Thank you to everyone who participated in round 8 of the WU Flash Fiction Contest. I loved reading so many stories about Gideon, and I know Brin Jackson, the owner of the actual Gideon, did as well.
Hold on to your hats, the September contest is now open! You have seven days to write a 250 word story about the picture above to be in the running for an absolutely fabulous prize pack.
The rules:
- Each submission must be 250 words or fewer.
- Each story must contain a beginning, middle, and end. Like all stories, a compelling narrative is essential.
- All submitted work must be original, not published elsewhere, and written by you. After the contest, what you do with your story is up to you; we hold no claim on your work.
- Each submission must be made in the comment section of the prompt post.
- No more than two entries per person, per prompt will be eligible for any given month.
- Deadline for entries will be one week after the prompt is posted, meaning 7 a.m. EST on the second Saturday of the month.
- The winning story each month will be selected by a mix of votes in the form of Likes in the comment section and our own discretion (which includes a blind-reading of the entries by a panel).
What the winner receives:
Each month’s winning story will be announced the following month, and republished on Writer Unboxed, along with the author’s bio, and links to the winner’s website and social media accounts. As well as this platform-raising exposure, the monthly winner gets bragging rights and the exclusive opportunity to compete for the grand prize in December.
In December, each of the monthly winners will be asked to write a new flash fiction story based on a new prompt. The overall winning story will be selected by a mix of votes via a poll and our own discretion.
The overall winner of the 2015 Writer Unboxed Flash Fiction Contest will be announced by the end of December 2015, and will receive:
- A signed copy of Dave King‘s Self-Editing for Fiction Writers
- A signed copy of David Corbett‘s The Art of Character
- A 15-page manuscript critique by bestselling author Catherine McKenzie (double spaced, normal margins, Times New Roman 12pt font)
- A one-hour Skype lesson with Scrivener expert, Rebeca Schiller
- A free, non-transferable pass to attend the next Writer Unboxed UnConference (does not include travel or hotel expenses)
The other finalists will receive the a beautiful “Edit” poster from Three Figs Villa, as kindly donated by the generous Cyd Peroni.
We’re getting down to the wire now, with only three rounds of the contest left until the finalists all compete for this amazing prize. If you haven’t entered yet, now’s the time to jump in with both feet (and both hands). That prize pack is amazing!
And now… announcing the winner of Round 7 of the WU Flash Fiction Contest.
HONOURABLE MENTIONS
Victoria McAllister (“Gideon Speaks”)
Veronica Smith (“Shadow”)
Sarah C. (“Monsters are scarier in the daylight.”)
Congratulations on coming so close to first place Victoria, Veronica, and Sarah. Good luck in September!
WINNING ENTRY
Congratulations to Natalie Hart, who has earned an entry in the 2015 WU Flash Fiction grand final with her story. Please read and enjoy it in its encore performance:
“Troops, you know what this is about.”
Their stone heads nodded and their red eyes flared.
“Revenge.” I unfurled my terrible wings. “We used to be respected. We used to be feared.”
My hoary comrades, half-covered in the indignity of moss, rumbled.
“We used to have a purpose. Now we’re just ornaments. They think we’re cute. And it’s all her fault.” We glared up at the big house. “Tonight, no more hiding in the hostas. You know your assignments.”
And so it began.
Seven nights of lining the windowsills of whatever room she was in. Seven nights of marking her as the target with the beam of our red eyes. Seven nights of infiltrating her dreams with images more terrifying than those she’d imagined.
On the morning of the eighth day, she came to us. “I’m going mad.”
I rotated my shoulders just enough that she could hear stone grinding on stone.
She crouched in front of me. “I don’t know how you know what I’ve written or who I am, but I apologize. How can I make it up to you?”
I told her our demands. She stood and tapped on her phone and then showed me the results.
@jk_rowling Garden gnomes are not cute objects of fun to be tossed over your garden gate at Harry Potter birthday parties.
@jk_rowling Garden gnomes are gargoyles, which are seriously fearsome magical creatures that we should all respect, if not fear.
@jk_rowling Please stop sending me garden gnomes.
Mission accomplished.
