First

    Even moments from your life you can write about to tell a tale. At The River Bottom Writer's 1st year Anniversary we were asked to write about one of our firsts. It could be anything from first car, first love, first dance, or first practical joke. Absolutely anything. Far beyond the sky is the limit.Mine was my first scary movie. Enjoy!! Keep Writing!!!

                                                 My First Scary Movie 

          I wish I could start this story with ... “It was a dark and stormy night” ...  to set the mood, to tell you about my first scary movie.  But, alas, I cannot.  It wasn't stormy, nor was it dark, though night would soon descend on a small town.  A bright and sunny day with no clouds threatening the sky is how this story begins, well partially begins.  There is always a bit of a back story.
 
    My mother loves fantasy, sci-fi and even the supernatural / paranormal genres of movies, TV shows and books.  It is from her that I undoubtedly acquired a love for them myself.  The only thing she wouldn't let us watch was horror, the gory or “not let you sleep at night kind”; “have to crawl into bed with mommy and daddy kind.”  I grew up being taught and counselled to avoid those kinds of movies, books, or TV shows, especially books by
Stephen King.  

     Although my mother had said it was alright to watch, I always believe the X-Files toed that invisible line between alright and beyond scary.  Truth be told, the music alone chilled me.  My younger sister wouldn't even come in the room if that show was on.

    One bright and sunny day after school I went over to my friend Jessica's, where she announced that she had just the day before, purchased a VHS copy of Stephen King's Pet Cemetery.  My eyes widened with what should have  been horror  but  was  actually  excitement.  I felt rebellious,  not the “party  until  4AM,  drunk  out  of  my  gourd  kind”  of  rebellious,  but  I  was breaking a rule.  And it was thrilling although some part of me felt guilty. (Just a small part.)

     I convinced myself that Pet Cemetery could not be any worse than the XFiles.  Jessica and I waited until after dark, when her parents were in bed. The perfect time for all scary movies to be watched.  With freshly popped popcorn, the smell of butter in the air, and 6L of Iced Tea, we made our way to the couch.

     I settled down with a blanket wrapped securely around my legs, more for protection against whatever unimaginable evils may spring out at us, than from being cold.  I was on the edge of my seat, so to speak, watching Jessica's every move, waiting not so patiently for her to press play.  I was ready to be scared out of my wits and to break some rules.  

     Jessica took the VHS from its flimsy case and pushed it into the video machine.  With the remote in hand, she returned to the couch and wrapped herself in a blanket too.  Once settled, she pressed the play button, looking at me as I looked at her with excitement.

     All was silent in the house as we watched. I wish I could tell you that it was the movie that scared me, but it wasn't.  It is what happened after.

     We were at the part of the movie when the deep foreboding music begins to climax and you know something is going to happen.  You hide behind something, peeking out every so often so you can see what is happening, even though you really don't want to. It was at this moment when we heard a thud coming down the stairs, which made me jump.  Jessica, not so much. She paused the movie, waiting for her mom to come down.

     Jessica's mom clothed in a bath towel “advised” that maybe we should watch this show in the morning when there was light.  We relented and with disappointment  I  watched  the  paused  TV  screen  go  black  and  all  the electronics were turned off.  To our beds we went.

     Morning came.  No sooner were we up, still in our jammies, when the movie was back on.  With the popcorn from the night before and a quarter of the Iced Tea left over, we settled down once again, tucked safely in our blankets.  We decided to rewind the movie to the beginning. I waited in anticipation for the deep foreboding music.  It came.  The "something bad" should have come. It never did.

    At the exact moment in the movie when Jessica's mother had come down the stairs the night  before, at  that  exact  place,  the  video  machine  stopped  of  it's  own accord.  No amount of pushing buttons would get it started again.  The VHS would not even come out of the machine.  That is, it wouldn't come out until I left Jessica's house. 

     I watched Pet Cemetery quite a few years later.  It didn't scare me, not as I thought it might.  Well, maybe just a little.  But what scared me even more was that something or someone conspired to prevent me from seeing this movie that night at Jessica's.  Evidence may prove otherwise, but I believe that for some reason I wasn't supposed to see that movie.  Not then, and that is scarier, than any Stephen King movie ever.

Letter

     One day I shared a writing prompt on Facebook. It was to write a letter to a supper hero. A friend challenged me to write the letter, which I accepted. I had her pick the superhero. She chose Dash from The Incredibles. After I wrote the letter she asked if I would continue it and I probably will. Enjoy!!! Keep Writing!!!

