Ah, Spring Fling, we meet again. Last year, I wrote a story on the last day of the contest and jumped onto the website to submit it... an hour after the deadline. Nothing like an excuse to take an old idea off the shelf and dust it off! (Plus, can we talk about this gif? The story practically wrote itself!)

Reginald Purrlock had great shades, a field of eggs, and a case to crack.
 
Poor Clara had been frantic. “CLUUUUCCCK! Clutch! Clubbed?! CLUE!!!”

Reginald was glad he’d learned Chickenish. Clara’s eggs had disappeared, and he’d have to make sure her three unhatched chicks didn’t meet a brutal end.

Breakfast first. The kitchen was splashed with dye. Easter! He’d have to move fast.

Two green eggs lay on the bench. Not a whiff of vinegar on them. He spun each one and tapped them with his paw. They kept moving. Definitely not boiled. One wiggled. One cracked. This was promising.

The third egg must be in the field for the hunt, probably green, warm, and smelling like henhouse.

Reginald hunkered low and surveyed the field, passing spots of blue and pink. Suddenly, the grass rustled and he spun around to see a fluffy yellow ball totter his way.

​Case cracked. 

​

I'm always amazed by the things that can be created from a simple prompt. This year's Valentiny prompt was to write a Valentine's story about being brave. Immediately I imagined a fantastical scene, where a mystical tree of the best kinds of Valentines stood at the end of a long and arduous journey. I think it says a lot about the commitment and bravery it takes to nurture and honor love, not just in its romantic form, but every love the world gives us to cherish. 

The Tree grows from the highest peak of Valentine Mountain. Strange and wonderful tokens of Real Love droop from the branches: missing pieces, tender stories, invisible crowns.

Of course, the way is perilous and you must go alone. For the courage to brave the high and ragged cliffs, tuck a memory of your loved ones into your shirt pocket. Your mom. Your grandma. Yourself.

First, the rocky meadow. The Tree seems so close. But as you climb, it looks further and further away. Trust your earnest heart that you are going in the right direction.

When the path dips into the forest, you will lose sight entirely. In the darkness, brambles will snag your clothes and hair. When you fall over a log and into a tree, it will be ok to cry and shout. That will make your heart stronger.

So when you emerge at the base of the cliff and look up, up at the tower so tall you’re sure it will topple, you will be ready to climb, tremulously, with your memories in your pocket, to the plateau.

​And there is the Tree. For your mother, the gentle tenacity of wildflowers. For grandma, the song she lost as a girl. And for you, three words you never thought you could say. 

Another week, another kidlit contest, another prompt that seems totally uninspiring until I figure out how to make it work with my brain and the things I love to write about. The words skeleton, creep, and mask don't really live in my world- I'm a total wimp when it comes to all things spooky. But I'm always amazed at the magic that happens when I start to look at the possibilities beyond the first impressions. And I'm proud to share this little story that clocks in right at 100 words. 
Thanks for reading! 
​C

The Key
Emma knew Grandma’s room was off-limits, but Grandma was busy doting on trick-or-treaters.
Emma had tried every lock in the house with the tarnished skeleton key she discovered glinting under the basement stairs. All except the cedar trunk at the foot of grandma’s bed.
Emma crept upstairs and waited until the doorbell rang to creak open the bedroom door. She knelt by the box and the key gave a satisfying clunk in the lock. 
“You found my key.” Emma startled at Grandma’s voice. “Go on.”
A golden mask glimmered beneath the heavy lid. Grandma smiled. “You’ve unlocked a magnificent memory.”

I'm Ciara. It's pronounced Key-are-ah, and it's a good story. 

I'm from Vermont's green mountains and Nebraska's golden plains. I've lived under Seattle's sweet grey skies since 2013. 

​I'm a writer and a dancer and a teacher and a human. ​I make art and magic and, on occasion, cookies. 

I didn't think I wanted a blog, but I must be doing it for a reason. I usually have reasons for things, but I don't always know what my reasons are. 

Anyway, I don't plan to be here much, but I might pop in from time to time. ​

All my best, 
C

I'm excited to be sharing my first writing contest entry today! I'm proud of this little story and the threads of myself that are woven into it. I'm also really thankful to Fall Frenzy for the opportunity and inspiration to stay up until 4:30 in the morning bringing it to life, and to my critique partners for the accountability and quick feedback for revision!

Claire knew the spell for spring. At the end of winter, she mixed herbs and light, water and warmth into her cauldron. Green steam swirled up from the pot and slowly, slowly, the prairie bloomed into life.

But today was the autumnal equinox. As autumn witches prepared the prairie for winter, the grasses turned gold, then brown, then dusty white. Claire stood in the rustling stalks, her face red as the maple grove.

Claire understood the cycle of the seasons—growing, fullness, fading, rest. She understood the plants withered now so they could grow again in spring. But she felt like she was withering, too.

She cradled a thin stem laden with seed pods and pictured its roots spreading deep under the soil. A thought unfurled. Even through the dead of winter, the prairie must stay alive underground.

​So Claire mixed herbs and light, water and warmth, into her cauldron again. Green steam swirled up from the pot and disappeared. But when she cupped the seeds and brushed her fingers on the ground, she could feel it—a single drop of spring in every seed and every root to keep them warm through the winter.


By Ciara McCormack Greenwalt