Natalie Hart is a writer of biblical fiction and of picture books for children who were adopted when they were older. Her father was an entrepreneur, so she never intended to be one herself, but she’s about to independently publish everything — a Kickstarter will start in a week for As Real As It Gets, a picture book about a boy who is scared to yell “You’re not my real mother,” but can’t help it, and then how she reacts; and forthcoming in October, The Giant Slayer, an imaginative retelling of the first eight years of adventure in the life of the man who would become Israel’s King David. You can follow her on Twitter @NatalieAHart, and on Facebook.
Congratulations, Natalie!
About Jo Eberhardt
Jo Eberhardt is a writer of speculative fiction, mother to two adorable boys, and lover of words and stories. She lives in rural Queensland, Australia, and spends her non-writing time worrying that the neighbor's cows will one day succeed in sneaking into her yard and eating everything in her veggie garden.
The Colonists
“You mean my however-many-great grandmother went all the way across America in one of those?” She looked at the covered wagon and tried to imagine it. A whole family crammed into a space the size of her car, for months on end, in all weathers. With all their possessions piled in there as well. Babies born, maybe even some of the family dying and buried along the way.
She’d never seen one before in real life. She’d sort of thought of the wagons as being something like a Winnebago, if she’d thought at all. It was only now that she had been moved to investigate her past, do a bit of genealogy.
“Not only that,” her brother said. He had come to spend some time with her before it was too late. “A generation or so before, they’d made the crossing from the Old World in a wooden ship, and that had taken months too, and in a space no bigger than the wagon. And in the wagon at least the scenery outside changed. A lot of them had to walk the whole way beside it. At sea they would have had to stay in their cabin most of the time, and there wouldn’t have been fresh air to breathe or fresh food to eat either.”
She was glad she had come. It would be her last chance. They got back into her brother’s truck and headed onwards towards Cape Canaveral and the Mars Expedition’s capsule.
Thanks for your entry, Doreen.
Will’s Faith
“You’re too close to the edge! Bring her in a little,” my husband Will warned me. Exhausted, I tugged hard on the reins, guiding our remaining horse up the twisted trail. My arms ached and my back was stiff. I wiped the sweat from my burning eyes with a filthy forearm.
“Keep her steady,” he groaned.
Underneath the burnished dust, his face was deathly pale, his lips cracked and the sweat rivers on his face had long since dried. If I didn’t get us over the ridge we would all be dead soon.
“Don’t you leave me, Will Hanson! I need you.”
Glancing skyward, I saw turkey buzzards circling, silhouetted against the desert sun, their eerie cries bouncing off the canyon walls.
“Grace, promise me you’ll go on?”
“If you don’t help me, I will kill you myself.”
“You always were a funny one.”
At last we crested and the horse’s pace quickened slightly, nostrils flaring. I struggled to reign her in. It wouldn’t do to lose control now. We could smell the life saving water and it sparkled in the afternoon sunlight as it tumbled over the rocks in the river bed below.
“Name him after my Pa.”
“What if she’s a girl? I don’t think Jebediah will suit.”
“Then call her Faith.”
“We’re here Will.” I cradled my husband’s head gently in my lap, my remaining tears washed his cold face, his dull sightless blue eyes staring up at me. “You can rest now. Thank you.”
Thanks for your entry, Ann.
Bud’s Gift
By James Fox
Our rental car pulls into the graveled parking lot with squeaking breaks. My son Kyle pouted after I told him he couldn’t take his tablet computer with him. His overreaction reminded me of Bud pulling bandages off my knee. His mood has improved, and he even talks to me a little, mostly asking questions.
“Why are we going to the high desert museum?” He asks.
“You’ll see. Grab your coat.”
Walking outside I hurry to the office. I write my name on the visitor’s log and turn it back to a smiling old lady. Old eyes light up and she says she’ll wait to close until we’re done. Kyle and I look at old tools in glass cases before returning to the chilly air. Glancing around I see there are four wagons displayed currently. Even in the dimming light I walk right up to the one I want.
“This one is special.” I say.
“It looks like the other ones.” Kyle says.
I pull out an old photo. Bud and I are holding up trout, his were always bigger.
“That’s me when I was your age, and that’s my great Uncle Bud. He died before you were born. Go read the plague.”
I watch his eyes scanning the words.
Donated by Bud Perry who came to Oregon on this wagon, and his great nephew Oliver who found the wagon buried near a creek after being lost for eighty years.