Dear Dash,

                You are probably wondering who I am and why you received this letter in such a, how should I say, covert manner. I could not risk your parents, especially your father, would find out I contacted you and burn this letter. I would not blame your father, dear boy, if he did such a thing. He and I did not part ways under the best of circumstances. It does not matter at this point what it was we had disagreed on just know that we both want the same end...peace for the world. We both had different ideas on how to accomplish that. That is neither here nor there at this moment I still have not answered your first question. I, dear Dash, am your Grandmother Beth.

                Your father left me. not long after I heard whispers that he had become Mr. Incredible, married, and had three beautiful children. I was overjoyed that he was accomplishing what he had wanted to do.  I bided my time hoping that he would get in touch with me and introduce me to his family but he did not. My heart began to rusty like an old 50’s ford car. Not long after I was determined to meet my family. That is where you come in, Dash.

                From what I have observed of you is that you are a man of action, with a mind of your own just like your father and Grandfather, God rest his soul. Right now you are wondering why I contacted you and not your sister because you have the same curiosity I do. I do not have a cell phone tower so this is the only way to keep in touch for now.

                Dash, you are a clever boy. Within this letter I have given you clues that will lead you to the next letter until, eventually by midday today, you and I will meet. I hope that I will not be disappointed. I wait with joy in my heart.

Your Grandmother,

Beth

Searching

 This last weekend I had the opportunity to go on a writing retreat with my writing group. We went to a ranch, near Waterton Lakes National Park, the childhood home of one of our group members. First, we walked to the river to write. Then back to the house for lunch.

After, we walked to an open hillside full of wildflowers. At the bottom of the hill trees and bushes grew. We separated to find our own spot to write. I found a little spot secluded in the bush and began working on my story. But this soul searching reflection kept coming to me and I had to follow the muse. Nature and quiet seem to have a knack to nudge people into soul searching. Perhaps it is the quiet and non-hectic life that enables us to see what needs to be seen.
Follow the muse where ever she takes you :). Enjoy!! Happy Writing!!!

I lean against a felled tree. Another acts as a cushion from the thorny bushes of the pink wild rose. It is almost quiet, here in this little grove off the grassy trail, it begins to still this disquieted soul. The leaves’ rustled words understood only by the breeze that moves them. One cannot speak without aid of the other and the other unable to interpret their utterances to human ears merely to carry their hypnotic tranquil aria to those who need. Birds chirp their lively frolicsome song each time the playful sun springs out from behind the clouds in a peek-a-boo game.

Tall blades of rich green grass hide me from view. hiding me from the busy world beyond this Eden. A light touch of the blades rest reassuringly on my burdened shoulders and aching arms. Their desire to ease the weight of heavy matters in and beyond my control is felt in each caress. They desire to comfort a restless heart.

For, I am restless.

All my being impatient to move far from the life I live now. I stand timid and unsure before majestic mountains. Each steep rocky slope represents an immense decision that will impact my life for good or ill. I contemplate each from the daunting base. The white clouds swathe the mountain tops impeding my vision to see the outcome. Fresh mint tries to expel fears and doubts to move forward. Something holds me back.

A crooked birch tree bleeds reddish brown sap. It slides down the white and black rippled bark like the guilt of my heart oozes out of me. Still the tender-hearted blades console me. But it overwhelms me too; the thick crowded brush of this sought out sanctuary. A sanctuary that reveals all the wrongs and harmful choices that had been made.

I cannot change the past distant or moments ago. It is not meant to be so. No more than a tree can prevent itself from falling, or nature cease a wildfire. It is finished, and so it is with the past.

Nature grows from the ashes after the flames of the wildfire have ravaged her flesh. So, too, must I rise from the ash made from the flames that burnt my soul changing who I could have been.

That is life. All walk through fire. All souls are scathed by the flames. It is unavoidable.

An open grassy path lies behind my sanctuary. I will travel it. Leave behind the bleeding guilt, destroying fears, and steep mountains I should not climb. Step by step I will walk this gifted path to the climbable mountains reaching the undiscovered peak to meet the bright light of my future.

The Prisoner

     I don't want to give too much away about this next piece. It is something I struggle with often. I wanted to write from its perspective, or her perspective because it is a part of me. She is apart of me. What does she actually feel? I hope I captured it. Enjoy!!! Keep writing!!!

