I cannot believe it’s been almost 10 days since I’ve posted. But that’s summer at the greenhouse. I’ve been working, working, working all the time and I am so grateful for my job there. I am also grateful for my partner’s health, my rotti’s beauty, and the fact that most of the time I’m old enough to know better.
What are you grateful for?
I haven’t joined in a flash challenge, contest or anything lately so when I was Tagged – Lucky 7 style by Yikici, I hesitated at first. But I couldn’t resist. So here is the deal. I get to tag 7 more people. Here are the directions for those lucky people!
Go to page 7 or 77 in your current manuscript
-Go to line 7
-Post on your blog the next 7 lines, or sentences, as they are – no cheating
Tag 7 other authors to do the same. Seven sentences…
Now…here are my lines from The Diary:
Wide as she was tall Rhoda waddled around the spotless kitchen, frying bacon and pouring milk, preparing breakfast. Raign ran her fingers through her dark tousled hair as she watched the housekeeper slowly stirring the heavy iron pot, a large wooden spoon in her hand. The smell of Rhoda’s wizardry at the stove comforted her.
“Shouldn’t we be out looking, Rhoda?”
Rhoda paused as she stirred the vat of bacon gravy and turned to look at the distraught girl, her eyes still moist.
“We will, Miss Raign. But we can’t do anything in the dark.”
Ted stepped into the kitchen, followed by Daniel, and went directly to Rhoda. Not much taller than her, he put his arm across his wife’s shoulders and whispered something in her ear. Rhoda nodded her head as Ted turned to Raign. When he saw her eyes, dark violet and haunted against her pale skin, he leaned over and kissed her forehead.
Wow! that was easier than I thought!
Tag! You are it!
A lot has been happening…lots of changes, all good! I went to visit my daughter for a few days in North Carolina, then on to visit my spiritual sister in western NC. Loved it so much I took my partner to see it; it looks like we may have found our new home! Exciting and scary.
Since we are in the Growing Tide (Spring Crossroads to Summer Solstice) I am focusing my thoughts and actions towards manifesting the perfect home in Black Mountain. When trying to produce such a complex thing, it takes a lot of visualization and clear thinking to let the gods know exactly what we are looking for. Size, cost, location; all are important to me. My partner picked the name from the map, saying it sounded good. She repeated it several times during our travels, unwittingly answering a subtle call from this little town outside of Asheville. So we drove there on a beautiful spring morning and were both instantly in love.
We toured the town and now have a good grip on the energy and vitality of the land. Stopping at a little bistro for lunch, our waitress just ‘happened’ to have recently moved there and during our conversation we discovered several options for finding a house. These little synchronicities are so important in following your bliss. Flowing with the river, dipping into the magickal realm and listening closely for clues is the secret to manifestation. It felt right, and so I did my part and set the ball in motion, so to speak. With realtors phone numbers, pictures, receipt from the bistro, and a sprig of dogwood laying on my altar, I let go and let the powers that be do their thing.
Moving is a very big deal, as most people know, especially when I am beyond the hump in my years. But the advantage of being older is that my faith is stronger. Years of experience have taught me that allowing things to happen in due course is the best way to find a peaceful path. So! I am slowing packing, still letting go of unnecessary possessions, and waiting with joy for the next clue!
Many Blessings on the Path!
Just a little something to keep you up at night…..
The stair creaks beneath my feet as I wave my hand frenetically to clear the cobweb from my face. Catching my breath, I listen, my body rigid with fear. The empty house above remains silent and after counting to 30, I continue up through the dark, step by step toward the first floor.
The railing beneath my left hand feels grimy with the dirt and blood of those who have come before. I don’t want to touch it, but cannot let it go; my ankles throb from the heavy chains that kept me tethered to the floor. I had finally been able to slip out of the bonds, leaving my ankles bloody and bruised. Even though my captors slept in the attic their hearing was keen. I would not take the chance of falling in the dark and waking them up.
I had crossed the fence that marked the boundary between Old Man Carter’s wheat field and Deadwood Forest out of sheer obstinacy. Clarissa, my little sister, begged me not too, then told me I was stupid to try. She reminded me of the stories about the Peabody family, the poor group of souls that had been murdered in their home by some rampaging lunatic that had escaped the asylum. She reminded me that the ghosts of the murdered family were the reason that people that went in, never came out. But I didn’t believe in ghosts and that story was fifty years old, just a fairy tale used to keep children away from the deep woods. Or so I thought. After becoming lost, I had stumbled around in the dark until I heard voices. Frantic, I called out for help, following the sound. I heard laughter from right behind me, a sudden pain from a blow to the head, then nothing.
My fear has turned cold over the last three weeks. At least I think it has been three weeks. Days of huddling in the corner of the basement chamber was followed by nights of screams I hear coming from someplace close by. The same screams that drew me to the mist shrouded house squatting deep inside the forest, and its inhabitants.~
Finally reaching the top of the stairs, I lean toward the solid wooden door, listening, and wondered fleetingly about the unlocked basement door. Not one to question luck until recently, I took it as a mistake, hoping that it was not a trap. Hearing nothing from the other side, I reach for the handle and slowly push. The door creaks quietly. From another room nearby I hear the chiming of an old clock. 1, 2, I step up the final step; 3, 4, 5, still no sounds or movement except for the chimes. Gingerly peering around edge of the door and I glance into the kitchen; 6, 7, 8, 9; stepping silently away from the door I carefully close it and the latch clicks as the last chimes echo through the house, 10, 11, 12.
The stench assaults me, the cloying odor of old blood and rotting meat, and beneath that something far more frightening. Backing up against the door, I turn away from the kitchen with my hand across my mouth and begin to limp toward the room from which the clock had chimed. I felt the gorge rising in my throat and fight to keep from vomiting. The front door is just a few steps away, the darkness is nearly complete save for a lighter square that marks a small window to the outside. My heart is pounding so loud in my ears that I barely heard the click that preceded the blinding light that blazes suddenly from overhead.
“SURPRISE!” the voices growled, the voices from the people that sat around the crusted dining table, spoons, knives and forks held aloft.
It was my turn to scream