Our Writing

The writing we present here are first drafts with minor editing. We do not intend to present these as polished pieces. Our goal is to share the enjoyment we get from writing to prompts and writing together. Our quirks and personalities emerge from our unique responses to the same set of words. This writing is 'grist for the mill' and we often take a piece and expand it to submit as a finished work.

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Granny on the Fish Box

Marilyn McFarlane

15 minute prompt:    ”My granny was sitting on the fish box.” (phrase from Daughters of Copper Woman, by Anne Cameron)

My granny was sitting on the fish box. The fish were flopping around, slapping the wooden sides of the box, making wet, splashy thuds that I decided were frantic and desperate.  I’d be frantic if I were so out of my element, trying to breathe but drowning. I began to feel sympathy for them.  ”Quit that,” Granny said, and kicked the box with her heavy boot. I thought she was talking to the fish. But she shook her fluff of white hair and squinted at me, pointing a bony finger. “I see you,” she said. “If you want to live closer to the ground, like you said, young lady, if you recall, then you gotta pay no attention to the last moves of anything you’re gonna eat. Mercy, if you’re feeling sorry for a bunch of cod, how’re you going to be when it comes to pig squeals and chickens with their heads cut off?”  I felt faint, here on the wet edge of the wharf. “Can’t I be vegetarian and live close to the earth?”  Granny squinted again, her bat-black eyes almost hidden in the wrinkles that surrounded them. She snorted. “Sure, if it makes you feel better. You’re a wimp, honey. And species-centric to boot. You think carrots don’t hurt when they’re yanked from the ground? Or wheat when it’s cut off in the prime of life, waving in the fields?”  Species-centric? When had my granny, raised by her fisherman father on this craggy coast, pulling crab pots and chopping oysters from the rocks by the age of 5, attending school only until the 8th grade — when had she picked this up, or even had such thoughts? This was a granny new to me. What else didn’t I know? I didn’t care about the fish anymore.  They’d stopped flopping anyway.

 

 

Posted on: October 13th, 2011 by Marilyn

Granny on the Fish Box

Lyssa Tall Anolik – My granny was sitting on the fish box…

15 minute prompt

My granny was sitting on the fish box. Her hair was wild, a white flair like a snowstorm waving around her head. Her eyes were wild, too. They darted here and there like an animal’s. Those eyes had bite. Most people looked away or at the ground when they passed her. The fish box was only full of fish. My dad and I had packed it in the summer with layers of salmon and salt, but Granny was sure her soul was in there. I tried to reason with her, but there was not talking to someone so crazy.

“Granny,” I said, “there’s just the salted fish in there. I helped pack it myself. Come on now. Let’s open it up and have a look. You’ll see.”

Granny gave me a withering look, filled with pity, like you give a slow child who doesn’t understand a thing about the world when they’re old enough to know better.

“Ok,” I said, “How did your soul get out of your body and into the box?”

“I already told you!” she said. “When I was in the canoe on the way to the summer camp, that big granny orca came singing to me. When I opened my mouth to sing back the greeting, she swallowed my soul. She was hungry because we took too many salmon. We’ve grown careless. We don’t say thank you properly. We just take and take. The granny orca is old-old. I’ve seen her in those waters since I was a girl and always I greet her and thank her properly, and ask her permission to take the fish.”

“Ok,” I said, “so the orca has your soul then?”

“No!” She spat. “Pay attention! You don’t know anything! My soul is in the box. The whale gave my soul to the fish. She opened her mouth and my soul was swallowed by the fish.”

“If you eat the fish,” I said, “won’t you get your soul back?”

“No!” she snapped. “Foolish girl! It doesn’t work like that. These fish must go back to the sea, to the granny orca. Only she can give me back my soul.”

I was really trying to hear her, but I did not truly understand the old ways and beliefs. “Granny,” I said gently, “We need those fish to eat, or we’ll go hungry this winter.”

“No,” she said. “Granny Orca will provide more. We must return these fish and sing for them and for us. We must sing to the orca and beg forgiveness, and sing my soul back home, or I will be crazy forever.”

 

 

Posted on: October 11th, 2011 by Lyssa

Gladys

Lyssa Tall Anolik — Where did I get Gladys?

15 minute prompt

 

Where did I get Gladys? People ask me this all the time. It’s not surprising they want to know. A psychic chicken is not very common. You may be scoffing in disbelief. It’s OK, scoff away. I’m used to it. I didn’t believe myself at first.

The fact is, I didn’t “get” Gladys at all. She wandered into my yard one summer afternoon from the woods behind my house. I assumed she was an escapee from one of the neighbors’ chicken coops. A lot of people keep chickens around here. But nobody came looking for her, so I let her stay. She seemed happy picking bugs out of my lawn and hunkering down to sleep beneath the pink azalea. She’s pretty, as far as chickens go—mottled black, orange, and yellow-gold. She’s fussy about preening herself, and I like watching her step delicately around the yard, the way she slowly lifts one foot at a time in a step-bob, step-bob gait.

It was after Gladys had been with me for about a month and I’d grown quite attached to her that she first began to exhibit her psychic ability. It started with small things. I went out to give her leftovers from lunch. She primly stepped up to me and stared directly into my eyes. As she held my gaze unblinkingly I heard a voice in my head say, “The kids will be late today, but don’t worry. They will be fine. The school bus is going to have mechanical trouble and they will have to wait for a replacement. Oh, and by the way, my name is Gladys.” I was sure I was imagining all this. I am a writer and have been accused of having an overactive imagination by my pragmatic husband. Gladys began to eat, tucking into her cold tortilla and bean scraps with relish.

At 3:30, my two children had not arrived home from school. I walked out to the bus stop to wait. They should’ve been here by 3:00. At 4:05 a yellow bus finally appeared. Michael and Sarah rushed down the steps and said, “Mom! You won’t believe it! The bus made this horrible noise and then it broke down! We had to wait for a new one! We sang songs while we waited.” I was in shock.

The instances have escalated from there. Gladys the Magic Chicken predicted Hurricane Katrina and the death of Osama bin Laden, although she’s been curiously silent on the subject of lottery numbers.

 

Posted on: August 9th, 2011 by Lyssa

Artemis

Lyssa Tall Anolik – Artemis emptied her quiver…

15 minute prompt

 

Artemis emptied her quiver. She shot at a white stag running through the silver light of night, following on fleet feet as the stag kept running, flanks heaving and sweating until it finally collapsed at the edge of the lake, eyes glassy and still. A pool of blood spread beneath its body. Artemis stepped into the moonlight to greet the young hunter whose steps she’d been shadowing. His arrows were spent, too. The young man recognized the goddess and knelt before her, thanking her for a successful hunt, on this sacred night.

“You are the stag now,” the lithe deity said. “Eat of this creature’s heart and remember that you carry its power always, as well as its beauty and honor. Do not forget humility when you rise to power because of this feat.” The hunter, still panting from the exertion of the long chase, nodded solemnly. He knelt before the beast and cut out the slippery organ with a hand-knife. He tasted the raw flesh, warm and salty, smooth on his tongue and throat.

After swallowing the meat, he felt faint and tumbled backwards into a dream. He was running through the forest on a moonlit night. He was wearing heavy antlers and running on four legs, fleet-footed and strong. Looking over his shoulder he saw a young man chasing him, and the shadow of a tall woman just behind. He felt the bite of the first arrow pierce his chest, then another and another. He continued running, but finally fell to his knees at the water’s edge, where the life force drained from his body, into that of the other. When he woke, he was sitting alone at the lakeshore with the white stag beside him and blood on his hands and face.

 

Posted on: June 7th, 2011 by Lyssa