The True Master

They called him the master. He shook his head in denial. The masters selected him, trusted him with their secrets, their knowledge and their tools. His studies had consumed most of his life, the work became his love, his passion, his escape. Long hours transported him, released from the nightmares of a world he could not control. A true master controlled the worlds. He often called on the magic from the ones who came before him but it did not bend to his will. No matter how much he tried, the work of his hands was merely beautiful. His work would never exude the qualities of a masterpiece.

It was not his destiny to be a master. It was his destiny to find the next true master to fulfill the prophesy. His task was to pass everything he knew to the first new master after the old masters died. At first, he did not believe the stories, but time proved the stories true. The teachers he revered, were now dead and gone. Only he remained.

Years passed and still he searched for the new master. He accepted any man interested hoping he would fulfill the prophesy. He trusted the stories, but he was getting old and he feared he would fail his teachers, that their craft would one day die with him. The first time she came on a day when dark clouds filled the sky, promising rain. He told her to hurry home and bolted the door to block the rain.

Many months later she came again. This time she pleaded with him and as she spoke dark clouds formed in the sky and hail pounded the earth surrounding her. He told her she could not be the master the stories foretold. The masters were men. She tried to persuade him, but he would not listen and once more barred the door against her. He soon forgot her.

One day as he made his way outdoors a small figure near the door caught his attention. It was like the ones destroyed years ago with the masters. He questioned everyone, but no one confessed to knowing where it came from or to having created it. When he clutched it in his hand it pulsed with the magic.

Several days later storm clouds gathered on the horizon and she stood once more at his door. She asked if he received her gift. He didn’t understand. She pulled a second figure, a perfect match to the one he found, from her pocket. He demanded to know where she had gotten them. Her response was that she made them, and he laughed as the rain fell. She pleaded, and he agreed let her create a third figure to prove herself. She worked for three days while the storm raged and he watched. When she finished, she placed the triplet in his hand. The new master had found her teacher.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

There are virtues and benefits to feeling lazy.

Feel free to discuss amongst yourselves.

This concludes today’s post.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Note: I’m keen on fast little sports cars and while I don’t drive this one, I know how the test drive would go.

 

Is It My Turn Yet?

“Vroom.”

“Vroom.”

Mic revved the engine of his new Laser Blue Lotus Exige. His right hand brushed the knob of the gear shifter between us. The needle on the tach surged to 3,200 RPM each time his foot depressed the accelerator. Zero to sixty in 4.7 seconds, 250 horsepower with 174 lb-ft of torque.

“Are you going to put her into gear anytime soon?” I asked.

Mic glared at me and revved the engine again.

“Vroom.”

“I am enjoying the feel of the engine.”

“I bet it would ‘feel’ even better if she was accelerating.”

He sighed and slid her into drive. We eased down the road, slowly approaching 30 MPH. I pressed my foot hard on the floorboard willing the car faster, imagining shifting into second gear and then third. Mic and I toured the road for fifteen minutes. My foot twitched from the lack of speed.

“Is it my turn yet?”

He pulled over, and we switched seats. I settled into the cockpit and closed my eyes. Mic was right about one thing, just feeling the power of the idling motor was intoxicating. I took a deep breath, then opened my eyes as I jammed the drive shifter into first and pushed the accelerator to the floor. Tires chirped as they spun on the gravel, seeking traction. The car leapt forward slamming my body hard against the seat. The tach instantaneously hit 3200 RPM, and I slipped her into second. She ran through third and moved into fourth as the speedometer zoomed to 120 mph. My heart pounded in time with the firing pistons and the grin I wore threatened to break my face in two.

I think Mic was yelling something, but I didn’t really hear. Moving my foot from the accelerator to the break, I hit the pedal hard, down shifting, my body jerked forward as the sudden decrease in speed. The tires squealed in protest and I let my eyes flickered to the rear view to see smoke billowing behind us. As we came to a complete stop, the black smoke drifted past the cockpit window.

Mic was still yelling. The only things that registered were the throbbing of the engine and the voice in my head saying ‘Let’s do that again’.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Schools Out

“Edyth! Get up girl or you’re gonna be late!”

Mother’s voice penetrated my brain dislodging me from the warm dark haze I didn’t want to leave. I opened one eye to see what she was doing in my room.

