I have to admit, this week's flash fiction prompt photo was a challenge!
An old stick of dynamite!
Visit Madison Woods' blog to read some great flash fiction based on her photo prompt!
Relic
I found it in the damp, smelly darkness, as I crawled on my belly searching for the stench of something that died under the porch. Had I known what it was, I might not have dragged it into the light.
What surprised me more—that it was an old stick of dynamite, or that it was wrapped by a letter?
"If I cannot have Sarah and the child she carries, no one shall."
Sarah. My mother.
I stared at the letter. Was the relic of failed destruction it had wrapped all that I had of a father I never knew?
We arrived in Phuket, greeted by a spectacular sunset. The next morning, as if a jealous sister, the sunrise challenged the beauty of the night before by donning her colors of pink and orange.
We’d risen early, excited for our excursion to Phang Nga Island, better known as James Bond Island, named for the movie, Man with the Golden Gun.
I’d seen photographs of pristine beaches, pearl-white sands washed by azure waves, and its signature towering pillar-rock in the bay. I couldn’t wait to experience the area.
My first hint that the area might not be what we see in magazines and movies came at the dock where we boarded a large boat with approximately 50 other people. It was only one of about ten other boats departing from the dock. As we left the bay, we were joined by various other watercraft—from Thai long boats to huge speed boats, all racing to Phang Nga Island.
I wondered just how pristine those beaches would be.
The trip to the island took approximately an hour, and during that time I enjoyed meeting fellow passengers from all over the world – United Arab Emirates, England, France, Spain, Italy and Australia. In fact, our little group of four was the only group from the United States.
At last, the jutting rock formations began to appear ahead of us. Breathtaking does not adequately describe the beautiful, almost prehistoric landscape.
But as we turned into the first bay, I was disappointed to see the area flooded with boats, humanity oozing off of each. Dozens and dozens of inflatable canoes battled (though I must say, it was quite a polite “battle”) to get through the tiny opening to a cave that led to a secluded—though not solitary—lagoon.
At times, my thoughts alternated between enjoying the magnificence and thinking about how to balance leaving nature alone versus allowing humanity to enjoy it. After all, while I cursed the invasion of what was once untouched and unspoiled, I was one of the invaders.
I don’t mean to complain and don’t wish to imply that I didn’t enjoy the excursion. But I do have to say that when we finally arrived at the actual beach where the Bond movie was filmed, I was disheartened that the beach was flooded with vendors selling their wares, desperately trying to gain the attention of passengers disembarking the exhaust-surrounded longboats. Once I escaped the diesel fumes, I was accosted by the smell of toilets from an overwhelmed public bathroom.
Like a beehive surrounded by a swarm of bees, the pillar-rock was swarmed by tourists, though with enough patience, we were able to get a couple of photographs that made it look like we were the only people on the island.
The next day, I looked forward to our excursion to Phi Phi Island. From what I’d heard from people who had visited it, the area was cleaner and more secluded than Phang Nga Island, due to its distance from the main island of Phuket. But again, as we boarded a huge speed board with twenty-five other passengers, and as many other speed boats raced out of the harbor with us, I wondered just how clean and secluded it could be.
For an hour, we bounced over waves at a speed fast enough I had to hold onto everything around me. The engine was so loud I could hardly hear what the guide attempted to tell us about the island where The Beach, starring Leonardo DiCaprio was filmed.
I remembered how beautiful the landscapes in the movie had been, and imagined myself walking along soft, white beaches, listening to the sound of waves rushing to the shore as wind whispered through the palms.
But it was not to be.
We turned around a peninsula and the guide sighed. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “Look. Too many boats and people. I suggest we skip this beach and spend more time snorkeling later.”
Though disappointed, I had to agree. With speed boats parked side-by-side and people swarming the beach like ants, it was far from the idyllic fantasy I’d had in my mind.
Once again, I wondered about the balance of nature versus tourism. How long can paradise remain paradise, once too many people have overrun it?
Still, I was awed by the color of the water all around us, with hues that ranged from deep blue to blue-green to light turquoise, so clear I could see the colorful fish swimming below the surface. I couldn’t wait to jump in to experience the world below.
Finally, the captain stopped the boat. We put on our snorkel gear and jumped in. The water was cool against my sunburned skin and I tasted the salt of the ocean. When at last, I dipped below the surface, I was greeted by a school of yellow and black striped fish and a soft clicking sound all around me. Every time I make the transition from the dry world to the ocean world, I am awed by the sudden peace and softness enfolding me.
But I couldn't ignore the occasional plastic bag I found wrapped around the coral, or the destruction of the reef. It was clear that this was yet another area that had been overcome by humanity ravenous to experience unspoiled nature. Yet, in experiencing it, we are spoiling it.
