An Inconsequential Chrismtas Catastrophe

Bell polished the wooden block and smiled. Outside, the sky was dark and falling snow hid the stars. She set the block down and began sanding another. It was the busiest time of the year at the North Pole. Everyone was bustling to get all the presents ready by Christmas Eve. Christmas was still a month away, and all toys must be completed this week. Then the loading would begin.

She was the last one in the carpentry shop. The empty work tables glowed in the light of the fire. It was a great fireplace, made of huge marble slabs. It nearly took up the whole wall. Great as it was, it paled in comparison to the stacks of finished toys. The room had shrunk the nearer it got to Christmas as the toys piled up. It was nearly half its original size. There were heaps of blocks, of course, and clever tops, and trains, and all sorts of craved animals. The firelight danced across them, as if to bring them to life.

Bell finished her last block and took them to the stacks. She stumbled into a misplaced bench and pitched forward, landing right in the middle of the stacks of toys. Like dominoes, they all came tumbling down. With a shriek Bell found herself pelted and buried by toys. As she clawed her way out, she could only be grateful that the toys were still far from the fire. (There had been one year that the toy stacks got too close, and several toys had been lost. None of the elves liked to think about that year.)

Once she was free, she tore through the workshops, passing by dolls, and toy trucks, the catteries filled with sleepy kittens, and the kennels with equally sleepy puppies. Finally she found more elves in the kitchens. Ignoring the smells of cinnamon and inviting mugs of hot chocolate and plates of cookies she blurted out the catastrophe. The elves instantly leaped into action. Bell smiled as they raced back. There was never a shortage of helpers in the North Pole.

Back in the carpentry shop, the blocks and trains and tops were dispersed to the various worktables, until the stacks were stabilized. Then the tedious task of restocking began. They caroled as they worked, and even though it was a later night then they anticipated, eventually the toys were back in their proper places, the wood shavings were swept up, and the benches were pushed under the tables. Last of all the fire was put out and everyone retired back to the kitchen and the waiting cookies.



This was an exercise that focused on describing the setting.


 

Snowfall

Snowflakes from the sky are hurling
In pale billows flurrying
Fluffy and puffy they’re swirling
Catching in eyelashes upward turning
Delight and laughter earning
Around and around the children are twirling
While the whiteness continues whirling


Written for dVerse.


 

Calico Cat

In dreams you visit me

Tricolored cat
And I forget your loss
And know only what was
Believing you are with me still

Written for dVerse.


 

Aromatic

Tala parked her car, smiling at the new-car smells of leather and plastic. She really had something to be grateful for this Thanksgiving. She picked up the plastic container of durian, her contribution to the upcoming feast, and breathed in the fresh damp air as she got out. Even from the yard, Tala could smell the turkey.

Tantalizing whiffs interlaced with the lingering damp smell of rain and wet dog. The dog in question looked up and thumped his tail against the ground. As she got closer to the house, the turkey drowned everything else out. The side door was open, which explained the overwhelming aroma. She went in there, entering directly into the kitchen. Inside other scents finally had the opportunity to fight with the turkey. The spice laden aroma of the pumpkin pie, the faint caramely roasted butternut squash, the buttery mashed potatoes. A feast for the nose!

But there was something else under all the Thanksgiving fragrance. Something not quite right. Tala sniffed. Something faint and almost metallic. She stepped through the hallway and entered the living room. There was blood soaked into the carpet, and a man in dark clothing. Beyond him, her friend on the ground. For a moment they both froze; as Tala’s brain processed the blood, her friend’s body, and the fact that she was facing a murderer. Then she did the only thing she could think of. She ripped off the lid of the durian container and threw it into the man’s face. Tala didn’t mind the smell; but she almost felt a stab of sympathy as she fled. Being assaulted by the pungent, oniony-old-gym-sock-sewer odor full in the face would be nauseating.

She ran to the neighbors and banged on the door, and practically fell in once they answered. Smelly and sweaty she gasped out her story and it wasn’t long before police sirens blared through the neighborhood. Tala answered questions in a daze. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t take the police long to find the killer. Covered in the distinct reek of durian there wasn’t anywhere he could hide.



