The Lighthouse

solitude + inspiration

21 February 2015

Getting bloggy with it

On many occasions in the past while I've thought to myself: "Oh, I should blog that." but then, of course, I don't.  I'm really good with the brilliant ideas and less brilliant with the execution of them.

I've decided to focus more on my own writing instead of writing prompts. They work wonderfully to get the rusty machine moving again, but I have so little time to give to writing that I've been able to only do the prompts. There are two tentatively begun stories I'm going to pursue plus an idea for a children's book I'd like to tackle.  Wish me luck!  (Or send me glue to keep me in my seat. Either one.)


It is Murphy's Law in a library that a patron will not approach the counter until they see you sit down.  They will not come in out of the cold unless they know you've been up at the counter for a while, waiting for someone to need your assistance and have just sat down at your desk to work on that pesky ILLO you can't seem to track down. That's when they'll come. Oh, that Murphy, he's such a card!


I despise the term 'hubby'.  Despise it.  It makes me cringe every single time I hear it or read it.  Men seldom get the encouragement and affirmation they need in this crazy world, let's not diminish them even more with cutsie, dismissive language!


My word, it is cold.  I don't just mean 'It's winter, so of course it's not warm', but full-on, hard-core, they'll-find-me--stuck-to-my-front-door-in-the-spring cold.


I've given up wasting time for Lent, by which I mean I've given up being on facebook and other such temptations.  It's going great so far... I've only climbed the walls once!


I gave in. I've been reading Jane Austen fan fiction.  Jane, you see, wrote only so many books, and one can only read them again and again so many times in one calendar year, so what's a poor girl to do?  
She reads badly written Jane Austen knock-offs, apparently.
To be fair, some of them have been not only interesting, but well-written.  Some of them, though, like the one I tried this morning, have Lizzy 'cackling'.  Cackling!  Would Jane Austen ever have one of her character cackle? I ask you!  The author blurb of this farce informs us that she has been a teacher of the English language for years and years. I can't help wondering if in all those years she has escaped learning what the word 'cackle' means, or noticing that only evil step-mothers do it?
The author is also preoccupied with 'chin lines'.  Every other page she describes someone's chin line.  It's stubborn or pensive or is being caressed. Have you ever come across that phrase before?


Here are a few recent CTKS:
Busy making paper crowns and rings of power, Five was testing out one particular ring creation. Taking it off, he showed it to his mom for her appreciation. When she duly admired it, he said, "It's for you, mom, you can have it."  She praised him for his generosity, to which he replied, "That's ok... it wasn't working for me, anyway."

Asked by an adult what he wanted to be when he grew up, Five replied, "Myself, of course. What do  you suppose?"

08 February 2015

The month that was : January

Month in review: January

It's no good resolving to do a thing and then not being accountable for doing the thing.  I've resolved to spend more time being creative this year, particularly reading more, writing with more focus, and doing the crafty things that bring me contentment. As for accountability, I think my successes and failures displayed here gives me very little room to hide.  I know this is of no interest to readers; it is for my own motivation.

14 books read
8 Lighthouse posts
5 articles written elsewhere
1 nearly-finished baby blanket
0 time given to a percolating story idea

Mr. Jellyfish

Five Sentence Fiction from Lillie McFerrin Writes.
This week's prompt word is 'villainous'.

I first had visions of villains in black masks leaning over damsels tied to railway tracks.  But then I experienced a jellyfish in human form which felt much more villainous, and tried to put into words what the encounter was like. I tried it as a story but it remained fragments that I've assembled into a sort-of-poem.

He floats along on currents of impulse,
No hint of intent or purpose.
Though he seems so benign, approachable,
His words sting where they land like a tentacle.
When I try to describe him
I know there's something he's hiding
'Cuz he's shifty and shapeless -
It's hopeless.
He tries to draw me in
With his charm and a grin
But it's nothing, it's empty -
I'm prey.
I try to be small, not moving at all
'Till he decides I'm no fun and moves on.

30 January 2015

Of bedtime, and all times: Five Sentence Fiction

From Lillie McFerrin Writes, comes Five Sentence Fiction: it's about packing a powerful punch in a tiny fist.  This week's prompt is 'Bedtime'; here is my response:

Lillie McFerrin Writes

All the times.

Those moments between waking and alarm; treasured like ballet flats that don't pinch - so divine.
The first taste of coffee, a caffeine jolt; tastes of necessity and attitude - it's sublime.
Take a midday pause, look up, draw breath- breathe a sigh.
Bath time and story; plump cheeks, fluffy hair - child of mine.
Feathers and cotton; warmth and comfort - bedtime.

27 January 2015

Five sentence fiction: Abandon

From Lillie McFerrin Writes comes Five Sentence Fiction.

Five Sentence Fiction is about packing a powerful punch in a tiny fist.  This week's prompt is 'abandon'


"...and when the green light goes on, watch for my signal."
Tracey took a deep breath, meeting the eyes of the three others sitting opposite her.  When the green light flashed at them, they nodded bracingly at each other, tugging their shoulder straps as they got into position.
She felt the tap on her shoulder, indicating it was her turn to approach the door.  With eyes closed against fear, she thought of everything she knew, and stepped out of the plane.

23 January 2015

An offering: five sentence fiction

I am, once again, well behind in participating in Five Sentence Fiction (from Lillie McFerrin Writes).
Last week's prompt was Offering.  Here is mine, to you:

This was heartbreak, then. As the moments wore on he could feel all hope of happiness slipping through his fingers.

“But can’t you love me, even a little?” he begged from the very depths of his being.

“Oh, my dear David,” she said, with pity. “I cannot give you what is not mine to give. You see, Robert has my heart.”

20 January 2015

That house where friends live

I walked to the library last night. In the cold. And the dark. Why did I do that? I have no good reason. I had books at home – as well as warmth. And light.

As I approached home, guided by the two lamps at the bottom of the drive, I was drawn to a solitary pool of light far off on the other side of a dark void – the field belonging to that pool of light. The sight of it spilling from the windows such a distance away merely hinted at the shape of a house . It was reminiscent of something seen in the movies. I’m sure that very scene has lent atmosphere to many films.

From that house I often hear the cries of a confused rooster. He tries to wake the neighbourhood at 10 or 11 in the morning. I learned very early on to not rely on him to get me to work on time.
From that house comes the business-like bark of what sounds to be a lab or shepherd – a full-sized, mature dog. He barks to make his opinion known, silent the rest of the time. I picture him at the end of a very long leash, very serious in his job of reprimanding  the raccoons and foxes.

From that house comes the farmer who navigates a tractor up and down the tidy rows of his field. At planting and harvesting I hear the steady purr of that engine far into the early hours of the following day.

In summer I see only hints of that house through trees and over crops. Now, in winter when the trees are naked and the fields lie bare, that house stands unprotected against curious eyes.

That house is situated on a little country lane I never travel. I’ve not gone by to look, peering to catch a glimpse of its inhabitants or see if I’m right about the dog. All I know of them is what I imagine, driven by these long-distance clues of sound.

They are dear to me though, these people of my imaginings. Seeing their home last night, softly glowing in the distance, was like catching sight of a friend.