The sun rise is announced with the chirping of birds; everyone else is still asleep. One by one the trees slowly begin to wake up. Lifting their leafy heads, they stretch their limbs to the dusty pink sky and settle into place with creaks and moans. The morning breeze winds through them, shaking the morning dew off the leaves.
The sun hasn't reached the top of the trees yet, and it sends sparkling beams of light through the web of branches, illuminating the forest floor. Sleepy flowers open their petals and turn their golden centers to capture the sunshine. Suddenly, the green and brown background is a speckled rainbow of colors.
The noise increases as animals materialize from the holes and shadows of the forest. A vermilion fox, a cocoa brown bear, and a tawny doe with her rusty fawn make their appearances. The squirrels seem to have to woken with a jolt; their tails are bushy and their movements nervous. They scamper around the canopy of branches, zoom up and down tree trunks, and chatter excitedly. Fat, little chipmunks waddle out from under their blankets of leaves. It's a new day, and that means new food.
Not everyone is waking though. As one cycle is beginning, another one ends. Two silver and black raccoons slink back into their den, returning from a night of foraging. The sunlight means bedtime. Swivel-head owls, who have kept watch throughout the night, can now closed their wide eyes and rest easily, knowing that the forest is safe for another day.
The world turns, and the forest lives on in the same pattern of life that it has always done.
Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and wishes everyone a Happy Thanksgiving!
Check out www.storypraxis.com for more fiction fun.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
Some favorite pics of mine.
That's it for now! I'll try to post more up later.
Table Cheese
"Ugh!" Rae spat a mouthful of liquid into the kitchen sink. She sat back at the table amid the snickers and chuckles of her friends. "Wine is disgusting. How can any of you drink it?!"
"Simple. We open our mouths and swallow it," Daniel retorted, taking a big gulp of his pinot grigio for emphasis.
Rae visibly gagged. "You're making me sick. Pass the brie, please."
"So, you'll eat our cheese but won't drink our wine?" Lyddie asked in mock disgust. Rae put a bite of apple slice and brie in her mouth and snapped it shut at her friend in reply. They both giggled at an inside joke they were reminded of.
"Wine is definitely an acquired taste," Rob said, swirling his glass and frowning down into the ruby liquid. "It took me a long time to learn to appreciate it."
"Life is like wine, sometimes," mused Daniel. "It can be bitter and rotten; but once you swallow, it becomes sweet and full of taste."
Rae clapped her hands in sarcastic applause. "Thank you, Philosopher Dan, but I much rather prefer the idea that life is like fine cheese. It has a tough rind, but inside it is creamy and delicious." She popped another slice of Gouda in her mouth and closed her eyes while she chewed.
"Hmm, I have to agree," nodded Lyddie. "Besides, if life was like wine, we would have to suffer through the aftermath that is a hangover."
"Yes," exclaimed Rae, her eyes coming open with a snap, "and since cheese is technically comfort food, you will have a comfortable aftermath if life were like cheese."
Daniel shook his head. "It's amazing that you two can live and operate in the grown-up world with such adolescent minds."
"We just understand that life doesn't have to be complicated like wine; it's really simple, like cheese," Lyddie explained.
"Amen," Rae said, toasting with a chunk of mozzarella on a round of salami.
Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and would prefer cheese over wine any day.
Check out www.storypraxis.com for more fiction fun.
"Simple. We open our mouths and swallow it," Daniel retorted, taking a big gulp of his pinot grigio for emphasis.
Rae visibly gagged. "You're making me sick. Pass the brie, please."
"So, you'll eat our cheese but won't drink our wine?" Lyddie asked in mock disgust. Rae put a bite of apple slice and brie in her mouth and snapped it shut at her friend in reply. They both giggled at an inside joke they were reminded of.
"Wine is definitely an acquired taste," Rob said, swirling his glass and frowning down into the ruby liquid. "It took me a long time to learn to appreciate it."
"Life is like wine, sometimes," mused Daniel. "It can be bitter and rotten; but once you swallow, it becomes sweet and full of taste."
Rae clapped her hands in sarcastic applause. "Thank you, Philosopher Dan, but I much rather prefer the idea that life is like fine cheese. It has a tough rind, but inside it is creamy and delicious." She popped another slice of Gouda in her mouth and closed her eyes while she chewed.
"Hmm, I have to agree," nodded Lyddie. "Besides, if life was like wine, we would have to suffer through the aftermath that is a hangover."
"Yes," exclaimed Rae, her eyes coming open with a snap, "and since cheese is technically comfort food, you will have a comfortable aftermath if life were like cheese."
