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 |   Enga mellom fjella: where from across the meadow, poems sing from mountains and molehills. |
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Enga mellom Fjella  Sentinel Marked as if you own me I bow before the Bitterroots and just like you my rocky soil, my withered grass lays prey to the empty sky. © Kåre Enga 2007 "Sentinel"   Reader's Choice of Poems: "Sentinel" "In the midst of silence" "A radiant moon has set" "Speak soft my name" "Starbeams on Tulsa" Reader's Choice of blog entries from my old blog "L'aura del Campo" :"Death of Jeannie New Moon" "Winter: 18 Mas'il (December 29)" "In a garden of roses, baby" "Footprints in the snow, in memory of Nyia Page" "Wheat penny. Gave in, started a forum." FACES     PLACES            Kåre  Enga~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. ~ Elizabeth Bishop The Fish |
| Pratch sat where the sea spray couldn't reach him, waiting for the sun to set. I watched as a VW beach buggy picked him up. Red, just like his shorts. There was nothing to do but follow. Pattaya isn't big like Bangkok. He was headed towards Si Racha, a place I knew well. He seemed to be in a hurry as if his life depended on it. It did. Life on the beach can be a beach... if you know what I mean. Me? I was his 'guardian angel'.  That's not what I had in mind when I first met him over a plate of succulent slipper lobsters last week. I was more interested in eating him than slurping the garlic sauce. So much good food in Thailand. The buggy wasn't hard to spot. But as they got out it looked like they were more than just talking. Yeah, I caught up to him just in time to stop him from selling the only thing he had to offer, himself. I scared the eager customer off. He wasn't pleased. He needed the baht. I bugged him about that. We walked back down the ally in search of a quiet spot. I spoke softly about how salt rusts out iron wheels like on that beach buggy, how he wouldn't always be fresh-faced and 'hot', how if he didn't want me to bug him he'd have to agree to be mine on the spot. His smile was wider than the alley. I know my street food... I only buy where there's a long line of satisfied customers. And I like my meal fresh and hot. |
| Bells rang the hour. Time for supper. Glasses clinked as lamb, neeps, leeks and mint leaves steamed... as if this were the very Last Supper. For some... perhaps it was. Semple was leaving at the strike of 12. I'm free, he thought. Liberated. He went up to his room one last time. He came with nothing. He would take... nothing. "Have you checked everything?" Corinne Pudlowski had been there when he arrived, 6 years old and starving. She had tried to fatten him up on pierogi but failed. She had tried to soften his heart with hugs. And failed. He was 16 now... and free to leave. She brought out a notebook and pointed to a page. "This is what you had when you arrived." Semple laughed. "I came with nothing." She read. "Black britches, blue shirt, shoes, underwear." She picked up a box. You may take them if you wish. "Nah, don't want those nasty rags." Corinne sighed. "There's one more thing. I'll go get it." Corinne disappeared. They heard her moving a dresser and then her footsteps going up stairs. "Where's she going." "Taking the back stairway, I guess." "There's a stairway?" The painting waited in the back stairway. Its shroud of faded black was surrounded by peeling chartreuse paint. She had tears in her eyes as she placed it in front of Semple. "What's this." "We hid it so you'd stop having nightmares. But it's yours to take or leave." Everyone stared at Semple as bells rang. An hour had passed. Semple sneezed. "It's dusty." He removed the black cloth and stared at the face behind cracked glass. He shrieked. "Who is this monster?" Corrine grimaced. "She's the one who brought you here." © 2021 Kåre Enga [178.282] (7.desember.2021) |
I wish I had a magic wand and a magic carpet. And a housekeeper. Yeah, that would be nice. And someone to wake me up in the morning with coffee. 
