Here we are, submitting another story for the #BlogBattle posts.
Now, for another surprise, this is close enough to reality to call non-fiction, by the teachings I’ve had. I say, “…a surprise…” because I do non-fiction about as often as Romance, which I did on the last submission I made.
Let us not dwell on reasons or excuses, I’ll just write what pops up. Like I can control my thoughts, right?
Be that as it may. On to brighter things:
#BlogBattle Number 47
- 1000 words max
- fictional tale (or true if you really want)
- PG (no more than PG-13) Content – let’s keep this family friendly!
- Your story must contain the word(s) from the theme and/or be centered around the theme in a way that shows it is clearly related.
- Go for the entertainment value!
- State the Genre of your story at the top of your post.
- Post your story on Tuesday, by 11:59 PM PST
- Use the hashtag #BlogBattle when tweeting your story, put a link back to your #BlogBattle Short Story in the comments section of this page, and/or include a link to this page in your own blog post (it creates a “ping-back” which will alert me and our friends to your #BlogBattle post)
- Have fun!
My offering this week is a little, and by little, I mean a whopping 340 words, short about when Dad took us camping in our youth. Could be one of the reasons I like mid-70’s station wagons so much. They are like a covered pickup truck.
Let me share with you:
By John T. M. Herres
It has been more years than I can tell since I have had the complete relaxing pleasure of a night, let alone a weekend or more, spent camped under the stars, with naught but a fire, tent and sleeping bag to protect me. Maybe some bug spray.
I remember fondly the times as a child, when Dad would load us up and we would find a secluded spot, pitch the tents, gather wood for the fire. He would teach us, or try to through our fascination of the wilderness and excitement of nature, how to tie knots, to build the ring for and then the proper building of a fire, to recognize various plants, including the poisonous varieties (how I wish, at times now, I had paid more attention to those lessons). We would hike the area and chatter with enthusiasm about the wonders all around, and at night would throw our meals, beef with carrots and potatoes wrapped in aluminum foil, into the sideline of the fire pit to simmer to tender perfection.
During the times when the rain would fall, we huddled inside, listening to the patter of droplets on the fabric, putting our fingers to the drops filtering through (even though we were told it would make the canvas leak more), and tell stories, wrapped in our bags with the lantern in the middle, pretending it was a blazing fire shedding warmth and protection from the monsters that had to be out there waiting for darkness so they could come and take us away.
The dawn would break and we would emerge, amazingly unscathed and intact, to the smells of Dad cooking bacon and eggs next to his brewing coffee. After the morning meal, we would begin packing up the gear, wondering where the next site might be pitched, be it on the top of Mount Everest, or in the Grand Canyon with the great Colorado River rushing by. Maybe the Redwood Forest, with giant trees towering overhead, hiding their own dangers and intrigue.