
Tika nodded back. "Okay." She took her aunt's hand. "But I'm not eating the yams."
Aunt Carene stood and pulled Tika out of the closet. "You don't have to...yet."

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Summer sat, her vibrant green dress of delicate moss covering her bare feet and her sunflower hair flowing down to the marble floor now that she was no longer standing. Autumn rose and sauntered up to the crystal podium to make his case. He wore an tapestry of colored leaves for a shirt and pale yellow harvest corn stalks for pants that crackled as if still afield and swaying in the breeze. His hair was short and brown and his skin tanned by millennia under the harvest moon. "I am the season most prized by women and men. For I am the bountiful harvest, fullness of the belly and spirit and hope to survive the long, bleak Winter. I am the time year when the trees themselves explode in colors as at no other time, and fall from the trees like confetti to celebrate me. From shades of the deepest crimson to the palest yellow, orange hues that have no name, brown and purple, the leaves decorate the earth in my honor. Mature colors that are not the novice flowers and budlings of Spring. Trees and bushes, vines and stalks become heavy with my fruit, more nourishing and hardy then the offerings of Summer. My sun still brings warmth, reminiscent of the heat just past, though the chill of my wind reminds humankind to prepare for the coming cold. I am not rebirth or death or a wild adolescence, but a ripe age. Mindful, beautiful, and plentiful, I am the season of fulfillment." Autumn's eyes gleamed like sunlight off a maple leaf as he paused. He turned as if to leave, then faced the assembly once more. "Also, I am apple cider, corn mazes, pumpkin pie, Halloween, and football, so really, you other seasons don't stand a chance." 

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Sometimes, even though it shouldn't be, writing can seem a little boring. Take a break from writing that next best-seller or epic poem, and write something completely different. Use a different voice or setting or genre or POV. Stretch your creative muscle a bit  and see where it takes you. You never know, you might just get a whole other book out of it (e.x. Ender's Shadow, The Short Second Life of Bree Tanner). Here's my latest experiment:







Mud

I am boot prints in butterscotch mud on the off-white linoleum floor.  I start at the Tim Horton’s counter in the back corner of the Shell Station, or rather, that is where I end.

The heavy tread of steel-toed boots made me, large enough that I was not made by a woman, at least not any normally proportioned woman. I wind through the candy aisle, past the small chest freezer with assorted cheeses, over the wiry black mat, and out onto the concrete step. A large step from the concrete to the asphalt and I wander away from the gas pumps towards the side walk. A long stride between muddy patches, I am purposeful.

Though dry now, not an hour ago I was slick and slippery. A mother of three rambunctious boys ranging in age from three to six and a darling baby girl slid her pristine white sneaker right through me but caught herself on the display of car wax. The infant, previously peacefully asleep, awoke at the jostling and wailed while the boys dashed past their mother towards the row of sweets, besmirching their own shoes with my tan essence. Ignoring the woman’s near injury because he didn’t want to drag out the mop, the attendant didn’t make eye contact as she wrangled the children while paying for gas and a five-hour energy shot.

Out on the sidewalk I appear less substantial on the rough concrete than the linoleum floor of the gas station, but it’s a trick of the light. I am thicker here, but will wash away completely in the afternoon rain. If it were sunny, I might adhere to the shoes of joggers and pedestrians making their way to the bus stop, but the clouds and unseasonable chill keep the people at bay within their homes. Alone, I walk the pavement for two blocks. Here I veer off into swath cut in the tall grass and transform into a mirror of myself in the light brown mud of the path just beyond the weeds.

It is here that I enter the woods, dark, dank, and smelling of rotten leaves and loam. There is mud here in the woods, but this isn’t where I was born. The depressions with my face travel yet further back into the trees following a path seldom used save by those who know it exists and are willing to brave the sprays of wild mulberry bushes whose prickles rake from either side. Here I am still soft and slurped at the boots that made me as they passed, sticking to the soles like tar.

Sometimes I am nearly erased by the drier, firmer patches of earth interwoven with tree roots, and other times I dissolve into nearly black puddles of old, foul water, but still I travel. Clearly outlined against the pale, naked wood of a fallen tree I reappear, pointing out the direction of my origin deeper within the trees. Hidden in the stump of the tree is something metal, rusty, and stained, also covered in mud. I paused here by that stump where my impression in the ground is so perfect that two letters of the brand name of the boot are discernable, FT, but those particular shapes mean little to me.

I follow that footway until it reaches the swamp, then the path goes one way and I enter the muck creating foot-shaped puddles of my own, each with several feet of bog in between. Here I am trying to sneak unnoticed among the reeds and cattails, but I stand out as footprints shouldn’t be here in the mire away from the muddy path.

But now I am out of the woods and out of the marsh and out of the brush. Close now to the place of my creation. A yard rutted and bereft of grass. Here the mud is deep and fresh, and I stride boldly through the middle towards the empty shell of a house, raw wood frames with onyx tarps fluttering in the breeze. Boards, equipment, and chunks of concrete and other debris are strewn about the yard, but I skirt about these with ease, keeping to the mud.

I could emerge from any of the covered holes along the ground floor, but I come from the largest, the one directly in the middle of the back of the house. This is almost the place where I start, just outside the trembling black plastic, where the mud first touched boots, but the boots were not clean. Here my mud is red, but when the canvas lifts there is a glimpse of pale skin and chestnut hair in a sea of red on the smooth grey floor.

Ugly brown close to the doorway, I revert to vivid crimson next to pale blue staring eyes. At her end, this is where I begin.

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