Sink or Swim -- Writing Prompt # 7

My mother pushed me off the dock into water over my head and I nearly drowned when I was two years old. 

 

Or at least that’s what it felt like. 

 

And so, although I used to love the water, used to love the dock, and even now I love to swim, I have to this day a fear of the moment of fall. 

 

Only that moment.  The transition moment.  The land to sea moment, so-to-speak.  Sink or swim.

 

In defense of my mother, what had truly happened I will tell you now:

 

My great-grandparents had a cottage at the lake.  There are many inland lakes in Michigan, and many people had cottages in those days.  Nobody lived year-round on the lakes.  People had to earn a living back in town.  The roads were poor in winter.  Besides, the heat was from a pot belly stove, for crying out loud.  Water did come from the tap, I think; but I can’t even tell you that for sure, because when the great-grandparents became infirm in their old age, we stopped going there in four-generation groups.  My younger siblings have probably never been to the cottage, and they certainly never knew my great-grandparents.

 

Anyway -- Mommy and Daddy, and Grandpa and Grandma, and Grandpa’s brothers, and their wives and children, would spend every weekend, I guess, at the lake.

 

I could tell so many recollections of the lake, and that is odd, because I was so young when we would go there!  I can describe the dusty road to the general store where Grandpa would walk with me holding his hand.  I can remember the little shorts outfit I would wear as we walked.  I can remember the taste of the orange sherbet push-up confection Grandpa would buy me.

 

I can remember the smells:  in the cottage, of moth balls and wood smoke, and cedar walls.  I can remember the lull-you-to-sleep sounds of rain pattering on the tin roof, and of the wooden rowboats rocking you against the dock, and the lapping of the water when the rowboats rocked against the dock.  I can remember the awful feel of seaweed: oh too squishy!  Slimey!  Nasty!  I can remember the beauty of the blue dragonflies coupled with my fear of them when their hard little wings and crustacean little bodies buzzed them into my arms.

 

I can remember the dock!  It was long – oh so long!  Probably only long enough to dock a standard wooden rowboat, but I was very small, you see; which made the dock so long.

 

I was an early riser in those days.  I woke up excited with life, and hungry.  I loved to be at the cottage, because Grandma, too, was an early riser.  She would feed me love and cheerios, and talk and talk and talk to me.

 

Grandpa and Daddy would get up even earlier than Grandma and me, though.  They would go fishing!

 

I, too, loved to go fishing; and they would take me in the boat in the afternoons.  The fish don’t really bite, though, in the afternoons.  Grandpa and Daddy did their real fishing in the early mornings, when the fish were biting.

 

When Grandpa and Daddy came back from their fishing, they were always glad to see me.  And I was ecstatic to see them, to see the fish swimming in the bucket, to RUN to them as the boat came to the dock.  I can smell the outboard motor’s gas, and hear the water lapping against the dock to this day, and see my two men, people I adored, smiling as I ran to them down the long, long, dock.

 

They would call to me!  Encourage me!  Smile at me!

 

Behind me, though, was Mommy.  Yelling to the men that I should never be encouraged to run the dock to greet them.  Chasing me!  Reaching out for me!  Stopping me!

 

“She’s going to fall off the dock one of these days, and then you will be sorry!” Mommy would shout.

 

And one day, just to prove her point, I did!

 

And the last thing I felt before I was swirling in the water with the seaweed swirling round me in the brown and murky warm world was my Mommy’s fingertips, so gentle, and not close enough to snatch me, only close enough to push me one step further than I’d ever meant to go.  My little feet did not stop as they should have/ would have.  Nor did Grandpa’s arms receive me, for the water got me first.

 

Grandma pulled me out by my hair.  Carried me to the cottage.  Sat me on the counter-top.  And wrapped me in a towel.

 

Mother scolded.  Scolded me for running.  Scolded Gramp and Daddy for encouraging.  All the fun was gone from fishing with the guilt of drowning children.  I daresn’t ever say it, but my two-year-old mind was certain that my Mommy really pushed me off the dock, just so she could prove it to my Grandpa and my Daddy.

These are 2 of my uncles on the dock.

