Slide Off the Mountain

I drove to North Carolina to listen to stories about life lived in the mountains. What writer could pass that up? It's what we do; experience a slice of life beyond our own, and gather useful information.

Simply driving on steep terrain with my standard shift was an adventure. The lay of the land so sharply angled, I wondered what kept the cattle from sliding off the mountain.

However, before I arrived, my GPS bummed out, and I pulled up next to a farmer standing in his pasture. He got me back on the right path. I mean that literally.

What I learned from my hostess, Sandy, was the simplicity of the code of conduct that is accepted in this mountain community. For example, it is understood that if you own something, you have something to lose. So your goat dies; that's the risk you took when you acquired it. Although admirable, I don't snuggle up well to the idea.

Sandy herself is not elaborate. She is naturally attractive with dark hair pulled into a thick braid that runs all the way down her back. We met on the French Broad River, where she was my rafting guide, and an owner of the Blue Heron, a white water rafting company. Through multiple rafting experiences, I've grown to respect and trust her approach to the river and rafting. She's also a good storyteller. So when she invited me to the high ridge where she lives, I accepted.

She told me that it was not uncommon for people to live their entire lives within a few miles, if not yards, from where they'd been born. Alice, Sandy's neighbor was one of them.

Alice loved house guests. It was routine for anyone who considered themselves family to come and stay a few days. Once, after a long and heavy influx of visitors, Alice stood looking out the window forlornly. “Clyde,” she said to her husband, “It's going to be awful lonesome.” But he was reclined on the couch with his Bible propped open. “Aw, but it's a sweet ol' lonesome.”

And now, with fresh stories, characters, and setting, I'm progressing on an idea for a new murder mystery.

Make it a great week,

Judy

Finding Ideas for blogs or books

Whether you write books or a blog, where do you get ideas for stories?

This one came from a local police report, and then was reported in a local newspaper in Georgia. All I did was change setting, characters, and add more humor.

Hearing loud voices in the theater's lobby, I flew through the auditorium and banged opened the doors, only to face the threatening prongs of a pitchfork. A man with a thick uni brow wearing overalls blocked my way. He aimed the weapon at my chest, and motioned for me to stand next to Jada, the theater's office manager, and a teenage girl I'd never seen before.

The man wore a red kerchief over his nose and mouth, that sucked into his face when he inhaled and flapped outward when he talked.

“Don’t nobody move, and nobody gets hurt.” Flap. Flap, the kerchief waved at us. Then sucked against his mouth. “Hand over the money.” Flap-flap-flap, the hanky puffed at us.

“We don’t have any money here,” Jada said.

He hesitated a moment and looked around bewildered that a community theater would have no money.

“You had opening night here last night…that stupid puppet on a stick.” Flap-flap.

Oh great! Even the pitchfork, LooneyToons-burglar is a critic.

“We never leave cash overnight here,” Jada said.

“Then gimme your purses. C’mon, throw ‘em down here. I ain’t got all day!”

Jada and I flopped our purses down.

“What about you?” He brandished the pitchfork at the girl.

“I don’t have a purse.” Her voice level and firm, her dark eyes squinted at him.

“She’s a kid,” Jada said.

“Kids have phones. Toss it.”

“You can’t have it!”

He angled the pitchfork towards her. “Now!”

She pulled it out of her back pocket, and skidded it across the floor. He stooped and picked up the phone and two handbags. He fumbled with the pitchfork. We watched as he moved to the front door. The pitchfork slipped. He grabbed it, cussed, and repositioned the loot. As the man hurried through the doorway, the pitchfork clattered to the floor.

The girl bolted. Grabbed the pitchfork. Dashed after him. Down the steps. She covered ground like a missile.

“You took my phone, you bastard!”

She caught up with him, and rammed the pitchfork into his buttocks. It caught him off balance. He fell.

By then, Jada and I had reached the thief.

“Gimme my phone!” Pepper stabbed him again while he was on the ground. He yelled.

Then Jada sat on him. “You try to grab me, and I’ll break your arm.”

I retrieved the girl's phone from the ground and dialed police. We had our man.