creative writing

Drenched (A Poem)

/ Katie / 19 Comments

Rain, rain, rain
through April to May –
could it be you’re here to stay?
It certainly feels that way.

************

Yes, friends, it’s yet another rainy day, and it’s set to be a rainy weekend. I like rainy weather – it’s good for book-reading and tea-sipping and nap-taking. But…it would be nice to see some blue skies for more than a few hours at a time between rain clouds. I shouldn’t complain, though. Everything is so lusciously, livingly green.

If the weather keeps this up, it’s going to be a very vibrant summer.

In Search (A Short Story)

/ Katie / 16 Comments

Two local men missing since April 15th. No leads. Parents plead for information.

*

I don’t like the term “monster hunt.” Humans can be monsters, but everyone goes on and on about Bigfoot. Spare me. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

We set out around noon on the first warm day of spring. There were two of us. There was me, and there was Ty, my best friend. Ty carried the map, the tent, the food, all the other “useful stuff” (his words), and the dog’s leash. So, I guess there were actually three of us – Ty, me, and Septimus.

I asked Ty once why he named the dog Septimus.

“Because,” he said, “he looked like a Septimus. Just look at him”

In front of us now, walking up the trail into the woods, Septimus sniffed and explored, nose to the ground with his floppy, pendulum ears dangling into the leafy brush, drool trailing along behind him in a silvery, viscous path. He didn’t carry anything.

I held the camera.

“I don’t know what you think you’re going to find,” Ty said, craning his neck around to get a glimpse of me behind him. “And I don’t want to be in whatever video you make when this is over.”

“‘The woods are lovely, dark and deep…’” I replied.

“You didn’t come up with that.”

“No,” I said, “that was Robert Frost. But it makes my point.”

“Which is?”

Ty walked on ahead.

“Which is,” I said to his back, “that you’ll never find anything if you don’t go looking, and there’s no place like the deep, dark woods to get started.”

“I think they made a movie about that once,” Ty said. “But seriously, it’s a good thing I came with you. You’d get lost looking for fairies and we’d find you half-starved and crazy two days later.”

“I can read a map,” I said.

“No, you really can’t.”

“What are you even complaining about? You love this stuff.”

Ty loved the outdoors the way that some people love cake. He couldn’t get enough, even it meant too much outdoors and not enough paycheck.

“Monster hunting?” he asked.

“No, of course not,” I said. “Hiking and camping and stuff.”

And thank goodness he did love the outdoors, because I wouldn’t have wanted to do this kind of thing without him, it being my first monster hunt and all. Ty and I had done everything together since he taught me how to catch grasshoppers in kindergarten, a lesson my mother was never particularly fond of. I’d always been the reader, the researcher, and monsters – fairies, pixies, Bigfoots, Wampus Cats, selkies – they were my first love.

“This is my best friend, Drew,” Ty always said when he introduced me. “He’s a weirdo.”

Over the years, I’d come to embrace my weirdness, but I’d never felt quite bold enough to do anything about it. That changed last week, when a couple of day hikers spotted strange lights on the Dragon’s Den trail. They also reported odd noises, footsteps and rumbles from the woods, from all around them.  

“Come on, man,” I said. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“In the backpack,” Ty answered. “Along with your toothbrush and the three books you insisted on bringing for one night.”

“Knowledge is power,” I said. Because that was true.

*

Missing:

Tyson Collins, age 26

Hair: Brown

Eyes: Brown

Height: 5’11”

Weight: 180 pounds

Andrew Miller, age 26

Hair: Blonde

Eyes: Green

Height: 5’10”

Weight: 175 pounds

Last seen at the Dragon’s Den trailhead, Saturday, April 15, at 11:45 a.m. Traveling with one dog, a red bloodhound. Please contact….

*

We set up camp that night about a mile from the trail, which Ty said was already pushing it. Ty dealt with the tent, while I found a good spot for the camp stove and took out the dinner supplies.

