Leenie Brown

The Refrigerator Door: The Curse of “Gold Fever”

Retro-Camping-Image-GraphicsFairy — picture from thegraphicsfairy.com

I found it! My eldest son, Ben, wrote this story about two years ago for a math and English combination assignment. He asked me about it several months ago, hoping that I had saved it. I knew I would not have deleted such an interesting story, but I could not remember what it was named and there was only a partial copy of the story on my google drive that had been shared with me when he first began the story. He and I were disappointed that we could not find it. Well, I finally found it buried on the hard drive of my old laptop. I am so excited to have found it that I am hanging it on “The Refrigerator Door.”

The Curse of “Gold Fever”

I peered out the window of my rented room and watched Sam, Billy and Kittie filling their packs with provisions. It looked like they were planning to be out of town for quite a piece of time. I had heard that they were returning to their claim to collect the gold that they had hidden. People said that they had “struck it rich”. A profitable claim, if I do say.

I pulled on my boots and headed to the mercantile to lay in my own store of provisions. I had a long trip ahead of myself. Staking my claim in the Klondike was going to take time and work, and I wanted to be prepared.

I loaded my rations into my canoe and gently pushed it into the river. I paddled slowly, knowing that I needed to have energy for a long time and not wanting to overdo it right away. About a mile ahead of me, I could see Sam, Billy and Kittie floating down the river. I paddled and floated down the river admiring the tall trees that stood like silent guardians to the steep, muddy banks of the river. The upper branches of the trees swayed in the breeze as if they were waving me along.

I noticed some geese in the water, but when I dipped my paddle into the water as I approached them, they took to the skies—soaring upward to avoid any would-be predator, even if it was just one lone, hungry man. As I watched them soar, my eye came to rest on a puff of grey floating along in the sky followed by other angrier looking clouds. It was time to find shelter for the night, earlier than expected but necessary to beat the rain and keep things as dry as possible.

Finding a less steep part of the bank, I beached my canoe and after portaging my provisions to a flat spot under the thick canopy of the forest, I dragged my canoe up into the woods. There on that flat protected spot, I set up my tent and flipped my canoe over to keep it from filling with rain. Next, I focused on building a fire. With the fire raging, I sat cooking my supper and waiting for the rain to begin.

The next morning I woke up stiff! My body was not use to sleeping on the ground or working quite as hard as I had the day before. I stretched and rubbed my aching muscles. Then, I made a quick breakfast of dried meat and fruit and prepared to portage the canoe and my gear back to the river.

I decided to quicken my paddling pace today. I wasn’t sure how far ahead of me Sam, Billy and Kittie were. I thought I had seen another campfire not too far down the shore from me last night, but I wasn’t certain. As I rounded the bend in the river, I nearly ran into them. Quickly, I pulled back on my oar—hopefully before they had seen me. I sat for several minutes to let them get ahead of me before continuing on. I pretended to stick a line in the water as if fishing, just in case I had been seen.

After two uneventful days of paddling and camping, I was not at the end of the river as I had expected to be. I was glad that I had overruled that little voice in my head that had told me I was packing too much. My “too much” was now what was going to make my longer-than-expected journey survivable. One more day and I would be onto the ground portion of the trip.

Today, I needed to find a good place to hide my canoe until I returned. That was going to take some time. I looked for a dense place in the forest that would be infrequently travelled. I tipped the canoe over and covered it with branches and leaves. It was easy to hide since it was brown and blended into the surrounding scenery. Donning my pack and fur cloak, I began the long walk toward the mountain and my waiting fortune.

The hiding of my canoe had taken a bit more time than I expected, but my tracking skills soon lead me to the path that Sam, Billy and Kittie had taken. I took a path that paralleled theirs but was more covered and discreet.

We walked and walked. Sam, Billy and Kittie did not stop in any one place for very long. Sam kept beating on a can and talking loudly as if trying to scare off a wild animal. I knew that my cloak was doing its job. Finally, they stopped for the night. Tomorrow would be a trek through the snow field.

