30 Day Writing Challenge: Spark Your Creativity

This challenge offers a mix of prompts to target different writing styles and get your creative juices flowing. 

Each day, pick one prompt, or find a different approach that works for you. Just make time to write each day for 30 days. 

Genre Exploration

* Day 1: Sci-Fi - Write a story set on a distant planet. 

* Day 2: Mystery -  A cryptic note sets a detective on the trail of a missing person. 

* Day 3:  Fairytale -  Reimagine a classic fairytale from the villain's perspective. 

* Day 4:  Romance -  Two strangers meet under unusual circumstances. 

* Day 5:  Horror -  A group of friends explores a local legend, only to discover a chilling truth. 

* Day 6:  Fantasy -  A hidden door leads to a magical world. 

* Day 7:  Historical Fiction -  Write a diary entry from the perspective of a historical figure. 

* Day 8:  Dystopian -  In a world with limited resources, a rebellion brews.  

Writing Techniques

* Day 9:  Dialogue Only - Tell a story solely through conversation. 

* Day 10:  Free Verse Poetry - Write a poem that explores a specific emotion.  

* Day 11:  Flash Fiction - Craft a complete story in under 100 words. 

* Day 12:  Descriptive Paragraph - Focus on all five senses to paint a vivid picture. 

* Day 13:  First Line Challenge - Write a story based on a specific first line (e.g., "The rain hammered on the roof like a thousand angry fists"). 

* Day 14:  Unreliable Narrator - Let your narrator be untrustworthy, keeping the reader guessing. 

* Day 15:  Postcard Story -  Write a story in the form of a postcard.  

Inspired by the World Around You

* Day 16:  People Watching -  Pick a person at a cafe and write a story about their life. 

* Day 17:  Object Prompt - Choose an everyday object and write about its hidden story. 

* Day 18:  Eavesdropping -  Use a snippet of overheard conversation to spark a story.  

* Day 19:  News Headline -  Write a story based on a recent news headline, but with a twist. 

* Day 20:  Weather Woes -  Let the weather inspire your story (e.g., a scorching summer day, a blizzard). 

Challenge Yourself

* Day 21:  Write a scene with only one character. 

* Day 22:  Include a specific word count (e.g., 500 words, 1000 words). 

* Day 23:  Write a story in a specific tense (e.g., present tense, past tense). 

* Day 24:  Step outside your comfort zone and try a new genre. 

* Day 25:  Leave the ending ambiguous. 

Wrap Up

* Day 26:  Revisit an old story idea and rewrite it with fresh eyes. 

* Day 27:  Write a letter to your future writing self.  

* Day 28:  Reflect on your progress throughout the challenge. What did you learn? 

* Day 29:  Choose your favorite piece from the challenge and revise it. 

* Day 30:  Celebrate your accomplishment! Share your work with others or set a new writing goal. 

Don't be afraid to experiment and have fun! This is a chance to explore your creativity and break out of writing ruts. 

How It Goes

The struggle is real. I managed to work a few hours this week on The Long Summer Run. It just hit me that I wanted ... no needed to write. I have so many ideas that run through my head and have not even felt the urge. I've been sick for months with some sort of respiratory issue and my RA has really not been behaving well. 

I suspect the inflammation has been so high because of the compound issues. I've been on antibiotics and steroids within a single month. It took that long for the sinus infection to clear up, at least the worst of it. I am still having issues with drainage that cause coughing fits. I get embarrassed to go out. Today, I'm revisiting my RA doctor to see if we can get this mess to back off.

However, I had a sudden urge to write. So I did. I worked for several hours. The plan was to come back the next day. Unfortunately, plumbing issues arose and Sarah started her job and school. Sarah is my 17yr old granddaughter who has returned home to live with me after several years away. If you read my other blogs, or are on my Facebook page, you'll have run into references of her growing up. 

Anyway, with all this going on, I didn't get back to the novel. 

(✿◡‿◡)

And as of today, 14 days have passed. Yep. That's how it goes. I didn't get back to the novel. My doctor did nothing but tell me she was retiring. And I'm still struggling with pain, fatigue, and the congestion problems. 

However, last night that urge reappeared, and I worked for a bit on a segment of The Dream Stealer. I don't know why I bother with anything. Something else always interferes. And I know that we're supposed to prioritize our writing. Unfortunately, when you have doctor's appointments, children to get where they need to go, family who also rely on your help, church, running your legs off to find supplies because these days it seems there's not enough of the necessities at any one store. Anyway, by the end of the day, I'm wiped out. Fibromyalgia is a hag.

