Tuesday, April 4, 2023

Cannon a short story

 The wait, it was the worst part of war. Ben and his men had held their current position in the wood since well before dawn.

Younger inexperienced soldiers were apt to get antsy, but it had been long enough in one spot the more experienced men had begun to shuffle feet. Ben dismounted his horse to walk among them.

One of the men moved his musket from left to right as he let out a nervous breath. Ben walked down the line and clasped the man’s shoulder. “Stay strong, the time is near.”

As if on que rider barreled through the wood to their position. “Lieutenant Benjamin Mason.” Ben stepped out of the ranks and nodded. The rider tipped his hat to him. “You have orders to support the 22nd, sir.”

Ben mounted his horse and gave the order. The wait was over they were to fight. The men fought to keep their lines as anticipation grew with each step. Ben’s hand slipped into his pocket one more time before they reached the field.

He pulled out the photo of his wife and son to look upon them. He hoped it would not be for the last time. With a breath to steady himself he pushed the photo back into his pocket.

A priest rode across the front line. He recited a prayer of absolution to prepare their souls in case they fell during the battle. Some of them crossed themselves others muttered personal prayers, or made promises of what they would do if God let them live through this day.

The sound of gunfire and men’s shouts began to fill air as the moved closer. Soon the sound of the wounded could be heard, the thump of some of them falling to the hard earth. One of the mounted officers near Ben took a shot in the throat.

Ben dismounted to blend with his men; officers were always the first picked off if Johnny Reb could manage it. His pistols in hand he ordered the men to take positions in the trenches and fire at will.

Several fell before they could get to the lower ground. They cried out as lead tore into their flesh. Ben felt something hot burn through his coat into his shoulder. Then his shirt being soaked with his life’s blood.

He pressed his bandanna to it as he continued to call orders down the line. He looked out into the wheat field in which they fought.

He could hear Confederate officers shout orders to their troops as they took more of the field. Ben could see them fully now they were in a greater number than when he had last met them. He waited for the volley to begin.

The twelve-pound Napoleon cannons would settle the odds in favor of the blue. The Federals were out of range for the Rebs artillery, one fact of the day Ben was more than thankful of.

The enemy still approached, but no volley had begun. Ben looked back, the two cannons were unmanned. His heart fell, he knew this battle would be over quickly if they couldn’t thin out that line. 

Ben turned to the trenches as Confederate fire began to rain down. “Charlie, Dawson with me.”

The two men, didn’t hesitate to move away from the trench. Ben ran with them to the artillery wagon. He pulled the sack of primers and attached it to his belt as he gave orders. “Charlie, you’re on the nose. Dawson you run munitions. Do not pause, gentlemen. I want as constant a fire as we can get.”

Both men nod. Charlie ran up with the first ball. He set it into the tube then shoved it back with the rammer. Ben punctured the powder bag through the vent before he dropped in the friction primer.  

Charlie watched Ben hold his shoulder as he set the sight in place and take aim. “Lieutenant, are you hit?”

Ben moved back cord in hand. “I’m fine.” He let go of a deep breath as he nodded to the men. “Ready! Fire!”

He pulled the cord. There was a hiss as the powder ignited. A second later came the blast, sulfur and smoke filling the air. The ground shook under their feet. Ben shook his head to combat the ring in his ears from the explosion.

With in seconds they were rewarded with screams and calls of the wounded. Ben called out. “Reload!”

They readied again, and again, they caught an easy rhythm as if they were a full crew. Smoke billowed through the wheat field, made it hard to visualize targets. Ben focused on the light of the enemy’s muzzles and the sound of gunfire.

The battle felt as though it had gone on for days, instead of hours. The day had faded into dusk when they heard the Confederate officers recall their men. When they were out of sight, the men cheered. More for the joy that they still took breath than for the victory.

Ben surveyed the damage. He was thankful the cannon had dulled his hearing. This night he would get a reprieve from the cries of those fatally wounded, as they called out for someone to take their final words home.

Ben took count of his men as they began to slowly emerge from the trenches. Their number appeared reduced, but most were still with him. He could see many had been wounded. It brought memory of his own injury and the pain back to his conscience mind.

He attempted to push it back as he joined them, though loss of blood made him unsteady. He swallowed hard as his eyes landed on a fallen rebel. A deck of cards had fallen from his pack and been scattered through the blooded wheat around him by the fighting. Next to the dead man’s hand lay two aces and two eights.

Ben’s omen, he knew it was a taunt. He turned toward the surgeon’s tent and spoke to the omen, fate or whom ever was listening. “I owe nothing, I carve my own fate.”









