chelydra

Instead of a winner humbly accepting the torch, here's a loser (one contestant, no winner, you can't lose any more decisively than that!) struggling to get charred logs and soaking-wet kindling reignited. The only changes:
(a) a quota rather than a deadline. When seven new stories arrive, we'll know we're back in business. If it takes from now to July, we'll get there eventually.
(b) judging by consensus. Each contestant will nominate a torch-bearer. Anyone else who visits and has an opinion to offer is encouraged to share it. Perhaps a first and second choice will make it easier, and liking both equally is permitted.

Without further ado:

305 words, to include all of the following:

barking
water
sunshine
grave
wood
cheer
smile
faint
paroxysm
practice
idea


Multiple entries are allowed, but the quota will require seven separate authors. If more show up before anyone notices the quota is reached, so much the better.

chelydra

And if more than two years pass by without seven fresh stories by seven different authors, we'll know ThinkWrite can be laid to rest.

marg

'Well, chel .. ' said marg, with a faint smile.. 'I think you're barking mad, of course, but I may just take you up on this challenge...

..but let's not ever do 'judging by consensus'. You challenge - you select - no contestants, no future - paroxysms of grief (or joy from the non-writers) - just for practice.

Umm.. and 305 will turn out to be way too long for me, but I'll cheat anyway

chelydra

Hooray!

marg

Correction..

..I'll cheat BADLY, anyway.. and cheer on anyone else who does, too

mum23

… and I’ll be there to cheer along with you, marg. I think I’d faint if ever you followed the rules (insert smile here…)

Seriously, though, I think the concept of a quota rather than an end date for these ThinkWrite challenges should be given grave consideration as common practice for future ThinkWrites, not just for this current valiant effort of chelydra’s to stimulate us into a paroxysm of literary productivity.

Maybe the lack of time pressure, when time is what many of us lack, will be as water and sunshine to this little germ of an idea, and not only will you stimulate the old, dead wood into new life, but also attract some new ThinkWriters. You’re barking up the right tree, I think (and hope).

Baldur

her dog
barking
at the
water.
there's no
sunshine,
today is
grave.
Brrrr, the
wood
holds no
cheer.
once her
smile,
even when
faint
seemed a
paroxysm.
souls cannot
practice,
this forgotten
idea

Baldur

sorry about the typo......

her dog
barking
at the
water.
there's no
sunshine,
today is
grave.
Brrrr, the
wood
holds no
cheer.
once her
smile,
even when
faint
seemed a
paroxysm.
souls cannot
practice
this forgotten
idea

InTheOcean

"Geez, you stupid dog, stop barking. You'll wake up the whole woods!" Said the grumpy old man to his faithful pooch, Bear on one of their evening walks. The canine was talking to the ducks floating in the pond water. The man sadly looked up at the absence of sunshine in the winter Alaskan sky. He missed the warmth it brought, and the light. He wanted it back! Suddenly, he had an idea. Bear, sensing his owner's excitement pulled on his owner's leash and ran towards home. "Ugh, Bear, you'll make me faint with all this running!" said the man, panting as if tainted with a grave illness. They ran home together.

With a slight smile, (if dogs could smile) Bear trotted to his owner, who was eating dinner and practicing his slouch. "Woof, woof!" he barked with cheer. The owner grunted and headed to the dogs room. It was covered in yellow "suns", really Bear's paw. It was beautiful. The man had a joyous paroxysm, and hugged his dog. "Bear? You made this for me? I love you Bear, don't you ever forget that".

chelydra

As barking reverberates through a kennel at feeding time, so the words of the awakening ThinkWriters bounce madly off the Forum walls, muses the evil turtle as he descends back through the water, leaving the sunshine behind, settling down into his grave-like depression in the mud, but not before stubbing a gnarled toe as usual on the hunk of rotten wood half-floating listlessly by his lair. In his mind's ear he can almost hear already a roaring cheer resounding for a winner, perhaps a mere child whose mysterious oceanic prose offers hints of awesome literary powers to come. Is it your imagination or did you just glimpse through this murk a crudeapproximation of a smile softening those dark cast-iron jaws? No, impossible; it would be too out of character, you decide, dismissing that faint whim as you return to your keyboard to add to the growing cacophony. It's not that you find composing these absurd little stories all that compelling, these days, what with so much else, all so much more important, demanding your attention, but you could no longer stand the pain of witnessing the ThinkWrite organism, once so raucously alive, falling quietly into an ever-deepening coma, and knowing that one fine morning you'll be making your rounds, glancing in at its inert shriveled remnants hidden away down in the Forum labyrinth, and realize rigor mortis is setting in. At first the erratic flight of your fingertips is an involuntary reflex, as a paroxysm of guilt and remorse churns in wave after wave through frayed nerves. You don't even notice that now they're dancing with creative joy, playing the keyboard like a steam calliope, warmed up, no longer out of practice, because all you're aware of is your aimless verbiage coalescing into a clever idea. The submerged reptile, meanwhile, dreams of duckings and waits.

marg

er, heh.. [politely]..

.. was that 'duckings' or 'ducklings' that the submerged reptile dreams of ?

chelydra

Ducklings. Thanks for noticing.

mum23

The idea never really went away. The certainty that it would, one day, take her to her grave, was what gave her the strength to keep going. Mostly, it simmered away comfortingly like a pot of soup on the stove. Just once or twice it had been so faint as to almost be forgotten, and sometimes, as in the last few days, it boiled insistently, demanding to be put into practice.

