And He answered and said unto them, "I tell you that, if these should hold their peace, the stones would immediately cry out."

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Sunday Scribblings # 216

Sunday Scribblings #216 - dragon
I know we don't very often go fantasy here at Sunday Scribblings, and this doesn't have to be if you don't want to go there. It is inspired by this J.R.R. Tolkien quote: "It does not do to leave a live dragon out of your calculations, if you live near him."

This is a piece I wrote about 3 years ago. I reread after a couple of years and I still like it. Would love some good feedback on this one.

by C. Deanne
Copyright 2010 All Rights Reserved

Pragmatism, child. I have taught you since you played as a hatchling in the trees.

Yet another harvest, my daughter. And still, you do not listen. You will see for yourself if I am right in so teaching you.

This stone shelf is warm. The sun loves it here, high on the mountain, above the trees. Your bones and flesh will warm on this smooth stone well into autumn. Keep it clean, my child. It does not belong to us, really. Lord Arawn has not come here in many good long years but he will one day. They always do and out of politeness and regard for their courtesy, you must keep the shelf clean. He and his people have never once hunted you or your brother. For that matter, they have never bothered me, your father or any of your sires; that means something. Do not forget. This is their holy place.

There are many things that I will miss. I have many memories here, most of them are good. Just the few bad ones from my youngest days. I befriended a little girl at the root of one of the mountains. Her hair was gold, like armor on your chest and she was sweet as ripened berries in summer. Many a fine talk we had when she was a little one and I a dragonling. We walked the tree line. We hid, or we thought we hid, from her mother. Her mother said nothing, bowing her head towards me; she never said a word to me. And the little girl—what was her name, it's been so long? She used to run to me, her curls bouncing in the summer fields when the wildflowers were in bloom. So pretty she looked, so pretty that I forget how sick I would get from the flower dust.

The winter was particularly harsh that year and their days from the Flood were young. Their hovels were dirty and drafty and a fair one could become sick. Quickly. Like a sudden wind from the North, blowing the leaves away. No more bouncing curls. No more little walks. Her mother's vacant stare. She wouldn't look at me. Even when she was bent with age.

And now listen to me, daughter. You are your father's daughter. I try to spare you such pain. It has never left me, after all these long years. The hot summer sun should comfort my old bones, the fields swelling with grass and I still catch myself thinking about a mother's loss when I was a dragonling.

I have cleaned the ancestral home as best as I could. I put all the dried bones in the privy. The tunnels are smooth from many sires. You would do well to keep them tidy. The tunnels are smooth from many sires; will you remember them? They had all gone before and many of them had left by the time you hatched. Now there are the three of us and now, there will be only two of you.

I have tried to reason with your brother but he is lusty with greed. Balor has promised him the Jewels of Arawn and he listens. Perhaps he will listen to you. Understand me. He will die if he holds to this promise and maintains the covenant. For what has Balor to offer him that he does not have already and more? His hoard is ten times what Balor offers. Greed. It has been the bane of many of my cousins. Many more left and crossed the great sea; more moved to other mountains and other kingdom. The spring wind blows from the waters but I feel their presence no more.

Balor will cause you trouble, but not the way that you think. He will not dare to defy you or gather your blood. He may be blind, but he is cunning like a snake. Like us, I suppose. He offers jewels and riches that he does not have. He seeks to regain glory; glory that he never had. He claims that the land belongs to him and his people. Bah! His people were starving to death before the outsiders. He taxed the outsiders, bullied the peasants, and gave them earls that couldn't grow a clover in the middle of a field. Who didn't know the land. Who forced those poor people to grow wheat crops in hardened clay. Stupidity. And the lowlands, where the water remained, they left untouched. Better they had raised cattle and sheep instead of scratching weeds. Better for us, aye? Ha. Yes, of course, better for us.

Balor will cause division. I have seen him go back to the henges. I have heard rumors for the jackdaws. He has started the sacrifices again, but he is smart. He uses the children of his enemies because he says they are pure and will be raised by the goddess. Did he even ask her if this is her will? He asks the fickle moon; she changes her mind at every turn. Foolishness.

The outsiders bring the cult, as they call it. The New religion. Mother and Father, Lord Arawn, we worship the same Chreawdwr and have for time forgotten. His Lordship comes to this very spot to summon our God; if I remember correctly, God will answer him right here. You might remember the last time. It was just before Balor wiped out the Nemedians. Arawn asked for guidance, if he should be involved. Fool. He asked too late and could not, would not wait. Bloodshed everywhere and our kindred flew in from all parts to feast. Balor killed many of them, dear friends, draining their blood and storing it away. My brother, your uncle wouldn't listen; he fell and I felt his loss deep in my heart. The Nemedians are gone and those that survived sailed the Western Shores. They weren't all bad. No. But they are all alike, my daughter, all of them; they are like the cornflower and speedwells blooming in the summer and perishing in the new moon of fall. You must protect your golden heart from them or it will be broken.

These past months I flew the length of the Range and back. I glided the turgid currents until I thought my wings would fold in the air. I built up my strength, daughter, for my long journey.
We knew this parting would come for it is part of who we are. We may linger for an age and there comes a time inside us to leave and forsake. To push the memories and the past behind and soar to the new. I am going to your father and his people. I feel his presence yet, strong and vital. They have strange ideas, being from the west. He had a keen interest in relationships with men and women, particularly with children. He enjoys helping them and serving them. I always admired that their brevity never scarred him as it has me. Perhaps admired isn't the right word. Respected. Yes. I respected your father's pragmatism.

