Buried Treasure

Do you remember that old saying, ‘X marks the spot?’ “  Theo pointed to the trail of clouds in the sky. “Let’s go get that treasure!” he said.

“Teddy, how exactly do we get buried treasure from the sky?” Jenny asked sarcastically.

2014-10-20-bw-beacham
photo by Barbara Beacham

Theo wrestled his keys from his pocket and cranked the engine. “We’re going to find what’s directly below that X.” He turned the pickup a sharp left into the field behind her parents’ house. Their bodies bounced and swayed as the tires unevenly hit dirt mounds amongst the patchy grass.

They were half a mile from the house when he leaned over the dashboard to look at the sky. “This is it!” He put the gear in park and disappeared in front of the hood.

“Teddy?” Jenny stepped out, coughing from the dust kicked up by the speeding truck. She gasped when she saw Theo on his knees holding the velvet ring box, the sparkle of a diamond inside.

—Nortina

#BlaPoWriMo: Proposal (poem)

I show the ring. He sucks his teeth.
Calls his ol’ bloodhound, Ralph,
shoulders the .22 caliber, Bertha.
Speaks. We’s goin’ ‘coon huntin’.
I imagine him chasing black
men up trees in hooded sheets,
the hounds howling as he lassoes
a noose around the coons’ neck for
lusting after his lil’ darlin’.
Strung up on branches, bodies
dangling over dogs as they lick
stiff, purple toes like berries.
I swallow hard. Georgia is not
as color-blind as my Maryland.
Is this a mistake? Is loving her
worth my life? He grins, revealing
darkened gums. You’s ’bout my size,
he says to my feet, gives me a dirty
pair of boots. Waits in the pickup.

The darkness fails to hide my fear.
Ralph sniffs it in my perspiration.
He yelps. Go get ’em, boy!
Chain drops. I run blindly,
tripping over roots, scraping my
knees on shrubs, my face on
low-hanging branches. Light-beams
from his flashlight streak across
my back. I crouch behind a stump.
Ralph’s barks rattle my eardrums.
I gotcha, rascal! A single shot.
The leaves ruffle. The trunks vibrate.
A thump on the ground. My heart sinks.
‘Ol boy, you shat yourself? I stand,
legs like jelly. The black and white striped
tail, the bandit’s mask, inside a cage.
He bends backwards, laughing, cracking
his back, slapping my shoulder,
echoing through the hollow woods:
Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise,
you have my blessin’.

—Nortina


Poem sound familiar? I wrote it last year for a #frapalymo prompt. Brain’s too fried to think of anything new, unfortunately, but I thought it worked for today’s BlaPoWriMo prompt.

If you’d like to participate, just include the tag BlaPoWriMo so I can find you, or the hashtag #BlaPoWriMo on twitter to get a retweet (live feed in the side bar). Check out February is Black Poetry Writing Month for details on the project.

Happy Writing! 😀

Proposal #frapalymo

I show the ring; He sucks his teeth.
Calls his ol’ bloodhound, Ralph.
Shoulders the .22 caliber, Bertha.
Speaks. We’s goin’ ‘coon huntin’.
I imagine him chasing black
men up trees in hooded sheets,
the hounds howling as he lassoes
a noose around the coons’ neck for
lusting after his little darlin’. 
Strung up on branches, bodies
dangling over dogs as they lick
stiff, purple toes like berries.
I swallow hard. Georgia is not
as color-blind as my Maryland.
Is this a mistake? Is loving her
worth my life? He grins, revealing
darkened gums. You’s ’bout my size,
he says to my feet, gives me a dirty
pair of boots. Waits in the pickup.

The darkness fails to hide my fear.
Ralph sniffs it in my perspiration.
He yelps. Go get ’em, boy!
Chain drops. I run blindly,
tripping over roots, scraping my 
knees on shrubs, my face on
low-hanging branches. Light-beams
from his flashlight streak across 
my back. I crouch behind a stump.
Ralph’s barks rattle my eardrums.
I gotcha, rascal! A single shot.
The leaves ruffle. The trunks vibrate.
A thump on the ground. My heart sinks.
‘Ol boy, you shat yourself? I stand,
legs like jelly. The black-white-striped
tail, the bandit’s mask, inside a cage.
He bends backwards, laughing, cracking
his back, slapping my shoulder,
echoing through the hollow woods: 
Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise, 
you have my blessin’.

—Nortina


frapalymoThis poem is written as part of #frapalymo which Bee will be translating into English for us at The Bee Writes…  Today’s prompt is the hunters language. Here’s my backwoods, redneck version of the “hunters language.” 😉

Feature image credit: Jim Floyd, State Archives of Florida, Florida Memory, http://floridamemory.com/items/show/60958  

My Answer Starts With Yes

We took the ferry to Ocracoke Island on the Outer Banks. James laid a towel over the warm sand and spread out our picnic feast—fried turkey breast, macaroni and cheese, buttery biscuits, coleslaw.

The seagulls circled over our heads. The wind gusts blew sand into our food so that we couldn’t enjoy it without grinding our teeth on tiny grains.

It was impossible to eat, so he took me to the water’s edge and lowered himself on one knee. Surprised, I stumbled backward and cut my heel on a sea urchin.

It was the clumsiest marriage proposal ever.

word count:99

—Nortina


Part of Friday Fictioneers: write a complete story in 100 words using the provided photo prompt. I had no idea what this week’s photo was. I guess Marie Gail Stratford wanted to challenge our imaginations. All I can say is that the spikes made me think of sea urchins.

 © Copyright Marie Gail Stratford
© Copyright Marie Gail Stratford