As the moon glistened in the sky, I quietly slipped up to their camp. I snorted and grunted and banged on their tent. I heard them rustling inside, huddling together. Then, I snatched some of their food and scampered off into the woods. They had just been “attacked” by a hungry animal. I chuckled to myself as I returned to my camp. The first step of my plan was working. They would be tired, hungry and wary as they travelled tomorrow. It wouldn’t take much to scare them now.

The wind kicked up the snow and whipped it around as Sam, Billy and Kittie travelled on snowshoe across the snow field. I was having a hard time seeing them, but I couldn’t risk getting any closer. I watched as Sam and Billy walked ahead of Kittie. She seemed to be tiring more quickly than the others. Suddenly, she slumped into the snow. At first, Sam and Billy didn’t see her. She seemed too weak to yell for them. I watched as she shivered and then lay still. In time, Sam and Billy came back to find her, but it was too late. They buried her and moved on.

Beyond the snow field, Sam and Billy took a long rest on the side of the mountain. They were visibly sad and tired. Kittie’s death had been unexpected both to them and to me. But, it worked into my plan without a hitch. I only had two to worry about now.

I slowly crept up to a rock outcrop above where the two men were resting. Hidden behind a large boulder, I loosened some large rocks and sent them over the edge on top of the heads of the men below. I heard both of them cry out in pain and fall down. They did not try to get up, so I assumed they were unconscious. I climbed down and searched them for their map. Finding it, I took some of their food and created a trail to lead animals to them. To ensure they could not escape, I smashed their legs with a rock.

Using the directions from the map, I found the treasure. The people of town had been right. These three had “struck it rich.” It was a lot of work carrying that much back to my canoe, but I did it. I set sail down the river. Eventually I landed in a small town. There was a story circulating about three miners who had struck it rich but had been killed by the elements and animals before their treasure could be found. As far as anyone knows, it never will be.

The Refrigerator Door: The Battle of Valcoast

I am sure you have seen it–the refrigerator door that proudly displays the work of a child or grandchild. I remember having my refrigerator’s door covered in demonstrations of my children’s ability at art or schoolwork, although it has been a few years since then. As they have gotten older, there has been less and less to display and less and less enthusiasm to have it displayed. It’s part of growing up, I suppose, but every now and again, I miss that cluttered door. So, today, this post is a refrigerator door post.

Below is an epic poem written by my son for his English class. He has not yet received his marks on this poem, so I am not posting it because I am proud of his grade. I am posting it because I am proud of the young man he is becoming. I remember when writing anything creative was torturous. I spent many hours sitting next to him working on sentence structure and helping him see where more detail could be added to make his writing more interesting. Now, as evidenced by this poem, he produces fine work without my assistance.

The Battle of Valcoast

From deep within the mountain in the dark and doleful dungeon

Awakens the attendant of awesome volcano spoils

In the village of Valcoast the vale of mountain quakes

For the mighty dragon of Wildebarrow met the warrior of disaster

With a great roar the guardian takes flight on giant wings of gales

And spreads fire to the forest around the fenlands near Valcoast

The Valcoast guardwatch sounds the alarm to alert all

Of the accelerated approach of danger that is the agile dragon

Men at arms blunder out of barracks to behold an awesome sight

For the dragon of death was descending on their village

Flames spew forth from the maw of the dragon

To ravage the robust rosewood ramparts of the stout village perimeter

Above the noise of the igneous inferno could be heard an intimidating sound

For many warrior warrigals from Wildebarrow’s void had been woken

By the dragon to wage war against the warrior of disaster

Atop of the keep tower the disaster-hero took his position

To do battle with the dreadful dragon of death

With mighty sword and mighty shield the magnificent disaster-warrior fought

And though the warrior was the strongest of men the dragon was stronger still

For with one colossal claw the dragon cleaved his shield in two

Though the hero had lost his shield he fought back hard-as-nails

And cut off the colossal claw on the mighty dragon’s paw

All the while the hero fought many fighters were fighting still

For below in the village a huge battle broke out between many warriors and warrigals

The battle was bleak and there was much bloodshed that day

But the garrison of Valcoast won the battle and there were many bellows of victory

The cries were cut short as from far above they heard the clash of a sword

The hero was still on top of the tower trying to slay the beastly basilisk

Hours went by but there was no sign of stopping as the dragon and hero were well balanced

Finally with one mighty swing of his sword the hero struck the dragon’s scruff

And with one final tremendous roar the dastardly harbinger of death was defeated

Many songs were sung that day of the successful battle

And of the warrior’s fight against the dragon and warrigals of Wildebarrow.

When Artist and Author Collide

10541457_10152640309989276_7476253014856487908_n — A Doodle and a Found Poem

What do I get when I cross one artist with one novel? Well, when that artist is my friend and that book is my favourite novel, I get a treasured piece of artwork. Add to that the reason for this particular piece being created “for me”…and it truly is a gift beyond value.

I started writing and sharing my work online earlier this year. Writing was the easy part. Sharing was daunting. I needed encouragement, and got it in spades from my friend, Kathleen. She understood that writing was something that I needed to do. It made me happy.

“A Doodle and a Found Poem,” the piece that she created for me says

“She then sought

the fairest way for happiness.”

For me, that way includes writing and sharing. For Kathleen, that way includes art. She has also started to share her work publicly. You can connect with her and find her work, like the pieces below, on her Facebook page and her blog.

Though the Universe Conspires…

On Facebook yesterday, someone had posted “Today is Be Late for Something Day. What is your main character late for?”

Punctuality is something that I have struggled with all my life. Not because I intend to be late for things, but because I just am very poor at judging how long it will take me to get to where I am going. My husband, on the other hand, does not struggle with this affliction, and finds it quite irritating when I cause him to be late. (He is a very patient man and suffers with dignity and an occasional growly grumble under his breath.)

This made me start thinking about characters that might also struggle with being on time or characters that are always on time but events arrange themselves to cause the normally punctual hero to be late for an important event. The short story, Though the Universe Conspires, is the result of that thinking.

Loneliness and Other Sources of Motivation

countryside — Countryside Photo Credit to Cheri Lucas Rowlands/The Daily Post

Motivation comes in many forms.

For me, the motivation for writing this post came in the form of a writing challenge from The Daily Post.

The motivation for actually posting it? An unwillingness to allow my worry dragon to intimidate me into silence.

So, what was the challenge? The challenge was to pick a setting and an opening line from a list of possible options and write a post–any post, any style, any genre.

My choices:

The setting–the countryside.

The opening line–well, you can read that below.

The post–a story about a character who has appeared in my Oxford Cottage stories and his surprising source of motivation.

Lawrence, the Lonely Viscount

Loneliness is an interesting feeling, he thought, not always an unwelcome or unpleasant feeling, but always interesting. This time was no different. There was no longing for company, no hurt that needed solace, no feeling of unrest, just a quietness that was welcoming, comforting, restorative. The breeze blew softly making the leaves of the tree he lay under tremble slightly as the long grasses tipped their hats to him. He bent his right leg and propped his left foot atop his knee. His arms were crossed behind his head acting as pillow. He closed his eyes and drank in the tranquility that surrounded him. This was what he needed. He needed to be alone, to withdraw from life for a few brief moments and contemplate in lonely seclusion–far away from the house, past the edges of the formal gardens, hidden in the rolling countryside.

He had known she would never be his, but to have her married and so happily so, did sting just a bit. There was not another like her. He was nearly certain of it. How many years had he been parading through the seasons with nothing to show for it but a little more apathy, a bit harder edges, a heart that seemed less and less touchable. He sighed. There were others, not as lively as she, but acceptable and perhaps even lovable.