“You found it Dad?”
“I did.”
Thanks for your entry, James.
Time to stop moving
The old wagon was tied to the rail. From his room opposite the bar, Joe could see everything happening and he muttered “I’m getting to like this town, I guess that means it’s time to pack up. Folk like me don’t settle easy, we’ve got the roving spirit.”
He glanced out of the window and saw the first signs of Winter in the sky, “Another bad one coming,” he said as he walked out of the room, hitching his belt and taking his hat off the stand.
Joe walked out of the hotel, winking at Carol – the owner – he said, “I’m mighty grateful for the room. I got itchy feet, Carol, guess this means it’s time to roll.”
The auburn haired lady behind the counter replied, “Will I see you again, Joe?”
Joe stroked his chin and replied,”I can’t say, these old bones want to rest, but I’ve got a lot to see.”
He walked down the street to the stable, on his way something happened, and he made a decision. He entered the stable, and taking some extra hay for a feed, he smoothed his horses and said, “This isn’t where I imagined ending up, but we can’t last another winter in the lodge. We’re old and tired, and it’s time to settle.”
He muttered, “As good as anywhere to settle.” He turned to go back inside, and called to Carol, “Your cowboy’s home.”
Carol replied, “I’m glad. I worry about you, Joe.”
Thanks for your entry, Alan.
Thanks for the challenge, Jo. Here’s my entry:
The History Lesson
Tom eyed the wagon with a bored expression. “The Prairie Schooner? Sounds like the name for a ship.”
“Looked like a ship,” said the guide. “Great white cover like that. Not a smooth ride but.”
Tom smirked. “Beats walking across the country.”
“You think, hey? Want to find out what she’s really like?”
Tom shrugged. He really wasn’t interested. He’d only come to the Historical Museum to escort his ageing grandmother. He looked over his shoulder. She was resting in the shade, sipping tea from old world china.
“Well?” said the guide.
Tom shook his head. As if sitting stationary on the seat of the wagon would tell him anything. But the guide looked so earnest; Tom relented and climbed onto the wagon. Humour the old guy, he thought.
“Hold on,” said the guide.
Tom resisted rolling his eyes but the second he sat down, the museum buildings melted away and transformed to wild open prairie. A team of oxen appeared in front of the wagon. The guide cracked a whip, gave a shout. The oxen leaned into the harness then rocked the wagon forward with a jerk.
Eyes wide, Tom gripped the seat. The track was smooth but every turn of the wooden wheels threatened to buck him to the ground.
Ten minutes? Ten hours? Tom didn’t know. But when he finally stepped from the wagon and returned to the present, he knew one thing. He rubbed his aching back. “Many walked, didn’t they?”
The guide nodded. “Many did.”
Thanks for your entry, Pauline.
Entry: Flash Fiction Round 9
Black Hills Gold
I didn’t mean to lose my temper, but Mato kept pestering me to play the spear throwing game with him. Mother had placed me in charge of my little brother while she and the other women tanned the season’s buffalo hides. Winter was coming and the men would soon be heading to the flatlands to trade with the Cheyenne. I finally lost my patience when he jabbed me again with the sharp end of the stick. “Mato!” I yelled, “If you do that again, I will break that stick over your head!” With that, he ran crying from our tipi.
After finishing my chores I walked down the length of the village in search of him. The towering granite rocks of our sacred mountain, He Sapa, glistened in the waning sunlight, and I began climbing her majestic shoulders to get a better view of the village below. The elders had recently held a council meeting to discuss the many white men coming to He Sapa in search of gold. They called her the Black Hills and tore open her veins with axes and blasted her with dynamite. Reaching a sheltered ledge overlooking the wide plain below, I sat down on a flat rock warmed by the late afternoon sun. In the distance I saw a long line of covered wagons approaching. As I watched them advancing, Mato crawled out from behind a boulder and sat beside me, resting his small head against mine.
Beautiful! This was lovely. Brilliant environmental message woven in with an Indigenous peoples/First Nations point of view.
Thanks for your entry, Isabel.
The Crush
There were two of us; my brother and me.
There were five of them; our oldest sister and her friends.
