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Why I Write
When I write, I draw on my experiences as a woman with a painful past, a rapturous wife and mother, a world traveler, and a spiritualist. For me, writing is an art form. Like an artist, the work becomes more than I imagined it would be. When I set out to write a story with a particular idea or character in mind, words I cannot claim as my own flow from a magical and mysterious place through me and onto paper. The work takes on a life of its own; it is living art. The process fascinates me, satiates me, and makes my life more meaningful.
Please read my stories! If you would like to offer me feedback on my work, please click here and sign up for a free membership: https://heftynicki.Writing.com
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15 For 15 Entries ~ June 2010 #698574 added June 9, 2010 at 7:03am
Restrictions: None
Horses ~ June 8
“You have to be resourceful, son. Life is going to throw left curves at you. It’s a mathematical certainty. You’ve got to be ready for anything, whether it’s down on Wall Street where I work, or out here on a dude ranch.” Charles lifted his baseball cap and ran a manicured hand through the sweat on his forehead. “Take right now, for example,” he continued, replacing the cap. “We could sit here waiting for the others to come find us, or we could use the resources at hand and get ourselves back to the ranch on our own.”
“Whatever you say, Dad,” Greg said, with barely concealed sarcasm, from the saddle of his horse.
John knelt in the grass beside Charles, worry etched on his face. “I don’t know, Charles,” John whispered. “It’s going to be dark soon. Didn’t they say coyotes hunt at this time of day?”
Charles chuckled, a smug grin on his face. “Look around you, John. You think a coyote’s going to bother us? Now listen up, Greg,” he called over his shoulder. “You have a watch on, right?”
“Yeah, it’s the one Mom gave me for Christmas.”
Charles got the message between those words, and he set his jaw. “Don’t use that tone with me, young man. Maybe your mother allows you to talk like that to her, but if you lived with me…”
“You don’t want me to live with you.”
John put up his hands. “Just—would you get on with your clever idea to get us out of here?”
Charles narrowed his eyes at John, then lifted his chin. “Our predicament is easily solved. We know we headed out on the trails east of the ranch, correct? So we need to go west. Now--”
“Dad, I--”
“Son! If you’d close your mouth once in a while and open your ears, you might just learn something useful.”
Greg shifted in the saddle and the horse under him whinnied, making John jump. Charles grasped a handful of tall prairie grass.
“See, I’ll just braid these grasses together to make a thick plait. With it, we’ll make a sun dial.”
“But Dad, my watch--”
Charles stood quickly, his sudden movement spooking the horses. “Yes, son, I know you have a watch. I’m not trying to find out what time it is!” He took a deep breath, then went on in a more controlled voice. “Since we know what time it is, this little grass-braid sun dial will help us determine which way is north.”
John was nodding, clearly impressed and relieved, but Greg piped up again. “Can I say something, please.”
Charles rounded his shoulders, a pained look on his face. “If you must.”
“My watch has a compass on it.”
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