Sunshine poured from the sky as she lay on her back in the water, fighting the battle she’d fought so many times before. From her spot in the middle of the billabong, she took in the proceedings on shore. Finding a goanna up a tree, the dog had succumbed to a paroxysm of barking over which he evidently had no control. A flock of bearded ibis wheeled overhead before settling into the treetops. Kookaburras laughed and magpies warbled, while black swans glided serenely over the water. She watched the children collect wood for the barbecue. Seeing her, her daughter stopped to give her a wave and a smile, to which she raised her hand in reply.

“Not waving”, she thought. “Always drowning. I’m much further out than they think; nobody need ever know...”

It would be so easy, so much easier …

Eddies swirled around her body. Thoughts swirled around her head. Christmas cheer. Aloneness. Love. Beauty. Gratitude. Always the overwhelming aloneness, just below the surface, threatening to pull her under. Responsibility, which always won out.

Her children’s laughter carried across the water. Birdsong echoed through the trees. Memories of recent happiness. Love, and promises made. Hope. Hold onto that. Beauty. Find it in the moment. Keep going, even if it takes everything you’ve got.

She still held the ace, and she knew that one day she’d use it. One day. But not today.

five

Ride

An idea, old clown says, utterly, irrebutably clear headed, painted smile (says he). Clear as mud. Practice barking.
This idiot, she thinks, would drown in an inch of water.
Make ‘em cower, says he. No stopping this fool’s paroxysm, she thinks; genious he thinks he is. Jumping up and down. Cheer. Cheer. He knows he knows. She knows.
Tail between the legs, he adds. Not to make ‘em faint. Fainting -- even with the most handsome, most endearing, most brilliant, most most, winsome smile -- is standing still. Dead wood, in the grave, tombstone, flowers, taps, stars and stripes waving. Dirt above. Compost. Sunshine is warm on the other side of midnight.
Grasping her shoulders, speaking with spit. “Bark! BARK! BARK, I SAY!”
BARKING MAD, old man, she says, cowering, pulling away.
Her little one, not a boy not a man, in-between, points to the wheel and wants to ride. The sky lights up, she couldn’t bark that loud, even if she would try.
Her little one pulls her arm. He wants a ride.
She shakes off the old one, and rubs her shoulders. Her little one is smiling: they’re in line; the wheel is waiting.
Round and round it goes; his little arms wave in the sky, and below, a mad dog turned lone wolf, howls, not barks, and the man below her growls and the one above groans. Her little one giggles. What a thrill for him.
Turn wheel, pause and swing back and forth. The view. The world, the stars and the moon, and in the morning the sun. Her little one laughs and laughs and laughs and trades her hands for a cold iron bar. Up and up. Up. Pausing on the top. The horizon, what horizon. She barks madly, then, a large, growling, groaning guard dog and the wheel dips down.

mum23

Holding off on comments for now, except to say we're getting there!

mum23

oops... wrong identity... oh well...

Baldur

Baldur hears beans spilling

morshy

368 words. Damn! Oh, and no title. And no clear direction...I'll shut up now...

She stood next to the grave. The plot was bathed in sunshine, a soft breeze ruffled the petals on the flowers she’d placed by the headstone. Somewhere in the distance, a dog was barking. And the world kept spinning, as if nothing untoward had happened. A faint smile played at her lips as memories raced through her mind. For an instant, she was gripped by a paroxysm of fear at the thought of being alone. In practice, she was never alone. She had the children. And just the thought, the idea of children, was enough to cheer her. Wiping away the water that had inexplicably found its way onto her cheeks, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, there was a new resolve, a grim determination.

The log cabin was old and sturdy, the wood stained and scarred with the passage of time. It sat on a ridge, overlooking a small lake. It was surrounded by dense forest, and a sheer cliff face to the rear. Wisps of smoke spiralled into a clear blue sky. At least he was in, she thought, and this wouldn’t be a wasted journey. She shifted the pack on her back to a marginally more comfortable position, and set off up the path, the only clear way to and from the cabin. By the time she reached the little clearing it sat in, she was lightly winded. The path was steep and unforgiving. She was in shape, but she could feel the burn in her legs and her lungs. A low growl alerted her to the fact that her presence had not gone unnoticed. She slid the pack off, and slowly eased it to the ground. Holding her hands well away from her body, she took a step forward. The gunshot echoed round the clearing, bouncing off the cliff face and falling away down the steep slope. A puff of gravel kicked up at her feet, letting her know the shooter hadn’t missed. She had no idea where the shot had been fired from. Clearing her throat and taking a deep breath, she called out:

“Mr Flynn. I’m from the Government. We have a job offer.”

mum23

Blush... yes... beans spilling... and not for the first time, either. Guess I need to remember to sign out when I leave my computer...

chelydra

Some very intriguing mysteries seem to be converging here... Mum23's Case of the Stolen Identity (and the related mystery: How does one inconspicuously unspill beans?) ... morshy's Echoes of Ruby Ridge (sometimes vivid and certain, sometimes faint and vague, depending on my mood when re-reading), and five's... hmmm... which I will have to re-read six or eight more times before I can even say what it might be (an effort that's usually rewarded when five is involved)...

... but so far I'm not sure we have more than one or two entries that followed all the rules, so y'all better just please keep in mind that 2016 will be here before you know it, and if we're still short of entries by then, I can't guarantee I'll still be checking in to post exhortations and there may not be any more self-appointed exhortationists in the queue ready to take over...

Which is a roundabout way of saying that five or six more stories wouldn't go amiss, eh wot?