No Title Part 1

Goodness Me! I nearly forgot to post. It must be because I am writing this on Wednesday not Friday. On Friday, or whenever it is you read this, I'll be in the midst of American Government Camp 2010! I'm sure I'll be busy, having a wonderful time and be tired if I stopped long enough to think about it.:) Anyway, you can pray for us all at camp. I'll be sure to tell you about it at least a little next Friday. It starts this afternoon with training for the Team Leaders.

I started this story just because it began in my brain and instead of just thinking it like I usually do, I decided to write it and see what happenes. I had thought I'd just write the whole thing, but as it was 2,000 words long and no where near done (it may end up a book), I thought I ought to post part of it here and see what you Friday Fiction Fans think of it. Mom liked it.:) I'll only post the first 1,000 words this week. Next week will be the next thousand.

I hope you tell me what you think of it. And any questions would help to keep it going.:)
P.S. My spell check isn't working, so sorry for any typos.:}

???

The fire crackled brightly in the fireplace of the Morgan cabin. Nestled in a hollow of the mountains where it was sheltered from many a fierce winter wind, the large, two-story house had stood for years. It wasn’t really a cabin, but the Morgans loved to call it one since the outside was all logs. Inside was every modern appliance including electricity. However, tonight only a few lamps burned in addition to the fire.
It was a pleasant group sitting about the rustic living room with its high vaulted ceiling and large picture windows. A walkway running from one side of the upstairs to the other looked down on either side of the large, stone chimney into the living room. On the other, the dining room was seen below. Everywhere the house was dark save for the lamps and fire where the family had gathered. Outside all was black, for the sun had long since set, and the air had an autumn chill to it. To those about the cheerful fire all was warm and peaceful.

“Well, Justin, are you all settled in town?” Mr. Morgan, with his feet on a footstool, regarded his eldest son with a smile.
“I think so. Now that the water and electricity are hooked back up, the ‘hospital’ seems to be all set.” Justin laughed as he said the word hospital.
“Hospital, yeah right,” eighteen-year-old Adam scoffed. “It was an old hotel and still looks like one. It even has the old name above the door.”
“On the outside maybe,” Justin countered good naturally, “but have you seen the inside?”
Adam shook his head.
“I haven’t seen it either, Just.” Sara settled herself more comfortably on the couch opposite her older brother. Her nut brown hair was loose about her shoulders and made her almost look her nineteen years. “But it will be nice to have one in town now, so we don’t have to go all the way to Jackson.”
“Since when have you ever been to a hospital?” Justin couldn’t resist a little teasing.
Sara tossed her head. “Never. And I don’t plan to go just because you are a doctor in this one.”
“Oh come on, Sis!” Justin pleaded. “Wouldn’t you come visit me with a hot pie when I have been slaving away and am exhausted from all my multitude of patients?” He could be dramatic when he chose.
Pursing her lips, Sara pretended to give it some thought. “Maybe,” she finally said, adding, “but I’d have to think about it first.”
Justin threw a pillow at her which she promptly tossed back.
“But really, Son,” Mrs. Morgan spoke softly when the pillows had ceased to fly, “I’m glad we now have a medical facility even if it does look like a hotel. As long as the personnel know what they are doing, that is what we need.”
“Don’t worry about that, Mom There may not be many of us, but I think we’re ready. At least we’ll do our best.”
“That’s all that needs done.” Mr. Morgan agreed and then stared into the fire, and all fell silent.

The loud barking of their collie, Captain, broke the silence outside.
“What is he barking about?” Justin turned to try to look out the window behind him but could see nothing but the reflection of the fire and lamps.
“It’s not his ‘wild animal’ bark nor is it his company coming bark--”
Adam had stood up as Sara spoke and grabbed his shotgun from a rack nearby. “I’ll go check.”
“Be careful,” Mrs. Morgan called.
In silence the rest of the family waited, listening to the barking which seemed to have a different tone to it than usual. Suddenly they were startled by Adam’s cry, “Mom! Dad! Justin! Sara!”

The four sprang up and rushed for the door. There by the light of the front porch which Mr. Morgan snapped on, they could see Adam supporting someone out in the yard! It was a girl, and she was carrying something! In an instant the Morgan family were around them. The girl had two young children in her arms and was clearly exhausted.
“Here, Sara, take that one. Mom can you carry this one? Dad, steady her on this side. Get them inside while I grab my bag from the truck.” Justin threw his orders rapidly and the next moment was sprinting the short distance to his pick-up.

