Weekly Writing Challenge: Ice, Water, Steam

For this week’s writing challenge, take on the theme of H2O. What does it mean to be the same thing, in different forms?

Action TV reporting on the H2O developments.

First snow birds 27.12.2014

“Good morning Mrs. Bird, could you give me your thoughts about the H2O situation?”

*No, problem. Just a minute while I ruffle my feathers, am I on TV. Yes, H2O, like you mean water, wet, cold or just steamy. Well as a bird I have my preferences. Now look at this stuff laying around at the moment, think it is called snow. It is OK, I don’t mind it really as long as the humans put some food stations up in the garden. It is not so easy to find worms they disappear in the warmer regions of the earth. We have to rely on outside help. This snow just covers everything and I get a cold beak sticking into it searching for a few seeds. Mind you, some of these humans overdo it. I mean we birds like to be fed but I saw a sparrow a few days ago. They are a greedy bunch and he just stuffed himself full of seeds. It started to snow and he feel off his perch on the tree through the weight of the snow, but his own fault. He just got a little overweight. Now I don’t mind a bit of rain, fills up the holes in the ground with some water. Yes, the liquid stuff is fine as far as I am concerned. Even take a bath during the warmer months to freshen up the feathers and get rid of some of the lively stuff that gets in between. We don’t do the steamy stuff. If it becomes hot an steamy we migrate to the river down the road. There is always something to drink, if you know where to find it.”

“Thank you Mrs. Bird, and now I see Tabby cat having a drink of water.”

Tabby having a drink

“Hello Tabby cat, do you have a contribution to our H2O theme?”

“Oh yes, definitely. If you are taking a photo, make sure you include my right paw, that is my water paw. To continue, I must say that they frozen stuff is not my sort of thing, no definitely not, You cannot drink it and walking on it is not very inviting to the paw. We have sensitive paws and it is too cold, not to mention ice, that is a cat skid and does not look very good. Even my friends the birds would agree. Have you ever see a bird land on ice? Not very often, they avoid it when they can. I would also add that we felines do not like water that comes from above, no definitely not, Our fur becomes wet, it is cold, and we begin to smell. Water from below, now that is something completely different. It might lay for a few hours until we discover it, but then yesss. It is as if you discover an old rare wine in your cellar that you forgot. It is to be savoured, much better than that rubbish that humans get from a tap. Of course we do not just gulp it down, no we lap it up gently and might lick it from the paw. Forget the steamy stuff, we are sensitive creatures and that burns our whiskers.

Reflection in a tap

“Hello Mrs. Angloswiss, what is your opinion of H2O?”

“I drink it, it is healthy. I am careful with water, it is an expensive commodity in my country and I sometime wonder if we have enough. We rely on the rain of course. You notice when it is scarce in Summer and the gardens have brown and parched lawns. Otherwise what is there to say? The water that arrives from the tap is not just water. It is treated to ensure that it contains no impurities. Some might prefer water with gas, but I just like it pure. In its frozen state, ice is fine to cool a drink, but ice on the road or on the pavement – no thank you. I am accident prone and prefer to avoid it. If only the car would be invented that could operate with water, that would be a good development. I believe a steam engine exists, but it is not a sensible solution as the back seat of the car would have to be replaced by the tank.

Weekly Writing challenge: Ice, Water, Steam

Weekly Challenge: Countdown – What was that password again?

For this week’s challenge, I invite you to breathe new life into the established genre of the end-of-year countdown list. Sure, you’re welcome to share your top-20 books, songs, or obscure craft beers of the year.

Nera Christmas

My late Nera cat who left us for the eternal corn chambers last year, once wrote a Christmas Wish List. It had a few repetitions, but she wanted to make sure that it was read and her wishes were granted. We still miss her and hope she now has her permanent supply of tuna fish wherever she is.

I thought about this end-of-year countdown list and came to the conclusion that it is a necessary fact of computer life to register you passwords. We are all told that the passwords we need on our computer should not be written down for safety reasons. It might be that someone finds the list with the passwords. Do not enter them in your iPhone, iPad or computer, and if you write them down then write each worded in a coded fashion that nobody understands what it is all about.

Now this is very sensible but you have to remember the codes you applied to register the passwords. I really would not want anyone to know how to empty my bank account when banking online. I definitely do not want to be cloned in Facebook as it might be that my suspicious colleagues, who I do not know personally, will disown me as being untrustworthy. Today I am the proud possessor of many computers, some out of action but ready to go when plugged in. Others used daily and I am not counting my iPads. Computer central we have a problem.

