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Seeding My Own Dreams

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I took this little seed.  Well, maybe ‘little’ is a misnomer, compared to other seeds.  Comparatively, I am sure this would be considered a large seed.  In my hand, however, it seems so small, much smaller than I am.

I held the seed in my hand and whispered my secrets against its skin.  I told it my dreams, my wishes.  I spoke of my failures, my set-backs.  I told him of my pride and joy, my family.  I whispered tales of forest trails and river treks, of hopeful future plans.

I went out; I bought a special pot for my very special seed.  I painted little designs along the sides of the planter.  I filled it up with premium dirt, taken from my compost bin, ripe with rabbit leavings and trash decomposed into the most fertile earth I could find.  With care, with murmured prayers, I slid the seed in, wrapped it up tight beneath a blanket of dirt.  I added a bit of water, enough to get things incubating.  I left it to its birth.

I didn’t really think all that much about it for a week or two after that.  Of course, I made sure to add water to the mix, once a week, when I watered every other plant in the house, but I didn’t really pay it all that much attention.

Now and then I would catch myself, staring in its direction, my mind racing a million miles away, speeding off on horseback, while in reality I was stuck in my dray city life.  About the tenth or twentieth time I caught myself drifting away, enjoying life in my mind more than in my own body, I started to talk to the seed again.

Once or twice a day, I would sit down, my lips close to the side of the pot, and I would speak from my heart.  Often I would sit there for fifteen or twenty minutes, wishing away, hoping with all my heart, dreaming and praying, knowing there was nothing the little seed could do.  Yet, it made me feel better to speak, to get all my feelings out.

I never thought of what that seed might be enduring, listening to all my endless talk, my vapid chatter.

The seed sprouted overnight, while I was asleep, while I was far from watching.  When I awoke in the morning, it was not a tentative little stalk peeking out of the soil that I saw.  She was a proud tall finger of a plant, reaching up high into the sunlight.  She had six inches of stem and you could see she was still growing.  Her color twisted from an almost white green into a darker yellowy green as she reached up taller.  Indeed, I had to sit and visit with her, to congratulate her, to shower her with love and attention.  This time I spoke of her future, of my dreams for her, of where one day I hoped to plant her, so she could sink her roots into Mother Earth and shoot up into the sky, straight and angular and happy, producing fruits to feed our family, as well as many animal families that there may wander.

Hours later, the first leaf showed, tiny but strong; it slowly unfurled.  By evening, there were three leaves, one larger than the others.  I could see buds forming where new leaves would soon sprout forth.

It was later that night, after I had bid her good night, after I had slid under my own comfortable blankets, as I slipped off out of sight, that I first heard her voice, humming against my ear drums, telling me of her dreams for me, her visions for me.  I smiled, feeling safe, listening to the sage advice of the one who offered my guidance.

I had planted my own prayer tree.  Now it was answering my prayers.  How lucky can this woman be?

Prompt from the SoulFood Alphabet, brought to you by the letter B

Find me at:

http://onthewrongsideofthemirror.wordpress.com/

Written by Tabitha Beck

September 30, 2010 at 5:44 pm

Cravings of a Kraken

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This is a flash fiction piece that I wrote. Every Friday is #flashfriday on twitter & I started participating to force myself  into the habit of  writing every week. It’s challenging to write a story of 1000 words or less but also fun. It forces you to pick words carefully & throw out junk. I thought I would post it here as well:

With a growl of frustration Cupid paced the room. Bored out of his mind & it wasn’t for the lack of trying. He’d even implied to his mother that Hera had called her plump; she’d merely laughed & continued to flirt with her newest conquest.

“Bored, bored, bored!” he stomped about the room in a tizzy; he threw a stack of papers from his desk & watched them flutter to ground. Flopping into the chaise, he sighed dramatically.  From the corner his eye, he spotted what looked like a fish.  “Hello, what’s this?” as he walked across the room. Indeed it was a fish, a trout more specifically, with a scrawled note pinned to the head.

He prodded & sniffed the fish, it seemed fresh. “Let me see about this note,” ripping it off.  Scanning the first few lines, he danced in the air while laughing.

***

The note sent was by a kraken, not just any kraken but Poseidon’s.  When the sea-god grew bored or desired a new female conquest, he’d send word to the oracle that a “sacrifice” was required or impending doom would be implied.

Hence, a nubile maiden would be tied, left upon the shore; Damon, the kraken, would swim up, squawk, splash around and “eat” her. In reality, he carted her off safely to Poseidon. This racket had been going on for years without a hitch.

Damon hadn’t asked for anything in return, it never occurred to him. Until one day, he desired to settle down, woo a female and have wee krakens. This was when he’d made a terrible discovery- he wasn’t considered a desirable mate. Too small- that was what they’d all said.

When the last female had wriggled her tentacles in laughter and swam off, he hunted down the best catch he could find and attached the note.  Summing it up, it read something like this;

Cupid,

I’m lonely. I need a mate but I’m too small. I’d like a maiden. Not to eat. For love. Please help me.

