Got back from The Clearing yesterday afternoon and I've had a brutz on every since. (A brutz is what Grandma called a pout.) I don't wanna be home. I don't wanna do chores. I wanna be in my chilly little cabin in the woods writing. The Word Fairy didn't come visit me until Friday morning so I want at least four more days, preferably six, up there. It's only fair. One good thing, we met for prompt writing every morning after breakfast in the Lodge so I've got pages of writing to share. I'll give you a bit today, maybe more later, and parcel out the rest in the next few days. No whining now, I know you missed me but it was important that I be away. I'm a much happier camper over all, except for that case of post-Clearing blahs that persists. It'll be gone in a day or two, I'm sure.
October 2--Calangaman Island, Philippines. Clouds piled like spoiled mashed potatoes, purple and bruised, ahead of the wind. An unexpected cool floated on the rising breeze and the calm little bay ruffled with foamy white, making the day-trippers pause and rub sudden goosebumps. "No one said anything about a storm," Nina said to Max. They had been wrapped up in watching the reef fish as they snorkeled around the small protected bay of the uninhabited island, not noticing as one by one the excursion boats fired up and sailed off. Theirs was the last boat bobbing in the once-calm bay, the little blue and white craft bucking on the anchor line like an impatient sled dog. The sky was a uniform gray black and thunder rumbled in the west. Max reached the boat first and held onto the gunwale as he stripped off his fins and tossed them aboard. He held out his hand to Nina and drew her to his side, steadying her while she took off her fins and then boosting her aboard. He rolled over the side after her and made his way to the outboard.
Monday, Oct. 4 morning prompt. Eyes followed her, often. Dogs too. She wore clothes that she chose with her eyes closed, both when she bought them and when she chose them to wear. She had a habit of carrying a salami in her purse that she used to make a point in the heated discussions she held with the gerbil that lived in her pocket. People thought she was deranged talking to herself but once she introduced them to Higby, the gerbil, they were certain of it. She lived in the house her grandpa built after he had fled the Klondike with a chest of gold from the mines. He changed his name and built the biggest house in Pekin, Illinois in 1911. Chester B. Harlow was his name and he set himself up as a retired miner spinning tales of his totally fabricated exploits in the Klondike. By the time she was born the story had been repeated so many times that even the family thought it was the truth. She had been saddled with the name Klondike Xaviera Harlow which was quite enough of a burden that she let reason, sanity, and convention go early in her life.
I make no excuses for this writing. It was fast and furious and I just went where the words led. It was fun.