I am really wondering if I visited the tattoo shop and had my many passwords engraved somewhere on my body, it would be the best choice, but where? On the other hand we are constantly advised to change our passwords regularly meaning that my available skin would soon be full, no room on the body.

I now have an Apple computer, no two, but that is not the problem. Apple are the kings in passwords. They have a password for everything. You want to buy something in their Apple shop, then use your password, no problem. You want to modify something on your computer, then use another password and if you have an iPad you will be informed that you have changed your password. It seems that Mirosoft Windows were accused of not being secure enough with their software. They have found the solution, a password and even a fingerprint, but what happens if I forget which finger I used.

To return to online banking here are also passwords. If you have plastic money, Visa Card, Bank Card, cards for this and that in the local store, there will definitely be a password included. You want to buy a book online, no problem, as long as you remember the password.

This is your today’s life, so you begin to make a list, but unfortunately now and again you will be required to change the password, and oh horror, you have forgotten the new password. You can contact the various password hungry people by mail and they will supply a new password. You become a regular customer to their e-mail address and if you do not organise you e-mail answers, you forget which one brought you the correct password. I have now thrown all caution to the wind. I have begun a list on my computer, but being sly and computer litereate, I have transferred this list to a memory stick, so what could possibly go wrong. Now where did I put that memory stick?

Weekly Challenge: Countdown – What was that password again?

Weekly Challenge: Digging for Roots – if you can find them

Whether your journey of self-discovery is more of a metaphorical one or if you’ve traveled far and wide to find out more about who you are, let that influence you in this week’s Weekly Writing Challenge.

Parker Grave 3

I should dig for my roots, in spite of the fact that the roots might be fraying at the edges, roots of a weedy past growing haywire in the human history of me.

Oh, I have been there and done it. It was all the rage a few years ago to dive into the records of your past, chase through the census documents, beginning at the end of course, meaning I, me and myself. Yes, the publicity machine had found a new source of money. Buy your way through the research of your past.

Of course, I wanted to discover if I really was the fruity result of a past King of England that could not and would not marry his servant girl just because she was stupid enough to be in the family way. I decided this was probably not the case, as my family did not work in palaces, but mainly in factories. So I began my search. It was partially based on the famous words of my Aunt Lil who said we were descended from rich French wine merchants that owned a lot of property and the deed were burnt in a church fire. Aunt Lil always did have a vivid imagination. She even mentioned the that the name was “De Lu Cameru”. Armed with this family rumour of French aristocratic descent I took my first steps on the path.

I ordered my Family History software online, being a CD with a family history programme. Where to start? No problem, just put your name in and then your mum and dad. That is where the journey begins. The next obstacle is conquering further steps.

“Mum, when was grandad born?”

If you were lucky mum remembered that yes, her father was born.

“Did he have any brothers or sisters?”

“I think so” and so the third degree of my parents continued. I eventually discovered that my parents knew next to nothing about my ancestors. Further investment was necessary, and I signed up in a site called ancestry.com. And then, yes, I discovered the missing french aristocratic link. My grandfather maternal side had a mother who was married to his father and her maiden name was Camroux. Not quite “De Lu Cameru” but understandable, my grandfather no really knowing the correct french pronouciation of his mother’s name. His french knowledge was more limited to uttering various profanities.

Further steps in the Camroux line discovered that I was related to every living member of the Camroux clan in England, thanks to the ggg grandfather (or something like that) who decided to travel from his Huguenot exile in Germany to London, marry a Huguenot lady (yes I have a copy of the marriage certificate from the protestant huguenot church in London – in French) and establish my dynasty. Were they rich? Of course most of them were, but there are always exceptions. I was descended from the exceptions. The rich ones all emigrated to Canada. The rich wine merchant existed, but not for wine. He had a few ships and invested in other such lucrative business, but contact was never made. I do not think he even knew our part of his family existed. Yes, he was a snob.

Through the inspiration of having a Huguenot past, I joined a course for improving my French. I was sure that it was in my genes and I would be the best in the class. This was not the case, so I left the course after a year and decided that roots were not enough if these long lost relations had no interest in meeting me.

