When was the last time your practice your art of writing, just for the fun of it? So far I have no comments left behind on my posts. So here is an opportunity.
The last time I practiced my art was this morning. It happens that I really like writing my current endeavor "Pagan Mirth". You may ask why. It is about my favorite subject of all time. It deals with history. It deals with the Holy Grail. I deals with all those medieval cyclical romances like King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. It deals with faith. It deals with how we practice our faith. It deals with mystery. It deals with family. It deals with genealogy. These are all subjects I really enjoy and participate in on a regular basis. So, I ask myself, "What's not to like about writing this book?" My answer is, "Not one blooming thing!"
With that in mind, I also like to take occasional detours. My detours are timed writings using a prompt. So here is our assignment. It requires discipline and honesty on your part. I want all of us to take the prompt at the end of the blog post and spend 15 minutes and write what ever comes to mind . Now here is where the discipline comes in Only Correct Your Spelling. Leave it Raw. Leave it Real. Leave it as something you think can lead to something else. Can you do it? It will be a challenge.
Let see how many we can accumulate by Tuesday, January 22, 2013 16:00 CST?
Here is the prompt: "Her fingernails buried in my neck".
Her Fingernails Buried in My Neck
ReplyDeleteIt was a cool spring day as I was knee deep in the Snake River somewhere south of Jackson Hole, Wyoming. It was too soon for the mayfly hatch; however it was isolated and gave me room to think, to dream, to commune with my ancestors as they would come and visit on the spring breeze. I was trying out a new batch of wet flies that I had tied over the winter. It was sort of like product testing to see which new pattern worked the best. The one that caught the most interest was a fresh water shrimp. The body was made of rabbit fur, died bright pink. It was dubbed on pink thread over a base of lead wire for weight.
In reality, the catching of fish was only secondary for my reason on being on the river. The main reason was to flesh out a new story line for my next mystery novel. I always got help from my great-grandfather will and my other two muses, whom I call Easa and Maria. My great-grandfather Will was a great journal writer and knew how to sell a story. I was lost to reality as I rode that razor thin line that separates vision from insanity. I am usually pretty careful when I am out in the wilderness, alone with my fly rod. There were still quite a bit of snow on the ground and was completely surprised when great-granddad, Will told me to look out. Along the bank was standing a mama Wyoming Grizzly Bear.
She was looking at me like her next meal after waking from a winter’s nap. I knew better than to run or to look like prey to her. I was in the middle of the river with no cover, and nowhere to go. I kept backing up as I cast my fly up stream. I was nearly at the far bank when the Grizzly started bounding across the river in great lumbering leaps. The area I backed into was loaded with thick bushes with stout trunks. I climbed into the middle of the briar patch; I call it that even though I knew it wasn’t briar.
Old Griz couldn’t get to me from the river, so she had to find a place to climb out of the icy flow. She clamored over the thick bushes crushing many along the way. She was able to reach my location. I was buried deep and the only way she could get me was by stretching her long arm and huge paw into where I was hunkered-down. I was ready; my large blade was out the sheath about the same time as I felt her long fingers buried in my neck. As a reflex, I buried the six inches of finely honed stainless steel into her rather large hand. I felt the blade knick my shoulder, as she yanked her paw from her death thrust.
I tried to hold on to the knife; but her powerful arm yanked it from my grasp. (… Time up!)