I enjoyed writing and today I woke with a better mindset and took the time available and do it. And I promptly began working on something for one of my blogs and got distracted searching for information I needed. 

ㄟ( ▔, ▔ )ㄏ

That folks, is the story of my life. When I realized I was caught in a spiral, I shut down the browser for everything but this post. I've got too many irons in the writing inferno. Three blogs, all different. I've considered consolidating a couple, but there are problems with that idea. So I plod along.

For now, I'm going to end here because, let's face it, it is two weeks overdue! I wish you a beautiful day, a wonderful weekend, and many blessings. 

Write any way, anywhere, anytime you are able. 

Revelations

I'm off Facebook for the moment, well, actually for January. I might stay off longer since I'm finding the hiatus soothing and relaxing.

My church does this "social media fast" every January. That isn't why I'm doing it. I'm doing it for me. Because I'm sick of Facebook. I love those real friends I'm made there but there is so much nastiness that I really don't like it.

So why am I there? I have a large family scattered across about 7 states. Keeping in touch is easier on Facebook. We even have a group page. I have writing groups that are interesting and some local folks that I consider friends. There are people I met through my writing I enjoy chatting with. Oh, and because "they" said if you're a writer, you need a page. So, here I are. . .well, there I are.

The thing is, the absence is having an interesting effect. No, I'm not working on the novels. I'm still blocked, mostly. I am, however, finding my other creative outlets coming out. I'm crocheting more if my hands aren't bothering me. I'm getting to the gym a tad more. I'm reading more. I play with the kittens. I get the laundry put away more often. I am on Instagram but that's a different thing altogether. They have a lot of craft ideas and so does Pinterest.

All around, my life is shifting back to center. Probably a good thing.

Does anyone remember what people were like before social media? Before the internet?  I know we think it's a wonderful thing. It might be if it were an actual tool rather than an escape or a platform. Look at that! The people pushing it even call it a "platform". It's designed solely to push agendas. Of course, it's marketed as a way for people to "connect" but that couldn't be further from the truth.

The reality is it drives a wedge between people already separated by distance. They're not close enough to hug you ... or slap you, so you can say what you want and consequences be damned. And the nicest people become rude and cruel. Me included. I try very hard not to be nasty, but with so many snowflakes around, no matter what you say someone gets offended. 

Think about the people you know on Facebook. I don't have thousands or even hundreds of friends. I'm very particular and have never sought to add people. I even have relatives not on my list. But how many do we really know? I'm fairly certain I know or am related to over 50% of my contacts personally. It's probably closer to 75%.  Can you say that? If so, that's great but I'm guessing that most people can't say that.

We're people who want to connect. And TPTB have sold us a gimmick that promises to do just that. And then your "friend" unfriends you because they disagreed with you or found your values offensive.

The fact is that you never connected at all. Real friends can accept differences in opinion, values, and colors without making a big stink about it. Real friends just ignore the irritations that arise between them or they approach it reasonably and without malice. They understand your stresses, pains, and troubles and if they don't, they need not take you to task over it. That thoughtless person who continually says hurtful things is not and never was a friend. I may very well fall in this category on someone's list. That's just the realities of Facebook. We aren't friends if we behave like antagonists.

None of this occurred to me until I separated myself from Facebook. I'll admit it is a kind of revelation. I seldom unfriend people, unless their material is so offensive I can't in good conscience keep them on. However, I've been unfriended a few times. I can be brutal in my statements. By that I mean direct and unpolitically correct. I don't hide behind masks very well. So, folks get annoyed and offended.

I rarely delete comments unless they're obscene because I figure if you want to make a fool of yourself, I won't stop you. My policy is to unfollow and see how that goes while taking steps so they don't see my post much if at all. I've blocked some post from certain contacts. Eventually, they'll drop me. I never get offended by this.

The realization that Facebook is a negative force in the world is probably not new but I think I've only recently realized the depth of the negativity. It isn't really a nice place, but it's convinced a lot of us it is. I'm going to have to reevaluate how I use it and how frequently.

If you've not taken time away from social media, and I mean more than a day or a week, I urge you to try a month-long fast. It may surprise you. Be advised, it is not as easy as you think. In fact, I suspect most won't be able to do it. Give it a shot, anyway.

Right & Left Brain Writer's Meeting

You didn't?

I did!

No!

Yes, in the last 24 hours I wrote 520 words! In The Dream Stealer. Admittedly, it is what I'm currently calling "the back story" because it takes place 10 or 15 yrs before what I thought was the main story. However, as I continue to fill in this information, I came to realize that it might actually BE the story. Well, at least part of it. I can't decide what is happening with this mess but it feels right.

