“Way out in the country tonight he could smell the pumpkins ripening toward the knife and the triangle eye and the singeing candle.”—Ray Bradbury
October was a blur of busyness and I’m behind in everything—laundry, dishes, yard work, and blogging. Life is like that sometimes.
My month included poetry night. Housesitting. A music festival. Helping my sister-in-law after emergency surgery. Becoming a godmother. Dungeons & Dragons. Five pumpkin patches with my nephew. Halloween traditions. Movies. Haunted houses. Lots of treats.
My photo assignment, which I’m posting four days late, was to capture the fall season. I took these photos at our annual family outing to Rickey Ranch last week. Not my best work, but who doesn’t love cute animals and a beautiful sky.
To everyone starting NaNoWriMo—happy writing! I’m not participating this year but I’ll root you on. Bring on November!
Kat sees the button first. A bright green light tucked into the corner of the wall. It pulses and calls to her. It knows her name.
“Do you know what day it is?”
The voice speaking loudly beside her ear is all blue and has no face. Only eyes. Where is the green? What day is it? It’s not her birthday. At least she thinks it’s not. The voice keeps speaking and moves now to her other side. She can see the button again. It glows brighter and Kat wants to press it. Instead, burning heat presses into her. It travels from her scalp to her toes. It quiets everything.
Time moves. Kat can feel minutes turn into hours. Days, she thinks. A small window to her right remains closed and covered with thick slatted blinds. A parade of blue figures touches her. Pushes things into her. She points at the green button over and over. Nobody answers her soundless question.
“Did you know Tutankhamun died 1,000 years after the great pyramids were built?”
A voice comes from across the room and Kat sees a figure leaning against the wall beside the green button. Clad in blue, his face isn’t covered. He’s got deep brown eyes with thick lashes, a large sloped nose, thin dark lips, and a small trimmed beard flecked with grey. He says his name is Ebi and Kat smells rain and wet earth when she looks at him. She hears hooves kicking sand.
“The Great Pyramid is made up of over 2.3 million stones, weighing 2.5 tons.”
Kat closes her eyes. Two million. Two tons. The majority of the universe is made of dark matter. It’s made of nothing. She opens her eyes and the green button is still there. Ebi is still there. A question vibrates inside her gut and bubbles and bubbles until the words form and come out as a whisper she isn’t sure carries sound.
“What happens if you press the green button?”
Ebi hears from across the room and smiles.
“It releases air in the isolation room, but don’t press it Kat…it will start things over.”
He winks at her. The number of trees worldwide is greater than the stars in our solar system. She once walked in an old-growth forest and felt the trees leaning forward as if wanting to speak to her. She’s not the center. Everything is connected. Don’t press the button. Press the button.
“The Great Pyramid was the tallest building in the world for 3,500 years.”
Ebi’s eyes are still far away but she can see the reflection of a round clock in the black pupils. The second-hand moves too fast. Dangerously fast. Kat tries to match the rhythm by patting the thin mattress with her hands. Sound can create patterns in sand. It can break things apart. A storm bangs against the shuttered window. Knocks loudly. Is Kat making the storm?
“The pyramids originally had a bright white smooth stone casing which sparkled in the sun.”
Ebi holds a thick book in his hands. Hands covered in thin white scars, and slash marks, like etchings on stone walls. Kat pictures those hands knowing true north and finding what is missing. The book opens and closes. Quiet and heat come again and the smell of rain is replaced with metal.
Kat wakes to find the room empty except for the green light. It calls to her. It knows her name. She can’t ignore it any longer and pulls tubes from her arms and a mask from her face. Her feet find the cold floor.
Stumbling and breathing heavily, she crosses the room in two steps. Or is it two plus two steps? She reaches out her fingers and presses the smooth, round surface of the button. Relief comes as darkness. Her body falls onto the hard floor and her head makes a terrible cracking sound. The air smells of nothing at all.