Moments later, he was back in the house. Turning the lights on in the living room he found the girl sitting in a chair by the fire. Her eyes held a glazed look while dark circles under them gave added proof that she hadn’t slept for a while. She seemed on the verge of collapse.
“Just!”
Justin turned to find Sara holding the small child in her arms while tears trickled down her cheeks. She looked pleadingly at him. Motioning her to sit down, he jerked out his stethoscope. As he pulled back the tattered shirt the child was wrapped in, he noticed the bluish tint to its lips and the thin little arms. A quick check showed it was still alive.
Pulling a flannel throw off the back of a nearby rocking chair, he quickly wrapped it around the child. “Mom, I want some warm milk as quickly as possible.”
With a nod Mrs. Morgan placed the other child in Adam’s arms and hurried off.
This one, a child of about three years of age, began to cry whether from cold, hunger or fright, no one knew.
“Danny,” a dry hoarse voice called, “its going to be okay.”
The girl in the chair seemed to have been roused from her stupor by the crying and now held out her arms. “I’ll take him.”
“Let me keep him a little longer,” Adam urged gently. “See, he has already quieted.” It was true, as soon as he had heard his name, Danny had quit crying and now lay motionless in the strong arms that held him.

~To be continued next week.

Meleah's Western - Part 22

Good Morning Friday Fiction Fans,
That's right, today you get the next part of the Western! I don't know what was wrong with everybody, but they didn't want to do anything. I think they were just so overwhelmed with all that had just taken place that they couldn't think well. Whatever the reason, I had trouble getting this written. Maybe it was just me. I hadn't written for a while, so perhaps my brain was clogged.:) (Writers can come up with all kinds of excuses.:))

This week has gone by quickly, as usual. I have written every night except last night because I had class. I didn't get the story I was trying to get done finished, but I did get the first part of another one done. But that is for next week.

I have also been getting ready for American Government Camp. :) It should be lots and lots of fun and hard work.:) I will have a post up next Friday even though I will be in the midst of AGC. I can get it ready to post on Wednesday (before we leave for training) and set the time so it will post on Friday morning.:)

But enough of that. Here is Meleah's Western Part 22! Enjoy! Oh, and remember, boys in WI, you can comment, too.:)

Part 22

No one talked as the three travelers ate their evening meal. Ty and Sally kept watching their visitor, wondering where he had come from, who he was and what he was doing. Neither could eat much though they at least pretended to, more for the sake of the other than for themselves. The food seemed to stick in their throats, and it was only with effort than they managed to swallow any of it. It was a relief when at last the repast was ended.
The Indian lit his pipe and stared into the darkness. Ty built the fire up to a pleasant blaze. Then settling down beside his sister, he began to talk.
“My name’s Ty an’ this is Sally. Who’re you?”
“Black Eagle.”
“What’re ya doin’ out here?”
“Hunting grounds this. Hurt leg,” the Indian grunted while nodding towards his right leg and continued. “See strange fire. White squaw welcome Black Eagle.”
For several minutes the Indian smoked in peace before asking, “What white man and squaw do here?”
Briefly Ty recounted their adventures ending with Carson’s death in the river. “An’ now we aim ta keep headin’ north ta Fort Larramie. Can ya tell us how ta git ‘round the river?”
The Indian grunted. “When sun come, me show.”
Ty expressed his gratitude, but Sally pulled at his sleeve.
“Ty,” she spoke low, “I can’t ride tomorrow. My horse is injured.”
“Bad?”
She shook her head. “No, but she was limpin’ ‘fore we stopped, an’ I found her right foreleg cut.”
“She might be better in the mornin’.”
No further words were spoken as the darkness deepened about them. The cry of an owl in the woods was heard and in the stillness distant sounds were amplified. The heavens were bright with stars. Gazing up at them, Sally yawned. The day had been long and full of heartache and sorrow.
“Why don’t ya get some sleep,” Ty asked her, touching her arm gently.
She nodded and in a few minutes was rolled up in her blanket. Clutching her locket with its precious picture, she fell asleep trying hard not to think of Carson.

The night, passing quickly for Sally whose overwrought nerves demanded rest, dragged by with slow, weary feet for Ty. Their Indian guest, after sitting silent for some time, also rolled himself in a blanket and slept. Into the flickering light of the dying flames Ty gazed, not seeing anything, lost in memories, struggling to accept Carson’s death. If this trip was to cost so dearly at the outset, what would the final cost be? Would it be worth everything?
All through that long, lonely night Ty wrestled with himself and with the questions that had no answers. Questions that kept returning to haunt him and which only brought more questions.

As the grey dawn began to steal across the sky, Ty stood to stretch his cramped and weary legs and built up the fire. As he did so, both the Indian and Sally awakened.
“I reckon I’ll be goin’ huntin’,” Ty spoke to no one in particular.
“No,” the quiet voice of Black Eagle interrupted any words Sally might have said. “White man sleep now. Black Eagle hunt.”
Ty shook his head. “Can’t sleep.”
“Did you sleep at all last night, Ty?” Sally questioned somewhat anxiously.
He shook his head.
“Then do try ta sleep now,” she begged.
Again Ty shook his head. “Can’t,” and he turned to the Indian.
But he was not to be seen. No trace that he had been there but moments before were visible.
“Black Eagle?” Ty called, his voice sounding harsh and out of place in the quiet morning air. No answer came back and the brother and sister looked at each other.
“Ya reckon there were an Indian here for real, Sally?”
“I think so,” Sally sounded a little uncertain. “We couldn’t both be dreamin’ the same thing, could we?”
Ty sighed deeply and sank down beside the warm fire. The air was chilly and he felt cold clear through. Right then he wouldn’t have cared if a tribe of Indians had been there and then vanished.
“Ty,” Sally coaxed, “please lie down an’ rest some. I can’t be havin’ ya get sick like--” The loss of her father was still keenly felt and she left her sentence unfinished.
Ty reached up and pulled her down beside him. “I ain’t goin’ ta git sick, Sissy.” It was a rare thing for that endearing childhood name to pass Ty’s lips and Sally gave a quavering smile. “I reckon I might jest take a bit of a rest if’n ya don’t mind the quiet.” He smiled wearily.
“Mind the quiet? I’ve been livin’ in quiet for ‘round two years with Pa off trappin’ or huntin and ya off with . . . oh, Ty!” and the sentence ended in a sob.
Gently Ty put an arm about his sister. “Now, ya jest git some more rest. I reckon ya need it ‘fore we travel on.”
Sally pulled away from him. Wiping her eyes with her sleeve, she swallowed hard. “I’ll rest only if’n ya will too.”
“All right,” Ty yawned. He knew it was useless to try to argue, and in a few minutes he was sleeping soundly.
For several minutes Sally sat gazing about her in the half light of early morning. Everything was shrouded in stillness save for the soft chirpings of a few birds. Even the horses tethered nearby seemed to be enjoying their rest. Sally wondered where the Indian had gone and if he would return. Had his presence been a dream? She shook her head. No, he was real. And he had been there. Where he had gone and how were mysteries which might remain forever unsolved.
A gentle snore issued from the blanket in which Ty had rolled himself. Sally yawned. Then, feeling tired, she lay back down near her brother and was soon, like him, asleep.

Any questions to spur me on?

Alan's Farewell

Good Morning FFFs,
I'll have to hurry since I'm running late and will want to go eat breakfast soon. The answer to last weeks "Who Am I?" was TIME! Good job, Abigail and EMC.:)

This week was very full. My aunt (Dad's youngest sister) and her fiancee came down from PA for a visit. They arrived Sunday evening and didn't leave until yesterday morning. So, I didn't get any writing done at all! We did get a new front porch roof built.:) So, I was thinking of what to post this morning, and I decided that I'd just post the story I sent in to the writing class contest. I don't think it will win, but you can read it anyway. This is the 7th version. The first was in my book which most of you have read. What do you think of this version?

