Showing posts with label April WEP Challenge. Show all posts
Showing posts with label April WEP Challenge. Show all posts

Wednesday, April 20, 2022

WEP - A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall

 It's that time again. 

A new challenge was posted by the gals at the WEP. Write...Edit...Publish

Flash fiction at it's best! Are you game?

Then join the fun!

***

A Hard Rain

She gazes and sighs

at the angry clouds

the surprisingly calm ocean

and the horizon so far

A Hard Rain is Gonna Fall

she questions her motives

is she validated

or just an attention seeker

all she wants

is freedom

independence

a life less hidden

but to achieve that goal

others will suffer

many will shake their heads

and say, what’d you expect

the girl's been off balance

her entire life

never did know

when she had it good

always seeking

never satisfied

I swear

even in death

she'll look for a third option

unsatisfied with Heaven

or Hell…

Yolanda Renee © 2022

****

Your turn, just give it a try. 

A poem, a short story, flash fiction, or another artistic expression!


A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall has been described as the ‘most idiosyncratic protest song ever written.’ Bob Dylan, the Nobel Laureate and another 60's icon, wrote, composed and sung it in 1962 when he was only 21. It’s been covered by many artistes including Pete Seeger, Joan Baez and has never really stopped being sung ever since. Dylan has sold  more than 125 million records/albums making him one of the most popular artistes of all time.  

The form is modelled on the traditional ballad in the question and answer format, the themes being human suffering – pollution, warfare, isolation, angst. Sixty years after Dylan presented it at a performance at Carnegie Hall, the lyrics are striking in that how relevant they are still, how contemporary their feel and the depth of their appeal. Read more about the song here and here.

This one is wide open to all kinds of interpretations. Because human suffering – it’s as wide, deep and long as life is, of a trillion takes potential.

Use it to zoom in on our current ‘hard rain’ of covid. Chisel out your own pandemic flash from what’s going on around you.

Or weave a tale of some other woe – bleeding hammers, broken tongues, dead oceans, homes in the valley meeting damp, dirty prisons. The lyrics are epic, apocalyptic and offer rich pickings. Set your tale around the climate issues; the refugee crisis; the endless hardships that the hard rains of bullets and bombs, volcanic eruptions, oil spills have brought.

Or bypass all the bleakness and melancholy and simply spin a conversation between a parent and a child on some deep life issue. Or a light-hearted one. A million directions to go. The possibilities are endless.

 A freehand is what we give you,  you give the song a listen and see what happens...

Copied from the WEP Challenges page

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Wednesday, April 15, 2020

WEP - Antigue Vase - Best Intentions




BEST INTENTIONS



Angela took the vase out of the package she’d just received in the post and cursed. “All I wanted was the necklace. Instead, all I get is a stupid vase!”


“Quit bellyaching. Nana didn’t have to leave you anything. All you did was clean her house. Velda was her daughter. Of course, Nana’s going to leave her jewelry to family.”


“I know, but Velda doesn’t deserve it. I did more for her mother than she ever did. I just don’t understand. Nana told me that one day I’d be rich. Then she’d wink. You just wait, she’d say. You just wait.” Angela sighed. “It doesn’t make sense.”



“Oh, for heaven’s sake, maybe someday you will be rich. Nana was the poorest woman on the block. Despite all those rumors. All poor Velda got was her jewelry and a measly $5000, life insurance payment. From what I was told, she had to use that to cover the funeral costs.”



“Yeah, but that necklace has to be worth something.”



“I heard it’s cubic zirconia, worth maybe a couple hundred.”



Angela sighed. “Oh well at least I have something to remember Nana by.” She picked up the vase and examined it. “Nana doted over the silly thing, reminding me every day to dust it ever so carefully. She refused to put flowers in it.”



“What are you going to do with it?” Betty asked.



“Last month, I sent a letter to one of those antique houses in New York. I sent pictures of all the sides, including the bottom, and I was hoping they’d write back and tell me it’s worth a mint. But instead, I think they just had a good laugh. So, I’ll keep it here on the bookshelf with Nana’s picture."


Betty picked it up and shook it. "What’s inside? It sounds like there’s something in there.”


“Nana said it was a love letter from her husband. The one and the only letter he wrote to her before he was killed in the war. That’s why she wouldn’t allow water for flowers.”


“How sweet. You want to get some tweezers and see if we can’t fish it out?”


“No. I find it kind of romantic. I even shoved a picture of both Nana and Harry inside. Now they’ll always be together.”


Angela put the vase on the top shelf. “As ugly as it is, it still means something." She checked her hair in the mirror. "Damn, now I wish I hadn’t agreed to that double shift tonight.”


“Better get going. Maybe some guy will give you a million-dollar tip?” She laughed and swatted Angela's butt when she walked by. “Go get em, sis!”


A week later, Angela burst through the door of her room to find her sister poking something metal into the vase. “What in the world are you doing?”

Betty jumped and dropped the vase to the floor. It shattered, but amongst the debris were dozens of folded pieces of paper.


“No!” Angela screamed, falling to her knees.


“It’s okay, Angela. Look,” Betty said as she unfolded the bills. They’re hundreds. Must be $3,000 here. Can you believe it? $3,000! Good riddance old vase, you're rich!”


Angela sank deeper into herself. White as a sheet, she groaned. “How?”


“Sorry, sis. I just had to read Nana's letter. I had a dream about it last night. So I thought I’d fish it out. I didn’t mean to drop the damn thing. But sis, $3,000! You’d never have known it was there!”



