Water: Element of Life

A colorful photo essay about the water cycle and environmental issues. 

Essential for organic sentience, this element possesses no emotions, opinions or thoughts.

It is constantly moving.

All life on Earth is born from it.

Water nurtures.

Historically, its greatest value has been its service as a tool for growth, enterprise and harnessing energy.

We cannot function without it. Yet it is given little consideration.

Air currents, temperature, gravity, explosion and evaporation move it.

Behaviors: magnifies, reflects, refracts, filters, carves, sculpts, moves, floats, collects, replenishes, hydrates, irrigates, delivers, incubates, oxygenates, stores, and stagnates.

Thinkers call it: sparkling, clear, clean, refreshing, quenching, baptizing, muddied, polluted, and toxic.

Its Forms: snow, ice, vapor, gas, mist, fog, cloud, drop, rain, downpour, waterfall, flood, puddle, stream, river, lake, delta, estuary, bay, channel, cesspool, sea, waves, and tsunami.

Encapsulated in a solar system biosphere, this element doesn’t care if it’s solid or liquid, clear, cloudy or if is contaminated, and lethal.

The delicate planetary water balance of Earth has shifted.

Humans are responsible.

We MUST care for or world-home.

Sloppy housekeepers get evicted.

“You are not a drop in the ocean, but the ocean in a drop.” – Rumi

 

Story Prompt: #7/200Challenge – Twitter @GHowellWhite1

Choose a topic from writing prompts given during a seven-day period and write a two-hundred word story.

Topic:  Point of view of a raindrop.

Inspiration:  A single raindrop is only a small part of a greater whole – water. This idea stirred my inner environmentalist and the result is a photo essay that conveys the beauty and fragility of a substance that is essential for life.

Check out my Redfern Studio blog for research notes and plastic pollution reduction resources, water facts and discussion about human behavior.

 

Single Step Adventure

single step adventure T“I think I see it!” Chelsea ran ahead keeping a watchful eye on her smartphone compass. Seti, the families Irish Setter, sprinted beside the young woman barking with unrestrained joy.

Lexi and Ed paused to tighten drawstrings on their windbreakers. A brisk, grit-filled wind scoured their exposed skin. “You’ve got everything?” she asked.

“I do,” Ed nodded. Reaching into his pocket, he removed three small silver objects. He dropped two of them into the palm of her hand. Lexi thought that the high bluffs of Dover were an ideal location for today’s activities.

“This is it!” Chelsea squealed as her parents gathered around.  From a small box that had been hidden in the rocks, Chelsea removed a strange oblong object. It was identical to the ones concealed in Lexi and Ed’s pockets. She read the paper it came wrapped in. “It says that if I, Chelsea, hold this and step over the edge of the cliff, I will be transported to another place.” Her eyes sparkled.  When she turned her gaze to take in the open expanse, the challenge morphed into to uncertainty.

Her father stood behind Lexi gripping her shoulders. “Are you entirely certain about this, Chelsea?”

She bit her lip. Chelsea almost changed her mind. But the hard look on her mother’s face wiped that away. They’d had many arguments over Chelsea’s obsession to prove the existence of Time Travelers. In fact, she was sure that she was on the trail of one such person now. For years, she’d been getting personalized clues in every single geocache she’d located.

Chelsea approached the edge of the precipice. Without even a look back, she firmly gripped the thing in her hand and took that step.

The man, woman, and dog watched Chelsea wink out of sight. Holding their breath, they leaned over the edge of the cliff and peered down at the sharp rocks below. Not seeing a twisted and broken figure, they relaxed.

Reveling in a feeling of completion, Lexi thought of her partner. She yearned to his skin instead of his fur. Twenty-three years of parenting and observation had taken a considerable toll.  She turned to Ed. Placing a hand on his shoulder; she lifted up onto her toes so that their eyes were level. Winking, she gave him a salute. Squatting down, she opened her arms to Seti. Burying her face in his coat, she whispered, “I’ve missed you!”

His immediate, silent response, And I you, Mistress, appeared in her mind.

