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Keeping current in wellness, in and out of the water
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#Writephoto The Hinges Of Hades
March 16, 2017
— 8 Comments
Hades
His death was sudden and unexpected, leaving matters in disarray at home, at his business, and with his students. The mystery school had been meeting in underground caves teaching secrets and rites of magical passage. Delphina became Fidel’s assistant, a priestess who inherited prophesy and ritual magic from her people, who came from an island with a volcano. When the volcano erupted few survivors managed to make it to safety. Delphina and her grandmother were saved by a passing ship. She was only 3 years old when she arrived in her new land, so she found it easy to adapt to the culture and language. Her grandmother suffered from nostalgia and yearned for a home Delphina did not remember.
Fidel lived next door and was her friend all through childhood. Her grandmother was cautiously approving of him, observing his exceptional nature. After her grandmother died Delphina moved in with Fidel’s family, and eventually married him. Their work together at the school replaced children and family in their lives. They dedicated themselves to higher truth and strict observance of their beliefs. She had grown up within the culture, and never questioned the motives or the fundamental beliefs of the elders. They always told her she was lucky to be alive, and she agreed. She did not question the essential mystery she had been taught. She believed that wealth was the most important and significant reward granted to the faithful. Her teachings reflected her willingness to do anything to acquire money. Fidel, whose very name meant faithful, was a son of Lucifer, trained in the art of stealing souls. He was raised in splendor and glorious excess to impress the rest of the populace. It never occurred to him that the rest of the inhabitants were there because they had been cursed. He never suspected their deep resentment of his position. He never even suspected who he was himself. His whole life was the ultimate betrayal.
While he was carrying out a ritual hypnotism in the inner sanctum of the cave, a group of hooded assassins stabbed him a thousand times with pitchforks. The shocking news reached Delphina as she descended into the chamber to deliver ritual wine. The large heavy gate at the top of the stairway slammed behind her, leaving her trapped with her husband’s murderers. This was the first inkling she had about her true location and her fate. She read the sign now facing her on the gate. “Hotter than the hinges of Hades”, was all it said.
#writephoto
This is a response to Sue Vincent’s photo prompt. Please visit to contribute your own story, read, or comment. There is a lively and interesting mix of writers who regularly contribute here. Enjoy!
#WritePhoto Enchanted Spring
March 2, 2017
— 10 Comments
enchanted spring
Before we leave on the long pilgrimage to our forefathers’ homeland we gather vessels to fill with the water from the magical spring. Although it is heavy to carry on the slippery mountain trails we consider the water to be lucky. It is pure and clear, arising form deep within the earth, filtered through the sandy aquifer, arriving crystal clear and delicious. In the old days there was a superstition about drinking the water to be invited to return. When visitors arrived in the town that were undesirable to the townspeople they were all given beer to drink. The locals believed that once a person drank water from their enchanted spring, they would never leave. They had discovered this the hard way, and wanted to keep their precious resource to themselves. They became isolationists just when the rest of the world was hooking up with transportation, commerce, trade, and immigration. The elders wanted to maintain the purity of the water as well as the people’s thoughts.
These purity campaigns rarely result in a better environment. Somehow the strict rules, the isolation and control of learning, social recreation, and dress customs, had the effect for freezing time. The population survived, but only through sacrifice and very hard labor. They freely allowed anyone to leave, but continued to tell strangers there was no water in town, only beer. After a while the visitors stopped and the population dwindled. The few old true believers still living in the area were now too feeble to climb up to fetch the water from the spring for themselves, and nobody was left to do it for them. The enchantment was now completely wasted on them because it was just out of their reach. It was still flowing copiously as it had done for centuries, but only a handful of people even knew where the spring was.
