The Mission

A glance at the tower clock said it was almost time. Fingers drummed nervously on the café table. Stop he admonished himself mentally. He couldn’t afford to draw attention to himself. Not now.

The mission was about to take place, delivery was crucial. Crucial to national security, maybe even global from the impressions he got during briefing.

After one last sip of the pungent tea he pulled a few dollars from his wallet and tossed it on the bill. Standing the young spy glanced again at the clock in the square. It was time.

Knowing the importance of this meeting made it difficult to keep a strolling pace to the park. He wanted to hurry and be a hero to his country. An unknown hero since he was one of the men in black as they say.

Focus man, focus. To keep his concentration on the task at hand he began to sing the instructions in his head.

Near a tree by a river, there’s a hole in the ground. Where an old man of Aran goes around and around.

It had taken him a bit to decipher the cryptic message. Then suddenly it all snapped into place once he found the tree. Behind it a river gently flowing with children on the bank skipping rocks long the water’s surface.

An old man with a thick Irish accent sat on a stool in the shade of that great oak. The table in font of him filled with all sorts of whirly gigs to catch the wind and spin around and around.

The young spy took a deep breath. This was it, the moment he’d been training for.  Hand in pocket around a small pistol he approached the table of wares. “Good afternoon.”

The old man gave him a slight nod. “Afternoon. See anything you like there?”

He picked up a bird shaped pinwheel. “This one I think. Reminds me of something.” He gave a pause and made eye contact with the old man. “The blackbird sings on bluebird hill.”

The old man nodded and took the offered money for the trinket and dolled out the spy’s change. “Thanks to the calling of the wild. You must be a wise man’s child.”

His heart sped, this was it. The old man knew the code phrase. The hand in his pocket moved away from the gun to a keyring. “Indeed, thank you.”

Blood thumped in his ears as he pulled the ring from his pocket slowly. Keeping it hidden in his closed hand. With out breaking his pace he dropped the keys into the hole by the great oak tree.

It was hard to keep the grin off his face until he’d exited the park. Success, he’d done it.

The old man pulled the keys from the hole and sighed. Why did H.Q. insist on testing the rookies like this? The wig came off revealing jet black hair. This was the last time he’d forget his keys in the office.




What does this rusty old shed hold behind it's doors?

The old shed stood amongst the wild growth. The paint worn, siding rusted with time telling the world it’s been forgotten. What secrets are inside these simple four walls? Old tools, holiday decorations, toys now outgrown or boxes of memories. Or perhaps secrets better left forgotten.

One Word/60 Seconds: Panel is a website for getting the muse warmed up. Each day you get one word and sixty seconds in which to write what it inspires. This was my entry today.

Looking down he saw a wooden panel loose on the desk. The jut ting corner beg ging for discovery. Gently he pried at it with the tip of a pin. The panel fell to the floor revealing a compartment. Reach ing inside he pulled out a diary, the first line read.… “My God,what have I done?”

One Word/60 Seconds: Whiskers is a website for getting the muse warmed up. Each day you get one word and sixty seconds in which to write what it inspires. This was my entry today.

The great cat’s whiskers brushed the leaves as he moved though the jungle. The sound of his prey close by, he stops to scent the air. Close the man is com ing close. Crouch ing in the under brush the beast waits for the moment to pounce.

Autumn Signs


Quiet was the day, the only sounds being the rustling of trees in the wind, the soft crunch of leaves underfoot. Autumn the season of change had begun.

These woods have changed since his first walk though them so long ago. Saplings now become tall trees, their leaves turning golden as they fall to the earth.  The sun peeked though the wood setting the trees a glow.

The hollow of a pine filled with acorns, a woodland creature’s winter store. Soon the mild temperatures would turn into bitter cold winter. Snow replacing yellow and orange leaves on the branches.

The sound of a heavy branch falling caught his attention. His heart sped as he stepped off the trail to inspect. Such paranoid caution had kept him alive for so long.

Creaking of wood in the stiff breeze led him to the source. A large oak, trunk blacked and split from a summer storm. Lightning had carved a dark line down the thick trunk to the roots.

As his fingers traced the scared bark it felt like a sign, a sign of dark days ahead. With a sigh he turned back to the trail perhaps he can pretend the earlier peace of his walk was never disturbed. Change was coming but not yet, he would enjoy the quiet autumn day.



One Word/60 Seconds: Octopus is a website for getting the muse warmed up. Each day you get one word and sixty seconds in which to write what it inspires. This was my entry today.

The eight arms writhed as the great creature moved though the sea. He sought out his prey, a large dark ship. A ship known to his master. The he would wrap tentacles around the wooden hull and squeeze until it cracked. Down into the locker would her captain fall his fate for crossing the lord of the sea.

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