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Saturday Short: Just Like Granny Annie

Granny Annie’s apple pies!

Nothing like a heaping helping of delicious apple pie to chase away a busy day.

Try Granny Annie’s and you’ll be surprised at how the worries just melt away.

You haven’t had a pie until you’ve tried Granny Annie’s Granny Apple Pie!

The radio switched back to the afternoon’s smooth jazz, its sounds filling the small kitchen as Alice worked. Alice had always prided herself on her pie making ability, and her crusts were simply the flakiest in the neighbourhood. She  made apple pies that made judges cry, and she had the county and state faire ribbons to prove it. She had even been in the Great Northwest Exposition Finals, beaten only by the creations of Granny Annie herself. That was nothing to bat an eye at, since Granny Annie had been winning first place ribbons for her pie since before Alice had even been born.

Of course, now that Granny Annie had gone to meet the Almighty Pie Man in the sky, Alice saw nothing between her and complete victory in the upcoming Country and State Fair competition. She would even be so bold as to go beyond and say that there was no one left in the whole Midwest region who could come close to her skill with a crust. of course, she would only ever think that in the privacy of her own home kitchen; best to be humble and gracious in the public eye, don’t you know.

Alice had been practicing all winter, adding new twists to her crust, and tweaking the flavours just so. She had redoubled her efforts since the news had announced the passing of Annie, knowing that there would be housewives and gastronomy aficionados coming out of the woodwork to try to snatch up the accolades and sponsorships that had once belonged to the old women. A gap had been created at the very to of the massive pyramid of pie backers, and there would be stiff competition ahead. But Alice had something that none of the others had, something that she had ventured far afield to get, and secret back to her home.

Now, Alice had that ace of her proverbial dress sleeve, and a sprinkle of new magic on her apron. Delicately, she cut herself a piece from the pie she had just removed from the oven, letting the savoury scent cascade through the small room, curling her toes at the warmth of it. She hoped that it would taste as good as it smelled, this was her first savoury pie, and she could not afford to have it not be delicious down to the last bite. Alice smiled as she carefully pressed her fork through the golden crust, the gravy leaking out across the plate. With measured steps, she brought the fork up, being sure that no drops fell on her apron. Raising it in salute to the other side of her kitchen counter, she took a bite, closing her eyes to enjoy as the flavour slipped over her palate. She found it delicate, the texture not that much unlike chopped roast beef, but the flavour more mellow, like a slow roasted pork loin. She ate the bite and exhaled slowly before smiling, all in all, it could use more spice, but it was edible, and that was what Alice needed most

” Oh, Granny Annie, for all your prizes, your pies lack a little in the kick department. Still, you certainly make a very nice pie.”

Alice smiled again and winked at the skull set at the other end of the counter, over seeing the oven. It provided no comeback, no quip. Granny Annie had always been humble and very soft spoken.

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Poetry Tuesday: Bared Bones

Bared Bones

 

Grave bones dropping dust,

Crossed at the old master’s feet.

Creaking and bleating their lonely cries.

Left with unrest in their defeat.

 

Dry bone, marrow turned to stone,

Tossed at the blind king’s throne,

No One left at the hearth,

No Sons to take them home.

 

Cold bones, wrapped in parchment flesh,

Shuddering in the darkness, in suspense.

Not a memory of theirs remains.

Yet, still these ones draw breath.

 

Hot bones bathed in red,

Upon the soaked bloody ground, abandoned.

No tomb for them but where they fall,

In a field so far from home.

 

-Megan

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Quick Words and Information (be mindful of that fourth step)

Only one week left before my writing prompt experiment closes. Since posting it, I have broken the 50 follower mark, which is pretty exciting for me.

