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Four Quills of a Tale- as scribed by Elias Kent (Entry 6)

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(Four Quills of a Tale is a folktale about losing one’s creativity and the struggle to regain it)

Entry 1

Entry 2

Entry 3

Entry 4

Entry 5

Where was she, my precious girl who stood by my side village after village? Who filled me with such light!? Such color!? Now, my trustworthy companion, my leader, had left my side.

Hours, perhaps days later, I heard the distinct and distant sound of her honk. It lifted me from the cold ground and my feet followed where my ears lead.

A swirling fog of color engulfed me as if I were trapped inside a tube of colored glass. My arms flailed and, clearing the fog from my vision, I happened upon an old wooden bridge. I hesitated, but only for a brief moment. Goose’s honk continued calling me forward.

On the other side of the bridge, my body became heavy and light at the same time. My eyes were drawn to a beautifully welded lamppost reaching toward the stars and alive with a small, enticing flame.

At the post’s base stood a bald man of abbreviated stature. How curious he was! With one eye, he stared in his hand-held mirror’s reflection and seemed to look behind him with one eye, while staring forward at me with the other.

“Name?” he asked, rudely.

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Katarina by CDW

 

Four Quills of a Tale- as scribed by Elias Kent (Entry 5)

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(Four Quills of a Tale is a folktale about losing one’s creativity and the struggle to regain it)

Entry 1

Entry 2

Entry 3

Entry 4

 

My hand cramps and I must stop. Not from fatigue, but sadness. How can a great storyteller lose her voice, her color, her light, her purpose in life? Because I, like the rest of you, are fools. Although we would like to believe otherwise, she is not immortal.

The goose-feathered quill quivers on my desk and pleads for me to continue. I pick it up and point the nib to the fine parchment and allow it to take control.

I had been walking both old and new countryside for so many years that, whenever I chanced upon a pond’s reflection, I scarcely recognized myself. The lines in my face became more abundant. My once beautiful auburn hair was laced with coarse gray. Even my thoughts became barren as if poured out of a once beautiful and ornate decanter.

            And, my sweet Goose. Her feathers were also withering as if in sorrowful response to my countenance. Or, perhaps, I withered in response to her feather’s atrophy. Who is to say? And which answer matters?

            Remorsefully, feeling I had little if nothing left to give, I finished a brief story then left the crowd of villagers awaiting more.

            I am unsure as to whether Goose followed me, or I her. But my heart says it was the later. We continued to wander and the further we traveled, the more my footsteps played a sorrowful tune. Needing rest, I discovered a large rock to serve as my pillow. I laid my weary body and soul on the crisp, dying grass and watched as Goose pecked around for silverweed and clover roots before she settled beside me.

            Hours, perhaps day later, I awakened to find the empty space beside me where Goose  had last been.

Writers, DON’T GIVE UP!

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After my first attempt at sending out my latest novel, the agent’s letter came back: Screen Shot 2017-01-13 at 2.13.52 PM.png

So, how many agents should I send my MS to? Am I  Capable of receiving more rejection letters?

Hell, yeah, I am.

Kathryn Stockett’s book, The Help, was rejected 60 times.

Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell was rejected 38 times before it was published.

Carrie by Stephen King was rejected 30 times before it was published.

A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle was rejected 26 times before it was published.

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone was rejected 12 times and J. K. Rowling was told “not to quit her day job.”

Lord of the Flies by William Golding was rejected 20 times before it was published.

Not giving up, nope, not giving up.

‘Cause I got High Hopes (excerpt)

Next time your found, with your chin on the ground
There a lot to be learned, so look around
Just what makes that little old ant
Think he’ll move that rubber tree plant
Anyone knows an ant, can’t
Move a rubber tree plant
But he’s got high hopes, he’s got high hopes
He’s got high apple pie, in the sky hopes
So any time your gettin’ low
‘stead of lettin’ go
Just remember that ant
Oops there goes another rubber tree plant

-music by Jimmy Van Heusen and lyrics by Sammy Cahn.

 

 

 

 

Franken-Farter

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I set down my lunch sack, take off my Mary Janes, and step over a railroad tie that borders the sandbox. “Hey, Scoot,” I say.

“Emmy!” he says without looking up from the hole he’s already made. “Dig for gold?”

“How deep’s it buried?” I ask.

“To the island,” he says, loud enough for others to look over.

