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May 2017 Writers' Challenge

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  • 27 Apr 2017 8:45 PM
    Message # 4789090
    Anonymous

    The night is still young. Will it be a night of romance, or a night of intrigue? Only your character will know. Will you paint their path, or will they lead you by the hand?

  • 05 May 2017 4:09 PM
    Reply # 4816979 on 4789090
    Janine Sellers

    The Diving Bell Hotel

    You’d never know it. Sure, it looks like a fishing lodge but it’s a hotel. This is Sue’s sixth stay. She takes a deep breath as she moors the skiff and hops onto the dock.

    “Back again, Sue! Good to see you, old friend!”

    She is met by Eddy Yuber, the proprietor. The popular place is booked year round with writers who return in flocks. They pretty much fill his calendar since he opened it eleven years ago. Poets and writers come for conferences or to write on their own. Eddy is from New York, retired IT, happy to be settled in Eastern North Carolina. He pampers guests with fresh-pressed coffee and decadent pecan coffee cake from a local bakery which he pairs with his signature bowls of local blueberries placed on tables and in guestrooms where tiny refrigerators are stocked with specialty cheeses. The kitchen is rarely used for cooking, except on Friday for the fish fry.

    Sue is back for a final test of the integrity and safety of her diving bell and its long-anticipated patent. She settles onto a bar stool beside the door to the kitchen. Eddy is busy making repairs to the wrap-around dock. A gust of wind causes the door to pop, then sets the rocker outside into motion. It startles her, as she thinks about the integrity of the bell, the thickness of the wall, its balance of air pressure. Of course, it cannot crack. It is perfect. She has been tinkering with the design for seven years. Its method is simple: to allow people a limit of fourteen minutes under water suspended nine feet under. Scuba divers wearing wet suits and saddled with air tanks, the types who venture a half mile down – these are a different sort. At only two pounds and the size of a large kitchen trashcan, it is comfortable enough for a child to wear. Sue’s diving bell is skinny on space and big on “taste.” Everyone who has tried it loves it, for it challenges their imagination by a process she calls subtraction.

    She will meet with the crew for the final test at four o’clock. Danny, Maxine, and Jerry from the nearby dive shop are experienced professional divers. Jim and Brody are engineers; Jim’s with Carolina Aquarium and Brody is a Navy specialist known around the world as the expert in traditional diving bells. Sue’s design is appropriate even for non-swimmers who want to experience the deep. A microphone keeps the one in the diving bell connected to people in the vessel above so they can communicate. Most who experience it describe the bell as exciting though it offers minimal access to the ocean floor and cannot be used in these somewhat murky waters to see much of anything. People still love it; the depravation is medicinal. The sense you get of quiet and otherworldliness pares down to an essence, like poetry, where the process of subtraction provides peace, where for a time you have no possessions and you haven’t a sense of now, then, or tomorrow.

    Sue Nordstrom and her mini diving bell has received the attention of scientists, corporations, and universities, sociologists, and both the conventional and unconventional.  She plans to use future grant monies to offer the diving bell to PTS survivors, the disabled, even children with autism. Deprivation is healing. She knows that.

    There is small sound at the door. Steven steps in. Her ex-lover! Of course, there was always that chance they would send Steven in place of Brody Baughman. Sue and Steven had a brief, steamy affair on her second visit to the lodge, right before Eddy renamed it The Diving Bell Hotel.

    Now what?

    Used to be, cars were made with moving parts and men (it was mostly men) could tinker with them. Now, it is more, and less, complex with computers analyzing what can the matter be . . . the car is making a small noise. Used to be, she was dumbfounded by her emotions. Today is different. She finds he shows up in her dreams, though she can control her thoughts. After tinkering with the diving bell for over seven years, she knows to keep her mind sharp, her fingers moist, to wrap her head in a towel to stay warm, to wear a hat to blanket her head from the cold or protect it from the sun.  

    She takes her time. She moves in his direction, anchors on his pool blue eyes. The emotion does not wash over as before. She steadies, balances her thoughts on how to deal with the moisture on the inside of the window of the diving bell.

    Sue approaches life and love with simple instructions like the How to Wash Your Hands sign in the public restroom. Use Hot Water and Soap. The feelings are familiar. She pauses, takes a travel napkin from her purse, tears open the package and after a few seconds, drops the moist towelette into his outreached hand. She turns away after a lukewarm hello, and he manages to say, “Congratulations, Sue.”   