One problem with old census details was the the people sent from door to door to register the names of the people living in the houses, were somewhat analphabetic. They could barely write (this was in the 19th century). I discovered that the search for my grandfathers sisters and brothers was increasingly difficult. Granddad’s name was “Lay”, but the census containing Lay variations of Day and Say did not help and I travelled many entwining paths until I discovered his 7-8 sisters and brothers.

The paternal side of my family were not very much better. Gran had 11 surviving brothers. She originated in the country and they were mostly farm hands. My dad knew a few, but he put them into sections of “uncle X liked his drink” or “uncle Y loved a bet on the horses” showing that their qualities were not exactly on the positive side of life.

Eventually I gave up the circus of finding who I think I might be. It costs money, and I asked if it was worth it. I did find 6th cousin Marge in Canada and we now and again had a chat via Skype over the computer. Her mother was one of the Camroux clan.

So do you really want to know who you are? I found approximately 900 long lost relations in my search for fame and fortune. I was spending money for membership of the various ancestry groups. Now and again I might be contacted by someone that finds a thread on my cyber path, but do we really want to know where we come from? If I trace back far enough I am sure that I will find a lonely Neanderthal dragging a female Neanderthal by her hair into his rocky cave and deciding yes, this is it and there we have the real and true roots of my family. Or perhaps it was a wayward space ship that landed and I am one of the direct descendants of someone from Planet X243 on the right side of the milky way.

The only thing I dig today is my garden to find a few slugs and worms.

Weekly Challenge: Digging for Roots – if you can find them

Weekly Writing Challenge: Pie like mum made

This week I invite you to write about pie.

My mum made pies, but like everything else she made the ingredients were top secret. No list of ingredients existed, I think she made it up as she went on her pie making journey. Not that she made the pie of all pies, but her idea of a pie was pastry with something inside. She always made the pastry herself. Unfortunately mum belonged to a generation where measuring instruments in the kitchen were an unknown tool. It was all done with judgement.

I was a kid and was watching. I was not allowed to help, because I did not now how it worked, I was unskilled and not inaugurated into the secret of pie making. We are back in the good old days of the fifties. Mum would take out a large china bowl, that had been hovering in the family from her mother’s days. As this bowl was almost antique, I had to appreciated the cracks and discolouration and recognise them as symbols of something solid and everlasting.

Mum took a packet of flour and emptied some into the bowl. Here again, do not ask how much, mum did not know either. I think she probably poured it into our family heirloom bowl to a certain mark, that only she knew. She took a handful of fat, and mixed it into the flour to resemble a breadcrumb state of substance. The fat probably originated in an animal known as pig and I believe the english name was suet. Butter was only used for spreading on bread in our home. It was not for financial reasons that she used no butter, but it did not enter into her culinary talents that butter might be better. If she found that the consistency of the pastry was too oily, then another few handfuls of flour were throw into the mixture. I think somewhere in the process she threw an egg or two into the mixture, adding more flour if it was too wet. Of course she could have added some sugar if the pie was covering apples, but i do not think she did. She just thew a couple of handfuls of sugar over the pie when it left the oven.

I am now jumping a few valuable steps of pie making according to mum. The pastry was ready. She took an oven pan, another family antique showing scars of the usage of many years and filled it with the ingredients to be covered by the pastry. If it was an apple pie, it was OK. What could possibly go wrong? Peeling and chopping an apple was no big deal and the sizes of the pieces made no difference. You did not actually see the apple when it was hidden beneath a thick layer of pastry, and believe me, it was thick.

Of course we had a so-called rolling pin for rolling out the pastry. For some unknown reason mum always kept this rolling pin wrapped in a flour covered greaseproof paper. I do not remember her ever renewing this paper, but I survived. I was probably immune. Mum only ever used self-raising flour. This was an english flour already containing backing powder, so you did not have to worry about the pastry rising or not although my ideas of pastry today is that it does not have to rise, it forms a firm cover for the pie ingredients. Mum made pies like her mother made them and probably like her mother’s mother etc. etc. so the recipe originated from the english Elizabethan days, and I mean Queen Elizabeth I in the 17th century.

Mum might have made a meat pie. This was really something individual. She filled the pie dish with anonymous pieces of meat, mainly beef, filled the spaces with sliced onion and carrot, and buried it all beneath the pastry. Whether she made an apple pie or meat pie, it made no difference, the pastry rose to untold dimensions. To allow the steam to escape from the pie filling and to avoid the pastry cover exploding she made a hole in the middle and placed a sort of special earthenware steam escaping device in the middle of the pie, yet another relic from the previous century.

