photo by Edwin Undrade via Unsplash
Where have all the great Rock stars gone?
Thousands came to hear and feel, to be transported and transformed.
Echoes, reverberations on empty stadium walls leaving only memories of the swaying crowd.
_____________________________
From Sonya’s 3LineTales at Only100Words. You can find the original prompt here. Thanks Sonya.
Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer
Photo credit: apintogsphotos via Visual hunt / CC BY-NC-ND
“Go practice,” Mother repeated.
“I’ll do it later.”
“No. Now.”
“But…”
Mother’s face was stern as she pointed to the bedroom where the trombone waited.
The door slammed followed by an angry blast from the instrument. Mother sighed as strains of practice music filtered through the closed door. She picked up her book, searching for where she had left off. As she began reading, a sour note jolted her from the passage.
The playing stopped. When it resumed, she returned to her book until the same note stopped her again. Time after time, the same sour note grated at her. Throwing the book on the chair, she headed to the bedroom and flung open the door.
“What in the world…” her voice trailed off as she glanced around the room.
The trombone lay on the bed while music filled the air. Her darling child, was playing a video game.
“Where is that music coming from?”
A finger pointed to a cell phone.
She snatched it from the desk.
“You really need to practice. You can’t get this note right,” she pointed at the phone just as the offensive note was repeated. She left the room and trombone practice finally began.
____________________________________
Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer
photo prompt provided by Sunayana with MoiPensieve
Title: Follow the Light
Source: Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers – Week of February 14, 2017
Word count: 170 words
The day spiraled in a cycle of meetings, client revisions and more meetings Her watch marked time slipping away. The deal was struck and the obligatory dinner celebration began. Thanks, but she had to go.
They rescheduled her flight. It was the last one leaving JFK. She wouldn’t get to Paris until midafternoon. Her watch ticked. Finally, she escaped and hailed a cab.
Hurry, she nearly screamed.
“Lady! You blind? Construction” he gestured at the orange signs.
She arrived at the gate just in time to board, only to discover the flight was being delayed. Weather, they said.
It was dark as she pushed past the crazy scooters. Their shrill horns marking her audacity. Almost there. She found the door and leaned hard to open it. It slammed shut as she dropped her bag and raced up the three flights
The nurse met her at the door. Her grim face said everything.
“Papa?”
“I’ve been waiting.”
“Papa, did you see the lights?”
He nodded feebly.
“Yes Angel. My beautiful Angel.”
__________________________________________
Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer
Photo credit: MTSOfan via Visualhunt.com / CC BY-NC-SA
She dipped her hands into water before cupping them around a blob of clay she had thrown on to the wheel. The clay was cold. The wheel began to spin. She kneaded it, using the rhythmic motion that started every dance. Drawing it up and pushing it down, centering it on the wheel. The clay warmed to her touch. It yielded to the guidance of her fingers as she began drawing it up into the shape her hands knew so well. The shape her hands had touched every morning. It had shattered with news of the accident.
She pushed the feelings of frustrations, anger and loss from her mind. She didn’t want to infuse the clay with those emotions. Instead she closed her eyes and focused on the memory of that long-ago day, a day she recalled as if it were yesterday. She could smell the scent of him, feel the heat of his body as he placed his hands on hers. She felt the clay being molded by her hands, changing with the pressure she applied.
She stopped the wheel and opened her eyes, smiling at the form which stood before her. It wasn’t exactly the same, it could never be that. But it would bring her at least some comfort. She carefully removed it from the wheel and attached the handle. She knew the next steps, they wouldn’t be easy to endure. Time to cure, time to endure the fire of the kiln, and the multiple steps of glazing to forge the impenetrable outer layer that would protect the contents.
__________________________________________________
The day had finally arrived to open the kiln. Inside her best friend waited for her, the one who knew all her secrets, her sorrows and her happiness.
“Yes Friend, the coffee is ready. Should we try it out?”
The steaming brew cascaded into the cobalt blue interior. She stared at the black pupil encased in blue. His eyes. No, it wasn’t exactly the same. But it would have to be close enough. Close enough to allow her to return to the daily rhythm of life, close enough to pretend that she was moving on.
Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer
Title: A Few Miles
Source: Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers – Week of February 7, 2017
Word count: 170 words
Credit: Mike Vore
He watched as Billy and his men pried his first love from her resting place. While the crew loaded her on the flatbed, Billy came over to shake his hand again.
“Got a lot of miles left in ‘er. I’ll git ‘er back on the road.”
“You do that.”
______________________________
He heard a car on the gravel drive and went to investigate.
Billy jumped out of the red truck.
“Whacha think?”
“Can’t be.”
“Tis.”
“Didn’t look this good when I bought her.”
Billy tossed the keys at him. He caught them with clumsy gnarled hands.
“Take “er.”
“You ain’t gittin’ your five large back.”
“Drive ‘er. When your tired of ‘er, call me.”
__________________________
Billy answered, even though he didn’t know the number.
“My Pa left me a note. Says to call you bout the truck.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What? He ain’t dead. Done run off with that red head over in Jasper. Says to tell you the truck ain’t the only one whats got a few miles left.”
Billy laughed.
Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer
Photo credit: freestock.ca ♡ dare to share beauty via Visual hunt / CC BY
Here is today’s Warm Up Exercise. Hope you enjoy it.
A whip struck hard across her face. Dagma didn’t stop. She could feel the thin line of her flesh begin to burn and knew the unseen branch had drawn blood. A howl rose from the rabid dogs behind her as the scent carried through the woods. They wanted a taste of blood. Her blood.
Her lungs burned, her legs trembled from fatigue and she could feel a muscle spasm in her side. Her mind told her she could not falter now. Dagma ran. She envisioned herself as strong and fresh as she had been days ago, when she had first begun her escape. The woods were misty gray. Great black sentinel trees rose in front of her to cut her off from her destination. The ground beneath her was covered in slick leaves and slimy mud.
The thinning of the trees didn’t seem real at first. The mist began to part, clearing the way for her. The baying of the tireless dogs grew louder, closer now. Dagma ran. The woods gave way to the setting sun steaking amber hews across a silver meadow. In the center, she saw the white orb and raced to where it stood, sinking to the ground next to it. She had to be careful, disturbing the delicate orb in any way would ruin everything. She cupped one hand around the orb and gently plucked it from where it grew.
She stilled her ragged breath and tilted the fluffy orb into the sunlight. “Come on. Please,” she silently begged. A golden flash shot across the face of the orb tracing a path along the fine filaments that the connected to each seed. No, not that one. Dagma waited. The golden path changed, again and again, and still she waited. She could hear the unrelenting dogs, they would be on her shortly.
The meadow trembled from the pounding of the giant dogs racing towards her. They crashed through the edge of the woods snarling in delight at the sight of their prey in front of them. She didn’t look up, seeing only the golden path as it chased across the orb. There, that was the one. She raised the orb to her lips, closed her eyes and blew gently. Dagma was gone. The monstrous dogs came barking and yelping into the center of the meadow, vainly searching for what was no longer there. Above them, dandelion seeds floated in the last light of the setting sun.
Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer
I’ve been nominated for the Mystery Blogger Award by thewordsmith27!
This is so cool. I am beyond words. It has always been a dream of mine. But I never imagined that it would actually happen. Humbled. Yes, that is the word. Humbled and deeply honored.
So, when do I get that little statue of the gold man? Oh sorry, wrong award.
Seriously, I wish to thank thewordsmith27 for the nomination!
“The Mystery Blogger Award was created by Okoto Enigma. It is an award for amazing bloggers with ingenious posts. Their blog not only captivates; it inspires and motivates. They are one of the best out there, and they deserve every recognition they get. This award is also for bloggers who find fun and inspiration in blogging; and they do it with so much love and passion.” The Rules:
Here are Three Things About Me:
My five questions from thewordsmith27
dune frank_herbert first_edition
1. What’s your favourite quote and why?
“I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.” – Dune
The first time I read Dune these words entered every fiber of my being. I cannot begin to count the number of times that I have stood in my “Face my fear” Dune stance and let the fear pass so I could get on with whatever difficult task lay ahead of me.
