The Tree

July 26, 2017 Angela Harrison 1 Comment

There was a door in a tree. In the middle of the woods, amongst all the normal looking trees, stood a tall oak with a door in the middle of the trunk and a light hanging off the side. You know, so you could see the door if it was dark.

Why on Earth it was there and what it could possibly lead to was another issue entirely. She stood staring up at it in contemplation. Should she go in? There was very little chance that she wasn’t going to go in, to be honest. She had to know where it went.

Drawing in a deep breath, she made her way up the little path that seemed to open up in front of her. There wasn’t a path as such, no sidewalk or anything to mark an actual path, just less undergrowth, an absence of obstacles to get there.

Reaching the door, she turned the knob and it swung open with a slight screech. Peering in to the dim interior, dust floated by and there was a slightly musty smell.

“Anybody here?” She called.

No answer.

Stepping inside, the air seemed to brighten a little, sunlight filtering in from a small window, up high, that hadn’t been visible from the outside. The door squealed again as it swung shut. She jumped a little, but really, what had she expected?

As she made her way further in, the room seemed to widen and lengthen. The brightness grew incrementally as she walked tentatively forward. Warmth filled the air from a fire that crackled comfortingly in the corner of the room. A plush chair was situated just in front of the fire.

Well, why not? She perched in the chair, suddenly aware of a robe draped across it. Snuggling into it, she found it soft, warm and just her size. She looked to her right and noticed a staircase twisting it’s way up and up, it seemed to go on forever.

“What is this place?” She whispered out loud.

“It is whatever you want it to be.” Came the reply.

She jumped and looked around for the source of the voice. There was a little man, with huge ears and feet, no taller than a five year old but obviously aged. He gave a slight bow.

“Who are you?” She inquired.

“I am your guide, should you choose to explore.” He answered as he handed her a fluted champagne glass. “Drink and this world shall open up to you, but I must warn you, time moves differently here. Be very sure this is what you really want.”

She reflected for a few minutes on her life. The job that wasn’t going anywhere, her lack of a love life, her insatiable desire for knowledge and adventure. It was the easiest decision she had ever made in her life.

She took the champagne glass and drank deeply.

Writing

The Truck

July 23, 2017 Angela Harrison Leave a comment

The truck hummed suspiciously in her driveway. Clara regarded it thoughtfully. It was a rather large truck, white, with lights on top. But how had it gotten here?

Clara didn’t own a truck and she had never seen this one until it appeared in her driveway a moment ago. The hum was suspicious mostly because trucks didn’t really hum. They rumbled or purred or something more apropos of an engine. This sounded more like something electric.

The truck looked mostly normal, with blue lights pulsating from under it. The windows were tinted so dark that she couldn’t see inside, even the front windshield. That was certainly odd.

She reflected that she should probably be afraid, or some other normal emotion that one might have if an unearthly sounding truck appeared in your driveway out of nowhere. But then again, she really wasn’t a normal person.

She became aware of her oddness at a very early age. When she knew what people were thinking without them having to speak, when people she wanted just showed up at the door, because they felt compelled to and when toys she saw on TV and wished for just appeared. But she hadn’t wished for this truck so what was up with it? Why was it here?

There was a soft click as the door swung open. An inhumanly tall man with a bluish tint to his skin stepped out. He wore a suit of soft, glittery silver, all one piece. Those were definitely antennas coming out of the top of his head.

“Hello Clara.” She heard in her head, though he had not spoken out loud.

“Hello.” She thought back at him, still far more curious than afraid.

“My name is Alto and I’m here to take you to the induction ceremony.” He sounded so matter of fact, as if she had been expecting him.

“Induction ceremony?” She probed.

Was that a sigh she heard inside her head?

“You are being inducted into The Intergalactic Society for Gifted Beings,” he thought at her, “you didn’t receive the welcome packet?”

“Uh…no.”

There was another sigh, this one distinct and thoroughly long suffering.

“So hard to get good help these days.” She heard him thinking.

“Well, get in or we’re going to be late,” He told her, “I’ll explain on the way.”

Poetry, Uncategorized

Epiphany

July 17, 2017 Angela Harrison Leave a comment

Stillness. Quiet. Nothing stirs.

This is a memory, sublime;

struggle to see it clearly,

through the swirling mists of time.

Standing over a boiling pot

of water, in a trance, caught,

steam rising, water roiling,

with what danger is the past fraught?

Gazing back in time and space

In the water you can scry.

Into many other worlds

You now can happily spy.

Stuck, standing still, falling in,

crossing the veil, with the sight.