Before she rose, Lexi slipped one of the silver ovals into the dog’s mouth. The three of them stood together, taking a moment to regard France across the English Channel. At Lexi’s nod, they winked out of sight and stepped onto the Constellation.

Lexi felt a large warm hand slip into hers and squeeze, before releasing. A voice she had not heard spoken aloud in twenty-three years inquired, “Shall I set the coordinates for home?”

——

Story Prompt: WriteOn weekend challenge – Bluff

Inspiration: Preliminary research for a ‘someday’ travel possibility.

United Kingdom – Dover Cliff’s Travel Information:

traveltips.usatoday.com/white-cliffs-dover-england-3316.html

http://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/white-cliffs-dover/

www.visitkent.co.uk/attractions/the-white-cliffs-of-dover/9002

Marooned

I held you as you grew in inside my life-giving waters. I dreamed for you before you could dream. Every new sound, smile, and movement was recorded upon the tender organ beating within my breast. I am the keeper of your origins and the name on your tongue when your last breath has been taken.Marooned Short Story cover

***

The Brilliant One. He was named thus for the persona he elected. Black wool dress pants with creases so mean they could cut through turbulent air. A long overcoat, crafted from the same materials, scratched and abraded at his neckline and cuffs. These micro irritations served as constant reminders of a fact that very few people knew. He was not the only one.

A Teacher. The best and brightest minds were sent to him for training. He was the man with wild, wiry hair that reached toward his shoulders. He joked that when the brain worked at full capacity, it would produce so much heat that the follicles at the top of one’s head would burn away.

A Mind Like No Other. He had the tools of technology at his disposal but preferred, instead, the scrape and scuff of chalk on board and the compact binder that fit in the palm of his hand. Upon the page of every fresh notebook, he taped a photo of her. The binder and chalkboard went with the persona and recorded information that others raced to comprehend.

He Agreed. When the choice among billions came down to one, he nodded. He understood.  He would represent them all. A holdout. For the blink of a cosmic eye, he would continue recording his thoughts and equations.

Beauty and Beast. It was a surprise to observe what the mind does when deprived of human contact. Guilt clutched at him with cold, bony, claw-like talons.  Every day, he stared, as if mesmerized, at that thing of massive beauty that revolved beneath his window. Illuminated and glowing against her blanket of dark emptiness, her silent cries reached him, causing the talons to tighten.

Eyes Closed. The reoccurring dream was a further surprise. When all the thoughts of humanity and the universe were open to him, it was his sister to whom they ever returned. Алина. His  twin. They’d lost her when she was ten. Chernobyl had been their childhood home. He knew, without a doubt, that her mind had been greater than his.

Musings. Perhaps the expiration of humanity had occurred on the day of Chernobyl’s disaster. He’d helped put off the inevitable. He was a temporary patch on the dam with fatal cracks that ran too deep. No one but him was left to wonder if she might have been the key that could have changed the outcome.

***

“Mama.”

——-

Story Prompt: WriteOn weekend challenge – in 500 words or less – Marooned

Inspiration: Pink Floyd song, Marooned

Night Vision

Every Sunday night, they shared vision training.  One partner had hollow bones, was aerodynamic and silent. The other, a girl, sat cross-legged, with eyes closed while she modulated her breathing and focused on maintaining the mental connection. When successful, she could see through predator eyes that only needed moon and starlight for illumination.

Flying over the forest, infinitesimal movements below drew that gaze like a heat seeking missile.  Calloused feet with razor-sharp talons swung into forward position. Claws at the ready to clutch and puncture.Night Vision

Sarie took a steadying breath as she dive-bombed, plummeting at alarming speeds. She pulled back her mental bonds knowing that the mouthful of salty warm plasma and sticky fur would turn her stomach. She would gag and cough when the sharp bones scraped against the inside of her throat. A sudden reaction like that would sever the tenuous mental bond.

Once the temperate meal was consumed, Sarie rejoined her partner fully. Growing impatient, she sent urgings to resume flight.  The huntress stretched her powerful wings and dug through the air so that she was again soaring. With her hunger sated and plenty to spare for her young, the mother owl enjoyed the brief moment of freedom.

