Story Pieces & Five Suggestions

Anything might happen when the box of story pieces 

comes out of the buffet drawer. 

Using these tiny plastic characters to act out 

spontaneous stories always results in shared laughter. 

Will the horse take the flamingo for a ride?

Will the alligator and the pig be friends or foes?

Will the bucket-carrying girl trip over the hedgehog?

Story-loving grandkids want to know.

FIVE SUGGESTIONS

 for using your own box of Story Pieces: 

* A timer can be handy when one of the storytellers is ... 

long-winded. 

* Storytellers who are waiting for their turn must listen 

quietly to the current storyteller. Ask questions at the end, 

but do not interrupt the flow of the story.

* Keep interest high by rotating the story pieces. Look for 

new ones in toy stores, craft shops, and at second-hand sales. 

* Licking, biting, and/or eating the story pieces is frowned upon.

* Use the concept of chapters for older storytellers. Each player 

can continue the story using the same core characters.

More on hopeful stories here. 

 

Treasure Hunting

Most Saturdays my husband and I peruse other people's stuff looking for treasures. 

Both terms are loosely used here. 

Occasionally, something seems to say, "I'm yours..." and wins a place in our nest. 

More often, though, I sell the treasures on Etsy to finance my writing adventures. 

Either way, we have fun rehashing the week, sipping coffee, and laughing at people-antics.

A few weeks ago, a local estate sale yielded a bunch of sellable treasures, including 

a 1967 Super 8 camera. A ball-capped sale attendant told us his father bought

 and used the camera while stationed in Vietnam. 

"Dad used it to bring home all the sights he wanted to share with us." 

He removed his cap, swiped a hand through his hair, and replaced it. 

"Things sure went hard for us while he was away."

A single home movie frame turned up in the bottom of the bag. 

I'm not sure who's who, but it's easy to make up a good story. 

What do you think is going on here? 

Let's hear your best story-starting line.

If you provide the starters, I'll pick one and finish it.

Backyard Days and a Story Snapshot

It was my last year as a homeschool mom.

The sweetgum showered red-gold leaves, the bees buzzed lazy tunes,

 and my youngest teenager read aloud from Tolkien.

It was a memory moment—the kind meant for savoring.

Today was the same kind of day, but I didn't get to read in the backyard. 

I hope you did, though.

 

I took this photo of a pair of glasses I found at a sale. 

Purchased for a few quarters, they sold again for much more. 

My writing fund appreciated the small contribution. 

So, here's a bit of flash fiction inspired by these seen-better-days specs. 

     Missing

     "Where are my glasses?" Craig ran his hand up his forehead then back down, mashing his nose flat. "Every time I lay them down, they go missing." He flopped into his armchair and a slight veil of dust puffed into the afternoon sun and floated toward thick window panes. 

     Janice handed him the newspaper. "You had them in the church this morning, didn't you? Then you stopped at the Danaher's on the way home ..." She glanced up at him from her own reading, hoping for a clue. Craig had gone still at the mention of the Danaher home, the crazed epicenter of the once-quiet village. "Did you have a chance to talk with—" 

     "No." Craig shot up from his chair and the newspaper fell to the floor, unnoticed. "I remember now. They are at the church." At the door, he grabbed his hat from the hook and pulled it low on his forehead. "You're right, Janice," he said. "You're always right." 

     

Beautiful Blues

The Heavenly Blue Morning Glory is pulling out all the stops on our garden tepee, 

even if the sky is the bleakest of grays today. 

Purple Blue

Who doesn't need a big dose of blue? 

For me, it's the most startling color in the garden. 

The color of the heavens so close to the dust of the earth—pretty incredible.

Uh-oh. 

Are you saying to yourself—"Wait. That's not blue; it's purple!"

Oh, friends! Toe-may-toe ... toe-mah-toe!

Haven't you ever seen a sky so lusciously deep blue that it leaned toward purple? 