    What was it like, the first time in the diving bell, its stillness, breathing in pumped-in air? She used to have to separate her emotions like peeling leeches from the soft skin of her belly. She remembers the time she was stung by jellyfish. How she wished upon him the torment of a thousand stings.

    The mark that remains of their forbidden romance made her care more, made her more careful. It took a secret life in her brain like a fat bumblebee living off every flower in the garden. Now, she sees more flowers. Throbbing colors. Live flowers! Now, she sees all that is familiar with a new set of lenses. Today, when, by chance, they meet, she has a thousand wishes. The wishes fall to the ground and melt like snowflakes on the warm deck surrounding the hotel that seems to float in the harbor.

     

  • 06 May 2017 3:40 PM
    Reply # 4818328 on 4789090
    Jim Keen (Administrator)

    May 2017 Writers Challenge by Herta Abarr

    The Place Not There

    I could not shake the paper towel off my fingers, until I finally stepped on it, now my foot was caught. Humidity stringed my hair, and turned the floor into a swamp; My glass of water sweat profusely. It was unusual to have this level of humidity here on the Wisc.- Ill. border, the old Canada-United States booze trail.

    I banged the screen door with the heel of my hand, which screeched and then slapped in protest and then I tripped over skinny dog. I really wanted lemonade but these days, the sour acid makes me sour and my stomach burn. Sitting in my brown wicker chair, I detect a slight movement of air that smells of fish. The Lake! Of course, the lake, my brain was so saturated I hadn’t thought to go there for relief. Its just a short jaunt down my lane, I can’t skip anymore, but I can still amble with my stick. I picture the cutoff in my mind since I can barely find my car in the CVS parking lot anymore. I will have to be on high alert. I’m not sure if I have ennui or old age lassitude, as its been fifty years since sophomore English, but I do have persistence. “Come on skinny dog”, he’s a critter I’ve never named and he probably has worms. On the way home, we’ll follow the shoreline ankle deep in water, and cool off. I swallow the tepid water and take some with in an old scout cantine. After a long while, I realize I’ve lost my landmark, too many new weekend cottages. After a while I spot an obscured shortcut to the lake, though it seemed longer than I remembered; branches slap my face and leaves stick to the rest of me But persistence pays, I come out on a pebble strewn shore. I’m not exactly sure where I am, too much new undergrowth, but I know my left from my right and my north from my south filling myself with assurance and confidence and looked around.

    I became aware that dusk had fallen but lights from shoreline houses create flash lit paths. Lack of Oxygen in the water must be the cause of the overwhelming dead fish smell, and seeing tons of white bellies bobbing in the gentle water’s roll, I figure I’m right.

    A weathered, ribbed narrow planked pier leads to a strange boathouse at the deep end. Tall with rectangular windows stepping sideways across its upper level, glow in an oozing way. My intellect hits a speed bump in this unfamiliar, unremembered yet unidentifiable known. I plant my stick and lift my foot to the pier rougher than at first sight, and that skinny dog yelps, sticks his skinny tail under his skinny hind and takes off. I whistle, I call, yell, scream obscenities and questions of his paternity.; he pays me never no mind, kind of like marriage with my late departed. Its definitely cooler; the belly up fish rock in rhythm to some unknown player, the wall appears abruptly closer; there is no door, just a facsimile. I could have sworn when still ashore, but, never mind. The vertical slats are rough hewn silver grayed with ¼ “ spacing. I close one eye and with the other press my view into that space. Once visually inside I see with an odd View Master clarity. Loud, Honky Tonk music had the boards of the pier and building buzz, vibrating my entire body. Inside is a weird smoke strata, blue, that went from floor to where I figure the ceiling must be. The crowded interior was filled with cu-pie doll fuzzed hair, gum chewing trollops. Black Fishnet stockings were de reguier topped with 12” garters, crimson corsets that barely covered puckered titties. Bright red lips with slathering tongues washed over men with piggy faces as long fingered nails played with anatomy showing and unseen. Earlobes were also targeted withhello doll” come-ons. Some were dancing with sinuous movements that would throw hips out of joint, and lap dancers held cigarettes in long holders simulating more of the blue smoke.