This was the time that Sarie waited for. Pushing her thoughts stronger into the bird’s mind, they turned east. The fires that had burned there were mostly out. The owl scanned the scene observing everything.

Hordes of people dressed in tribal garb shouted as they pushed timbers aside. From opposite ends of the make-shift arena, opposing teams entered.

A pack of sleek, black cats padded in on massive pillow-like pads. Dangerous yellow eyes regarded  details of the playing field. Flexuous tails moved like cobras seeking targets to strike.

Next entered a herd of commanding steeds. Manes flying, hooves pounded the ground like rolling thunder. The forerunners reared up on hind legs and reached heavenward like Pegasus preparing to leap.

In response to the challenge, the felines lowered on haunches, bared fangs and struck out, hooked claws extended. Hissing and snarling.

The crowd of onlookers hushed in veneration.

As the battle commenced, the owl landed in a tree. Sarie’s attention receded. She didn’t’ care to see the massacre. She only needed to know the location of one man.

When it was done, the owl took to wing to witness the carnage. A man with glowing hands worked over a fallen stallion. Spotting him, she screeched and rocketed toward him.

Hearing it, he immediately rose to his feet. Reaching into a pocket, he pulled out a shiny object and held it high overhead.

The bird snatched it effortlessly. She spanned the distance to the girl in record time.

Sarie stood still, her arm outstretched and steady. The owl glided onto the perch bearing her prize. She dropped the object into the girl’s hand. Sarie spoke for the first time, “That was superb, little Mama.”

“Who whooo,” came the response before the mother flew off to feed her famished fuzz balls.owl-644482

_________

Story Prompt: WriteOn weekend challenge – in 500 words or less – Superb Owl [aka Suber Bowl]

Inspiration: Owls! and tongue-in-cheek description of a football game

Now and Then

They pulled back at the same time. Lips puckered, hearts racing and eyes wide with surprise and desire.

He was the first to speak as he picked up a dreadlock that had fallen over her face. Rolling the dense length of hair between his fingers, he gently tucked it back into the nest that surrounded her head, “Lulu,” he laughed uneasily, “I’m sorry — I wasn’t planning that.”now & then

When Mark made a move to step away, Lulu held him in place. Humor sparkled in her deep brown eyes, “I’m surprised Mark. I thought we were just friends…but now…” She reached up to trace the red, fern-like pattern that marked his pale skin from his ear down his neck.

As he leaned back in to capture her mouth, Lulu pulled him to her forcefully. A flash of passion flared between them. Their hands clutched at one another. She moaned wordlessly.

As an inner voice of constraint grew more insistent, Mark squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself pull away. They took a moment to let their labored breathing return to normal.

Lulu placed a hand on his cheek imploring him to look into her eyes, “I have missed you so much! I won’t let you go, Mark! I can’t ever let you go….”

Mark’s eyebrows shot up. A shiver traveled down the length of his spine. “Why did you say that?”

“I don’t know.” Lulu smiled.

Three hundred and sixteen years earlier…

Rain pelted him as he ran through the night. Mud sucked at his leather boots. He ran down the narrow path. “Mary! Mary where are you?” he screamed.

Luke knew that she’d gone down to the river to wash clothes with some of the other women from town. lulu lukeLightening that lit up the dark sky was followed by a deafening crack and roll of thunder. The brief illumination revealed no signs of life, movement, or of his new wife.

They’d been married only three days earlier. Blissful days of joyful lovemaking filled his mind and heart. He couldn’t believe that she was finally his and he could love her whenever he wanted. He wished they were in their warm bed right now rather than sloshing through the wet. He would scold her for scaring him …once he found her. “Mary Darling! Can you hear me?” Another flash of light and rumble of thunder. The river finally came into view.

When he first went searching for her, asking about her here and there—her friends had told him how happy she was to be washing his clothes. Even as it started to rain, Mary had wanted to remain at the river so that she could finish her task.

