Author: Lorelle VanFossen

Lorelle VanFossen is a pioneering XR Innovator and WordPress leader, tech educator, keynote speaker, and producer bridging virtual reality and digital innovation. Co-founder of Educators in VR, founding WordPress community member, and passionate advocate for emerging technologies and human rights. Expert in immersive education, VR/XR event production, UX, and digital transformation.

Round-Robin: The Smell was Familiar I

The following is one of the prompts created by members of Writers in the Grove in response to Prompt: Round-Robin Writing in a Group.

Bev: The smell was familiar and touched a deep place in my heart. It was clear long before we saw it. The scent of the sea is unmistakable, but not apparent at all until you get up and over the ridge of mountains that shield the sight, sound, and scent of the ocean from the valley. We only made the trip once a year but this time it had been five years and anticipation of the wonders of the seashore.

Susan: The kids in the backseat were antsy and loud. Little Billy was especially vocal because he had been too little to remember the trip the last time. Now he was wiggling around in his car seat, causing Emma to upend her can of soda and splash Evie with orange creme all over her Sunday dress. Undaunted, I pulled the car over and pulled each kid out. All lined up against the car, I scrubbed and blotted and straightened each one until we were ready to continue on the journey.

The light sea breeze was calling. The destination close. The kids were all back into their places as I started the car.

Mary: What would they do now? We had a long drive ahead of us. Could we get there safe and sound? The kids fell asleep but I knew I’d better stay awake. It would be a long time until we got to the beach.

DK: The night before had been a mas rush to find the motel, switch rooms when the toilet didn’t work, eat a hurried snack, shower, and tumble into bed. We were all exhausted. Traveling with four kids under the age of ten was harder than I remembered. I had hidden the option for a sleep over back in the recesses of my mind, but now was so thankful that I had packed a spare bag with extra clothes and essentials.

Six AM. Bill was first to wake, screaming “Momma! Momma! I can see the ocean!” He jumped up and down on the bed waking all his siblings.

Lorelle: I was surprised at the speed the children took to get dressed and out of the motel. Back home, it could take 45 minutes to get most of them up, showed, dressed, and off to school This morning, it was accomplished at whirlwind speeds in under five minutes.

Pails, plastic shovels, umbrellas, sun lotion, towels, sun hats, all flew in wild semi-synchronous order onto bodies as if pulled in with rare earth magnets. We all traipsed down the path to the beach below, colorful and noisy, my parade of ducklings.

The beach didn’t stand a chance. The kids tore into it like it was under construction, a demolition derby of digging, building, tearing down, and rebuilding. By nightfall, the tide would come in and erase their day of labor, but for now, they were master builders and architects.

The supervisor of the anarchy, I sat under one of the umbrellas and read, until my cell phone alarm reminded me it was time for another dousing of sun lotion on the precious skin of my ducklings.

By evening, the worn out tykes were quick to shower off sandy warm bodies and drift contented off to sleep. I smiled at them as I stepped outside and closed the door. Finally alone.

Cheri: This was my time, and thanks to the bottle of brandy I had thrown into my bag, I could sit down and let myself relax. It occurred to me that my parents had probably felt the same way at one point. After dealing with all of us kids, they would tuck us in and retire to a quiet place in order to spend a little time alone with each other, probably talking about the day. But here I sat, alone, with no one to reflect with other than my brandy and the sound of the ocean. Being alone is hard, and I often wonder how I arrived here, solitary, with no one to share the events of the day. Of course, it wasn’t anyone’s fault. It just happened. Circumstances beyond my control. But it doesn’t make the loneliness any less painful.

DSO: Death of a spouse is not an easy thing. Who am I supposed to be angry at? Steve? God? The drunk driver? His boss for demanding he go that night? Am I jealous because he is safe now and I am left here with the issues of life to deal with? He was always telling me brandy can never be a good friend because it dulls the zest for life that helps make good decisions.

Prompt: Round-Robin Writing in a Group

The prompt this week was a sort of round-robin of serial writing. Done as a group, two prompts were offered to choose from:

The smell was familiar and touched a deep place in my heart.

It was a dark and still night. The noise outside didn’t sound like the wind.

The first person chose one and wrote that down and continued for 2 minutes, then the paper switched to the person next to them for another two minutes of writing, continuing from whatever the first person started, then on to the next and next. If you have eight people in the group, eight stories will circulate through. Allow the first person to end the story when it circles around back to them, then read each story aloud to see where each went.

This technique could be done in the following ways if you are not part of a writing group.

  • Email: If you have a few writing friends, even one other person, do this with them, emailing the exchange back and forth and see where each takes the story.
  • Social Media: Either part of a social media online writing group or to your followers, explain the prompt and ask everyone to add a line in series, and see where they take the story.
  • Family or friends: This doesn’t have to be with writers only. Gather a group of friends or family members and set a timer for two minutes and circle the stories around.
  • Alone: Write for two minutes on day one and leave the story (saving it if on the computer). Return the following day and add two minutes more, and keep going until you’ve completed this for a week or month, whatever time period you wish. Or do this once a week for a couple months, allowing time to pass between attempts.

Round-Robin: It was a Dark and Still Night I

The following is one of the prompts created by members of Writers in the Grove in response to Prompt: Round-Robin Writing in a Group.

ML: It was a dark and still night. The noise outside didn’t sound like the wind. I was sure someone was outside. They were probably hiding my ducks. Where would I find them tomorrow morning. They would need to be fed. Sure enough when I awoke in the morning, they were gone. There were none on the flag pole. I looked all over the flower beds. Maybe I’m the one who is lost. I think this mother duck needs to watch her babies better.