    Wiping a polished bar that stood behind the dancers, the tender, wiped the same spot over and over. He had divided his shined pate with a triune arrangement pasting it in place with petroleum jell. In the corner of his mouth bobbed the shredded remains of a reused cigar full of spit. His attention was diverted by a verbose drunk demanding another bottle from the other sweating brown bottles on the bar. The bartender glared; in one full swoop he picked up a bottle by the neck, smashed it on the edge of the bar, aimed and whacked the sharpened edge on the drunk’s head, where beer and brains then poured forth.

    I vomited the noodles and tomato sauce I had had for lunch.


    Violence begets violence; now I saw the pool table erupt into a fencing match with their cues, one galant was jabbed in the eye, which promptly popped out, rolled on the slimy floor, coming to a stop directly in front of my centered vision. Frozen in place, I saw the same scenario repeat over and over again. That’s hell isn’t it, reliving the same horror over and over?

    My mind regained rhythm with my breath, it fled faster than my feet could move, but move I did using my stick for balance. I did look up and in the receding dark, shooting stars, harbingers of death, were aimed for the boathouse at cyberspeed. I ran in time with my heartbeat, which would never beat like that again. I heard a grunt, a squeal; with eyes at the back of my head, saw the boathouse slide into the lake.

    Once home I would ask skinny dog for forgiveness, would never eat noodles and tomato sauce and when skinny dog tucks his skinny tail and runs, I will tuck my ample tail and follow close behind.


    Last modified: 06 May 2017 3:44 PM | Jim Keen (Administrator)
  • 08 May 2017 2:42 PM
    Reply # 4820831 on 4789090
    Sherri Hollister (Administrator)

    What a unique spin on the prompt. Well done.

  • 08 May 2017 2:45 PM
    Reply # 4820834 on 4789090
    Sherri Hollister (Administrator)

    It is so interesting to see the different stories inspired by the prompt. 

  • 09 May 2017 7:18 AM
    Reply # 4821882 on 4789090
    Bob Daw
    Grandfather's Cabin

    In the early fifties at age ten, I remembered my widowed sixty five year old grandfather telling my father and Uncle Mark that he wanted to build a cabin home on the big lake on our farm.  My family owned about a 4000-acre produce farm about 40 miles from Statesville GA.   Nestled in the middle of this farm acreage was a ninety acre lake surrounded by huge trees and abounding wildlife.  

    Grandfather had declared his full retirement a year earlier and had turned all the business management over to my father and Uncle Mark.  My grandfather certainly had the finances and wealth for his dream home and he had the blessing from my father to proceed with his plans.  Little did we know that when he stated he wanted to build a home on the lake that he literally meant over the water.  I remember the very day when father and Uncle Mark saw two truckloads of light pole pylons and large flat floating barges with big crane equipment passing by the fields we were working.  My father was scratching his head with a puzzled looks on his face.  My grandfather’s real visions for the cabin over the water were now in motion and it was too late to challenge it.  Just three short months later was a completed cabin resort built over the water with a two hundred foot dock walkway over the water to access entry.  There were decks and piers in the back to receive three boats for parking. There was running water from a deep well and pumps for a huge land septic system. Even though not many permits were required in the early fifties, the home would have passed even todays building codes.  My grandfather claimed strict ownership of his prized retreat.  Any use of it by our family, he scheduled.  Nobody could just leisurely drop by to hang out without giving him a shot over the bow.   Grandfather would entertain friends for duck hunts or fishing fun.  He spent a lot of time and overnights with his old time pals.  As the years went by, I found myself at age twenty accepted to many of his real men gatherings with his friends.  My grandfather was more of old cowboy than I had thought.  He actually had a mischievous side with lots of poker games played.  It would stager the imagination as to how much money was lost or won over the many years.  My father and Uncle Mark kept a tight lease on granddaddy in his later years but at his passing at age 90, he and I had many memories of fun in his cabin over the water. 