This story came from a prompt to write a scene using one of the five senses. I decided that using smell was challenging and then realized that Thanksgiving had a boat load of smells to write about. But I had to do something to make it interesting, so I needed a problem. At first it was just going to be a robber, but I didn't think a simple robbery would produce enough blood to actually smell it. And then since I was thinking of smelly things, I realized that durian had to get in here. Durian has a very distinct, strong odor that can be smelled from great distances. It's often banned in public places. Here's the Wikipedia entry: Durian. Durian grows in Southeast Asia, including in the Philippines, where I encountered it. Tala is the name of a Filipino goddess.

And that's how I wrote a Thanksgiving story that would probably have been better for Halloween.

Turkey Ode

Ode for the Turkey that kicked the bucket
As we raise the carving knife for the cut
With thanks for the ample life thou hadst
Resplendent praises we liberally bombast
Upon thy carcass decked with rosemary and thyme
Center of our festive dinnertime

And the One With All the Words 

    -using all 44 of the words that have been quadrille prompts in the past.

Breeze dancing dream free
Shimmering, twisting green
Spills spicy pepper leaves cuing
Dawn’s rosy, curling breath
Shadowy whispered clouds balloon
Flickering spring storm bubbles, sounds
Blissfully drizzles, giggles, grins
Lulls; melts.
Jarred journey kicks open
Ghost echoes
Scarred stillness creaks
Skips fear; sparks hope



Written for d'Verse.

The Ruined Castle

The trees ripped off their leaves last night
And reached up to eat the moon
And gouged out the flickering starry light
So the ruined castle was painted black
Against the weighty nothingness of fear
And in the crypt the coffin lid creaked back


Written for dVerse


 

The Building of the Gingerbread House

The witch surveyed the meadow in the midst of the pines and dismounted from her broom. A black cat jumped down as she looked around. It would do. So far from the unenlightened village that they couldn’t arrest her. Ever since graduating from the Sorcerous Culinarian Academy, she had been looking for someplace to call her own and practice her unique brand of magic. Here, deep in the forest she would be free from interruptions. She smiled. In time, perhaps, she would be famous. For now, she had to set up shop.

Setting down her sack that was nearly as large as herself she rummaged through it. The first thing she pulled out was a book, Ye Olde Guide to Baking Thy House, which she studied carefully before diving into the sack once more. Next came out a large mixing bowl, that was rather larger than the bag itself.  She had to fly up on the broom to dump the ingredients in. Sacks of flour, bundles of butter, armfuls of cinnamon, buckets of molasses, and more ginger than the village dreamed could ever be in the world. The cat tried to play with the ingredients and was shooed off.

The saplings at the edge of the meadow grew taller while she worked. As she stirred her concoction, rains fell down and she held up a marzipan umbrella to hold it off. The cat found a dry spot and had kittens. When the green leaves turned brown and flew from the trees, she plucked them out from the gooey brown mass. Before the sun slipped behind the trees, she lit great fires and continued her work as the moon rose. She rolled the dough, cut it and measured. She baked it in an oven the size of a horse that she pulled from the sack. New trees kept growing and the meadow was smaller than it had been. She laid down the gingerbread bricks and spread maple syrup over them for the mortar. The kittens of the black cat’s kittens played over the bricks as they rose taller. Clear melted sugar made the windowpanes and the roof was thatched with licorice.

At last it was done. The forest nearly touched the house itself now. The witch looked with pride on her creation. A house that had taken centuries to build, but would be talked of for centuries more. A black cat brushed against her as she patted the gingerbread walls. She walked hunched and slow into the house. She would rest a bit before she turned her mind to other matters. Just as she settled into a sturdy pretzel chair, she heard it. A sound that made her heart skip a beat and her old bones shake in horror. It was a munching, crunching sound interjected with high pitched squeals of delight. Someone was eating her house. Clenching her fists she roused herself from the chair. Whoever was out there was going to pay dearly for destroying her house.



