WEP April Challenge-Antique Vase

It's April, and that means it's time for another WEP Challenge. This month we have Antique Vase. I hope you enjoy!

Inheritance

The bright light of day hit Donna in the face as she exited the attorney’s office. She squinted as she cradled the antique vase in her arms, keeping one hand atop of it to ensure the lid wouldn’t fall and smash to bits in the parking lot. The heft of it sent waves of pain through her shoulders and down her back. In all the years she admired this vase from afar, she never imagined how heavy it would be.

“I can’t believe she only left you a vase,” Orville said as he walked beside her. He twirled his car keys in his hand, the other shoved deep in his jeans pocket.

Donna glared. The expression was lost behind the massive vase, of course, but the expression still made her feel better. He could probably do with a smack upside the head like she used to deliver when they were kids, but they were in public and her arms were occupied. “Don’t be like that,” she muttered. “I always loved this vase. I was never allowed to touch it as a child. That probably made me love it even more, to be honest.”

Orville shook his head. “I always thought it was ugly.”

Donna bristled at that. The tan paint on the outside was cracked in places, and little chips and dings adorned its surface. Once vibrant red zigzagging lines on the top and bottom had faded to the color of dried blood. Okay, it wasn’t the most beautiful object in the world, but that didn’t dampen her love for it. Her nostalgia goggles wouldn’t allow her to forget all those hours she spent staring at it as a kid, wondering about all the places the vase had been before it took up residence on her aunt’s mantle. Who owned it before? How had it earned all those little imperfections?

“I know Aunt Margaret wasn’t the richest woman in the world, but it seems like you got the short end of the stick,” Orville continued. “You actually visited her regularly. Mom got the house, and they barely got along, for crying out loud. I saw her three times in five years, and I still got her car.”

The car in question was a ten-year-old black Chevy Impala. Aunt Margaret had been proud the day she bought it. “First brand new car I’ve ever owned in my life. It’s about time I treated myself.”

Donna decided not to reply. It would only encourage him to keep babbling, and her patience was wearing thin. She didn’t want to get into an argument.

Aunt Margaret wouldn’t have held back, though. Were she able to hear Orville right then, she’d have given him a piece of her mind. She wasn’t one to mince words.

Their aunt lived alone most of her life. Her husband Charles up and left one day nearly thirty years before. No warning. No explanation. They didn’t have any children, either. Donna assumed her aunt might have moved on and started seeing someone as time went on, but she never did. The only time Donna asked about it, Margaret had shrugged. “I decided I don’t need the drama. I do just fine on my own.”

And she had. She never needed to ask anyone for anything. Perhaps her fierce independence had been intimidating to many, but Donna always admired it. She wished she could feel that confident in her decisions and interactions with others. Maybe if she could bring herself to tell Orville what she thought of his words, he might learn to shut his mouth a bit more often.

Donna almost heaved a sigh of relief when she reached her SUV. She leaned against the rear so she could keep the vase aloft while she fished her key fob out of her pants pocket.

“Talk to you later,” Orville called out as he headed off toward his own vehicle.

“Thanks for the help, little brother,” Donna grumbled under her breath.

The balancing act that followed kept Donna’s blood pressure elevated, but she finally got the rear hatch opened and the vase safely stowed away with some pillows and blankets to cushion it. She still didn’t know where she would keep it in her home, but that was a problem for tomorrow.

*     *     *

The next morning, Donna knelt on her living room floor beside the antique vase. She’d been too tired when she got home to properly study it. She now allowed herself a moment to run a hand over its surface. The rough texture of the surface teased her hand with its history, a secret she would never know. She moved her hand to the lid and, exercising great care, gently started to pry the lid back.

Did she anticipate finding anything hidden within? No. The action came more from the childhood fascination she’d built up around this vase. Kids want to turn over every stone and open every box, after all. This felt like a natural extension of that.

The lid came free easier than Donna expected. She gently set it on the floor and peered inside.

A golden sparkle caught her eye immediately. She reached inside and felt cool metal disks. Her heart nearly stopped when she pulled out a handful of golden coins. Her eyes were on the verge of bulging from her head as she reached in with her other hand. There were more coins inside. Many more, but there was also something else. She closed her fingers around the newly discovered object and fished out a stack of hundred-dollar bills.

She continued to scoop out the unexpected treasure, piling it on the carpet as she went. Her thoughts were wild with the possibilities. How much was here?

“No wonder the vase was so darn heavy,” she said to herself. “It had a secret.” So did Aunt Margaret, for that matter. And, on reflection, Donna knew it would be best to maintain that secret.