The trick with a story using a cliche is to make it not cliche. CinderElla has been done. So has HarryP. What if the magic wand is disguised as a hair brush or a mop (especially if the person in need doesn't like to mop). Or a toy holding a toy wand (hide it in plain sight). Or a pencil, pen, or weird looking stick. If a vacuum cleaner can fly like a broom, what modern item sitting around the room can be used like a wand? Gamers should have a suggestion or two. The youth or child or unicorn or gorilla handling a wand needn't have the same wish that a middle-aged writer does. Does a bigfoot wish for rain; does a bear wish for snow; does a fairy wish for new wings like a butterfly? Is the wish granted or does something better happen instead. Can the wand be used on others but never on oneself or vice versa? Is it alive and true to itself or to the person wielding it. Remember: simple sentence structure (ix-nay on subordinate clauses); simple words (but a couple new and difficult ones are fine); use all the senses and for sight remember that size and shape and interesting colors matter (anyone who loved their big box of crayons knows what I mean; many kids know their colors!); keep sentences short and simple; get rid of 'is' unless it's a picture book... and even then... action is better ... 'Petra ate the purple pear'; alliteration, rhyme and rhythm can help even in a short story. It's a great tool for memorization. Most of WDC is middle-class American and seemingly loves to write stories about their own upbringing or fantasies placed in England and Ireland (having never been there). They neglect the child with roots in Jamaica or Pakistan living in Birmingham or Sheffield or the one in Wexford eating her mother's pierogi or the children down the street or on the other side of town who have different names and different dreams. Write for them (but be culturally sensitive). 1880s England and 1950s America have been overdone and frankly, neither reflects 2020s reality. Blue-eyed Sally is a well worn. If you have children or grandchildren in your life write and read to them. If you don't... borrow some (make sure you give them back)! It's not like I'm a great storyteller, but I've won this contest a couple times. WDC writers should easily be able to knock me off my pedestal, so have at it.  Cubby~Cheering House Florent! won't mind if she gets 10-15 entries. With that many there should even be a couple good enough to nominate for a Quill Award.  I'm not saying this is great writing but it was good enough to win 1st place in December 2020 (because you didn't enter!). Note the use of rhythm and rhyme.
This was a different type of prompt (first chapter) and an older age group.
A three way tie for first but I'll still cherish it. There were quite a few entries. Notice the age group. One can check on-line. Teddy tested as 4th grade.
https://readabilityformulas.com/free-readability-formula-tests.php I checked a sample of text (highlighted in navy above); it tested as 8th-9th grade. This can be helpful if you are writing for a 7 year old or MG or even YA. ~600 words Posted in "Blogville " |
| Advice from Sorji in "Happy October!" : Remember kids, don't delete unused writing. Just copy and paste it ... Exactly what I do.  I tend to keep stray thoughts and ideas on paper and in random places here. They can come in use. I've also copy-pasted my long blog comments and then made them into a blog entry of my own. I seldom throw anything away. Rather than start a new project I'll be rereading and editing past projects. Because many are separate stories within a 'world' I may even have to print them out to make sense of what order they need to be put in. I also need to look through old journals as some are still on paper... somewhere. Lots of work. If I start now I might make good progress by end of December. My unfinished list of unfinished works: Stories: Hourglass (Oriole) Season of Mountains Weeping Blood of the Garlic (Ajo, Meadowlark, Thoom, Bawang ...) Os vampiros não vivem em Evora (João} Ao Hanuda Space Cadet (Kat, 90210, S.C....) Poems: Flowers of Frida Kahlo There comes a softening... Zmitri Gzaibun I haven't revisited some of these in years. I wonder what I've left off these lists; but, copy, paste. ~200 words Posted in "Blogville " 57.743 |