I just can't believe this is happening. I want to jump up and down and squeal. 

Feel free to do so but I just cut the yard and would rather sit here and contemplate the success.

So, now what?

No idea. I kind of hit a block and just walked away to paint the porch table.

You're kidding, right?

No. It is going to be lime green. The bench on the porch is an aqua. I think the chair will be hot pink. What do you think?

..... I think you should back up and regroup. This is a momentous occasion. And I really think you should reconsider those colors. Bit striking, aren't they? 

They are but I'm tired of bland stuff. I need color. Lots of colors. I love colors.

We can buy a box of Crayolas. Now about the story. What...

I have some of those but I want to be surrounded by color. The winters are cold and gray and I hurt. The colors are uplifting. I think my porch needs those colors. You know, I think I'm hungry. I need a sandwich.

You need to get back to the story. You're on a roll. You can't stop now. Really, the painting will wait. And you could stand to lose a few pounds if you know what I mean.

{GASP} Are you serious? I don't believe you just said that.

Yeah, well, the truth shall set you free.

I have to get that table done and on the porch before it rains. I...

NO! NO! NO!

Well, you don't have to shout.

I do because you're not listening. You do this all the time. You get started and then you stop and move to something else. You have to STOP IT!

I'm going to write more later. I just need to get up and move around. You know I have pain in my neck from sitting too long and the numbness in my hand gets worse when that happens. So, I am not just moving from one chair to another. I got up and moved around. Painting the table.

.....

You do know you're blood pressure is going up and that steam coming out your ears is just overkill.

I don't believe you'll write any more this week. 

Considering this is Saturday,  you might be right. I wrote those 520 words between midnight and 2 a.m. this morning. Technically, I wrote today and it is the last day of the week. So, tomorrow starts another week.

You know, you're not as smart as you think you are. 

Maybe not, but I'm pretty smart. And about that diet, you might want to think about that, too.

Atmosphere Is Everything

I have tinnitus as a result of some of my medications, so I'm a sap for background sounds when I'm reading, writing, cleaning, and even sleeping. Every night I have ocean sounds playing in my bedroom. I find it much easier to focus with these sounds in the background as I go about my day. The sound helps mute the ringing in my ears.

When I want to relax and get cozy with a book in my favorite chair, the thrashing, smashing sound of a thunderstorm or the crashing of ocean waves as they throw themselves against the shore sets just the right mood. A soft summer rain calms me. At night, I fall asleep much faster with the sound of rain or ocean waves. When I'm writing, I've found that the background noise actually helps drown out other distractions and creates a relaxing atmosphere in which to work.

Unfortunately, you can't call up a rainstorm every time you want it and I'm far from my beloved Gulf Coast. So, I searched for and found tons of sound videos on YouTube. Another discovery is Noisli, a website that lets you set up your own background sounds and provides a timer you can set for a specific time. They also provide a blank page you can write on, distraction-free and it will even change colors across the spectrum. You can turn off both the time, sound, and color change. Their  Chrome plug-in lets you play the same background sounds while you're on the computer. If you want to write with sound for 30 minutes, just set the timer.

If you like using a headset it makes the experience more profound. You can't hear anything but the sounds. Use caution, since it can prevent you from hearing alarms in an emergency. My computer speakers are very good and serve me well enough. As I write this post, I have a summer storm playing on Noisli for Chrome.

You can buy sound CD's at Wal-mart and other stores and I have a couple of them. Or you can purchase downloads for your MP 3 player. In case you don't have the money to buy sounds, you can go to YouTube and search. You may go to Noisli.com and use their free features or get the plug-in, too. If you don't want to commit to all that work, I'm giving you links to my playlists of sounds and to Noisli for you to try.

I know many people who have music playlist they use when writing. I've used music for cleaning house and writing but I find if the music has lyrics it is more distracting. So I generally stick to classical or instrumentals.

Ambient sounds may not be for everyone but I'm fairly sure someone will find it useful. One thing I've done is looks for sounds that go with what I'm working on. Is my story in a city? I chose a city sound. Are my characters in a diner? I pick sounds you hear in a diner. Does the action take place in the forest? You got it. I have several forest sounds on my lists.

So, try it out. I'd love for you to come back and tell me how it worked or didn't work for you. I've picked sounds I like but you could make your own playlists with different sounds. There are plenty of them online, particularly on YouTube.

Online Background Sounds for Writing

WebPlug-InPlug In for Chrome

Noisli - I believe they have an Apple app but not positive.