The finished pie was edible if you liked eating pastry. The ratio of the pie was approximately 10% filling at the base, and 90% pastry as a cover. Yes mum’s pies were unique. I feel no wave of nostalgia when reflecting on mum’s pies, but they were something completely different.

The nice thing about Swiss pies is that they do not really exist as such. A pastry base, filled with fruit and a beaten mixture of egg, sugar, cream, and milk and baked. And who makes pastry today? I do not. It can be bought already rolled out in the correct form. In any case, my husband, Mr. Swiss, is the pie maker of our family. Yes, see photo of one of this special apple flan pies.

Apfelküche Marcel

Weekly Writing Challenge: Pie like mum made

Weekly Writing Challenge: My Dear Watson – think before you eat

Life just isn’t the same without your trusty sidekick. For this week’s writing challenge, tell us about your partner in crime.

Spaghetti with Meatballs

“Wait! Stop!”

“Who is shouting?”

“It’s me, your spaghetti string. You are not going to eat me like that! How do you expect me to enter your digestive system without my partner?”

My plate of spaghetti is talking to me, at least one string? What am I doing wrong? This is stupid, spaghetti does not talk.

“Who says we don’t talk. In an emergency situation we have to talk.”

“Ok, spaghetti string, so what is the problem?”

“Do you really intend to eat me without my partner.”

“You have a partner?”

“Of course. He is very worried sitting in the fridge all on his own. He thought his big break had arrived and we spaghetti strings were quivering with delight awaiting the arrival.”

“I still do not know what you are talking about.”

“The parmesan cheese of course: during the short life of a spaghetti, before we are digested by the human body, we have little pleasures, but one is to be eaten with a sprinkling of parmesan cheese, so go get him.”

My spaghettis were now standing up on the plate and trembling in unison. I rushed to the fridge and found the parmesan cheese in a glass dish. Did I see a movement on the surface? No it was just my imagination. I put the parmesan on the table and a loud sigh of relief came from the spaghetti strings. Suddenly a cloud of parmesan rose and dusted the spaghetti with a layer.

“Oh, at last” and the spaghettis and they all seemed to breathe a communal sigh of relief.

“I am so glad” said the parmesan. “We thought she was going all healthy and decided to leave us in the fridge, but now we are here spaghetti. Let us be digested together. We belong together.”

The spaghetti and the parmesan cheese seemed to be involved in a scientific discussion about complementary tastes.

“Excuse me spaghetti and parmesan, may I now eat you with the meat balls, or shall I ask the meat balls for permission.?

“No, that’s OK” answered the spaghetti and the parmesan together. “The meatballs are just an extra to fill the plate, but we spaghettis and parmesan are a team. We belong together. Would you eat spaghetti without parmesan?” asked the spaghetti.

“And would you eat parmesan without spaghett?i” said the parmesan.

“No, I suppose I would not. But I am now going to eat you both. I hope you do not mind?”

“No problem, it is our fate and after the digestive process we are at last united and will be reborn.”

I was a little unsure of the spaghetti-parmesan logic, but I must admit spaghetti with a sprinkling of parmesan cheese is a perfect partnership, they belong together like me and Mr. Swiss.

Weekly Writing Challenge: My Dear Watson – think before you eat

Weekly Writing Challenge: The Ray Bradbury Noun List Twist – There are fairies (and slugs) at the bottom of my garden

For today’s challenge, try a twist on a technique Ray Bradbury used to beat writer’s block.

Your mission is to write a new piece that includes at least five nouns: Garden, grass, slugs, cat, salt

New Back Garden

Today was the day. I am having my back garden revamped. Everything is planned for an early morning start, Mr. Swiss confirming that he would be up and ready to go at the crack of dawn. I was glad. If I told you that my prize winning collection of photos have many showing the golden sun sinking slowly in the West, but none showing the rising sun in the East, you will understand what I mean. No sunrises in the collection but plenty of sunsets.

We had decided to have the grass removed from the garden as it was no longer grass but a superb botanic mixture of all plants generally qualified as weeds, although I always found daisies and clover to have a mystical meaning. The reason why fairies would definitely be at the bottom of my garden, but unfortunately due to the damp summer the slugs ate the fairies. Every evening when I entered the garden to take breathes of the scent of the flowers; I heard a fairy scream somewhere. She was being attacked again by the brute of a slug. She had no defence and his slimy body held the fairy in a tight embrace. I decided to take action.

