writing prompt

Beartown State Park

/ wvfurandroot / Leave a comment

Walter didn’t walk.  He ambled.  Today, though, he had a destination.

Walter wasn’t much of a planner, preferring to be spontaneous or, as he put it, just going with the flow.  But the flow today, required some preparation.  He had packed a lunch:  cheese sandwich, apple, Hostess pink Sno Balls and a bottle of Gatorade.  Green. 

He had seen the photo in a magazine.  Beartown.  He was even intrigued by the name.  A Vietnam memorial to a lost son deep in the heart of the West Virginia high mountains.  A series of boardwalks and large rocks, verdant and mysterious.  A sanctuary, sacred and oozing peace.  The perfect place to soothe a soul or lift a spirit.

Somewhere he could amble, but he had to get there first. 

Not yet dawn and the day was drizzly.  He threw a poncho in the backpack with his lunch and DSLR. Yup, he’d pulled out the big guns for Beartown.  It looked like a photographer’s dream location – moody yet tranquil.  He wondered if there were really bear up there on that part of Droop Mountain.  Droop Mountain, for sure, but in this state park?  He didn’t know.

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Donnie’s Wake

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Donnie talked about Pocahontas County all the time. Camping there. I wasn’t interested. We were neck deep in converting the barn and my whole life was a primitive camping trip. I didn’t think I needed to wander into the Wild and Wonderful to experience more awkward cooking attempts and uncomfortable sleeping arrangements. My life was full of such.

She continued to wax poetic. Lyrical, an ode to the Williams River and I told her I was sure it was beautiful. But declined.

And then she was diagnosed with breast cancer. And then it metastasized before we were even able to process the news.

She wanted a last trip to the river. And we agreed to go along.

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Enjoy the beauty and power of your whatever.

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The two of us, Charlene and me, were either giddy or angry, one or the other, at this stage of life.  Of course, we were.  We were 13 and hormonal as only pubescent teenagers can be. 

The air smelled of fried foods and popcorn, horse manure, and the first hint of cool, crisp autumn days.  It was October in coastal Carolina and the heat was waning.  We actually had long sleeves on.

Photo by Devon Rogers on Unsplash

The sound of barkers, the music from the individual rides, the roar of the roller coaster.  Our senses were on high alert with all the stimuli – the smells, the sounds, the feel of cool air and a breeze rippling our long hair. – Charlene was a blonde, and I was a brunette — both of us impossibly skinny and tall.

The night of the carnival we were giddy – in love with life, comfortable in our friendship, full of laughter, and looking to meet our true loves.  Or at least someone interesting. 

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Today, I want to…

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Today, I want to write.  Really write.  I want to print out my novel-in-progress and attack it with a yellow highlighter and red pen.  I want to figure out the damn timeline and people’s ages once and for all.  I want to wallow in words.   

I want to rewrite what’s been written to make it punchy and vibrant.  I want my readers to crave the next page if only to consume more quirkiness.   

In short, I want my brain to soar like my main character Laynie’s does when she is deep into transcription: 

Deep into it, fingers flying, right and left brains soaring, Latinate language free-falling in pixels to magnetic medium, Laynie. . .  

Even when I’m telling and not showing, I want to get away with it through choice of language and strength of character. 

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