As a grownup I am equally certain that Mommy didn’t push me.  She was frightened with good reason.  She was reaching out to grab me.  Her reach, though, is what added momentum to my run.  Only a fraction of resistance.  Had I weighed more, it could never have pushed me over.  Had my feet been larger, she’d have gotten my shirt and been able just to stop me.  But she pushed me, very lightly, and off the dock I went, into the seaweed and the swirl and the tomorrow-never-comes world you aren’t supposed to see at the age of two.

This is my grandpa & me (with my hair lopped off & now wearing a life vest).

 

Then fast forward!  There is another dock, a future world, equally frightening, equally dangerous. 

 

I am seventeen, and have just finished my Senior Year of high school. 

 

Again my Mommy pushed me.

 

I fell off the dock, and into adulthood, and nearly drowned; till Grandma pulled me out by my hair, and I’ve survived for many years since then, and learned to swim these waters, and to love them; even as I loved to swim after I had conquered fear and found that if I just relax, my body floats.

 

I have a son now, in the 12^th grade, and he is worried for a friend of his whose parents haven’t eased him into adulthood.  My son has been beseeching me to do something for this friend – maybe to speak strongly to his parents, maybe just to move the boy to our house – I am not sure what he wants for me to do, as I cannot raise his friend from infancy, that’s for sure.

 

So I thought I’d write this story.  Sink or swim are not the only two options.  You don’t have to make your child afraid to leave the shore; nor do you have to push them off the dock!  Go with him into the water!  Hold him up!  Show him he can float!  Show him he can move!  Then he will swim without fear.

 

Nowadays, they even teach two-year-olds to swim, you know.

 

If Anyone's Looking for Me ...

I'm just on a reading binge.

It happens from time to time.

I don't feel like writing.  I feel like READING!  And I am having a blast.  Please don't anybody get your feelings hurt.  I still ask God to bless all my Multiply friends every night when I say my prayers.  That means YOU!

And I'll come back and play as soon as I get my fill of these books.

Your friend, Rani

Neighborhood Dogs in Barking Frenzy over Missed Photo Op

Possum on the porch!!!! 

My iPhone was on the charger, instead of in my pocket, and by the time I got my digital camera out of the pantry, out of its camera case, and turned off the automatic flash so I could take a picture through the window of the slider, well, the possum was meandering down the steps. 

One shot was all I got, and it was blurry, and it was dusk. 

He's still out there, though.  I know this, even though the sun has set, and he is no longer on the porch.  I know this because my dog, and the dog next door, are both in a barking frenzy.  Which they would never do if there were burglars. No, these dogs only guard the neighborhood against trespassing creatures. 

Writing Prompt #5 - Fly Away

Penney is a perfectly normal three-year-old; except that Penney can fly.  Now what’s a mother to do?  Flying at three, you say?  Can her parents fly too?  No they cannot.  Nor can any other human.

Penney flies because she can, and it is frightening!  She has followed her impulses, as any three-year-old would do, but hers do not simply toddle out of Mommy’s sight.  Penney can go anywhere, and she doesn’t necessarily really want to go to a faraway place, not yet, certainly not yet.  She cannot survive without her Mommy.  Children were designed to be watched over, cared for.

Penney’s Mommy must become very creative.  Penney is too young for Mommy to reason with her using words.  It would be cruel to tie an anchor to her body.  What oh what can Penney’s Mommy do?

“Once upon a time,” Mommy begins.  She adapts all the fairy tales she knows, all the “big bad wolves,” all the “mean old witches,” all the unhappy endings that the moderns say pollute and terrorize and inhibit tender minds.  And this she does for Penney’s sake, because the only sure way she can keep Penney safe, is to make the little girl AFRAID.

The true thing Penney really has to fear, of course, is death.  Not that she would crash and burn.  Simply that she would not survive.  Alone.  Not this young.  Penney needs to learn to fear all the other-ness of the rest of the world, so that she will stay.  With.  Her mother.

And thus have all the tellers-of-tales-to-children been motivated since Time began.