    My family has always kept this home well maintained and upgraded.  The home still stands proud and is 67 years old, looking as nice as it did when it was first built. This cabin continues to offer up fond memories for our family and friends and now my two daughters and grandkids. My daughter has spent many nights at our cabin, especially on full moon nights to watch the moon’s reflection on the water and listen to nature sounds of all the different types of outdoor animals that stir in the night hours.   Our family’s produce farm has been passed down to us through the generations but all of our family members give extra thanks and appreciation for my grandfather’s cabin over the water. The cabin is the go to family gathering place for all of us.  We will treasure and protect this cabin just as respectfully as we do our family farm business.                                              

  • 09 May 2017 3:19 PM
    Reply # 4822863 on 4816979
    Louis Edwards PWG Moderator
    Janine Sellers wrote:

    The Diving Bell Hotel

    You’d never know it. Sure, it looks like a fishing lodge but it’s a hotel. This is Sue’s sixth stay. She takes a deep breath as she moors the skiff and hops onto the dock.

    “Back again, Sue! Good to see you, old friend!”

    She is met by Eddy Yuber, the proprietor. The popular place is booked year round with writers who return in flocks. They pretty much fill his calendar since he opened it eleven years ago. Poets and writers come for conferences or to write on their own. Eddy is from New York, retired IT, happy to be settled in Eastern North Carolina. He pampers guests with fresh-pressed coffee and decadent pecan coffee cake from a local bakery which he pairs with his signature bowls of local blueberries placed on tables and in guestrooms where tiny refrigerators are stocked with specialty cheeses. The kitchen is rarely used for cooking, except on Friday for the fish fry.

    Sue is back for a final test of the integrity and safety of her diving bell and its long-anticipated patent. She settles onto a bar stool beside the door to the kitchen. Eddy is busy making repairs to the wrap-around dock. A gust of wind causes the door to pop, then sets the rocker outside into motion. It startles her, as she thinks about the integrity of the bell, the thickness of the wall, its balance of air pressure. Of course, it cannot crack. It is perfect. She has been tinkering with the design for seven years. Its method is simple: to allow people a limit of fourteen minutes under water suspended nine feet under. Scuba divers wearing wet suits and saddled with air tanks, the types who venture a half mile down – these are a different sort. At only two pounds and the size of a large kitchen trashcan, it is comfortable enough for a child to wear. Sue’s diving bell is skinny on space and big on “taste.” Everyone who has tried it loves it, for it challenges their imagination by a process she calls subtraction.

    She will meet with the crew for the final test at four o’clock. Danny, Maxine, and Jerry from the nearby dive shop are experienced professional divers. Jim and Brody are engineers; Jim’s with Carolina Aquarium and Brody is a Navy specialist known around the world as the expert in traditional diving bells. Sue’s design is appropriate even for non-swimmers who want to experience the deep. A microphone keeps the one in the diving bell connected to people in the vessel above so they can communicate. Most who experience it describe the bell as exciting though it offers minimal access to the ocean floor and cannot be used in these somewhat murky waters to see much of anything. People still love it; the depravation is medicinal. The sense you get of quiet and otherworldliness pares down to an essence, like poetry, where the process of subtraction provides peace, where for a time you have no possessions and you haven’t a sense of now, then, or tomorrow.

    Sue Nordstrom and her mini diving bell has received the attention of scientists, corporations, and universities, sociologists, and both the conventional and unconventional.  She plans to use future grant monies to offer the diving bell to PTS survivors, the disabled, even children with autism. Deprivation is healing. She knows that.

    There is small sound at the door. Steven steps in. Her ex-lover! Of course, there was always that chance they would send Steven in place of Brody Baughman. Sue and Steven had a brief, steamy affair on her second visit to the lodge, right before Eddy renamed it The Diving Bell Hotel.

    Now what?

    Used to be, cars were made with moving parts and men (it was mostly men) could tinker with them. Now, it is more, and less, complex with computers analyzing what can the matter be . . . the car is making a small noise. Used to be, she was dumbfounded by her emotions. Today is different. She finds he shows up in her dreams, though she can control her thoughts. After tinkering with the diving bell for over seven years, she knows to keep her mind sharp, her fingers moist, to wrap her head in a towel to stay warm, to wear a hat to blanket her head from the cold or protect it from the sun.  

    She takes her time. She moves in his direction, anchors on his pool blue eyes. The emotion does not wash over as before. She steadies, balances her thoughts on how to deal with the moisture on the inside of the window of the diving bell.

    Sue approaches life and love with simple instructions like the How to Wash Your Hands sign in the public restroom. Use Hot Water and Soap. The feelings are familiar. She pauses, takes a travel napkin from her purse, tears open the package and after a few seconds, drops the moist towelette into his outreached hand. She turns away after a lukewarm hello, and he manages to say, “Congratulations, Sue.”   

    What was it like, the first time in the diving bell, its stillness, breathing in pumped-in air? She used to have to separate her emotions like peeling leeches from the soft skin of her belly. She remembers the time she was stung by jellyfish. How she wished upon him the torment of a thousand stings.

    The mark that remains of their forbidden romance made her care more, made her more careful. It took a secret life in her brain like a fat bumblebee living off every flower in the garden. Now, she sees more flowers. Throbbing colors. Live flowers! Now, she sees all that is familiar with a new set of lenses. Today, when, by chance, they meet, she has a thousand wishes. The wishes fall to the ground and melt like snowflakes on the warm deck surrounding the hotel that seems to float in the harbor.

     

    Thank you so much for posting your 1000 word challenge on our site. We strive to promote the literary arts and help writers like you.

    If you would like to become a member of the Pamlico Writer Group, and join a family of writers who love and care for the craft, you can join us by clicking the link: Pamlico Writers Group.

    By joining the group, you receive special discounts on events like the: PWG writers’ conference, workshops, access to our members’ only page, and much more.

    Keep an eye out for next month’s challenge and continue writing to inspire the minds of readers.

    We hope to see you then.


  • 09 May 2017 3:31 PM
    Reply # 4822895 on 4818328
    Louis Edwards PWG Moderator
    Jim Keen wrote:

    May 2017 Writers Challenge by Herta Abarr

    The Place Not There

    I could not shake the paper towel off my fingers, until I finally stepped on it, now my foot was caught. Humidity stringed my hair, and turned the floor into a swamp; My glass of water sweat profusely. It was unusual to have this level of humidity here on the Wisc.- Ill. border, the old Canada-United States booze trail.

    I banged the screen door with the heel of my hand, which screeched and then slapped in protest and then I tripped over skinny dog. I really wanted lemonade but these days, the sour acid makes me sour and my stomach burn. Sitting in my brown wicker chair, I detect a slight movement of air that smells of fish. The Lake! Of course, the lake, my brain was so saturated I hadn’t thought to go there for relief. Its just a short jaunt down my lane, I can’t skip anymore, but I can still amble with my stick. I picture the cutoff in my mind since I can barely find my car in the CVS parking lot anymore. I will have to be on high alert. I’m not sure if I have ennui or old age lassitude, as its been fifty years since sophomore English, but I do have persistence. “Come on skinny dog”, he’s a critter I’ve never named and he probably has worms. On the way home, we’ll follow the shoreline ankle deep in water, and cool off. I swallow the tepid water and take some with in an old scout cantine. After a long while, I realize I’ve lost my landmark, too many new weekend cottages. After a while I spot an obscured shortcut to the lake, though it seemed longer than I remembered; branches slap my face and leaves stick to the rest of me But persistence pays, I come out on a pebble strewn shore. I’m not exactly sure where I am, too much new undergrowth, but I know my left from my right and my north from my south filling myself with assurance and confidence and looked around.

    I became aware that dusk had fallen but lights from shoreline houses create flash lit paths. Lack of Oxygen in the water must be the cause of the overwhelming dead fish smell, and seeing tons of white bellies bobbing in the gentle water’s roll, I figure I’m right.

    A weathered, ribbed narrow planked pier leads to a strange boathouse at the deep end. Tall with rectangular windows stepping sideways across its upper level, glow in an oozing way. My intellect hits a speed bump in this unfamiliar, unremembered yet unidentifiable known. I plant my stick and lift my foot to the pier rougher than at first sight, and that skinny dog yelps, sticks his skinny tail under his skinny hind and takes off. I whistle, I call, yell, scream obscenities and questions of his paternity.; he pays me never no mind, kind of like marriage with my late departed. Its definitely cooler; the belly up fish rock in rhythm to some unknown player, the wall appears abruptly closer; there is no door, just a facsimile. I could have sworn when still ashore, but, never mind. The vertical slats are rough hewn silver grayed with ¼ “ spacing. I close one eye and with the other press my view into that space. Once visually inside I see with an odd View Master clarity. Loud, Honky Tonk music had the boards of the pier and building buzz, vibrating my entire body. Inside is a weird smoke strata, blue, that went from floor to where I figure the ceiling must be. The crowded interior was filled with cu-pie doll fuzzed hair, gum chewing trollops. Black Fishnet stockings were de reguier topped with 12” garters, crimson corsets that barely covered puckered titties. Bright red lips with slathering tongues washed over men with piggy faces as long fingered nails played with anatomy showing and unseen. Earlobes were also targeted withhello doll” come-ons. Some were dancing with sinuous movements that would throw hips out of joint, and lap dancers held cigarettes in long holders simulating more of the blue smoke.

    Wiping a polished bar that stood behind the dancers, the tender, wiped the same spot over and over. He had divided his shined pate with a triune arrangement pasting it in place with petroleum jell. In the corner of his mouth bobbed the shredded remains of a reused cigar full of spit. His attention was diverted by a verbose drunk demanding another bottle from the other sweating brown bottles on the bar. The bartender glared; in one full swoop he picked up a bottle by the neck, smashed it on the edge of the bar, aimed and whacked the sharpened edge on the drunk’s head, where beer and brains then poured forth.

    I vomited the noodles and tomato sauce I had had for lunch.


    Violence begets violence; now I saw the pool table erupt into a fencing match with their cues, one galant was jabbed in the eye, which promptly popped out, rolled on the slimy floor, coming to a stop directly in front of my centered vision. Frozen in place, I saw the same scenario repeat over and over again. That’s hell isn’t it, reliving the same horror over and over?

    My mind regained rhythm with my breath, it fled faster than my feet could move, but move I did using my stick for balance. I did look up and in the receding dark, shooting stars, harbingers of death, were aimed for the boathouse at cyberspeed. I ran in time with my heartbeat, which would never beat like that again. I heard a grunt, a squeal; with eyes at the back of my head, saw the boathouse slide into the lake.

    Once home I would ask skinny dog for forgiveness, would never eat noodles and tomato sauce and when skinny dog tucks his skinny tail and runs, I will tuck my ample tail and follow close behind.


    Thank you so much for posting your 1000 word challenge on our site. We strive to promote the literary arts and help writers like you.

    If you would like to become a member of the Pamlico Writer Group, and join a family of writers who love and care for the craft, you can join us by clicking the link: Pamlico Writers Group.

    By joining the group, you receive special discounts on events like the: PWG writers’ conference, workshops, access to our members’ only page, and much more.

    Keep an eye out for next month’s challenge and continue writing to inspire the minds of readers.

    We hope to see you then.


  • 09 May 2017 3:38 PM
    Reply # 4822900 on 4821882
    Louis Edwards PWG Moderator
    Bob Daw wrote:Grandfather's Cabin

    In the early fifties at age ten, I remembered my widowed sixty five year old grandfather telling my father and Uncle Mark that he wanted to build a cabin home on the big lake on our farm.  My family owned about a 4000-acre produce farm about 40 miles from Statesville GA.   Nestled in the middle of this farm acreage was a ninety acre lake surrounded by huge trees and abounding wildlife.  

    Grandfather had declared his full retirement a year earlier and had turned all the business management over to my father and Uncle Mark.  My grandfather certainly had the finances and wealth for his dream home and he had the blessing from my father to proceed with his plans.  Little did we know that when he stated he wanted to build a home on the lake that he literally meant over the water.  I remember the very day when father and Uncle Mark saw two truckloads of light pole pylons and large flat floating barges with big crane equipment passing by the fields we were working.  My father was scratching his head with a puzzled looks on his face.  My grandfather’s real visions for the cabin over the water were now in motion and it was too late to challenge it.  Just three short months later was a completed cabin resort built over the water with a two hundred foot dock walkway over the water to access entry.  There were decks and piers in the back to receive three boats for parking. There was running water from a deep well and pumps for a huge land septic system. Even though not many permits were required in the early fifties, the home would have passed even todays building codes.  My grandfather claimed strict ownership of his prized retreat.  Any use of it by our family, he scheduled.  Nobody could just leisurely drop by to hang out without giving him a shot over the bow.   Grandfather would entertain friends for duck hunts or fishing fun.  He spent a lot of time and overnights with his old time pals.  As the years went by, I found myself at age twenty accepted to many of his real men gatherings with his friends.  My grandfather was more of old cowboy than I had thought.  He actually had a mischievous side with lots of poker games played.  It would stager the imagination as to how much money was lost or won over the many years.  My father and Uncle Mark kept a tight lease on granddaddy in his later years but at his passing at age 90, he and I had many memories of fun in his cabin over the water. 