Prompt: DIY

Mountain Garden

Tomatoes are plump
Loaded on the vine
Blushing fervent red
Peeking from green leaves
Jumbled together
As the harvest comes

Russian sage bows down
Bluish-purple buds
Almost lavender
Catches a goldfinch
In a cameo
That flutters and is gone

The air grows chilly
Cool, fresh, and crisp
The blue sky ahead
Reaches down to greet
Fiery orange hills
In complement



Written for dVerse

Upward

like a young sunflower

lifting up its yellow head

at the start of the creamy dawn

to track the yellow sun

across a changing sky

searching through iron clouds

and dimming, foggy days

with hope still upward turned

to see the sun’s golden flash

Written for dVerse


Here's another hope poem I've written: In the Night. I almost posted it again for this prompt, but it was too short.

Love Like Salt

Love me like salt

That seasons every dish

In pale pink granules

The last remains of a forgotten sea

Turning meals from fodder to feast

Vapid existence to vibrant scintillating fire

With this spice of life

My love for you and yours for me

Written for dVerse


 

Poetry

It’s the whisper of the heart

Murmuring its secret art

Velvet words from end to start

Sending forth a silken dart

Written for dVerse

No Matter How Improbable

Irene blinked back tears as she opened the can of cat food and tried to coax Mr. Hopkins’s cat out of hiding. She couldn’t believe he was really dead. They said hello when they got the mail and made small talk about each other’s yards. She took him cookies at Christmas and he’d invited her to his Aunt Eva’s party when he found out that she admired the scientist’s work. It was shortly after that Aunt Eva sent Mr. Hopkins the cat. They had been trying to genetically engineer a sentient cat (personally, Irene thought cats were already smart enough) and instead had only succeeded in making them significantly larger. Holmes was a large tawny cat, looking like a miniature lion, and very picky about his food. Mr. Hopkins had been having difficulty getting him to eat.

Irene finally gave up on getting the cat out of hiding and set the food down. Probably if she ignored it, Holmes would come and eat eventually. She heated up a frozen dinner - after seeing Mr. Hopkins’s body she really didn’t fell like cooking. She shuddered at the memory. After hearing Holmes yowling up a racket, she had knocked on the door to see if anything was wrong. Mr. Hopkins hadn’t answered, but as she peered through the frosted window, she saw the body. Of course then she thought he’d had a heart attack or something medical and frantically called an ambulance. But it was too late.

The front room was circular with a high ceiling. Opposite the door there was a ledge, supported by two Roman columns, framing the hall to the living room. Resting on the ledge was a bust of Julius Caesar and some other statuettes. Or at least there had been. But when they entered, Mr. Hopkins had been laying in the front hall, his head smashed by Julius Caesar. The other knickknacks were broken beside him. Holmes had leaped down from the ledge and vanished. The police were summoned, and Irene answered questions in a fog. It was such a tragic accident. Someone tried to suggest it was a murder or a suicide, but it couldn’t have been. Mr. Hopkins was well liked, on good terms with his Aunt Eva - there wasn’t anyone who had a grudge against him. “Except for the cat,” she sniffed, “He didn’t like any of the cat food. Mr. Hopkins tried everything.”

“And there’s no way anyone could have pushed that bust down,” said the officer. “But how did it manage to fall?”

Everyone looked up at the ledge, devoid of its usual collection of figurines. Irene’s gaze caught sight of the fireplace mantle. There had been a Grecian urn there once, until Holmes had pushed it off. She looked back to the ledge,  “Holmes, I suppose. He’s always pushing things over.”

“Of course,” said the police officer, “Just like a cat. I’ve got two. Anything breakable stays behind glass.” He made some notes and surveyed the scene again, “I suppose he could’ve done it on purpose in revenge for the bad food.”

Irene flinched.

“Sorry,” muttered the officer, suddenly red in the face. “I wasn’t thinking there.”

He stayed to help her track Holmes down and manhandle him back to her house. They both had several scratches and one disgruntled cat by the time they were done. She thought the officer had the better end of the deal. He got to leave. Holmes turned up his nose at a can of tuna fish and disappeared again. She called Aunt Eva and they cried together over Mr. Hopkins’s death and Aunt Eva promised to let her know the funeral arrangements and agreed to come and pick the tawny cat up, “I’m sure someone in the family will want him,” she assured Irene. “I kept two of the cats from the experiment myself. Einstein and Galileo.” She chuckled, “I was over confident they’d turn out smart. But no. Just large. And picky eaters to boot.”