Sincerely,

Damon (A kraken)

(I found a fish, the best one. Please accept, thank you. Oh, please don’t tell my master, he’d be mad.)

***

Kore couldn’t believe her luck. “Why me?” she wondered. She was a good citizen, obeyed her father and even had agreed to marry Midas, in spite of his old age, happy hands and obsession with gold.

As the tide moved in, she imagined throttling the oracle. “Stupid oracle, stupid curse, stupid monster!”  Trying to loosen the bonds, without luck, she kicked the sand and screamed.

Swimming closer, Damon could see and hear her. “Oh my, where did she learn those words?” he wondered.  She was, pretty, for a human he supposed. Something was different about her, he pondered and continued closer.

With the kraken approaching, Kore racked her brain for a plan. Nothing. Well, if she was on the menu, she’d at least put up a fight. “Bring it on,” she thought.

As he was wrapping his tentacles around her, she bit him. Damon screeched in pain. No one had fought back before and in surprise, released her.

The two, woman and beast, looked intently at each other. Kore didn’t want eaten and Damon couldn’t return to his master without her. An old woman hobbled towards them, cackling.

“Greetings, from Cupid,” she rasped and remembering the past week, smiled a toothy leer. From his perch in Mt. Olympus, Cupid shuddered; he remembered the week all too well.  Who knew the old woman would have such stamina?

Reaching into her robes, she proffered a vile of bubbling liquid.  Handing it to Kore, she shuffled away before any questions could be asked. Free from her bonds, Kore tossed the bubbling liquid at Damon. Writhing, he began to transform.

***

Standing before her, Damon.  Although considered small as a kraken, as a man he was a giant.  Curious tattoos covered his body, where tentacles had previously been. Suddenly shy, Kore approached, poked him and stepped back.

Damon was still figuring out the new sensations of being human. He wiggled his toes; fingers and when the female touched him, a strange emotion stirred him.  Uncertain, he reached forward and touched her hair.

Kore shivered when his fingers brushed against her face. Wanting to feel repulsed, instead she blushed at the thoughts that formed in her mind. It didn’t help that his nude form illuminated in the moonlight.  As she tried to cast these thoughts aside, Cupid decided this was an opportune moment to launch an arrow. Not of love, rather a suggestion.

“Oh,” she exclaimed as the arrow struck her. Just at that moment, Damon fell forward on awkward legs and they both tumbled to the ground. Bosom heaving, Kore pulled Damon closer for a kiss.

***

Cupid fell out of his chair laughing as he heard Poseidon storm the halls. “Zeus!” the sea-god bellowed.  Pandemonium swept throughout Mt. Olympus as the brothers began to shout. “At last,” thought Cupid, ‘some excitement.”

Written by katirra

January 30, 2010 at 6:36 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

I’ll miss Peter Pan

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Mr. Philip David Palmer. Navigator. Beach Trader.  Marine Engineer. Storyteller extraordinaire. 3rd generation immigrant. Friend. Father. Husband. Grandfather…

I heard on SIBC at 145pm, Phil has passed away.

I am uncharacteristically at a loss for words. We have all known that Phil was very ill. A combination of emphysema, numerous cancers, a lifetime of hard living is to blame. I am guessing Phil’s age to about 67 or 68.  I will find out in due course.

For us mortals, the death of a close friend and compatriot is hard. It is even harder when it’s a bloke like Phil…

I have referred to Phil as “Peter Pan” more than once. The entire line is… The Solomon Islands is Never Never Land. You go there and you never grow up. And, of course, Phil Palmer was and remains Peter Pan.

I think of Phil at his funniest… a Cmas party we had on the Gizo depot wharf in about 1998. We had roasted a pig and set up a diving board on the wharf. We had presents for the kids, food for the masses and grog for the likes of Phil and I.

As happens we ended up in a frenzy of everyone throwing everyone in the water. At one point I recall my wife Grace, her sister, Maisy, and a friend, Rachel, getting a hold on Phil and carrying him to the edge and tossing him in. All the while the three women had Phil wrapped up he had a cigarette in his mouth. He playfully puffed away as they tossed him in. He went under the water and, when he surfaced, he still had a dry cigarette burning away.

Of course Phil had done the old “turn the cig around with your tongue” trick. He was an adept at this.

The result was hilarious at the time. Everyone was either impressed, confused or simply frightened (magic blo white man, ia).

Never Never Land will never never be the same without Phil.

http://nativeiowan.wordpress.com/

Written by nativeiowan

January 29, 2010 at 8:17 am

Posted in Uncategorized

Nubian Song

with 3 comments

Ancient voices in the silent night.
A desert wind.
The rocks are singing
of a people gone.
Mild-eyed cattle wander on
by a quiet waterway.
Faded gods,
eyes that saw a snake within a mountain.
A flash of crimson in an oasis of green.
Ancient voices in the silent night.
A desert wind.
The rocks are singing in the wilderness.