You cannot very well explain to a three-year-old that she is utterly dependent and infinitely vulnerable.  She just doesn’t have the words yet.  She just doesn’t have the capacity to grasp the concept.  But oh!  She can FLY!

Progressive Story with My Ending (Writing Prompt #4a)

This is what some Multiply friends and I have been up to all weekend.  The original plan was to take turns writing until we'd finished the story.  Today the rules were amended so that each of us got our apportioned turn at plot development, and then we all have to write our own endings, post the complete story in our own blogs, giving credit to our co-conspirators, and then post the links on our group page.
 
Here, then, is our story, complete with my ending:  

The Story begins:  (Written by Starscape)

Claire Montgomery had been a real estate agent for five years, but she had never been this nervous about looking at a house before. The old Sutherland mansion had sat empty for several years while the heirs fought over it. Now that they had finally come to an agreement, the house was to be sold and the money divided.

The mansion was almost ten miles out of town, down a long two-lane highway with trees crowding either side of the road. It was only 3 p.m., but the tall pines shadowed the road and Claire almost missed the turn-off for the tiny road that led to the house. The Sutherlands valued their privacy. There was no street sign of any kind, and the road was almost overgrown now from disuse. About a quarter of a mile down the bumpy, rutted lane, Claire saw the iron gate, black with a gold-colored “S” at the top. John Sutherland, the eldest son, had given her the remote control for the gate as well as the keys to the house. None of the Sutherlands wanted to go back to the house. They were leaving the sale entirely in Claire’s hands.

“Well, here goes nothing,” Claire muttered to herself as she punched the button on the remote control. The two sections of the gate swung reluctantly inward, making a loud screeching sound that sent shivers up her spine...

(Angelsmith22 continues)

Once the gate was ajar, Claire eased her car through it. The doors closed automatically as she continued down the narrow drive. She watched in her rearview mirror as the two halves once again became whole. She had the sudden feeling that she might never see the other side again. 

 “You’re being silly.” she told herself. “Get a grip.”  

As she rounded a bend in the road, she was forced to stop the car. A large tree lay across the road- no doubt a casualty of one of the many storms the area was prone to. The massive Sutherland mansion loomed ahead. Claire decided she would call the office and have them send out a crew to move the tree. She opened her cell phone and dialed the number. Nothing. She looked at the screen. NO SERVICE was displayed in bold print.  

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” she said aloud.  

With a sigh, she grabbed her bag of paperwork and her camera and headed toward the house. She’d just climb over the stupid tree! No sense wasting the trip since she was already here. She found a section that looked easy enough to maneuver and began to climb over. Trying to hold the branches out of her way, she slipped. As she tumbled off the tree, the branches sprang back, spanking her across her legs. Large red welts immediately rose up on her skin. More determined now than ever, she picked up her things and limped toward the house.    

(AuntB93Also writes)    

It was refreshing to laugh at herself, and Claire's spirits lightened somewhat. But as she limped toward the house, she noticed something that made her blood run cold. She stopped, unwilling to go further, until she had resolved the puzzle in her own mind. Why was she seeing a light in the library window?  

She knew it was the library because a floor plan of the first floor had been published in the papers when the old man died. The library was where the murder had been. No, she corrected herself, not murder. Death, but not murder. It wasn't murder because there was no evidence to refute the theory that the old gentleman had a massive coronary, and perhaps had died of fright. But isn't killing someone by frightening him to death the same as murder?  

So who had a light on in there? No, she noticed, not a light on, in the sense of a steady glow from electric bulbs. She glanced at the chimney and sure enough, there was smoke coming from it. Who had lit a fire in the fireplace, and why?  

(Bearsplace writes)    

As Claire shook her head and chided herself for thinking such silly things. The sale was going to be her big break, and the money was not going to hurt.

Inside the house, something moved. The old plaster walls offered no resistance to it as it moved from the library to the next room. It was not from here, but did not know where it had come from. It had always been here, growing older and more lonely for its own kind. The things that lived in this place shared a space with it, some aware, like the old one most recently, some unaware. It had seen many come and go, moving in and out of its existence like smoke.