If Miss Primrose is in sight, the bullies shut their traps and don’t make fun of him for the way he talks, or the way he likes his blond hair cut into a burr but makes his Mama leave the three red patches an inch longer. “Strawberries patches,” he calls them.

Seven-year-old Janie clambers over and says, “I want to find an island.”

Me too. I want to find an island. Anywhere but here in the Hilltop school yard. Stupid name, Hilltop. We no more sit on a hill than Mama’s home cooking chicken and dumplings.

Janie and Scooter start chattering, so I dig my toes further into the sand and imagine pulling Mama out between my toes. That’s all the treasure I need.

A shadow hovers over me, but I don’t turn when it says, “Playing with retards?”

Scooter pays no mind to the comment and keeps digging for gold.

I look behind me. Frank’s hands are in his pockets. He’s pushing himself up and down by his toes.

“Don’t know how tall you are?” I say.

Frank looks at me like I have an ostrich head. “Huh?”

“You keep bouncing on your toes. You wanna be a ballerina Someday?”

“You gonna play in a sandbox all your life? Even when you’re all grown up?”

“You’re not grown either, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“I’m older than you. So, you’re that girl whose Ma disappeared.” He’s not nice when he says it. “And your daddy’s missing.”

I look toward the seesaw for help. The top hairs of Rachael’s red bob take turns bouncing up and down with Carla’s blond ones. They don’t pay me any mind.

“You’re stupider than you look,” I say. “Daddy’s at work.”

Scooter stops digging and looks up into Frank’s face. “Can’t disappear. Houdini died!”

I love how Scooter accents the words that are important to him. It’s his way of saying something important without having to string a bunch of words together to make a proper sentence. Scooter’s world is filled with magic, and not just because he loved Houdini.

Frank shakes his head and looks at me. “This dimwit your friend?”

“At least you got one part right.”

He puzzle-faces.

“Who’s stupid now?”

“Keep playing in the sandbox, Enema,” he says.

I go back to digging trying my best not to stand up and claw out his eyes. I hear him spit and stomp off.

I want to speed through time so Miss Primrose can ring the dismissal bell. Nothing’s the same, and now it’s worse since Frank-furter entered my life. I think I’ll call him that. No, even better. I’ll call him Franken-Farter. I smile and yell the name inside my head and reach for my lunch sack. It’s gone.

Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket

Featured image photo credit

 

Why must I?

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always write outside? Even when I travel, I search for a place out in the elements where I can plant my tush, open my laptop and write.

Perhaps walls close in my thoughts.

Or the heater or AC turning on sounds too artificial.

Or I don’t like the fake lighting.

Maybe it’s because I got used to writing (or painting) outside when I was a smoker. But that was long ago.

Maybe it’s because, outside,  I can sit at a table and throw the ball for my mini-Aussie using a right-handed muscle memory with no thought but for the words I write.  So he and I, kill two stones with one bird (yes I meant it that way) – and it makes us both happy as he returns for another 50 throws.

I have one of those propane heaters, kinda like restaurants do. So if it’s above 40 degrees, I’m still good to go.

Because I live in Texas, the temp works with me. Right now, I think it’s around 68.

I like the soft wind, the openness, the expanse and, at least the hope of, the unbound creativity where no walls surround me and world shows up and says,

“Howdy do! Break Into – your creative zone”

Any maybe, it’s also because I get to see this:

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Four Quills of a Tale- as scribed by Elias Kent (entry 3)

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Dear bloggers, I need your help. After rediscovering something I wrote a few years ago, I am recovering the story and editing as I go. Is this a worthwhile project? Have you read the last two entries? No pressure, but any comments or advice will help me in this endeavor. Thanks so much!

(Four Quills and a Tale is a folktale about losing one’s creativity and the struggle to regain it)

Entry One

Entry two

Alas, I remember something new.

“There is a canteen in fine leather casing on the kitchen table,” the old woman had told me. “Drink from it and quench your thirst before you depart.”

Stitched into the leather were gems of topaz, emeralds, rubies and other fine stones I did not recognize. I had picked up the canteen only to realize something anew. The colored gems where not gems at all, but oval splashes of color flush with the leather, yet so vibrant, I felt I could have pulled them off and filled my pockets.

Upon her suggestion, I had pulled out the cork and drank the refreshing liquid allowing its contents to soothe my questions and irritations. Then, quite peculiarly, my heart began to pound and my palms moistened. It was then, the first time in my months of travel that I yearned for home.

Unmoving from my desk, I Elias Kent, find myself dubious regarding the box before me and the old woman who allowed me to take it home.

