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.

Keep Writing and Edit On.
I Write, I Edit, I Write Again. Witness!
We're Making Better Words, All of Them, Better Words.
I Write to Burn Off the Crazy.
A Good Day Writing is a Day Writing.
It Puts the Words on the Page or it Gets the Hose Again.

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.

Keep Writing and Edit On.
I Write, I Edit, I Write Again. Witness!
We're Making Better Words, All of Them, Better Words.
I Write to Burn Off the Crazy.
A Good Day Writing is a Day Writing.
It Puts the Words on the Page or it Gets the Hose Again.
Just Keep Writing, Just Keep Writing; Writing, Writing, Writing...

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.

Keep Writing and Edit On.
I Write, I Edit, I Write Again. Witness!
We're Making Better Words, All of Them, Better Words.
I Write to Burn Off the Crazy.
A Good Day Writing is a Day Writing.
It Puts the Words on the Page or it Gets the Hose Again.
Just Keep Writing, Just Keep Writing; Writing, Writing, Writing...

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."

Keep Writing and Edit On.
I Write, I Edit, I Write Again. Witness!
We're Making Better Words, All of Them, Better Words.
I Write to Burn Off the Crazy.

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."

Keep Writing and Edit On.
I Write, I Edit, I Write Again. Witness!
We're Making Better Words, All of Them, Better Words.
I Write to Burn Off the Crazy.

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." 

Keep Writing and Edit On.
I Write, I Edit, I Write Again. Witness!
We're Making Better Words, All of Them, Better Words.
I Write to Burn Off the Crazy.

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.

Keep Writing and Edit On.
I Write, I Edit, I Write Again! Witness!

I smile at the gate attendant and hand over the wad of crumpled bills. She beams back at me.
"Do you need a map of the park?"
I nod. "Yes please."
She hands over my receipt and the glossy pamphlet map along with a bright orange piece of paper with an image of a bear on it.
"Enjoy your visit."
"Thank you."

As I pull away from the gate my eyes are drawn down from the towering pine trees and winding road to the illuminated gas light on the dashboard. The lingering smile on my face fades, but I refocus on the narrow road ahead of me. Slanted sunlight dapples through the trees and sparkles off the creeks that follow the road. It is such breathtaking beauty that I nearly cause an accident or three. Shaking my head, I scan a sign which confirms that I'm going in the right direction. Though I asked for a map, I have my own and I know it like the back of my hand. My only worry is that I'll run out of gas before I get there, but it doesn't matter that much. Other cars and RV's crowd the road around me, especially in places where the steam of geothermal activity drifts up from the ground. I grit my teeth as I make my way past them.

Eventually the traffic thins and valley meadows with rivers fall away to cliffs and canyons. Though the pine trees are ever-present, some are only dead, blackened spires left from wildfires. The car begins to sputter, and I search for a place to pull off. Budding from the road just past the next turn I spy a turnoff and pull into it. I turn off the car and retrieve my backpack and walking stick from the passengers seat. Scanning around, I see no signs or other cars, but still I don't linger. I shoulder my backpack, turn from the car and walk straight away from it without looking back. The ground is soft and marshy except where fallen pines crisscross it, and soon my faded tennis shoes are soaked through with dirty-smelling water. But the sights, smells, sounds, and feel of the place overwhelm me, and soon the road has disappeared behind the trees.

Pine, dust, and the scent of marshy water become more poignant as the warmth of the day fades into the chill of the night. Sometimes the going is slow because the trees are so close together that I cannot squeeze between them and have to choose a different route. Once or twice I startle a squirrel or chipmunk, but I don't stop to see which. As long as it isn't a bear, I'm alright. My stomach rumbles with hunger but I don't stop walking because night is falling. The mosquitoes are relentless. They follow me in a cloud and buzz in my ears and land on my hands when they can find no other area of exposed skin. In my mind the rises and falls in the landscape and the swift but cold, shallow river I cross pass on the map in head with a red X coming closer and closer.

Exhausted, feet cold and sore, I break through into a clearing and know that I have arrived. I am as far from a point of civilization here as I can be without climbing a mountain. Inhaling deeply, I ponder the wilderness. It is a strange place. So remote and feral, yet we call it ours. How can this land, that could swallow me up, be owned by the public? As I stand deep within the park's belly listening to the wailing of coyotes, I know that this land is wild and I am Alone. Papers and signposts mean nothing on this hillside. I take off my backpack and sit in the tall, scratchy grass watching the darkening sky. I will sit here until blue turns to purple and purple turns to black, and then the blackness is filled with stars. Here, I will come face to face with the place called Yellowstone.

Keep Writing and Edit On