My Background Sounds Playlists 

Ambient Sounds
Nature Sounds
Oceans
Rain

Here's one of my most favorite sounds. When I was growing up in South Alabama this was what you heard every night of the summer out in the country where we lived. It is a sound that even today, makes me happy. I could sit on my porch in the city, close my eyes, and listen to this. I'd be home instantly.

Wake Up Call

It is amazing what a vitamin can do! There goes my sole exclamation point but I have to use it. Two weeks ago I remembered that I'd been without my D3 for at least 6weeks. I went out and picked some up and started taking 15,000 units a day. You may recall my boring post about my fatigue and brain fog overwhelming me.

I've been taking D3 for more than a decade and for about 5 years I've taken 10,000 units a day because that is the only way I could keep my levels at a normal level. Anything lower and I bottom out. This is due to the medications I take for my rheumatoid arthritis. Symptoms of D3 deficiency are numerous and you can Google them but believe me when I say they are profound. Everyone should insist on a blood test to check their levels. If you're below 30, that's too low. And I don't care what your doctor says! Do what it takes to get above that level. Increase your D and get regular blood work to monitor it. If your prescribed dose doesn't raise it, increase your dose anyway.

I digress.

So, two weeks of D3 and the fog has mostly cleared and the fatigue is now at a manageable level, not gone but not overwhelming me to the point I fall into a deep sleep in 30 seconds after sitting down. I'm not joking here. I was sleeping close to 12 hrs a day. I couldn't sit down or I'd fall asleep in minutes, despite my efforts to stay awake.

In fact, the improvement is so profound that I've got all laundry washed, dried and have only two loads left to put away. Three days ago, I had about 5 loads that needed putting away and 4 to wash. Yes, that's a lot for two people but I've simply been unable to do more than the bare essentials. I've washed dishes every day, swept, vacuumed, and mopped all the floors and made up all the beds. The house is clean! Read some blogs a month ago and you'll see what I mean.

A couple of days ago, I managed to write 308 words on All That's Holy. I felt energized and excited. It wasn't much and it wasn't earth-shaking, actually more fixing some areas and adding in, but it was such a relief to write something on one of the novels.

I've dropped the D3 back to 10,000 units this week and will see how I feel. I see my doctor tomorrow and I don't know how he'll react to this but whatever.

I'm about to do some writing now and will stop this post here. I hope you're writing, too. Pay attention to your body, particularly if you have an autoimmune disease. Research medical research and treatments. Look for new data on trials and tests. Take care of yourself and when you tired, rest. Just don't sleep 12 hours a day.

Batter Up!

For this NaNo, I've been working on a previous NaNo novel. I haven't done much because of the back surgery and the nerve problem in my hand and arm have interfered with my ability to type. I've tried speech recognition software and managed to get some writing done. That's better than nothing. This last week, I worked on typing a bit. With over 60K words already written and a projected 30K to go, I've only produced the proverbial drop in the bucket. But I'm hopeful. At least, today I'm hopeful.

I really love this story, which is a far cry from most of my other NaNo novels. I only have one other that I truly love and it too is very near completion. My problem is that life is constantly throwing me curve balls in the form of illness or catastrophes such as a ruptured disk compressing my spine. To the point that I've despaired of finishing either novel. But I am working on both of them. 

Yes, both. I've decided that the way to deal with a curve ball is to find a new batting style. I've decided to ask what novel I want to work on for the day and to work on that one. If I grow tired or hit a roadblock, I will work on the other one. This has actually helped because it removes some my excuses for not writing at all and I manage to make some progress.

It never fails when I'm working on something that another story comes to mind that I could be working on. I try sticking to one but sometimes, I just hit a spot I feel I can't go further. Usually, that can shut me down for a while. Now, I just open the other story and start working on that. This has been surprisingly helpful. It means I'm writing. It also means boredom isn't a factor in my writing. I also found that it tends to push me to try to stick with the story I have open. Because after all, I want to finish ONE of them!

Maybe it isn't the best solution but at the end of the week, I'll have worked on two stories instead of one. Right now I'm focusing on All That's Holy because I really need to get some things structured. The story is complex and has a parallel structure. So, a lot going on and it feels all over the place. It probably isn't as bad as it feels but there is a lot of work to do on it before the 1st draft is done.

I hope your writing week has been productive, despite the holiday stupor that gets to all of us.

The War of Art

Sometimes things happen that just blow my mind. I stumbled across a book this week that totally changed my perspective about the difficulties I face in my writing and I feel as if I've turned a corner.

The War of Art, by Steven Pressfield, is written for writers who struggle to write and he nails the real reason we fail. Although the book appears directed at writers, the premise and principals he writes about can be applied to anyone who struggles to succeed. Pressfield identifies the culprit responsible for all failure, not as writer's block but Resistance. And according to Pressfield, Resistance isn't futile, it is evil and we are at war with it.