When the last surviving elder was on his last legs a young girl wandered into town and asked for a drink of water. The old man broke down in tears while asking her who she was. She replied that she was a descendent of someone who had lived in the village in the previous century. She had heard stories about the miracle cures and the enchantment of the spring water that was legendary. She came because she was curious. She had fought through some dense forrest to arrive, traveling alone. She carried with her a copper cup with some inscribed symbols and a name. This cup had once belonged to her ancestor who left the village to live in the modern world. Now her curiosity about the cup brought her to this undiscovered part of her inheritance. The old man saw the cup hanging from her belt and asked to see it. He recognized the clan symbols inscribed on the side, but when he drew the copper close to his eyes he was able to see the name. He overflowed with emotion as he read the name of his own maternal great-grandmother on the cup. This was the last miracle the spring delivered to him. He perished in tears of grief and relief after he showed this youthful distant relative how to find the trail to the spring. When she returned with her vessels full of water, his body had turned to a pile of colored dust. She realized he had been sustaining his own life with leftover magic from the time when he could still climb to the spring to wait for her arrival. He had fulfilled his duty, and spent all of his extra lives. Now the responsibility was hers to share the enchantment of the spring. Her hike back out of the forrest was somber indeed.
This short fiction is written based on the fabulous photo prompt from Sue Vincent. Please join us to read, comment, or submit your own take on this picture.
#writephoto
#WritePhoto Water Under The Bridge
February 23, 2017
— 7 Comments
beneath-the-bridge
Jumping along on stepping-stones, making an effort to stay dry, we cross the stream and climb the hill on the other side. Our party had broken up early because a sudden thunder-storm toppled the picnic table and sent the folding chairs flying everywhere. Collecting our belongings and soggy food we ran for cover. We found shelter beneath a railroad bridge that had been abandoned, and was crumbling into ruins.
This was once the busy main line that connected the industrial cities with the farms in the rules countryside. Passengers and freight traveled regularly on this railroad for both commercial and recreational purposes. Many wealthy city folks owned large estates in the country that employed hundreds of servants and maintenance staff. They came out for the weekends to fox hunt and throw lavish house parties. As the aristocracy lost fame and fortune, only the royals could afford such extravagances. The big houses were abandoned one by one. There was no work for butlers or maids, and few servants had other skills to sustain them. Everyone moved away from the area in order to find work or live within their reduced means.
The muddy water rushed down from above, carrying debris and some loose toys and lawn furniture and skeleton remains that had been swept away in the torrential downpour. The waste that society creates floated by in the current. Our history, our ancestors’ skills and dreams, were washed away before our eyes. When the sun came out again our spirits were still dampened. We slowly emerged from our muddy perch to search for our companions. The happy picnic by the brook had become a somber reminder of sudden quirks of fate.
This story is an interpretation of this weeks photo prompt by Sue Vincent. Please visit to contribute or meet other writers here.
#writephoto
#WritePhoto Destined To Meet
February 17, 2017
— 16 Comments
summerhouse
The long trek to the remote village has exhausted the group. The backpacks grew heavy as they walked for miles in the woods. They had all come to be part of a writers’ retreat designed to spark creativity. The accommodations in the country were intended to take the group away from day to day concerns in order to concentrate on writing. Most of them came from big cities and were not accustomed to primitive conditions. They were told they would need to pump water and carry wood, but this sounded more romantic at the time than it was when they started scouting for fire wood in the wet forrest. The rain had drenched the woods, so all the wood was too wet to start a fire. They had no wilderness skills, and were weary and wasted before they even started the weekend. The emotions were tightly wound before they even saw the bunk beds in the attic where they would sleep, dormitory style.
On Saturday morning they awoke to find no staff at the summerhouse. There was a sign left on the screen door that said, “We have gone to town. Now you go to town.” This naturally infuriated the writers who had come to be taught some kind of creative trick to unlock their talent. “Go to town? What the hell does THAT mean?” Left to their own devices, they scattered into space to figure out what to do. Sitting under the shade of a large oak tree Emily spotted Eric. He was wearing a velvet coat, leaning against the trunk of the tree, casually smoking a pipe. She approached him with caution, but when she clearly saw his handsome face she was instantly smitten by this stranger in the woods. She wondered why he was so calm, cool, and dressed like a person from a different century. He explained that these woods are haunted with the ghosts of writers who never pushed themselves beyond their limits. They are the real ghost writers. They can never be free because they dissed their muse while they were alive.