DK: It took about an hour to find the mother duck and all five ducklings. They had traveled much further than I would have thought, and were swimming happily in my neighbor’s pond. I gathered up the brood and brought them back to my house under protest o the mother duck. She had been happy in the pond. Much more so than my neighbor, but when I went into the penned area where I usually housed them, I realized the lock on the gate had been forced open. That was the noise I kept hearing during the night. The sound of someone breaking into the duck pen. Since I lived all alone, frightening thoughts started filling my head.

Lorelle: A duck thief? In this neighborhood? Who would-of-thunk? It would not make sense to rob me of the ducks, my precious little flock, so necessary to me for their eggs, food, and company. Mostly for the company. It was quiet here in the wooded foothills of the Coastal Mountain Range of Oregon. Deer were free to range here as were the elk. Why would anyone let the ducks out? What did they want?

On closer observation, it was clear that my lock had been cut clean through.

My great grandfather had built this farm. He had lived to be 99 years old and died only four years ago. What would he have to say about someone breaking into the old duck pen? I looked at the old wood shed, its ramp up for the ducks to waddle up was disturbed. Footprints, muddy boot tracks, stepped up inside the duck house. What could they possibly want inside? The eggs? Wrong time of the year. What was going on here?

Cheri: I decided to explore the footprints a little closer in the hopes that the thief had left behind a clue for me to follow. The prints were small, almost childlike. Was the thief from one of the neighbors? I followed the footprints into the woods, thinking about potential suspects the whole time. “Why would a child want a duck?” I wondered out loud, my voice breaking the silence of the woods.

Suddenly it dawned on me why a child would be after my ducks. And I knew where I was going next.

DSO: Yes, the sweet faces of the people in town. I remember seeing the whole new family at the General Store. I had been amazed at the quiet, gentle spirit of the mother and the strong peaceful presence of the father. I was surprised that six children, rowdy children, belonged to the tall, smiling adults. Even though they minded well, they never stayed long at mother’s side, two seconds and they were off again exploring, touching, and smelling. It made me smile and I missed the wonder of my youth. Well enough of that – back to my missing ducks.

Bev: I asked Minnie at the post office about the new family and learned they had inherited the old Stewart place down the road. I pondered how that big beautiful family would manage in that broken down place. It had been vacant for years, had no indoor plumbing or electricity, and half the windows had broken panes. Maybe that old fireplace might keep them warm, along with that big wood cook stove.

Susan: But my ducks, why?

As I stepped up the ramp following the muddy footprints, I heard a noise inside the duck house. Giggling erupted from the back of the duck house. As I stepped on a loosened floor board, I fell right through to the ground below.

“Thieves and vandals!” I screamed. “That is what has moved in. Nothing more than thieves and vandals!”

The twelve year old hooligan smiled at me through the hole in the floor. He was just standing there with that smile and a pair of bolt cutters in his hand.

Prompt: Bystanders

The prompt for this week’s Monday Writers in the Grove Workshop was:

Bystanders are sometimes more than passive, they can be perpetrators, people who inject themselves into the story. Write a short piece on how a bystander moves from outside of the event to inside.

If you would like to participate in these prompts, please do so on your site or personal journal. If you would like to discuss them, please comment below.

The Legacy Table

Inspired by the prompt Echos of a Wooden Table.

The foggy cloud wafted around her, hands a flurry of motion on the counter. Smack, roll, pound, twist, smack, roll, pound, twist, her body barely moving as arms pummeled the bread dough. I brushed a kiss on her wrinkled cheek as I moved past her, coughing slightly in the warm, moist flour-dust filled air.

“Don’t forget to run the water first.” How many years had she repeated this warning to me.

“Well still giving you problems? I thought Dad’d fixed it again.” Orange-red water sputtered from the silver tap into the well-worn and stained porcelain sink like blood from a cut. She didn’t need to answer. The evidence was clear, or rather not clear. Even so, a long sigh from the woman next to me puffed more flour into the air.

I reached overhead into the open cupboard for a glass cup, scratched and foggy with use and hard water stains, waited for the water to run clear, then filled it to the brim. While the rust in the old pipes was frustrating, and the old pump groaned at the request, the water that finally came through was clean and sweet, if you ignored the odd bit of dirt that floated to the bottom once in a while.

With a slap of hands again the well-washed apron covering her thighs, she stepped back to admire the loaf she’d shaped from the mixture of water, salt, flour, honey, and yeast.

“It’s the rains not the well.”

“Flooding is bad this year.” I took a long sip and gazed longingly at the white loaf. I knew the coming wait. I’d waited it for all of my life, through the heating of the oven, the baked warmth wafting through the house, the melt of the first warm slice without butter as an occasional treat, then doused in creamy butter during evening dinner. It was worth the wait. (more…)

Prompt: If I Had a Hammer…

The prompt this week was:

If you only had two or three tools, what would they be, and how would you use them?

Put yourself or a character in a situation where they are restricted to using two or three tools. Describe the situation, the tools, their handling of the tools, what they are working on, putting emphasis upon the tools themselves.

Legacy

Based upon the prompt to write like William Stafford in a workshop in honor of his birth centennial.

I breathe in light
I sleep in color
I dance with design
Yet I paint not

I freeze with paintbrush in hand
Scissors slide flesh not paper
Glue melds fingers to clothing
Paint drips on my feet

I begrudge the masters of brush
Of pen that licks paper black
Of knives birthing beings from wood
Of fingers creating clay creatures

I aspire to be a master of art
Framed, famed, and auctioned
Leaving a legacy of color
As I pass through this world