It had no real need for these things, but they fascinated it, so hot and colorful, like torches in the night. The hunger it felt for the emotions they broadcast made it stay. It was glorious that night when the old one had finally tried to touch it, the fear and horror had been like a drug to it.  It craved more.

It saw and felt the new one coming into the place, as it moved, wraithlike toward it.

Yes! There is was! That same fear, muted, but present. It knew that this one would be the one to grant it what it was seeking.

This one was younger, stronger, hotter, more vibrant than the old one. 

It's fear would feed the hunger for a long while.  

(Blinddream writes)    

Claire thought back to the closed gate. "If the place is crawling with roaches, I’ll jump the wall and get an exterminator.” Her steps brought her closer to the entrance. She was never good with the unknown as a child. Her brother Frank was great at practical jokes when they were growing up but over time it unnerved her. Frank's buddies like to work her over in high school knowing she was easy to jump at the slightest surprise.  

Her eyes remained fixed on the library windows as she approached the front steps. This was a grand building which called to her. She smiled the smile one puts on a face when they regain composure in an unpleasant situation. As her foot reached the first step she heard the sound of a door slam shut somewhere around the left side of the building. This made her jump back and hold; ears reaching out to hear anything at all. She could feel the perspiration on her forehead.  

"Anybody? Anybody there?"  

Claire thought, "John Sutherland looked rather pale when we last met.  He knew there was more here her than met the eye."  

Mustering up her courage while touching the white gold cross her mother gave her, she moved up the stairs and tried the door. Her hand stuck to the knob from the pine sap she picked up rubbing her smarting leg.  

"This is not my day!"   The door was locked and now a sticky hand.  

"Fool," she said aloud. "The keys are in your purse!"  

(Debbydoes writes)    

As she turned to head back to her car, she was astonished to see her purse sitting on the doorstep behind her. "Now, I know I left that in the car" she said, and looked around left and right, but there were no signs of anyone, anywhere. As she was putting her hands into her purse, reaching for the keys, the massive front door opened on it's own. Claire looked up, expecting someone, a caretaker, anybody, to be standing there in the door, but there was no one. Feeling a little spooked, she approached the doorway and looked in. It looked safe, so she stepped gingerly over the threshold, not knowing what to expect next. She called out expectantly, "Is anyone here? " "Hello?" She walked slowly along the main hallway taking in the beautiful arched doorways, and the trompe l'oeil on the walls, and she stopped to take some photos. These were truly magnificent examples of Italian art. She was beginning to fall in love with the place, and hating the thought of selling it. As she approached the library, She was sure that she could feel the warmth of a fire, and entered the room to find a lovely fire blazing in the fireplace. Pulled up close to the fire was a chair, and she could make out the form of a man, pipe in hand, sitting there, smoking at his leisure. At her approach the old man stood up, and turning to greet her, said "Welcome , my child. I've been expecting you."  

(Meirav writes)    

Claire froze on the spot, staring at the old man, not having the first idea what to say. She felt like turning away and leaving, running out of this house, heading straight back to her car and driving back to... to normality, to what she knew to be a safe and ordinary world out there.  

What the hell was going on here? Nothing made any kind of sense. The house had been empty for years, her rational brain told her. There was no one living here. The door had been locked... and then suddenly somehow opened of its own accord. There was a fire here in this room and an old man greeting her and... she wanted to get out of here pretty fast. None of this made sense.  

And yet...  

She was really standing here, the door had really opened, this old man was really standing in front of her and the fire really was lit.  

Was she going mad? Hallucinating? Or was it some kind of stupid prank like her brother used to play on her when they were kids?  

She had no idea how long she had been standing there when the woman came into the room, wheeling a trolley with three cups and saucers, a teapot, and a biscuit tin. "Do sit down, girl, make yourself comfortable," she said. "I'll pour."  

(Mrlaf writes)  

She knew the only way to make sense of this situation was to address it head-on. She took in a breath to ask, with all the authority she could muster, who the these people were and why were they here. Before the words could leave her throat there was a bark behind her.  She startled so strongly she felt as if she left her skin for a split second.  She turned to look behind her. A Yorkshire terrier cowered in the corner, trembling with wide eyes.  