Daniel shook his head. "It's amazing that you two can live and operate in the grown-up world with such adolescent minds."
"We just understand that life doesn't have to be complicated like wine; it's really simple, like cheese," Lyddie explained.
"Amen," Rae said, toasting with a chunk of mozzarella on a round of salami.
Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and would prefer cheese over wine any day.
Check out www.storypraxis.com for more fiction fun.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Lugubrious
Larry was the homeless guy who lived on Sunset Boulevard. No one really remembers when he first came or where he came from. They would always see him shuffling down the star-studded sidewalks, pushing a shopping cart filled with clothes, broken appliances, and his Westie, Jim. He wore an old, brown suit with more patches than brown and a matching fedora that closer resembled a limp rag.
He usually slept beside a dumpster in the alleyway behind Ma Chung's Chinese Food. Ma Chung had a soft heart for animals, and would leave plates of food out for the alley cat that lived behind her restaurant. Larry was a pretty good meow-er and was always sure to thank her with his best caterwaul.
He was a friendly guy, always saying "hello" to passersby (who usually ignored him) and chucking the cheeks of babies and children (whose horrified parents would quickly swipe the chucked cheek with a moist toilette). The hookers all called him "Pops" because he would pat their arms and call them his dears; and the drug dealers gave him little thank-you bags of pot whenever he would stand as a lookout if they had a big drop-off or pickup.
No one knew his life story or why he was out on the streets, but there was much speculation. Some said that he used to be a millionaire with a wife and two kids, but when he lost his fortune in a bum deal, the missus kicked him out. Others said that he lost his son in Vietnam which sent him into a lugubrious funk. In some of the stories, Larry was the 'Nam vet and he couldn't stand to go back to his old life.
One night, a washed-up writer stumbled out of a bar and saw Larry, in all his shabby glory, standing under a streetlamp. This writer took that picture as inspiration from Providence and promptly wrote a best-seller about a homeless bum who was really an angel in disguise. Of course, no one told Larry that he was the inspiration, so he didn't receive any royalties. Not even when Hollywood came to Beverly Hills to film the movie adaptation right in front of Ma Chung's.
Sometimes die-hard fans of the book or movie would come to Sunset Boulevard, hoping to get a glimpse of the infamous Larry. They would stand across the street and whisper excitedly to one another every time a homeless person would walk down the street. If Larry had known who they were looking for, he probably would have gone over. shook their hands, and not even charge them for it, being the nice guy that he was.
But, as it was, Larry never found out about the writer who made a homeless bum famous. He lived the rest of his life, chucking cheeks and picking useless appliances out of trashcans along the star-studded blocks of Sunset Boulevard, living among the hookers and druggies with his little Westie, Jim.
Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and watched Pretty Woman last night.
For more fiction fun, check out www.storypraxis.com.
He usually slept beside a dumpster in the alleyway behind Ma Chung's Chinese Food. Ma Chung had a soft heart for animals, and would leave plates of food out for the alley cat that lived behind her restaurant. Larry was a pretty good meow-er and was always sure to thank her with his best caterwaul.
He was a friendly guy, always saying "hello" to passersby (who usually ignored him) and chucking the cheeks of babies and children (whose horrified parents would quickly swipe the chucked cheek with a moist toilette). The hookers all called him "Pops" because he would pat their arms and call them his dears; and the drug dealers gave him little thank-you bags of pot whenever he would stand as a lookout if they had a big drop-off or pickup.
No one knew his life story or why he was out on the streets, but there was much speculation. Some said that he used to be a millionaire with a wife and two kids, but when he lost his fortune in a bum deal, the missus kicked him out. Others said that he lost his son in Vietnam which sent him into a lugubrious funk. In some of the stories, Larry was the 'Nam vet and he couldn't stand to go back to his old life.
One night, a washed-up writer stumbled out of a bar and saw Larry, in all his shabby glory, standing under a streetlamp. This writer took that picture as inspiration from Providence and promptly wrote a best-seller about a homeless bum who was really an angel in disguise. Of course, no one told Larry that he was the inspiration, so he didn't receive any royalties. Not even when Hollywood came to Beverly Hills to film the movie adaptation right in front of Ma Chung's.
Sometimes die-hard fans of the book or movie would come to Sunset Boulevard, hoping to get a glimpse of the infamous Larry. They would stand across the street and whisper excitedly to one another every time a homeless person would walk down the street. If Larry had known who they were looking for, he probably would have gone over. shook their hands, and not even charge them for it, being the nice guy that he was.
