Wrapping up Everyday Inspiartions

It’s time to move on!  Already!  Good thing I pulled out the suitcase.  Ok what do I have from the class.

  Several new people to read. Check

A handful of posts that were inspired by prompts and those readers. Check

New ideas mostly from reading others view points. Check

Another challenge throw at me.  Quotes. Check

I finally was able to force myself to read everyone’s posting. Check

Reblogged several people that wrote well and had less followers. Check

Entered the world of guest writers. Check (many thanks for those)

Was able to coherently follow every prompt. Check

New followers. Check

This was most fun I had with a Blogging University class.  I hope to keep up with all of you moving Foward.  I would love to add more but the beach is calling.


Anecdotally Coming Through in Waves

The salty air surfs above.

White caps push-up

They tumble and spread.

Behind them another line waits.
Crashes echo

Roars build and  vanish.

Waves jump on the waters back.

The graceful act of low flight try to reach higher

Pulled back down

The water washes white.

It ripples and races faster toward the sand

Mining the Archives


“The ripening grape shall hang on every thorn.”

Incultisque ruhens pendebit sentibus uva.Virg. Ecl. iv. 29. Virgil

To make British Port Wine.[31]—”Take of British grape wine, or good cyder, 4 gallons; of the juice of red beet root two quarts; brandy, two quarts; logwood 4 ounces; rhatany root, bruised, half a pound: first infuse the logwood and rhatany root in brandy, and a gallon of grape wine or cyder for one week; then strain off the liquor, and mix it with the other ingredients; keep it in a cask for a month, when it will be fit to bottle.”
Taken from A Treatise on Adulterations of Food, and Culinary Poisons, Frederick Accum, 1820

The small wooden barrel has three inches of dust on top.  The paper had been yellowed.  It’s letters the purple of poke berries still sharp.  The receipe on port wine was centuries old.  But why was it here?  The keg plug hammered in place well before a machine could make it.  Oil lamps burned back when it was sealed.  The two foot tall relic stood as a shadow off to the side.  If not for a chance passing, would it have ever been noticed.

“Uncle, uncle, uncle what treasures did you bury here?” A voice tears into the dim room.

The barrel moves easy.  Most of its contents given as the angel’s share.  The slushing inside announce a presence.  A mild berry smell beckons from the past.  The dark wood and cooper rings have aged in impeccable condition. Grabbing the top edge, he rolls it on edge, out across a deep shelf.

“Joshua, you don’t want to try that.”  Uncle’s voice rattles him to the core.  The hair on the neck are stood up.  Goosebumps run through the arms, like a jolt of electricity.

Joshua stops moving the barrel.  The keg plug stares at him.  The voice echoes.  The lack of body for that voice is a problem.  After another minute he pushes the barrel back.  Gathering his thoughts, it seems a good time for lunch.

Day Fifteen- Because John Said So

John Donald this is for you (if you speak Auto correct- rid is fit tijuana).  please visit him at https://johndonald.wordpress.com. doing my toes in reality…no, not quite reality but non fiction!  Well, reasonable explanation of history surrounding a ghost story!  The Non Fiction thing is like sacred ground, I don’t think my heels will catch fire if I step there with both feet…why take unnecessary chances?

Chapter Thirteen: What Really Happened at Gore Orphanage  (Presented at Paper Session: Legend I: Local Legend, October 27, 1983, American Folklore Society Annual Meeting.)
By Bill Ellis
There is this place. . . it’s kind of close to my town and it’s called “Gore Orphanage” and it was back in the 1800s I believe. It was an old building, all that’s left is the foundation now, but, uh, it was an old guy who ran it, Old Man Gore, they called him. He was a mean guy and all the kids in there they were really deprived I know that. . . the place caught on fire. The old man Gore he got away and he left all the kids in there to burn to death….