Written by R Harris

January 16, 2010 at 6:03 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

Tire Swing

with 5 comments

Thickest rope,

perfectly knotted,

strategically postioned,

just right. Swoosh!

Spalsh! Warm

creek water ripples.

Written by katirra

November 19, 2009 at 8:57 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

Restoring The Dig Tree

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digtree1

prompt found at the Dig Tree

I find myself standing amid the debris and destruction that was my dig tree.  I am not disenchanted or downtrodden or sad.  I find that I am feeling strong, happy, hopeful.  I search through the shards and shrapnel of exploded wood with care.  I do not know for certain what it is for which I search, but I am sure I will know it when I see it.  I stand there astounded by how far out the blast area reaches.  Even though the lightning strike had caused a huge contusion, it hadn’t occurred to me that some much could have been thrown so far.  And yet, it obviously had been.  I walk slowly, circling, from left to right, in ever-widening circles, then ever-shrinking circles, over and over again, losing all sense of time and space, going in and going out, as my brain ceases to ponder the whys and wherefores of what happened last time I stood with this tree.   I merely observe and attest to the reality of nothinglessness.

The remainder of the trunk remains attached to the roots seems to be stuck canted half in and half out of the dirt.  I see shriveled blackened roots.  So much of the wood appears to have died long ago, densely choked with noxious black goo, as well as plenty having withered away to tendrils of ash and dust.  However, there is also a lot of healthy growth showing, where there were good times, places where healing continued as best it could under the circumstances.  Even amidst this chaos of death, I can see the tiny fragments of life beading up, demanding their own fighting chance to survive.  I cannot and will not take that from any of them.

I start to think I have spent enough time here, commiserating with the left-overs of the tree.  Apparently, whatever it is I came to find is no longer here.  Or maybe it was the memory alone that I was to gather and hold tight as my own.  I walk away, back towards where I had come from, when I see it, about twelve feet away from the main core of the trunk.  A tiny seedling, gasping with hope and vitality.  My tree does not grow from seed, but from seedling, from an outgrowth from the roots that sends up new shoots at random periodic intervals.  Here I am.  Here is the spark I have been looking for, waiting for, needing to gather up with gracious arms and loving tears, to transplant to another , much safer ground.

With the utmost care and lightest of touches, I clear away the ground, digging around to ensure the safety of the root ball.  The ball of craggly earth that I prise up is nearly three times larger than the sapling itself, but I don’t care.  All I know is I must protect this baby.    I carry it in my arms until I return to my abode, not quite a home, now less than a house since my heart has left it.  I fill a deep wide pot full of the richest soil and plant my tiny tree in the pot, covering it with more fresh dirt and mulch.  I will give it three days to adjust to the changes before I water it, in order to protect the roots that much more, according to the way I was taught by an ancient gardener long ago.

I offer it prayers, send energizing love and sweetest healing powers deep into its roots and its core.  I set crystals around its edges to catch the sun and add that much more healing power and energy to the soil.  I pray over it, weaving ribbons of light around the pot, the trunk and the tiny little leaves that bravely spurn the arena of death we so recently departed.  I know that once I find my Home, I shall dig a wide deep hole and burrow the roots of this tree into the earth there, where I shall nurture and attend to this tree constantly, with all my love and ability.  Where this tree grows shall be my everlasting Home.  Now, in order to protect both this tree and my family, I must look even harder for that home that is meant for us.

drawn and written by Tabitha Kietero

http://knittingjourneymanredux.blogspot.com/
http://onthewrongsideofthemirror.wordpress.com/
http://sapphyresinthesky.wordpress.com

Written by Tabitha Beck

August 27, 2009 at 4:43 pm

a minimalist’s pallet

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The sky is awash. Streaks of gray and blue. The world. As far as the eye can see. Muted tones. No bright pastels. Glowing cobalts. Streaks of brilliant light. Not tonight. This eve’s artist is in a gray mood. This eve’s artist is using a minimalist’s pallet. Is using a wide brush. With little color.

The sea is flat. Hardly a ripple on the surface. A mirror. Reflecting the gray sky. A squall hides Simbo. Thick and black. No visible movement. No sound. Just a curtain of a darker shade. Hanging. From sea to sky. Drawn across the view. Hiding something? Protecting what? An evil deed? An act in progress?

The breeze is light. Palms moving leisurely. Lazily. Mountains of clouds build the horizon. Stationary. As though guarding. Protecting. Adding to. Accentuating the over all theme. The preponderance of the vague. A minor statement on a grand scale. A statement of majesty and beauty. Understating the power. Building up. Held. Possessed by. The gray clouds.

The darkness is thick. The gray of the eve has led to impenetrable blackness. Frogs sing. Wind has died down. It started raining. Much needed. Came down pretty good. A nice change from the blistering hot day. Looks like it’s here for the night. A welcome guest. Come, clear the air. Tap-dance me to sleep.

Written by nativeiowan

August 27, 2009 at 8:31 am

Posted in Uncategorized