It’s time to be thankful again-already-still. The week seemed to zoom by, although the rainy, cloudy gloom that began and ended the week seemed to last forever. Life is like that, I think. The good times are over too quickly and the stress times seem to linger. It’s a good thing our TToT blog hop helps us carve out a time to be thankful and revisit those highlights.
It’s always fun to muse around with the cue of the week and see what kind of story six sentences can tell.
Here’s my six sentence story for the week. If you don’t like it, it’s not my fault. It’s not? Then whose fault is it? Check out the Six Sentence Story blog hop hosted by our friend Ivy at Uncharted.
They say you can never go back home, but that is just what I did, trekked to my childhood home for Thanksgiving, anxious to spend time with my parents who were getting older, and my brothers and sisters who would be flying in for the big holiday feast.
I’d left behind a messy apartment, work unfinished and bits and pieces of my emotional life scattered around the nearby urban area I’d been calling home these past several years to try and find that place of perceived peace and nostalgia.
Truly, that feeling didn’t last long with all the questions about my private life – “was there a special guy? and why don’t you settle down like your sister?” – that had me longing for my mess, my stack of files and my regrets.
The house was quiet now, I’d forgotten about the rigid family schedule – 9PM bedtime, and so I made my way down to the kitchen to the large jar of pickles waiting on the counter, canned from last year’s cucumber crop and saved in the cool basement to share at the feast, to be sampled by me, right then, at that moment.
The lid was stuck fast and I wiggled and jiggled it, tapped it on top of a towel on the counter so the banging wouldn’t wake anyone up, trying to loosen the cap, when the whole jar skittered across the counter and smashed onto the floor, pickles and juice splattering over the cabinets as well as my legs and feet.
“Who’s down there?” my father yelled from up the stairs, and like the fifth grader who told her teacher the dog ate her homework, I yelled back up, “It’s not my fault.”
I’m thankful for the official beginning of spring, the vernal equinox, when the light and dark of the day are equal in length and there’s a promise of renewal of life, hope and warmth. Although the winds were fierce and the temperatures freezing this week, the perception of spring is internally instinctual. Continue reading “Ten Things of Thankful – Happy Spring”
Looking at this Magic Eight Ball, I might want to ask if a Six Sentence Story is in my near future. The cue is point – Reply Hazy. Try Again Later.
On her eleventh birthday, Patsy got a Magic Eight Ball as a gift from her Aunt Donna, just the toy that every kid in school wanted.
She would ask a ponderous question from the depths of her eleven year old being, shake the ball vigorously until a message appeared from the inky depths into the little window and depending upon whether she liked the answer or not, she would continue shaking the black orb until she was satisfied with the fortune telling powers of this plastic wonder.
Patsy closed her eyes and formed the mental question, “does Joey like me?”
After receiving a few messages like Cannot Predict Now and Concentrate and Ask Again Later, the acceptable Signs Point to Yes message filled the window and her heart with confidence and joy.
Years later, when the fortune-telling possibilities of the Magic Eight Ball became a relic from her childhood and Joey was a fleeting crush who turned out not to be worth her affections, she tried to crack open this mysterious toy to see how it worked.
It was a bottle filled with black liquid and a little multi-sided die with a saying on each different surface; it’s allure came from the white letters on a black background floating up to the circle which was actually the bottom of the bottle and just once more, she was tempted to ask a question about her future.
Natalie liked the life she was creating here in the woods in Vermont.
Sometimes she was lonely but she didn’t miss the frenetic pace of the city, the job where stress sat in uneasily the pit of her gut like a volcano on the verge of eruption, nor the one romantic entanglement with an insecure stalker.
She was safe here, at least for awhile, and made her meager living from the maple trees which covered the acreage around her small log cottage on a man-made lake in the southern part of the state.
She learned, earlier in the winter all she could about tapping the trees for sap, and had set the spiles in half a dozen trees at just the right time when the temperatures warmed up beyond the freezing point during the day and the sap flowed plentifully.
Maybe next year she’d try the boiling process to make the actual syrup, but for now she was content to sell the raw sap to the plant in town and make enough money to augment her savings and get through the winter.
Natalie wanted to get an early start this morning as the buckets were most likely full to overflowing; she was hurriedly zipping and snapping her parka, when she heard the droning approach of an ATV.
I need one or two or three or six sentences to finish this tale. I’ll work on it for next week . . . . . . (if the cue fits, wear it).
A six sentence story. Any genre you said, right, Ivy Walker?
There once was a man named Will,
Who sat for hours on the window sill,
In his attempt to get up,
He found he was stuck,
And so he sits there still.
There once was a girl named Valerie,
Who decided to write limericks for salary,
Alas, she was bad,
Even though she gave it all she had,
So she asked to be excused, momentarily.
Random pre-writing thoughts:
Will you _________ Marry me? Pass the potatoes please?
A Strong willed person – battle of wills.
A man named Will.
Reading of the Will – that surprising codicil.
Use your will to manipulate, control.
Mary Elizabeth had been waiting patiently every afternoon on the wide front porch.
Her arms around her knees, her head resting between them, her back propped up against the column on the side of the weathered grey steps.
Sometimes her Franny, her mom, would come and sit with her, lowering herself in the somewhat rickety wicker rocker, propping her feet up on the old steamer trunk, and they would stare up the road, as if their eyes could penetrate the emptiness and bring forth the desired image.
The silence between them was palpable, each lost in her own thoughts – Mary Elizabeth of the Daddy that used to swing her up on his shoulders and carry her around the house and make her laugh and laugh.
Franny mused of the man she loved and married, the man she began her adult life with, the man who up and left one day, said he’d be home soon.
Anger, regret, hope and desire fueled their thoughts, as they waited for his return.
A six sentence story is a snippet of words that tells a story and hopefully paints a picture in the mind of the reader. Click on the meme to connect to the link that will take you to the Six Sentence Story (affectionately known as the SSS) link, sponsored each week by Ivy at Uncharted.