“Edyth, if you don’t get moving I’m gonna yank those covers off you.”

“I don’t wanna.”

“I don’t care what you want.”

“Mm, do I have to?” I closed my eyes and dug myself deeper under the covers.

“Edyth, I swear!”

The nest I snuggled in flew away as Mother stripped the sheets back, exposing me and my pink pajamas to the light of day.

“Mother!” I heard myself screech.

“Get up. You’re not going back to sleep.”

“Why do I have to go? It’s the last day of school.”

“No arguing. Get up. Get dressed. Make your bed and get downstairs for breakfast.”

I groaned as I swung my feet to the floor. School clothes lay on the chair next to my bed. Mother had put them there. She stood in the doorway, determining if I was awake.

“I’m up.” I assured her.

Mother gave me a hard look, daring me to go back to sleep. I was awake, and I glared at her until she left. Ack, I couldn’t understand why I had to go to school today. The only thing happening was silly teachers telling us to enjoy our summer and making sure we had all our papers. I’d rather start summer break right now. I guess it was only one more day. But it was gonna be torture.

Dressed, my bed made, I headed downstairs for breakfast. I chased colored loops of cold cereal around in the bowl of milk until the milk turned a sickly gray color. Mother grabbed it out of my hands and shooed me out the door. The walk to school took forever, but at last I sat at my desk and watched the minute hand on the clock behind my teacher. It jumped and stuttered before creeping ahead.

She droned on and on and the clock stopped for long minutes before the hand clicked forward. One minute closer to my release. I counted every second until the hand moved again. I gazed out the window at the blue sky and green trees. A soft wind tickled through their leaves. Birds sang, and a squirrel tiptoed across the power lines. They got to go exploring. They didn’t go to boring old school like I did. I squirmed in my seat wishing I could go climb a tree like the squirrel.

My friends were getting anxious too. Bobby was thumb wrestling with Joe while the girls whispered about Sally’s sleep over birthday party in a few days. The teacher kept shushing us. I kept monitoring the clock. The bell was gonna ring. I eased my bag out from under my desk and slipped it over my shoulder. Five, four, three, two, one. The buzzer sounded and I raced to the door. Free! It would be ages before school started again.

“Yippee!”

“No more school.” My friends and I chanted and sang as we spilled through the doors to the promise of great adventures.

I skipped, I danced, I twirled. Summer break was here!

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Note: When I first selected this word, I had a totally different story in mind. I may still write that story, someday. However, after writing the story “Inspiration” for Friday Fictioneers this idea popped into my head. I hope you enjoy it.

 

The Path to Inspiration

Wendell’s story didn’t work. He asked his friends, his mother and his father. He asked anyone who would listen to him. No one could help him fix his story. At last he took the mess to his teacher and begged him for a solution. The answer he received startled him.

“Wendell, the solution lies within you. You must seek inspiration.”

“How do I seek inspiration?” he asked.

“The way is never the same. The way is different for everyone and it often changes.”

“So how do I find the way?”

“You do not find the way Wendell. The way must happen to you.”

“Can you be any more vague? Can’t you give me a clue?”

His teacher thought for a long time. Eyes closed. Wendell wondered if he had forgotten about him and fallen asleep.

“Nietzsche climbed mountains. I think Crowley was a mountaineer too,” he finally said.

Confused Wendell wondered how climbing a mountain could fix his story. He sighed and decided he had little to lose. If climbing mountains inspired Nietzsche and Crowley, perhaps it would work for him. Wendell started on his journey. After days of climbing his stood at the top of the summit and surveyed the vistas laid out before him.

“Ok, where are you inspiration? How do I fix my story?” he demanded.

The mountains were silent, the sky shifted from shades of blue to pink banded in rings of silver. Wendell waited. His teacher had promised him his answer was in the mountains. He stared at the vast distance separating him from every other spot in the world. He screamed his question once again into the void.

“Teacher there were no answers in the mountains,” Wendell said.

“Do you dream?”

“Dream?”

“Never mind,” he waved his hand, dismissing the idea.

“Have you paid attention to the details?”

“What details?”

“Oh, I don’t know. The details of spring flowers?”