The two of us followed all of them to a field near Buffalo Ranch Park, hiding along the way behind trees and shrubs where we stayed still, listening as they laughed, watching as they played. That we were in the shadows was my brother’s idea. “Not yet,” he said.
So we waited.
And listened.
And watched.
And made no move until the five of them had wandered away from their blankets and coolers and games. Then my brother whispered, “Go.”
I made my move into the open, staying low and out of sight. I reached their things and grabbed the one thing my brother wanted: the blue one.
“C’mon-c’mon!” The two of us broke into a run down the asphalt path. He was three years older and ten steps faster and got to the bottom of the hill first. He flipped opened a maintenance tool bin and said, “Quick, throw it in here. They’ll think we hid it in that dusty old wagon.”
With our sister and her friends screaming down from up the hill, we climbed a metal fence and ran past the covered wagon. I glanced back, saw he’d left the lid up on the tool bin, and said, “Oh no. That blue thing’s sticking out, plain as day.”
All my brother did was smile.
And that’s when I knew: he really did like that Emma girl.
Thanks for your entry, Terry.
Waters of Resentment
George Brantley contracted a serious illness. Priscilla, his wife, was disconsolate. A violent fervor ruled his physical and mental reckoning. He sold his half share in the feed store to Uncle Matthew. George bought a covered wagon and four young mules. Additional funds remained. They would travel from St Louis to the gold fields of California. Like so many, gold fever seized him. His dreams were invested. Priscilla’s dreams were shattered.
While George was getting advice from the wagon train leader on minimum necessities for the journey, Priscilla organized their clothes, kitchen implements and household goods. The wagon’s front drawers were first to be filled. She packed a jar of rage, sealed with bitterness. Beth, a neighbor, had given her a tiny package of goodwill, which she replaced with persecution. Foreboding and insecurity were held in a yellowed envelope, tucked in the corner of the second drawer. The last to be packed was a music box, a gift from George. It would not carry a sweet tune, rather a lifelong theme of unforgiving extortion. Left behind would be altruism, hope, determination and happiness with George. They would be scant memories.
Forty brave families and their prairie schooners began the overwhelming expedition with the best of intentions. Six weeks into the trip, lives full of promise and achievement ended for nine wagons. A flash flood engulfed the end of the train while crossing a river. The Brantleys were among the casualties. Purchased dreams seldom come true.
Thanks for your entry, Ralph.
Your imagination of what they carried rang true for many settlers.
The Oregon Trail
I sank to the ground in despair. The wheel spokes made shadowed stripes across my lap. “What do you mean Esther has dysentery?”
“She just does.” David sounded laconic, in spite of my plaintive tone.
“But she just had dysentery. How can she have it again?”
“I don’t know. I guess the water is tainted or something.”
I leaned back against the wheel. “I don’t know if I can go on… It’s just one thing after another. Last week, Fergus was bitten by a rattlesnake. It’s a miracle he survived.” I cringed, picturing his inflamed wound, the fang marks glowing red, the surrounding skin shiny and puffy. “What if Esther doesn’t make it? How many times can a person recover from dysentery?”
David shrugged. “We’ll just have to rest, see if she gets better. We’ll still make it to Sacramento. How are our supplies?”
“We only have salt pork.”
He rummaged at the back of the wagon. “I should go hunting. Too bad we lost so much on the last river crossing.”
“Thanks David.” Grabbing the wheel, I yanked myself upright, ready to face the next part of the journey. “Be careful not to accidentally shoot anyone. We can’t afford another injury. I’ll try to make tea for Esther.”
Mom cleared her throat. “Are you two finished play-acting The Oregon Trail? It’s lunchtime.”
“This game seems more depressing when we say it out loud, instead of playing on the computer,” I said.
David grinned. “Yeah, let’s go get pizza.”
Thanks for your entry, Meghan.
Replicate: make an exact copy
Prim, proper, and freshly stained, the covered wagon rested near the fence, with its white canvas top stretched tight over the rounded upper frame, resembling bonnets in a row.
“Is that real?” Gina asked her father as they stood holding hands at the pioneer museum.
“Yes, and just think, families like us traveled across the country in one of those.”
“Shouldn’t it be dirty?”
“This one was made for the museum.”
“Wouldn’t it be ripped and torn? And have nicked wheels? And have horse sweat on that pull bar thing?”
