Dec. 9 - written by Christopher Rohan

Week 1

12-2-21 - Prompt: Mississippi

The river was more mud than water. Running for a few hundred miles westward, generally speaking, it coursed through field and meadow before cutting through a hillside and making its lazy way to the township of Greenway. The naming of the town was mostly wishful thinking. Settled one hundred and twenty years prior, it was seen as the opening to the northern lands. Claus Wimble was its founder and he dreamed of bringing all his agrarian prowess to the simple valley. What was unknown at the time was how soft the surrounding hills were and how much the river loved to deposit its sediment on its own floor, raising the water level and flooding the first town. 

The second town was established a hundred more yards away from the settled river and lasted much longer. The river shape changed each season. The summer brought heat and the river retreated after the spring deluge washed the las years deposit. Fall brought the mud. Winter was a frozen flood. The second town met its end when one particular spring brought more water than most had thought possible. It rained for twenty eight days straight and fifty three days total. The third town was built on stilts.

The forth town was built because the winter’s frozen waters snapped the stilts. The townsfolk tenaciously rebuilt a town that changed with the seasons. Truly, it was an odd place. Everything was function over form, and yet it took a pleasant shape. All of the homes spent half the year upsidedown, though it was difficult to say which side was up. The roof became the hull, or the hull became the roof, depending on your perspective. The town floated in the sping and fall.

12-3-21 - Prompt: Hobo (not derogatory when referring to itinerant rail workers of the early 20th century)

The rails were tied with steel forged of ore from the very mountain they strode upon. Mav thought it cruel. 

“We can’t help but go too far,” he said not thinking about those around him.

“Mav’s waxing philosophic again,” jeered a very large man in very large overalls, “What is wrong with the world this time?”

“The world? Nothing,” replied Mav, “but there not much good about us.”

“What’s wrong with with us?” said the dim witted face of a young, thin man.

Mav looked at the other men with indignation and began his homily, “We hollow the mountain and build on it’s carcass. We pioneer into new and uncharted lands only to create afresh the sullied world we come from. We’ve ravaged and then demand the land to give what we’ve already taken. We are monsters, Jim, that’s clear.”

The large man shook his head while the thin man looked confused.

“Well, I don’t think I’ve ever done that,” came Jim’s befuddled reply.

The large man let out a buckling laugh. Mav’s disappointment at the first slipped into a cracked smile and a soft laugh, “Yeah, I suppose you haven’t.”

12-6-21 - Prompt: Blue

A perfect balance of sodium and alkaline within otherwise pure water poured in a smooth stream unsettling the mottled slurry of coffee grounds. A soft ember foam surfaced, evidence of a coffee two days off roast as an aroma of warm black tea and hints of peaches and cream filled the air.

Jonas’ eyes widened with anticipation. and, pausing his pour, he stooped low, nearly dipping the tip of his nose in the brew. He breathed deeply of the steam.

“Woah,” he mouthed beneath a young man’s mustache, then turning to a fellow apron-clad but fully bearded barista, he asked, “Who roasted this again?”

“Some kid,” the beard replied, “He came in on his bike and asked if we’d want to try his stuff.”

“Wild,” said the mustache.

“Yeah.”

The water continued pouring, slowly filling, gram by gram, until the scale read “405.3g”. The slurry slowly settled into an even bed of spent grounds, with a slight concave as it touched the walls of the brew basket. The final drip, drip, drip and Jonas lifted the basket from a delicate glass decanter wherein the brew glowed with a dark ruby red in the morning sunlight.

Lifting the glass vessel, the barista swirled the warm liquid with a vigor that makes the novice nervous. The two young men each took another whiff and noted subtle bitters.

The bearded barista grabbed from a small shelf behind, two small glasses, impracticality ornate, and no larger than four fluid ounces. Jonas filled them half way. One final swirl and the two stuck their noses as far into the glass as thier heritage allowed, then, they sipped with a slurp that would red thier mothers’ faces with social embarrassment.

12-7-21 - Prompt: Honey

A stack of modular wooden boxes housed tens of thousands of bees, and was just one of twenty. It was the perfect place for Arthur to stash the key. The hives were painted various colors, mostly white, but this one was stacked green on the bottom, then blue, then red, then green again. He hid it in the blue box.

“Ok,” Arthur said to his twin brother Ricky as he unwrapped the blanket he’d used for protection, “if anyone thinks to look here, they’ll have to deal with the bees.”

“I don’t know, Art,” said Ricky, “I don’t like the idea that it’d be out of sight.”

“What do you mean, ‘out of sight’? We’ll be watching from the treehouse, across the field”

“Yeah, ok.”

The boys began to walk back to the forest edge. They didn’t want anyone to know they’d come to Wild Don’s bee farm so they took the long way around, through the trees. Arthur rubbed the stings on his hands as they walked.

“Those little buggers hurt,” he said.

“What’ll it be like trying to get the key out?” asked Ricky.

“I’m not sure, maybe we could ask Wild Don to use his smoker and suit.”

“Yeah, only if you don’t call him ‘Wild Don,’” replied Ricky with a chuckle.

“I don’t know, he’d probably like it,” said Arthur, and the two boys grabbed there sides in aching laughter.

“Tell me the plan again, Art.”

“Yeah,” began Arthur, “we both know that the last thing we need is anyone knowing that we have the key. If anyone knows, the Wiffle Boys will know soon enough. They have snitches everywhere. They may not even know that it’s missing. So, first we just need to keep our mouths shut and act normal.

“If, and I say again, if they find out, we’ll need to come up with something, but we can talk that through later. Regardless, we hid it well.”

“Hid what well?” said a small voice behind them.

12-8-21 - Prompt: Orange

The stillness of the north woods just before dawn mixed peace with the anticipation Roger felt as he watched antlers rise from a thicket not more than fifty yards away. He coudln’t see the buck itself, but he counted three points with the promise of more.

The crisp, fall air caught his breath in plumes of white. He checked his breathing as his heart began to race. With small and slow movements, he made sure his shotgun was ready if his chance came. He’d need it to get much closer before taking his shot. Roger’s dad always told him that patience was a hunter’s best tool, so he waited, still as stone.

Leaves crunched beneath the creature’s graceful steps. He could no longer see it, but he knew where it was. He knew those woods better than anyone, at least, now that his dad was gone. It took Roger three years before he’d come back to his family’s land. It was just too hard before. The last time he was out was a few days after his dad had started complaining about a headache. They didn’t know it at the time, but that was the first sign of his dad’s rapid decline. That hunt was the best they’d known. Everybody did well, but his little brother Steve shot the biggest buck any of them had seen.

Roger remembered the look on his dad’s face, so proud of his son’s accomplishment, and he smiled at the memory as a small tear rolled down his cheek. The deer rounded a tree and came into full view. Slow, steady steps brought it snuffling and munching in the undergrowth, broadside, perfectly framed between two small pines. 

Roger lifted his gun, slowly as he could, and took aim. “Just behind and below the shoulderblade,” said the voice of his father, and he felt the man’s big, strong arms rap around him just like when he was eleven. The buck looked up, directly at him, and just stayed there, looking. Roger’s eyes swelled with tears as forty years of memories with his dad flooded his mind.