Jan. 27 - written by Christopher Rohan

Week 8

1-25-22 - Prompt: Eagle

Tom watched the eagle sore. Circling, it ascended without the slightest flap of a wing. It reminded Tom of how in the right circumstances things can be easy. All one had to do was catch the updraft.

Not now. Not for him at this moment. Envy began to stir as he watch the majestic bird. Why was everything so hard? he asked himself. He began to reflect on the last few months and he just couldn’t see another way around the path he’d taken. Everything had just lined up so well and it seemed so promising. It was like the very stars had altered course and aligned just for him. Now, it just seemed to be a cruel trap.

The eagle was only a brown speck against the vast blue sky. His hope felt just as distant. A tear trickled down the weary creases in his cheeks and he looked down at his hands, rough and calloused. He’d worked so long at the factory. He liked it at first, and was good at it, but he just couldn’t shake the feeling that it wouldn’t go anywhere. Sure enough, after twenty long years giving everything. 

He’d felt like he was banging his head against the wall. Nothing ever moved. Nothing ever changed. He submitted idea after idea, but the way was set by immovable minds well before him. So, he finally did it. He left. He put in his notice and made his move.

He took some time at first, but soon enough he finally did what he always dreamed and opened his store. Tom’s Tackle was in the heart of the north woods of Wisconsin, right on the edge of a small chain of lakes. It wouldn’t take long before it would be flooded with vacationers and locals, but no one came.

1-26-22 - Prompt: Tangerines

“Abden,” whispered Omar, “today’s the day!”

“What?” replied the sleepy-eyed boy, “the day for what?

“Mahjoub is away.”

Abden sprang to his feet, all sleep had left his small frame. He quickly splashed water on his face and the two brothers made their way out the door. 

“Where has he gone?” Abden asked.

“I’m not sure, but he took the truck.”

“Is there anyone taking his place?”

“No.”

“Ok, then that means we have about four or five hours. We need to hurry.”

They strode down the stairs two at a time, practically a leap for thier short legs. A quick turn and they were sidling through a small gap between the houses. After a sprint down the back streets, Omar boosted Abden to the top of a small wall and Abden reached back to help Omar up the same. A simple ascent to the roof after grabbing a small rug at a neighboring house and they were ready. 

The tussled hair of two mischievous heads slowly peered over the glass-spiked edge of the roof. Below was the object of thier desire. A small courtyard, an oasis in a dry and weary land, a paradise that rivaled Eden. Fig trees and trellised grape vines grew and spread throughout, but these were only distractions from the true prize. At the center were the crown, six small trees bursting with bright orange jewels that tasted of liquid sunshine.

1-27-22 - Prompt: Pulley

“NO GIRLS ALLOWED!” the sign read.

The pride of the Wiffle Boys, the Oak Creek Fort spanned the canopy of three huge Oak trees. It had fourteen different decks all connected by ladders, rope bridges, and dumb waiters. The northmost tree stood tallest and acted as a lookout. The Wiffle Boys were never short on trouble, mostly made for themselves, but the suspicious are never short of suspicions and they were always ready for any approaching, regardless of intention. That’s how they saw Art and Ricky coming.

The twins walked past the signpost as two young lads in the lookout shuffled and shifted. Art recognized them as the Robby Hutchins and Tommy Ross, both in grade five.

“Hey, who are ya and whadya want?” shouted Robbie.

“Hey Robbie,” shouted Art, “when’d you join the Wiffles?”

“I been here for a long time, but you didn’t answer my question.”

“You know us, just let down the ladder so we can talk to Big Jon,” Ricky said. He’d always lacked patience with these sorts of things, but today was especially frustrating.

“Not until you tell us who you are!” yelled the boys.

“O cut it out, Worms!” came a deep voice within the thick branches of the middle tree, “Let them up! We all know Art and Ricky, the goody-goods from Third St.

A complex network of ropes, levers, pulleys creaked and rattled to draw a sort of shallow gangway from the lowest platform on the rightmost tree to the end of a wide path surrounded by tall grasses.

Quickly the twin brothers scrambled up and made their way to the center tree.