I am listening to a 2-hr audio version of the book. Last night I got halfway through and I learned so much about resistance in just that hour that it energized me. My brain felt as if it was flooded with some kind of euphoria. I wanted to jump out of bed and go write.

No, I didn't. It was nearly midnight and I had to be up at 6:30 a.m. So, needs must. I stayed in bed and listened for a while. This morning when I was getting ready to go to the write-in I had scheduled at the Mall, I found it wasn't as hard as usual to think about having to write. I have been sick for weeks and I'm still dealing with the cold but I found I was excited about writing. And I wrote when I got there. It was awesome. I came home and had been able I'd have written some more but by then the general fatigue I deal with struck and I sat down to rest. Pressfield would have said that resistance overtook me.

I want to finish the book tonight but I want to write even more. What to do? Pressfield says to identify what is a priority and what is important. Then do what is important. Writing is important.

If you're a writer struggling to write and want to attack the problems you face writing, I'd encourage you to get The War of Art. Pressfield knows whereof he speaks.

A Month of Summer Camp

It is that time again... Summer Camp for Writers! Yes, I'm doing Camp NaNo again this year. This will be my second camp session. I did it last year and worked on the November NaNo novel from the previous year. This year, I'm hoping to finish that novel during this camp session.

I've been busy with other things of late and have not really cracked the file open to plan what I'll be writing. No surprises there. Life has been very hectic and stressful. It doesn't help that I'm a pantser for the most part. The more I write, the more I understand the value of planning.

This story is almost finished but whether it is any good is debatable. I've got a few folks who've read it and like it so, maybe this one will get a thorough clean-up once I finish the first draft.

If you've never done November National Novel Writing Month because you think it is too hard or too intense, Camp NaNo is a really good place to start your adventure in writing. You set your own word count. You start a new story or work on an existing work. Whatever you want. This year they opened private "cabins" so you can even get with people you know. There's more but you can visit the site and take a look for yourself. Click the photo and it should take you there.

If you join us, leave a comment. I'd love for you to keep me posted on your experience and progress.

Generating New Ideas

I thought this was a very good slide show on creativity. We all need help sometimes. I like to share when I stumble across something that looks good. There are some really good ideas  here.

15 ideas on how to generate new ideas from Harish Kumar

The Tunnel

The road leading up the mountain twisted and turned back on itself so many times I had begun to think we would end up where we started. There were few houses and these perched precariously on steep hills. One tremor would surely send them tumbling down. It was a surprise the cows didn't topple over.

Driveways appeared suddenly around curves but were quickly swallowed up in the trees, brief indicators that someone passed here regularly. The nearest town was miles away, although there were small roadside stores. Most of them probably served the needs of the locals and the tourists.

Oaks, pines, maples, hickory, dogwood, and rhododendron covered the mountain. Their leaves were just beginning their change from green to flaming shades of orange, yellow and crimson. Sunlight filtering through the leaves made the day blaze around us. A small stream ran down a steep rocky slope, chuckling and skipping over sharp, jagged boulders and whispering across smooth, glossy stone sheets.

It was there, set into the mountain, a black mouth, frozen in a huge, toothless yawn where the heart had been. A set of tracks lay abandoned a short distance away, a testimony of the plans that fell short. An ornamental metal sign said the tunnel was carved during the Civil War with the help of slaves.

"There's an abandoned town a couple of miles on the other side of the mountain. To reach it you have to climb that 50-foot cliff near the stream and hike a path for a couple of miles. No one goes there much. Workers who had helped carve out the heart of the mountain had lived there," a tall dark man said.

"Germans," someone else said.

A man wearing a gray Stetson trimmed in gold braid spoke up, "If they had finished this the war might have been different."

I studied the entrance and wondered. Longer, maybe? More blood, more death. How much more would the nation have suffered? How much deeper would the nation have gone into depravity? The sound of screams and smell of gunpowder drifted across my imagination. I shook my head to push away the images of headless bodies on fields of blood.

The park charged no admission, had no guards. There was just this gaping black hole with people going in or coming out. This day there were dozens. The flashlights they carried were no match for the darkness that surrounded them. Standing in the opening, one could see the tiny points of light bobbing in the darkness. There was no beam or reflection, just white dots, like glowing balls. Darkness swallowed everything else.

Jim and I walked in the slightly raised center of the path. It sloped on each side and water stood in the trough-like areas between us and the walls. We could hear the steady drip, drip, drip as the water seeped from the walls and ran into the standing water.

“Strange how that water sounds,” I said.