Claire turned back to the two people. They were gone, as was the tea service and the warming fire. She turned back to the dog. The Yorkie bared its teeth and growled deep in its throat. Somewhere in the depths of her memory she could here the Dog Whisperer teaching that “this is not aggression, it is fear.” Certainly the look in the dog’s eyes bore that out.  

“I know how you feel, honey,” she said. “I’m well past spooked myself.”  

Claire crouched and reached a hand toward the little dog saying, “Come on, sweetie. We’ll get out of here together.” 

The dog gave a shrill bark and darted past her.  The movement was so quick that Claire fell back dropping her camera and purse.  

“Hey,” she called after the Yorkie.  

She followed it out of the library into the main hallway, and stopped cold, her heart lodging somewhere in her throat. Where the hallway floor had been was now a gaping hole. The door to the outside world, to sanctuary, to safety, was open and tantalizing at the other end of the hallway, but there was no way across the abyss.  

She looked at the dark pit. A spiral of marble steps descended into the darkness. The Yorkie sat several steps down, at the point where light became dark.  

“Come on, baby,” she said, her voice shaking, “come on out of there.”  

The dog barked and ran down the stairs disappearing in the inky blackness.  

(Provencepuss writes)    

Claire fumbled in her bag and found her small flashlight; she peered over the edge of the abyss and trained the beam into the gloom. Carefully, cursing the high-heeled boots she was wearing, she started down the stairs. The dog was nowhere to be seen but she could hear something echoing from below.

The stairs led to a long corridor that had been hewn into the stone below the house..

Laughter and the chink of glasses wafted towards her. She walked towards the sound, her path lighted by candles that flamed as she walked past them. She put the flashlight back in her bag.

The candle light flickered revealing paintings and statues in niches along the stone wall. Something moved. A shiver ran down her spine and she shook herself physically and mentally before glancing over her shoulder. There was nothing behind her; but again she sensed a movement beside her. The sensation of being watched unnerved her and she began to ask herself why she had decided to come to an old deserted house at the end of a long day.

“Well Claire, dear, why did you come?” The voice was low and sibilant and it came from her left. She turned to see a statue of a small cat-like creature staring at her with glowing yellow eyes.  

(Rangerlord writes)  

As Claire looked at the small creature, she wondered if she had completely lost her mind. People had warned her that if she continued to put in these long hours she'd have a nervous breakdown. Somehow she'd pictured herself lapsing into a crying fit in the office washroom, not seeing hallucinations, if that's what they were, in the old Sutherland estate.

"Is that what you think I am?" the creature asked, and this time Claire caught the flash of dainty white fangs in the beam of her flashlight. The glowing yellow eyes narrowed in cat-like amusement.

"What are you?" Claire asked, now more certain than ever that she had lost it. She was talking to her hallucination now.

The cat-like creature stood, and stalked toward her on paws that clinked like stone on the marble stairs. Tiny bat wings were visible on it's back, too small to be functional, but there nonetheless. "Consider me your guide," it said. "And perhaps your protector. You are clearly brave to have come this far and not turned back...but my kind have been protecting yours against these evils for centuries. Though I am but a minor representation of my kind I may be able to help you."

It now stood near enough to her feet she almost expected it to wrap itself around her ankles. There was no fur on it's sleek body, only a hard stone surface that was riddled with small cracks to allow it to move. It looked on the verge of shattering at any moment, and yet there was no hint of frailty to it. In fact, it seemed quite vibrant and alive.

"Your kind?" she asked.

The tiny head looked up to blink yellow eyes at her. "Why, a gargoyle, of course," it said.  

(Next it was MY turn -- but this is not the end yet -- Ranikaye writes) 

 “Can you hear me now?” Paul quipped his signature line.  

The director shouted, “Okay, that’s a wrap! Let’s pack it up and call it a day.”  

The road was sufficiently desolate, and the light from the sun was waning as the cast and crew began to stow their gear in the van.  

Paul was a star, thanks to these Verizon ads, but they sure did take you off the beaten path. Just beyond the portion of the road where they were filming, Paul could see a slight break in the tree-line. “Looks like an abandoned road,” he thought. “It’ll take a good 25 minutes for the crew to load up. Think I’ll wander over there to see what’s up.”  