Yet, the villagers never waivered in their faith of the free-spirited Katarina. And why would they? In her ingenious manner, she had mesmerized her listeners with a prolific and creative tongue. Tis’ the reason for their bewilderment when she disappeared.

Months went by and when traveling carriages, horsemen, and tradesmen heard no news of Katarina, her admirers fell into despair. Some became angry calling her “The Great Deserter.” Some believed she had become ill or had been taken by thieves who held her captive for her stories. Other speculators believed Katrina had given so much of herself, that she faded into the darkness like cold ashes blown into empty air.

I force myself to look down from these thoughts and pick up one leaf of the parchment. Exquisite it is! Like a jeweler feeling gold for the first time.

But what is the scrawl? Have my eyes defrauded me? Why have I not seen this before?  I pick up the small square of paper and read:

These feathers, made into writing quills, came from my goose, my muse. Trust them to write the story but know that…

The remaining words have faded away like our Katarina. I am no longer deterred. Her story must begin.

 

Four Quills of a Tale -as scribed by Elias Kent (entry 2)

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Entry 1

(Four Quills and a Tale is a folktale about losing one’s creativity and the struggle to regain it)

As you can imagine, I was agog with surprise and confusion. I had traveled miles and miles in search of the mystical Katerina and there, in that small cottage, my journey ended with an old woman who merely handed me a box of quills and folio of parchment.

Now, as I stare at the items before me, I can only muster the shake of my head. How can these things help me discover what happened to the Great Storyteller?

I do not, dear reader, relish the idea of keeping you in the dark, nor do I intend to quicken your despair. I do, however, require you be provided with a parcel of background about our magical storyteller, thereupon allowing you to not only feel her heartbeat, but its unfortunate absence.

Katrina traveled far spinning her tales so clearly that villagers felt like clay being molded by a gentle potter’s hand.

After departing each village, her cascading auburn hair and multi-colored skirt disappearing into the distance, her tales kept the residents alive with exuberance as if she had dribbled potent nectar from a sorcerer’s cup over the entire town, leaving them enraptured.

The oft-feuding townsmen became docile. Fussy children played with a new aloofness. Hardworking laborers rejoiced as they leaned over hot melting irons or carried objects twice their weight. Women washing clothing in the river disrobed, danced, and splashed one another as if small children.

Katerina had given them something they had all been longing but were unaware they lacked – something new and tantalizing. Something fresh. Exotic stories of gold raining in a forest, a two-headed serpent who entertained himself by singing opera while he ate, a feathered boy whom the red-beaked eagle thrillingly hunted.

Then, after time, Katrina disappeared and it became my life’s focus to find her.

And now, I stare at the quills next to this parchment and work up the courage to pick up the first of four.

 

 

The Infinite Search for Self

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There are those who I remember

And prefer to let them dwell

Within the ghostly shadows of a Nostradamus spell

Whether prophesy or heresy

Or the cost of simple jealousy

Is life a simple parody?

Since it’s me I know not well?

-CDW

 

Infinite

Four Quills of a Tale – as scribed by Elias Kent (entry 1)

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If my newfound knowledge was an honorable truth, these four newly acquired quills upon my desk will finish the tale. Then you, and I, will finally discover the truth of what happened to this beloved woman.

I must inform you that I do not consider myself an author. I am a historian. Tis’ the reason I took it upon myself to discover how and why she disappeared and left the countryside in such deep despair that they deemed it “The Reign of Drought.”

Hence, I traveled this side of the globe gathering bits and pieces of her existence from contacts with perfect but willing strangers.

If the old woman in the cottage was correct, that she was indeed the last to see Katrina the Great Storyteller, then, according to her, these four newly acquired quills she gifted me will guide my weary hand without waver or indifference to me.

Yet, they remain untouched on my desk.

Yes, I stall to pick up the first of the four. I have traveled too far and if disappointment awaits …

I allow my mind to stray from the quills. I think of the nameless old woman with the silver hair who rocked to and fro in her chair, her thin hands folded on her petite lap, the oil lamp dimly lit in the corner of her one room cottage.

“Please ma’am,” I had said. “I have traveled many paths for an answer and carried with me many questions. Your path is my last. Will you unburden me?”

She peeled her eyes away from her lap and looked at me for the first time. “My dear Mr. Kent,” she said in a whisper of age yet one as clear as a robin’s song. “There is never a last path, nor a last road. Only a last breath.”

And then, she gave me the box.