The winds between summer and autumn will go with me so I must leave now. You may visit anytime you wish. You will not, of course, but you are always welcome to fellowship with me. I will feel your presence during this time of year; you have only to send your thoughts to the wind and I will hear them as you will hear me in the early spring.

Ah, daughter. You are beautiful and strong, wise and kind. How proud I am of who you have become. How proud your grandsires would be. In my heart, I feel they are proud of you even now.

One more thing. The jackdaws are our friends; they will bring you news from all over the realm and from Dyfydd and Rheged. Their constant chattering can be irritating but they are good company and loyal. Do not forsake them in their time of need.

Your father told me when you were a dragonling that his home was so different. He lives in the water and makes his home in caves beneath them. He once told me, though, that caves such as ours dot their mountains. Still, he told me his land is harsh, with taller mountains and few meadows. As beautiful as they are and as many painful and pleasant memories they bring, I will not miss them. Every spring, every year I become sick.

I haven't forgotten anything. I thought I would. Only heed my words. You are a dragon and you are long lived. Pragmatism will keep you alive; do not trust your heart to men. They do not live long and each time you love one of them, your heart will be crushed. The Chreawdwr blessed us and punished us with long life and strong memory. Take heed.

How proud I am of you, my beautiful child with the golden heart.


Monday, May 17, 2010

Sunday Scribblings # 215

#215 - recipe
With all of the foodie blogs out there, sometimes I get full just looking at the internet. With deliciousness in mind this week, I thought I'd suggest something a little different. The prompt is: recipe. Do with it what you will!

My Scattered Mind

(results and ingredients will vary. This is a good, basic recipe)

For this recipe, you will need the following ingredients.

1 - redheaded boy with a social skill problem

1 - 11 year old girl with braces, zits, hormones and low blood sugar

1 - 9 year old boy with the attention span of a fly

1 - tired husband, who is no longer afforded the luxury of overtime, unless authorized

3 - churches: one for the family; one for the daughter; one for the boys

5 - personalities

1 1/2 bible studies: one you could only attend in the fall; one you can attend regularly

2 - semesters of college; more if needed

5 gallons/yards/gross of music, homework and chores

a dash of dreams

a pinch of crabbiness, PTA, anxiety






Preheat the summer air in Chicago to 90 to 100 degrees F. Add moisture, if the atmosphere is not saturated already.

Add first four ingredients and let them go. Either tread carefully around them or step out of their way.

Stir in churches, personalities. Simmer gently. Carefully add Bible studies and then college. If you reverse the order, the husband will fly off the handle and you will have a mess on your hands.

Transfer into the music. Stir often so that practicing, chores and homework do not get mushy or stick together.

Add the dreams, along with the crabbiness, PTA and anxiety. Be careful that you don't add too much PTA because it can overwhelm the recipe.

Sprinkle with guilt liberally; in this recipe, there is never enough.

It is easy to walk away from this recipe because it takes a long time until it is done. In fact, it takes a lifetime. While you are stirring, add imagination, love, hope and faith; without them, the stirring is useless and your results will be ruined.

Best served on a cold November day with hot chocolate, blankets and the Three Stooges on Saturday night.

For more creative entries, please go to Sunday Scribblings

Sunday, May 9, 2010

Sunday Scribblings # 214

Note: I took this from another prompt but it fits Sunday Scribblings' prompt as well.


Training Wheels

I made him wear a helmet. I don't care; there will be no skull fracture if I can help it.

We bought him one of those push bicycles but he wouldn't pedal. We tried everything. He liked tricycles at other people's homes but outgrew them before we could purchase one.

We bought him a bike with training wheels. He outgrew it.

We bought him a larger bike with training wheels, but when we took the training wheels off, he still couldn't do it.

It all has to do with upper body weakness and low muscle tone. I read that's part of my son's diagnosis. What that has to do with autism or asperger's syndrome, I'll never know.

We gave up on it or rather, we let it go. My husband and I had tried our best and if he couldn't ride a bike, so be it. There are so many more worse things in life than that.

But that sunny afternoon, my husband called me from our side door and let the screen slam shut. I hate that noise and so does he, so I ran out; my husband does not let a screen door slam for nothing.

I walked to our front sidewalk and there he was. In fifth grade, yes, but riding without training wheels and beaming.

How many prayers had gone up for that small childhood milestone. My husband and I watched him pedal past us and felt a couple of fears lift off our shoulders and vanish.

Saturday, May 8, 2010

Observations Part ?

I went on a little writing spurt for a while, posting on blogger and Multiply. Then I got distracted with school and life and here it is, May.

I had so many goals and dreams about writing a novel. Now I'm not sure I ever will. It's pretty sad when your goal is not to write a great novel; your goal is to finish, to complete.

I thought about doing a frame novel, like in "The Martian Chronicles," where the novel is almost a compilation of short stories that centers around the colonization of Mars.

I thought of using the snowflake method to outline a good plot and then write it from there.

In the end, I'm back where I started from--the beginning.

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

Dragon Writing Prompts 050410

From Dragon Writing Prompts:

Tell a true story ... in one sentence. No cheating with run ons ;-) Tell the essence and keep it succinct.

After asperger's, ADHD is a mere inconvenience.
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