“Mary!” he called out in relief as he spotted her struggling with a heavy basket. Another flash of light revealed her smile when she spotted him running toward her.

“Oh good! You can help me carry this,” her voice reached him faintly.

Luke released his breath in relief as he closed the distance between them. With a blinding flash of light that came and went faster than the human eye could track, his life path took a sharp, unexpected turn.

Mary stood frozen in place. “No!” he screamed with panic at the edges of his voice. Smoke or steam, he didn’t know which, rose up from around her hair.

Her eyes locked onto his as she began to topple.

“Noooo!” he yelled catching her in is arms, sinking down into the mud on his knees. Frantically he ran his hands over her, “Mary! Mary! Are you alright?”

A faint, raspy whisper escaped, “Lu….” before her body went limp.

“No! no ..no…no..no. This can’t be happening.” Mark repeated as he held her to him rocking back and forth.

She grew cold and stiff in his arms before he released her. Another flash of light illuminated his dead wife, her head rolled back, in his arms. An angry red, fern-like burn mark spread from her ear down her neck. “I won’t let you go Mary! I can’t ever let you go….”

__________________

Story Prompt:  reddit writing prompt – a birthmark on your body is a result of you dying violently in a previous life. How did you die?

Messenger

Isobel’s youngest, and most beloved child, Agatha, had been chosen by the Order of Mystics to learn their ways at the tender age of four. When the girl had turned twelve, she’d been chosen again—this time, to receive the highest honor bestowed upon a member of their tribe; to deliver messages from their people to the Gods. Isobel wondered if the distinction was given because of a childhood rivalry between herself and the sister of the tribal leader.Messinger

For one year prior to Agatha’s Messenger Ceremony, Isobel’s family would receive tributes of food and service by every member of the community.  As the time for the sacrifice grew near, Isobel became increasingly anxious. She felt the eyes of her people on her every move. At night, she’d whisper desperately to her husband that they must do something to stop this.

Angry with her, he’d grown tired of repeating the same responses, “It is the will of the people. The Gods punishment would be severe. It is blasphemy to speak those words,” he turned away.

The thought of leaving her home and all that she knew frightened Isobel. But it terrified her even more to consider what would become of her if she continued to live among the tribe after they had killed the most beautiful thing that she had created—Agatha.

Isobel had constructed a plan. It began with a fire. Even the most devoted can be bribed for the right price.

“The Gods may not smite you,” the masked female said in a gravelly voice. It came to Isobel through a heavy cloud of cloying, sweet smoke. “However, the people will take their vengeance upon every member of your bloodline,” the oracle continued. “Their screams will echo into the heavens and their tortured deaths will be a blight upon your soul.”

Tilting her chin down, and holding mask away from her face the oracle spat into a bowl of liquid that contained several strands of Isobel’s hair. She tossed it into the fire pit between them. Another cloud of scented smoke stung Isobel’s eyes. She coughed and gagged while crawling out of the sacred, dark, womb-like space.

Isobel hurried back to her modest dwelling without uttering a single word.

Inside the smoky hut, Agatha removed her mask. It was forbidden to make personal statements when seekers came for visions and soothsaying. In this instance, she had broken her oath.

The heavy thrum of drum beats filled the air as Isobel and her family, dressed and decorated in their finest, walked the path that led to the steps of the altar. They stood together as the priest addressed the gathering. Agatha slipped a trembling hand into her mother’s as they stood, proud, shoulder to shoulder.

Shouts from the far end of the village reached the assemblage. For a moment all fell into a confused silence. As panic began to clutch the crowd, Isobel’s hand tightened on Agatha’s. Their eyes met and held. “Run!” yelled the mother to her daughter.

——
Story Prompt – WriteOn weekend challenge – in 500 words or less write a story about a messenger.

All Done Key Key

He followed, ’Key Key’ up the little dirt hill. Key Key was what he called the family pet whose real name the toddler would not be able to pronounce for years.

Jordy Meow
Jordy Meow

Wearing nothing but the wide, padded diaper that securely fastened around his hips—a diaper that sagged heavily at its lowest point—and a pair of shoes, Noah scrambled through the loose soil. It quickly filled every available space inside his sneakers.