She’d run to the store for the cat food, but Holmes was still refusing to acknowledge it. She ate her own dinner, while binge watching Netflix. She needed some kind of diversion. It mostly worked. The light and the noise kept her distracted, but something kept pulling her mind back to the crime scene - accident, she reminded herself, accident - and she couldn’t focus on the show. She didn’t notice when Holmes arrived in the kitchen until she felt him staring at her. He sat beside the full food bowl and meowed expectantly. “It’s perfectly good cat food,” she informed him. “I don’t know what you want.”

He kept meowing. She opened a different can of cat food, and in desperation a can of chicken, but still the cat refused it. Shaking her head, she left it all out for him. Surely in the night he would get hungry enough to eat. He followed her as she locked the doors, still meowing. She wondered if he would keep it up all night and went looking for her earplugs. “I’m going to bed,” she informed him once she found them. “And you can make as much noise as you want. I’m not going to hear you.”
He growled and jumped at her hand. Irene stumbled and managed not to fall, but lost her hold on the earplugs. Holmes ran off with them. Irene glared after him. “It’s not like you can hear me!”

With a huff she hurried to her bedroom, flicking off lights as she went. What a coincidence. He’d seemed to know exactly what she was talking about. She opened her bedroom door and flipped off the last hall light, but didn’t turn on the bedroom light. The moon coming through her window was bright enough. Then the nagging feeling came back to her and she paused.

How exactly had Aunt Eva and the other scientists known their experiment had failed? Where was the proof that Holmes wasn’t smarter than the average cat? She rubbed the scratches on her arms. Stealing earplugs seemed pretty smart. And pushing a bust off a ledge just when a man walked under it - that would take timing. Her mouth went dry. Holmes had a known grudge against Mr. Hopkins. And apparently - against her as well. What was that saying - from Sherlock Holmes, the real one - once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable must be the truth. Her heart beat faster and she took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. But a sentient cat wasn’t impossible or there never would have been an experiment. Not impossible, just improbable. Her heart beat faster

She heard a growl from down the hall. In the moonlight she could only see two glowing eyes with murder in them.



Prompt: A classic approach to a universal problem. What's more classic than Sherlock?

Driving

the wind whispers of adventure

so I trek to the faithful car

turn the key and the engine roars

like a dragon

mystical steed to carry me forth

all over the earth on my journey

my hands grasp the wheel

freedom in my mobility

Written for dVerse


 

Cinderella's Heir

I lift them from their pedestal

Tiny graceful glass-blown slippers

Oldest heirloom of the castle

Mine; the heiress of the cinders

Is magic left from their cobbler?

How they sparkle without respite!

Is that how fairy dust lingers?

Or is it scintillating light?

Music floats from the ball tonight

My chance for love, if I take it

An ember of hope; frail and slight

On these delicate glass baubles lit

So I’m wearing glass slippers to the ball

Perhaps my dreams won’t shatter after all

Written for dVerse

Unpacked

the boxes all are empty

every dish, sheet, knickknack,

heirloom, book,

thing they should have lost,

set carefully in place

she settles in

sighs in content

basks in the bliss of unpacked

all of it

done

and pushes away the time

they’ll move again

Written for dVerse

Solar Summer

Through solar glasses the sky, and the trees, the houses, the people are all blackness. Only the sun still shines through, appearing like a tiny orange-red ball. The moon is only a black dip that grows larger. As it passes over, the sun becomes crescent shaped and moon-like. My glasses slip off and even though the sun is partly shielded, it burns too bright to look at.

            Behind us, the sky darkens like evening. The temperature drops. We’ve been hold crickets will start chirping. If the light has any affect on them, we don’t notice. The light certainly affects the humans though. When the sun is covered, we hear their raucous amazement. Totality has been reached.

            The solar glasses come off. The corona flares around a black circle. We take pictures that can’t compare with what we see in front of us. Red dots appear at the edges from the sun’s light traveling through the canyons of the moon. Then with a bright blaze to the right the sun returns like a diamond ring; enlarging until we can’t look anymore. The solar eclipse is over. And we were totality there.

look up to the sun

small in blackness; glasses slip

cringe at half-dimmed light



Written for dVerse.