I have not been writing much lately, as I have been working on a final set of thesis revisions I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, and we have started talking about which external examiner we should be looking for. So excited! Additionally, I have been getting back to my interest In Japanese culture yet again, and have been watching NHK World in the background of all my work for about 3 days straight, and it has really helped me think out my lecture, scheduled for next Thursday in front of the class, as a presentation of information not unlike one of NHK’s amazing mini-documentary segments. If I can relay the information with even half as much fluidity, I think it will be a great success.

Prepping this lecture has also drawn my attention out of the immediate Post-war years and given me an amazing understanding of the current situation between Japan, South Korea, and China. Anyone else riveted by the trilateral summit  this past weekend? (I never knew the real life could feel so much like a political K/J-drama.) Since putting his foot in his mouth during his first time as prime Minister, he has a lot of ground to regain. He has begun by issuing a statement to the effect that he will neither water-down nor revise the 1993 statement issued by Yohei Kono or in 1995 PM Tomiichi Murayama, but will stick with them (though the re-examination of evidence and testimonies given by Comfort Women is a step backwards, as there is no denying that there was institutionalized sexual slavery in the occupied Asian territories.

BEGIN HARSH REALITY

Hell, following surrender in 1945, there were similar ‘comfort stations’ set up in Japan for the American soldiers, where women became prostitutes, modern-day Okichi’s they were called, and serviced between 15 to 60 G.I.s in a given day. These women and girls are not to be confused with the panpan or street prostitutes; these were set up by the RAA (Recreation and Amusement Association) in Tokyo. For more information, check out Embracing Defeat: Japan in the wake of World War II by John W. Dower (1999), specially Chapter 4 “Cultures of Defeat.”

END HARSH REALITY

Now, if Abe’s wife will accept the invitation to the shelter for Comfort Women when they are in South Korea, I think it will do a fair bit to start easing the path to more normalized relations on subjects other than North Korea.

Best of wishes for the weekend,

M.

P.S. If you love Japanese culture, or puppets/theatre, check out the videos about Hiroshi Sugimoto’s Bunraku adaptations. He is doing some very interesting stuff.

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Writing Prompt Experiment

Good afternoon Netizens, bloggers, followers, and non-followers!

So, as I look at my inbox, I’ve come to realize that I am approaching 50 followers! Not much by some standards, but that is pretty big if you ask me, since I started this little endeavour without any real thought as to who would end up following it. So, as a sort of celebration I have decided to do a little something.

Here is what I ask of you: Whether you have followed my blog for a year, or just for a day, or not all at, I open up a prompting challenge. Simply prompt me in the comments with a word, a scenario, a picture, a bit of music, an emotion. ANYTHING! With what you give me I will then write something, a story or a poem, from 50-200 words, inspired by what you have given me and post it in reply to your prompting comment.

I will leave this prompting open for TWO WEEKS and a day, so it will close FRIDAY APRIL 4, 2014 and 11.59.59 PM. I will then take those prompts, and within 14 days respond to them. If I get more prompts then I can complete in those days, I will continue to write until I have filled all those which come in before that April 4th deadline. I may get none, or I may get a bunch, we’ll just have to see. This is also to get people engaged, thinking in their own creative way, about what inspires them.

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Unbound by Direction

Good morning! As far as Monday’s go, I’ve never been one to heap my hate of a particular day of the week. I will admit to grumbling about it, but it is not an exclusive hate directed at the day simply because it happens to fall at a certain point in the work/rest cycle. Instead, I am willing to hate all days of the week equally. If there is a trend for Tuesdays to be particularly irksome, or suddenly I find my Friday’s to be overly complicated, I will fluidly shift my Garfield emotions.

I offer up some very short experiments in creative writing; they have no real plot, and no real direction. They are written simply because I had the urge to write something, and they are what happened to fall. They may have a future, they may not. I have not thought to constrain them to a given set of circumstances, and I have not assigned the narrative voices a goal to fulfill. They just wanted to be heard.

1.