Key Key, much quicker and more nimble than the boy on short, pudgy legs, daintily waited near the top for Noah to catch up. Once she was sure that he was paying attention, she began to deepen the hole that she’d started that morning. Bracing herself on her hind legs she leaned her upper body on her forepaws and made a scrambling motion that sent rooster tails of dirt shooting up in the air behind her.

Reaching the same vantage point as the cat, Noah got down on all fours to peer down into the hole. “What doin’ Key Key?”

Pausing, Key Key purred loudly and wove herself in and out of Noah’s arms and legs.

“What in Key Key?” he asked as he plopped down on his bottom and inched his feet down into the open space. Making his way to the bottom, some of the dirt around the edges fell back in. Once there, Noah mimicked Key Key, scooping out more earth. Something felt funny in there, something hard and cold. Noah stopped as he noticed a new smell. Not the rich, loamy dirt smell he loved…but something else.

Carefully, and slowly, Noah excavated more earth. He could see a little bit more of the thing they’d uncovered. He stopped and then he looked up at Key Key.

She sat there at the edge purring and whipping her tail from side to side.

Noah extended a finger and poked it. Then he frowned and looked back up at Key Key. Shaking his head from side to side, “No, no, Key Key!”

Noah climbed out of the hole and turned around to push the loose soil back into the hole.

It was unusual that a boy so young could stay focused on a task like this, but Noah stuck with it until all the dirt was back in place. He stood up on his little legs and stamped his feet on the spot. “Fixed. All done!” he said as he smacked his hands together to knock off the dirt that still clung to them.

He trundled back to his house with Key Key trotting along beside him.

As he walked in the door, his mother said, “Hey, No, what’cha been doing?”

“Dirt. Key Key.”

“I see that,” she said, “let’s go get  you cleaned up and change that dirty diaper shall we?”

———————————————————

Story Prompt: WriteOn writing challenge – 500 words or less – repair a hole.

Inspiration: A rediscovery of some old family videos. My son was two. It was a hot summer day. He was exploring the yard wearing only his sandals and a diaper.

Still Water Muse

still water muse**Classic hits filmmaking competition information (2017) is at the end.

“Tell me what you think about before you write a Grammy Award winning song.”

Bernie looked out the window. “I’ll have to tell a story first.”

Maxine pressed the red button on her voice recorder.

Bernie’s eyes moved back to rest on Maxine. “My adoptive parents got me when I was fourteen. I was a dark haired Crow boy suddenly mixed in with a bunch of white, blue-eyed farmers.”

“My mother knew that I was lonely and floundering. She bought me my first guitar and sent me to music lessons. The teacher wasn’t much help. But I’d take that old guitar out in back of our place through the corn fields to a big  oak tree where I’d sit and practice.”

“One day there was a woman there. She was beautiful; blonde, full-figured with long legs and huge….” Bernie grinned sheepishly.

“She was sexy but I still didn’t want her there. She stood, at least, a head and shoulders taller than me.”

“’What’s your name kid?” Her voice sounded like a frog with sandpaper caught in its throat. “Bernie doesn’t sound like a Cherokee name,” she commented after I’d told her.'”

“I shrugged my shoulders flippantly. ‘You don’t know squat about Cherokee…or C-R-O-W.'”

“She kicked at the dirt. She said that her nickname was Tiny and that it was a bad family joke. She also said that she’d heard me mutilating my guitar. She’d come to help… and to wait for the words. She looked at the tree strangely while patting its trunk.”

“We met every day for the rest of summer. She showed me things that my guitar teacher never did. I learned that she’d been a music teacher and that she came back to the tree because ‘she got lost sometimes.’”

“When I asked if my parents could hire her to teach me, her eyes blazed and she spoke harshly, ‘If you say anything about me, they’ll never let you out of the house.’”

“As the weeks passed, Tiny taught me to say what I was feeling with music. Then I reached a block. By this time, I was in full-blown lust  – or in love with her. One afternoon when we were getting nowhere she yelled, ‘What do you want?’”

