A to Z Blogging Challenge: U is for…Until Them

“Until they open up the ground for me, until it comes time to leave me out there under that tin roof sky, with nothing but a blanket of earth to keep my warm in my rest, I’ll watch over you. Maybe even then.”

He chewed thoughtfully on the toothpick that marked the end of his every meal. Never a man of many words, my granddaddy, and that was nigh on the longest speech I ever heard him make. The wind moaned low and cold through the cracks in the door as another hour rolled us toward the inevitable. The long grass would burn and they would come for us.

We both knew it wouldn’t be long.

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The Weight And The Value

“And every time night falls, and each time we huddle down under the gentle hands of that dark sky that turn the world slowly around, weighing its worth on every rotation, we get closer to that final night; the one we’re all walking to.

“Sooner or later, whether it’s screaming and hollering under the wheels of a truck or eyes tight shut under a warm woollen blanket, we all get there. There’s a comfort in that, somewhere.”

How the stars happen

As the sun rises, so do they.

Woken by something that ticks away inside them for all their endless lives, they curve away from slippery rocks, stretching out whisper-fine legs and tentative toes. The surface of the lake that lies still and silent in the dark; satiny black dimples as they skate out over the water, hunting for flashes of light far below.

Beaded eyes spy faint luminescence between rocks, and they sink, finding some way to float down through the crystal depths. Rising again like a seeds on a gentle wind, they break surface and totter back on to dry stone.

Picking their way up the sheer walls of the cave, they tuck needle feet into cracks and crevices, finding support for the little weight they have. Each one carries but a single light; progress is slow and unhurried. The sun arcs above the horizon, wheeling slowly over the Earth, and they climb, unknowing, in the cool blackness.

By the time they reach the open air, their energy is spent. The day is over, the sun is gone, and there remains just one thing undone. They release the tiny flares, caught way down in the depths, and watch with ancient, impassive eyes as they float up, and up, to be lost among the millions that went before them.

With no burdens left to carry, they topple gracefully, carelessly over the edge of the pit. Their souls almost emptied by the joy, the freedom of release, they drift down and down into indigo darkness, before settling on rocks by the side of a satin black lake.

This flash was inspired in part by Reminiscence, by Robson Borges. For more of his beautiful artwork, visit his website.

Visual creative writing prompts # 16 (Moonrise Night) ~ Ron Pinkerton

It’s been a while since I shared a visual creative writing prompt with you, so I decided to upload this – Moonrise Night 2 by Ron Pinkerton (aka Dejavue.us on Flickr). While I do often enjoy creative writing prompts that are a little more abstract and a little less action based, I thought I’d try something a bit different with this amazing photograph.

With its insides hollowed out, its paintwork stripped and peeling, and its bumper buried in the sand, this old bus definitely has a story to tell, and I’d love to hear what you think that would be. Maybe you could tell the tale from the perspective of the bus, abandoned out there and left to withstand the weather and the dust; or, maybe you can imagine how it got out there, and where its passengers went.

Please feel free to share your ideas or post links in the comments!

A big thank you to Ron Pinkerton for giving me permission to share his photograph here.

Red Flag

Slater sits next to me, his skinny legs with their perpetually bruised knees dangling over the edge of the pier. They sway slightly in the wind while the water surges below.

He slaps his hand against the rough wooden post next to him. The red flag whip-cracks in the wind, as vivid as a wound against the darkening sky.

“You’re not chicken are you, Ben?”

He slaps the post again and I wince, thinking of the splinters he’s risking.

The oily water seems to yawn beneath us, a dark space between waves opening up like a cave. I wonder for a moment whether I could time it just right and drop into it so that it would carry me away to safety. Or whether I’d fall all the way through and land somewhere far below our dangling feet. Somewhere cold and quiet.

As I turn, Slater’s face is stony white, bleached of colour by the cold and the heavy sky. His pale eyes have a dull glint, like a coin, and he’s looking straight at me. My skin prickles as he watches me and, as the flat of his hand collides with my back and I tip forward into the void, I wonder stupidly, for just a fraction of a second, whether I’ll leave splinters in him.