If you held the light just right, you could see where the water ran down, leaving shining streaks on the face of walls of tortured granite, chipped and carved by man. “Reminds me of tears. Maybe the walls are crying."

Voices echoed in the tunnel. The visitors laughed and chattered and children squealed in delight at the darkness. Over all of this, quietness lay, as if a blanket were draped across the sounds.

I heard singing and surely, that was the ringing of steel-on-steel. The gravel beneath my feet sounded like leather rubbing against stone. I looked back at the mouth, now etched against the day. How bright it seemed in here, where the darkness lived, in the heart of this mountain. You could not tell where the tunnel ended.

I said,  "I heard that they once stored cheese here because the temperature is a constant 55°. Surely they had some kind of lights."

Out of the darkness, a light bobbed toward us. A man penetrated the blackness ahead. He wore white shorts and a tee-shirt. A little girl rode his shoulders. They appeared, slow and subtle as if coming into focus rather than entering a field of light.

We stopped and peered into the depths of that blackness. There was nothing to see. People walked around us, toward the dark, and faded from view, while others reappeared, slowly coming back into focus. A cold breeze seemed to wrap around us, tugging at our clothes and skin, pulling us toward the dark end of the tunnel. Negative pressure, I thought. I could still hear those other voices. The ring of tools still resounded in my ears. The sound of clothing as it brushed stone was clear.

"I don't want to go any further," I said, "Our lights aren't strong enough."

"Oh, just a little further, Liza," said my husband.

 He continued on and, after a moment's hesitation, I followed with reluctance. The sounds were growing stronger. I could still hear someone singing and it sounded familiar. I strained my ears to catch the words but they froze in the air, never really reaching my eardrums. A muffled oath followed a dull, bruising sound. I gasped, drawing the cool air into my lungs. Swing low, sweet chariot, yes, the song was an old spiritual. I looked around, my eyes straining to pierce the blackness. Surely, surely only a black man could be singing. The voice was rich, mellow and deep and the words drawn out with that soul wrenching melody that only black singers seem able to summon. But where was he? The darkness had grown thicker and the light at the entrance was now dim and no bigger than the beams of the flashlights had been when we entered.

 I reached for Jim’s hand but he was too far ahead. Then, he disappeared into the blackness ahead of me and as I looked frantically around, the light at the entrance disappeared as if someone had blown out a candle. I cried out and rushed ahead to where Jim had disappeared. The darkness pressed in on me and seemed to envelop me like a heavy cloak. The cold seeped into my bones and made my back hurt. Then, just as quickly the darkness lifted and I broke through into growing light.

 All around me, glowing, yellow lights flickered and the walls glimmered with wetness. The sounds of singing, laughing and swearing were loud but they had to be to be heard above the clanging, clamoring, ringing of steel on stone. Great pools of light with smaller areas of darkness filled the tunnel. Men moved up and down ladders and around great boulders. Some carried smaller stones toward what appeared to be another entrance. I saw wheelbarrows and wheeled carts loaded with stone and debris. Leather scrubbed against stone as one of the workers moved around a large boulder.

 I turned toward a dull, bruising sound and watched as a man dropped the hammer he held, grabbed his hand and swore. Blood, dark in the lantern light, dripped from his broken fingers. Several men rushed to help him and in the yellow glow, I saw they were all black, their skin shining with sweat, in spite of the cold. I followed them toward the light at the end of the tunnel.

 Light rushed at me and surrounded me in a warm embrace as I stepped from the mouth of the tunnel. Men were everywhere, running, walking, squatting, sitting, standing, eating, drinking. Several dozen men worked a short distance away, laying track. Wagons loaded with supplies stood in a clearing beyond. Someone shouted for help and a man hurried over with a bucket of water from the nearby stream. I stared at that stream.

 I walked over to the edge of the rushing water. For the length of time it took an orange leaf to be swept away on the surface of the stream, time seemed to jolt to a halt and then with increasing speed, rush backward. The world felt tilted, off-center.

 The stream was a little larger, the water a little clearer, and there was less debris but it was just the same, chuckling over stones, whispering over glossy stone sheets. Turning slowly, I surveyed the area. No fathers rode laughing daughters on their shoulders. There was no ornamental plaque, no laughing children, no mothers tugging reluctant toddlers into the gaping mouth. I saw no picnic tables, only men, rushing as madly as ants with their tools. Gradually, I realized there were white men present. They stood as sentinels, with rifles slung over their arms or across their laps. They smoked with eyes narrowed, scanning everything. Other white men poured over rolls of paper and sketched in the air or moved around, directing workers.