But, as it was, Larry never found out about the writer who made a homeless bum famous. He lived the rest of his life, chucking cheeks and picking useless appliances out of trashcans along the star-studded blocks of Sunset Boulevard, living among the hookers and druggies with his little Westie, Jim.
Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and watched Pretty Woman last night.
For more fiction fun, check out www.storypraxis.com.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Mopping Up
Crash! The coffee mug hit the wall and splattered hot, brown liquid all over the floral wallpaper. The baby in the highchair screamed and wailed as the coffee dripped onto her head.
"Are you crazy?!" Kayley shrieked, scooping up her daughter. She whirled back around to face her husband, eyes ablaze with maternal fury.
"If you tell me that I need a job one more time, I'll throw something worse than a stupid cup of coffee," Gavin growled. He shoved his chair back and barreled out the back door.
Off to the pub again, Kayley sighed. She shushed the crying baby and wiped the brown streaks off her forehead. Once her daughter was happy with her toys again, Kayley sat at the kitchen table and stared at the stain on the wall. The liquid ran down the wall like tears, turning more of the wallpaper into an ugly shade of dirty brown. Just like this marriage.
Gavin had changed so much. She remembered how he had been during their first years of marriage, so playful and optimistic. He used to bring her a different type of flower every month, even if it was just a weed. Once he had sent her out of the house for a couple of hours, and when she had returned, he had set up a teatime picnic under a bed sheet tent.
Maybe it was her that changed. Kayley snorted to herself in annoyance. Someone had to take control of this family. Especially since Gavin quit his job to pursue his art. "Yeah, how's that working out for ya?" Kayley mumbled. He moped around the house or the pub while she took their daughter to daycare and worked a nine-hour job with the world's creepiest boss. She started to pick up the scattered shards of mug from the linoleum floor.
One sharp piece pierced her finger and drew a spot of blood. It didn't hurt really, but Kayley felt the tears rush to the surface. She slumped down against the wall and held her finger to her mouth. She let all her frustration and pent-up anger pour out and run down her cheeks.
She smelled him first, a mix of Irish Springs and coffee, before his arm slipped around her shoulders. "Shh, shh, shh, darlin'," he crooned. She held her finger out to him, like a child showing a parent where to kiss it all better. "Did you cut yourself, then?" he pressed the finger to his lips and hugged her tighter. "I'm sorry for that, Kayley."
She gulped down her sobs and took a shaky breath. "What happened to us, Gavin? Why are we like this?"
He took a moment before answering. "I don't really know, darlin'. I guess we're kind of like this spilled cup of coffee. We need to pick up the pieces, mop up our messes, and pour a new cup."
"I've started picking up the pieces," Kayley said.
Gavin smiled. "Aye, and I'll get the mop, then."
Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and is in love with all things Gaelic (except for the Guinness).
Check out www.storypraxis.com for more fiction fun.
"Are you crazy?!" Kayley shrieked, scooping up her daughter. She whirled back around to face her husband, eyes ablaze with maternal fury.
"If you tell me that I need a job one more time, I'll throw something worse than a stupid cup of coffee," Gavin growled. He shoved his chair back and barreled out the back door.
Off to the pub again, Kayley sighed. She shushed the crying baby and wiped the brown streaks off her forehead. Once her daughter was happy with her toys again, Kayley sat at the kitchen table and stared at the stain on the wall. The liquid ran down the wall like tears, turning more of the wallpaper into an ugly shade of dirty brown. Just like this marriage.
Gavin had changed so much. She remembered how he had been during their first years of marriage, so playful and optimistic. He used to bring her a different type of flower every month, even if it was just a weed. Once he had sent her out of the house for a couple of hours, and when she had returned, he had set up a teatime picnic under a bed sheet tent.
Maybe it was her that changed. Kayley snorted to herself in annoyance. Someone had to take control of this family. Especially since Gavin quit his job to pursue his art. "Yeah, how's that working out for ya?" Kayley mumbled. He moped around the house or the pub while she took their daughter to daycare and worked a nine-hour job with the world's creepiest boss. She started to pick up the scattered shards of mug from the linoleum floor.
One sharp piece pierced her finger and drew a spot of blood. It didn't hurt really, but Kayley felt the tears rush to the surface. She slumped down against the wall and held her finger to her mouth. She let all her frustration and pent-up anger pour out and run down her cheeks.
She smelled him first, a mix of Irish Springs and coffee, before his arm slipped around her shoulders. "Shh, shh, shh, darlin'," he crooned. She held her finger out to him, like a child showing a parent where to kiss it all better. "Did you cut yourself, then?" he pressed the finger to his lips and hugged her tighter. "I'm sorry for that, Kayley."