Angela handed Betty the letter she’d been holding then put her head in her hands and started sobbing.



Betty took the letter and read it. “Dear Ms. Finney: Your lovely vase bears the mark of the Qianlong Emperor who ruled from 1736 to 1796. We’d have to see the vase in person to make sure it isn’t a replica, but the colors and the appearance have all of us excited."



Betty swallowed, "If you’re interested in placing it in an auction…” Betty’s voice trailed off as the tears began to fall, but she continued in a whisper, “And if it’s original, it could be worth millions.”



“Holy shit!” She threw her arms around her sister. “Forgive me…”

 ***


My inspiration for this story.




700 Words

Yolanda Renée © 2020

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Monday, April 16, 2018

WEP - The Road Less Traveled


WILDWOOD HOLLER

Gran lived at the end of Wildwood Holler in rural West Virginia, on a road that cheered the heart with its pure beauty. Gran was a sweet giving woman, and most of the residents in the area called her “Doc” because of her knowledge of herbal healing remedies. Others called her a sorceress.

Gran was amused by the talk of black magic. The rumors had started after my grandfather died. He had a bad heart, but most of his family blamed Gran, claiming she’d bewitched him.

In his memory Gran only wore black. On her excursions to town for supplies, she’d wear her best black cloak and hat, adding to the mystique. Folks would cross the street to avoid eye contact and, in the lines at the grocery store, they’d back away so she could go first.

The fear of her powers grew after three hoodlums decided they’d pay the witch doctor a visit.

Her log cabin sat at the end of the holler, on a small rise, and her front windows, oval in shape, gave the appearance of glaring orbs. She lived alone and appreciated the view of approaching visitors.

On a windy October day, Gran saw three youngsters and knew they were up to no good. Two of the boys stayed behind, but the third marched to her front door. He knocked but jumped in surprise when she opened it.

“Well, young man?”

“My mum, she’s got a bad headache. She sent me for help.”

“Of course. Tell me about her pain.”

The boy shrugged. “She hurts. She’s gone to her bed.”

“I see,” Gran told him. “Give me a minute.

Gran doubted his need for the remedy, but she couldn’t turn him away. And a headache remedy was simple.

“This is willow bark tea, just brew some for her. She should start feeling better soon.”

“That’s it, tea?” the boy said.

“It has healing properties, I promise.”

He threw a nickel at her and raced back to the others. “Tea, she gave me tea.”

“Let’s test it. See if it works.”

“Don’t we need someone with a headache?”

“It’s either tea or a magic potion. Let’s see what it does to Carol. She’s stupid enough to drink it.”

“Yeah!’

The boys hurried home and mixed the remedy into Dirk’s sister's usual tea mixture. She drank, but nothing happened. The fact alone pissed them off. “We need to go back. We need proof she’s a witch. Only this time we won’t knock on the door. Jay, draw us a picture of the inside of her place. We’ll go at midnight.”

“But what if she catches us? Turns us into toads?”

“We’ll be real quiet. Dress in black and remove our shoes. She won’t know we’re there. We just have to listen for her snoring. My grandma snores like a freight train, that’s why mom put her bed out on the porch. Once we’re sure the witch is asleep, we’ll find the proof. Make sure your flashlights have new batteries.”

For the next several days and nights it rained. So much so that the boys delayed their adventure until the sun came back out and dried the muddy roads. Halloween night the moon was high, the air cold, and the atmosphere electric. Bravado built up over the week due to the severe weather didn’t fade even though the boys were planning their visit on the spookiest night of the year.

“Maybe we should wait. If she’s a witch, her powers will be at their highest. Won’t they?” Jay asked.

“We’ll get there after midnight. It’ll be the First, and by then her powers will be all used up. It’s perfect,” Joey, the ordinarily quiet of the three assured them.

The boys were so sure of their plan they went straight to the cabin. Tiptoeing up the steps, they opened the door. It screeched against the intrusion. A sound that seemed to form the words, “get out”. The noise had the boys standing perfectly still. Waiting, each drew a deep breath, but Dirk found his courage and motioned. They followed his lead and stepped inside. The room was pitch black. Each of them tried their flashlight. None worked, despite the new batteries.

Dirk immediately lit a match. “Do you see a candle or a kerosene lamp anywhere?” he whispered

As they gazed around the room, a noise quickened their hearts. Suddenly a flash of light caught their attention, and all three of them stared with mouths open.

Gran had suddenly appeared at the door of her bedroom. A green light highlighted her face, and a well-practiced cackle escaped her throat.

The boys took off. Screams, high pitched and full of fear trailed after them. Gran turned off her flashlight, put her emerald green glass coaster on the table and laughed until she cried.

“Happy Halloween, boys.”

***

I wish that were the end of my story, but those boys got the townspeople all riled up with stories of a magic potion that almost killed their sister. While some called the boy's story hogwash. Others said that it proved evil lived at the end of Wildwood Holler.

Two weeks after Halloween several men visited Gran. Only they didn’t knock on the door. They threw burning torches through her windows. As the cabin burned to the ground, green flames and a horrifying scream chased the true evil back to town. Grown men crying like babies stumbled over each other on the sprint back. The leader of the group was found dead in his bed the next day. They say that terror was still visible on his countenance.

Gran’s body was never found, but now Wildwood Holler is known as Witchwood Holler. A haunted place where floating green lights, the disturbing sound of crazed laughter, and the failure of anything electric to work, continues to scare off the heartiest of the ghost hunters.
***

980 words / FCA
Yolanda Renee © 2018


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