“When I didn’t answer, she stepped closer and asked the same thing again, quieter this time.”

“Before I realized what I was doing, I blurted, ’I want to hold you.’”

“I would have curled up and died on the spot if she hadn’t been smiling. She told me to close my eyes and follow her directions. So I did.”

“She told me to imagine that the guitar was her –  to run my hands over its surface, to feel its curves and to let my fingers stoke the strings. ‘Hold me closer,’ she’d say, ‘Then let the music sing softly and slowly.’”

“She broke through my wall. After that, she’d bring her guitar and we’d make music together  – until fall came.”

“I remember the last time I saw Tiny. A cold breeze was blowing at sunset. I heard melody she played through my open window. It sounded crazed. When it stopped suddenly, I knew that I had to go find her. As I ran through the dry stalks of corn. I saw her guitar lying on the ground. I jumped over it, running faster. When I found her, she was barefoot, shivering and unresponsive.  I was terrified. Eventually, I screamed, ‘Tiny! What do you want?’”

“At this, she paused, turning toward me. ‘I just want to go home.’”

“Suddenly, we were both crying.  I said, ‘Me too!’”

“She reached out a hand to cover my heart. ‘The difference between us, Bernie, is that I am yearning for home, but you are already there.’ Then she kissed me.”

Bernie reached up to trace a finger where Tiny’s lips had left an invisible mark.

A sad expression settled on his face. “A full moon rose up behind the bare branches of the oak tree. I didn’t realize, until later, that all its leaves had been there the day before. When she reached it, Tiny started running her hands all over around the trunk.”

“’What are you doing?’”

“’I’m looking for the words. They have to be here!’”

“’Tiny, stop!’ I cried. She didn’t answer but kept frantically searching. ’There it is!’ she sighed, ‘I knew you’d show me the doorway sooner or later.’ She leaned into the tree hugging it like a lover.”

“‘You won’t be seeing me again,” she said over her shoulder.”But I’ll always hear you….” she paused, waiting for me to fill in the space.

“I couldn’t get anything out around the lump in my throat. I knew that she was waiting for me to tell her my Indian name.”

The unexpected silence that followed Bernie’s last statement was stifling.

Maxine blinked. “That’s it!  What happened to her?”

Bernie shook his head while reaching for his guitar, “That wasn’t part of the question.”

Maxine watched as he traced the contours of the tool that had millions of fans singing and humming his haunting tunes.

With eyes closed, he began to play and speak, “My Crow name is, Still Water Dancer.”

A soft, lilting melody filled the room. “My guitar is named after my muse, Tiny.”

Maxine leaned toward him, waiting for THE scoop of her career.

“Before I write one word or play one note, I say to myself, ‘Hold me closer Tiny Dancer.’

Bernie winked playfully.
__________________________________________

This short story was written for a 24 hour Writer’s Weekly writing contest. All or part of the prompt (listed below) could be used. The background and history of Elton John’s Tiny Dancer classic was woven into the story theme.

Story Prompt: The barren, tan corn stalks behind her snapped in the cold evening breeze, the only sound louder than the dry, fiery red leaves swirling around her tiny, shivering bare feet. She’d lost her bearings again and she hoped the dinner bell would ring soon. A gray tree with endless arms and fingers, devoid of any remaining foliage, loomed before her. She gazed at the odd markings on the trunk, which appeared to outline a hand-cut door of sorts. And, as she stared, it opened…

2017 – 50th Anniversary  Celebration of Elton John & Bernie Taupin partnership – Directors & filmmakers – compete to win a chance to make the official music video for Tiny Dancer, Bennie and the Jets, or Rocket Man. Learn more here: https://thecut.eltonjohn.com/

 

Elton John | Tiny Dancer music and karaoke tunes on Amazon

The Thing on my Head

It was the doctor who pulled creature out of the 150-gallon aquarium in his office. He was wearing thick gloves that went all the way up to his elbows. His clothing did not look like a doctor—jeans and a t-shirt. He reminded me of Mike Rowe in many ways, especially when he laughed. With a quick movement and a flourish of water drops, he settled the heavy thing onto the bike helmet that was strapped securely on top of my head. It made clackety noises as it settled into place; tightening down with a fearsome grip.