Armed with a kilo box of salt, iodine and fluor free, I began my search for a long brown, or perhaps black, shiny body. I carefully approached the fairy killer on tip toe, not wanting to alert the slug into a quick getaway. I am no longer the youngest and was not sure that I would be fast enough to surround this killer. It had double strength being both male and female. Probably this was the reason for slugs to be so unsatisfied with their life. They did not feel that Spring was in the air, they had no reason. Their sexual needs were combined in one body. They could not even get a divorce if they were unhappy with their partner, their partner being themselves. How boring the life of a slug must be.

Suddenly another high pitched scream filled the air at the bottom of the garden. I now knew no mercy and I lifted the leaf from where it came. There it was. A long slimy slug that was about to entwine a poor defenceless fairy and cover it in slime. This could not be, fairies also have a right to live. I shook some salt in my hand and sprinkled it on the slug. The slug twitched and was then still. A pattern of white spots formed on its skin where it had been hit by the salt grains. The fairy escaped to be met by my cat Tabby who decided they tasted even better than butterflies. Yes, so is the life of a fairy, out of the slug into the cat as the old saying goes. Actually it would be out of the frying pan into the fire, but I adapted the sense of the words.

I have now used all my words, so now to tell the rest of this story full of suspense, murder and shock.

The fairies now hid from the stealthy steps of my pet cat and the slugs were slowly disintegrating in a sea of slime caused by a salt attack when the gardener arrived. As a new lawn was planned, he scooped away the old grass surface and the pools of dying slug slime disappeared as well. I again heard a few fairies scream, I think he scooped some of them up as well, but as he did not believe in fairies, he never noticed it.

To make the job worthwhile and to ensure that I paid enough, the gardener also fitted a nice stone border around the vanquished lawn and made some stone paths. I organised the stone paths for the fairies to make it easier for them to escape from the slugs and my cat, but I did not tell the gardener. He may not have believed me.

To put the icing on the garden cake, the hedge was also trimmed. Then the head chief gardener, capo di tutti gardeners arrived to tell me the bad news. It seemed due to unexpected amounts of rain our new lawn could not be delivered tomorrow. It was too wet to be transported. I must explain. We were not having seeds of grass planted for a new lawn. That would have taken two months and the fairies did not have so much time. The complete tribe would have died for lack of grass. We organised a lawn that was already grown and would be delivered in meters. Unfortunately this prefabricated lawn was now delayed and we would have to wait one to two days. I asked the fairies and they said it would be OK. I did not ask the slugs, as most of them were now liquid slime and the remainders were all standing at the edge of a barren garden where there was nothing specific to eat for slugs in any case. I had placed a line of salt around the fairy settlement to protect them from a slug invasion.

Now we have a nice border with bushes and flowers, edged with tiles and an empty barren space where the lawn will be planted. One of the disappointments in life: the gardener told me to spread anti slug pellets around the edge to keep them out. I checked the packet of pellets and it said fairy and cat friendly, meaning that the two species would have to live with the problem until the new lawn arrived.

Now I am sure Ray Bradbury never had the success I had with the fairies and I do not remember reading a book where he told us how he wiped out the slug population of a planet with one kilo of salt. He always did it so complicated with firemen and books and thermometers. I am sure a packet of salt would have done the trick. He forgot to put salt on his list.

Weekly Writing Challenge: The Ray Bradbury Noun Twist List – There are Fairies (and Slugs) at the bottom of my Garden

Mystery Ending

This weekly writing challenge focuses on the “weekly” part — start your post today, and build on it for the next four before publishing. Who knows where you’ll end up?