Word Count: 990

FCA

The Insecure Writer's Support Group: April 2020

It's the first Wednesday of April, and that means it's time for another meeting of The Insecure Writer's Support Group. Our leader Alex J. Cavanaugh has assembled a group of great co-hosts for this month: Diane Burton, JH Moncrieff, Anna @ Emaginette, Karen @ Reprobate Typewriter, Erika Beebe, and Lisa Buie-Collard.

Be sure to visit the IWSG website for lots of writerly inspiration!

The optional question for this month is: The IWSG’s focus is on our writers. Each month, from all over the globe, we are a united group sharing our insecurities, our troubles, and our pain. So, in this time when our world is in crisis with the covid-19 pandemic, our optional question this month is: how are things in your world?

Things in my world feel a bit crazy, and I'm sure I'm not alone in that. Since the schools have shut down, I have all four of my kids at home every day. It doesn't feel the same as summer break, either, because I can't take them out to do so many of the activities associated with summer. I'm also doing my best to keep them on track with their learning, and that (along with the general level of anxiety I'm feeling on any given day) has hindered my writing. I started off the year doing so well, but I've stalled out over the last few days. Still, I shouldn't be too hard on myself. I've written just over 90K in my WIP, and I just need to wrap it up. I'll get there eventually.

My oldest son Jude also turns eleven on Monday. I feel guilty we won't be able to take him out for dinner like we originally planned, but I'll still make him a cake at home and try to make it as fun a day for him as I can.

Then again, some things in our world here at home are exactly the same. My husband is still working. His workplace has been deemed essential. I worry about what he might be exposed to while he's out, but we also don't have the financial concerns so many others are having right now. That's something to be grateful for.

How is life for you these days? How have things changed in your world, and how are you coping?

The Insecure Writer's Support Group: March 2020

It's the first Wednesday of the month, and that means it's time to convene another meeting of The Insecure Writer's Support Group. Our leader Alex J. Cavanaugh has assembled another cohort of excellent co-hosts: Jacqui Murray, Lisa Buie-Collard, Sarah Foster, Natalie Aguirre, and Shannon Lawrence.

Be sure to check out the IWSG website for great writing advice!

I wanted to take the time here to talk a little about my writing strategies for this year. One of my main challenges has been getting words on the page. I can come up with all kinds of excuses for not getting any writing done. The housework never ends. The kids always need something. I'm often tired. And those are all valid in their own ways, but sometimes I use those excuses as a crutch. I know I can make some time to get at least something written, and that if I want to make serious progress as a writer, that's what I need to do.

That's why I made a New Year's resolution. I set some goals for myself. I decided I was going to write a minimum of 500 words every single day, no excuses. My weekly minimum was 5,000 words. My monthly goal was 25,000 words. I told myself I wanted to exceed those as much as I could, but as long as I met the minimum, then I was doing okay. I got myself a planner and gave myself a star for every 500 words I wrote in a day. It may seem silly, but each star I gave myself felt like it's own little reward.

I'm happy to say that, so far, I've stayed on track with my goal. I haven't missed a day, even though it wasn't always easy. I contracted a nasty chest cold thanks to my children, so writing through that was a challenge. To prove my progress, here are the first two months of writing I documented.

I've now surpassed 70,000 words in my WIP. It's my goal to wrap up the first draft within the next few weeks, and as long as I stick with my word count goals, I should have no problem doing that.

What methods do you use to motivate yourself to write?

WEP February Challenge-Cafe Terrace

Hello everyone! It's time for the first WEP challenge of 2020! The theme for this month is Cafe Terrace. If you'd like to join in on the fun, head over and sign up!

I could have gone in a romantic direction. February is the perfect month for that, after all. That's not what happened, though. I sat down to write, and my brain took me in a different direction.

I hope you enjoy!

Calling the Shots

The warm moonlit night had enticed many to come enjoy a bit of dinner on the café terrace. Each table for two had been claimed by couples old and young. The background chatter filling the air had a bright, happy note to it. People wanted to be here and were relishing in their time.

Amelia’s stomach was in knots as she approached her table. She spent a full hour going through her closet to pick out the perfect dress. She ended up choosing a soft pink satin dress with a skirt that fell just past her knees. The matching pink high heels hugged her feet too tightly. She received them as a gift a year before, but seldom wore them due to the discomfort. For this night, though, the right look mattered too much to be deterred by a few blisters.

She took her seat across from a man she’d never met and waited for him to say something.