Photo credit: hyku via VisualHunt.com / CC BY
2. If you could bring one famous person back to life, who would it be, and why?
I tend to agree with the Genie from Aladdin when he says:
“I can’t bring people back from the dead. It’s not a pretty picture…”
But if I had to bring one person back I would choose my grandmother so that l could bombard her with questions that pertain to the book I am writing. I know, not “famous” but the things she saw could really help me out right now.
3. What is your favourite book/poem?
Photo credit: kennymatic via Visualhunt.com / CC BY
I truly hope I have not yet read my favorite book or poem. I do have a slew of “go to” authors.
For poems:
Emily Dickinson, E. E. Cummings, Robert Frost,
Derek Walcott – Omeros,
Yeats, Poe, Angelou,
Blake, Shakespeare, Langston Hughes
Best to end with just these few.
For Books:
TH White, Isaac Asimov, Robert Jordan, John Muir, Shakespeare, James A Michener, Julia Child, Beowulf, Chaucer (in old English), Lao Tzu, Margaret Mitchell, Tracy Chevalier, Doris Kearns Goodwin, Carl Sandburg, Dante. These are a sampling of those that crowd my numerous bookshelves.
4. What gives you the inspiration to write?
It seems that inspiration is not the motivation for writing, rather it is the weight of the untold stories that populate my head, demanding to see the light of day. At this point it is almost self-preservation. I counted. There are ten books in various stages of development and numerous short stories vying for their turn at the keyboard.
5. What is happiness to you? Happiness is finally being able to do the thing I love.
My nominees are:
Its PH
Bikurgurl
Millie Thom
4amwriter.com
Miss Sissinghurst
The Nostalgia Diaries
Something Over Tea
Pat Bean’s blog
Single Dads are Cool!
Brilliant Viewpoint
Anyone else who’s reading this and would like to participate, please consider yourselves nominated.
My questions to the above nominees:
The post I like best is Fathom.
photo by Annie Spratt via Unsplash
A look of horror flashed across Lady Carnarvon’s face as she surveyed the dining room which had been prepared by the newly employed butler and the banqueting manager.
“Luis, you will see that the table is set in the proper manner before our guests arrive and our ancestors begin climbing out of their frames to rectify the situation,” she stated as she recovered her composure and turned to leave the room.
“You would be wise to realize that here at Highclere, we do things exactly as they have been done for the past one hundred years,” Luis whispered to the ashen faced butler before he launched himself at the daunting task of setting the table properly in the little time that remained.
I took a little break to take part in Sonya’s 3LineTales at Only100Words. You can find the original prompt here . Thanks Sonya.
Now it is time to get back to work.
Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer
I thought I would give Sonya’s Three Line Tales prompt a go. You can find all the details over at Only 100 Words!
Focus
photo by Grant McCurdy via Unsplash
It all began with the Brownie box camera Santa brought her the Christmas of 1948. Capturing life through a lens was a passion that continued even when the camera changed. She fondly surveyed the cameras that lined the shelf of her studio, picked up her DSLR and headed out.
Now I am going to focus on getting some writing done.
Keep on Writing
Jo Hawk The Writer
Today I feel like a rock start with thousands of screaming fans vying for my attention.
Photo credit: Philippe_ via Visualhunt.com / CC BY-NC-ND
It is beyond me how this happened. All I did was ask myself what I should post about today. And that is when it started. Idea after idea came flooding into my mind. So, I grabbed my journal and started writing and writing. Now one journal is completely full and I have started a second one.
Here is the issue. None of those ideas was anything that I wanted to write about TODAY. That is not to say that I won’t, but just that I don’t have time for some of these ideas right now. The other issue is that this little exercise used up the time that I had on my schedule for working on my novel.
The good thing (I think) is I now do not have an excuse for not having a topic. Nope, all I need to do is pull open the journal, pick an idea, and get busy. Right now, I need to get busy with the other things on my to-do list.
I am hopeful tomorrow will be more productive.
Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer
Jo Hawk 