“You’re not supposed to go off trail in these places,” he told me. “It damages the forest floor.”

“I think it’ll be fine,” I said. “It’s just the two of us.”

From his perch beside Ty, Septimus howled.

“And the dog,” I added.

“Still, they have designated spots for camping.”

“Those places are too crowded,” I said. “We’d never see anything.”

“We’re breaking the rules,” Ty answered, flat and short.

“And I’m catching it all on camera,” I joked, and snapped a picture from across the camp stove.

Ty set about making dinner, a box of Velveeta shells and cheese, while I rummaged around in the backpack for my book on mountain legends.

“I bet it was just a bear,” I said.

“So you brought us all the way out here to look for it?”

Ty stirred the cheese sauce into the noodles. Septimus drooled beside him. He spooned two heaping portions into our plastic bowls, and handed one to me.

“I mean, I don’t want it to be just a bear.”

“Make sure Septimus doesn’t eat my dinner,” Ty said.

I stared at Septimus as Ty wandered off into the woods.

“I hate peeing in the woods,” I told the dog. “Probably a luxury experience for you, huh? New and different?”

Septimus panted back at me.

From somewhere to my right, Ty yelled, “Stop it, man!”

“Stop what?” I called back.

“Stop messing with me!”

“I’m just sitting by the campfire, dude. I’m watching the dog like you asked.”

Ty came back a couple of minutes later.

“Not cool, Drew,” he said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Septimus didn’t touch your food.”

“Walking up behind me that way,” Ty said. “The footsteps. I know you’re trying to scare me.”

“Wait,” I said, and choked down my last bite of pasta. “You heard footsteps?”

“Yeah,” Ty answered, “and I know it was you.”

“It wasn’t me, but we have to go check it out.”

I stood up and grabbed the camera. Ty didn’t move.

“No,” he said. “We don’t, and we shouldn’t.”

“Ty, that’s why we’re out here!”

“If it wasn’t you,” he said, “then it was probably a bear, and it probably smelled our food, and we should probably just leave it alone.”

“But…” I started.

“Unless you want to be mauled by a bear,” Ty finished.

“Fine,” I said. “Just, fine. But if it happens again, I’m going to go look, and you’re not going to stop me.”

Ty let out a puff of air, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “It’s late. We should just get some sleep.”

I wasn’t about to argue with Ty in a bad mood. I’d learned years ago that it wouldn’t work. And so we pulled out our sleeping bags and crawled into the tent.

“You gonna brush your teeth?” he asked me.

I glared back at him, unsure if he could see it in the dark.

“Okay, then,” he said.

We settled in, boots off and tucked into a corner, with Septimus nestled between us, already snoring.

*

Tracks found in search for two missing locals. No sign of belongings or human remains. Parents still hopeful. Reward offered for any information.

*

I awoke to the high-pitched sound of Septimus whining in the dark. Outside, something stirred near our campsite. I could hear the twigs snapping, the underbrush rustling, and if I strained my ears enough, I was pretty sure, something breathing.

“Ty,” I croaked.

My heart raced, and my hands shook. I wasn’t sure whether this was fear or excitement.

“Ty,” I said again, louder this time. “We have to go look.”

Ty rolled over and said, “Leave it alone, Drew.”

“No,” I yelled. “I won’t. I told you if we heard anything else, I’d go and look, and I’m going to.”

I squirmed out of my sleeping bag and pulled on my hiking boots.

“You’re being stupid,” Ty said.

“No, I’m investigating.”

I grabbed the camera, pulled its strap around my neck, unzipped the tent flap and flung it open. Before I could catch him, Septimus shot out like a rocket, barking and snarling, more aggressive than I’d ever seen him. And certainly faster.  

Ty was up in milliseconds, pulling on his own boots, huffing and glaring at me.

“We have to get Septimus,” he said.

And then we both ran, out into the woods, away from the tent and into the night.

“I thought you said I was being stupid,” I grunted out, between breaths.

“That’s my dog, man,” Ty answered.

We could still hear the bloodhound, somewhere ahead of us, howling wildly into the trees. And all around us, just like the hikers said, we heard other things, strange grunts and heavy breathing, the sharp crack of branches breaking.

“What is that?” I yelled.

Ty ran ahead of me, and I struggled to keep up. The camera banged into my chest with every step.

“Slow down, Ty!”

Ty broke into a clearing ahead of me. He stopped so abruptly, I ran into him. Septimus sat at his feet, entranced.

I saw lights. So many lights. Dancing in the tree line, lighting up the sky. Lights, and something else. Something big, twisted, looming, waiting. Something…

“Oh, my God,” I breathed.

I raised the camera to my eye.

*

Found, 1 mile from Dragon’s Den Trail, marker 10:

1 camera, Pentax K3, damaged, SD card intact

1 dog leash, blue

*

I don’t like the term “monster hunt.” You think you’re hunting them. You’re wrong.

**********

Thank you for reading! This is the fourth of twelve stories I’ll write as part of my 2022 Short Story Challenge. Twelve months, twelve stories, and the theme this year is: Folklore

Here are the first three, if you’d like to read them:

The Winter Woman

The Lady in the Stars

Silly Superstitions

I hope you join me in the challenge! I think it’s going to be a very good year for stories. But just reading is good, too, and I’m glad you’re here.

The next story will be posted at the end of May.

April’s Short Story

/ Katie / 7 Comments

It’ll be up tomorrow! In the meantime, here’s a preview. Enjoy!

**********

I don’t like the term “monster hunt.” Humans can be monsters, but everyone goes on and on about Bigfoot. Spare me. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

We set out around noon on the first warm day of spring. There were two of us. There was me, and there was Ty, my best friend. Ty carried the map, the tent, the food, all the other “useful stuff” (his words), and the dog’s leash. So, I guess there were actually three of us – Ty, me, and Septimus.

I asked Ty once why he named the dog Septimus.

“Because,” he said, “he looked like a Septimus. Just look at him”

In front of us now, walking up the trail into the woods, Septimus sniffed and explored, nose to the ground with his floppy, pendulum ears dangling into the leafy brush, drool trailing along behind him in a silvery, viscous path. He didn’t carry anything.

I held the camera.

“I don’t know what you think you’re going to find,” Ty said, craning his neck around to get a glimpse of me behind him. “And I don’t want to be in whatever video you make when this is over.”

“‘The woods are lovely, dark and deep…’” I replied.

“You didn’t come up with that.”

“No,” I said, “that was Robert Frost. But it makes my point.”

“Which is?”

Ty walked on ahead.

“Which is,” I said, “that you’ll never find anything if you don’t go looking, and there’s no place like the deep, dark woods to get started.”

Our Only Place (A Poem for Earth Day, 2022)

/ Katie / 21 Comments

Home,
and more.
Mother and Maker,
from the good dirt
to the blue water,
the mountain
to the shore,
this place is ours.
Our only place,
from solid ground
to deepest sea,
to be.
In all of space
and time,
this earth
belongs to us,
nurtures us,
gives to us
and takes,
brings life and death
and all things between.
And in turn,
we belong –
to land and sky,
to ocean and sand,
to each other
and this planet.
How great
and terrible
a lesson to learn:
that here,
we have
everything.

Bloom (A Poem)

/ Katie / 18 Comments

All things have
(and take)
their time –
to go fallow
and then rise
from root to sky,
to bloom and grow.
Nature shows us –
there is no shame
in a patient cycle of
quiet moments
and many tries.

Trying out a totally new poetry form!

/ Katie / 8 Comments

Here’s another one for the monthly poetry challenge over at Fake Flamenco. April’s challenge is to write a Prime Verse – a brand new form – around a theme of the wonder of experiencing the universe or the earth.