So as Claire was visioning gargoyles, Paul was coming upon the Sutherland gate, and wondering at the car parked in front of the fallen tree.  

He flipped open his phone, and saw the bars were still strong as ever.

Curiosity got the better of him, though, and he decided to climb over the gate.  
When he got to the tree, he noticed a cell phone and some sort of remote device in a small pile of broken branches. He picked up the cell phone and opened it. “T Mobile,” he thought with disgust. “No bars for you,” he grinned.  
He pushed the button on the remote, and the old gate behind him groaned open.  

He stuffed the cell phone and remote in his jacket pocket, and continued walking towards the mansion. He could smell the smoke from the fireplace, as he headed to his doom.  

The wraith inside could sense another, this one coming without apprehension, but he was up to the challenge. “Even if there is no fear, I know how to create it.”  

“Can you hear me now?” thought Paul, as he knocked on the door to the Sutherland mansion.  

(Tabbynera was the last to contribute)  

The door was opened but from no human hand. There was no-one standing there to ask him what he wanted. Paul called but there was no answer: All he heard was the crackling of a fire coming from the library. The door to the library was open and Paul walked in. He was surprised to see no fire; indeed he felt an icy chill go through his bones. He decided to leave this room as quickly as possible, but at that moment the door slammed shut. Panic gripped him and he made an effort to open the door, but some unseen force was keeping the door closed.  

Now Paul’s courage was slowly but surely diminishing and he wanted to leave this room as soon as possible. He saw another door on the other side and hoped that this would be his rescue. He opened this door and found himself in a chapel; at least it resembled a chapel. The altar was black granite and marble statues were arranged around its sides. As he walked towards the altar he felt the eyes of the statues watching him. He then felt a breath of air on his neck making the hairs on the nap of his neck stand on end. It was as if someone was standing behind him. He turned and saw a man looking at him with a malevolent grin on his face. It was then that Paul’s nerves gave way and he fainted.    

And now MY VERSION OF HOW THIS STORY ENDS:    

“That wasn’t much of a challenge after all,” thought the wraith.  A little bit of bump-in-the-night and this one thinks the statues have eyes and his own mirror image means him harm.  At least the woman kept her wits about her until she stumbled against the switch when the “dog” barked.  

The wraith liked to toy with people’s fantasies.  His Grandpa Sutherland had died of fright himself when his dream-weaver mind had grown old and frail.  Grandpa wrote horror fiction every day of his adult life.  It was he who built the cellar in the mansion.  It was he who kept the wraith-like creature in the cellar, telling him he’d come from nowhere, and had always had an invisible existence here in the Sutherland mansion.  

The youngest Sutherland daughter had died in childbirth, and her pregnancy was not disclosed to any of her siblings who were grown and gone.  There hadn’t been a funeral, and there hadn’t been an inquest.  The older Sutherland heirs had all been told she ran away.  

Eighteen years, the wraith had listened as the man would speak of horror, which he wrote and sold to others.  He would try out his literary devices in the mansion, casting his grandson in the role of evil wraith, as they tested the visual effects with life-size props, computerized holographs, state-of-the art sound.  

The woman in the basement, Claire, finding herself dreadfully afraid, but still not dead, saw the Yorkie at last, cowering in the corner, and reached again to touch him.  Her hand, this time, went completely through him, and she realized that he was neither an hallucination, nor a real creature.  

Paul, in the chapel, woke up from his faint, and finding himself to still be alive, opened his Verizon cell phone (which still had bars, even in the mansion) and called 9-1-1.  

The mansion was sold for ten million dollars to the Lowe Ad Agency, and they used it for the new Verizon Ad series about creepy dead zones. 

Claire’s commission on the sale was $700,000, but she lost most of it in the stock market crash of 2008, and earns her living now making guest appearances on Dr. Phil and Oprah.  

The split of the sale’s proceeds among the Sutherland heirs included an annuity to Shady Acres Psychiatric Facility for as long as it would take to give a human heart and emotions to a child abused by horror from the moment of his birth.  

THE END