The Stories are Everywhere

For this challenge, you’re invited to use the letters lined up below to begin ten sentences. The first word in the first sentence will begin with B, the first word in the second sentence will begin with U and so on. Where will the words take you?

B
U
R
N

C
A
N
D
L
E
!

27 responses to “The Stories are Everywhere

  1. Bubbles multiplied as hot water filled the tub. Undressed, she checked with a tentative toe before she stepped in. Relaxing into the warm water cocoon was heaven. No one was home to disturb her weekly ritual.

    Chardonnay, in the glass beside her, sparkled in the candlelight. Andrea Bocelli’s “Romanza” CD played in the background. Nutmeg and Cinnamon wafted through the room from a burning candle on the night stand. Diane took a sip of the cold white wine and closed her eyes. Last week’s cares and stresses melted away into the scents and sounds of the room.

    Every bubble had disappeared by the time the door flew open admitting her three young children who shouted, “We’re back mom, and we’re hungry!”

  2. Beverly realized much later that she shouldn’t have done what she had, but she really didn’t care. Unless Tom was in the picture, nothing mattered anymore.

    Revenge was the only thing on her mind that day. Neither the cold, black humor of a stereotypical rain dripping down everyone’s neck as they bowed their heads, nor the distant sound of a backhoe digging another grave could cause her to lose focus on getting back at the person responsible for her heartbreak.

    Completely absorbed in her misery, Beverly hadn’t noticed the young teenager moving to her side until she spoke.

    “Apologies probably aren’t vary proper right now,” whispered the girl, “but I want you to know I am very, very sorry for your loss.”

    Nothing about the girl’s appearance seemed familiar, but yetl Beverly was struck by the feeling that she has seen this person before today.

    “Do I know you?” she said.

    “Lonnie Harrison, driver of the other car.”

    Exactly when she’d pulled the revolver from her pocket, Beverly couldn’t say, only that a black fugue descended as she watched the mortally wounded teen fall to the artificial grass carpet that covered the raw earth removed from Tom’s grave.

    • I never know what you’re going to write. Now it’s payback time at the cemetary. I’m imagining your muse coming out from under the bed, rubbing her hands, and saying, “Let’s kill a couple of people!” Loved the artificial grass and the raw earth detail.

  3. I’ll say revenge was on her mind. A short story in a few paragraphs. Nice job Gully.

  4. I could have sworn I proofreader that thing several times. God grief! If this posts, it will be a first–from my iPad2, which I am slowly learning how to use.

  5. Well, it posted but it too needed proofreading. So much for this wee keyboard…

  6. Basking in the glow of a winter moon, I came to realize that I was not alone. Untold numbers of tiny creatures danced among the flora and fauna of the forest as they hid their fairy light from mortal view. Rayne, the queen of the fey folk stood fast, watching my every move to see my reaction to their presence. Never would I have hurt them and somehow I think they knew that. Casting weary glances around, the good queen stepped forward and asked me to join her in the dance. “Alonzy!” I stated with smiling vigor as we stepped forward into a clearing, the pipes playing in slow rhythm to our movement. Night twinkled on by starlight even as the moon passed into the shadow of a nearby cloud and we danced eternity in that moment. Dare I ask where this might lead if I should propose my thoughts aloud to this creature of absolute beauty? Lights appear brightly to my squinting eyes and I stretch and yawn away the sleep. Eyes still focused between the reality of life and the wonder of the fairy dream, I live in both worlds and am happy.

  7. “Broken, but still good,” was her appraisal of the damaged fence gate.
    Under the shed it went, hidden from view so the neighbors wouldn’t think it an eye sore.
    Repurposing the gate, splintered on one end by a fallen limb, into a piece of folk art would be an enjoyable way to pass the early-dark evenings that are characteristic of this blustery and barren time of year.

    Not until she’d straightened up from positioning the gate did she hear the slightest of sounds. Cries coming from beneath the shed.

    Animals had always been primary in her life. No human companion had been nearly as devoted as the creatures she’d loved.

    Dirty and thin, a cat crept toward her outstretched hand. “Let me take a look at you, sweet thing,” she said. Examining the poor creature she thought, “Broken but still good,” and cradled the cat in her arms.

    • I love an ending that sends our thoughts back to the beginning. Great repetition. Loved the fence gate. What a good writing prop!

  8. Buried deep between layers of family mementos in an old chest in the attic lay a small book with a tiny lock fitted into the leatherette strap that bound the book closed. Until now I’d never had the courage to open my mother’s diary when I’d found it while rummaging in the attic as a teenager.

    Relatives had come, neighbors had brought covered dishes, and friends had kept a watchful eye on me all afternoon following my mother’s funeral. Now I was alone in the house, the aunts and uncles and cousins had spread out to airports and train stations, the leftover food was stored in the refrigerator, and friends had hugged me, promising to call the next day to see how I was doing.

    Carefully I crept up the folding ladder to the attic and felt for the string that turned on the single naked bulb. An unexpected thrill tickled my heart as I felt for and touched the diary in the chest, still there after all these years.

    Now I would find out, I hoped, why my mother never spoke of her youth, never told us about her life after she’d left her parents’ home and before she married my father many years later. Dad and mom had been close, seemed to love each other and enjoy each other’s company, but I always felt mom was holding back, never quite opening herself to the love her husband and children bestowed on her and never responding in kind.

    Late into the afternoon I read, sitting in an old rocker that had once been in the living room of my childhood, lost in the joy of my mother’s words as she wrote of her first love and then the crushing acceptance that their age difference and the public opinion of that era were against their union. Evening light cast a feeble amber glow on the lined pages of the diary when I read her final words and finally understood that rather than holding back, my mother had loved another man so overwhelmingly that in loving us also, she had spread her heart too thin.

    • This is a keeper, certainly. How sad and touching. I sure enjoyed coming along. You have funerals on your mind. Hope all is well.

  9. Baby smiled at me this morning.
    Under his blanket is a little stuffed white bear.
    Ready or not, welcome to our new world.
    Nana knitted a bright yellow sweater for him.
    Christmas will be so different and special with a baby in the house this year.
    All those years we owned our SUV, we never pictured driving it home with a baby in the back.
    New life, new rules, new reality.
    Didn’t know how overpowering and overwhelming the fierce love for this little being would be.
    Longing for sleep, stumbling through diaper changes, feeding, laundry.
    Everything is magic when I see that little toothless smile.

  10. Before my eyes opened, I knew a challenge of monumental proportions awaited me. Under the covers, I tried to find solace in the tight bundle of my body. Running through my mind was a stream of worst-case scenarios–nary a best-case in sight. No amount of self-compacting alleviated the inexorable sense of dread.

    Could an additional blanket or comforter help? Anything that might make me feel warmly secure and delay the inevitable was worth a try. Nothing was working, though, and time was moving forward with or without me. Dim, dewy light sliced through the window blinds, so I knew I could not avoid it much longer. Looking across the room to the icy ceramic tiles of the bathroom floor sent shivers up my spine. Eventually, the alarm would shrill, and I would have to get out of bed to get ready for work this wintery Monday morning.

    • Ah, one more reason for those in cold climates to decorate off the warm color palette.

    • I think that early morning, pre-alarm moment is the true witching hour. You capture it well. Who knew that writing from these letter prompts would give us all such a good way to vary sentence structure. Good one!

  11. Blindly Jesse’s fingers circled her waist searching for the buckle of her belt while she tried to understand why Evan abandoned her. Undulating waves toyed with her, trying to drown her as she kicked toward the surface barely able to keep her head above water. Ribbons of blood oozed from the gash in her thigh and she wept as the feelings of loss and betrayal threatened to overwhelm her. No, No, No, I will not die out here she thought as she finally removed her belt and tightened it around her upper thigh in an effort to staunch the flow of blood.

    Cramps pervaded her muscles but she continued to close in on her target – the buoy within 50 yards. Against her ribs she felt the brushing of something large as a shadow darkened the waters beneath her. Nearly paralyzed by terror she stiffened and her head dropped below the water’s surface. Dark slitted eyes reflecting the moonlight stared at her and she let out a silent scream. Lithely the octopus darted past her and disappeared into the blackness of the ocean. Enervated by feelings of relief and joy at being alive Jesse began to swim, dismissed the thoughts of vanishing into the ocean’s depths and started planning her revenge.

  12. Brian stood up slowly, arising from a spastic squat, and shook off a punch to his jaw that unhinged his mind. Until now, he never had an urge to hit a woman that he could not control and halt in a sub-second, this time it was different. Regaining control of ancient programs running in his alcohol soaked brain, he rubbed his jaw and focused on remembering what had just happened.

    Night had seemed to fall quickly over the sports bar that Brian and Cathy had spent most of the afternoon in. Cathy had invited Brian to spend Sunday afternoon drinking and watching the NY Jets at the Dew drop in; he was intrigued by Cathy’s mutual interest in football and accepted her invitation.

    After eight tall Jack and Coke’s each, Brian had felt a connection in their banter, Game On, he had thought.

    “Never a dull moment with me”, Cathy had cooed into Brian’s ear.

    “Don’t need to say more, I’m ready for anything!” Brian had said.

    “Let’s see if you’re ready for this”, Cathy had said as she wobbled off the bar stool, assumed fighting stance and landed an impressive right hand punch to Brian’s jaw, and sent him backwards off his stool.

    Every once in a while, you should believe what people say, thought Brian, Cathy must truly be training for the 2012 Women’s Olympic Boxing competition in London.

    “! Ok, now I believe you!” he said, “I’m sorry I said you were full of BS about boxing”, and he pulled out his cell phone to call a cab for both of them.

  13. I can’t stand it. That ill-edited, unproofed post bugs me no end. Here’s a clean (-er) copy.

    Beverly realized years later that she probably shouldn’t have done what she had, but she really didn’t care. Unless Tom was in the picture, nothing mattered anymore.

    Revenge was the only thing on her mind that long ago day. Neither the black humor of a stereotypical cold rain dripping down everyone’s neck as they bowed their heads, nor the sound of a distant backhoe digging another grave could cause her to lose focus on getting back at the person responsible for her heartbreak.

    Completely absorbed in her misery, Beverly didn’t notice the young teenager moving to her side until she spoke.

    “Apologies probably aren’t proper right now,” whispered the girl, “but I want you to know I am very sorry for your loss.”

    Nothing about the girl was familiar, but Beverly was struck by the feeling that she had seen this person before today.

    “Do I know you?” she said.

    “Lonnie Harrison, driver of the other car.”

    Exactly when she’d pulled the revolver from her pocket, Beverly couldn’t say, only that a black fugue descended as she watched the mortally wounded teen fall to the artificial grass carpet that covered the raw earth removed from Tom’s grave.

  14. Bright blustery day, wind whipping the last of the free falling leaves
    Unearthing the leaves that are embedded
    Rising and falling of temperatures
    Nearing the Holiday season, dreading the elements swap

    Can’t fight the urge to melt away to the tropics
    Anytime now I can feel the warm humid breeze
    Nestling my feet in the sand, deep, deeper still wiggling my toes
    Daring to ward off reality, my boots are between me and a thin layer of snow
    Launching back, the cold rushes up my nose stealing my breath away
    Easier still to stay here,hibernate,divide & hide,slush,ice,frost,chill,staring at me from the other side

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