Here’s mine:

Look at the night sky –

the moon, stars, and velvet dark –

and know: you’re looking out, into, on, not up.

Do you tremble to be small?

Does it frighten you?

Or, instead, do you marvel,

find wonder, splendor, in the vastness of it?

Look at the night sky

and know: a whole world, the universe, is nigh.

I love this form that Rebecca has created! It’s got a nice ebb and flow, and feels just really fluid and lyrical. And of course, the theme this month was fun, too. If you want to participate, the deadline to post is April 10th at noon. I think you should! It’s always fun, after all, to try new things. 😊

Poetry Is (A Poem for National Poetry Month)

/ Katie / 14 Comments

A dance of
sound and silence,
the cadence of
word and rhyme
in perfect time.
A cry, a chance,
an exclamation.
The joys and sadness
of one
or a nation.
Light and dark and lyrical,
or halting and still.
The will to write,
the fight to find
just the right
turn of phrase
to break through the haze
of day and night
and step outside
the endless circle.
Poetry is power:
yours, mine, and ours.
Poetry is home,
and away,
and longing
and knowing
and looking
and seeing –
all that we are,
and all that we can become.

Fool’s Warning (A Poem)

/ Katie / 4 Comments

Be careful today
and heed these words
and save yourself some pain:
To play the fool
is quite the game,
or sometimes,
not a game at all –
the Lord of Misrule
is cunning and cruel
and rejoices in a fall.

*It’s coming a bit late in the afternoon, I know, but if you indulge in a little April Fool’s trickery today, please remember this: It’s only a joke if everyone’s laughing.*

Silly Superstitions (A Short Story)

/ Katie / 35 Comments

Addie had never put much stock in silly superstitions. They existed all around her, from her mother’s belief that you should enter and leave by the same door, to her father’s insistence that you must always leave one apple in the orchard at the end of a harvest. Even the local preacher, who steadfastly believed that hearing an unattended church bell meant a parishioner would die. He’d had the bells taken down last year. Don’t do this, always do that. Lest you invite bad luck, lest you tempt the devil, lest this and that and the other thing that never, ever happened.

“Stupidity and fantasy,” Addie told her mother, as they swept the front porch one cool day in the early spring. “Y’all will worry yourselves sick over nothing and then celebrate when nothing happens.”

“I taught you better than that, Addie May,” her mother said.

“You taught me to gather acorns in a thunderstorm. What kind of nonsense is that?”

“The smart kind,” her mother answered. “Now be careful where you sweep. Watch your sister’s feet.”

Addie’s older sister, Emmy, seventeen and pretty as a peach, sat in an old rocking chair near the door, humming and stringing green beans for dinner.

“Or what, Ma?” Addie said. She stopped what she was doing, held the broom upright and put her other hand on her hip. “What’ll happen if I sweep under Emmy’s feet?”

“She’ll never get married,” her mother said. “That’s what.”

“That is absolutely ridiculous,” Addie said, and with a grand gesture, she swept the broom right under the rocking chair, brushing the bottoms of Emmy’s shoes.

“Addie!”

That was both her mother and Emmy, in a tone she knew all too well. The tone meant trouble. As in, she was in it.

“Oh fine,” she said. “I’ll go inside and peel potatoes.”

“Yes you will, Addie May,” said her mother. “And you will apologize to your sister, too.”

“What for?” Addie whined.

“Right now, Miss Priss.”

“She’s not even engaged!”

Her mother answered by way of a stern look and a raised eyebrow.

Addie sighed and turned to Emmy. She said, “I am sorry for sweeping under your feet, lest you never get married and end up a lonely old crone.”

She dropped the broom and ran inside before either Emmy or her mother could reply. She went to bed that night with a fresh scolding from both her parents, and without supper.