| I responded to Elisa the Bunny Stik's entry "Some sense of accomplishment" in "American Hot Shit" [XGC] [edited]: NaNo... November was seldom a good month for me to write. I have more than three pieces started, but three that are far enough along to read, edit, add, reread, reedit... wash rinse repeat. The mere thought exhausts me. Finishing one would be a great accomplishment. People have encouraged me to run a contest instead of whining how some are run. (I have some legitimate concerns I still haven't put together to send to ___.) It's cheaper and easier for me to whine. Oh... I have the gps but running a contest can be similar to running a marathon. And judging is key. Finding judges who are mature, knowledgeable, willing and competent... maybe I'm expecting too much. Many competent people have moved on.  I don't have what it takes. I can barely focus on the little I do now. Maybe a one-off. Limited in time to when I have time. On a topic I'm competent and comfortable with. With a judge or two to help that can handle GC without going into spasms. *sigh* Maybe at least one new black case out there who isn't already part of the "Club"? Good luck on your writing endeavors. I have two days to tackle contest prompts if I so choose, if I get inspired, if... so many ifs." These are my thoughts Shadow Prowler-Spreading Love. I should support you in contests geared to the mature adult crowd. I just don't know whether I have what it takes. Long term commitments are a real issue as I want to be traveling, and although I could host/judge/etc from elsewhere (many travelers work remotely) I'm not sure that that would work for me. At this moment I'd like to be sitting on a beach in Portugal scribbling my thoughts disconnected from the internet. This is where I'm at today. That is subject to change. ~315 words Posted in "Blogville " 57739 |
Thoughts for the September Edition of
To Cubby~Cheering House Florent!: "Personally, I don't like 'birthday' as a prompt. It tends to bring up unpleasant memories and around here it's usually dealt with in a cliche way. So... 1. A story about how many birthdays are left instead of how many behind us. I'll be celebrating #12 as my family expiration date is coming up. Easier to blow out fewer and fewer candles each year. "Only 6 candles? Why?" "I'm out-living myself. Next year it'll be 5. Each year it's getting harder to blow them out." "But what happens when you turn 80?" "Oh, my dear, I don't intend to live that long." 2. How did Benjamin Button celebrate his birthdays? You look so young!" "Yes, I'm getting younger by the day." 3. What if birthdays came out of order? "I'm 26." "But last year you were 10?" "Yes, a wonderful year; but next year I have to relive 13 all over again. I'm not looking forward to that." 4. If you were a mayfly would you be celebrating the hours? "Noon! I'm 6 hours old. So few friends left. I need to find a nice shady branch to get out of this hot killing sun." 5. How many animals celebrate the seasons? If you have a pet, how many seasons have they survived? "Tommie is 50 today." "50? That's older than you." "Yeah, she's starting to slow down." "?" "She was 6 weeks old when we brought her home in the Spring of 2009." 6. Do dolls have birthdays? Or other toys? What if the toy is an heirloom much older than you? Teddy celebrated his birthday—again—on the top shelf of the closet in the children's bedroom. It had been years since one of them had taken him down and dusted him off. He would sneeze if he could. 7. Cultural differences. Some cultures don't celebrate birthdays, using name days instead... or just not celebrating at all. I'm Steven. I'm Steve. I'm Stephen with a 'ph'. I'm Stephanie. Welcome to our name day, this 26th of December. [Stefania is September 18 in Poland.] "I'm 9 today." "What kind of cake are you getting?" "No cake?" "No, we don't celebrate birthdays." "Why?" "We don't celebrate birthdays because we believe that such celebrations displease God." [Jehovah Witnesses for instance] 8. Not all cultures start with zero. A child turning 1 is said to be turning 2. As in... entering their second year. They were 1 the day they were born. "I'm 21 today." "But your birth certificate says you were born September 2001." "Yep, that's when I turned 1." [In South Korea you are 1 when you are born. On January 1st you become 2, even if you were born the day before.] 9. What if your day is on a taboo date or shared with an important event? I have a friend whose birthday is 9/11, and another named Merry whose birthday is the 25th of you-know-what. "My name is Merry, spelled M, E, R, R, Y." "Like Merry Christmas?" "I'll grant you one guess as to which day I was born." 10. What about conception date. Anyone who grew up on a farm might be able to explain that to urban folks. "Hannah's conception date is my birthday." "How do you know?" "That's when my boyfriend made me a woman." "Are you sure?" "Once was enough... and never again." ~550 words Posted in "Blogville " 57.732 |