The Prisoner

     The corner of the barless prison is hard. It is not the floor that makes it hard and unbearable but the manner of my imprisonment. I curl up in a fetal position waiting. Watching. Watching her live a pitiful life, each day, full of smiles hiding the truth. She is in pain though strong enough to be able to keep me here with no shackles to bind my hands or feet. She has strength to imprison me with no fortifications surrounding me.

     Do not be mistaken in believing that I am weak. The torture I endure, by her hands and no other, is agonizing. It leaves me spiritually bruised, mentally bleeding, and emotionally exhausted. Reducing me to nothing more than a shriveled heap, making escape near to impossible, in this corner of her soul.
     You might ask who is she that keeps me bound to this prison in the corner of her soul? Your mind may travel to thoughts of an alien species who has invaded this earth to overtake the human race by inhabiting their bodies, hers included. But it is not so. She is me and I am her. And yet I am something else. I am anger.
    The difference between us and, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, is that she remembers and so do I. She keeps me supressed with sheer force of will not liking who she becomes when I escape my gateless cell. Crawling on my hands and knees until my once weak self becomes stronger.
     Each slithering stride I make is a reminder of the tortures I endured from her tears caused by death, the cruelty of others, and loves lost. Each grip forward holding onto the words she did not speak to defend herself against those who would tear her down. My arms stretch painfully, as if broken, to grasp the sword needed to fight the battles that she could not or would not fight. Instead she faces it with painful calm understanding,  excruciating silence, and tiring patience.
    When I do escape I climb through a weakened crumbling hole caused by the wrecking ball of her frustration, tired resolve, and mindless acceptance. Once through the hole my strength is full and I strike! I have taken the sword and dealt blow for blow. Said the words she would not say. I hid the tears she would shed so that others would not see my weakness as they would through hers. Pathetic! I accomplish more damage and yet she has greater power to control me. She is able to escape the torturous prison quicker then I. How can that be!?
     As I lay curled up withering away, as she hopes I will, waiting for that day the wall crumbles. the memories of my triumphs sustain me keeping this wretched form from turning to dust. She believes nothing will change that she has and will always have the control to keep me bound deep within. I know different and so, too, do you. In the back of her mind she fearfully knows it as well.
     Change is inevitable. I will rise from my broken and bleeding state to become the dominate one.
My time is coming and I bide it with fortitude.
     Do you wonder if she and I could become allies? Perhaps. I believe she is looking for something that will tip the balance so that we can co exist and work together as one.
     Do I want to become allies?  No! I will torture her by the life I live, leaving her bruised spiritually, bleeding mentally, and exhausted emotionally shackled in the barless cell of our soul through my sheer will.
    But for now, I will behave curbing my need for escape. Saving my strength and letting her believe that she has won until she finds the solution she seeks for our unity.
    BOOM!!
   I smile which she cannot see. I laugh which she cannot hear. The time for my final escape is soon at hand. I the victor and she the prisoner.

Mother's Lullaby

   As I was writing a story, I am currently working on, there is a scene where one of my male characters is whistling a tune. My main female character asks him what it is he is whistling. "A lullaby my mother sang to me when my brother and I were little," he tells her. And a lullaby begins to take shape in my head. As I was in the shower, creating the verses, a tune also begins to form. Love it!!!
    I made two lullabies changing two verses of the original for my story. The one I am going to share is not the story one but the one I plan on singing to my children. Enjoy!! Keep Writing.

Mother’s Lullaby

Come my, little one

To your soft sweet bed

Close your eyes to sleep

Dreams to fill your head

Mother guards o’er you

Moon is rising nigh

Darkness now descends

Stars protect the sky

Creatures of legend

To your dreams may come

Do not be afraid

My brave, little one

May Light befriend you

Dark Ones you will fight

Mother guards o’er you

Keep you safe this night

Pray the Light guide you

To the Blessed Halls

Sentries tower o’er them

The gates hear your call

Mother guards o’er you

Steadfast, little one

Walk the Blessed Hall

‘Til the end you come

God sitting within

Your presence awaits

In his hands he holds

Gifts, do not forsake

Take hold of your gifts

Tightly, little one

Mother guards o’er you

Your life yet undone

Wrap Light around you

From the Halls you’ll go

Will safely guide you

In choices you’ll sew

Mother guard o’er you

The battle has begun

Giving you much strength

‘Til the battles won

Come my little one

From your soft wee bed

Open eyes from sleep

Dreams still in your head

Mother guard o’er you

Past the break of day

Let my voice lead you

Through the bleakest way