In the morning, Addie stayed in her bed for a little longer than usual. She listened to the breeze and the birdsong, and watched the world wake up from her window. When the sun hung high enough to cast shadows on the fields, she snuck outside – easy, since her family had already started their daily chores – and climbed the old oak tree in their back yard. She sat on a thick branch, twirling a leaf in through her fingers.

“Who cooks for you…”

That came from somewhere above her, she thought, and looked up, scanning the branches and searching the leaves.

“Who cooks for you…”

And she spotted it, perched about ten feet above her head, a Barred Owl, looking out ahead with its wide, dark eyes.

“What are you doing out here?” Addie asked.

The owl did not reply.

The second Addie moved to climb higher, the owl flew away.

“Well, that’s disappointing,” she said to herself. “Guess he didn’t want to talk.”

Addie sighed, something her mother said she was unnaturally good at, and climbed down. Sooner or later, she’d have to get this day started, and now was as good a time as any. As she made her way back to the house, she fell in step with her mother, coming back from the barn.

“Hi, Ma,” she said. “I’ll go get the eggs here in a minute.”

“We’re going into town for groceries around lunch, so don’t take too long,” her mother told her. “Where’ve you been this morning?”

“I didn’t feel good,” Addie lied. “I slept in, and then when I felt a little better, I climbed the oak tree to get some fresh air.”

“My little monkey,” her mother said. “You feel all right now?”

“Yes ma’am,” Addie said. “And I saw an owl when I was in the tree.”

Her mother said nothing, but her eyes grew wide.

“It was real pretty, Ma. It almost talked to me.”

Her mother grabbed her arm and pulled her through the kitchen door. Addie stumbled behind her.

“What is it, Ma? What’d I do?”

“Are you absolutely certain, Addie May Bailey, that you saw an owl in that tree?”

“Yes, Ma,” Addie answered.

“Not some other bird?”

“No, ma’am. It was definitely an owl.”

“God protect us,” her mother said. And then, “You stay here. I’m going to get your sister and Pa.”

“Ma! What’d I do? Am I in trouble?”

Her mother hurried out the door without answering, and all Addie could do was wait. She sat down at the table, and wrung her hands together. She didn’t think she’d done anything wrong. She was a little late getting started on her chores, but she had time to get them done, and she hadn’t stained her dress or hurt herself climbing the tree.

About fifteen minutes later, her mother returned, this time with her father and sister in toe, and said, “Now Addie, you tell your Pa what you saw in the tree.”

“An owl,” Addie answered.

“Are you sure?” her father asked.

“Yes, sir. It hooted at me. It had big eyes.”

Her mother and father shared a look, and her sister sat down beside her at the table.

“Why do you always make trouble?” Emmy rolled her eyes and rested her chin in her hands. “Had to go and climb that tree, didn’t you?”

“Emmy hush,” her mother said. “What do you think we should do, Giles?”

Addie stared at her father. He looked calm, but she could see the little vein in his forehead that always popped out when something worried him.

“We’ll just be careful,” her father said. “Nothing else we can do.”

Addie couldn’t take it anymore. She stood up, and the chair she’d been sitting in fell behind her.

“Pa, what’s wrong with me seeing an owl? I don’t understand.”

Her mother answered, wrapping her arms around herself. “They say,” she said, “that if you see an owl in daylight, that means a death is coming.”  

Her father and sister were silent, but they looked between Addie and her mother. Emmy picked up the chair.

“Are you serious?” Addie asked.

“As a heart attack,” her mother answered.

“Oh, good grief!”

“Addie,” Emmy screeched.

“More silly superstitions and stupid made-up stories!” Addie fumed. She turned on her family and pointed a straight, stiff finger at all of them. “You’re all crazy!”

She stamped out of the room to the chicken coop, and by the evening, with her chores done and her family still walking on eggshells, she felt exhausted.

“You just watch,” she said. “Nothing will happen. Nothing ever happens, and y’all just sit there and worry your lives away. Not me!”