Of course you have. I'll bet you've even seen what my father-in-law calls  

"sky-blue pink" on the horizon, but you probably didn't know to call it that.

We learn something new everyday. 

This is the delicious purple-blue of Georgia Blue Speedwell.

It's widely available, and if you live nearby, I'm happy to share mine.

It's been a while since I gave you a Story Snapshot. Here's a quick one: 

 Fall Into the Blue

     Her nerves still thrummed with the energy of the concert. Joyce hated to leave the arena and return to her everyday life, but return she must. Following close behind Evan, navigating the crowded aisles was easy and she let her eyes wander over the other departing audience members. But soon the press of the crowd lifted them along with more urgency toward the doors. Joyce clung to the bend in her husband's arm, then moved to hold hands, and when the inevitable separation came, she did not allow panic to take hold. "I'll meet you outside, at the clock on the corner!" she called over her shoulder. 

     "I'll be right behind you," he assured, his voice raised but calm.

     In the crisp air outside the arena, Joyce slowed her pace as people surged past. Where's Evan? At the clock on the corner. The illuminated clock face stood tall and peaceful over departing fans. Joyce lowered her head and began to make her way across. "Excuse me. Pardon me. Just coming through..." 

   

  He sat on the sidewalk, right in the middle of the swirling throng, holding a sign: "Navy Vet. Down and Out. Need Help." Determined to reach the clock, she didn't see him in time to swirl past like the rest of the human tide. In awkward wedge heels, she tilted toward him, away from him, to the side, then inevitably, back in his direction. Joyce landed on both knees directly in front of the man, her hand on the shoulder of his heavy coat the only thing that kept her from rolling into his lap. 

     Of course time slowed to lengthen the excruciating embarrassment. The man's can of collected change rattled and threatened to spill. He lunged for it as she got one knee under herself. Then Joyce felt one of Evan's hands at her elbow and the other around her waist, his familiar cologne identifying him as her rescuer. 

    "I'm so sorry!" Joyce brushed dust from the knees of her slacks, glanced into the sitting man's face ... and gasped. His eyes! Startled and large, they pierced her through. His gaze, a dreadfully familiar vivid blue, locked on hers. 

     His voice croaked, "Joycie ... ?"                                            

Ladder to Nowhere

As I drive along, I notice unusual things in yards. 

The men in my life do not appreciate this—they say I'm swerving, but of course, I'm not. 

If you happen to be gawking along with me, you know there's lots to see.

For example, not far from here, an entire (plastic) holy family huddles on the front porch of a small white cottage. I'm sure someone intended to put them back in the shed until next year, but they just haven't gotten around to it. 

In another yard, there's a life-size bear figure, standing tall and menacing. The owners may think it's hidden behind that pampas grass, but people with excellent observation skills will notice these things. They also have a fake white pony, frozen mid-trot, not far from the bear—is there a story in the mind of the yard decorator?

Perhaps my favorite oddity is in the yard of a pink Cape Cod home, set high on a hill. A yeti statue strides through the side yard, perhaps on its way to the next meeting of the RUFO Society. 

And what about this ladder? 

It's propped against a tree with no apparent purpose at all.

I may have an overactive imagination, as some say, but doesn't this spark your

sense of wonder? A room full of first graders would be bursting with ideas about 

the mystery of this ladder to nowhere.

*******

Here's mine—a Story Snapshot called (what else?) 

"The Ladder to Nowhere"

     Benji walked around the ladder to better see it from all sides. His fingers, sticky with the evidence of three s'mores, brushed rounded wooden edges and skimmed embedded, crusty nails. It was almost too dark to really inspect the mysterious ladder now that the sun was going down. He thought about calling J.D., but then everyone would follow, and he might get in trouble for wandering too far from camp. "Don't leave the circle of firelight," the scout leaders kept repeating. But they were only moms anyway, not real scoutmasters like he used to have in Indiana. 