 My heart felt heavy, my mouth tasted dry as the dead leaves that blew along the ground at my feet, and I was so very cold. I reached out and placed a trembling hand against a huge oak. The bark felt rough against my palm. Every nerve in my body jerked at the exploding sound in the distance. I felt the ground tremble beneath my feet but no one else seemed to notice.

 A man stumbled and fell beneath a load of rock he carried in a sack on his back. No one moved to help him and he groaned as he struggled to rise. For several minutes he lay there until finally, one of the guards motioned to another black man. The second man removed the sack of stone and gently helped his fellow to his feet. He led him over to a boulder and seated him there.

 Again the ground trembled at the thunderous sound in the distance. Again, no one noticed. I moved up to one of the guards and stood in front of him.

 “Excuse me. Can you tell me what is going on here? My husband and I went in the tunnel and got separated. I didn’t know there would be a program going on. No one told us,” I laughed, “in fact, we didn’t know the tunnel had a back door.”

 The guard looked right through me, at least, if felt as if he did. He continued to scan the moving, miserable mass behind me, blowing smoke right in my face. Blue smoke, with a sharp pungent smell, drifted around my head. I reached out and touched the hand that lay across the barrel of the rifle. It was warm. He jumped, jerking his hand back as if he had been burned. He looked around, his eyes shocked and filled with fear. He took several steps backward and turned in a slow circle.

 Another guard approached, a puzzled look on his face. He touched the other’s shoulder. “Blue?” he said.

 The man, Blue, jumped again and whirled around. “Good God, Jim. You scared the daylights out of me.”

 “What’s the matter with you? You look like you seen a ghost,” Jim said.

 Blue continued to look around him, his face white, his eyes bulging. “I didn’t see nothing but I swear someone touched me. It was icy cold.”

 Jim laughed. “You been on duty too long, boy. You need to get in out of the sun for a spell. The only spooks around here is us.” 

 Blue didn’t laugh.

 I watched the entire episode standing less than three feet from the two men. Not once did they look at me. Blue had looked through me several times but his eyes never caught mine. I turned and looked again at the dozens of men hurrying to-and-fro. I was the only woman among them but not one man there looked at me.

 I looked down the road that ran along the track they were laying. What lay beyond this place? If I took that road would I catch up with Jim and my own time? Or would I find fields of dead and dying soldiers in uniforms of blue and gray? Would I hear the squeals of modern day children or the screams of wounded men, calling for their mothers? I moved toward the road. No, this was 1990. If I continued along this road I would pass the toilet facilities provided by the federal government in this and all national parks.

 A scream echoed behind me from the gaping mouth of the tunnel and I turned. A half dozen men hurried into the light, carrying a man in their arms. He screamed in pain. They gently lay him on the ground and someone placed a rolled up coat beneath his head. Two guards bent over him, questioning the others.

 “Boss,” one of the blacks spoke, “he’s wukin’ on dat ladder and of a sudden like, a great piece o’ that mountain jump out and knock him down. He fall hard and dat stone rat on top o’ him.”

 The guard shook his head and moved away. “He‘s done boys. Get him back to town. Try and keep him comfortable.”

 “We cain’t move him rat now,” another black man spoke up, anger in his eyes. “He’s hurtin’ bad.”

 “Well, boy, we cain’t hep him here,” the guard replied.

 I moved toward where the group of men knelt and stood around the groaning man. Several men moved away and went back toward the tunnel. I knelt beside him and looked into the black face, shining with sweat. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth and his nose. He was young, certainly not more than twenty. He opened his eyes and for a moment, they were glazed in pain. Then, he looked at me. His eyes widened and fear pushed the pain from them. He groaned something and one of those who remained nearby knelt on his other side and took his hand.

 “I heah Gabe. I gone stay rat heah wit you.” He looked up at the guard, questioning, and at the guard’s nod he relaxed. “The boss done say it be all right. I gone take you home, Gabe.”

 Gabe continued to stare at me and I knew he saw me. Whatever reason the others could not did not apply to Gabe. He saw me.

 And he heard me. I spoke soothingly, “It’s all right. I won’t hurt you. Everything will be all right.” I gently stroked his forehead and then took his hand. It was as cold as mine and rough as the stone he worked.

 I stayed there and watched as he relaxed and the fear left his eyes, replaced with something else I couldn’t understand. He tried to talk but the only sound he made was the horrible rattling of blood and breath. He must have been crushed all to pieces inside. Finally, just before the light faded from his eyes, he looked at me and smiled. Then he was gone.

