Monday October 31st, 2022

The exercise:

Write about: ghosts.

Happy Halloween! The boys got Minecraft costumes this year, but if you think they stood still long enough to get their pictures taken then I strongly suspect you are unaware of the direct link between sugar and children's inability to stop moving.

Sunday February 3rd, 2019

The exercise:

Write about: seeing ghosts.

Monday March 4th, 2013

The exercise:

Today's writing inspiration: the goodnight ghosts.

Just before he falls asleep, Max sometimes stares off at nothing and appears to have a brief, calm little conversation. I've decided that he's talking to The Goodnight Ghosts.

I have no idea what you guys are going to do with this prompt, but at least you now know where the hell it came from.

Mine:

Our dear little boy,
So precious and polite;
Before each slumber
He always says goodnight.

While he is dreaming
We perform our duty:
Watching and guarding
This bundle of beauty.

We do not worry,
Our secret he will keep;
He only sees us
Before he falls asleep.

Thursday November 1st, 2012

The exercise:

Now that we've reached the first of November, I would like you to tell me how a timid ghost spent Halloween last night.

I guess we're officially having a November baby now. Just a matter of him picking a day that looks good to him.

Speaking of which, I've written up a couple of posts to cover my expected absence during the birth. If I'm able to get to a computer during the initial stages, I will schedule them. If I'm not, the blog shall be quiet for a few days.

Fear not! Whenever it happens, I shall return with baby news.

And, most importantly, baby pictures.

Mine:

I hear the children cackle
Between shouts of "Trick or treat!"
And watch as they compare loot
In the middle of the street.

My brothers are more involved,
They like to rattle and haunt.
My sisters whisper greetings,
Steal candy, spook dogs, and taunt.

I wish I could join their fun,
Make these brats scamper and flee;
But the sad, sorry truth is:
These children terrify me.

Thursday September 8th, 2011

The exercise:

Today we write a little something that has to do with: the ghost town.

The front of the house got its first coat of paint this morning. Very excited. Unfortunately further work will have to wait until Monday night or Tuesday.

Mine:

They come from all over,

In all shapes and sizes;

With guide books and cameras,

They seek long lost prizes.

My poor dusty windows,

Now riddled with handprints!

They light up dark corners,

With no hint of conscience.

I just want to slumber,

Not suffer this refrain;

If they don't depart soon,

My dead will walk again.

Sunday June 19th, 2011

The exercise:

Give me what you've got for: the ghost in the orchard.

Because with the white netting on the cherry trees, it looks rather ghostly over there. I shall have to get a picture of it.

Had a good day off, as there was much sunshine and resting to go around. Did a little bit of work in the yard this afternoon before going up to join Kat's parents for a Father's Day dinner. He did up a nice turkey dinner and Kat brought the dessert - a strawberry pie with a pecan crust. Yum.

Mine:

She stood beneath the tree that had been her favorite through all the years of her childhood. Third row up from the street, fifth tree in. There was just something about the curves and texture of the branches. And she had always been convinced it produced the sweetest cherries in the whole orchard. The entire valley, even.

She closed her eyes.

The wind played with the leaves and carried the scents of the blossoms to her nostrils. She breathed deep. The years peeled away and she could feel herself shrinking, her adult body returning to its adolescence. The sun stepped behind a cloud and the air grew colder.

She thought of her little brother.

His insistently uncombed brown hair. The always smiling lips. The laugh that could be heard in every corner of the orchard, no matter where he might be. The permanent dirt stain on his left cheek. She smiled as her thoughts turned to their cherry spitting contests - always done out of sight of their parents, but the winner invariably too proud to keep their victory secret for long.

She felt his icy, tiny hand take hold of her fingers.

Her eyes remained closed, though her breathing became more laboured. Silent tears formed in the corners of her eyes but she dared not blink them away. For even the briefest of openings would allow her eyes to return to the present.

And she was not ready to be without her brother again quite yet.

Thursday March 18th, 2010

The exercise:

I've been feeling a need to write prose lately. I think I'm still going through withdrawal after the completion of A Fighting Chance.

Anyway, that's my way of warning you that I went off on some prose today. Let's see where this prompt takes you: the ghosts of Saint George's Cathedral.

Mine:

I sat in the front pew of the empty cathedral but was not alone. The seven candles that stood atop the altar created wavering shadow demons all around me while leaving the upper reaches of the cavernous room hidden from sight. Each candle was slightly taller than the one to its right, so that their flames angled upwards like a burning staircase to heaven.

Or, if one were to allow one’s eyes to travel in the opposite direction, a set of seven burning steps leading down to hell.

Allowing my mind to linger on this thought for a moment, I pulled the silver flask from the inside pocket of my suit jacket, unscrewed the cap with three quick twists, and brought it to my lips. The liquid courage worked its usual magic, warming me from the inside out and coating my twitching nerve endings with a soothing balm. I took an extra sip for good measure before replacing the cap and returning it to its home.

Glancing at my watch, I saw that the hour, minute, and second hands were preparing to point their accusing fingers as one at the 12 resting at the top of their circular prison. Zero hour was fast approaching; there could be no more delay.

I rose and moved to stand before the altar as the silence within the cathedral seemed to deepen. I told myself it was just my imagination but took another sip of whiskey anyway. A few hundred feet above and behind me I knew Father Timothy would be donning his earplugs and grabbing hold of the thick ropes attached to the cathedral’s massive bronze bells. We knew the sound would bring the entire city running to the gilded front doors of the building.

What we didn’t know was what they would find once they got there.

Taking a deep breath, I fell to my knees and spread my arms to the side as I arched backwards. And as the bells began to sound, I called out to the ghosts of the cathedral. I called them by name, one by one, the oldest to the youngest as the ritual required. I called for them to leave behind their aimless wanderings. I called them to me.

I called them to war.