Alan’s Farewell
Rebekah Morris

The evening sun was nearing the horizon as Alan McLean, attired in his Scottish garb with kilt, bray and sporran, climbed the hill to the cliffs overlooking the sea. His face wore a look of pain as he stopped near the edge and gazed about. It was harder than he thought it would be, this saying good-bye. Softly he began playing his much loved bagpipes which he carried over his shoulder. The notes wandered here and there as though unsure of how to find expression, growing louder with each moment, full of an unspoken yearning as they settled into “Amazing Grace” and filled the still air.
As he played the familiar tune, Alan’s thoughts drifted back over the years. Leaving Scotland and settling here in Nova Scotia, Canada had been difficult, but the family had been together. Now he would be leaving for war, alone. Already Britain, France, Canada and others were fighting the German nation. And it all started, he recalled, with an archduke being killed. Part of Alan longed to stay at home fishing with his father and brother, but he knew the very freedoms they enjoyed were being threatened. That was why he had signed up to fight.
He continued playing as he gazed out over the waters which reflected the sun’s evening glories. The sudden realization that tonight was his last night to stand here caused him to pause in the midst of the song and then begin a new one. As the haunting melody of “Auld Lang Syne” floated out over the water, the cliff, the trees, Alan tried to fix the image of the place in his mind. It had grown so dear to him. Pouring his very soul into every note, they swirled and dipped around him revealing the pain in his heart.
Tomorrow all this would be beyond his sight. He dared not turn and look down the hill where the McLean home stood. The very thought of not seeing his brother, not feeling the kisses of his mother nor the handclasps of his father brought the tears to his eyes. Would he have the courage to say good-bye?
His heart felt like lead and the notes from his pipes began to falter and break. Choking back the sob that rose in his throat, Alan tried to continue playing, but somehow the notes, which usually came so readily, refused to come. His shoulders began to shake and the tears to stream down his cheeks.
“Och, my hame! My faither an’ maither, I cannae leave ye! My hert isna at war--!” Sobs shook his tall form, and he covered his face with his hand.
All at once, the sounds of another piper continuing the broken song floated to his ears. Alan swallowed hard. He knew who it was but didn’t turn to welcome his father as he approached the cliff. Closing his eyes momentarily, Alan drew a long shaky breath and glanced beside him. Nothing was lacking in his father’s attire as a proud Scotsman.
The very sight seemed to inspire Alan, for he began once more to play. Though he began softly, he couldn’t remain so, and soon the two pipers were sending the remainder of the song out on the wings of the evening breeze.
Then Mr. McLean spoke. “Aye lad,” his strong voice was clear as he placed a hard, rough hand on his eldest son’s shoulder. “We’ll ne’er be foregettin’ ye. Donnae ye ken that?” Scanning the young face before him, he saw the traces of tears and rightly guessed the cause.
Alan replied in a voice not quite steady, “Aye.”
“Then donnae break yer mither’s hert with sic dreeful songs,” Mr. McLean chided gently. “Her een are upon ye frae oor hame, an’ it’s sair her hert will be if ye’re gang far to war wi’ out singin’ oor favorite hymn. Be ye able to sing?”
There was a moment of silence. Alan gazed out over the waters. Straightening his shoulders he looked his father in the face. “Aye, wi’ David I am.” The words were clear and steady.
Turning to gaze resolutely towards the McLean home, he watched his mother and brother climbing the hill towards him and burst into a lively march on his pipes. The sun was a flaming ball of fire, casting a golden light to tinge the purple and pink clouds. In the east, one or two stars were bravely peeking out of the dusky sky.
All was hushed now. Even the pounding waves seemed subdued. In the expanse above, an eagle hung motionless, waiting. After kissing his mother, Alan gripped his brother’s hand, looking deeply into his eyes. David gazed back and a smile of brotherly love flashed between them. Mr. McLean had begun the melody. Full and touching floated the skirl of the pipes, only hushing its strength when Alan’s rich tenor and David’s perfect harmony began, blended as never before.

“I am far frae my hame, an’ I’m weary aften whiles,
For the longed-for hame-bringin’, an’ my Faither’s welcome smiles.
An’ I’ll ne’er be fu’ content, until my een do see
The Gowden gates o’ heav’n an’ my ain country.”

As verse followed verse, the sun sank lower until the McLean family was left silhouetted against the glowing clouds of the western sky. There they remained until the last echoes of the hauntingly sweet notes had died away to be remembered in their hearts in the years to come.
A thrill ran through Alan’s frame, and he gazed at his father. Whatever this war held for him, or for these dear ones waiting at home, they would be united again. If not here on earth, than in “oor ain countrie.” This was not a last farewell. One day they would be together again.
“Aye,” Alan spoke aloud as his mother slipped her hand through his arm, “though mony years may pass before we see one another, someday we’ll a’ be in a countrie whaur we’ll ne’re part nae mair!”

I'll find out the winners on Nov. 4th.

What Am I?

Good Morning Friday Fiction Fans,
Thanks for commenting last week, Abigail. I know so many people are busy or don't remember it.:) I suppose if no one remembers it, I can post anything and no one would care. Hmmm, does that mean I can just forget about Meleah's western or just kill everyone off? I doubt the last will happen, at least at present.:) But I'm still waiting for that Indian to talk. He has been awfully quiet. Not that Ty or Sally have done any better.:}

Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday I wrote in the evenings. I didn't get lots done, but some. One of the evenings I just had a thought for a new story, so what did I do, but start writing it. Of course it is another long story. (Not a book. At least I don't think so, but longer than a few thousand words.) Now I have six longer, unfinished stories on NEO. I have started making myself write at least one sentence in each story every time I write. It is forcing me to get past my "writer's block" in some of them. I said that if I ever get any of them finished, they will last me for a few weeks on my blog.:)

In case you are wondering (only those who read the last post might be), I did get my story for the contest finished and sent in. It was the seventh version that got sent. I have no clue what will happen. I don't think it will win anything. Is anyone interested in reading it? Let me know if you are and I'll post it some time. For now, I have a poem for you. This has a question for you to answer, so please answer it if you can.:)

What Am I?
by
Rebekah Morris

I have no wings, but I can fly,
Just close your eyes and I’ll slip by.
I use no fuel and eat no food,
I’m never late for that would be rude.
I never sleep yet am not awake,
And I’m sorry, you can’t toss me in the lake.
For love or money I can’t be bought,
Though more of me many have sought.
I race and I creep, I’m slow and I’m fast,
But I’m always the same as I’ve been in the past.
I’m certain to continue as when I began,
For though I am young, I’m older than man.
I’m tossed aside by the careless, looked down on with contempt,
Yet from my relentlessness no one is exempt.
I have no fear of danger,
To love I am a stranger,
You’ll use me every day until you die,
So tell me please, what am I?

Leave the answer in a comment.:)

Mary was a Little Lamb

No, Friday Fiction Fans, (If you are still around:)) this is not another poem about a lamb.:) This was my assignment for my online writing class which got read aloud to over 1,000 people.:0
I know, I'm still rather shocked that it happened. I did do the changes suggested by Mrs. Morecraft, so it sounds better. But still--!

I have been writing, some, but everything has been part of a longer thing and I'm having trouble getting my brain to work. Maybe it is the contest in the writing class that is causing the trouble.:} But tell me, how do you write a short story that is only 1,000 words long? I can do a children's story, but an older one? Hmm. Right now I'm trying to revise one of the scenes from my book. But I've read it so many times that I don't know if it sounds good anymore. *sigh*

I don't have much time now as I have other things I have to get done. What do YOU think of this story? It was based on a picture of Mrs. Morecraft's grand-daughter. Sorry, I can't show you the picture.

Mary was a Little Lamb
Rebekah Morris

Jane was lonely. This was the third day she had spent at Grandma and Grandpa’s, and now she was by herself. Grandpa was working on something in his study, and Grandma and Aunt Mercy were busy with some writing class that was coming up. Poor little Jane. Though she was only four, she had kept a smile on her face until she was outside. Now, however, her chin quivered and her lips trembled. Her big, bright blue eyes filled with tears. What could she do now that no one could play with her?
For several minutes she sat and cried softly. Not only was she lonely, she missed her Mommy and Daddy who had gone on a trip. If only she had someone or something to play with. Her sad thoughts were interrupted by a bleat.
Shaking back the mass of red curls which fell about her tearstained face and clustered on her neck, Jane wiped away the tears and looked up. The nearby rail fence was before her, but it was the ebony creature lying down, silhouetted against the lush summer grass growing behind the fence which caught her eye.
Skipping over to the fence Jane peered between the rails. Another bleat came from the black form and it stood up on wobbly legs. Jane gave an involuntary giggle, and the lamb, for so it was, turned to look at her. For several moments the young creatures gazed at each other in the bright sunshine while above their heads in the azure sky, small cream puffs of clouds danced and skipped in the breeze as though inviting the pair below to join them.
The lamb seemed to accept the invitation for it gave a little skip on its slender legs. Jane giggled. The lamb came closer making friendly little noises. In an instant Jane had climbed the rough rail fence and stood looking at the lamb. A smile wreathed her tearstained face. Here was a friend who could play with her! This lamb didn’t need to study or write and it certainly didn’t need to go on any trips. Reaching out a gentle hand, Jane stroked the wooly head. The lamb on its part nuzzled Jane’s skirt.
“Okay, little lamb,” Jane told it, “let’s play tag.” With a laugh Jane turned and danced away calling over her shoulder, “You’re it.”
Joyfully the lamb frolicked after Jane and butted her softly.
“Now I’m it! You have to run!”
And so the game continued, sometimes Jane chasing the lamb but more often than not, the lamb following Jane. At last both were worn out, and Jane sank to the grass to catch her breath. The lamb stood in front of her while Jane patted its dark coat. So intent were Jane and the lamb with each other, neither one noticed Grandma coming over with the camera.
“Are you having fun, Jane?”
Jane looked up and grinned. “Oh, Grandma! Mary can play tag with me! We love each other, don’t we?” Jane pulled the small thing close to her and kissed its nose. “Now I won’t ever be lonely again,” she added with a whisper in the little charcoal ear.
“Baa” answered the lamb and folding its legs up, laid its woolly head in Jane’s lap and closed its eyes.