Wendell couldn’t tell if he was asking or telling. But he set off to contemplate the details of the spring flowers.

“Where are you?” Wendell asked. The flowers were as silent as the mountains. They faded as the weather warmed and so did Wendell’s hopes of fixing his story.

“Teacher there were no answers in the flowers,” Wendell said.

“Did you not find the Flow? The Flow is your discipline.”

“What is the Flow?” Wendell asked.

“The Flow is like a river.”

Discouraged, but willing to try once more, Wendell watched the flow of a river. He stood on the banks as the water surged in front of him, racing towards its destination.

“Inspiration! Where are you? Are you in there somewhere?” Wendell yelled. But the roar of the racing water consumed Wendell’s words. If the flow of the river answered, Wendell could not hear.

“Teacher there were no answers in the Flow,” Wendell said.

“There is one last thing,” he sighed.

“What now?”

“The Abyss. Gaze into the Abyss until it gazes back at you.”

“This is crazy,” Wendell yelled. He shredded the story and threw the tattered pieces at his teacher. His teacher bowed his head, turned and walked away.

Wendell stooped and gathered the broken pieces of his failed story. Kneeling he collected the shards that remained. In those shards, he saw the story in its entirety. He remembered the details of the scenes and the characters. He felt the flow his story wash over him. It filled him with the answer. The answer lay inside of him. It had always been there.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

A Matter of Honor

It was just a field trip. It promised nothing different. We were going to Washington DC with an itinerary and a tight schedule. We dubbed it the “How many monuments can you see in one day tour.” They formed a grand list, each with a paragraph describing the major points and facts, expected arrival time, expected departure time. Clean, sterile, precise. That day we would visit the Washington Monument, the Thomas Jefferson Memorial, the Lincoln Memorial, the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Memorial, the World War II Memorial, the Korean War Veterans Memorial, the Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial and the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.

We piled in the bus and began our day. It followed the normal progression: get off the bus, look around, get back on the bus, and drive to the next location. Standard stuff. That is until we reached the last memorial on the list. Something in the air was different.

As we walked the path, a wall gently rose from the earth. A black wall, etched with names. The names of all the soldiers who never made it home. No one spoke. A hand reached out, touching the wall, tracing a name with a finger. Further along the path, we saw flowers, cards, notes reverently laid at the base of the wall. A veteran in a wheelchair placed his hand on the wall and spoke soft words to his long dead GI buddy. A son leaned forward and kissed the wall where his father’s name appeared.

The wall stretched onward, reached high overhead, every inch packed with a soldier’s name. A soldier who had been someone’s son, grandson or brother. A soldier who was a husband, a father to at child he would never meet. Grown men cried without shame. The impact penetrated our souls. We cried for them, for the horrors they faced, for the sacrifice they made. We cried for the ones they left behind.

The silence followed us back to the bus, and the entire ride home. It was a matter of honor.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

 

Note: Gregarious is one of my all-time favorite words. I wish I could use it, without having to stop and give the definition.

 

 

Meeting Little Man

I was so excited; the day had finally arrived. Grandma and I picked out my favorite dress. The blue pinafore with white rickrack that edged the hem, the neckline and around the two pockets on the front of the skirt. On each pocket was an embroidered strawberry. Those strawberries were beautiful, and I loved how they felt when I petted them with my hand. A white blouse with a Peter Pan collar, white knee socks and my black paten Sunday shoes made me feel extra special.

I held Grandma’s hand as we went down the steep stairs. Grandpa let out a long whistle and declared that I was the most beautiful girl he had ever laid eyes on. I couldn’t keep the smile off my face.

“You ready?” he asked.

I let go of Grandma’s hand, jumped down the last two steps and ran to stand in front of him.

“Ready,” I nodded once.

“See ya later Hon,” Grandpa called over his shoulder and we headed out the door, down the driveway and turned left on the sidewalk. I knew this way took us into town.

I tried not to skip and run ahead of Grandpa, but I was excited so it was hard to walk quietly next to him. As we walked neighbors waved and called out to us to say “Howdy” and ask if we were on our way to meet the Little Man. Grandpa greeted each of them in turn, saying “Afternoon Mable” and “Yes, yes we are”. As we got closer to town, Grandpa stopped to shake hands with everyone we met and answer the same questions over and over. He never got tired of answering, he just smiled as if it was the first time today anyone had asked the question.

