Water of Life

With Joanna now bundled into one of her sweatshirts and clutching her from the passenger seat, Nancy slowly and carefully skippered the motorcycle up and out of the meadow, down the muddy lane, then motored on until pulling over at the real estate office in town where some young women were now sitting on benches outside.

“My dears, is anything the matter, we weren’t expecting to see you… so soon.”

“There’s got to be an explanation, maybe you can tell us, my friend says something about the well…”

“Oh, isn’t that a lovely well, very old, on the same aquifer as the town water.”

“We were just wondering how you ladies were doing, and I was even inspired to start up my old Indian. How about we take a ride back up to the cabin and see what’s going on?”

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Despite the circumstances, Nancy couldn’t help but admire the red Indian motorcycle that the real estate agent rolled up on. “Wow, what is that, like 1915, is it original?”

“1917, and yes, it’s all original, in fact, I am the original owner.”

Suddenly Joanna roused herself and spoke in a tremulous voice from behind Nancy, “You, you are all so young!”

“Why thank you”, said one of the women from the bench, smiling cunningly, “It must be something in the water.”

Nancy’s heart skipped a beat as the implications of the woman’s response finally registered.


Liberties were taken, I doubled up on the six sentence constraint, for the same reason that there are 12 packs of beer; sometimes six isn’t enough. Perhaps this ongoing Well tale (click for full series) still isn’t resolved, but anything over a twelve pack in one sitting would be excessive. Thank you Zoe at Life Under the Radar for the prompts.

Six sentences any way you like, any genre, any length, any order…just six. Use the cue SKIP.


What would you do if

all that came to your ear was the

rushing waterfall the busy

birdsong of morning the

leaves whispering with the

breeze, sunlight refracted on

water,  kaleidoscoping beauty?


(And all of this

forgiving of your presence

accepting and tolerating of your

being here.)

What would you do?


You’d probably try to

capture it all

in a poem.


But how can you when

the loons appear shimmering

in the midst of the dervishing sunlight

their every movement striking

ecstatic dazzling sun sparks

radiating around them?

My God! you cry

and you mean it;

they appear no less as angels

haloed, hallowed, holy.


You should probably forget your

poem, your attempts at capturing

these visions, these visitations; should

yield, surrender, be quiet

let the steady waterfall stroke your weary ear

let your eyes sing softly with the sun

swimming with the lake.

Resistance is futile.

Just surrender.

Spring Cleaning

Their marriage lasted longer than most of their long time friends’, who often remarked how wonderful that they never argued.

It was true, they didn’t. “Life’s too short to argue”, he’d always said, and, “Marriage is about compromise.” She remembered his words like it was only yesterday. In fact, it was only yesterday, spring-cleaning day.

“It’s my retirement too”, she had said, steadying the ladder as he wiped down the ceiling fan. He didn’t want to argue, nor did he want to compromise.

But he was such a good sport to help with the cleaning. All their friends would have to know that his death was accidental.


Written for Weekend Writing Prompt#9-“Accidental”                                                           Posted on July 1, 2017



Weather Worn

Weather worn, that’s what she was, frayed further from lack of sleep. The relentless rain was a steady march, a bellicose drumbeat that only paused, never stopping long enough for anything to dry out. In the night, if the rain did cease for a time, the change in tempo would awaken her. The drilling streams from the broken gutters, the incessant drip from the trees, ponging off the roof, kept restless rhythms. Should the sun ever shine again she would lie outside and sleep in its quiet, absorbing its warmth and light into the vast reaches of her dreaming.

Carrot Ranch June 29, 2017 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about something frayed. It could be fabric, like a flag or garment. It could also be nerves or temper. What is it to be frayed?