"East Meets West -- Miriam E. Waters"

East Meets West

by Miriam E. Waters

Rachael was powerless to resist the laughing man with the infectious smile. She’d spotted him across the room as she made a slow circuit around shelves filled with antiques and curiosities.  She’d been searching for him for years.  Finally, in a quaint shop wedged between two Chinatown storefronts, she’d found him.

She wound her way through the tightly packed aisles until she stood before him.  Rachael lifted the smiling brass Buddha, leaving an empty footprint on the dust-covered shelf. She turned him over to inspect his base and discovered a core sealed with wax.

Upon closer examination, she realized the Buddha was frozen mid-stride and centered on the stump of a tree.  As a student of Asian artifacts, she knew the several growth rings beneath his pudgy feet suggested long life.  She also recognized the symbols for wealth and prosperity in the yoke across his shoulders which balanced a large coin on the left with money pots on the right. A beaded necklace and medallion adorned his chest.  He wore an elaborate robe and appeared quite pleased with the world.

Rachael didn’t fully understand the rich symbolism embodied in the Buddha. She knew, however, she was smitten and was determined to have him cheer her luckless apartment. She hadn’t made the month’s rent nor filled her pantry from her lean student’s stipend, but knew he was coming home with her no matter the cost.  

Armed with pluck and determination, Rachael approached a wizened shopkeeper to negotiate for the Buddha.

The smile on the shopkeeper’s face mirrored the Buddha’s.  He gently lifted the artifact from Rachael’s hands and set it on the counter between them.

“Ah, you’ve found Budai!  Happy East meets Happy West.  You may take him home if you can cross my palm with the correct coins.”

Rachael made her bid. “I can offer you twenty-five dollars, not the fifty you’re asking.”

“Budai has been waiting a long time for someone to take him to a new home. The dust covering his feet shows this.”

The shopkeeper clapped his hands together and pronounced, “Sold.”

Rachael soon left the shop with the Buddha tucked safely within a padded box lined in red velvet.  She made the long trek back to her modest apartment with the box cradled in her arms.

Once home, she lifted the Buddha from his luxurious nest and set him on the shelf above an old radiator.  Stepping back, she once again admired him and wondered what secrets he was keeping to produce such a smile.

After a time she went into the kitchen to begin preparing a “Welcome Home” dinner of stir fry and jasmine rice.  The steaming fragrant rice, however, couldn’t mask the scent of melting wax.  Alarmed, Rachael rushed to find the Buddha in a puddle dripping onto the radiator.

She plucked the Buddha from his new spot and examined the piece for damage.  The wax seal covering the core of the statue had melted and she could see something tucked inside him.  Curious, she cleared away the remaining wax and eased a vial from its hiding place.  Rachael tipped its contents into the palm of her hand and revealed the smiling Buddha’s secret … a handful of polished diamonds.

The treasure mirrored the lustrous sparkle in her eyes. Rachael’s smile grew as wide as the Buddha’s as she thought East meets West, indeed.

Flash Fiction -- "Fools' Gold ... Belle"

NOTE:  Published in "Best of Whitesboro Writers" so pulled from WWG/PI blogs!

“Fools' Gold … Belle”
by Miriam E. Waters

A bit of gold dust, a meager reward for her services for a drunken prospector.  Life’s cruel joke, the murder of her husband by claim jumpers, had forced her to succumb to the degradation of life as a lady of the line.

The sounds of laughter, boisterous voices, and the ancient piano filtered up to Belle.  The air in her room was redolent with a blend of unwashed bodies, cheap whiskey, and stale perfume. 

As Belle was secreting away the precious bits of gold, Old Orville entered the saloon downstairs.  He had found a rich vein of gold and come into town to celebrate after months in the fields.  “Barkeep, pour me a whiskey and keep ‘em comin’,” he instructed the man who was happy to oblige.

HenriDeToulouse Lautrec -- "Can Can"

“Where’s Belle?” Old Orville demanded of the proprietor just as she descended the staircase.  Without preamble he caught her up with a whoop and a laugh.  “Let’s head upstairs darlin’.  Time’s a wastin’,” he said.

Once in her room, Old Orville stripped Belle of her dress, corset, and layers of petticoats.  Only when she stood naked before him did he remove his own dirt encrusted clothes.

He ran his callused hand over the smooth contours of her body.   Cupping her breasts in his hands he bent to nuzzle their fullness.  He guided her back until she reclined on the old brass bed.  Without hesitation, he mounted her and penetrated her sex.   Within moments he lay satiated upon Belle’s supine body. 

After a time, Belle extricated herself from Old Orville’s embrace.  Weary in heart and mind, she began to dress desultorily in her saloon frippery.  So many nameless faces claiming my body as their own … how much more can I endure? Belle despaired.

Old Orville had fallen into a drunken sleep.  As he slept, Belle explored the old prospector’s pockets.  She was rewarded by finding a bulging bag filled with the precious nuggets lusted after by the prospectors.  She quietly changed into street clothes and tucked the bag and all of her hard-earned gold into a sturdy valise.

Belle made her escape down the back stairway and exited the saloon through the kitchen.  She found her way to the depot and nightly stagecoach.  When it traveled down the rutted road that led to some far destination, Belle didn’t give the mining town a backward glance. She left the town with her head held high and a bag filled with all of the fools’ gold that she had earned during her time in the life.

"Fabulous Find -- The WWG Presents ... -- Whitesboro Writers Group"

The Whitesboro Writers Group Presents: Our Best Stories 2011-2105

by Whitesboro Writers & Edited by CJ Alexander

-- Kindle

-- $2.99 -- Read with Amazon.com’s Free App

The best?  Really?  In a word, yes.

Though most of the authors are mainly recreational writers, each put their heart and soul into their monthly assignments. What you will find in these pages are twelve writers’ original and personal favorite stories, which were written for Dunham Public Library’s two main writing groups. Everyone has developed a recognizable style over the past five years, carefully injecting humor, metaphor, drama and much more into their prose. The authors hope you’ll find something you can relate to, or be inspired by, in this little book of bests.

In this short anthology you will find flash fiction and creative non-fiction written between 2011-2015 by thirteen members of the local writing group. In no particular order, they are: Barbara-Epley-Shuck, Susan Hansen, Miriam E. Waters, 

Linna Miller, Jerry Finkelstein, CJ Alexander, Joan O. Scharf, HT Longale, Jeremy Mortis, Darius Blake, Dennis Kininger, Cheryl Palmer, and Ginny Enea. 

You'll find thirty-eight fine examples of their humor, horror, whimsy, rant, anecdote and memoir. Each story was hand-picked for inclusion by the person who wrote it. Part of the proceeds of each of the WWG’s books helps to support Dunham Public Library, and gives aspiring authors the right to say "I've been published." The writers hope you enjoy this and all of their other group books (available in Kindle format from Amazon.com).

"Clabber -- Miriam E. Waters"

Clabber

Image Credit:  Not Known

by Miriam E. Waters

The taste of sour milk, clabber, lingered in her mouth.  The pain was constant and wouldn’t leave her body.  She’d been awake since hours before dawn.  Again.  Will this nightmare never end?

Michael had said he’d not be back.  The storms, you know.  They had escalated and intensified since she saw him, Tuesday last.

The incessant noise was driving him mad, rather quickly, she believed. He’d described the sound to her.  Biting. Buzzing.  Constant.  Very much like the endless droning of a cicada on a hot summer’s day.   And loud, don’t forget loud.

The doctors could find nothing wrong with him.  “It’s in your head,” they told him.

Well, of course it’s in his head.  Where else would sounds be found?

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” they assured him.

If this were Michael with “nothing wrong,” how would he be when the doctors finally agreed he had a problem that needed to be addressed?

Marie threw off the coverlet and smoothed away the wrinkles that had taken up residence in her clothes.  It was time for action, time to rid herself of the demons.  But, how?

Warm milk and honey.  Add a touch of cinnamon and nutmeg to mask the flavor of the illicit component and lend a spark to the concoction.  Start there. It’s as good a beginning to an end as any.  It will cleanse the damnable clabber from my mouth and end this insufferable agony for good.

Marie’s movements were ingrained in her muscles’ memory.  She had performed the ritual of warming milk so many times it was almost ceremonial.  She relaxed as the first drops of the corrupted elixir kissed her tongue.   Soon, soon.  I’ll be rid of the taste, the pain, and all thoughts of Michael.

An insistent pounding on the door shook the glass in its panes.

Marie set her mug on the corner of the table and rushed to unbar the door.  Michael blew in like a storm coming off the roiling ocean.

His arms were wrapped about his head, attempting to block the buzzing from his ears.  His eyes were wild from the constant torment.  He looked at Marie and begged in his quietest voice, “End it.”

Marie vibrated with fear as she shook her head to deny his request.

“End it,” he repeated.

In two long strides he reached the cupboard.  He opened the doors and rummaged until his hand touched metal.  Michael pulled the gun from the cupboard and forced it into Marie’s quaking hands.

“End it, now,” he begged.

A sigh and then Marie gave a slow nod in silent acquiescence.  She lifted the weapon and looked deep into Michael’s eyes.  She bid him “Goodbye.”  A gentle squeeze ended the madness.  

January 25, 2016.  All Rights Reserved.

"Fabulous Finds -- 'Winter Writes' by the Whitesboro Writers Group"

NEW! -- Released January 16, 2016!

Visit www.amazon.com

Winter Writes: Poems, Stories & Sagas Kindle Edition

An Anthology of Original Poems and Gritty Stories

inspired by Old Man Winter.

Also Available! -- Released October 27, 2015

Visit www.amazon.com

Halloween Musings & Amusings Kindle Edition

An Anthology of Flash Fiction & Poems

The Whitesboro Writers Group

Presents Two Anthologies Compiled by WWG

"Monday; January 4, 2016"

Image Credit:  "Chimera Cat" by Zoran Milutinovic -- www.500px.com

Come meet "Chimera," a nondescript woman who mines the internet as an identity thief ... one of many inhabitants of the "Underweb" community.

In this experimental piece written by members of the Whitesboro Writers Group, a woman becomes so intrigued by the inner workings of the Internet that a part of her "soul" or "consciousness" is absorbed into her computer.  Once ensconced in this world, she quickly learns the ropes and rises to power as its Queen. The story opens with Korre at the top of her reign. It meanders through the past,  present and future as “the plot thickens." Chimera and other denizens of the "Underweb" are either in her camp or trying to overthrow her in a spectacular virtual coup d'etat. Who will emerge victorious?

Underweb Chronicles Table of Contents

"Fabulous Finds -- Halloween Musings & Amusings -- Whitesboro Writers"

Kindle Version Available at Amazon.com -- Free Kindle App also Available!

Halloween Musings & Amusings: 

An Anthology of Flash Fiction & Poems 

Kindle Edition -- $5.99

by Whitesboro Writers,  CJ Alexander, Miriam E. Waters,, Perry McDaid  & Others

If you like Halloween, or if you're a person who enjoys the horror genre, you'll find dozens of original, intriguing stories and poems in this book. They're all dedicated to ghouishly and sometimes comically paranormal phenomena. We've got everything from aliens to witches and werewolves. Most, but not all of the stories are suitable for readers of any age. Explore the whimsical, the macabre, the spine-tingling and the hair-raising adventures of the characters - both living and dead (and some forms in between). Included in these pages are chilling, colorful images and photographs from award-winning artists, everything with a Halloween twist.

"Going, Going, Gone! -- Miriam E. Waters"

by Miriam E. Waters

“Who’ll give me three hundred? I’ve got one-fifty!  One-fifty … two hundred. Mister, are you in?  Nice of you to join us.  I’ve got three hundred … three-fifty … four hundred.  Take it to four-fifty.  Got it.  The bid’s yours miss.  Can I get five hundred?  Yes. Hold those numbers high folks.   Five hundred … five hundred-fifty.  Nicely done … time for the rest of you to catch up.  Come on, it’s a gorgeous day and I want to go fishing but can’t until I sell this beautiful trunk!  Six-fifty, do I hear seven hundred?  Seven hundred from the man in the back … thank you sir.  Someone give me seven-fifty.  It’s big, it’s bold, it’s locked!  Don’t you want to know what’s inside?  Give me seven-fifty and you just might find out.  Seven-fifty from the Lady in Red.  Can’t miss you in a crowd.  Eight hundred … eight-fifty.  Did I see you nod or are you falling asleep?  Nine hundred!  Miss, that man just stole back your trunk … you won’t be filling it with your fine linens and petticoats anytime soon.  Nine hundred once, nine hundred twice … one thousand.  Happy to see you came to your senses.  It must be all that red firin’ you up.  Can I get fifteen hundred? Yes sir, the bid’s back to you.  I’ve got fifteen hundred and need two thousand. You’re not gonna let him steal it away from you now, are you my pretty Red Lady?  Two thousand.  Folks, this chest could be filled with all sorts of wondrous goods. Take it home with you and I guarantee you won’t be disappointed.  Can I get twenty-five hundred?  Now’s not the time to back down sir.  He’s back in the game with twenty-five hundred.  Look at the condition of this beauty folks … well preserved, solid brass fittings, you won’t find a nicer trunk outside of your grandma’s bedroom.  Who’s gonna take it to three thousand?  Thank you m’Lady in Red, three thousand.  Your granny would be proud.  Thirty-five hundred.  I knew you had it in you Mister.  You’re going head to head with the scarlet woman right now.  Laaaady … did you come to buy or just eat the free hot dogs? Can you give me four thousand? Four thousand from Red!  Now we’re cooking with peanut oil.  I have four thousand once, four thousand twice. Sold for four thousand to our blushing Lady in Red!  Come on up and pay the man.”