He switched legs, propping his right foot on his left knee. Did he even know what it was to feel love? He had felt strong, protective feeling for her, but were they really any greater than those he had for his own sisters? He found her attractive, that was different from how he thought of his sisters, but attraction did not equate to love. He had been saddened when she had refused his offer of marriage, but he had not been shattered. He had not even felt melancholy. He had actually been somewhat relieved–relieved enough that he had almost wholly sworn off all strong drink so that he would not find himself in such a situation in the future. No, he had not loved her, not in the way a husband was to love a wife. He had loved the idea of her. Someone who would always be eager to listen and share his deepest concerns and greatest joys. Someone who could arouse a feeling of desire.

He swatted at a fly that buzzed near his ear. Annoying creatures. Not unlike some of the ladies of the ton. Buzzing and flapping about with no purpose but to drive you to distraction. There was one, on the outer edges of the ton, that piqued his interest. She could buzz and flap with the best of them. He had watched her do so in many of the finest rooms in London. He knew that it was to garner the attentions of his cousin. He had on more than one occasion seen her glue herself to his cousin’s arm and babble on about things of no importance. She had pursued his cousin, it is true, but not with a heartfelt-longing for the man himself. There had been disappointment when she learned of his cousin’s betrothal, but there had been no headaches or other complaints of malady that bespoke a love-sick heart. She was obviously looking for position and wealth in marriage. She was the sort of woman from whom men of his rank ran–the fortune hunter.

He sat and stretched out his legs while leaning back on his hands. Was that all the interest she had in him? Had she spent hours with him as they waited news of Elizabeth and Georgiana’s safety just to engage his interest so that she might have a chance at his money and title? He shook his head. No, she had not pursued him. She had never crossed the room to sit beside him. She had never laid claim to his arm in the manner she had with his cousin. She had waited for him to approach her, for him to offer his arm. He had seen her eyes follow him around a room, only to dart away when he looked her direction, and she had coloured in embarrassment. When he had engaged her in conversation, her speech had on several occasions faltered, something that did not happen when she spoke to others. Perhaps…a faint ember of hope ignited in his heart…perhaps, she felt attraction to him as a man and not as a viscount of substantial fortune.

Attraction was but one part of choosing a marriage partner. His father had made sure that all his children knew that fact. If he could not prove to his father an attachment beyond attraction, his father would not give his blessing to such a union. But, attraction was a first small move toward the eventual loss of his current single state–not his attraction to be questioned, for he had no trouble feeling attraction to many a pretty lady, but her attraction to be scrutinized to assure it was attraction to something other than his current and future titles or his fortune.

He stood and smoothed his clothing, making sure to remove any leaves or blades of grass that may have attached themselves to his jacket or trousers. Assured that he looked presentable, he strode to his horse and took his seat. Slowly, he nudged his mount into a steady cantor. He looked back down the fence line of the adjacent field where his brother and cousin often rode as if the devil were in pursuit. He shook his head. He was certain he would never understand the need to race forward whether on horse or in a relationship. A steady pace, calm and assuring, that would keep solidly to the prescribed path. That is what he needed, was it not?

He turned his horse toward Netherfield. Loneliness was indeed an interesting, shifting feeling. The loneliness that he had sought, the peace that it had brought, the clarity of mind that it had helped him achieve, had been replaced by a dissatisfaction with his current state and with a desire to leave a certain type of loneliness behind. Impatience accompanied this loneliness. It compelled him to urge his horse to gallop more quickly. There was a lady of interest that he wished to know better. Now was not the time for a leisurely ride about the countryside. A laugh escaped him as he felt a longing to allow his horse to chase the wind back to the wedding breakfast. Loneliness, he thought, is fickle. Not only can it provide tranquility, it seems it can also provide motivation.