     Bracing his hands on the side rails, he put his weight the bottom rung with one sneaker. Was it strong enough to hold his weight? He climbed six more rungs without taking a breath—still safe! From this perch, Benji peered up, up, up through the gloom, but the tree's neighbors huddled too close, blocking any final fingers of sunlight. If he was going to get to the top, he'd have to be fast ...

Frowzy

This is the time of year when the Annabelle blooms 

I dried and displayed in the fall start to get all ...

frowzy. 

Covered with a thin sheen of dust and quite faded, 

there's just no way to fix these problems. 

Soon they'll be decorating the garbage can. 

New blooms are just around the corner, though ...

More on Annabelles here, here and here. 

*****

Is it strange that those hydrangea heads inspired a 
story snapshot? 

Frowzy

     Doris flipped the visor mirror of her 1995 Toyota Camry back into place. She gripped the steering wheel and pressed her forehead into her knuckles. Behind the front door of her home, shrill terrier yips beat a methodical cadence loud enough to reach inside her driveway-parked car. She had to face it: this wasn't going to get any better.

    The unfamiliar feeling of cool air against her neck surprised her again—just as  it had when she left the hair salon this afternoon. Stepping out of her car, she shook her head, scattering waves of chemical fragrance, then shut the car door and locked it. Her Saturday trip to the Anita Cut Salon on 2nd Street for a "new leaf" transformation turned out to be a lesson on the danger of spontaneity. She'd felt the warning twitch in her right eyelid but gave it no heed as Jack-Qua-Lyn rushed her toward a chartreuse plastic chair. Five hours later and fifty dollars poorer, a wiser Doris climbed the steps to her front door.

     Twinkie's nose brushed her foot when she stepped inside; her husband's dog was always glad to see her. Doris pocketed her car keys and bent to greet the suddenly silent pet. Confusion twisted Twinkie's wiry brow, and he backed away instead of jumping into her arms for kisses. With loud whimpers, he turned tail and fled to his favorite hiding place under the dining room table. 

      Doris stood under the bewildered gaze of her husband. "Well? What do you think of my hair?" 

     His eyebrows floated toward his hairline. "Ummmm ... " He blinked hard once, no, twice—there—three times. "Well ... do you like it?" He swallowed and blinked again. "I mean, is that what you ... wanted?" Twinkie slunk forward to cautiously re-investigate her shoe and identify this frowzy impostor. 

     "Yes," she squeaked in a voice that even she didn't recognize. Giving her now-damp foot a sharp flick, she choked, "It's exactly what I wanted."

* Wordless Wednesday

Can We Talk?

Come now, 

and let us reason together, saith the Lord: 

though your sins be as scarlet, 

they shall be as white as snow..." Isaiah 1:18

more here 

And a story snapshot:

     Janine dusted the snow from the iron patio chair and took a seat on the very edge to peer upward into her son's face. Something was wrong. She knew it, just as she knew how the house keys had been misplaced. The weekday rush caught her out this morning. Her keys perched inside, on the hook by the back door, and she was locked outside with her almost-a-man son. His brother would be home soon, with keys, and they would all troop inside—the opportunity for conversation lost. Focusing her gaze on his face, the set of his brow, and the cast of his mouth, Janine determined to do her best to invite his confidence. "I think something's bothering you. Would you like to talk about it...?"

Empty

     "Do you want to sit here?" His hand flipped from one jacket pocket to offer her the seat.
     She looked at the rusted metal chair and grimaced. What makes him think I would want to sit in that? "No. Thanks." She stood behind the chair, gripped the top edge, and directed her gaze at the collar of his flannel shirt. "They're going to wonder why we're still out here. You know they don't like to wait on supper." She looked down at the chair and flicked a piece of loose paint. It landed on the gravel at his feet. "What do you want to say? Just say it."
     She watched him take a deep breath and kick the gravel mixed with sticks. His words now would change the course of the visit. 
     Of the day. 
     Of her life.