I am chasing the kite or, Is the kite chasing me? Over a field of wild strawberries, my feet smash the sweet fruit, filling the air, My heels stained red with their juice. I am laughing, laughing, laughing. Wait is this me? I’m just a baby, No wonder the kite lifts me off the ground, And places me back down again. “That is right, little one”, a voice says. It is not mama’s. Then whose is it? “Follow the kite.” “Where will you take me?” I answer. “Never mind.” Mama says that. Is it mama I hear? “Not mama, papa.”
StormWeaver is a continuing story told in 100 word increments. To read from the beginning, choose StormWeaver in categories
Rose ambles right past me, “Come.” The sitting room has two couches, A satin, salmon pink one with claw feet, A boxy faded navy blue one occupied by a giant knitting basket with A multi colored afghan flowing out of it. Everywhere there is stuff, Taking up space, Stacks of books, A set of golf clubs, A hat rack loaded with hats, Boxes of dried flowers, Paintings leaning on paintings leaning on the wall, And there, Tucked next to a dead plant, A purple paper kite. I went to it. “No!” Rose yelled. “Don’t touch it.” But it’s too late.
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We enter an arched door, into a snug vestibule, Where shoes line up in a neat row, And hooks have cloaks hanging. Rose pulls off her shoes and slides into slippers. There’s another pair, grey plaid. They look my size. “Go on,” Rose says. “But how…?” “Never mind, just follow.” I do as she says. My feet sing in these slippers, Supple, cushioned, perfect fit. Yes, I hear a song. But the melody is from my lips, Released without thought by a bird, Its music travels, through the house Calling me to rooms within, Memories unknown, till now. “Welcome home.”
The storm is over, The earth rests under our feet as it should. “You must come with us and have dinner.” Rose hangs on my arm, leading me out the door Up the dirt path. Chloe runs ahead, kicking ice balls as she goes. “I’ll get things ready,” she says. “She means she’ll hide our secrets,” Rose smiles, her eyes glinting with mischief. The cat trails at our heels. “Do you mind?” I ask. “She doesn’t eat butterflies does she?” “No.” “That’s good then. She’ll have a saucer of cream.” Then I see the pouch snagged on the cat’s collar.
The StormWeaver series is a fantasy story told in 100 word increments. Read from the beginning by choosing StormWeaver in categories.
“How long have you lived here?” Chloe asks. Rose picks up my steel cup, my plate, my stuff. “I don’t know.” Just then not knowing the year. “Twenty six years,” Rose says. That sounds right but couldn’t be. “That’s how old I am.” Rose smiles. “I never knew this house was here,” Chloe says staring at me. “I’ve never seen you.” “And I have never seen you.” “But you’ve been here?” “Here I’ve been.” The cat slides around my legs. Dinner time. I put the pouch of stones on the bookshelf. “Who gave those to you?” Strange, I don’t remember.
StormWeaver is a continuing story told in 100 word increments. Read from the beginning by choosing “StormWeaver” in categories.
I pick up the grey stone. The hail pelts us still. They began pea sized, but they grow. “Come with me.” I grab the young woman’s hand. To my house in the hill, We go. Slipping and sliding on the ice, Till I push my door open, And my house is filled, With people. And the cat. The ice hits the door, But we’re safe, Behind dirt walls. Her name is Clover. “They bloomed the day of her birth.” But they call her Chloe. Mama is Rose. They were not in bloom. Her mother’s pain, Like the stab of thorns.
This is a continuing story in 100 word increments. Read from the beginning by choosing StormWeaver category in the side bar of page.
Her blonde hair is shocked with electric blue streaks. Her grey eyes are on her mother, With pity and pain. She wears baggy cotton overalls with a lacy tank top underneath. “Excuse my mother,” she says. She comes over and takes the older woman’s hand. “No trouble,” I say. “It’s Adam. He has magic stones.” “Of course he does.” I squeeze the pouch in my hand and out pops the grey stone. It falls to the ground. Rain and hail blasts upon us. “What is happening?” The women cling to each other. “We’re going to die!” It may be true.
This is a continuing story in 100 word increments. Read the StormWeaver series from the start – Choose StormWeaver category from the home page.
I snatch the brown pebble from the ground, my heart racing. I don’t know why. Coincidences happen all the time. Right? “It’s that little stone you have isn’t it?” The woman’s face is lit by the sun breaking through clouds. “Put it back down again.” “No,” I say. I slip it into the pouch with the rest. “I’m sorry for your loss.” I head away from her. “I didn’t lose him,” she calls sharply. “He was taken.” She grabs my arm. “It’s different when they are stolen.” I’m about to speak, when a young woman calls out, “Mama leave him alone.”
Binge read episodes 1 – 7 The continuing fantasy story told in 100 word increments. Choose “StormWeaver” in categories.
The woman wails. Picking up the brown pebble my fingers brush up against, a larger stone, mostly covered by earth. But I see the outline of an unnatural square stone. The woman stops crying, She begins clawing at the tufts of grass encroaching on it until she lifts it upright. Her face streaked with dirt and tears she asks, “Kind sir, what is your name?” The pebble in my hand, feels heavier by the minute. Like I must put it down, Close to the earth. So I drop it, In front of the square stone, that says, “Adam”, my name.
This is installment 7 in the Series “Storm Weaver”. Each installment is 100 words. Read the whole series by choosing “Storm Weaver” in categories.
Where has that last pebble gone? I make the mistake of using the broom. Did I hear a sound, the rattle of a pebble skipping across the floor, Out the door? Maggie springs after it, bats it further down the worn front path, Now I’m chasing the cat, Chasing the stone, Till I come upon a weeping woman in the grass. “I’m sorry to disturb you.” These lowland meadows don’t usually include Random people. Why is she here? “The grave. It’s gone. There was a stone here for my baby.” “A stone?” And then I see it, my brown pebble.
Read the StormWeaver series by searching under #StormWeaver category.