Monday, April 3, 2023

Bells of Wesley, a short story

 


They stood together on the balcony of their hotel room that overlooked the large city. Dirigibles carrying their passengers floating through the sky in the distance. Sarah grinned. “What a spectacular view. I’m looking forward to seeing the sights.”  

Jonathon slid his arm around her waist with a mischievous expression as he kissed his wife. “I have all the sights I need to see right here.”    

She laughed and wiggled away. “You saw plenty last night and if you want to see more tonight, you’ll take me out, Sir Jonathon Adam Hargrove.” She picked up a brochure. “Take me to the Franklin Wesley Gallery first.”  

He smiled. How could he not indulge her? Her life was about to be cut short. “Wherever you wish my dear.” He kissed her taking a long drink of her essence. 

When they part she blushed feeling a touch dazed. “We should order breakfast.” Sarah walked over to the bell rope and started to tug when Jonathon rushed over. 

His hand closed over hers to stop the pull. “We should go out for breakfast. You wanted to see the city.”

When Sarah moved away to fetch her coat and hat, he slowly put the rope back into place as he watched the bell. When it lowered back into place without so much as a ting he sighed in relief. 

His eyes stay on the bell for a moment as he moved away from it to help Sarah with her coat. 

When they stepped outside the paperboy stood on the nearby corner. He rang his hand bell and called out the headline. “California becomes 31st state of America.” 

The moment Jonathon heard that sharp ting and tang of the bell he started to tremble. “Sarah, this way, away fr..from that.” 

She looked at him, for a second her husband looked as though he’d seen a ghost. “Are you alright?” 

“Yes, yes, the café is just this way, my darling.” He guided her down the walk away from the boy and his bell. He attempted not to show too much haste in his efforts. 

Sarah noticed he finally calmed when they had gone far enough the ringing was washed away by the sounds of the city streets. It was a very odd behavior for him, he was the calm in their marriage. She was always the emotional one. She dismissed it with a shake of her head. 

Thankfully they reached the café and Jonathon opened the door and the tiny bell at the top tinkled to let waiters know patrons had arrived. He froze in place; his hand trembled on the door handle. 

He backed out the door still holding Sarah’s hand. She followed him; she didn’t understand his reactions to these places. He didn’t act this way back home. Maybe the city was too much for him. He’d lived his entire life in the small country town they grew up in. “Jonathan what is the matter?” 

He shook his head and wrapped her hand around his arm and started to walk her down the sidewalk. “Nothing, everything is fine. That café didn’t seem… clean. We’ll find some place better. 

She wanted to protest but didn’t as she gripped the side of her skirt and lifted to keep from tripping as he moved so quickly away. 

They turned the corner and his pace started to slow to a stroll, which Sarah was grateful for. She looked up and smiled seeing the great church with its stained glass and tall bell tower. “How beautiful, may we go inside? I love church glass.” 

He paused his walk and followed the line of her sight. “Perhaps later, aren’t you famished for breakfast, my darling?” He would be able to distract her thoughts during the meal into other locations. 

“Oh, but we’re here now. I’m sure it won’t take long.” She gripped his hand and dragged him up the steps to the doors. “This chapel must be very old, perhaps medieval.” 

His voice was tight as he stood before the great doors with large round glass windows with images of Christ in them. “Perhaps. I think it would be better if we came back later, Sarah.” 

She opened the door herself since he didn’t seem to be feeling himself much less gentlemanly. “Nonsense, we’ll get caught up in some other exploration. Jonathon, you are acting very strange today.” 

She went inside his hand still caught in hers which gave him no choice but to follow. 

His throat felt tight, and he eased his hand from hers to keep from venturing further into the building than just over the threshold. When Sarah looked back to him, he gave her a tight smile. “Go ahead, darling. I will… wait here.” 

She cast him back a vexed expression then turned away to explore and look at the glass. 

The longer he stood there the more his skin felt as though it were going to melt from his bones. It was hard for him to look at anything for too long it made his eyes ache. He had a great need to rush outside and back to the sidewalk away from all that these ancient stone walls held. 

He saw his wife had finally started to walk back toward him. She stopped to speak with a priest then carried on to him. It wasn’t Sarah, Jonathon’s eyes followed but the priest. He saw the man in his long black cassock disappear behind a door. There was a small brass plate on the door, inscribed… Bell Tower.

 He reached out to Sarah in an effort to urge her to walk faster. “Sarah, let’s go.” 

She sighed and looked at him. “What has gotten into you?” 

He opened the door and they started to step through when the first tone rang through the building, echoed by the tall open ceiling. It was a deep rich bong of the largest bell in the tower, followed by two higher pitched rings. The sounds began to loop growing in strength. 

Jonathon trembled at first, then began to hug himself and crumble trapped in the threshold of the old church. His body shook as he cried out, the sound of a man as he went mad. 