Kat rolls onto her side and presses her cheek into the warm sand. Voices call around her in celebration. Drums pound out a rhythmic beat like raindrops. Hands hook under her armpits and lift her onto a pair of broad shoulders.
“Stay close Kat,” her father says.“There are many here today to see the Pharaoh off and I don’t want to lose you.”
They stand at the base of a giant pyramid gleaming white with a bright gold top. Voices sing around her. Starting over is scary. Kat grabs the small green stone hanging from a gold chain around her neck and presses it tightly.
Author’s note: I spent a few days this week in the hospital beside my sister-in-law. She’s okay and home now, but I was inspired to write this story by a brief conversation with a nurse about Eygpt.
“Every man’s life ends the same way. It is only the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguish one man from another.”—Ernest Hemingway
This week my assignment for the 52 photo challenge was details. We were asked to take two photos of each subject—near and far. The idea is to show the context of the details.
As October is a time many honor those who have passed, I decided to visit the Sacramento Historic City Cemetery this morning for this assignment. Let me know which pair of images you like best and have a wonderful week.
Authors note: A little somethin’ different today. This might be a children’s story or it might just be nothin’. You decide.
Ma says toads are magical but ain’t no reason to fear ‘em. She says people make up stories bout what they don’t understand all the time and I should be thinkin’ for myself. All I know is the big brown toad livin’ beside the cobblestone well at the edge of our garden does a whole lot of sittin’ and starin’. I like him and I think he’s got eyes for me too.
I ain’t had a friend in a long time and I get to thinkin’ toad is the answer. When nobody is lookin’ I pull off all the flies from the sticky trap in the kitchen and put them in the pocket of my calico dress. It’s hard work and I don’t get all the pieces, leaving behind bits of legs and wings, but I don’t think toad will mind. He seems a likable fella.
He’s not like me at all. I’m either “makin’ too much ruckus” or “I’m so quiet I could scare a ghost out a grave.” Nobody much wants me around. I try to be middle-like. Brother was middle-like. He’s gone now and all my parents have left is me. Ain’t none of us happy bout that.
With a basket of wet laundry under her arm I see Ma headin’ behind the house to where the rope is for dryin. She don’t see me though because I’m slippin’ quiet-like behind the trees and through the hedges. I want to keep this meetin’ secret—just me and toad. Nobody else needs to be botherin’ about us.
When I get to the well the toad is where he always is, tucked close against the ancient crumbling rocks. He sits half in and half out of a smelly green puddle of mud and slime. You’d miss him if you didn’t look twice even though he’s as big round as Ma’s Sunday loaves. Ca-mo-frog. I move closer and curtsey low-like.
“Fine day for a meetin,” I say. “Fine day indeed.”
Toad says nothin’. I find a flat rock for our table and move it slow-like until it’s positioned close to his round chin. I lay my pink and white lace handkerchief out like a proper tablecloth. I use a couple strawberry leaves as plates heaping them with flies for toad and blueberries for me.
Squatting low, like toad, I pull my dress up to my waist exposing my thin legs covered in mosquito bites. We stare at each other for a long time waitin’ for the other to say somethin’. A crow laughs in the pine tree.
“Rude,” I say.
Toad says nothin’. I eat the blueberries but toad doesn’t touch the flies. I try a few topics of conversating—weather and the like but he stares ahead uninterested in me or the meal I brung ’em. I wonder if I got it all wrong. Perhaps instead of a friendly toad he’s a wishin’ toad. Like a genie or somethin’.
“You a wishin’ toad?” I whisper.
Toad says nothin’ but I close my eyes tight and make my first wish anyway. I’m concentrating hard but when I open my eyes toad is lookin’ past me and into the forest. With a small “croak” he leaps into the air splashing mud all over my calico dress. I’m about to give him a talkin’ to about Ma’s and keeping dresses clean but he’s hopping away and disappearing into the forest.
“Wait!” I cry.
