September 12, 2011
Prompt 1Connections are like the strings in a blanket. Before a blanket is strung together, it is just a bunch of curled up balls of yarn. They are broken links, sitting isolated and immobile. When chosen, they are woven in and out of each other; no longer alone but an interlocking part of a larger pattern, a sequence of the weaver’s choices. Colors merging together to the steady beat of the loom. The weaver’s hands move the strings in and out, directing the strands of yarn, controlling what they will become and which connections will be formed. Although the weaver is in charge of the loom, there is the unforeseen occurrence of knots and the splitting of strings that causes errors and flaws. Wear and tear can cause a strand to pop and break. This causes the connections to fall away from each other to the ground to resemble the crumbs of a life. No longer do the strings of yarn interlock with others. The connections have ceased to be possible.
Prompt 2
The News
A hawk circled in the sky about the maple trees. It swooped over the small church surrounded by woods. The window crooned against its hinge. It opened and released tones up. The choir practiced. Their voices stretched high in the ceiling up to heaven. Houses traced the edges of the woods. Falling in the sky, the hawk rushed towards a mouse.
“Ha ha! Now you are cornered,” a little boy cried, running around a tree. He kicked the leaves in his path as he went, creating a billowing cape. “Do you give up?” He held a plastic sword pointed at his older brother. The brother leaned back away from the sword, his red hair brushing bark behind him.
“Never!” the red headed boy declared, hitting the sword away with his own. He was taller than his blonde haired brother by a hand. The blonde haired boy trailed away, backing up.
“Ah!” another blonde haired little boy jumped from behind a raspberry bush. He stood next to his twin and fought.
“Clack! Clack! Clack!” The swords battled each other.
Across the stone path leading up to the porch, their mother watched. She smiled at their blissful innocence. She turned, catching a mouthful of words. The next lawn over two ladies seated on their porch watched the scene under stuck up noses.
“…in debt.”
“Who would imagine…no surplus whatsoever…”
“…you know what I mean, nothing…et cetra, et cetra…poor children,”
They halted, feeling the mother’s eyes on them, and framed their faces with smiles and waved to her. Behind the mother, a timer buzzed. She ignore d the gossipers and walked back to her stew. It simmered under the blue fire heat. Her chilly fingers shook over the warm steam. She shivered, wrapping her arms around her and wishing that she had dragged out her wool sweaters sooner this year. She hummed to herself, pleased that the meat was cooking quickly. Thankfully the butcher had cut it into smaller pieces, making her life easier.
She was about to herd the children inside to wash up when the phone rang.
A few words trickled through the receiver into her ear. Words caught in her throat. The caller finished his peace and hung up, leaving her to the dial tone. She stood next to the stove, phone in hand, motionless. The stew continued to bubble. Her hand held the wooden spoon, frozen in a half stirring motion. Her head and shoulders hugged the phone, cradling the silence.
Outside, a little girl, the youngest ran forward, grabbing for the sword from her older brother.
“I want a turn!” she squealed, peeling his fingers off of the sword.
“No!” the blonde boy yelled, pulling her hand off of his. The red headed boy, the age of reason, stepped in.
“Claire, you don’t take,” he said, pulling her off of the blonde boy. She glared at the red headed boy, her black braids coming undone on her shoulders.
“I want to play.”
“You’re the dahm-sal. Tommy and Harry are trying to rescue you.”
“No, we want to be pirates.”
“Yeah, I’m a pirate. Argh!”
“I want to be a pirate, too!” Claire said, beaming. She mimicked the twins and closed her one eye at her eldest brother.
“You’re not a pirate,” Tommy said.
“That’s not fair!” Claire said. She crossed her arms and stuck out a lip.
“Let’s play a different game.”
“Yeah, I’m bored,” Tommy agreed.
“Fine,” the red headed boy said, tossing his sword down. He pulled out a microscope from his new mini lab set and pulled a stone over. Ants crawled all over the surface of the stone. The other three children huddled down near the stone to watch as the sunlight shimmered down through the microscope and collided with the ants. Black smudges imprinted on the stone.
“Cool,” the twins said.
Inside the house, tears slipped down the mother’s cheeks as she hooked the phone back on the wall receiver. On the refrigerator, the abstract rooster stared at her. It shone brightly in the afternoon light. Claire had made it last week. She had waddled in so proud, smudged with red and orange.
The mother had to protect them from the news. There were so many things to do. She wiped her tears off and checked the stew again. She moved to the screen door and sighed. They were hurling themselves into piles of leaves, spreading out the piles that the mother had spent the morning making. She sighed. She would tell them the news later. They were only children.