 They lifted him, placed him in a wagon, and covered him with a tarpaulin. Only then did I realize I was weeping. I watched the wagon disappear down the road and the ache to follow was nearly unbearable. The sun was going down and I knew that I had to go back, back to the tunnel, through that smothering darkness. I didn’t want to see the battlefields or hear the screams of death.  

 I turned and moved quickly to the entrance and hesitated, remembering the cold and the dark. I looked to where Blue was still standing, gun still resting across his arm. Nothing had changed for him. He probably didn’t even remember his brush with the ghost. I waited until his eyes drifted toward where I waited. I lifted my hand, waved and gave him a sad smile. His eyes widened and he went fish-belly white, then he fell over in a dead faint.

 I moved into the tunnel and walked carefully toward the darkness. All around me, glowing, yellow lights flickered and the walls glimmered with wetness. The sounds of singing, laughing and swearing were loud but they had to be in order to be heard above the clanging, clamoring, ringing of steel on stone. Great pools of light surrounded by smaller areas of darkness filled the tunnel. Men moved up and down ladders and around great boulders. I continued on until I felt that cold, heavy blackness surrounding me. I looked back for one brief moment and watched as the tunnel entrance disappeared as if someone had blown out a candle.

 I hurried forward. Or was I going backward? Somewhere I had crossed a line but I was no longer sure if I had come from the future or from the past. That was the most frightening thing of all. Where was I headed? Where were we all headed?

 “Liza, Liza!” Jim shouted. “Liza, what is wrong with you? Answer me!”

 Jim was there, in front of me, holding, no gripping me by my arms. I could feel the warmth of his palms through my thin cotton blouse. I could feel his heart beating beneath my hands, pressed against his chest.

 “Jim? Oh Jim,” I sobbed. What to say? “Jim, did you see them? Did you see?”

 He looked at me with his lips clamped tightly shut.

 “Jim, please tell me what happened.”

 “Liza, we’re leaving. You scared me to death. I thought something happened to you. When I turned around and you weren’t there I went nuts. The place is black as Hades anyway and I didn’t think I would find you. My God, the darkness is absolutely physical the farther in you go. I finally turned back and found you leaning against a wet slimy wall, sobbing.”

 “Jim, what year is it?”

 He looked at me but not as I expected him to look. He said very carefully, “1990.”

 “Take me home.”

 We turned eagerly back toward the light. I glanced behind me to see more lights disappear. Our feet made scrunching sounds on the gravel as we neared the entrance.

 Light rushed at us and surrounded us in a warm embrace as we stepped from the mouth of the tunnel. The stream sang and called to us. I breathed deep of the fall air and felt a breeze tug playfully at my hair. I never realized how heavy darkness was until now.

 As I looked back into the dark entrance, I thought I heard singing. The voice was rich, mellow and deep and the words drawn out with the soul-wrenching melody that only black singers seem able to summon. “Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home.” I looked around and saw a black man seated at a picnic table, his skin was shiny with sweat and his clothes tattered and dirty. For a one brief moment we looked at each other and then, he smiled and waved. I shuddered. I followed Jim to the car. I refused to look back.



History of “The Tunnel”

  During the late 1980’s we lived in a small town in South Carolina. We often took our small sons on day trips to the foothills in the western part of the state, particularly, Highland, S.C. It was during one of these day trips that we ran across a national park area where a tunnel was carved out of the mountain. It was the fall of the year and the area is as described. It was used for a variety of purposes through the years, storage for cheese being one.

 The story, told by a man in a gray hat with gold braid and seated on a rock near the creek, was that the tunnel had been intended to open the supply lines for the Confederate Army. Lee’s surrender changed everything and it was never finished. The quote in The Tunnel is what we were told that day -- “if the tunnel had been completed, the war might have gone differently.”

 I have no evidence that slaves were used in the construction of the tunnel. In fact, my information while visiting the tunnel was that Germans were the builders. The village mentioned was a bit of a walk away and to visit that location we would have had to climb a 50-foot cliff. We were younger then and would have been game but we had two small boys with us. We did start into the tunnel but I became uncomfortable about halfway in and, despite numerous people coming and going, I elected not to complete the journey. Imagination is a very powerful instrument.

 This story arose from my very vivid imagination and the comments from a very loyal southerner who, for some reason, still felt the insult of a war long over. I, too, am a loyal southerner, and therefore, with perhaps a greater understanding of his point of view which has nothing to do with slavery. The poor white majority of the south did not own slaves and were not helped by its continuation or its demise. However, his comment struck me. It began a process of thought and was probably the final catalyst that started me toward a B. A. in history. It was the cost of human suffering and the potential to continue that suffering that the tunnel represented to me, and it was this which played on my vivid imagination and resulted is “The Tunnel”.