Maybe I got it all wrong again. Maybe he’s a kissing toad! One kiss and he’ll turn into a prince and whisk me off to a palace for a life of happily ever after. That’s got to be it! I walk on silent tiptoes until I’m close enough to grab him with both hands. He’s heavy and slippery but I hang on tight and force him toward my face.
“Let…me…kiss…you!” I scream.
He doesn’t cooperate but I manage a kiss anyway right on his toad lips. Nothin’ happens except my dress gets dirtier. I drop him, wipe my mouth on my arm, and spit into the dirt. Not only did I not get a friend but now I’m gonna get a paddlin’ cause of my dress. Double probably for leaving the yard. It’s not fair.
Since brother left I’ve been trying not to breathe too hard or too soft or my parents get to cryin’, yellin’, or hittin’. I can’t do nothin’ right. Wish I’d fallen in the river instead of brother, but Ma says I shouldn’t be sayin’ such awful things. I wish I could be doing and sayin’ nothin’. Can’t be wrong if you ain’t here no more.
The sun moves across the sky and I follow toad. I don’t even know why anymore because all I’m doin’ is thinkin’ about how my chest has felt since brother left; the hole sittin’ right where my heart should be. Pressing fingertips to my chest, I wonder if a heart really can be broken into pieces or maybe it disappears when you get to hurtin’ too bad.
An excited voice makes me jump.
“Are you a friend of toad too?”
A girl stands in front of an identical cobblestone well to the one in our yard. The puddle here is more grey than green. She’s wearing overalls and pressing her bare toes into the mud.
“I am,” I say. Her eyes are the color of the sky.
“I’m Addie,” the girl says holding out her hand.
“Kate,” I say and we shake.
We get to talkin’ and walkin’. Addie doesn’t have any friends either. We decide we should be best friends. We pick wildflowers and make crowns. Her Ma gives us fresh lemonade and her Pa says he’ll let my folks know I’m safe. We play until the stars come out. On the walk home, I stop by and find toad beside our cobblestone well. Real quiet-like I tell him “thank you” but toad, toad says nothin’.
Unfamiliar bedsheets. Different light. Playing house. Here I can be anything. Time traveler. Lover. Midnight poet lost in fog. I collect pine cone roses. Walk the gargoyle dog under mocking magpies. Wooden floors creak. Could be a ship. I’m the captain. Ocean calls within pink coffee cups. Dance darling. Spin me. Do you see those lights? Pumpkin memories flickering. Was it a crowded nightclub? A woodland church? It happens again. It happens again. Pour me another glass— sing. Your voice calls. Sounds like together. Like us. Like me. I can be anything. This time.
“….he said it was interesting. He used the word ‘textured’. He said ‘smooth’ is boring but ‘textured’ was interesting, and the scar meant that I was stronger than whatever had tried to hurt me.” —Jeannette Walls
This week my assignment for the 52 photo challenge was to create images using a texture overlay. For those unfamiliar, it means after taking the image you add an overlay in the post-processing to give the photo a different texture.
I’ve never played with this feature before and had fun trying out different effects. Some of these I blended until they almost disappeared but others I made more obvious. Let me know if you have a favorite and what you think of this type of editing. Not sure I’ll use it often but it’s a great tool to add to my growing photography skills.
