Create A Story: a prompt journal to help you write a story: page 30

I was given this book for my birthday? Christmas? Hmm..

Each page has a title and 15 words you can use in the body of your story.

Here we go:

15 words: mime, predict, fame, detect, cinema, art, show, entertain, clue, pattern, crime, director, catch, disguise, motive

A copycat crook goes on a string of robberies that mirror famous movies:

a movie? 😉

Growing up grandma had this saying, “believe half of what you see and even less of what you hear.” Lately, the local news has been filled with wild stories about a crime spree that has law enforcement stumped. Someone has been robbing the wealthy in our town causing Johnny Law to scratch his head. So far, the CRIME scenes have given the cops a CINEMAtic nightmare.

It took showing the photos on the news for someone to figure it out. At the first house was a note; “MIME! All mime!” Cops were convinced someone couldn’t spell mine.

Pieces of black and white fabric were everywhere. Jail jumper colors. Mirrors in the homes were streaked with white paint, make-up? Who knew?

At the second house, the CLUE was a battered top hat with a red flower coming out of it. Locals found the stories ENTERTAINing. Homeowners were trying to PREDICT who would be next.

Cops found a pair of white gloves and another note; “DETECT this.” What’s the PATTERN? Why? Police were begging for a MOTIVE. Other than the obvious.

This thief was gaining local FAME. Crime scenes were turning into a ART SHOWs. A 3 ring circus. Citizens would arrive at the crime scenes dressed like who the envisioned the criminal being. How to CATCH this master of DISGUISE?

At house number 5 the note read, “1976!” Again the police were baffled. A birthday? An anniversary? The DIRECTOR of the local t.v. station laid out all the clues in a special report. Who was this criminal master mime?

No one could believe it. Grandma would be proud.

The Snake and The Rabbit

The House

As it turned out, Luther Maxwell was the name of the innkeeper. But everyone just called him Max. From what we could gather, The Lady first started calling him Max and it stuck to him. Max had not done anything to keep up the appearance of Mrs. Brookstead’s house. Indeed, the grass was up to our knees as we walked along the broken path to the house.

“I must enquire,” Holmes turned at the door toward our guide, “why have you not taken as good of care with this home as you did the other?”

“Mrs. Brookstead has a son, able bodied, criminal but able bodied none the less. Why can he not look after things? The Lady, to my knowledge has no one.”

Holmes grunted slightly.

Upon opening the door, a foul odor came to our noses. The inspector held a handkerchief to his nose, Holmes his glove covered hand. Our bright eyed constable friend from last night, threw up in the bushes beside the porch.

“What is that smell?” The innkeeper gagged.

“Death,” came Holmes’ very calm reply.

The house had almost no furniture at all. The sitting room had a desk and a chair. The kitchen had a table and a chair. A small bed room had a single bed. There were no pictures on the walls. No books anywhere to be found. The last door Holmes opened was as grotesque a thing as I had ever wished to see. We found the source of the foul odor. From floor to ceiling, the walls were covered with two phrases. In many places they were overlapping each other: one was, please forgive me and the other was I am sorry. Over and over at least a hundred times each of the phrases appeared.

“A woman’s hand writing,” Holmes pointed out.

“A woman lived here,” the innkeeper reminded us.

“Even so,” Holmes remarked as he busied himself studying the writing.

“Do I even suggest that this was written in blood?” Inspector Hopkins reminded me sharply that he was in the room.

“It is,” Holmes answered, “blood from the same person.”

“But how?” I asked. “There is no blood on the floor. How could someone do all this without spilling a drop on the floor?”

“Because, each drop was precious. Each drop has a purpose.” Holmes took out his glass to look more closely at this horror. Inspector Hopkins was busy writing notes. Our investigation was interrupted by a cry.

Behind us, we found a man, in his thirties, screaming wildly at the sight before him.

The Snake and The Rabbit

Thankful Thursday

June 19th/20 ish someone stole my lawnmower. Walked up to my house and rolled it off my carport in broad daylight. Yeah me! It has taken me this long to get a replacement for different reasons: procrastination, lack of desire. Flat didn’t want to.

A coworkers family got some extra money. I hired her husband to mow my yard twice. It felt nice coming home to a mowed yard. Even better that I didn’t have to do it. But a luxury like that is out of my budget for an extended period of time.

I got my replacement. Upset that I had to do it. I wasn’t ready. My stolen piece of equipment wasn’t dead – yet. On the other hand, I’m grateful to God that I was able to replace it.

Thanks to my bestie and her husband for helping me look.

Waste not. Want not: nuts.