At the end of the excursion, the speed boats raced each other--as well as the receding tide--back to the harbor. In fact, the boat that followed us ran aground in the shallow water and had to wait for almost an hour for the tide to rise enough to return.
At the end of an incredible, yet ambivalent day, I watched another spectacular sunset.
I couldn’t help comparing the sunrise and sunset to the life of Phuket itself. If tourism is like its sunrise, bringing much needed money to its economy, is it also on a path of exploiting itself to its detriment, drawing toward a sunset that will not be nearly as beautiful as those I enjoyed?
Last night, I fell asleep to the sound of a train in the distance. With the rumble of the engine and the mournful song of the horn came a flood of memories. For much of my life, I lived in the proximity of train tracks and I was surprised by how its sounds returned memories to me.
When I was a child living in California, my house was only a block away from a track. Several times during the day, the windows and doors in our house rattled as the trains passed. I remember walking along the tracks, imagining where they would lead me if I kept walking. When I felt the ground rumble with an approaching train, my heart quickened with anticipation for the frightening energy of what approached.
And for more than 25 years, I lived within hearing range of a train that passed by our neighborhood several times a day. Often, as I lay in bed at night, I would listen for the train. Sometimes it came as a lullaby, soothing me to sleep with its deep rumble. Sometimes it was a soundtrack to my dreams, taking me to far away places. Sometimes it serenaded my loneliness.
Last weekend, my poem , "Sayonara," won second place at Ozark Creative Writers Conference. It is in the Tanka form, (Five lines, not to exceed 31 syllables) which is a form of Japanese poetry similar to Haiku (Three lines, 5-7-5 syllables):
Comes a sudden storm,
Words crash like thunder
But silence rings louder.
A train whistles far away,
I hug my pillow closer.
Does the sound of a train return memories to you? Are there other sounds that bring forth recollections of the past?
Though my annual trek to Eureka Springs is always filled with learning and laughter, I wondered if I should skip this year's Ozark Writers Conference. We are leaving for Thailand tomorrow and items on my Things-To-Do-Before-I-Leave list keep popping up like dandelions in springtime.
But the keynote speaker was David Morrell, creator of Rambo, as well as dozens of other bestsellers, and I am always drawn to successful authors who are willing to share their experiences and knowledge with fledgling writers. Still, after attending countless conferences and listening to many authors—and with my Things-To-Do-Before-I-Leave list looking like a field of yellow weeds—I wondered if I'd learn anything new.
Fortunately, I decided to attend and keep an open mind. You see, Mr. Morrell and Rambo gave me an "aha moment."
He told us about his history--about his abusive stepfather and his resulting troubled youth. He described his fascination with the 1960's television series, Route 66and how it led to his interest in writing, which ultimately inspired him to contact co-creator and screenwriter for the series, Stirling Sillliphant. Mr. Silliphant replied, establishing a path that would lead David Morrell to become the writer and man he is today.
So what was my "aha moment?" The theme of Mr. Morrell's discussion was to pay attention to our daydreams. He told us that in those daydreams, we would see the theme that would open up our writing. Mr. Morrell talked about his fear, even despising, of his stepfather, and described some of his daydreams and fantasies that reflected those emotions. As he spoke, I stared out the window and began to daydream about my daydreams, wondering what about their central theme.
Then, it hit me. The "aha moment."
Of course, because of its very nature, I hesitate to say, worried that one will think it silly or dumb, or simply too plain. But it's the truth, and that is a part of what hit me. My daydreams, as well as almost everything I write, has the theme of wanting to be understood, and once understood, accepted. We all need to break out of the cocoon--what others expect us to be--to free ourselves to become who we truly are.
I wrote a haiku as the opening to my short story, "The Butterfly's Song," which won 2nd Place for the Showcase Award at this year's conference.
A caterpillar
Crept along her timid path
Until she grew wings
"The Butterfly's Song" is a short story taken from my novel, Broken Dolls, in which each of my three characters, Sachi, Nobu and Terrence, deal with the back and forth struggle of being understood and accepted. Two will find success in that truth, and one will not.
Sometimes, the shell of my cocoon is so thick and stringy, it chokes my writing. But upon hearing the courage in David Morrell's presentation, I realized if I withhold my truth, whether in my life or my writing, then any misundertanding of who I am is only my fault.
Yesterday, I had the pleasure of thanking David Morrell. Funny, before this weekend, I would never have dreamed I'd have any reason to thank Rambo. But I do.
I would love to hear from any other conference attendees who may have had an "aha moment." Or, if you didn't attend the conference, what is the single thread that weaves through your daydreams?