I was not as good as Grandpa. When he seemed to be taking too much time, I grabbed on to his shirt sleeve and gave it a tug.

“Oh, oh. Looks like someone’s in a hurry. Best not keep her waiting,” he would say.

“Oh no, Little Man will be expecting you. Best be on your way.” And off we would go once again.

After what seemed like forever we came to a three-story white building.

“Is this it?” I asked. “Is the Little Man here?”

Grandpa chuckled and said this was indeed the place. We hurried inside, up a flight of stairs, and down a hall to stand in front of a big glass window. I grabbed hold of the window sill, jumping and trying to pull myself high enough to see into the window. I was too short to see much. I heard Grandpa’s familiar chuckle behind me.

“Hold your horses. Let me help.”

Grandpa lifted me up on his hip and I gazed at the two rows of little beds behind the window. Each bed held a little bundle wrapped in either a pink or a blue blanket.

“Which one is he?” I asked.

“That’s him. Front and center,” Grandpa said as he pushed his finger up against the glass. He pointed to a little blue bundle that wiggled and squirmed, and I could just make out a tiny pink face. A woman, dressed all in white scurried over and picked up the bundle before stepping closer to the window. I could now see blue eyes in the tiny face staring right back at us, and a mouth opened in a “O” shape. As she moved closer to the window the blanket moved and a perfectly formed little hand popped out reaching for the window.

“Grandpa! He’s just like you.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Don’t you see? Little Man wants to shake your hand.”

“Why, so he does,” Grandpa chuckled. “So, he does. I recon he’s pretty happy to see you too.”

I look at Little Man and reached out to touch the glass, his waving hand just inches away.

“I think I’m gonna like him.”

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Journey of Fascination

 As a child, I sat spell-bound, listening while Cassandra told tales. Fantastical stories of long ago times in lands that lay far beyond the horizon. Cassandra was of royal lineage, her family betrayed and slain for their power, their land, their people. She was only a child when those loyal to her family smuggled her from the place of her birth. They switched her with another child, passed her off as Cassandra, a willing sacrifice to hide Cassandra’s escape.

Cassandra didn’t tell that story often, there was too much pain knowing she lived only because another died. She could not imagine the cost to the parents and the daily reminder when they looked at her. Still they loved her, protected her and brought her to this kingdom. Neither did she tell the story of the journey that brought her here. Those memories she locked away.

The tales she told were often of her childhood, her family, her beautiful land and her people. I fell in love with those stories. I fell in love with the possibility it might still exist. Cassandra’s stories became my stories, my legacy. On my fifteenth birthday, she presented me with her most precious story and my most treasured gift.

She came to my room before my birthday celebrations began. She held a small golden casket which she placed in my hands. The top of the casket was intricately engraved with the image of a great tree. Each leaf of the glittering tree was depicted with a glowing green emerald. They shimmered as if blown by a gentle breeze. Transfixed, I watched the tree. It seemed real, alive. The wind whispering through the leaves, uttered words I couldn’t quite hear. I leaned in to listen; it was important that I understand the words it spoke.

For a long time, I listened to the tree and the story it told me. When I looked back at Cassandra, I wiped the tears from my eyes and smiled as she embraced me. After the celebrations, I left the palace. The moon was full, and it was an easy walk to my destination. Next to the creek was a small clearing where the moonlight marked the spot. I knelt, placing the casket on the ground in front of me. The song I sang opened the casket, and what lay within, I buried.

The years passed with each birthday marked by a journey to the clearing. At first it had been just a small twig, but it grew taller and stronger with each passing year. As the tree grew, Cassandra’s vigor ebbed. I began to tell her the stories she had once told me.

This year was to be the last. Cassandra patted my hand and blessed me before she closed her eyes, still as death. Once more moonlit lit my path to the clearing and the tree. As I expected, one perfect fruit dangled from a low branch. I reached out caressing it as I bid Cassandra farewell, knowing one day we would meet again. Plucking the fruit from the limb I placed it within the golden casket, locking it away.

I tucked my most treasured gift safely in my pack. The responsibility was now mine. My stories must be told in my land, a land that lay far beyond the horizon.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer