Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Gardening and Writing Writing Prompt Response

The prompt was: Digging a hole for her pansies. . .

Digging a hole for her pansies, Kara poked her mini-shovel into the dirt and swore when it struck another rock. This is what she got for living in and trying to grown a garden in the Granite State. She blew out a frustrated breath that lifted her bangs away from her face and swiped the sleeve of her shirt across her forehead.

“Okay, Mr. Rock, it’s you or me and I vote me.”

Up on her knees, she once again dipped her little metal shovel into the hole and tried to wedge its tip to the side of the stubborn stone. “Come on,” she said, the muscles in her arms straining while she held her breath.

When the shovel slipped from her hand and went sailing across the dirt, landing near her old apple tree, she plopped down on her butt, and pulled out her bottle of water. After taking a sip, she resealed the lid then leaned over the hole and eyed the source of her irritation.

“Nope.” She shook her head. “I will not move my hole. I will defeat you,” she vowed, and got to her feet.

This called for use of the big dog, her wide-mouthed, dull-length shovel. When she returned from the garage, she addressed the hole and its unwanted resident.

“Last chance,” she called out.

Kara shrugged, moved her head side-to-side, and cracked her knuckles. From the opposite side of the hole, she stuck the tip into the dirt, wedged it between the rock, then pulled it back, and stepped on the flat part of the blade so it went deeper. When she thought she had it positioned where she wanted it, she lowered her center of gravity, grasped the wooden handle, and heaved.

The damn thing fought back, but she was stubborn and persistent. “Come on you pain in the butt. My flowers want a home and you are it. Now get the he – ll ou –t!”

Suddenly, the offending stone, gave way, her shovel slipped, she fell back, and the rock went airborne. When it dropped right between her legs, Kara eyed the miniature meteor.

“Hm.” It didn’t look like a rock. With a gloved hand, she picked it up.

It wasn’t a rock. It was some kind of chest. It was small, but was definitely a small chest. Its ornate scrollwork and the gold latch made her think it was a woman’s jewelry chest, one she would set on her dresser for decoration.

She tried to lift the latch but the thing was just as stubborn as it had been to leave its dirt home. Reaching into her back pocket, she pulled out a pair of snippers, placed the gold flap in-between the snipper’s mouth and twisted her wrist. The metal gave way.

Heart hammering, Kara licked her lips. She dropped the tool, held the base of the chest in one hand, wrapped her fingers around the lid, and lifted.

When she peered inside, her eyes grew wide, and her mouth dropped open. At the sight of the blood-red stone the size of her big toe cushioned in blue velvet, her hammering heart skidded to a halt.


Ceri Hebert April 22, 2009 at 4:33 AM  

OH! I want to do that kind of gardening! All we dug up was rusted nails, a door hinge and a few bits of pottery. What a good story this could be!

Denise April 22, 2009 at 5:48 AM  

Yeah, me too!
Last year I found pottery pieces and plenty of rocks and boulders. No ruby gemstones or even diamonds.


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