“Well, sure, Honey, but this one didn’t really go anywhere. It’s just a copy.”
“Then it’s not real. It’s missing all the memories of a real one.”
“It’s just a wagon, Gina.”
She looked up at her father. “If I see something and it reminds me of things, doesn’t it give me memories?”
“Well–“
“And it can’t give me something it doesn’t have, can it? So a copy should have memories like the real one, or it’s not a real copy.”
“But it’s not alive, Sweetie.”
“Mommy’s not alive, but she gives me memories.”
He looked at the wagon, and put a finger to the corner of his eye.
“You’re right, Gina, this is not an exact copy. It has no memories. I think we should keep traveling until we find the real thing.”
She squeezed his hand and smiled at him. “You drive,” she said, then laughed and skipped to the car.
Thanks for your entry, Dave.
“We can’t live here,” I warn Trey.
He sits mesmerized by the car headlights, shining through the surrounding brush, painting motion on the dead white canvas.
“I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
His bronze hair spikes from too many fingers running through and taming it back down. That’s how his parents tried to calm him, as if arranging his hair masked the newly dysfunctional family arrangement.
“Everybody’s parents split. You have two places to go, now. You’re in charge,” I lie.
“People survived in these,” he ignores me.
I wave my hands like batons hoping he’ll follow them instead of his twelve-year-old thoughts.
“They were eaten by bears or caught diseases swimming in the water. Why’s it even here?”
“Dad said to remind us of how the town started.”
Neither of us bothers saying his parents could use that reminder, too.
Trey stands spread eagle, touching each hand to the inner guts of the wagon. He wills it to be a time machine. Starting middle school is shitty enough without walking this new tightrope. We’re too old to be kids anymore, too young to sip beer behind bleachers and pretend we don’t care.
“It was good enough for the settlers.” Trey grabs the back of his calves, perching on the splintered bench. “We can sleep here one night. Right?”
I shake my head, but in the dark all he sees are the images flashing through the canvas.
“You with me?”
“Sure,” I concede, settling in to weather the storm.
Thanks for your entry, Sarah.
Flash Fiction Round Nine Entry
Marissa Jensen climbed into the covered wagon. Nothing in the Nebraska Prairie Museum interested her and she’d rather read here than in the stuffy genealogy room where her mother searched for Great-great-great Aunt Somebody-or-other. Orphelia, maybe.
Just as Katniss was being rescued, she heard a child’s cry, and peering through the canvas gap, found the fence surrounding the wagon replaced by the soft shu-shu-ing of a red-gold field at least as tall as she.
“Ruukiraa’at cuuraki,” screamed a small girl emerging from the curtain of grass. Marissa didn’t know the words, but there was no mistaking the tone. Without thinking, she reached down and pulled her to safety.
She recognized the deerskin skirt and poncho as Pawnee from an exhibit Mom had dragged her through once, but this was no Native American. No, the face that stared back at her was the same image of her mother, age six, that she’d seen a million times sitting on Gram’s piano. And she wore a locket just like Mom’s.
It took her a moment to collect herself, before she said, “Shhh. It will be okay.” Then a yelp pierced the air, sending shivers down her spine, followed by five fiercely painted braves entering the clearing.
“Duck,” she yelled, wishing they were anywhere but here.
And like that it was over. No Indians. No red grass. No little girl. Just the image of a locket.
“Mom,” she yelled, running toward the museum, “I found Aunt Orphelia.”
Thanks for your entry, Taylor.
“Many were farmers,” Molly could hear the familiar spiel being recanted from the front of the wagon. “If I have to hear that story one more f-ing time”, she thought to herself, staring up at the seams of the canopy above her. Taking a swig of her whiskey filled flask, “Yes, that’s right everybody, gather ’round! As you know, many of those early settlers were farmers. Sold everything they owned to buy their wagons, stock ’em and haul ass across the country, FIFteen, sometimes even twenty miles a day. Unless you were injured or dying you’d be walking, because that carriage ain’t no good for lounging in comfort. Everyone, man, woman and child searching for a better life, dreaming of gold, hoping for new lands to make a new living; hell, maybe even make some memories along the way.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen, don’t we have this same dream today? Who among us doesn’t want to pack it all up and move out west? Get rich? Really live the shit out of this life? You know, I’ve lived here my whole life, worked at this historical society demonstrating re-enactments since I was a kid. Never had no dreams, never made no plans, never made a family for myself. But now folks, all I want is to be like you…the next generation of settlers. Taking risks, moving forward, dreaming big. I just wish I could be walking alongside the wagon with you instead of being stowed inside the cover.”