She went to bed without supper again.

The next day, from down in the town, a bell rang. It rang every few minutes, all day.

“I thought Pastor Cory took the bells down,” Emmy said.

“He did,” her mother answered, and shuddered.

“Must be from somewhere else,” Addie said.

The day after that, Mrs. Williams, an old widow from their church, hobbled up to their house and knocked on the door. Addie saw her coming from her window, and walked downstairs just in time to hear her say that it was terrible, what had happened. Addie stayed hidden, just around the corner.

“What happened, Mrs. Williams?”

That was Emmy.

“That poor boy, Jonah Evans,” Mrs. Williams said. “Fell in the silo.”

“What?”

Her mother, Addie thought.

“Nothing the doctor could do,” Mrs. Williams said.

 “So he’s dead?”

Emmy again, her voice shaking.

“Poor boy,” Mrs. Williams said.

Addie walked into the room and said, “That’s terrible.”

Emmy turned on her. Addie had never seen Emmy in such a state. Red eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks. Addie moved to comfort her, to put her arms around her, but Emmy flinched away.

“This is all your fault,” she screamed, and she ran out of the room and up the stairs.

Addie just stood there, dumbfounded, waiting for someone to explain.

“How…” she started, and then stopped.

Her mother looked over in the direction of the stairs. “Addie,” she said, “go to your room.”

And so Addie did.

That night, she crept down the hall and padded into Emmy’s room.

“Emmy,” she whispered.

Emmy lay in her bed, tucked tight beneath the covers and facing the wall.

Addie crawled in beside her, and pulled her into a hug.

“I’m sorry,” Addie said. “I’m sorry about what happened to Jonah.”

Emmy sniffled and said, “We were going to get married one day.”

“I didn’t know he liked you that way,” Addie replied.

“He didn’t,” Emmy said, and Addie could tell she was crying. Her shoulders shook, and her voice sounded thick and tight. “Not yet, but he would have.”

Addie didn’t respond. She just held Emmy as she cried. She fell asleep with her sister in her arms, and when she woke in the morning, Emmy was gone.

Weeks went by, and then months. The weather turned warm, and though the world around them felt alive and in motion, Addie and Emmy barely spoke. In April, Addie left a four-leaf clover on Emmy’s pillow. In May, Addie saw the owl again as she spent a morning lounging, or perhaps hiding, in the oak tree. She told no one, and as far as she knew, no one died and nothing bad happened. And then, in June, Emmy pulled Addie aside one day as she kneaded dough for their dinner.

“I have something to tell you,” Emmy said.

“I’d be happy to hear it,” Addie answered, and smiled.

“I met a boy,” Emmy said. “His name is Robert, and I think I want to marry him.”

Addie thought for a moment, and remembered something her mother had told her a very long time ago. Another silly superstition, yes, but perhaps, in this particular case, the right one. A dream that meant good fortune, and a sign of good things to come. Something happy.

She smiled, and took Emmy’s hand in hers, covering both in fine, white flour.

“Emmy, that’s wonderful,” she said. “And I have to tell you, because I think it’s a sign.”

Emmy looked at her with all the hope she thought she’d ever see.

Addie said, “Last night, I dreamed of bees.”

Emmy squeezed Addie’s hand and said, “You know what Ma says about dreaming of bees!”

Addie had never put much stock in silly superstitions, it was true. But right now, in this moment, she wanted to believe in this one.

“Yes,” Addie said. “I know exactly.”

************

Thank you for reading! This is the third of twelve stories I’ll write as part of my 2022 Short Story Challenge. Twelve months, twelve stories, and the theme this year is: Folklore

Here are the first two, if you’d like to read them:

The Winter Woman

The Lady in the Stars

I hope you join me in the challenge! I think it’s going to be a very good year for stories. But just reading is good, too, and I’m glad you’re here.

The next story will be posted at the end of April.