Booyah! The writing challenge continues! Today’s topic was (for me) particularly brain boggling, and I will admit that it took a mighty minute to conjure up a quick, satisfying tale. The story below is the fruit of my efforts. Enjoy! Check out www.concreteorchid.com to get a taste of what my sister has on the menu for today.

Day 4 – Write a story/excerpt to include the line, “Sorry, we can’t insure you for a journey like that”.

Two middle aged women giggled and laughed as they entered a small travel agency. The agent gave the two women a quick glance as they approached his desk, and he noticed the bubbling excitement in their voices and their movements. They chatted to themselves as they sat down comfortably in the seats in front of the agent’s desk. “How may I help you today”, the agent asked with a smile. The two women explained to the agent that for years, they’d planned to take a cross country trip, but due to finances and daily struggles, it never materialized. They told him that the time was ripe to throw caution to the wind, rent a car, and set out on an adventure to see the country firsthand. The agent responded, “Well, you ladies have come to the right place. With our knowledge and expertise, we’ll have you in a car and on the trip of your dreams in no time”.

As the agent prepared his documents in order to get negotiations started, the two women began discussing scenes from the movie ‘Thelma and Louise’. They laughed as they spoke of the crimes that the two friends in the film committed, the adventures that they had, and their climactic drive off of a cliff at the end of the movie. The agent listened curiously as they spoke of the film, brushed it off, and began to ask them the usual questions pertaining to their destination. The first woman said “We essentially want to pull a Thelma and Louise”. The agent looked up, quite stunned at their frank statement. He’d seen the movie, knew all about the misadventures of the title characters, and was well aware of their plunge down into the belly of the Grand Canyon. He calmly stated, “Sorry, we can’t insure you for a journey like that”.

My sister emailed me yesterday with a very intriguing writing prompt idea; for the next 30 days, we have agreed to get our write on with 30 random, predetermined topics. It will be a fun way to rev up the creative motor and get some writing juices flowing like the mighty Mississippi. Be sure to drop by her lovely blog, www.concreteorchid.com, and peruse her fantastic and eclectic posts.

Day 1 – Select a book at random in the room. Find a novel or short story, copy down the last sentence, and use this line as the first line of your new story.
-I’ve chosen a book called ‘The Red Tent’, whose last line is “wherever you walk, I go with you”. Here goes!

“Wherever you walk, I go with you”, she said, as the chill of the night swept wildly over the tears streaking her face. He wiped them gently, and reassured her of his love in a soft whisper. Sadness permeated the air as they embraced tightly, warm against the coming storm. Nothing else mattered but this moment. Nothing in the world meant more than the smoldering gaze into one another’s eyes. At long last, they released themselves from the comfort of that cocoon, that life giving space that they’d have to abandon indefinitely. That moment would remain in their hearts as dew on a morning leaf, ever present, and would linger in their souls like aged wine on a trained tongue. He smiled as he kissed her lips and backed away slowly. “I love you”, he said, as he walked out of the door.

A five fingered sweep of the hand over
exposed skin-
so warm against the cold,
the thin breeze drifting over us like a
thick april fog-
the snow outside is the painting,
and us, the subjects-
on a canvas so rich,
so dense with color,
and as beautiful as the seconds trapped
within this moment-
find your way to my deepest heart,
beneath the ancient layers of fossils and
sediment-
beyond the grand canyons and swollen
rivers-
brave the heat of rushing magma-
and traverse the many miles of open ground-
within those caverns is a living core-
free of the chains that bound it-
far from the wind that doused the flame-
find your way to my deepest heart-
burrow through the earthen crust-
and pan for the gold that lay uncovered,
unrefined,

and untouched-
see it so that it can be realized*

I recently read about the exploits
of James Cameron,
descending nearly 40,000 feet below the surface
of the Pacific to explore the dark depths
of the great Mariana Trench-
in the many interviews that followed, he discussed at
length the many trials and difficulties that
had to be overcome in order to undertake
such a journey-
the preparation-
physical as well as mental-
financial hoops and engineering hurdles-
7 years, he said, to design his submersible-
for a 2 and a half hour romp at the bottom of the world-
a descent into darkness, he said-
and he was right-
a barren expanse awaited him-
much like the surface of the moon, he mused,
his journey into darkness-
he was able to ascend after his adventure-
how many of us will not return from our own
trek into the deep-
how many of us venture out into our own
unknown-
how many of us ride out unprepared, and
ill equipped-
unaccustomed to the increasing pressure
that those great depths provide-
will our submersible withstand the onslaught
of the outside world?
will we watch calmly as the light of the surface dims,
and the air around us cools-
where the only sound heard is our own slow and
shallow breaths as the mystery of the abyss
swirls around us like particles in a snow globe-
will we watch serenely, or will we claw frantically
at the glass-
remaining calm is key-
only then will we be able to return triumphantly from our descent-
james cameron style,
with great fanfare-
head tall, courageously stepping foot into
unexplored territory-
greeting the opportunity with open arms,
and reveling in the excitement of
patrolling and charting the unexplored-
we won’t always be prepared,
yet we must always be ready-
we won’t always be willing,
yet we can never be afraid*