Crow on a Lamp Post in Feldbrunnen

1. Start your Post

A cool breeze blew through the grass, the blades waving in rhythm to the air currents. The air was filled with a meadow scent, a mixture of wild flowers and earth. The crow landed on the grass and Merle smiled. Her crow had returned . Each summer the crow returned and each summer she would await the arrival. Was it the same crow, or perhaps another crow hatched from the egg of last year’s crow? She felt a relationship to this large black bird. It was comforting to know the bird was near, almost a protection. “Craw” gave the bird from its beak, a soft murmer. Merle smiled and reached out a hand. The crow grew nearer and rub its head on her palm. She lay back with her arms folded beneath her head and the crow pecked amongst the grass blades, probably searching for a worm. in moments like this, Merle felt that she was one with the crow. She shared its thoughts, its feelings and when it rose to a flight she was with the crow looking down on the fields where a river might run through them. The crow swooped and picked a haselnut from a bush. It landed on the ground and found a stone where it would cast the nut, not once but many times, until it burst and the fruit appeared. “Well done crow” said Merle and the crow ate the nut. Yes, they were one. Merle was not quite sure why. Her mother told her, it was not important, one day she would know the truth about her family and the crows.

Merle was flying over the hills again with the crow. She could hear the regular beating of his wings and felt light, weightless, she was a feather in the wind. And then she awoke. She was resting again on the grass, the crow pecking around her, but she felt different.

2. add a quote from a conversation you had with someone today

“Did I really fly with the crow or did I dream.”

Another crow flew to her side and pecked her arm gently.

“You were flying my daughter. “When sleeping women wake, mountains move”, and you moved a mountain.”

“Mother, you are now a crow.”

“Yes my child, I am your mother and with your father I will guard you until our time comes.Daughter you are awake, you are with us, your past is now your present.”

3. add something related to what your childhood self wanted to be when you grew up, or a dream you have for your future.

Merle ruffled her feathers. She had feathers, she had wings, she had bright beady eyes and she hovered above the ground. She had awoken from her dreamtime, she was no longer woman, but crow and she could fly.

Wait a minute, I am a crow and live in a crow family. No, no way. I am human and remember going to school and learning everything for my future life. They taught us that birds were birds and humans were humans, but not how to fly and peck at insects for food.

“Hey mum, what is this all about and how come I can do it all.? and who is that strange crow that always hovers around me when I take a sleep in the grass.”

“Yes, well perhaps that is the problem. He is your father Merle.”

“But I though my dad died.”

“He sort of did, but afterwards remained as a crow. He was a crow man.”

“The others?”

“Merle do not ask too many questions. I became a chandeling  crow as well and you were a fledgling. Now you have also become a crow and we crows stick together.”

4. add a reference to something currently in your refrigerator.

“I need something to eat to digest all this fastasy stuff. I think there is some peanut butter in the fridge.”

“Caw… bring me some, I love peanut butter.”

“Who cawed that?” asked Merle

“You father, I am the chief crow. Your mother only bought peanut butter for me. Bring the whole jar, we can share it with the other crows in the tribe.”

“Hold on, just a minute dad. We are now all crows and I have to get the peanut butter for everyone. What is this, a reheasal for the latest Walt Disney film. And how comes you have never shown your feathers up to now. I want to be a human.”

“I didn’t want to shock you. I thought if you realised your dad was an old crow, you might be unhappy.”

“No dad, I might not be unhappy, I am flaming annoyed. You and mum are really crows and now I am a crow. Get your own peanut butter in the supermarket. I cannot open the fridge door with wings. Fly in the supermarket and peck a jar from the shelf. How did this crow thing start?”

“My daughter” continued the crow father “it was in the olden days when the crow men walked the earth together with the humans. We lived together and enjoyed our life, but something went wrong and the humans refused to change their appearance and wanted to stay as humans. However, there were always exceptions, changelings, and so is your mother and you have inherited this special gift from her.”

“Great dad, so can I change back to a human, I have to go to school this afternoon, We have a maths test.”

“Sorry Merle, no changing back” said her mother. “You can only change once and no return.”

5. add something inspired by a song you heard today. If you didn’t hear any music, use something you read (and turn on the radio!).

Merle flew off in a hustle. She was annoyed, what a life. So she flew and flew until she found herself in another country. It was France and she was flying over the Tour de France, a well known bycycle race. They were nearing the final line and there was a racer out on his own on his bike. He was already waving his hands in the air to celebrate his victory . However, Merle had an irresistable urge to do something that all birds do in flight, but the man at the front was determine to win, no matter what. He won the race even though his sunglasses were splattered with white bird droppings. It was a miracle that he found the final line.

Merle flew off and decided that crow life was not so bad after all. She was free, could do what she wanted to, and there were enough worms and slugs to eat. She could even leave her mark on important events. She had become famous as the crow that nearly caused the winner of the Tour de France to lose the race.

Weekly Writing Challenge: Mystery Ending – Crows