This poem is being written in stages to highlight the things I do toward frugal living.

Nuts on sale? What a deal.
Really, it was a steal.

This left over powder; can I season more nuts?
Plain Jane can be such a rut.

Plain or not, they will get eaten.
But if I can season them a little, boredom beaten.

https://byjolenerice.wordpress.com/2023/07/04/waste-not-want-not-dyi/

Waste not. Want not: DIY

Once there was Darkness

Chapter 43

Kol was getting ready for the day ahead. Kessa had already left. She placed a sweet note on her pillow.

There was a knock at his door, “come.” It was Frego. “My son, those are lovely.” Frego’s attention was pulled to a small desk at the foot of the bed. A large vase of flowers had been put there. Are they from you?”

“Me? No.” Frego shook his head. “I will take credit for it if you need me to.”

“They are lovely.” Kol was lost in thought.

“You know, you get flowers every year on this day.”

The expression on Kol’s face was of shock and dismay. “Something else I’ve forgotten.” He traced one of the colorful flowers with his finger. This day filled him with joy and torment. He would have like to forget it. But the man standing in front of him would never allow it. “Do you have special plans today?”

“A group of us are going to the far beach. Nothing really exciting. I’ve invited Violet.” Frego blushed.

“You like her?”

He had the same crooked smile that his dad had. “Yeah. She’s pretty amazing.” Kol handed his son a small velvet box. He was excited and nervous at the same time. “Dad!” He exclaimed.  

Kol had given his son his mother’s wedding rings. “Keep them safe until the day you choose to give them away. Perhaps if things get serious with Violet, she may get your mother’s rings.” Frego was shocked when his dad cupped his hands around his and the box. “I am not giving you these as a trap. I don’t want you to view this gift as me pushing you in any way to get married or start a family. When you are ready, give these away because you want to. Because you feel that you can’t live another day without this person. Give them away out of love not any other reason.”

Frego choked down the lump that was in his throat. “Thank you.”

Kol smiled, “enjoy your birthday.”

“Thank you.”

What a night.

The first thing I saw was my feet. White toe nail polish almost glowing in the vast darkness. And I do mean vast darkness. A void so deep that I was afraid to utter a sound. Afraid it wouldn’t make it from my lips to my ears. The weight of the darkness would crush them before they could materialize.

My body felt almost weightless. It was that sensation you get when standing on the edge of a high diving board. Wiggling your toes over the edge into nothingness. True nothingness.

I moved my head and neck to the full range of their abilities. Leaving my feet planted in their spot. Darkness enveloped me on all sides. Should I breathe? I had to breathe. My lungs burned with a desire for air. Air that was sterile. Void of any flavor. Good or bad.

A ball of light whizzed by my head. If it made a sound, it was absorbed by the darkness. I tightly shut my eyes. Half afraid it would knock me over. With great caution, I squinted to see the ball in front of me. Motionless. Soundless. No light emanated from it. It was just a round ball of white light.

It floated before my eyes. Inside the light I read, ‘Fighting with God’. What? What could this mean?

I was so focused on this ball and its message that I hadn’t noticed the hundreds of balls that now danced before me. Some were different. They ranged from bright white to pale yellow. Several of them flickered. As if they were about to go out.

A flickering one moved from the far back of the pack to my face. Between flickers I was able to read, ‘Mad man at my door’. The flickering messed with my sight. Forcing me to close my eyes.

This one was yellow, ‘5023’. Another bright white one, ‘Buck’. Then it dawned on me. These were stories, poems, things I was working on in different stages of production. Bright white ones were complete. Yellow, was a work in progress. While the flickering ones were ideas.

The darkness suddenly started moving. It startled me. What now? The vast darkness. Endless darkness seemed to turn itself into round shapes bouncing off each other in a helter skelter fashion. Some of the balls turned gray.

This gray one said, ‘thank you’. It had been an idea that I hadn’t used. Didn’t know how to form the right words.

What were these black ones? No. These? NO! These couldn’t be all the ideas I had rolling around in my brain. Some of them brushed up against my skin. Causing it to tingle. While other seem to dance in my hair. I imagined my hair looked like it was full of static electricity. Clinging desperately to the orbs.

Do I really have so many ideas bouncing around in this small brain of mine?

I held out my arms. Wanting to feel the vibration against my skin. Was I floating? Did these orbs have the power to lift me from this vast darkness? How many of the black ones would I be able to turn white?

I smiled. Wanted to giggle but refrained. Wanted to shout for joy but remained quiet. Secretly afraid I would scare the ideas away.