If you are in the mood for some reading, here’s a short ghost story I wrote this time last year. I’m proud of this one. Week 41: The Cornfield
#1#2#3#4#5#6#7#8#9#10
Photos were taken with Olympus OM-D and edited with ON1 Photo RAW
If you want to join the 52 Photo Challenge, you can find all the information at nicolesy.com
panic sits inside my shoulder just under the skin wiggling spiderset leggy, crawling 3 a.m. do you know where your children are? i check, don’t trust my eyes other senses won’t wake drive a tractor toward a fence can’t go fast enough to break through are they on the other side am i running to or from something hold my hand, am i really here bubbles become breath, no breath is bubbly spiders lie, right, it’s not real 4 a.m. do you know where your children are? they aren’t little but the world is bigger now eyes too open, close them rest your head upon my shoulder my head doesn’t know where to rest it spins, a top loose upon the table, it trips the horse we tumble, tangled limbs, hoofs, hair spider calls its friends, a party moves down my body pop the champagne, let’s go 5 a.m. do you know where your children are? pull the legs off so they can’t scurry inside i still feel them even when i say they aren’t real exterminators tell me they got every single one but why do i hear them tap dancing clever cat knows, he will find them for me hearts can only take so much, he purrs 6 a.m. do you know where your children are? too late to take the little white pill, stuff to do it makes me sleepy—fight it, fight it, fight it eight-leg shadows find my chest, neck, eyes fine, take it, one loud swallow fingers find keyboard, words trip/flip/skip not good enough, not anything, fine, all fine check kids one more time, one more time one more time step outside, cool air brushes skin softer morning traffic sounds, my ocean in and out, nothing else, we breathe seagulls cry with the mourning doves time to do last night’s dishes another load of laundry i know where my kids are
Author’s note: I suffer from occasional panic attacks. I had one this morning and penned these words in an attempt to capture the feeling.
we watch the water hold tight rope swings, we jump high rise like lilacs, like waves, like space ship rocks, sways, we tumble weeds snare, we stare at sun shine within, soft skin, we whirl pool glows, grows, lacks sense less we see, less we know—a flash back to life, hands catch cold rain bow tied neatly around bold moon light dances, our souls wonder land a kiss upon my lips, our hour glass turns, we say goodnight
Author’s note: Each line in this poem ends with the start of a compound word. You can either read the poem line by line or you can read those words combined—tightrope, highrise, spaceship, etc. Let me know what you think.
“As long as there are kids who are pissed off and have no real way in venting out that anger, heavy metal will live on.”—Ozzy Osbourne
This week my assignment for the 52 photo challenge was to create an environmental portrait. Ideally, the image would be of a person in their surroundings and it would tell a story.
I didn’t quite follow the instructions. Instead of featuring a singular subject in an environment, I redefined it as featuring the environment itself. The place I focused on was Aftershock. It’s a four-day festival featuring 90 bands with more than 160,000 people in attendance.
As I wasn’t allowed to bring in my camera, all these photos are from my iPhone 13. I added a “gritty” look during editing which fits the mood of the audience and the music. Some of the bands featured on the day I attended were Avatar, Baby Metal, 311, and Korn. The temperature was hot. The crowds were wild. It was a lot of fun. I’m still tired.
If you are in the mood for some reading, here’s a short story I wrote this time last year. It’s one of my favorites. Week 40: Room 313
#1#2#3#4#5#6#7#8#9#10—the crowd walking out at the end of the night looking like a zombie movie.
Photos were taken with an iPhone 13 and edited with ON1 Photo RAW
If you want to join the 52 Photo Challenge, you can find all the information at nicolesy.com
My spider has a moon on its back. It’s not a big one. Don’t be silly. It’s small, like my spider. In fact, you might not see it unless you get close. Really, really close. I know you won’t because of the eight legs and eight eyes thing, but you’re missing out. The moon is translucent and shiny—a rare precious gem. You might even call it pretty. I like to stare at it before bed and sometimes even touch it. My spider doesn’t mind. It likes me.
The moon affects the way my spider moves and feeds. Full moon days it must find a quiet place to lay because it’s weighed down by the gravity of it. On new moon days, it hunts. Some insects have learned this cycle and can avoid becoming prey. They are the smart ones. Plenty aren’t so bright; my spider finds them and fills its stomach. Drinks them up.
Now, dear, you must ask yourself an important question on this dark, dark night. Do I have a moon on my back? You see, we are alone in this room. You are close enough I can hear your heart beating and feel the warmth of your skin. Am I the kind of creature who feeds in the dark or the light? You tell me.
Author’s note: This tiny story was inspired by the second day of Inktober prompt “spider.” It’s my attempt at a campfire tale. Let me know what you think!
Bridgette Tales 