Define the world for me,
for I’ve forgotten the meaning-
it was 1-22-03 when these words
first lined a page-
just a random day in the life-
another 22nd day, in another year-
rambling words with no particular destination,
but ones with specific meaning-
it’s the lost souls that roam the world on a
hidden leash-
tethered to the wind, they are-
confined by nothing
but themselves-
imprisoned by nothing
but their own inhibitions-
such a feeling flows over flesh like
an ordinary wave-
like an ordinary 22nd day in an ordinary year-
just another tide finally finding its
sand*

He arrived on a black horse,
wielding a blade of bone and sinew
hewn from the soldered fragments of
splintered sentiments
and shards of shattered dreams-
he rode gallantly into the stillness of
the frigid night,
dead leaves glittering past like
confetti-
the light frost reflecting bits of moon
and scattered stars-
plumes of mist steaming from the nostrils
of the galloping steed like smoke from a speeding
train-
it panted heavily under the strain of the
rider’s swift and aggressive kick-
i stood firm as I heard the horse round the
distance-
a mighty rhythm-
i’d dreamed of this moment,
this final moment-
was I dreaming now?
the cold seemed to crystallize my blood,
or was it fear?
or both-
i stood firm,
inhaled the crisp air,
closed my eyes,
and readied myself-
i thought of a passage from the past-
the only thing that had changed was my age-
the message, one of paralysis and solitude
persisted-
a message of atrophy and of fear-
a record broken long ago-
a broken record, spinning its jagged tune
to a deserted room-
a dusty piece of music heard by two ears
and a long darkened space-
for so long, my shield could not resist the
blows, they were so constant-
for so long, my sword could not parry
the strikes, they were so consistent-
and for so long, I gave in to the struggle-
was worn down by the strain of battle-
left panting on one knee in the stillness of
the dense frost-
my shield covering my face as the hymn of
the sword glanced off of it-
I endured this war, and the fury of
my hollow assailant-
often, I bled-
each wound torn open by my backward
steps-
each wicked thrust drove me backward-
only in time did I realize that I was
striking myself-
inflicting savagery and blinded by my
own pain-
lost in my fury-
I swung wildly and hit no one but myself,
and I bled-
tears of blood-
tears of life from the deepest interior-
tears of innocence from shining days-
tears of love wept from eyes long since
dried-
life moves-
days tick with the consistency of a
fine clock,
a timed bomb anticipating its
final moment-
the hooves struck the ground with
purpose, a thunderous repetition
that rumbled ominously on the frozen
ground-
I was ready for this fight-
but would it be the last?
I stood still as the rider rounded the bend
at full speed-
his armor glinting in light of the full
moon-
his arrival heralded by the whistle of the
wind in the reaching trees-
his shadowy visage made eerie by the
starkness of the white frost,
and the dead leaves that waved like
flakes of snow-
I never saw his face as he rode toward
me, rough sword drawn high over his
head, readying his blow-
I lifted my shield and welcomed his
challenge*

steve jablonsky – a man named fred kreuger

All of the words and phrases-
siphoned from the dusty volumes
of hard teachings-
filtered from the mistakes and triumphs
of the first hand-
all of that knowledge, gathered like
wild fruit, collected into barrels,
gleaned from experience,
and poured like rich spirits into my mental
decanter,
where it has aerated for ages into
a cloudy, scattered brew-
mixing and swirling with my own
spices and imaginings-
fermenting into a stout and bitter potion,
ripe with flavors and shifting sediment-
yet it has never been properly sipped-
it has never been sufficiently tapped-
no vintage samples have been given,
its potential masked by a stubborn
cork-
all of the words and letters relayed to
me-

all of the teachings laid dormant in my
comings and goings-
all of the lessons catalogued and categorized
in my soul for the day that plug is pulled,
and the final product savored and enjoyed-
the aroma will be sweet*

It’s a dream that roams our brainwaves like
vagabonds in search of themselves-
a thought-
a layered touch that protects us from
ourselves-
the greatest times can be had
in the busiest of rooms-
rooms so loud that you can’t hear yourself
or others speak-
but what does that matter when
there’s just enough solace that you
can discern your inner voice-
it’s a crime to ignore it-
anonymous-
like the girl of the uchter moor-
hidden from the world but so very present-
a nameless set of bones and skin known only to
history,
but there all along-
sisyphean hopes-
mixed with long forgotten struggle-
a painful and mysterious cocktail
that can be all too familiar-
did her demons die with her,
conjoined with her joys-
or did they sleep with her in a preserving embrace
for the duration-
were they her steadfast companions,
there in the pitch-
a constant chatter that refused to cease-
a persistent voice wailing for a light
that never seemed to appear-
darkness for over two thousand years-
was it bright the day you entered-
was it warm the moment you slipped
beneath the peat,
and to your destiny-
there was no helping hand-
no layered touch to protect you-
no conclusion that can be solidified-
merely assumptions,
known only to you-
the only certainty is the darkness of your
liquid crypt-
the stillness of the ebony deep-
and the echo of your final seconds
reflecting off the mouths of those who
cast you into eternity-
your lonely voice-
pinging off the sides of your grave like
sonar-
a dream that roamed like a vagabond
in search of himself-
a dream that wafted on the soul of
time and refused to die-
fused with our brainwaves like a stubborn
thorn-
a layered touch that refuses to decay-
in a room so quiet that yours is the only
voice that can be heard*