The cradle of the earth

And as he lies there, the severed stalks of corn digging through the cotton of his shirt and the breeze accepting him as another contour of the earth, he thinks to himself, “I can’t possibly leave all this.”

Panic sweeps over him, a cold weight under the warm shadow of the night. And as the world turns and the stars rush and sing overhead, he looks up and feels as though he could fall into them. Nothing but the earth is holding him there, keeping him down in the scars of the corn, and he realises that he couldn’t ever leave, even if he wanted to. He digs his fingers into the ground, feeling grit and history under his nails, and lets the sky bear down on him as he lies there in the cradle of the earth.

Photo by Charbel M. Elias

Sol

As he lay there, the sweet sting of the grass on his bare neck, he wondered whether he might ever get up at all. Maybe the earth would forgive him the prematurity of his arrival and take him back anyway, dust to dust.

Like the gentle evening wind, the pain simply brushed over him, a surprise, sensitising his skin while the pull of the ground kept him anchored. He opened his eyes and there, cradled in the darkening sky, he saw the setting sun tangled in the branches of the yew tree, branches stretched like dark filaments across its scarlet face.  Perhaps, like him, it would stay suspended there rather than rising again.

This flash was inspired by the ever wonderful Luis M. González, aka Una Cierta Mirada, and his beautiful photograph, “Sol” – or “Sun”. For more on Luis’s work, see this post.

Where to next?

I’m struggling to get writing tonight – I suppose I’m not quite back into the swing of things after a week away.

Pictures like this remind me that it’s OK to breathe and just look around for a while, while you decide what to do next :)

Milky Way – photographer unknown.

 

Visual Writing Prompts #8 – When white isn’t white at all

I spotted Wild Prairie Man, aka photographer James R. Page, on Flickr and wanted to share some of his beautiful shots with you to prove a very simple point: white isn’t white at all.

James captures the snowy landscapes in a way that adds a depth and colour to something that, to anyone with limited imagination, would just be a blank white canvas. The images aren’t even limited to a single palette: there are deep blues, touches of rich pink, pearly creams, burnt ochres and rich dove greys.

Not only do I like the images as visual creative writing prompts, I like them as a starting point for thinking about writing itself. As most writers know, being faced with a blank white page can be one of the most terrifying experiences. You could fill that page with literally anything, and the weight of the task ahead sometimes feels overwhelming.

And yet, look at what Wild Prairie Man has done with a blank white slate. All of the beautiful colours and textures in those images were there, waiting to be captured and enjoyed. Each of the pictures is filled with possibilities, even though none of them tells a whole story.

Even if you’ve only got a little something to say, and even if you don’t think you have anything to say right now, remember that white isn’t just white. A blank page isn’t blank; it’s filled with things that you just haven’t written down yet.

If you’ve been inspired by any of James’s beautiful photography, or any of my other visual creative writing prompts, why not send me what you’ve written and I’ll share it on the blog?

Visual writing prompts #5 – the storm on the plains

I’ve been dreaming about a little house, alone in the middle of a plain as a storm moves in. The people in the house are watching the grass and waiting for something but I don’t know what.

I can’t find a picture that captures it properly, but these have a touch of what I’m thinking of.

The picture on the left is called Storms on the Painted Plains and it’s by wilderness photographer Marc Adamus. The grass and the sense of openness in this one really match up to the dream I keep having – the sky, not so much, it’s too light.

This second photo, here on the right, is by Seattle-based photographer Jeff Lynch, and it’s called simply, Storm on the Plains.

The colour and depth of the sky in this shot, and the bleached colour of the grass are perfect. Amazing balance between the two.

Funnily enough, I don’t see the house clearly in the dream. I just see it squatting down in the middle of all that isolation. And I don’t know who the people are, either, or who they’re waiting for.

I think it’s bed-time now, anyway. I’ll let you know if I find anything out!

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