Sarah dropped to her knees beside him. “Jonathon… my love what is…” 

Her breath caught in her throat, and she scooted backward away from him against the wall. This just couldn’t be she’s been so weak and ill through their marriage, surely her eyes had played a cruel trick. This vision couldn’t be real. 

One of the parishioners fetched the priest to help the wailing man. He started to kneel down to try and ease the man’s suffering when he saw the eyes. Solid black pools of the deepest darkness known to man. The priest felt his soul tremble as those eyes gazed into his own. He crossed himself and lifted the gold cross that hung over his heart. 

Jonathon turned his head away he can’t stand any more assaults. “Get away.” 

The priest stood and ran to the alter. He grabbed the aspergillum and ran back to Jonathon. The priest began to recite prayers to protect those present and rid his church of this horror as he flicked the aspergillum. 

Drops of Holy Water fell upon Jonathon. He cried out in terror and agony as the bells continued to ring. He couldn’t take any more his body arched, mouth opened wide as if to scream. Instead, something else slipped out of the body. It was smoky, the scent of sulfur filled their nostrils as it flew out the door and out to the street. 

The priest watched as the demon melted into the cracks. He knew it wouldn’t be last dark soul the Bells of Wesley would terrorize, and he said a long prayer of thanks for that.






Art as Literary Inspiration

 Art can be many things to many people, relaxing, stimulating, inspiring. You don't have to be an artist to be inspired by a work. I love to visit my local art museums and spend time with paintings or sculptures and imagine the story that goes with it. 

If you give a group of people a copy of one painting, like the one attached to this blog by artist Andrea Kowch, you will get five different stories. Maybe a bit similar but each writer will see something different that inspired their tale. 


So my challenge for you today is to get out your laptop, tablet or even on your phone. Google an artist or just a general theme such as paintings of a street in Paris. Take a few minutes to really look at the art. Are there people, what are they doing? Are there actions happening? 

Set a timer if you need to. Next open your word doc or notebook and start telling the story of that scene. It doesn't have to be obvious. Such as a woman running from the tornado in the painting. Maybe she's running into the storm to save something or someone. Maybe she doesn't even see the storm and is running to get her pie from the oven before it burns. 

Don't let your inner editor stop you. Set a timer for your writing time as well. Maybe only 10 or 15 minute blocks. Now you don't have time to overthink and make changes to your tale. Your muse has the wheel and drives the story forward. You can edit or make needed changes after you finish. So what are you waiting for. Go get inspired! 

If you like the paintings in this blog by Ms. Kowch, you can see them on exhibit a the Deland Museum of Art in Deland, FL  through April. Magnificent pieces that will tickle your muse :) 





Monday, October 24, 2022

Old Lady Creeper's Meat Pies


 “What do we do now? You told me nothing could go wrong and look what’s happened.” Kurt pushed and  

shook the basement doors again. “We’ll just go in and get the ball, he said, nothing will happen, he said, the old lady isn’t even home, he said.” 

Pete gave his friend a shove. “Shut up! It’s not my fault the wind blew the doors shut.” He gave the other boy another shove to the side. “Stop acting like a baby, they probably just need a good shot of elbow grease.”

Kurt scoffed, “Yeah, my sister can bench press more than you in weight class.”

Pete gave him an evil eye, then rubbed his hands together and pushed on the cellar doors. When they didn’t give he put his back into it, added a grunt or two for good measure. The doors rattled a bit but didn’t budge.

Pete looked to Kurt panic started to rise in both the boys. “Holy crap, Kurt! We’re gonna die down here!”

Kurt swallowed, then stomped his foot. He wasn’t going to end up in one of Old Lady Creeper’s meat pies. “Shut up, Pete.”

After a few panted breaths of musty basement air, Kurt squinted as he tried to see in the dark. “There’s got to be another way out of here. We never see the old hag leave ‘cept to go to the Piggly Wiggly.”

Pete started to search with him, both boys took a tentative step further into the dark room. He swallowed. “Do you think this is where she stores the bodies? You know… the ones for the pies.”

Kurt gulped hard and elbowed his pal in the side. “Don’t be stupid, that stuff is just stories to scare kids like us.”

They took a few more steps into the dark, Kurt squinted again and peered into the dark corner. “Hey, it’s the ball.” He ran over and picked it up. “Pete, here’s stairs. We can get out of here before Old Lady Creeper gets home.”

Pete yelped when his hand hit the edge of a worktable. His hands crept along the surface. “Yeah, I’m too young to be a pie.”

He took another few steps, his hands felt along the table for guidance. A box turned over onto his hands and he froze in place. “K..kKurt…. “

Kurt was done with this freaky place, the old lady would be home soon. She’d call his parents, he would get grounded and miss the carnival this weekend. “Come on, stop being a baby.”

He walked over to Pete and grabbed at the items that lay over his friend’s hands. It felt…. No, it couldn’t be…

The sun had started to shift and shine into the tiny filth smudged window. Kurt held up one of thet hings. He swallowed hard and started to tremble as his gaze fell on a skeletal hand. Kurt dropped the hand as Pete joined him in a high-pitched girly scream.

They ran full steam to the basement doors the force unjammed them. When the double doors flew open, they ran for the closest house, the boys emitted that girly scream all the way.

Mrs. Caraway walked down the stairs taking care with her bad hip. When she reached the bottom, the old dear gave out a long breath of relief. She set her Piggly Wiggly woven market bag by the deep freeze and looked over at the worktable.

There were skeletal remains scattered over the surface. With a deep sigh, she walked over and started to clean up the mess. She dropped a skull into the box on top of a witch’s hat and pumpkin tablecloth. “Damn kids, always getting in here and making a mess of my holiday decorations. Maybe I should start putting more mince pies on the window sill.”


Happy Halloween! Hope you have many more Treats than Tricks but be on the look out for Lady Creeper! 

Monday, April 6, 2020

Now is the time to make a habit!

I know, I know. We're stuck in our houses for the next 30 to however many days it takes to #flattenthe
curve. That's why this is the perfect time to create a new good habit. For instance... writing everyday or getting in at least 30 minutes of exorcise a day, eating healthier. Yeah, the last two are kind of ick so let's stick with writing habits.

That way we can eat all the junk we want and create something awesome. You can always have one of those peddle things under the desk. *wink

How do we build a habit? The experts say it takes 30 days to make an action or life change stick.

Step One: Get a piece of paper and make a list of what you really want to change in your life or what you want to add. Next prioritize it. Only make one change at a time. If you try to make too many changes at once it can get overwhelming or frustrating.

Step Two: Now that you have your new habit, we're going to turn it into a goal for the next 30 days.

Step Three: Allow failure. You aren't going to make that goal or every single day. We're human, life happens or there are days we just aren't up to dealing with it. That's okay. What you do next is what really matters. Yup, you get back on the horse the next day and keep going.

Take it one day at a time, take care of yourself and family while you create this new habit. Include them in it! If your goal is to write everyday ask your kids to write with you. Maybe younger kids can draw a picture to go with your writing. Make building a new habit a family event. Even if you're the only one that sticks to it.

There, now you have something to do while we're on Corona Time. :) 



Thursday, September 26, 2019

Kill your inner critic

The Inner Critic is that voice in your head that tells you something is worthy of appraisal or not.
Everyone has one; it just seems that writers tend to be the most tortured by this voice.

If we are not careful, that nasty little voice in our heads will become judge, jury, and executioner to our work. If we allow it that critic can shut a story down and keep us from submitting our work. By listening to that voice in our head saying things such as: “That’s not really good enough to send out.” “No one is going to want to read that.” “You’re no Stephen King, baby. Or we leave a manuscript unfinished because that voice convinced us it wasn’t what readers wanted.

When that voice begins to niggle… stuff a sock in it. Tell that inner critic to pack his/her bags and get on the next bus out of town. Put him/her in a bag and toss him in the river. Whatever it takes to silence that voice. 

Turning it off takes practice. Some ways to shut that thing up are:

-Turn up the music, if you listen to music when you write.

- Find three things you like about the piece you are working on. Even if you don't like the story there is something about the writing you like. A phrase, a certain word, line of dialog, the way you described something. Learn to see the positives in your work not just the mistakes.

-Remember what Hemingway said. "The first draft of anything is shit"

-Take a deep breath and know that with every page your skill and talent gets sharper. 

Writers have to stuff that voice down and get the job done. Tell those stories that are aching to be told. Just as we would with a rejection letter or a bad review, we write another page.  Write another and another until your work finds a home to adopt it. 

Don't allow those inner voices to stop you. Instead turn them into a tool. If your inner critic is harping on a certain thing often. Maybe you need to look at that sentence, word, or punctuation a bit closer. That doesn't mean you've done something wrong, but you might be able to make a piece more concise and improve it.

The inner critic will come back after a while, but, that doesn’t mean you have to let it beat you down. What does a voice in your head know anyways? When I was three he told me dirt might taste good… yeah what does he know.

Saturday, April 6, 2019

Forgotten #atozchallenge

The old shed stood amongst the wild growth. The paint worn, siding rusted with time telling the world it has been
forgotten. What secrets are inside these simple four walls? Old tools, holiday decorations, toys now outgrown or boxes of memories. Or perhaps secrets better left forgotten.