Mondays Finish the Story – Miners Hill

Check out the others here.

© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham
© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

“The only residents remaining in the small town of Miners Hill are spirits.”

The mine collapse killed several bodies, and the living ones left with their broken families from the broken economy.  Without the mine, they didn’t have money to rescue the workers, and Miners Hill became a ghost town.

The ghosts of the miners still work the mine.  They work without any rest in hopes things will go back to normal.  They work every second of every day so their families have a reason to come back.  The hopeless ones are the hopeful ones, and the ones that gave up are gone.  To live in the shadow of a murderous hill was too dark for the people outside, but the men who are trapped in eternal darkness stay to work: work to get their families back, or work to get back to their families.  They’ve almost dug back up to the surface, out of their collective grave.

Advertisements

Sunday Photo Fiction – Anchors Aweigh

Joining another community with familiar faces.  Hope I’m not being intrusive at this point!  Check out others here!


106-05-may-24th-2015

Another sleepless night after seeing so many fall asleep for eternity.  Not enough Trazodone, melatonin, and alcohol in the world can turn my waking mind off.  The door is locked, the curtains closed, the fan on, and my bed is cozy, but I have to keep my candle lit to fight off bad dreams.  I think it might be keeping me awake.

I can see the flicker of light and shadow on my bedroom wall dance around in harmony from being lit.  Sometimes I can see the bright and dark form into shapes, into figures, into people I know-knew.  The ghosts are making hand-puppets on my walls.  I can see the outline of the mother that raised me, and the father that brought her down.  I want to fix them; I want to join them.  I can feel the weight of my skin and bones clinging me to this bed like an anchor as I see my parents waltz in the flicker of candlelight and moonlight.  A few more pills, a couple more shots, and then I can join them in sleep.

Anchors aweigh.

Raindrops

© Santoshwriter
© Santoshwriter

Rain droplet’s sing in the rain

Our primary source of life

Freely falling from the skies

A gift of sustenance from above

Given to us out of love

Pure tears for lost souls

No salt for passing ones

Wet mildew the angels cry for us?

They cry for each one

The born

The born-again

The sinners

The saints

Tears of joy

Tears of pain

Rainfall down, everyone does

To their knees

For worship

For hopelessness

The ground is our home

And our plants catch the tears

Showere you giving up?

Don’t

The hands that wipe away sadness

Are nailed down still, but

Monsoon they will rise

To wipe each one away

Mondays Finish the Story – Angel Flame

Link to Mondays Finish the Story.  Check out the others- it’s a great community of talented writers.

© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham
© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

“The crew of the Angel Flame received orders to head out.”

Five men, two pilots, two divers, and the captain, pack into the DSRV (Deep Submergence Rescue Vehicle) in search for valuable wreckage, bodies, and, God-willing, survivors.  The cruise liner rested at the bottom of the ocean, one half upside-down, the other awkwardly on its side.

The pilots and captain waited as the divers surveyed the wreckage.  The light from the submarine hardly did anything to light up the dark abyss, and the divers struggled to search efficiently.  They returned empty-handed.

As they returned to the surface, the crew of the Angel Flame swore they saw wisps of light hovering around and past their sub.  The souls of the drowned followed their angels’ flame back to the top.

The support ship on the surface above didn’t see any abnormal lights from their view.  However, just seconds after the submarine surfaced, a hundred dead bodies emerged on the surface of the water surrounding the Angel Flame.

Life Force (Qi) and Its Key to Happiness

There is a common misconception that must be put to rest.  Since the development of the modern New Age movement, the mentally-stable did their best to syphon these “New Agers” to California in hopes the state would break off from the rest of the country before causing any cultural harm.  Unfortunately, California hugged on with an ectoplasmic grasp, superimposing their “élan vital” onto our realism.  Because of this catastrophic phenomenon, our “life forces” have incorporated unwelcomed terms into our vernacular, such as “Qi”, “Feng Shui”, and “spiritual energy”.  As preventative as I can be in protecting my patois, I have still managed to acquire the minimal meaning to such modernisms (modern at least in terms of American culture).

The first main problem is the physical complication.

As therapeutic it may seem to devour exotic plants and stab small pins into your back, the placebo effect is far less effective than proven medical practices.

The second main problem is the mental complication.

Sure, meditation and stress management are great skills, but emotional (not physical) energy is a detrimental hoax.

Happiness is not an energy- it CAN be created and it CAN be destroyed.

In order for me to be happy, I must create happiness.

In order for my happiness to not be destroyed- leave me alone.

Friday Fictioneers – Howlers

© Marie Gail Stratford
© Marie Gail Stratford

Now the Wilsons lived out ‘n the middle of nowhere- ain’t no neighbor for a good 20 miles!  They owned a good chunk of farmland and the rest, well I guess the state never thought they needed it.

John was tellin’ me that they had a field blocked with a barbed fence at the edge of their property, an’ Mrs. Wilson told him never to go over there.  They never said why.  He told me he often heard howls from that field.  Probably coyotes, I thought.  But he said no- women howling.

Well I wonder if they were blocking something out rather than blocking him in.

Mondays Finish the Story – Changing Tides

First time writing for this community.  Love a more directional prompt that not only includes a picture, but the first line.  Link to this blog here 


© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham
© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

“Arriving at the beach, she reflected on her life”

It seemed like everything had come in waves: a splish of bad here, a splash of good there, and an occasional breeze that swept the branch’s melancholy shade away for a swash of revitalizing sunlight.

*Splish*

She felt the drizzle of salty tears from when her dad passed away.

*Splash*

The spray from squirt guns and water hoses used as watery artillery at her best friend’s birthday party.

Every time the mourning shadows tried to engulf her in gloom, a breath of fresh air placed her back in the sunshine.

Changing tides and winds can bring in anguish or elation, but nothing stays the same: a bittersweet morsel for those currently on either side.  Just remember, the pendulum swings both ways; it will come back.