Struggling to understand,

Remember with all your might.

What we really are, and why

In a flash, through a rip in time,

you finally catch it, see it

the epiphany you find.

Creation makes perfect sense

Your soul begins to rise up,

but in an instant, instead,

you fall, the loss is abrupt.

For a split second you saw,

you understood everything.

Then in a flash it was gone,

A memory of nothing.

You can’t forget it, ever

But you’ll never have it back.

You know that you once knew it,

You will always feel its lack.

Writing

Adventure

July 12, 2017 Angela Harrison Leave a comment

I watched the sun sink down below the horizon. It was gorgeous, majestic! The blues and reds mingling as the sun grew huge and sank slowly behind the mountain range.

I inhaled the smell of the impending night deeply; this was my favorite time of day. The heat dissipating quickly as the sounds of night overcame the sounds of day. Chirping of birds and the calling of children ceased as the crickets and frogs took over.

Would I ever see my homeland again? By morning we should be well into our journey. The herds were on the move and so were we. For the first time in my memory, food was scare. Packed and ready to go, we set out, traveling by night to avoid the scorching heat.

I gave one longing backwards glance to my childhood home then turned and joined the others as we set out on our adventure.

Poetry

Dirty

July 4, 2017 Angela Harrison Leave a comment

I have a friend that I trade writing prompts with and I really enjoyed this take on a poem about getting dirty. With permission, I am sharing it with all of you:

Jack walked along the country road

Humming along the way

He tripped and fell

And said, “oh hell.”

As he landed

To his dismay

In a pile of mud

Filthy mud

Oozing, wet, and sticky

All over his hands

All over his clothes

Now soggy, mired and drippy

Jack sighed

Wanted to cry

But got back up instead

And continued down the country road

Squishing the mud as he tread

by JN Quigley

Writing

The Incident

July 4, 2017 Angela Harrison Leave a comment

She fumbled for the light switch. It had to be here somewhere, she thought, as she stumbled along the wall in the darkness, feeling for it. This level of darkness was impossible, was there not a window anywhere? How about a bit of moonlight or a street lamp shining through a curtain? Seriously, how could it be this dark?

She felt the primeval panic rising in her throat. She tried to calm herself, to think logically. But every primitive instinct in her body was screaming that the darkness was evil, bad, to be feared. She had to get out of here.

She felt hot tears come unbidden to her eyes and start to spill down her cheeks. Mucous clogged up her throat and her breath came out in ragged gulps. Just as she was about to lose it completely, she mercifully found a doorknob. Turning it, she threw herself through the door and out onto the fair grounds.

All around her sirens blared and the sounds of shouting filled her ears. Stumbling away from the doorway she suddenly found herself struck by the glare of a spotlight. She froze like a deer, and for the same reason. Going from complete darkness to the blindingly bright spotlight, she was momentarily stunned and blinded.

“Ma’am! Ma’am!” a voice was demanding.

She looked up, blinking, shielding her eyes, trying to make sense of the words that were being said to her. The words were unclear, muffled, coming from a distance. As she struggled to focus, things began to sharpen, the words became decipherable, clearer, closer, and she was able to make out shapes around her. Police cars, an ambulance, cameras, were those reporters?

“Ma’am, I need you to focus!” the voice was more insistent now. She looked up into the face of a firefighter that stared back at her with a mixture of fear, amazement and concern, “I said, did you just come out of that building?”

She glanced back at the door she had exited through and nodded, numbly.

“My God! How is that possible?” He took her arm and guided her toward the ambulance, a uniformed officer holding the reports at bay. That didn’t keep them from hurling questions at her.

“Ma’am! Ma’am! What’s your name?”

“Who are you?”

“What were you doing in there?”

“Did you have anything to do with the attack?”

“What’s your association with the victims?”

Victims, what were they talking about?

The fire fighter handed her over to a paramedic. As she sat on a gurney near the ambulance, she glanced down long enough to notice she was covered in blood, she looked up in horror as the spotlight hit her again. A reporter, she realized this time. She tried to remember what had happened, but her memory started with her frantic search for the light switch. Any existence she had prior to that was gone, wiped from her memory.

“We’re going to need to question her,” a police detective was saying to the paramedic, “we don’t know if she’s the only survivor or the perpetrator.”

“After she receives medical treatment.” The handsome young paramedic replied, loading her into the back of the ambulance and closing the door.

“I’m sorry,” she finally managed to speak, “I don’t remember anything.”

As the ambulance pulled away from the crime scene, he smiled at her with red, glowing eyes, “It’s ok, all that is behind you. You’re one of us now.”