| For everything there is a season. Planting, weeding, harvesting. Festivities, taxes. For some there's a weekly rhythm. Some even take a day off! I was forced into a rhythm when I was in school, when I worked, when I was homeless. Now I have no reasons to maintain a schedule. These days, I'm running out of rhythm. When I travelled (note past tense) I had to be aware of other peoples schedules and rhythms. Trains, planes and buses left whether I was ready or not. I missed a few. It can get costly. Even when it wasn't quite my fault. The plane missing connections in Narita comes to mind. Accommodations also have rhythms. Thinking of staying 3 days or 4? Better to book 4. There's no guarantee that a bed will be available for an extra day the day before. O Ljubljana! And staying with others means accommodation to their daily routines.  Even in hostels one must consider the habits of others. Lights on; lights off; early departures; late arrivals. Which belatedly gets to my point. The Season of Covid has erased my rhythms. I tried to establish some sense of what day it was. Not quite successful. Thursday was my day to meet friends at The Break Espresso. Did I go today? Nope. Here at WDC we see how fellow writers have been affected. Elle - on hiatus is taking a break. blimprider tried to but is doing a reset instead. Me? I've been burnt out for quite awhile. Random thoughts and jottings? Sure. Focus for a short poem or prose? Not a problem. Anything more? So... I desperately need a break. I wrote down my reactions to some news that unsettled me so that I could write a blog in response. I just can't seem to focus enough to write anything coherent. So do I take a break? And for how long? Normally, I'd be traveling and that provides a break with new thoughts and experiences to write about. And yes, I still dream-travel and prepare; but ... what about WDC? It's so hard to get restarted once one stops. I kept a daily journal for almost 17 years. Over 50,000 pages. I have had nothing to write about this past year. I mean to say that 'sitting in my room' does not make for riveting reading. I've almost disappeared from bookfaze. Very few have noticed... yet. I could disappear from here with barely a rumble. InRealLife I might be missed (emphasis on might). I disappeared from certain social circles years ago. To disappear or not. That is the question. Taking a break may be a good option. ~435 words posted in "Blogville " |
| I love this room. I live here in an oak drawer stuffed with papers. So cozy with candles casting a rosy glow on my mistress as she sits there each morning on the edge of her high back chair. Their fragrance lingers in the air. But today my mistress slumps, wrapped in her nightgown of gauze, her copper hair hanging, barely awake. She isn't prepared for the telegram. One never is. She gazes at a stack of letters tied with a blue ribbon, the pink petals painted on panels not muttering a word. I... I am summoned and gently lifted from my refuge. No tick-tock of a clock notes the passing seconds as she stares at the void, eyes vacant beyond tears. Her warm hand cradles me as the candle weeps. We who bear witness say nothing. What can we say to our somber young mistress. There's no consolation to overcome heart-rendering words once they're read and digested. See me there, now gripped by her hand, wondering whether I'll be called upon to end her despair. I recoil at the thought. one shot fired which way it's aimed we don't know © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga, P.O. 22, [178.232.gz] Invalid Photo #1062218 'Telegram' by Louise Max-Ehrler (1894) ~190 words |
| I do not want to write a blog. There's nothing to write about that pertains to me. My life has been boring for such a long time. But the rice is cooking, so... I made a mix of rice and lentils, added lemon pepper, garlic parsley, and the onion and green beans I had boiled with lavender. I try not to cook the same thing twice. I use whatever mix of spices comes to mind. Or whatever's suggested by googling. When I go to Thailand I'll have to try pig's brain, steamed egg, bingsu. All the dishes I've seen in the Thai TV series I've watched. I'll learn how to say "no chili peppers", ไม่มีพริก ครับ, "mai nee prik krap" (always be polite). I'll have to smile... all the time. I'll never be allowed to show anger. This reminds me of Costa Rica. *sigh* I'll have to forgive myself every time I make a mistake. That could be daily. November would be nice. 2022? That's also a good time to visit Bengaluru in India. So I repeat myself. I've written about this before and will again. When I send postcards and post pictures I'll feel alive again. I can tell y'all about how places sound, taste, feel and smell. TV series are nice but they can't bring you the experience of stinky tofu (which tastes much better than it smells). In the meantime, I'm learning a lot about Thai Culture by listening and watching Thai TV. I'm also watching "Let's Learn Thai", which has a whole series based on colloquial language used in BL series (Season 9). This is the very first episode of Season 1 (it begins with politeness): Ah... my late dinner is done and fortunately so am I. ~290 words Posted in "Blogville " 57.713 |
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