Golden Queen

Orla woke as the sun made her decent towards the horizon. This was her domain, the magic hour. She stretched, yawned and dressed in shimmering hues of blues, pinks, oranges and searing white-hot yellow. Her ensemble bathed her in a golden glow, accented by the velvety darkness of her gown’s train and the cloak that caressed her shoulders. Stepping into the woods the folk of the land greeted her with a silent salute as they too awoke and prepared for the night’s celebration.

It began as a low whisper, hesitant as it tested the waves of air. Another joined, answering the call, confirming the time. Orla nodded and smiled. Slowly at first the chorus grew, tentative while the sun still cast so strong a light. As each second passed the sun slipped closer to her reward, and the voices swelled, singing the sun to sleep. Brilliant rays streaked across the sky as the lullaby reached its crescendo, the sun’s goodnight kiss promised to return on the morrow.

The silver wand held high in Orla’s hand, captured the promise and made one of her own: to hold the light safe until the sun arose once more. Orla held the iridescence wand before her for all the folk to see. They rejoiced for now they were guardians of the light. The cheers ebbed into the dusk and Orla placed the wand into the sheath at her waist drawing her cloak around her.

The folk danced and sang with delight. In their exuberance, they burst into sparkling light, beacons rising with the breeze to float and flutter against a darkened sky. They drifted and frolicked cresting high above the trees lingering there to enjoy the view. Orla moved among the folk laughing at their antics, greeting each by name. She loved the folk, but each night at the nadir she thought of her sister and their oath. To protect the light, they agreed to a pact that would separate them, creating day and night. Each day her sister ruled, and Orla ruled the night. It was a sacrifice they endured to save the folk from those who no longer believed.

The folk never forgot, they never took the pact as their due. Each night they performed the ritual in reverence to their queen. They used their magic to bathe her in a light she could never see again. They helped her survive the hours until the break of dawn. In the morning, she would glimpse her sister and pass the light to her once more.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

I set out on a quest. A quest to find the Victorious. I entered today’s word with a preconceived idea of what I would find. What I found made me smile, the images lifted my heart and brought a tear to my eye. Today’s word more than any other is best revealed through pictures and not words.

I hope the images touch you and inspire you to find your victory today.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

His name evoked stories. Stories they called legend. The old timers swore the stories were true; Black Jack was the last of the real cowboys. Jessie learned the stories as a girl. They captivated her and she always wanted more. She asked everyone who would talk to her, to tell her the stories of Black Jack. Over the years, she had collected and memorized each one.

Today she had found the last clue, the last piece of the puzzle she needed to prove the truth. Jessie put a large box and her camera in the passenger seat and climbed behind the wheel of her old red pickup. It would be a long trip. Jessie drove for miles, out into the middle of nowhere to where the court records showed an old ranch. The records said the title had transferred long ago to the last living heir. Jessie knew the heir was Black Jack.

Jessie pulled off the road and looked at the surrounding land. There was no road, no house, only rolling land. She pulled the copy of the plat from the box and studied it. The plat showed over two hundred acres, with creeks and the major roads, but nothing else. She couldn’t fail, she had to find his house. Jessie smiled and grabbed her phone. The GPS homed in on her position and she scanned the satellite image trying to correlate what she was seeing to the features marked on the plat.

There. She saw a cabin, a barn and another small structure. Jessie marked the spot on the plat. There weren’t any roads or trails which meant she was hiking the rest of the way. She pulled her pack out of the back and filled it with the contents of the box and her camera. If she hurried she would be there before dark.

The sun was setting. Jessie heard a shotgun being cocked in the woods ahead. She stopped and peered up at the ridge. There she saw a man half obscured in the trees.

“State your business,” a voice called.

“My names Jessie and I’m looking for Black Jack.” Jessie waited, but even after several moments there was no response.

“I just want to talk. They tell stories about you and I want to know if they’re true.”

The woods were still. Jessie peered into the gathering dusk. She thought he still stood in the trees but she couldn’t be sure.

“Jack?”

The dark form of a man stepped into the clearing in front of her, the shotgun still pointed in her direction.

“Jack? Like I said, I just want to talk. It’s getting dark and my trucks parked back on the road.”

“Come on then,” the gravelly voice called. He released the firing mechanism on the shotgun, dropped the gun into the crook of his elbow and turning walked off without another word.

“Thank you, Jack. I appreciate it,” Jessie called as she half ran to catch up with him.

Jack continued in silence, pulling a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it, not missing a step.

Jessie grinned as she hurried to keep up with the old man. Tonight, she was determined to get the answers to her questions.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Daphne ran through the forest, nimbly skipping over protruding tree roots, skimming under low hanging branches, zigging and zagging as she ran. No matter how fast she ran, or how elusive the maneuvers she performed the man pursuing her kept pace. He seemed he might catch her. He could not catch her. Daphne’s mind raced faster than her feet, trying to find her escape. If he caught her, he would take her most prized possession, the one she intended to keep, the one she had sworn she would protect.