Thanks for your entry, Jessica.
“Patriarchs”
Black cherry ice cream. What Vix said she wanted. So we left the hotel, started walking. She jumped the fence at the museum though, laughing at me.
“Hurry!” she whispered, darting into the shadows, and I followed.
She arched a brow when I said, “This isn’t the ice cream parlor.”
Vix shoved me, spun away, raced along the edge of the lawn. She paused at the covered wagon. Sent me a slow, wicked grin.
I shook my head as I joined her, but boosted her up without a word. Her hands and knees scrabbled the wood as she turned, watched me jump in behind her. Heat stormed through my body when we kissed.
“A polygamist lived in this wagon,” she said, reciting information the tour guide hadn’t shared. Deviant Vix and her books. “Uriah Kimball. They took the names of his wives off the plaque.”
“Sexist of them.”
“A group of feminists in town have started a protest.”
“Glad to hear someone’s going to fight,” and I squeezed her left thigh, tickled her till she squealed.
She slapped my arm, twisted free to glance outside. I made her squeal again.
“God, Mark—it’s like you want to get caught!”
“I am caught,” and I rolled her on top of me, stretching out on the floor.
Conestoga wagons once held futures, careworn journeys, wild dreams. Plural wives, lonely patriarchs. Ambition. No ice cream in this one, then or now. But it was still a nice place to make love.
Thanks for your entry, Melissa.
THE MIRACLE WAGON
I crept toward the wagon, my shotgun at the ready. My eyes swiveled left and right as I prayed no one was lurking behind the barn or in the corn bin, ready to ambush me. Sweat burned my eyes and I blinked hard to clear my vision.
I told myself it was natural to be afraid. Town was a hard forty-minute buckboard ride over a muddy, rut-covered trail. There was no logical reason for a covered wagon to be on my property.
A tiny sound came from the wagon, and I froze. Was it a varmint? Please don’t let it be a possum. I shivered. I hated possums. I pulled up what courage I had left and drew close to the wagon, peering into the back of it with one eye while keeping the other on my surroundings.
What I saw astonished me. My shotgun hit the ground as I clutched my chest and cried out.
“Oh, dear God. Can it be?”
I stared at the baby wrapped in burlap. There was a small note pinned to it.
“I had this baby and I cain’t keep her. I know you lost yours after your husband died, so maybe you want her. You can sell this wagon and get her what she needs.”
Tears ran down my cheeks as I gathered the tiny bundle into my arms.
“I think I’ll call you Miracle.”
“Town was a hard forty-minute buckboard ride over a muddy, rut-covered trail.” I love that sentence! I’ve met several people who named their adopted children, or surprise births — especially late in life — Miracle. This is a very sweet story. :)
Thanks for your entry.
Hello Jo,
Entry for Round 9 – thanks
The Trail
Will Campbell wrapped the small arm with bandages, covering the place where Will’s knife had pierced the child’s skin. The father thanked him but returning to the wagon and his own family Will wasn’t certain he deserved thanks–unless he survived.
For the next several miles through drying mud with Emma holding the reins steady, Will walked beside the wagon with their children, except for Will, Jr., their eldest, buried miles back in a grave unmarked to discourage Indians.
Horace Block rushed up from the rear.
“A word, Will?”
Will kept an eye on his children, walking close. Horace tended to distract folks, a dangerous thing on the trail. Mishaps with firearms, wild animals, broken wheels, and children wandering off or getting caught beneath wagons tended to happen when a person got distracted.
“That Lewis boy’s trouble, Will.”
“He’s in isolation in their wagon–well behind the pack.”
“Set them loose. Only way. Only . . . safe way.”
Will never cared for Horace Block as a neighbor, liked him less now.
“Go find your wagon before you’re left behind.”
After dinner when the children were tucked in, Will sat drinking coffee with Emma by the fire. Months handling the reins had callused her hands.
The Lewis boy’s smallpox passed. By then, the Rockies were in sight.