When Emily awoke back in New England in the 21st century she knew she had just met destiny in a dream. Her muse, Eric, would be her greatest asset, and it did not matter that nobody else could see him. He was hers alone. He faithfully pushed her to work with words every day. Their tryst was a gift from the creative creator of creation, and would last forever and ever.
To enjoy more interpretations of this photo by other writers, please visit Sue Vincent, who provides these in fleek prompts each week. Read, comment, or try your hand at fiction here.
#writephoto
#writephoto Pants And Vanities On Fire
February 9, 2017
— 9 Comments
bonfire of vanities
We watched them huddle around the fire to confer
About the plot they hatched to silence her
Laws and rule books were tossed in to burn
The flames grew large and the wind swirled
The bonfire of their vanities was burning in space
They were enveloped in a hellish backfire
There was no remedy for the sudden change
With pants all aflame they tried to conspire
We could neither believe them nor save them
They were consumed by their own vanities.
To participate by reading or writing a post about this picture go to Sue Vincent’s blog. She generously provides a new photo for inspiration each Thursday. Some very creative writers participate, and it is fun to see how the same picture inspires completely different responses in each writer.
#writephoto
Troll Island #WritePhoto
February 2, 2017
— 12 Comments
low-tide #writephoto
The dark clouds linger over the sprawling river delta as the sun sets over the water. During the night a fleet of smugglers will carry stolen treasures across the straights to land on the shores of the island nation ruled by trolls. The long shoreline and rocky jagged coast gave plenty of cover for small dories to remain hidden until the moon was dark and the deal had been done. The troll king had forbidden the population to sing and dance, which lead to a mass depression in the troll population. They were required to spend the entire workday grumbling and making false accusations. The opportunities for advancement were few, and depended on nepotism and corruption. Most of the nation was enslaved for the sole purpose of making the world a darker place. After years of this oppression they found ways to slip away across the water into the land of big industry. Over there, singing and dancing were not outlawed, and neither was heavy drug use by employers on their slaves. They gave them meth every day to make them more productive in the factories and on the job sites. At night they took sleeping pills to get some rest after a day all jazzed up at the factory. Most of them took 5 or 6 other drugs, but they did not know why they had been prescribed. They were all addicted to pills, and were all desperately unhappy.
When the adventuresome trolls first encountered the miserable industrial workers they thought there was nothing to gain by visiting there. The workers did not sing or dance, even though they had the chance. They worked their fingers to the bone and had little personal space or time. This factory life looked much worse than the mandatory idle grumpiness at home. The effort made to cross the water seemed like a waste until they stumbled into a rebel teen from industry land. This teen rebel had been crossing the straights to sneak into troll land since she was knee high to a grasshopper. The girl had a troll father and an industrial strength mother. She had a hard time with the other industrial kids because she did not fit in with the repressive regime. She hated the meth and refused to ingest it, hiding it in her hoodie until she could dispose of it. She was bullied in school for being too grumpy and lazy, qualities inherited from her father. She made the crossing first with her mom, who showed her the way. Since then she has been visiting her father on the island on her own. As far as she knows she is the only one of her kind, a product of both cultures. Her parents can’t tell her how they met because there is danger in knowing.
She discovered the constant large demand for peanut butter and chocolate, both of which the troll king had outlawed for the trolls, but kept for himself. There was a long list of banned substances and activities. No smiling, no laughing, no peanut butter cups..what kind of a life was that? She took it upon herself to procure peanut butter and chocolate at wholesale prices then rowed it over to the trolls each month on the new moon. Stealth was of the utmost importance. Much was at risk. If caught she would spend the rest of her life on the island, forced to grump and grumble. Her capture would also mean the end of the only pleasure the trolls still had, the smuggling of peanut butter and chocolate past the authorities guarding the coast. The trade continues to this day, still undercover.
Please visit Sue Vincent’s blog each Thursday for a new photo prompt. You can read the stories and poems inspired by the picture, and add your own submission. It is fun to see the variety.
#writephoto
#WritePhoto, Half Shining Armor
January 26, 2017
— 11 Comments
waiting
Beneath the staircase of the palace, lurking silently in the dark
The master’s old Tudor dynasty armor stands guard as if alive
Little has changed in the basement rooms since jousting was the sport
The aristocrat concerns himself with wealth and status in the court
Royal drifters follow in the entourage of holy soldiers and servant slaves
In service of some magic majesty that never showed up when expected
We thought time would both heal wounds and protect us from the ravages of injustice
The clock of destiny has not been kind to the greedy crusaders
Marking time with the shattered bones of their broken glory
There are no knights left to tell the end of this frightening story
Their legacy has been buried, lost all meaning of chivalry and grace
The names fade fast in history’s book, vanishing without a trace
Don’t trust armor from an ancient time to protect you from the storm
It may be impenetrable and conductive, but it is anything but warm
The photo prompt comes from Sue Vincent’s blog and is used as inspiration for writing short fiction and poetry. Try your own hand if you like. Please visit Sue, or use the hashtag #writephoto on twitter to find other interpretations of this image. Thanks for visiting, gentle reader.
#writephoto
#WritePhoto, Dancehall Of Dread
January 19, 2017
— 14 Comments
#writephoto
In the darkest moment of winter, heaviness and despair falls on the land. Frightened workers huddle indoors, sharing the heat of a single stove in the dance hall of the dead. The musical sounds drift in from the streets, strings and horns and voices of the past kill time by serenading the future. The dance floor is void of happy feelings but full of feverish dread of the coming days. The waltz goes on forever, the tempo hypnotic, mind numbing. The dancers know all the tribal dances that have been danced for centuries in this place. Circles of spirited colors whirl above the floor. The walls vibrate with deep bass rhythm and drumming creatures representing sacrifices made to tradition. The swift current of time sweeps the crowd up in a cloud of memory and doubt.
The donkey shadow on the wall opposes the one of the elephant wearing a hat. The shadow puppets play the same parts forever, constantly changing costumes to deceive. The audience blends into the puppetry, never minding the strings attached. The glow from the streetlight illuminates the dancing puppets as they pass. The translucent quality of their weary bodies is briefly revealed for a moment. Darkness and bitter cold then quickly envelops each one in dread. Nobody knows if this is real or imaginary. This may be happening in the present, or we may be stuck in each other’s dreams. Is there an escape? Are we under a spell? Will this dance continue? Do we have a choice?
Visit Sue Vincent’s blog on Thursdays to find a photo prompt for fiction. Create your own story to go with this week’s image.
#writephoto
#writephoto, The Ghost Swan of Loch Luklamarin
January 12, 2017
— 11 Comments
Ghost Swan
There is a ghost swan that appears on the eve of Robert Burn’s Day on the Loch above the ancient castle. The apparition sails across the water following the course of the boat that sailed from the shore in 1235 with a small band of rogue fighters. The land was under attack from the neighboring clan, and the family honor was in dire straights. Survival depended on their ability to take the foe in the middle of the night by stealth. They had little ammunition left to defend their home, and food supplies were dwindling. They were desperate and hungry for victory when they quietly shoved off from the muddy shore, rowing quietly through the night. They were in pitch black darkness, no light to guide their way. Cloudy moonless skies hung heavily with damp and deadly signs. They wished for a miracle.
As the clan gathered strength to cross the loch to meet their fate a white swan appeared before them. They perceived the bird as friendly, a guide and advisor for the battle to come. The glow from the swan created streams of light in the water in front of the rickety little boat. Reflecting in the light the vessel looked bigger than it was. The enemy was afraid of being outnumbered by the crew being lead by a magical swan. They were scared that the swan itself was a monster with powers to drown or burn them to death. They packed up quickly and ran for their lives, never to return. Peace was guaranteed by the fear of they had of the ghost swan.
People say when there is an appearance of the swan these days is a reminder to stand up for what is yours. It is a symbol of protection and self defense. Magic helps them that help themselves.
#writephoto
Please visit Sue Vincent’s blog to see more submissions, and maybe write one of your own. Thank you, Sue, for an excellent image with which to begin.
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