Something moved a short distance in front of her. She veered to avoid contact, but it moved with her. Through the leaves, she saw a face she recognized, Cupid. She screamed when he raised his bow and aimed it at her. Cupid didn’t waver his bow followed her then slowed, he shifted his aim to her pursuer and let the arrow fly. Daphne heard the impact, but he didn’t cry out, instead he only ran faster. Her eyes searched the forest for Cupid, who smiled wryly, and bowed with a flourish. Daphne, betrayed.

Closer now, Daphne knew it was only moments until the predator captured his prey. Her strength spent, fearing her future, she cried out once more to implore the power of Peneus her father.

“Destroy the beauty that has injured me, or change the body that destroys my life.”*

No sooner had the words escaped her lips, than her feet extended tendrils into the soil. The breath of her pursuer hot upon her neck, his hand reaching, nearly touching her hip, she screamed in silence. His hands would never touch her soft, supple skin, only the layer of bark growing to encase her, to protect her. Her fingers sprouted leaves, her arms became branches, her flowing hair shimmered with leaves as her forward progress, twisted and turned, rooting her to the ground where she made her final plea.

Transformed, her treasure safe, the beauty of Daphne reinterpreted as laurel. Still her pursuer wanted more. He laced her leaves into a wreath he wore upon his head and from laurel wood he fashioned his lute and his bow. He vowed that as his tree she would be evergreen.

The laurel bent her boughs and acquiesced to her defeat.

*Ovid. Metamorphoses.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Shelby was the most beautiful puppy I had ever seen. The instant I saw her I knew she was going home with me. Shelby agreed. She had been playing with her littermates. When I walked into the room, she stopped and came to stand next to me. It was the spot she would occupy for the rest of her life.

True to her breed she and I were inseparable. She loved to play in the snow. Her first winter and the first snowfall play like a favorite movie in my mind. It was time for her trip “outside” and the snow had accumulated to several inches. Excited, ready to go, she bounded across the threshold when I opened the door. She had careened several feet into the yard before she skidded to a stop, turned and looked at me. “What the hell is this?” she asked.

I laughed as she picked up one paw and tried to shake off the wet stuff. Then repeated the process with the other paws.

“We’ll be here all night if you keep that up,” I told her as I scooped up a handful of snow and tossed it at her. She snapped her teeth at the flakes as the mini snowball disintegrated in the wind.

I walked out into the yard and called to her. Shelby hesitated, but when I called her again, she leapt over the snow to land in the hollows left by my footsteps. Soon my pint-sized puppy was running in circles, bounding through the great drifts, snapping at floating flakes as we destroyed the pristine white blanket mother nature created for our amusement. For the rest of her life, Shelby looked forward to winter and snow. She never tired of leaping over and through piles of it.

Shelby kept a watchful eye on everything. When I left the house, she slept next to the door until I returned. At night, she slept right where my feet would land if I should get out of bed. During the day, she followed more closely than my shadow. When we went for a walk, Shelby never needed a leash, she always stayed by my side.

She was my protector, my rock, stalwart, steadfast and true. One constant in an ever-changing life. One day, Shelby looked at me with big brown eyes. Her eyes told me today was the day we said goodbye. I cried. There will never be another companion like Shelby. Others need not apply.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

We all know them. The immortals who get knocked down but refuse to quit. No matter how far down they are, no matter the odds, they fight back and often succeed. We call them resilient. What is it that makes them different from the rest of us mere mortals? If you ask them, they will look at you as if you’re crazy. To them its life. Resiliency is part of who they are. I admire those who make lemonade in grand style, brush off dust and consider it a part of a normal day.

Resiliency is a matter of mental toughness. They have confidence in themselves. They will take on a task although the odds are against them. The quote attributed to Winston Churchill, “If you are going through hell, keep going,” is their motto.

The Great One, Wayne Gretzky said, “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.” Resilient people take the shot every time. They adopt the dandelion trait. Have you noticed no matter how hard you work you can never get rid of all the dandelions in your yard? Dandelions are not afraid to fail. Sure, you might kill a few of them, (a dandelion fail) but they will just try again. You can’t keep a dandelion down.

Consider another sports analogy. Barry Bonds leads the all-time home run record with 762 home runs. He also had 1,539 strike outs. Hank Aaron comes in second place with 755 home runs and 1,383 strike outs. If you take away all of Hank Aaron’s home runs, he still logs 3,000 career hits. Those are great numbers. Gretzky, Bonds, Aaron, these guys were not afraid to let a few failures interfere with their success. The numbers suggest the more you fail the more likely you are to succeed.

Resilient people know how to eat elephants. It’s easy, one bite at a time. They break a huge goal into manageable, bite-sized pieces. They dissect the task, pulling it into segments and focus on one step at a time. If you consider the whole elephant, the goal appears impossible. But resilient people believe everything is possible. Barry Bonds wasn’t worried about the home run record. He was concentrating on the pitch and visualizing a home run.