    My family has always kept this home well maintained and upgraded.  The home still stands proud and is 67 years old, looking as nice as it did when it was first built. This cabin continues to offer up fond memories for our family and friends and now my two daughters and grandkids. My daughter has spent many nights at our cabin, especially on full moon nights to watch the moon’s reflection on the water and listen to nature sounds of all the different types of outdoor animals that stir in the night hours.   Our family’s produce farm has been passed down to us through the generations but all of our family members give extra thanks and appreciation for my grandfather’s cabin over the water. The cabin is the go to family gathering place for all of us.  We will treasure and protect this cabin just as respectfully as we do our family farm business.                                              

    Thank you so much for posting your 1000 word challenge on our site. We strive to promote the literary arts and help writers like you.

    If you would like to become a member of the Pamlico Writer Group, and join a family of writers who love and care for the craft, you can join us by clicking the link: Pamlico Writers Group.

    By joining the group, you receive special discounts on events like the: PWG writers’ conference, workshops, access to our members’ only page, and much more.

    Keep an eye out for next month’s challenge and continue writing to inspire the minds of readers.

    We hope to see you then.


  • 10 May 2017 12:01 PM
    Reply # 4824485 on 4821882
    Sherri Hollister
    Bob Daw wrote:Grandfather's Cabin

    In the early fifties at age ten, I remembered my widowed sixty five year old grandfather telling my father and Uncle Mark that he wanted to build a cabin home on the big lake on our farm.  My family owned about a 4000-acre produce farm about 40 miles from Statesville GA.   Nestled in the middle of this farm acreage was a ninety acre lake surrounded by huge trees and abounding wildlife.  

    Grandfather had declared his full retirement a year earlier and had turned all the business management over to my father and Uncle Mark.  My grandfather certainly had the finances and wealth for his dream home and he had the blessing from my father to proceed with his plans.  Little did we know that when he stated he wanted to build a home on the lake that he literally meant over the water.  I remember the very day when father and Uncle Mark saw two truckloads of light pole pylons and large flat floating barges with big crane equipment passing by the fields we were working.  My father was scratching his head with a puzzled looks on his face.  My grandfather’s real visions for the cabin over the water were now in motion and it was too late to challenge it.  Just three short months later was a completed cabin resort built over the water with a two hundred foot dock walkway over the water to access entry.  There were decks and piers in the back to receive three boats for parking. There was running water from a deep well and pumps for a huge land septic system. Even though not many permits were required in the early fifties, the home would have passed even todays building codes.  My grandfather claimed strict ownership of his prized retreat.  Any use of it by our family, he scheduled.  Nobody could just leisurely drop by to hang out without giving him a shot over the bow.   Grandfather would entertain friends for duck hunts or fishing fun.  He spent a lot of time and overnights with his old time pals.  As the years went by, I found myself at age twenty accepted to many of his real men gatherings with his friends.  My grandfather was more of old cowboy than I had thought.  He actually had a mischievous side with lots of poker games played.  It would stager the imagination as to how much money was lost or won over the many years.  My father and Uncle Mark kept a tight lease on granddaddy in his later years but at his passing at age 90, he and I had many memories of fun in his cabin over the water. 

    My family has always kept this home well maintained and upgraded.  The home still stands proud and is 67 years old, looking as nice as it did when it was first built. This cabin continues to offer up fond memories for our family and friends and now my two daughters and grandkids. My daughter has spent many nights at our cabin, especially on full moon nights to watch the moon’s reflection on the water and listen to nature sounds of all the different types of outdoor animals that stir in the night hours.   Our family’s produce farm has been passed down to us through the generations but all of our family members give extra thanks and appreciation for my grandfather’s cabin over the water. The cabin is the go to family gathering place for all of us.  We will treasure and protect this cabin just as respectfully as we do our family farm business.                                              

    What a lovely story, Bob.
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