She gulped down her sobs and took a shaky breath. "What happened to us, Gavin? Why are we like this?"
He took a moment before answering. "I don't really know, darlin'. I guess we're kind of like this spilled cup of coffee. We need to pick up the pieces, mop up our messes, and pour a new cup."
"I've started picking up the pieces," Kayley said.
Gavin smiled. "Aye, and I'll get the mop, then."
Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and is in love with all things Gaelic (except for the Guinness).
Check out www.storypraxis.com for more fiction fun.
Monday, November 15, 2010
One Little Green Thing
"This is so cute!" my sister gasps, lifting the little, green outfit from the baby blue tissue paper.
I bounce the baby in my arms and nuzzle his downy cheek with my nose. "I know," I say with a smile. "I knew as soon as I saw that outfit, it would be perfect for the little guy."
"Funny, that's what you said when you brought me the last ten outfits," she teases.
I laugh. "Well, someone has to dress this little angel." I lift my nephew and pepper his cheeks with kisses until he starts complaining
My sister hands me a small bottle. "He's probably ready for this now. I'm going to try to rest while he sleeps, okay?"
I make a dismissal gesture with my hand and pop the bottle nipple into the baby's mouth. His little rosebud mouth sucks at it greedily; but he keeps his eyes on my face, watching me with monochromatic orbs. He can't see color yet, and I wonder what he thinks of me and my funny face.
My stomach clenches with love as his eyelids droop, letting the warm milk lull him to sleep. I tuck his blankets around him tighter, knowing that he's already toasty but wanting him to feel safe too. Pulling the now empty bottle out of his mouth with a quiet pop, I set it next to the rocker and softly pat the baby's back.
I marvel at how quickly my heart expanded to allow this little person in. He doesn't know how much joy he's bringing to us; and I silently pray to God to thank Him for my nephew. His little mouth curls in his sleep, and I smile back, wondering what the angels are telling him that would make him laugh.
"You are going to be such a blessing in my life," I whisper as tears puddle in my eyes, "the least I could do was buy you some clothes."
Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and welcomed her first nephew this morning. Welcome to the world, Rowan Harold Myers!
Check out www.storypraxis.com for more fiction fun!
I bounce the baby in my arms and nuzzle his downy cheek with my nose. "I know," I say with a smile. "I knew as soon as I saw that outfit, it would be perfect for the little guy."
"Funny, that's what you said when you brought me the last ten outfits," she teases.
I laugh. "Well, someone has to dress this little angel." I lift my nephew and pepper his cheeks with kisses until he starts complaining
My sister hands me a small bottle. "He's probably ready for this now. I'm going to try to rest while he sleeps, okay?"
I make a dismissal gesture with my hand and pop the bottle nipple into the baby's mouth. His little rosebud mouth sucks at it greedily; but he keeps his eyes on my face, watching me with monochromatic orbs. He can't see color yet, and I wonder what he thinks of me and my funny face.
My stomach clenches with love as his eyelids droop, letting the warm milk lull him to sleep. I tuck his blankets around him tighter, knowing that he's already toasty but wanting him to feel safe too. Pulling the now empty bottle out of his mouth with a quiet pop, I set it next to the rocker and softly pat the baby's back.
I marvel at how quickly my heart expanded to allow this little person in. He doesn't know how much joy he's bringing to us; and I silently pray to God to thank Him for my nephew. His little mouth curls in his sleep, and I smile back, wondering what the angels are telling him that would make him laugh.
"You are going to be such a blessing in my life," I whisper as tears puddle in my eyes, "the least I could do was buy you some clothes."
Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and welcomed her first nephew this morning. Welcome to the world, Rowan Harold Myers!
Check out www.storypraxis.com for more fiction fun!
Friday, November 12, 2010
Couldn't If I Tried
When I heard the noise in my garbage can, I immediately thought "Omigosh, I have a rat!" Arming myself with a large frying pan and a heavy, metal baseball bat, I decided to do the right thing and bash the little rodent's head in. I tiptoed to the corner of the garage and peeked around. I was breathing with my mouth open, so the rat wouldn't hear me coming. A brilliant idea, I know.
Suddenly, the trashcan tipped over, spilling its guts all over my driveway. Something was squirming inside a brown paper bag. Screaming like a banshee, I threw the frying pan at it; and it connected with a satisfying crunch. I swung the baseball down again and again, pounding that rat into oblivion as the bag got darker and darker with its blood.
A small mewling noise from behind stopped me mid-swing. That wasn't what I thought it was. It just couldn't.