“I’ve ordered a bottle of wine.” The man’s face was several days unshaven, and his dark eyes were submerged in shadow. His black pinstripe suit would have looked at home in a court room, though this man operated on the other side of the law.

The candles flickered from the center of the table, casting a romantic light. Amelia clenched her fists in her lap. “I’m not old enough for wine,” she said softly, not wanting anyone to overhear her admission. This wasn’t to say she’d never sampled wine before, and worrying about the illegality of consuming alcohol seemed ludicrous given the circumstances.

He put his finger to his lips. “Shh. Let’s keep that between the two of us.”

“Okay.” Amelia would allow him to have his way for the moment.

“I’ve also ordered your food,” he said matter-of-factly, as if such an act were a foregone conclusion.

Anger licked at her insides, but she kept her face relaxed. Betraying fear or frustration would only empower the man. “I can’t wait to try it,” she said, keeping her words level.

He leaned forward on his elbows and studied her. “Amelia. That’s such a pretty name.”

She looked him in the eye. “Do you have a name?”

The man shook his head. “Not for you, I don’t.”

Amelia couldn’t allow his defiance to rattle her. A waiter approached their table then, and they lapsed into silence as he poured them each a drink. The red liquid in Amelia’s glass glowed like a ruby as she picked it up and took a sip. The wine was dry and strong. That strength helped fortify her.

Once the waiter was out of earshot, she spoke again. “Very well. I don’t need to know your name to say this. You need to leave me and my family alone.”

The man’s smile grew, revealing a chipped left canine tooth. “We need to discuss terms, and I prefer to do that over food. Be patient. Have a drink. Try to smile a little. That sour look on your face will draw attention.”

As much as Amelia didn’t want to draw attention, she didn’t appreciate being spoken to in that manner. She sat up straight, her spine rigid. Her parents taught her from a young age how to project confidence, and she needed those skills now more than ever. “I think you misunderstood the purpose of this meeting. We aren’t discussing terms. I came here to warn you. Blackmailing us is a mistake. You need to back off. My family will do a lot to protect one another, but that doesn’t involve acquiescing to your demands.” She waved her right hand, as if dismissing an invisible fly.

A red dot appeared on the man’s forehead. She averted her eyes, not wishing to draw attention to it.

“This is your last chance to change your mind. I will release the information. You and your family will be destroyed,” he said, a sick pleasure lacing his words. He clearly thought he’d either receive a great reward for his silence or the pleasure of watching her family go down in flames.

“No,” she said with conviction. “This is your last chance. You need to leave my family alone. You’re not the one calling the shots here. I am.”

His face darkened, a bulging vein popping out in the center of his forehead. The red dot lingered there right beside it. “Listen here little girl, you obviously don’t know who I am. I can make your life a living hell.”

The man’s voice was increasing in volume, and it wouldn’t be long before he drew unwanted attention their way. She had to put an end to it. And with one more wave of her hand, she did just that.

It all happened silently. One moment, the red dot was there. The next, a round hole replaced it, and the man’s eyes grew wide. He fell forward a couple seconds later, smashing into his wine glass in the process. The red liquid spilled forth, soaking the pristine white tablecloth. The stain spread quickly, soaking the fabric around him.

Amelia covered her mouth and cried out. The tears came easily, steaking down her cheeks. She’d always loved acting.

The patrons surrounding them turned to look, many of them jumping up from their chairs or ducking for cover as soon as they spotted the deceased man. They scrambled for the exits, trampling each other in the process.

She followed suit, eager to leave this place behind her. Her duty to her family was done. She’d protected them, and no one would suspect she had a thing to do with it. Her father would be proud.

Word Count: 942
FCA


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The Insecure Writer's Support Group: February 2020

It's the first Wednesday of the month, and that means it's time to convene another meeting of The Insecure Writer's Support Group. Our leader Alex J. Cavanaugh has rounded up another great group of co-hosts: Lee Lowery, Ronel Janse van Vuuren, Jennifer Hawes, Cathrina Constantine, and Tyrean Martinson.

Be sure to check out the IWSG website for great writerly advice!

The optional question for this month is: Has a single photo or work of art ever inspired a story? What was it and did you finish it?

We all know as writers that inspiration is everywhere, and a great source of inspiration can be a fellow creative's work. That's one reason why photos and other kinds of art make for great prompts when it comes to online writing contests and blog hops.

Years ago I used to participate in a blog hop called Five Sentence Fiction. The idea was to write a story, only five sentences long, and to use a photo for inspiration. I did this at a time when I lacked confidence in my story-telling skills, and I thoroughly enjoyed the challenge of it. Here's an example of one of many short stories I wrote through this hop.