One morning Emma stood smiling at the mountains, seeing what everyone on the trail saw, the faces of loved ones lost along the way.
Will felt it, too, along with a celestial guilt.
Thanks for your entry, Vincent.
Thanks for another great challenge, Jo! Here’s my attempt, Prairieland:
“Your mother’s trying.” A teenage boy wearing farm garb joined my solitary sulk in the reenactment’s covered wagon.
“She’s moved us to prairieland.”
“You don’t like the change?”
“I should be there.” The farm-boy glanced down but didn’t seem to see my phone’s pictures of evergreen slopes, ragged coastlines, and snow-capped peaks.
“My folks promised me mountains once. An ocean.”
“That’s where I belong.”
“But you’re here.” He chewed a stalk of straw. “Might as well make the best of it.”
“You sound like my mom.”
“Is she wrong?”
Before I could argue, my brother, Max, poked his head through the wagon’s arched opening. “Come on, Maggie, time to giddy up!”
“We’re in the middle of something.”
“We?”
“He—”
The spot where the farm-boy had been sat empty except for a strut with a timeworn carving of 1832 and the name, Ely.
“You’re weird.” Max bolted off shouting, “Now she’s talking to herself!”
No, I’m losing my mind.
The gap beside me felt warm and I could hear the farm-boy munching, smell the dust on his clothes. I couldn’t find him outside, though, where reenactors chatted with visitors and, at a pen of drowsy horses, Max and Mom prepared to giddy up.
Make the best of it.
The farm-boy’s advice reached me as a piece of gnawed straw tumbled to my feet.
Twirling the stalk, I debated what I’d seen, what I’d heard, and drifted to the horse’s pen.
“Hey Mom.”
She gripped her buckskin’s reins. “Yeah?”
“Wait up.”
Thanks for your entry, Kate.
She caught her breath when she saw it, white as a cloud. When they’d said they wanted it for the new museum she’d laughed yet they’d made it a thing of beauty. She’d admit it now, it had been a wrench when they’d towed it off leaving a scar of yellowed grass and a space for memories. Sometimes now she lay awake at night wishing for the soft creak and sway of its oaken ribs, to lie in the belly of the whale.
Her grandaddy had built it. No wonder he’d sat so tall taking them to church or Auntie Merle’s house. Her momma’s arm would be round her and she’d be certain she could smell the pink roses on her Sunday dress. Later on they piled into the shiny new Ford instead and left a soft cloud of dust on the canvas. But when Gideon Bloom had come courting, the night of that dance, they’d crept inside like mice under the harvest moon. His skin had been gold as ripe wheat but he’d tasted a whole lot better. They’d stitched up the tear her daddy had made. Guess he’d been drinking that night too.
So many memories. Time to let go. She gave a twitch of a sniff and squared up to it.
“You keep your mouth shut!”
Her sudden laugh made her cough. Enough of the goodbyes. There was Gideon Bloom, buying her root beer, turning with a smile and a shimmer of gold in the autumn sunshine.
Thanks for your entry, Lucy.
Oh hell, here they come again. Lord, the smell of the man, the dirt and dung. When he leans across the sideboards—uhh, godawful. And the wife, with the voice. The banshee cry that cracks rocks, and that with just, “Kids, get in the wagon!” When she’s actually ornery, ears die.
Those kids, the girl with her nose-in-the-air uppityness, her “yes mamas” and “yes papas,” but when their backs are turned, the pins in her pretty little doll’s face, the pulling of the dog’s tail. Decency, none.
But the boy. The boy the worst of all, carving his name in my sides, poking his knife through my bonnet, kicking the horse’s ankle to make it falter—I’ve seen my share of bad boys, and this one is Satan’s spawn.
Now, rolling sure and steady, next to a dry ravine, something whips the sideboard. The horses startle, buck—we’re going over! My front axle torques—horses free, but the ravine—down!
But I can angle it, angle it, over, over, against the other side of the ravine, not go over completely, soft to the side, against the side—yes!
They’re OK! They’re OK. Shaken up, sure. OK.
Me, busted up, busted up bad. But glad they’ll get to go on.
I am, or I was, just an old wagon. Godspeed.
Glad to see the wagon has a voice 😉
Thanks for your entry, Tom.
Carried
While pinching his nose to drink the dank water before breaking camp that morning, as the light shifted from a shade of spilled ink to an iris in bloom, a drowning black scorpion stung Dwyer on the lip. After a sturdy man prayed aloud for him, followed by a chorus of amen’s, the woman who delivered babies anointed Dwyer’s face with pea green spittle, and crossed him with a sign. He muttered a grateful word as nerves cracked lashes across his head. She added, “If the poison stays away from the throat you’ll survive—more than likely.”
The sturdy man loaded him into the wagon.
Dwyer watched the barrel jostling in the corner spilling out pale grey water. He perched atop, almost touching the canvas of the covered wagon as he sprawled on a pile of supplies carried directly beneath him: a creaky spare wheel frame, four hemp sacks of dried beans, a stiff brown moth-eaten cowhide, and last of all, patched wool blankets folded together to resemble a dark, horned creature—the Sea-beast—from the Book of Revelations.
After his father and baby sister died only three months on the trail, Mama told him, “You‘re strong, Dwyer. Take this family forward.” Then she got the cough.
He didn’t know what she’d meant, for he was but half-grown and could count all his ribs.
Now he knew. His body trembled and wracked within as he battled the beast below, but he’d fight back, make it through, and carry onward.
“…as the light shifted from a shade of spilled ink to an iris in bloom…” Such beautiful imagery! I also love the the Sea-beast in the wool blankets! Fantastic, Janice! Great story :)
Thanks for your entry, Janice.
Crossing at Buffalo Diner
Fragile, the sign says. No Climbing on Wagon.
But, of course, Chelsea has to scramble up for a selfie. The Buffalo Diner’s covered wagon is calling her way more than the dinner bell, or the barber shop quartet decked out in pioneer gear.
“Move it,” Dad says.
Chelsea doesn’t blink. She wants what she wants and never stops ’til she gets it. She’s got one red boot on a spoke, the other reaching for the rim. A fistful of canvas slips in her fist, and she clings like some prairie Disney Princess, suspended in a web of wheel, brake lever, and tarp rigging.
“Give me a boost, Nate.”
I’m used to her ways. I give her skinny butt a shove. She grasps the seat and vaults up.
“Come on Nate. Get in the picture.”
I scramble up. Nice view. Grass to the horizon. October sun turns everything gold.
Suddenly, it’s scary silent. Except for moaning.
“Chelse?”
“Nate?” When did she go inside.
“Naaaate!” She’s sobbing.
Somehow I’m through the canvas, hot as hell. It smells like vomit or worse. Chelsea is sprawled on a rag rug, a woman bending over legs. “Don’t push, girl.”
“Get out, boy. This is no place for men folk, even husbands.”
“I’m her brother.”
“Go Boy. Baby won’t wait.”
“Chelse. Come. You have to do this my way.” Somehow I wrestle her through the hole, back to sunset and fresh air.
Sounds are returning. Sounds of The Buffalo Diner. But I’m not hungry. No way.
Thanks for your entry, Torrie.
Shift
The set is empty; everyone else has already left. I’m still wearing my costume, the long skirts twisting around my legs as I walk.
Lucky for me it’s just a bit part in a B-movie. Imagine having to wear this every day. I feel sorry for the pioneer women, confined in long petticoats, layers of cumbersome clothing, and tight high shoes. How did they manage?
When I’m not waitressing, I lounge around in a loose tee shirt, yoga pants, and reeboks.
I’m momentarily amused by an image of pioneer women dressed in yoga pants and running shoes.
I stumble as I exit; these shoes are terrible! I can’t wait to ditch the whole get-up.
Outside, it’s pitch dark; no light anywhere … must be a blackout. The stars are unusually bright, but with no moon I can barely see a thing.
I lurch forward, feeling my way … hoping I’m heading in the direction of the parking lot.
My fingers brush something, but it’s not my car. It feels like canvas. I peer at it—holy cow; it’s one of the wagons from the set. How did it get here? And where the hell is my car?
As my eyes adjust further to the darkness, I see open prairie, stretching out all around me.
The figure of a man suddenly looms out of the darkness.
“How do, ma’am,” he says, politely tipping his Stetson hat, “Are you lost?”
Fear shoots through me, as I realize how very lost I am.
Thanks for your entry, Veronica.