Summer

daydream in the sand

wave-suds slide back and forth

with salty life

where clams bury down

leaving bubble trails

chased by impetuous hands

and high shrieks

that combine with the gulls’

in the golden summer air

that stretches out

endless like the rolling waves

written for dVerse

 

Feeder Frenzy

Welcome to Avis’s Feeder Frenzy

Choice of suet or sunflowers free

With a dip in the bath below

Flap right up; don’t be slow

Chirp, chatter and cheer

Our sensational band is here!

The Ruby-throat leads with a hum

Northern Flicker beats the drum

Written for dVerse.

Prequel

Peter Piper plucked a pound of putrid plums

Placing them in pies, pasta, and pizza

Peddling them primarily at the park

But putrid plums pay peanuts

So Peter Piper’s prestigious penthouse was repossessed

“Perhaps,” plucky Peter plotted

“Pickled peppers should plump my plastic purse.”

For all who've ever wondered why Peter Piper picked that peck of pickled peppers.

 Written for dVerse.

 

Cycles

echoes in the repeats

the ripples, the riddles of life

from the newborn cry

to the marriage vows

whispered under the setting sun

the rising moon waxes

watching the living pattern

as the waves crash down

the same as they always were

but new

Written for dVerse

Rise

I float – bob, bob – dip and drift

in a silk lined balloon

apricot, lime, and amethyst

pooling against the clear cerulean sky.

Secured tight to the colors

by the soft chiffon of starlight

held up by the blazing fire of my dreams.

Rising high.

Written for dVerse

Winter's Demise

Crystals of ice

Are the birth of spring

As they seep

Melting away

From the sun’s fatal ray

Buried in the ground

Moist crumbles of soil

Where the crocus

Rise from their graves

Green shoots first

Then purple heads

And the daffodils

Bloom yellow

 Written for dVerse

Miniature Castle

I don’t need a very big castle

I wouldn’t have time for all the hassle

Just one tall tower and some turrets will do

Set with stained glass to let the light through

In gold-red peacock splatters on the stairs

I don’t ask for much; just a small castle fair

With fuchsia lilies floating in the moat

Chambers and halls that I’d devote

To the burnished leaves of books

Or singing skeins of yarn tucked in paneled nooks

Large enough for every story ever spun

Large enough to hold the wealth of the sun

Where calico cats will purr on plaited rugs

Just a miniature castle quaint and snug

Written for dVerse

Ethereal

In the fairy wood

Green foliage flows like water

Without a wind

Rich blossoms bloom

On oaks that ne’er flower

Sweetening winter’s chill with spring

Gold pieces fall instead of leaves

Vanishing at a single touch

Leaving only the giggles

Of sprites and pixies

Written for dVerse


 

Land Dreams

as the earth quakes and stirs

turning over in the night

dreams rousing from the blurs

pulling close a sea of blanket furs

spluttering in departing twilight

as the earth quakes and stirs

against the day’s saboteurs

blades of crackling light

sending dreams into blurs

the cycle whistles and whirs

silver beams to golden sight

As the earth quakes and stirs

the dawn chorus confers

wrens and finches take flight

fizzy dreams tumbling into blurs

As the earth quakes and stirs

Written for dVerse

Sister poem written by my friend Sarah can be found here.

Backyard

It’s enough to run side to side

In five minutes, twist and run it again

My brother and I, racing

From the back of the house

To the corner of the chain link fence

Turn again to our world

Where a yellow lab barks

And robins flutter up from the trees

And robot overlords come crashing down

In world domination

Until they meet the heroes – us

Also

Where I mow on Saturdays

Rack leaves in fall

Climb the lone tree

After the peaches on the top branch

Enough space in the world

For everything

Written for dVerse

In the Night

Even on a moonless night

When skyward turned in occhiolism

At the wideness of the dark

The greatness of the void

Stars still whisper light

Across the centuries

And hope

Electrons through the night

Occhiolism - Defined by the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows as: the awareness of the smallness of your perspective. (Click on the link and it has a whole paragraph for a definition!)

To electron - Defined by me as: To penetrate the essence of everything.

Written for dVerse.

The Dragon

The dragon’s tail curls in a knot

Around its victims securely caught

While the knight rides tantivy so high

Up the steep mountain road to the sky

No thought of stopping ’til the battle is done

And she has rescued the captives every one

Written for d'Verse.