Photo credit: Wikipedia

This is all that remains of Swift Mansion.   A driveway marker.  This is the only solid past of the story left. Legend of the Gore Orphanage runs deep. The road is a long country road that is jagged starting and stopping at different places.  It possess few traditional crossroads. The lack of a physical building just makes its existence have more mysterious. There is tought the Swift Mansion story is to keep teenagers from needing attention from the Lorain County Sheriff’s Department.  Young thrill seekers end up in driveways of farms, farmers wish to make them ghosts!

So the legend is Ma and Pa Gore, losing all of their children start an Orphanage. They were always described as hard luck people.  This is 1903.  The horseless carriage is not around this area much.  The area is the middle of nowhere.   It’s an island of misfit toys long before a Rudolph story.  In these days, children who didn’t go to school worked.

There are branches in the time line about 1905.  At a time near this (maybe even 1902, or 1908..), the Orphanage was changed owners.  A Lutheran Reverend used the name Light of Hope Orphanage.   The road was so known as Gore Rd.  The name of Gore Orphanage never dies

In 1908, a school nearby creates a legend.  Lakeview School has a real piece of history.  A fire cost 108 children there lives.  There are stories of children crying unable to flee the building.   The cause was probably one exit and poor construction for the deaths.   But one quick fire changes everything.

Following the fire, ghosts came to the area.  The assigned Swift Mansion burnt down abdonded in 1923.  But teens were scouting out the grave yard a generation earlier. Swings moved empty near Swift Mansion and other buildings called the Orphanage.   Children screams cries out from beyond. 

Time changed the area.  Near Swift Mansion site runs an Interstate highway.  Trucks vibrate a bridge near a ravine.  The high pitched sounds like children screaming after they travel a mile and a half.  Maybe.

But before that highway, the sounds were from?  Can one Legend be splintered into different parts then explained away?  If you go near Vermillion, Ohio, maybe you can stop by and see.   The empty swings are waiting.


One Day July 15, 2012

Trying to pack a 24 hour day in a coherent post is about the subject. I had a couple options.  But decided to go a different direction.   Non fiction.

It’s a beautiful Sunday morning.  It will very hot, as summer should.  But the morning is slightly cool.  Windows open and ceiling fan moves the night air.   My day to sleep in stays about 9AM.  My wife and I are locked in a routine.

After breakfast, we will go pick up my mom.  We have seen her everyday for two weeks.   The toll of my father’s illness still well concealed in her.   We all know the day is coming.   We don’t talk about it much.   The night before Mom did.  Sunday would be spent at the hospice.  As every evening was.  As every minute of work, or  that didn’t income sleep would.

Mom was very relaxed.  The feeling was lost on her for the previous year.  By 11 AM, we have stopped by to get her. Normally, there would be anxiety and she would be at the door waiting.   Thus day was a little different. The son doesn’t recognize acceptance without a mask.

My parents live about twenty minutes from the hospice.   My mom spent about twelve hours away this time.   That’s a record.   She wanted my father in the hospice to make sure he had around the clock care to keep him comfortable.   Also because as a nurse, she never wanted to be the one to give that last pain killer.  The pills are always the same but one time the person will slip away forever.   You can rationalize it. But what you have gave them has pushed them into permanent sleep.   No spouse needs to feel that.

Our drive was quiet.  An unnerving quiet.   My wife tried to start conversations but they died quickly.   “Where’s Val (my sister)?” My wife
“She’s having a hard time with this.” My mom.
(Like any of us like doing this!  She’s a f’ing nurse!  She can do it for others!) My mouth quiet but the mind speaks
“Where should we go for lunch?” My wife worrying about mom eating.
“Did you get any sleep? ” my wife again.
That’s about all that was said. 

By noon, the the if us are bedside.   My father was 5 foot, 10 inches tall, maybe 160 pounds when healthy.  Pheocromocytoma had grown thirty years inside.  It creates tumors in the glands.   My father’s adernal gland was consumed by something that would become the size of an orange.  The tumor would dump norepinephrine into his blood playing hell with blood pressure.  It also produced little cysts that split off from the mother tumor.  The mother tumor was called binary.  But noone knew how many of the other cysts would become malignant.  There were thousands in the end.   He was 125 pounds at this point.

We spent a couple hours holding his hands.   Talking to a body.   Seeing him in a state of unrest.   Not able to recognize us, but reacting to our voices every so often.   This is not a day anyone should go through.   The minutes were agony.

By 2pm, my mom decides is time for lunch.   I get the draw to pick up food.   Hell, I couldn’t tell you where or what it was.   Just an excuse to free myself.   I talk to a nurse outside the room.   She tells me this can go in for days.   And his schedule for pills for the rest of the day.   She says 6pm and I never think twice why she mentioned the time until later.

By 4pm, my wife and mom have taken turns leaving the room.   I’m suddenly realizing we have been telling my father is time to leave.   We developed a chorus, a dark chorus of leaving his works of pain.   He just kept hanging on.   The hands would squeeze time to time.   He would move abruptly.   But never gain consciousness.

At 5:50, here comes the nurse.  She is there to change the linens and that next pill.  We move outside the room.   We’re ask looking out the window at the beautiful landscape around the hospice.   As single ding conned behind us.  Neither if us move.   We hear the door open and close behind us.   We never saw a second nurse go in the room.   He is gone.   He waited all day and would not leave without us there.  

My mom was dumbfounded.   She know it would happen.   She cried a little but was at peace with it.   At least from the  outside, she seemed if a weight had been lifted.

I had spent a year working my dad out, taking him up and down stairs, helping mom give him showers.  I was so relieved.   He was a lifetime learner.   I mean dvds of art appreciation, world religions, math theory, astronomy,  philosophy, high brow and deep science stuff.  He was a organic chemistry Professor at local college.  But he lost the ability of short term memory.  He was a shell and he was well aware of it.

But in seven hours in a day, the finale was calling my sister and telling her.  She answered the phone by saying “I’m pulling into Walmart.” 

I told her that he was gone.  And we were leaving the hospice.   My day was over early.  The relief and disbelief combined for a couple days.

Rose of Faith

Written as part of a challenge called Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers,  details are at https://flashfictionforaspiringwriters.wordpress.com/2016/05/23/fffaw-challenge-week-of-05-24-2016/

And part of everyday inspiration, #everydayinspirations


She looks up at the angels.  Each one has a panel of triumph!  Each one has a battle to emerge from.  Her battle has been self inflicted.

Her fingers raw.  Tiny holes.  Blood no longer flows from them.  Her voices are fading.  Her trust places unseen.  In her hair, a fade white rose.  In her mind, the question of questions. Why?

Faith comes quick like a snake bite.  It’s paralysis warms the soul underneath. Eyes slowing to see, open like a child to the works sound her.

She talks to angels.  Today, they answered.

Death and the Word Count

We are playing with a word count.   But adding a challenge to the mix.   So a picture is worth 1000 words, we’re going for 100.




Her hand grips a white rose.  But the rose has it’s thorns in Rose as well.   She spins it between fingers until the pin holes let out a stream.   It comforts her.

Below her spills out the future.  Her cards neatly spread.   Eight cards waiting to relieve her pain.  Only her final card is death.

She smiles.  Her heart skips a beat.  It’s white rose is her’s. Everything fades away.  Her pain can at last be gone.

Behind the card is a meaning of great change.  The novice doesn’t realize the cards are pointing toward change.  Her pain goes.  She does not.

Day 12 – Critical Posting


OK I’m a person who watches zombies.   I’ll spare details in case you record and watch later.  But anyway the twelve part season is at a mid-season break (really?).  Being TV we need drama. Mid Season Finale was yesterday.

If you aren’t familiar with the show above the premise is the first show about zombies made so much money that LA needed zombie apocalypse too. The only thing different is we get to see the changes taking place as the infected become undead. So there are a bunch of people who won’t care enough to cuss each other out before the zombies try to get them. 

We start in LA.  They get a boat and find San Diego burnt down by the military. As they travel, they find several groups of people that are attacked or turned on the way.  Miracle of miracles they find Mexico. A rich family with a walled house and property.  Note the finale,  mid-season finale starts here.

We get succeed to the characters.  We love the bad ones because they are mean at the right time.   And the ones who are just trying to make it and care for the others.  Well the episode falls apart here.  The strong characters fall apart.   One goes psycho and runs off.  His dad follows and tell a member that finds them to leave and day they were not found.   One devices the killing is undead is to much and walks off.   The rat flees the safe house to see if they still have a boat.

Poor set up here.   There’s cliff hangers without a cliff!!  I mean everyone going crazy for “different” unknown reasons is confusing!

Day Eleven: Tea Talk

I don’t drink coffee.  That leaves a tea talk.  My world is quiet.  I’m closer to a trip to Emerald Isle, North Carolina.   I’ll be toes in the sand next week.

I have spent a week and a half trying to keep up with all the parts on everydayinspiration.   My phone doesn’t show all of them, what my iPad shows scares me.   I thought I was doing so well.   I really try to read and comment on all of them. I remember being new at this.   Feedback is priceless.  It gives us an idea of the thought makes it through to others.

The prompts have feed is why, where, and using a couple ideas.  The truth is challenges make you find a voice.  Trying new things.  Hell, I had no idea I could write poetry!  Try and fail is a good approach!   You probably won’t fail.  But you will learn word usage and preparing your ideas.

My wise old sage voice says tell them to do this and that.  I hate to hear that from others.   So I’ll simply say I have participated in these challenges.   While I don’t always post every week,  here are a few. Using the settings under your reader tab will allow you to find postings.   Most people will add a link to original. It’s a courtesy thing

Sunday Photo Fiction, https://sundayphotofictioner.wordpress.com
Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers, https://flashfictionforaspiringwriters.wordpress.com
Flash Fiction for the purposeful practitioner, https://rogershipp.wordpress.com
Friday fictioneers,  https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com
Six Sentence Stories, https://unchartedblogdotorg.wordpress.com

There are other challenges.   They force you to write.   Your mind will have to work.  Your idea will be good.   Your idea will be not so good.   But you’ll find voices.   That is writing.   To me at least.

Ok. I’m watching a dog. And the Tom cat loosy hid chair to a dog.   Now he’s in the dog’s bed. I’m used to girl on girl crime here.



Looking Out My Backdoor



There’s a place into which we seek shelter from the storm of life.  Most of us have more than one.   There are reasons for that.  Some storms are live at a certain address.   But that’s a different story.

Today, we look into the greening world of Mark’s swampland estate.   In deeper understanding of this, I have a stray cat next to me helping provide the gem of a cold wet morning dew.  (I wish I could share but this app has,enough issues at times)  We have several local birds making the rounds at the feeder.  

The bright green leaves of the oak hide a flock. All birds of a different feather.  The smallest, the wren sings out near one of his four nests.   The ladies get to pick out one, or move on. Chickadees, sparrows, and tufted titmice buzz bright red Cardinals and much larger Blue Jay’s.  Cooper’s Hawks yell at each other in the distance.  A loud truck on the road out front dispatches the flock.   Like tiles in a video game, they shift and reassemble with the colors all out of place.

The plant world is shaking of that long winter hangover. The trees flex their new leaves. They have a jingle sound.   Maybe like a dancer with bells on their costume.   Pink and red columbine bloom are graceful stalks swaying along with the breeze’s rhythm.  Peace pushes away the rest of the world.

Plunk! The silent frog forgets I’m out here.   He starts to sing.   No one answers.   But a stray cat looks his way.

The musical link is here for the title