Extremely nervous, I tried not to think about the water that dripped  and soaked into the material along my shoulders. I was scared, but as long as it didn’t touch me, I’d be alright.

As it clung there, my task was to transport it from cubicle to cubicle so everyone had a chance to see what was hidden deep in its pulsing recesses. I watched the looks of repulsion on the faces as I came near.

Lowering myself into a squat or kneeling down, the only thing I could see was the lower half of their body as they moved this way and that to get a better look.  Expressions of, “Oh! That’s cool!” or something similar came from everyone. They thanked me when I moved on.

Not quite half way through the office tour, it started to move. I could feel it shifting its weight — stretching out one boney arm and then another. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see it beginning to explore.

A shiver traveled through me. Cold fear instantly replaced the blood in my veins. I moved faster, barely slowing down to let people look.  My breath caught in my throat as I felt more movements.

A squishy part of the creature that was right over my forehead began to ooze through the holes in the helmet. Its warm softness expanded and probed as it made contact with my scalp. Panicked, I screamed, “Get it off! I can’t stand it anymore! I don’t want it touching me!”drs office cover

The doctor hurried over, making assurances that everything was perfectly fine. But I saw the worried look he tried to hide as he rushed us back toward the tank.  I was hyperventilating by the time he got the long gloves back on and began reaching for it.

With a hasty scoop, the weight was lifted from my head. I tried to push from my mind the sounds it made as its many arms scrabbled against the hard plastic. With a splash, it was back in its tank where it scuttled, spider-like into a dark corner—disappearing from sight.

I never knew what it was that the office workers had seen.

_________

Story Inspiration: a colorful, graphic and stress-inducing dream..Something ‘crabby’ on my mind?

 

crab-298346_640

snow-crab-968565_640

Good Morning Aboard Caralee

Their movements were automatic with a choreograph-like smoothness.  In a galley smaller than most American coat closets, this was an accomplishment. The 45 foot Caralee housed all of their worldly possessions and had transported them to exotic ports all over the globe.

He reached for bowls while she filled a pot with water. He struck a match to light the flame on the stove as she pulled out spoons from the drawer. She placed the pot on the burner while taking a box of oats out of the cupboard.

When hands were not occupied with tasks, they would glide across or alight upon the other’s body; a brush down the back, coming to rest on a shoulder, a hip or making a light tap on the behind.

Oats were added when the water boiled, the pot covered and the heat turned down. During the brief pause in their morning dance, their eyes lingered on each other; they smiled.

He enjoyed watching the light play across the pink facets of the pendant that always hung around her neck. A gift he’d presented to her some thirty-five years earlier on the day that Asmara was born. Their only child had been conceived above deck, on a warm night, under a ripe Sri Lankan moon.

Sitting hip to hip at the tiny table, they held hands as they ate. Her nervous fingers twisted his wedding ring around and around on his finger. She paused occasionally to rub her fingernail over the smooth mound of rose quartz that she’d found in Brazil.

Before taking that first sip of coffee, they clinked mugs together softly. A tradition adopted from their time in the British Isles.  It signified ‘a robust day and a tender heart.’

Photography by: Mark Pepall
Photography by: Mark Pepall

Bundled in coats, they went topside to welcome the sun as it crested the horizon. Elbows resting on the rail they let the cool breeze flow across exposed skin. Smiling, she turned to him, observing the lines on his face and the wiry gray hair that steadily overtook the brown along with the passage of time.  She thought that he looked as good as the day they met…even better. She mouthed the words, ‘olive juice.’ This was a family joke; these words look like something else if one is lip reading. A chuckle from deep in his chest echoed across the water.

____________________________

Story Prompt: [reddit writing prompt]

A married couple starts another average morning on an average weekday. No one dies. No twist. Show their overwhelming love for each other without them speaking a single word.

Inspiration: