The Moon Ritual

 

And here they come now – your AUGUST story challenge criteria: Your story’s first sentence must contain only four words. Your story must include something being shared. Your story must include the words PAINT, SHIFT, WAVE and TOAST. It must be 500 words of less.  You have 55 hours. Go!                                               “Manifest with the Moon. We are water, and tonight, we will be one with the shifting waves,” said Owletta, glancing at each flickering face, hoping the seeds she planted on the new Moon would come to fruition.  “Yemaya hears our prayer,” said Willow, pushing her candle into the sand near her bare feet, reaching into her beach bag for another. The coven sat, crossed-legged in a circle, whispering unintelligible prayers to the East wind, chanting, and beating their bare thighs like a drum. Willow swayed, lifting her arms over her head. Across from Willow, Wren threaded her long blond hair behind her ears, waiting for the East wind to blow away the cobwebs. Nettle of the North stared at the irregular star, etched into the sand between them, beating her thighs harder and jiggling her loose flesh like Gelatin. Across the circle, Owletta closed her black eyes, praying to Yemaya, Goddess of the ocean, water, and tides. After several minutes the coven stood, breaking from the circle, collecting the water-filled mason jars, unscrewing the caps. Each Witch placed a jar in a corresponding corner of the sand-drawn star: North, East, South, and West. The moon water waited under a darkening sky. Again, the coven formed a circle, staring at the horizon painted with a thin strip of orange. The rise of the Moon was nigh. “Wren, your vanilla-scented candle smells cheap, like toast,” scolded Nettle. Giggles erupted. “Someone’s coming!” said Willow. The coven giggled louder, rushing to hide amongst the cemetery of gnarly driftwood, covering themselves with beach towels and goose-pimpled arms. “Bare skin is a Witches’ Sunday best,” said Nettle in a low voice. The coven hid, listening to the waves until the silhouettes of two mysterious beachgoers disappeared into the night. The group took their places on the ground again, tipping the towels from their shoulders, looking to the horizon. They waited. “Should we disperse our intentions?” asked Wren. Owletta withdrew a tiny seashell from beneath her bare butt, throwing it towards the shore. “Yes,” she said. The coven ransacked their beach bags, pulling handfuls of bay leaves from within. Willow came away with a single leaf, kneeling near a candle, reading the tiny message she had scribbled on the leaf in pencil. Willow kissed the leaf and stood, running towards the waves; the rest of the coven followed. Warm water washed over their feet, splashing eight legs with salty kisses. The women threw the bay leaves into the waters of Botany Bay. Simultaneously, a Full Moon crested over the horizon like the eye of a cyclops. “Look!” shouted Wren. The coven stared, watching the disc rise, a ribbon of white flowing over the water like a coil of rope. Owletta wished she could pull it into her body, harnessing all the power of Yemaya. Owletta’s dreams for the coven felt as deep as the ocean. The Moon symbolizes my inner world, and what happens in the dark stays in the dark. She thought with a smile.

The Hemingway House: Chapter Two

I love this photo of Ernest Hemingway’s office, taken through a wrought-iron doorway. It reminds me of my twisted travels to publication: I'm still an outsider, locked out but trying to find the right key to entry. I hope to pass through after I pay my dues. 

I have a new literary gambit: Grammarly. I forked over a bit of dough for a huge reward. Now, I have an editor in my corner of the ring, working hard to eliminate my novels' errors before the bell tolls. Still, you may read future posts and say, "Sharon said she is using Grammarly and look at all these faux-paws!" 

 Do you see what I did there? (I had to insert paws somewhere in a Hemingway  post) Most likely, I won't be using Grammarly for my blog posts. So, they will still be full of the predictable grammatical errors you've come to expect. (It doesn't help that blogger spell check hasn't been working on my computer)

Before my pilgrimage to the Hemingway House, I read The Old Man and the Sea. I was swept away, thinking about the story long after the last page. Follow my paws for the inside scoop...

The magic didn't happen here - literary magic anyway.

Picasso Cat. A gift from the artist.

My reflection is wearing a KN95 mask with a homemade facecover. There was no social distancing on this tour. Sigh. Florida just doesn't get it. That's why my photos are less than stellar. I tried to stay out of human harm's way.

The house is full of  polydactyl cats! There was a zesty pee-pee smell throughout.

The man on the right was the inspiration for The Old Man and the Sea.

Two infamous cats looking through the glass at the Hemingway  House. I mean, my house.

 Hana, the naughtiest cat this side of the Mississippi, and her brother, Akua. When we're traveling, our nextdoor neighbors are on cat duty. (my neighbor took this photo while we were away) Look at my cats, watching and waiting for feeding time. 

My four toed cats.

P.S. Does anyone remember the olden days, when my travel blog was called Sharon's Paws Create?

For the outside of the Hemingway  House, click here! My travel blog has a dueling post this week. 

Buy The Levitation Game!

Discover my author website!

 

 

Sanctions and Restrictions for Animal Consumption of Processed Cheese Snacks

· Do not handfeed Gorillas. They prefer to eat cheesy potato chips with one hand while holding the unfortunate feeder in a chokehold with the other. If this is what you want, proceed with care.

· Ditto small monkeys. They are too excitable to handle extreme deliciousness. Therefore, processed cheese will instigate fits of screaming.

· All poultry should eat their cheese puff sideways, forming a T shape with their tiny noggin. If done correctly, the cheese puff should explode around the beak in a rain of salty particles. The chicken is then allowed to peck up debris in a fastidious fashion.

· It is unseemly to present a certified poodle breed with a lowbrow snack of any sort. However, if done correctly, the edible should be a cheesy fish or orange-colored cracker. The wafer is then placed directly on the canine tongue. Finally, the poodle should be verbally showered with abundant praise after mastication is complete.

· Lamas should be handfed cheese crackers while standing perpendicular and at an arm’s length from the animal subject. This technique allows for an unimpeded stream of camelid spit.

· Raccoons should not be handfed. Instead, they should be allowed to steal their preferred snack. The raccoon may rummage through neighborhood garbage cans and public picnic areas. After the raccoon hits paydirt or cheesy gold, a wicked, toothy smile should erupt across its masked face. This cheery-creepy mask does not always manifest. Without the expression, proceed directly to the final step. Lastly—and this is very important—the raccoon should eat standing on two feet as if it is playing the harmonica or scarfing a cob of corn. Crumb loss is inevitable. So, abandoning a whole bag of snacks for raccoons is recommended.

· Lions—both male and female—must be handfed, one nacho cheese triangle at a time. (Triangle snacks are considered by most cool cats, as the top of the junk food chain, especially by the Kings and Queens of jungle savanna) The royals must have many human subjects, as hands and fingers are sometimes accidental appetizers. This unplanned nourishment is thought of as a culinary privilege and should not be considered a poor reflection on the feeder.

· Cheese puffs can clog an Ant-Eaters snout, like hair in a shower drain. Proceed with care.

· You must hand feed Elephants one cheese puff at a time while humming a tune. Caution: Humming a circus tune is offensive.

· Small cats should be handfed cheese balls while wearing a feathered costume with bells on the arms and jingly sparkles. Otherwise, there is an inherent risk of feline boredom. Proceed with caution.

· Do not feed kangaroos. They will steal enormous amounts of processed edibles, collecting them in their pouch. Often, they will punch the feeder in the face.

· Ditto squirrels. They will cache snacks everywhere. It is a waste of delicious cheese as it will just rot and melt like fertilizer.

· Shorebirds and hawks will be allowed to regurgitate their fish-shaped crackers on a rotating basis.

· Foxes prefer to sniff out their snacks and abscond back to the privacy of their den. Humans don’t understand their snacking habits. Weird but true.

· Skunks are to be left alone. You may line up many types of snacks in forest or field, in all sizes and shapes, in a long row and allow skunks to discover them. They will scamper down the crunchy trail, choosing one or two flavors. This kind of feeding technique may not make sense, but creativity breeds disaster.

· Eagles should not be fed cheese snacks of any kind. It may seem like the quintessential American thing-to-do. But there is a little-known clause to the constitution: No eagles should ever eat processed cheese in any form. Amen.

P.S. This post is dedicated to S. T. from Hollow Kingdom. Crows like S. T. can eat as many Cheetos as they want, whenever they want. No restrictions. This list was inspired by Kira Jane Buxton's hilarious novel. Hollow Kingdom is a must read for animal lovers, and cheesy snack lovers too.

The Feather

 Furious Fiction

500 words. 55 hours. Go!

This month’s criteria:

1. Your story must include a GIFT of some kind.
2. Your story’s first sentence must contain only THREE words.
3. You must use the following words somewhere in your story: PALM, MATCH, ROSE                                                                                                                                     

   I love gifts. My mother tried to hide them every Christmas. I always found them. I was like a truffle-hunting pig, rooting them from locked suitcases and dusty cupboards, foraging for them in attics and R.V.’s, basements, and bins. The garage.  “Open your palm,” said my husband.

   I appraised my husband’s smile, extending my fingers and squeezing my eyelids. I envisioned the Hope Diamond. I figured the gift might be heavy, like a gold bar or antique Russian nesting doll, so I clenched my muscles. I felt a tickle. “Okay. You can open your eyes,” he said.

   It was a red feather. My husband had done this before with a strip of red licorice, a pretty rock or seashell, a chocolate kiss. But it’s almost Christmas. I furrowed my brows. “That’s not funny,” I said.

   That night I felt a hand on my shoulder. I pretended to be asleep.

   I noticed the red feather the following day; it was in the utensil drawer. I grabbed a knife and slammed the drawer shut. I plundered the butter and jam from the fridge, noticing a bowl of dirt—or sand beside the milk. My husband entered the kitchen with bare feet. I could hear his sticky footsteps on the tile. He yawned in that annoying way he does, like a tired dog, and hugged me from behind. I didn’t say anything about the fridge.

   On Christmas Eve, I wrapped my husband’s presents and placed them under the tree: a goofy tie with clowns that I found on Etsy, some matches from our favorite restaurant, and a rose-scented candle for the bathroom. The real gift was a book from his Goodreads. I also wrapped a piece of charcoal in some newspaper and placed it in his stocking, just in case I received more feathers.

   There was only one gift under the tree for me. I frowned and stood, adjusting a few ornaments that were hanging backward. I noticed a tacky plastic palm frond projecting from the middle branches. Usually, I would laugh. But the lack of gifts made me feel gloomy. I left the room.

    After a candlelight dinner, we opened gifts. I glanced at the stockings, then handed my husband his packages. He opened them and laughed, wrapping the tie around his head. I eyeballed my single package, then the stockings. “Your turn,” he said.

   I grabbed the gift that my husband had wrapped with green foil. A red feather waved from the top instead of a bow. My stomach constricted. My heart fluttered, hoping it would be better than expected. I tore the foil away and ripped off the tape; the box was an obvious re-gift, last year’s amazon prime. I opened the flaps, burrowing into the tissue paper. I discovered an empty coconut and a photo of a Scarlet Macaw.

   “We’re going to Costa Rica!” he exclaimed.

   I ran to the fireplace, tearing the stockings from the mantel. I threw my husband’s stocking into the fire.

    

   
   

You're stuck at home. Why not write a poem?

My illustration Toilet Buddies. (Just a typical day at my house)

I answered the call. Then...crickets. 

The Minneapolis Star Tribune decided to throw an anticlimactic poetry party for National Poetry Month. Earlier in April, the Star posted a call for humorous limericks related to the Coronavirus. Rhyming fun ensued. (at least for me) On April 30th, they were supposed to publish the winners. Nobody won. There were no poems. No rhymes. Nothing. I looked.

At least, I learned something:

A limerick is a short and fun five-line poem with a distinctive rhythm. The first, second and fifth lines are longer than the third and fourth lines. The rhyming pattern is AABBA. The longer A lines rhyme with each other and the shorter B lines rhyme with each other.

Maybe they'll publish the limericks on a later date. Or, maybe it was an April Fool's joke. Until then, here are my submissions:

Some folks fear a sidewalk contagion

While others tread with distracted domination

The meek always pass on the grass

The rude hold firm to their path

I hope sidewalk sharing is the new situation

>^..^<

I'm shuttered up tight with the spouse

Not a threshold's shy of the house

We quarrel from noon until six

All is fine when we tune to Netflix

Happier still lifting spirits to mouth

>^..^<

There was a cat with a notion for commotion

The racket left me wondering what it inhaled as a potion

The evidence lay outside the loo

 A roll of T.P.chewed up, but no poo

Now there's a naughty cat in need of demotion

Do you have a favorite? I bet you can guess mine. 

P.S. The Star published the poems on May 2nd. They were hilarious. The paper received 4,000 submissions. Holy cow! I didn't make the cut. 

Space for Improvement

"We are placed here with certain talents and capabilities. It is up to each of us to use those talents and capabilities as best we can. If you do that, I think there is a power greater than any of us that will place the opportunities in our way, and if we use our talents properly, we will be living the kind of life we should live." 

John Glenn 

"Grow and Give." "Grow whole, not old!" "We're wired for purpose."

Words of wisdom from Richard Leider, author and senior fellow at the University of Minnesota's Center for Spirituality and Healing. 

Purpose is a word worth pondering. I've thought a lot about the "P" word since putting down my paintbrush, tackling empty pages on a computer screen instead. Richard says -  in his Q&A in this week's Star Tribune - that finding purpose is all about securing guidance. So true.

When I contemplate guidance - a subtle, or downright overt, directional shove - I think about my late, High School English teacher, Mrs. Laverty. Long ago, she singled me out, complimenting me on a book report about Charles Dickens. I was touched, but even so, didn't think much about that moment for thirty-odd years. Back then, I was strictly a nerdy artist. I wasn't adept with grammar or punctuation, (it's still my kryptonite) so her words settled inside my brain, collecting dust. As a teen, I loved filling my notebook with goofy stories, but if I ripped them from their spiral casing, (remember the paper dandruff that would follow?) they'd only be good enough to line Oprah Winfrey's cupboards. 

 We're told to make a living, so we seek out work instead of purpose. I could draw, so I went to school for Graphic Design. I could paint, so I illustrated children's books. It wasn't until I was nearing fifty, that I regurgitated my teacher's comment, wishing I would have listened - as if she'd been advocating four-day weekends - earlier. Now I know my purpose is to write fiction. My creative brain was designed to spin supernatural stories. Who knew? (right now, only me) I always told myself that in my next life I'd be a writer. Unfortunately, I'm still on life number one. Or 101. Who can say?

  I wonder, am I too long-in-the-tooth to learn the tightly-twisted ropes of novel writing? I want to give people good books. I don't want the same people to give me bad reviews on Goodreads. Ugh. Hopefully my purpose isn't to be a literary punching bag.  Regardless, I've already morphed into Rumpelstiltskin, becoming a weird, middle-aged woman, churning tales about levitating cars and spooky R.V.'s. But will my haystack weave golden threads or lie on the floor of the barn, destined for animal feed? Only time will tell. At least I found my purpose!

So remember: "Grow whole, not old!"

Have you found your purpose? Maybe you need The Power of Purpose by Richard Leider to guide you. 

P.S. John Glenn certainly had a purpose!

Who You Gonna Call?

My old business card. Don't try to email this old address, you'll discover an empty litter box. 

I have another uplifting discovery to share: a direct line of numbers that delivers kindness and calm in an increasingly unkind world. It sounds like winning the lottery! But these numbers help thousands, instead of one lucky soul.

Last time, I wrote about making international pen pals. In fact, yesterday, I received my sixth postcard from Japan. Postcrossing is fun. Now, when I reach into my mailbox, my fingers do more than flap against cold steel. Sometimes, they find ink and paper addressed to me, by a real human. Even when it's not Christmas!

Today, I'm writing about another old-fashioned technology: listening. (and calling) For twenty-five years, the Ideas for Positive Living phone-line has inspired callers with simple, heartfelt messages. I don't know about you, but I love reading inspiring quotes, and watching uplifting segments on T.V. If you need a little support, any-old-time, just call: (651) 602-2176. My first call cajoled me to go out and make a snow angel. The next call was about healing and the power of random acts of kindness. You never know what message the tireless volunteers will record for you. All you have to do is listen and hold the advice close to your chest. The message might instigate a snowball of kindness that spreads clear across the world! We are bloggers after all. 

It could happen.  

Today, I'll leave you with my favorite quote from Maya Angelou: "You can't use up creativity, the more you use, the more you have"