Visualization is another trait. They can see themselves succeeding in graphic, vivid detail. The elephant will be eaten and they will throw a party. They know what they will serve (not elephant) and who will high-five them. In fact, they will celebrate any small victory. Have you ever seen a baseball player booed because he only got a hit? Resiliency means you find one or two good things and pat yourself on the back.

The final thing about resilient people? They have fan clubs. They surround themselves with others who celebrate, offer advice, and make them feel like they matter. We are social creatures and earning the approval of others is a big motivator.

Are you ready to fail your way to success? Come on, I’m rooting for you.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Note: Another short one. This story is 125 words.

Pistons pumping, concentration set everything rests upon this race. Staged at the starting line, poised for the signal, seconds seem like hours. Amber. Amber. Amber. Green. Churning and burning leaping across the line, gasoline evaporates in record time. Dashed lines appear solid and the world becomes a blur. Pouring on the power easing into the turn, tires slide on this wild ride. No room for error no turning back only bumping and jumping and flying round the track. Miniscule adjustments never sacrificing speed articulating precise maneuvers testament to driving prowess. The finish line in sight the lap almost complete full focus fixed upon the goal. Flashing past the finish checkered flags go down. The only word that matters is the only one you hear: Qualified.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

“I have not failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work.”

— Thomas A. Edison

When we think of persistence, we often think of Thomas Edison and his light bulb. We admire it. We try to emulate it. How does it feel to fail day after day year after year? How do you continue and maintain hope? Thomas Edison started work on his illuminating idea in 1878 and on January 27, 1880 he got his patent for the electric lamp. It is impressive that those 10,000 attempts resulted in a patent in two years.

Could you persist for twenty-five years to reach your goal? Maxcy D. Filer did. He sat for the California State Bar exam 48 times before he earned the right to add “Esquire” to his name. Tenacious, persistent, unrelenting in his pursuit, sixty-year-old Maxcy persevered.

How about sticking it out with a group of losers? Could you show up to support them in their efforts, pay for tickets while they lost year after year? Chicago Cubs fans did. They stuck with the team on a 108-year losing streak, the longest such streak in any major North American sport. Through thick and thin, and dismal times, fans attended games and cheered the team saying, “there’s always next year”.

The last story of perseverance had its start back in the early 1900s. For thousands of years the American Chestnut tree grew in the eastern United States covering an area from Main to Northern Florida and west to Pennsylvania, Ohio, Tennessee and Georgia. They said a squirrel could climb a Chestnut tree in Main and travel through the canopy to Georgia without touching the ground. The trees were monsters, growing ten to fourteen feet in diameter and over 100 feet tall, they dominated the Eastern forests.

Chestnuts were the cornerstone of the ecosystem. The nut of the tree was a high-energy food source for both wildlife and humans, high in starch and sugar and low in fat. The wood was rot resistant, lightweight, easy to split and did not wrap or shrink. Those factors made in an excellent choice for buildings, barns, furniture, fences, telegraph poles and railroad ties. High in tannins the bark and was used to tan leather.

In 1904, chief forester at the New York Zoological Garden (the “Bronx Zoo”) Hermann Merkel discovered the Chestnut blight fungus. The American tree had no resistance to the blight. The fungus was catastrophic. By 1940 the Chestnut blight had spread over 200 million acres and killed four billion trees. The American Chestnut tree was functionally extinct. Efforts began in 1930 to conserve American Chestnut root stock and develop a hybrid resistant to the blight while preserving the qualities of the original tree.

Work continues today. The hope is to eventually re-introduce the American Chestnut into the wild. Several organizations including the American Chestnut Foundation are working on backcross breeding, traditional breeding and biotechnical methods to save this tree.

I hope their persistence pays off and future generations of Americans will once again know this great tree.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

The Noble Lady

“This is how you see me?” Lisa asked peeking over the artist shoulder.

“This is how the world will see you,” he replied.

“I don’t understand.”

“You are a virtuous woman, noble and wealthy.”

“Noble?” she flipped her skirts as she turned to gaze out of the window.

“Yes, noble.”

“I am no more noble than the woman in the street selling cakes.”

“You are more noble than any queen or duchess I have ever met. The world will come to see you as I do.”

“And how many queens have you met? The world will not see me. They do not see me now. I am a daughter, a mother, a wife. Nothing more. The portrait you paint is for my husband, not the world.”

“Noble is not a title my lady. It is something that shines from your soul.”

Lisa looked at him and smirked. She shook her head and returned to her pose for the portrait.

“Do that again,” he commanded.

“Do what?”

“The look you gave me.”

She complied and he worked quickly, his brush dipping into the paints and touching the canvas. When he was finished, he dropped his brushes, covered the canvas and began packing his supplies.

“You are done?” she asked.

“Not yet, but done for today.”

“May I see?”

“You have seen enough.”

“Is it any good?”

“I think we shall leave that for the world to decide.”

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer