The Shack

It's been a while since I've posted any fiction. The Shack is a short flash from one of those 24 Hour Contests. There is a prompt followed by a word count and 24 hours to get it done and submitted. I never win, but it is a GREAT writing exercise. Hope you enjoy this one. 

📷credit: rarestohanean

The Shack

He coughed. It had happened fast. One day my dad was fine. A few weeks later, he was gray and ashen and coughing up a lung. 

I blamed it on the stress of running this damn farm. People came from miles around to admire and purchase his harvests from the shack by the road. 

The blueberries were the size of apples, and the apples were the size of pumpkins. The pumpkins set their own records, and the enormous pecans pulled on the 150-foot tree in the meadow. 

“Come ‘er, Missy.” He said, reaching out his gnarled index finger.

I inched closer. 

“I have to tell you the secret. To the farm,” he said. His frail body shook with labored raspy breath.

“Hush, Dad, I’ll figure it out,” I said, not wanting to know any of the details about the farm. I wasn’t going to run it. Walmart had already offered me a handsome sum, enough to keep me living comfortably far away from this two-bunk town. I’d never have to work four jobs to put food on the table again. 

“Miss…I tried to make it, but you have to keep it going…every spring…one hundred baby…” And that was what he said with his last breath.

“What?!?” I shouted to no one. “What was that?!?”

The house shook, and the wind picked up. A funnel cloud appeared, barreling straight for me. I looked at my dad, lifeless on the bed. I couldn’t leave him, but I couldn’t run either. I was rooted. I closed my eyes and braced, but the tornado shrunk and slipped through the open window.

As the wind died, a tall menacing woman and a small official-looking man stood before me.

“Hello, my name is Sherman, and this is Esmeralda. We’re sorry for your loss, but we must disturb you in your time of grief. The proprietor,” Sherman looked to my dad, “died without passing the deal on to the heir.” He met my gaze and held out his clipboard. 

“Huh?” was all I could utter. 

“Your father passed before you could accept the offer to maintain the farm,” Sherman said.

“What does that mean?” I asked, unable to fathom what was happening as my dreams of Walmart riches slipped away. 

Esmeralda looked down her pointed nose at me, “You are the only heir to the farm?”

“Um,” I said. In the regular world, under normal circumstances, I was fairly good with words. “I’m his only child,” I looked over at my poor dead father, who had coughed his last breath only moments ago.

“Did he not tell you about our agreement?” Esmeralda asked.

“No,” I gulped. “I think he was about to, something about a baby.”

“Ah yes, the babies. I hope he has acquired them for this payment. It’s due tomorrow,” said Esmeralda.

Sherman's face squinted into worry, “I hope he ordered the babies.”

“Babies?” I gulped.

“Yes, 100 of them. Every spring,” Esmeralda said.

My knees buckled, and I leaned on a nearby desk. Babies for profit. How could my dad do this? What kind of man was he? I was going to be sick. I didn’t have 100 babies; even if I did, I wouldn’t hand them to these two.

Sherman smiled, “Can we answer any questions?”

“Yeah, what did the babies buy?” I asked, afraid of the answer.

“A refugee portal,” Esmeralda said.

“Of course,” I laughed out loud, “And just what sort of refugees are we ushering through this portal, which is where?”

“Under the roadside shack, there’s a natural portal where displaced magical creatures can enter from the Nether Realm to seek asylum. Our land is at war.”

“My dad paid you in babies for a magic portal? Not the ridiculously huge harvests?”

“That’s the major perk of housing a portal,” Esmeralda said. “Magical beings help things grow.”

“Obviously,” I said. 

“Can we count on you?” asked Sherman.

“I don’t have 100 babies, and if I did, I wouldn’t give them to you!” I shouted as full-blown hysteria took over. 

A honk came from outside as a truck pulled up. We all looked out the window.

“Ah,” Esmeralda said, “Looks like the payment has arrived.”

The truck was loaded with baby chicks. Probably close to a hundred of them. I laughed, “My dad didn’t pay you in real babies?”

Their eyes shot wide, “Heavens, no! We’re not monsters!” 

“Since you’re paid up for the year…” Sherman raised an eyebrow.

“Sure, why not,” I said. At this point, I just wanted them gone. I wanted to be alone with my dad. And process whatever the hell was happening.

“Excellent,” Sherman clapped and presented his clipboard, “Just sign here.”

I did and then gulped, “What do you do with the chicks?”

“We raise them and sell the eggs to Walmart. They pay a fortune,” Esmeralda smiled. With a snap of her fingers, she and her cohort disappeared.

I sighed and sank onto the bed beside my dad, “I’ll take care of the farm, Dad. Rest in peace.”

The End

As always, thank you for stopping by. I’d love to hear your comments below. 

Until next time: Be creative. Find your wild side. Stay sane(ish). ✌️

Thirteen Years

 

📷 credit: Tumisu

Thirteen Years 

I had to be in 8th grade, sitting on the back patio with my younger brother as he taught me to inhale a cigarette. We grew up with a smoker (in the car, the bathroom, the kitchen, and the living room). A cloud of smoke was normal, and for a LONG time, I thought of it as a sign of fun and sophistication.

Thank the heavens, perspectives change.

For many years (nineteen, to be exact), I was a die-hard smoker. I mean, it was so "relaxing" anytime. There was nothing better than a smoke after a good meal, especially if wine and adult beverages were involved. Or in the morning with coffee. Enjoying a book. After sex. In the car. On a break from work. Getting ready for a night out. All the time.

I lit up for just about any reason and was one of those young 20-somethings who would roll into the gym parking lot with a cig hanging out of my mouth and then light one up before I pulled out of the parking lot afterward. 

For many years, I justified my smoking by telling myself I’d quit when it caught up to me physically. I mean, I made it to the gym five times a week. I was 'healthy." One day, I noticed the new lines around my mouth and under my eyes. My skin was dull. And then, I had to pause at the top of the stairs. 

For the following six months, I smoked in blinding denial of the damage and havoc I was inflicting on my sweet meat suit, my temple, my body, the only home I have. Until one day, I saw things clearly and my denial fell away.

That day was Saturday, March 19, 2011.

I’d just returned home to Arizona after meeting my youngest niece for the first time. This entailed a quick (long) roundtrip cross-country road trip with a husband and two dogs, none of whom traveled well in a not-so-large vehicle. 

Upon returning to my cozy ranch outside of Phoenix, I made sure all was well, and all creatures were accounted for before I toddled out to the patio with my bottle of wine, a pack of smokes, and a stack of gossip magazines to decompress from travel. 

That Saturday night, I devoured the magazines, polished off the wine, and inhaled half the pack. 

It was the last time I smoked a cigarette. 🚭

Between sheer willpower and support (data) from an app (ironic because I hate apps), I quit smoking cold turkey thirteen years ago. 

Not a single drag since, and by far one of my favorite decisions.

***Side note: I also ditched gossip magazines unless I’m flying. Then, the mindless flipping keeps my mind at bay during take-off when I often imagine the plane spontaneously combusting at 10,000 feet – the joy of anxiety and a writer’s imagination. ✈️

Also (more) noteworthy: What happens when someone kicks the habit? The effects of the health benefits begin immediately and last the rest of your life.

According to the American Cancer Society:

Within minutes of smoking your last cigarette, your body begins to recover:

20 minutes after quitting		Your heart rate and blood pressure drop.
A few days after quitting		The carbon monoxide level in your blood drops to normal.
2 weeks to 3 months after quitting		Your circulation improves and your lung function increases.
1 to 12 months after quitting		Coughing and shortness of breath decrease. Tiny hair-like structures (called cilia) that move mucus out of the lungs start to regain normal function, increasing their ability to handle mucus, clean the lungs, and reduce the risk of infection.
1 to 2 years after quitting		Your risk of heart attack drops dramatically.
5 to 10 years after quitting		Your risk of cancers of the mouth, throat, and voice box (larynx) is cut in half. Your stroke risk decreases.
10 years after quitting		Your risk of lung cancer is about half that of a person who is still smoking (after 10 to 15 years). Your risk of cancer of the bladder, esophagus, and kidney decreases.
15 years after quitting		Your risk of coronary heart disease is close to that of a non-smoker.

These are just a few of the health benefits of quitting smoking for good, but there are others, too.

Quitting smoking lowers your risk of other cancers over time as well, including cancers of the stomach, pancreas, liver, cervix, and colon and rectum, as well as acute myeloid leukemia (AML).

Quitting also lowers your risk of diabetes, helps your blood vessels work better, and helps your heart and lungs.

Quitting smoking can also add as much as 10 years to your life, compared to if you continued to smoke. Quitting while you're younger can reduce your health risks more (for example, quitting before the age of 40 reduces the risk of dying from smoking-related disease by about 90%), but quitting at any age can give back years of life that would be lost by continuing to smoke.

Sadly, I remember puffing on and then eating those candy cigarettes when I was a kid –  a great idea to hook them young. I knew then that I would be a smoker. I also knew someday I would be a non-smoker. 

Thirteen years.

As always, thank you for stopping by. I’d love to hear your comments below. 

Until next time: Be creative. Find your wild side. Stay sane(ish). ✌️

The Soul Takes Time

 

📷credit: geralt

In the Darkness of the New Moon, I'm embracing new beginnings, letting go of endings, seeing new perspectives, and facing fears...

Behold my symmetrical gathering of words, a mini story in poem form, a menagerie of free verse and chaos with a dash of rhythm, rhyme, and repetition.

The Soul Takes Time

I am right where I need to be

To be right where I need to be.

Time after time

It could have gone differently,

That’s true, you see.

Lacking a readiness

A new purpose to the past.

Thirsty with desire

Push and shove

Zoom zoom to the top

Reach the goal

Gather the prize

Achieve it all

Take it home

Make it your own.

Over and over

Essence was lost

Nothing but an empty

Only a void

Filled with the unfulfilled

Dark and dreary

Such a heavy cost

For all that was lost.

Sing into the song of the wind

Find your sway in each day

The soul sought takes time,

And time again.

Lesson after lesson

Wisdom and strength

Grow from within

Blossom and bloom

Again after again.

I am right where I need to be

To be right where I need to be.

It's been a while since I've dabbled in poetry, so I'd love to hear your thoughts on this latest WIP.  

Thank you so much for stopping by. 

Until next time: Be creative. Find your wild side. Stay sane(ish). ✌️

Happy International Writers' Day

 

📷credit: Chen

Can I See Your ID? 

Last night, I cruised through Hit-N-Run (a drive-thru convenience store where a human comes to your car, takes your order, gathers your items from the store, and then brings them to you in your car).

The young clerk (probably 20-ish, but he looked 12) took my order.

Him: Can I see your ID?

Me: Aww…aren’t you sweet.
Him: Why’s that, ma’am (the tell-tale lingo for an old lady)?
Me (as I reach for my ID): Well, I’m gonna be 49 this year.
Him: You know, ma’am, 49 isn’t that old; it’s like middle age.
Me: I’m not sure I’m gonna make it to 100.
His face drops. Him: Oh yeah. I guess not. (Then he works really hard to recover). But you know, ma’am, you really only look about 32, maybe even 30.

He smiled at me and collected payment before he walked back inside. Grinning and giddy, but without any cash on hand, I rifled around the vehicle gathering, every last quarter I could find and gave them all to him as a tip. He thanked me profusely. And I him.

He was a sweet kid, and he's gonna need all his extra cash for a good eye doctor. 👀🤷‍♀️🤣

The End

I appreciate you stopping by. Feel free to leave your thoughts on this super-short Creative Nonfiction in the comments section. 

Until next time: Be creative. Find your wild side. Stay sane(ish). ✌️

~Aspen Hite

Out With the Old; In With the New

📷credit: Mohamed_hassan 

Out With the Old; In With the New

Time is a funny, fickle thing. In some moments, I feel silly and young and alive, like I’m 17, and in other moments, I’m tired, like I’ve lived 117 years and a thousand lifetimes. Somehow, in a way I don’t really understand, this year flashed in the blink of an eye. As 2023 ends, I like to reflect on how I spent the year. 

What have I been doing? My knee-jerk response is to shrug and say, “I don’t know. Nothing.” But in truth, I’ve been busy working, teaching, reading, resting, letting go of all that no longer serves, and easing into all that is meant for me. Some of it’s heavy stuff. 

But I’ve also been writing. In fact, I spent a good chunk of the year tuning out the world and writing. I am beyond grateful for that opportunity because the grown-up outside world can come knocking, like a wise guy barging in to break your legs. So, I am humbled and thankful for that time.

At the beginning of the year, I tried hard to have an online presence. However, convincing strangers I'm a writer takes a lot of work. It worked for a while (welcome to the odd time in the 21st century, where we talk more than we do). One day, I had nothing left to post on my blog, and I’d spent too much time focusing on social media. It was the literal antithesis of where I wanted to be. 

I needed a kick in the pants, so I got out of my comfort zone and went to a writers' conference. Not only were there some great workshops, but I also got feedback from industry professionals and pitched to an agent who asked to see the first 50 pages of my novel! It was an INVALUABLE experience. 

After some polish and shine, I sent the pages to the agent and waited, checking my email every ten minutes while simultaneously planning the agent’s delighted response. (Ever see A Christmas Story where Ralphie envisions his teacher’s joy at reading his essay? It was a bit like that.) She was going to love it. I was on Cloud Nine. This was it; my time had come. 

But I also had a genuine problem. I had embellished (it’s what writers do) the completion level of the novel. I was only about halfway through and still needed a middle, a climax, and an ending (roughly 30,000 words). I DID have an outline and an idea (or two). So I wrote. Tuned out the world, and spun a tale.

I put all my energy into finishing that novel. Short stories and blogs sat incomplete and unfinished. The online posts stopped. My reading slowed, and I almost forgot about my word game. The only thing in my crosshairs was telling that story. 

One day in mid-June, I finished. It wasn’t shiny and polished, but I’d told the tale. With nothing but radio silence from the agent, I let the first book simmer and immediately got to work on the second one. I was on a roll.

Finally, a response from the agent came. I was giddy until I opened the email. 

The agent passed on the story. To her credit, she was kind and even offered specific areas of improvement. And she was right, but now what? My dream of a smooth path to publication (after ten years) was just gone. Poof. Snap of the fingers. In one email. Gone. 

It took a hot second to allow the disappointment to fade, but then things became clearer: 

1. I’d made writing a priority, and I had two new novels and a third in rough outline form. All of it had been to show myself I could do it. 

2. It was time to stop fucking around. Stumbling around aimlessly, trying to be a writer was over.  I didn’t need any more ways to NOT write a bestseller. I needed to learn—the tricks of the trade, the ins and outs. 

So, after jumping through several flaming hoops and almost getting lost in paperwork, I’ve been accepted into a Master of Fine Arts in Writing program. 

Brand new story beginning January 2024. Is it going to lead me to a life of best-selling novels (and that private island I’m always going on about)? Probably not, but as I learn from local industry professionals, I’m open to discovering my niche to see where it leads. Hopefully, to a revenue-generating career where I can entertain people with stories and positively impact the lives of readers of all ages. Perhaps I wind up back in a classroom or write a Kids' Yoga book (better yet, the next bestseller turned Netflix series). Maybe self-publishing, editing, or freelance writing will fit my lifestyle better. Time will tell. 

For now, I’m embracing the present, celebrating the lessons of 2023, and having faith in the ebb and flow of the journey.

Endless possibilities loom on the horizon, each filled with challenges and lessons, all filled with learning and laughter (to keep me balanced). 

Wishing you a wonderful New Year. May 2024 bring you peace, joy, and blessings. 💜

Until next time… 

Be creative. Find your wild side. Stay sane(ish). 

Aspen Hite ✌️

A Fictional Musing: Dead of Winter

I wrote Dead of Winter for a 24-Hour Short Story contest.  At noon, a prompt and a word count went live. All contestants then had 24 hours to write, rewrite, edit, and submit. My focus for this story was a surprise twist at the end. The story earned an honorable mention. 

Happy Reading. 📚

📷 Credit: MaggooArts

Dead of Winter

Moving to the mountains to escape humanity was the best decision I’d ever made. I was so much more at peace with my own existence, and that felt good after years of misery. 

It had been almost five years since I’d lost my partner. It was one of those wrong place, wrong time sorts of things. A terrible accident. But man, I missed Carmel. His smile could light up the world like the sun was doing just now.

I paused at the top of Eagle Point and took in the glorious view of nature. The snow was melting, but there would be more by nightfall. Winters could be brutal on the mountainside. 

My hard-fast rule is: I don’t dare go out in the dark or in a snowstorm—there are far too many dangers, like freezing to death. My closest help was a windy 45-minute drive up a mountain. And that was on a good day. 

I heard the rushing water of the stream before I saw it. The sound of running water always soothed my soul, and I almost smiled. 

Until I saw them. Bare footprints in the snow by the frosty edge of the stream... 

What on earth? How could that be possible? There weren’t other people up here. And bare feet would be a killer in winter. 

“Hello?” I cupped my hands around my mouth, “Is anyone out there?”

The snow blanketed everything, and silence responded. The sun drifted behind storm clouds, and fresh flakes began to fall. 

“Damnit!” 

I raced back to my cabin to grab leftovers from the fridge. While that heated, I rummaged through the closet for camping gear. Just in case someone was trapped out there, I had to help.

The snow was light, and there was enough daylight for my mission.  I made it to the stream's edge and back with my supply package.  If someone were stranded out there, they would at least have a bowl of warm food, a fork, some water, and a blanket.

The next day I awoke early, anxious to get outside and check on my stranded Stranger. As soon as it stopped snowing and the sun rose above the tree line, I raced to the edge of the stream.

My eyes widened in surprise. The plate and fork were spotless, right where I’d left them. The blanket was gone. 

I continued my mission for the next several days, leaving food and water for the stranded Stranger, no longer barefoot. I smiled at the tracks of the boots I’d left on the second day. 

The smell of snow filled the air as I retrieved the dishes.  A storm was coming. A bad one. And soon.

Back at the cabin, I prepped an extra large supply package for the next day and crossed my fingers I could get it to my Stranger on time. 

Shortly after dinner, something revolted in my stomach. I sat hugging the toilet as the fever ravaged my body, burning me from the inside out. I could do two things: lie in a heap or crawl to the bathroom for sink water. Sickness struck hard and fast.

In one of my more lucid moments, I crawled to the phone, but there was no dial tone or Wi-Fi. Nothing. And a blizzard raged outside. 

I glanced at the supply package that never made it to my Stranger and my near-empty bottle of Tylenol, and I cried. The storm will kill the Stranger outside and me inside.

Tormented, I collapsed on the couch. Even with all the blankets wrapped around me, I shivered and sobbed myself to sleep.

A door slammed in the distance. 

Startled, I sat up, blinked several times, and froze. People. Here. Who? And Why?

Even though I heard the voices and the heavy footsteps on the front stoop, I jumped at the knock on the door. 

“Hello, we’re here to help.” A deep voice called. “Miss Jones, Louise? Ma’am?”

Another knock. “Louise, it’s Dr. Phillips. I’m here with the Sherriff. Your sister called in a wellness check when she hadn’t heard from you. Are you okay?”

I was alive, but my Stranger probably wasn’t. At least there was help right outside the door. 

I gathered myself, still wrapped in blankets, and shuffled to greet my visitors. 

“There you are, Louise,” Dr. Phillips said when I opened the door, “And now, I’ll count backward from ten, bringing your awareness out of hypnosis and back to the present. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. Welcome home, Louise.”

I fluttered my eyes open and sighed, “That was a great session, doctor. I feel like I’m making breakthroughs.”

“You are, Louise,” Dr. Phillips smiled, “I’m proud of your determination for regular sessions. Now, go back to your room and journal about the Stranger. Who was it today? And why did you create the storm instead of saving the Stranger today?”

With a nod, I grabbed my journal and strolled back to my room at the Eagle Point Mental Institution. I would get out of here one day as soon as I could figure out why I killed Carmel in the dead of winter. 

The End

A Writer Musing: Writer Workshop Day

A Writer Musing: Writer Workshop Day

I love to learn. I love to write. When I have the opportunity to learn more about writing, I’m giddy. 

Recently, I attended a Writers' Workshop in St. Louis, MO. Despite a sleepless night before, a dreary day, cold temps (in and out of the building), and a clogged ear making it hard(er) to hear, it was a fantastically awesome day.

The Four Classes 

Class #1: Common Pitfalls in Publishing

Hybrid author, Katie Otey, shared her writer-life experiences and advice. Invaluable information, plus she's a super cool lady. 

Class #2: Everything You Need to Know About Agents and Query Letters 

Kourtney Price laid all the nitty gritty for those pesky query letters and finding the right agent. 

Class #3: 10 Surefire Ways to Strengthen your Writing 

Kerrie Flanagan, author and facilitator of the event, not only gave us a list but also read real-world examples AND offered the audience opportunities to create smooth, fluid writing. 

Class #4: Pros and Cons of Traditional and Indie Publishing

Laura Benedict held nothing back as she delivered all the bottom-line details of traditional publication and self-publication. An eye-opening experience. 

Other Noteworthy Events

Agent Pitch: I pitched to esteemed literary agent Bonnie Swanson. It was a quick and dirty 10-minute segment. It was the highlight of the day!

Writer’s Got Talent: A First Page Critque-Fest

Every writer in attendance had the opportunity to anonymously enter the first page of their manuscript. Several were randomly selected to be read aloud not only to the group but also to a panel of industry professionals (authors, agents, and editors). 

As the narrator read the pages to the room, the panelist would hold up a hand whenever they would stop reading. At the end of each page, the panelists provided feedback. 

The first page was a paranormal genre and MINE! Holy hells. My heart ricocheted around in my chest, and at one point, I could barely hear the feedback (my clogged ear didn't help). Feverishly, I scribbled notes to reflect on when I got home. An absolutely priceless experience. 

My Takeaway:

The opportunity to learn from experts in the writing world changed my perspective and provided new insight. This workshop was the push I needed to propel my writing forward.