WEP is another example of such a hop, where there is both a verbal prompt and a badge to serve as inspiration. A lot of the time, the visual element inspires my work, and such exercises are invaluable. They provide us with a chance to hone our skills and lead us down paths of inspiration that may not have come to us otherwise.

Has a photo or piece of art ever inspired your writing?

The Insecure Writer's Support Group-January 2020

It's time for another meeting of The Insecure Writer's Support Group. Our leader Alex J. Cavanaugh has assembled a great group of co-hosts for this month: T. Powell Coltrin, Victoria Marie Lees, Stephen Tremp, Renee Scattergood, and J.H. Moncrieff.

Be sure to check out the IWSG website!

Sorry this post is so late! Life got busy, and it completely slipped my mind that we were posting today. Better late than never though!

Here's the optional question for this month:

What started you on your writing journey? Was it a particular book, movie, story, or series? Was it a teacher/coach/spouse/friend/parent? Did you just "know" suddenly you wanted to write?

I've been a writer for as long as I can remember. Growing up, books filled our home. My parents were always reading. I was enraptured by the stories my parents would read to me. I wanted to know more about the people who created those stories. It astounded me that people had the power to imagine these different worlds, places, and possibilities. I can't recall an exact moment when I knew I wanted to be a writer,  but I also can't recall a time in my life when I didn't want it.

What started you on your writing journey?

WEP December Challenge-Footprints

Hello everyone! It's time for the December WEP Challenge! I can't believe 2019 is almost over already. Where has the time gone?

If you'd like to join us in writing about FOOTPRINTS, check out the sign-up post for more details! And thank you to the IWSG's Tyrean Martinson for coming up with this lovely prompt!

Image by H. B. from Pixabay

Christmas Clues

Cami hugged her puffy green coat tight around her body. She would have zipped it, but her little fingers had yet to master that skill. She knew how to investigate things, though. Cami was an expert at finding clues. She knelt beside the ladder that led up to the roof. She couldn’t recall seeing it there yesterday while she played in the snow.

“Stupid Dylan,” she muttered under her breath as she shivered. She would be inside playing with her new toys if it weren’t for him. But no. He had to go and say something ridiculous, and now she had to prove him wrong. Big brothers could be so dumb sometimes.

She crouched low and studied the boot prints in the snow. They were huge! She held a mitten-clad hand above it and could only cover the heel. Then she poked gingerly at it, and when she pulled her finger away, the tip was covered with a light dusting of snow. The snow was fresh, then. It must have fallen in the night while she slept.

“These are new,” she said to herself. No doubt about it, then.

The first boot print had been made at the base of the ladder, which meant someone had been on the roof and climbed down. Cami straightened and followed the tracks. They wound their way around the house, coming close to the hedge that bordered the yard more than once. Cami hopped over the line of rocks that outlined the barren flower bed and onto the snow-dusted patio. The prints weren’t as deep here, of course, but they were distinct. She stopped there for a moment, following the tracks to their end point with her eyes.

“Yes!” Cami squealed, her cold cheeks aching from the size of her grin. She’d been right about Santa!

Cami used to worry about the fact that their house didn’t have a fireplace when she was younger. She even went to her mother with her concerns. “Mommy! How can Santa get into our house? We don’t have a chimney for him!”

Her mother smiled. “Santa doesn’t need a chimney, honey. Do we need a chimney to get into the house?”

Cami had blushed, feeling silly for her panic. “Okay.” She started to shuffle out of the room before another frantic thought flew into her brain. She spun around and rushed back to her mother’s side. “Don’t lock the door! He won’t be able to get in if you lock the door!”

“I promise I won’t,” her mother said with a little laugh.

She’d believed her mother, of course, but finding the evidence was better than taking her word for it! This was proof that Santa used the front door! A small smile crossed her face. Dylan was wrong. It was so mean of him to tell her Santa wasn’t real, especially when the truth was so obvious! She broke into a sprint. She needed to tell him what she’d seen! He’d surely see the boot prints and understand how mistaken he was.

She barreled through the door, kicking off her shoes as she went. She skidded through the entryway, stopping only when she ran into something wet and cold. “Eww,” she groaned as the dampness spread through the bottoms of her socks. She traced the puddle of water to her dad’s winter clothes that he’d tossed carelessly into the corner. Mommy would be so mad about the mess he'd made.

Oh well! Cami had more important things to worry about. She shucked off her soiled socks, leaving them behind as she ran off to find Dylan and tell him the good news.

Word Count: 607

FCA