From her first breath she knew that something had changed; the air trickled down the back of her throat, carrying the burning cold that she could only equate with the fact that the sun had yet to rise. Her limbs felt stiff as she arched her back, digging in the soft, yielding ground beneath her. A shuddering tremor ran from her shoulders down the deep road of her spine, tension releasing from all the muscles along the furrowed path. Though the cold had come, the earth beneath had yet to be covered in the thick blanket that signaled the deep sleep, when stirring in the branches was limited to the drab brown sparrows.  It was the snap of twigs that caused her head to turn, her eyes to focus in the pre-dawn light, dim and shadowed. She focused with all she had in the direction of the sound; it grew steadily closer. The air seemed to crackle, to shift and fill with something new. She could not place it in her memory. Low to the ground she inched forward, placing each step  perfectly so as to leave the ground completely undisturbed. Where she passed it looked as if nothing living had walked, the earth did not give below her, the grass did not sway at her passing.

2.

The simplicity of it all was what first caught her attention, what drove her to continue observing, dismantling, and analyzing the whole thing piece by piece. The material felt like water in her hands, and yet the integrity of it was closer to the gossamer of a butterfly’s wing. The gown was something out of fantasy, a thing of beauty that every woman envied when they saw it on the body of another; a thing that drew the eyes of single and married men alike, with hushed whispers of desires and thoughts that had little place in casual conversation. Her hand traced over the barely apparent seams, along the cinched waist and the flowing neckline. What she wouldn’t give to be able to wear the dress for one night, to be the envy of every woman, the focus of every man, and the topic of every sentence. Unfortunately, much as it would have pleased her to do such a thing, there were no gallant soirée’s for her to attend, there were even fewer chances of her acquiring such a marvelous piece of clothing for her very own. Instead of working, as many women her age did, she spent her time training her body and her mind, and truly had little time for idle fantasies of being swept away by some gorgeous creature. The only men she was on speaking terms with were her trainers, her guardians, and her teammates, and she knew that none of them even glimpsed such a facet in her persona that would tempt them to be interested in her in any other way then what they already where as friends and allies. Sighing softly she let the material fall from her hand and left the display, pulling her jackets more closely around her lithe body to guard from the winter wind as she stepped out into the evening lit streets, slipping into the crowds heading home from work to their families.

3.

The scent of sandalwood drifted up to her through the haze of her sleep, pleasantly assaulting her senses and reminded her exactly where she was. With an languished stretch she felt the warm that rested at the middle of her back, reassuring pressure that reminded her she was not alone among the sea of sheets. She feels the warm hand on the small of her back curl around her side, slipping to her hip and gentle pulling her back into the warmth of the sweet-smelling sheets, until she rested firmly against his chest, his skin adding to the already comfortable warmth she was feeling. His other arms pillows her head as she closes her eyes, taking another deep, soothing breath of the smell that is completely him, that reminds her of everything about him. He chuckles softly, his breath ruffling her unbound hair, ghosting across her ear as he squeezes her gentle, assuring her that he does not plan on going anywhere.

She nestles herself back against him, letting her eyes drift closed as she basks in his warmth. It is not often that they can be together like this, alone, quiet, comfortable, and without the intrusion that usually plagued them whenever they attempted to garner a moment alone together. Every single moment they shared was special, a hope held for the future when the world around them, their families and friends, would be able to settle down again and breath, without jumping at shadows and jumping from country to country.

The hand at her hip crept slowly up her taut stomach, brushing over her navel, and coming to rest below the intercostal rib, feeling her lungs expand as she took each breath. His hand could easily span her waist, a mass of tightly knit muscle that so very rarely relaxed. But it was different with him. When they were together she dropped all her guard, all her safeties; she knew that when he was nearby she didn’t have to be afraid of what was coming from behind, because he was watching her back, insuring that nothing happened to his little bird, and she watched his likewise. For now nothing mattered beyond their shared warmth, the soft sheets, and the scent of sandalwood which settled over it all.

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