Jeanette blanched.  Had she really just paid four thousand dollars for a TRUNK?  The piece had better be lined with gold and fit into her car.

All Rights Reserved.  September 28, 2015

"Featured Blog -- Whitesboro Writers Group Round Robin -- Open Call"

Picture Credit:  Crimson Studios

Whitesboro Writers Group

Open Call for Writing Collaborators!

A round robin is a serial novella written by several authors who take turns advancing the plot. One person begins with a "chapter" or "episode" to introduce the story line and the main character, then another writer chimes in with a new character of his/her choice and ties that character into the plot. This goes on as long as the writers are interested.

We want to hear from you! Pitch your idea as to what the next project theme or story arc should be on the Whitesboro Writers Group Round Robin Blog. Please use your initials or pen name if you don't want to use your real name, so we can get in touch with you if necessary. Then we'll vote on the most intriguing ideas and go from there.

This is very much a work in progress, so stay tuned, and let your ideas flow. The last group effort, Underweb Chronicles, was big fun and quite a success.  The series consists of forty-nine chapters written by six different authors. Help us make the next one even better ...

"Siren's Song" -- Miriam E. Waters

by Miriam E. Waters

The solitude of a museum experienced during the late night appealed to a dreamer like Nate.  An art student by day, museum watchman by night, and artist during every waking moment of his lonely life, Nate had discovered his niche working in the museum.  Patrolling the spacious galleries allowed him ample time to study the work of accomplished painters and sculptors without the distraction of other patrons.

The silence in the museum thundered in Nate’s ears.  He broke the quiet of the cavernous reception area with the rasp of paper on paper as he studied the new exhibit’s chapbook, “James William Waterhouse – A Retrospective.”

The faint sounds of a stringed instrument reached Nate.  He cocked his head to listen.  The sweetest of melodies began to swell and beckoned intoxicatingly; impossible to resist.  Nate set the chapbook aside, grabbed his flashlight and went to investigate the source of the music.

The honeyed voice of a woman soon joined the instrument.  The music and singing were coming from the new exhibit.  Nate increased his pace, it was imperative for him to discover the fount of such beauty.  The thought that the sounds were foreign to the museum’s staid silence never occurred to him.

Nate entered the wing housing the Waterhouse Exhibit.  The singing and music faded into silence.  He wandered for a few moments examining the rich scenes portrayed in the artwork. He eventually found himself standing before a painting, “The Siren.”  The scene depicted a siren ensconced on a rock holding a lyre.  She was gazing out of the scene as if she were studying Nate.  

The siren strummed the strings on the lyre.  The heady music filled the exhibit hall once again.  Too many sleepless nights were taking their toll.  His mind was on fire.  “Beautiful one, how I wish I were with you,” Nate whispered in the empty hall.

There was no sign of Nate when the daytime guard arrived to begin his shift, odd. The guard walked the circuit of the exhibit halls.  When he reached the Waterhouse Exhibit he was drawn to “The Siren.”  He studied the image of a woman sitting on a rock and leaning forward to stare into the eyes of a man floundering in the water at her feet.  The man was a dead-ringer for Nate.  The guard shrugged his shoulders and turned to examine the next painting.

Picture Credit:  "The Siren" by John William Waterhouse (circa 1900)

August 23, 2015.  All Rights Reserved.

"Gunnhilde's Redoubt" -- Miriam E. Waters

Picture Credit: dragonike.wordpress.com

by Miriam E. Waters

Gunhilde shifted on her bed of straw.  She was accustomed to sleeping in the loft above the animals.  She slept when they slept, she rose when they rose. Dawn was peeking through the spaces between the boards above her head.  Soon the light would reach her face, the animals would begin to stir, and she would rise to attend to her tasks.  For the moment, however, she burrowed a little deeper into the warm nest and breathed a sigh of contentment.

Clang-gung.  Clang-gung.  Clang-gung. “Gunnhilde!  Gunnhilde!”  

The milkmaid came fully awake, her heart pounding in concert with the urgent staccato of the village bell.  She bolted from her bed, made her way to the plank ladder, and descended into the gloom filling the barn.

“She’s back, the Red Dragon’s back!  I saw her shadow pass over the house a few moments ago.  She’s snatched our cows and now she’s after my babies!  Take them and hide in the mill,” begged the mistress of the house.

Moving as quickly as the wee ones were able, Gunnhilde led the children into the safety of the stone windmill where the summer wheat was being ground.  She secreted them in a small manger below the stairway leading to the great arms of the mill.

“Hide under that straw with your sister.  Don’t move or leave this spot.  The dragon likes eating children.”

Gunnhilde barricaded the mill’s door.  Armed with only a pitchfork, she kept vigil at the door throughout the long day. She could hear shouting men and barking dogs. The bitter stench of burning crops found its way into the mill.  The Red Dragon’s roar was so close Gunnhilde’s heart nearly stopped beating!

She didn’t dare leave the babes.  They were cold, hungry and frightened.  If they left the windmill they might find themselves eye to eye with the dragon; best to stay hidden.

The shadows on the mill’s floor signaled evening.  There were no more sounds or hints of life from either animals or villagers.  The mill was choked with smoke from the burning fields.  It was time to investigate what lay beyond the mill’s door.  

Clutching the pitchfork to her breast, Gunnhilde once again abandoned a position of safety.  She cleared the barricade from the door and pushed it open a few inches.  This allowed her to peek into the dusk.  She saw nothing but heard odd noises.  “Chirrup, kok, kok, kok, hool; chirrup, kok, kok, hool.”   She tried to push the door closed, but before she was able she was bowled over by something hurtling itself into the mill.

A great weight pressed upon her chest.  A young dragon was standing on her, pinning her to the ground.  She heard anguished shouts from the children.  Gunnhilde’s last thought before her vision filled with snapping jaws was “no, no, no … not the babies.”

From the courtyard beyond the door, the Red Dragon gave a contented call:  “Chirrup, chirrup, chirrup.”  Her hatchlings answered the call, “kok, kok, kok, hool.”

August 18, 2015.  All Rights Reserved.

Featured Blog -- "Plotters Ink"

Image Credit:  commons.wikimedia.org

PLOTTERS INK publishes fiction produced by members of the Whitesboro Writers Group.

The current focus of the group’s efforts is on “genres” and a round-robin tale, “Underweb Chronicles.”  Recent genres have included Horror/Thriller, Children/Animals, and Historical/Biographical.  

Meeting announcements, news from the Whitesboro Writing Group, writing inspirations and prompts, and tips on writing can be found on the group’s Facebook page “Whitesboro Writers.”  Watch for daily updates and fresh material from the group.

August’s genre is “Writer’s Choice,” so join in the fun and submit your work to whitesborowriters@gmail.com.

Featured Blog -- "Underweb Chronicles"

Welcome to a romp through the "Underweb."  This on-going project is produced using a round-robin approach to writing.   The  team of writers delivers a diverse set of characters, settings, and action. Come meet Queen Korre and learn of her goal to rule the Underweb,  and beyond.

In this experimental piece, a woman becomes so intrigued by the inner workings of the Internet that a part of her "soul" or "consciousness" is absorbed into her computer.  Once ensconced in this world, she quickly learns the ropes and rises to power as its Queen.

The story opens with Korre at the top of her reign. It will meander through the past,  present and future as “the plot thickens.” You will meet some additional characters.  Some of whom are  in her camp and some trying to overthrow her in a spectacular virtual coup d'etat. Who will emerge victorious?

Underweb Chronicles -- Chapter 1: Prologue

I was human for a great many years and there is one thing I know for sure.  It is  hard. It was too hard for me most of the time, and I am very, very resilient,  so it must be doubly, even triply hard for the likes of you. Read more ...