"You had to have babies, didn't you," I sighed at the gory mess at my feet. I turned to see how many rat babies were watching me mutilate their mother.
What I saw next shook me to the core. A gray, tabby kitten sat in the mouth of the trashcan, head cocked, big eyes staring up at me. A lump the size of an orange lodged in my throat. In dread, I slowly turned on my heel and looked down at the murdered victim. About two inches of gray and black striped tail was poking out of the end of the bag. I made to my second trashcan just in time to eject my breakfast.
Then it hit me what I had really done. I'd just orphaned a baby. The poor mother cat was just trying to find something for her kitten to eat, and I'd used her as a pinata. I sank down to the ground in front of my garage door and laid my head on my knees. I wailed and wailed, praying that God would be merciful to me, a murderess.
I felt a small pressure on my bare toes. The kitten stood with its front paws on my foot, staring at me again with its big black eyes.
"Where's my mommy?" it meowed pitifully. That sound only made me wail and sob some more.
"I'm a horrible, killing machine," I cried to the feline baby. "I killed your mommy, so now you'll either die on the streets, trying to survive on your own, or I'll have to take you to the pound where you'll probably get euthanized anyway."
The kitten crawled up between my legs and laid its paws on my stomach.
"Keep me," its little face said. "Be my mommy now."
"Yes," I whispered. "I could do that. I will take the place of your mommy." I scooped it up in my hands and stroked its soft fur. "Will you forgive me?"
The kitten curled up in my palm and purred, "Yes."
My friends thought I went crazy that day, but Munkustrap (named after my favorite character from CATS) and I were made for each other. He is the perfect feline child, and I am the perfect human mother. He listens to all my complaints and self-pitying; and I buy him the best mouse toys I can afford. Once a year, I hold a memorial for his mother and tell him what a brave and strong cat she was.
I can't imagine my life without him. Couldn't if I tried. He's God's reminder to me to look before I leap, and also to keep my trashcan more accessible to hungry mothers.
Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and misses her cat Bucky. She hopes his current family has a big yard and plenty of love.
Check out www.storypraxis.com for more fiction fun.
Suddenly, the trashcan tipped over, spilling its guts all over my driveway. Something was squirming inside a brown paper bag. Screaming like a banshee, I threw the frying pan at it; and it connected with a satisfying crunch. I swung the baseball down again and again, pounding that rat into oblivion as the bag got darker and darker with its blood.
A small mewling noise from behind stopped me mid-swing. That wasn't what I thought it was. It just couldn't.
"You had to have babies, didn't you," I sighed at the gory mess at my feet. I turned to see how many rat babies were watching me mutilate their mother.
What I saw next shook me to the core. A gray, tabby kitten sat in the mouth of the trashcan, head cocked, big eyes staring up at me. A lump the size of an orange lodged in my throat. In dread, I slowly turned on my heel and looked down at the murdered victim. About two inches of gray and black striped tail was poking out of the end of the bag. I made to my second trashcan just in time to eject my breakfast.
Then it hit me what I had really done. I'd just orphaned a baby. The poor mother cat was just trying to find something for her kitten to eat, and I'd used her as a pinata. I sank down to the ground in front of my garage door and laid my head on my knees. I wailed and wailed, praying that God would be merciful to me, a murderess.
I felt a small pressure on my bare toes. The kitten stood with its front paws on my foot, staring at me again with its big black eyes.
"Where's my mommy?" it meowed pitifully. That sound only made me wail and sob some more.
"I'm a horrible, killing machine," I cried to the feline baby. "I killed your mommy, so now you'll either die on the streets, trying to survive on your own, or I'll have to take you to the pound where you'll probably get euthanized anyway."
The kitten crawled up between my legs and laid its paws on my stomach.
"Keep me," its little face said. "Be my mommy now."
"Yes," I whispered. "I could do that. I will take the place of your mommy." I scooped it up in my hands and stroked its soft fur. "Will you forgive me?"
The kitten curled up in my palm and purred, "Yes."
My friends thought I went crazy that day, but Munkustrap (named after my favorite character from CATS) and I were made for each other. He is the perfect feline child, and I am the perfect human mother. He listens to all my complaints and self-pitying; and I buy him the best mouse toys I can afford. Once a year, I hold a memorial for his mother and tell him what a brave and strong cat she was.
I can't imagine my life without him. Couldn't if I tried. He's God's reminder to me to look before I leap, and also to keep my trashcan more accessible to hungry mothers.
Bethany Bachman writes in Philadelphia and misses her cat Bucky. She hopes his current family has a big yard and plenty of love.
Check out www.storypraxis.com for more fiction fun.
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