Tag: Transform

TRANSFORM: Almost as Good as New By Nan Ressue

Word: Transform
Word Count
ALMOST GOOD AS NEW
Nan Ressue
It was every parent’s nightmare. The baby wasn’t perfect. The sore on her nostril was angry red and cancerous, needing to be removed with the new radium treatments which would burn it off. This innovative treatment was in its experimental stage in 1932 and left her with a flattened lobe and a slightly elevated lip .Ridicule wasn’t so bad when she was young but during the cruel years of adolescence, she endured severe acne, legs longer than her girlfriends, as well as a disfigured face. The day she stood in front of the hall mirror and wept was the time my parents decided that the time had come for her to have the plastic surgery needed to correct her facial scar.. She was convinced that the operation would transform her face into one of which she could be proud.
The treatment plan was amazing. A flap one inch wide , the length of her forehead and in the shape of an inverted U with the flap still attached between her eyebrows was created. The length of skin was brought from her eyebrows down to the scar site and grafted in place. This meant that the skin flap lay diagonally across the center of her face and was bandaged. When the transferred tissue graft was successfully alive and growing, it was clipped and a nostril lobe formed. These were the pioneering days of plastic surgery and results were primitive by today’s standards.
The memories of the instruments, the needles, the antiseptic, the bandages ,the sounds and the odors, as well as the unasked questions and averted eyes were life long memories recalled with crystal clarity.
At its best, it was a glowing example of caring parents giving their child the most professional remedy available to correct a problem which was not their fault.

TRANSFORM: Transform the Boys By Ray Shearer

Word: TRANSFORM
Word Count 500+

Transform the Boys
By Ray Shearer
Twelve years old is magical. New priorities come to light, lines are recognized, some are crossed. July fourth was approaching. The rules were simple: You must be between the ages of ten and twelve; you must build it yourself, You must wear a helmet and breaks are required, Adult supervision a must when working with power tools. Materials were needed, along with designs. The search was now becoming fierce.
The dump was always good for wheels and lumber. Some boys used wagon or carriage wheels. Jim didn’t to scavenge. His dad owned a machine shop. All his parts were made and ready for assembly. Jim might even get a chance to help. Tom’s neighbor, Mr. Tilden, donated an old clunker Schwinn and a smaller Huffy.
Soapbox building was as exciting as the race itself. The boys went to work, keeping tabs on each other, always lending a hand or making suggestions.
“How can I put these on a cart?” asked a puzzled Tom, not sure how to rig the bicycle wheels.
“Bike wheels?” Jim questioned his friend. “Couplings,” came his reply. “Match them with threaded rod then u-bolt them.”
The boys got busy. An old garbage can for the front; Jim’s idea, “Taper the front, for aerodynamics.” Assembly of Jim’s racer was underway. A metal frame and a body with fenders. It looked fast.
“But dad,” called Jim. All the other racers anr wood and the guys get to build their own. Isn’t this like cheating?”
“ADULT SUPERVISION,” his dad yelled, over the sound of an air wrench.
July fourth at last!
The race marshals were the three most prominent men in town: The mayor, the police chief, and that guy who owns the Stop’ n’ shop. Racers were inspected for safety. Drivers moved carts to the course. A half mile long, the first leg down a steep hill for momentum, then a short flat, into “DEATH’S DOOR” curve, a quick drop into a short incline, then a long drop speeding to the finish.
The mayor called,”On your mark!” No pushing here. “Get set!” Release the brake. “GO!” Gravity do your stuff! Some never left the start. A few crashed after a short sprint, and a few more along the turn. Jim took an early lead. Tom caught him in the turn. Jim pulled ahead in the drop. His car was heavier. Tom got out front at the incline, for the same reason. Now tied, both looked at each other, smiling, oblivious to surroundings, the finish line approaching quickly. On the outside a white flash. The racer came from nowhere.
“See that?” shouted Jim.
“Who was that?” Tom questioned. The winner removed the helmet.
“A GIRL!” Tom exclaimed..
Jim’s dad protested “Where does it say a girl can race?”
Tom, happy with the outcome, asked “where does it say they can’t?”
Jim, happiest of all, beamed. Nora, the race winner, planted one on him for helping with the build.
Twelve years old is magical. New priorities come to light, lines are recognized and some are crossed.

TRANSFORM: Unforeseen Transformation Warning By Claire Robertson

Word: TRANSFORM
Word Count 71

Unforeseen Transformation Warning
By, Claire Robertson

The Lady of the Labyrinth watched from close by and far away. “Soon,” she murmured. “Soon they will be strong enough. Strong enough to survive the transformation. They don’t suspect anything now, and they never will. They won’t see it coming until the end. Until I tell those insolent children what the ring really is. Then I will make things right again.” She barked a laugh and turned away. “Yes, soon…”

TRANSFORM: The Tools to Transform the World By B.A. Sarvey

Word: TRANSFORM
Word Count: 500

The Tools to Transform the World
By B.A. Sarvey
“Use the machine,” he offered. “It’s quicker.”
“Thank you, no.” She had all the tools she needed. “You can go now.” A slight motion of her hand suggested the door. She barely glanced his way as he departed.
Alone at last, she let her fingers linger over the implements, aware that this small act could change a life, the choice of one tool over another. The tool could determine the outcome of the entire enterprise. So vital, the little details. The mood influenced so easily.
She hesitated, the new pen, purchased that day at Hummel’s, a Pilot gel pen of blackest black, in her hand. The balance was good, the slim barrel a comfortable fit in her small hand. So bold, though, that fresh ebony line. Not today. Not in the mood for noir. Something softer. Her eyes focused on the green pen. Contemplative, this color, for creating an oasis of words in the blazing heat of her thoughts. Scheherazade had created an oasis in the desert, spun tale after tale without any pen or paper—transformed death into life with her words. Or so it is rumored.
“Green. Yes. A good color for planting seeds in the fertile soil of my imagination,” she decided.
Previously, she wandered a labyrinth of words and meanings, paired ‘plain’ with ‘bane’, brought a tree to life, gone on a joyride with Rosie. Today was for her. It occurred to her she had waited a very long time for this moment. A moment to savor the sibilance of cider, seduction, security, feel the words on her tongue, the shapes in her mouth like a peppermint drop, the scent prickling her nostrils, radiating to her inner ear—the cool heat infusing her brain and her chest, the meaning of each word mingling with the emotional response triggered by its sound, the sight of it on the page. Enraptured, she closed her eyes, let her thoughts drift, unguided, until they settled at the oasis. A quiet tale, then. The mood decided by the green pen and her solitude. She set pen to paper, an old notebook she often used for scribbling ideas, partial poems, first lines, words. Words she loved, words she didn’t know the meanings of, words that rhymed, homonyms, synonyms. Words.
“Why do you do this?” someone once asked.
“Because this is what I do,” she had replied.
“But why? Why would you want to?”
“Because I am a writer,” she said.
With a twist of her wrist, she could change the world. Well, not the entire world. Maybe just a corner of it. Maybe just one person. And wouldn’t that be worth the effort of getting it right? To transform a life—what more could any doctor or teacher ask for? To transform a life—what more could a writer ask for?
Out of the green pen, she squeezed, “Once upon a time, a little widow woman sat in her ivory tower, day after day, night after night, and put words on paper….”

TRANSFORM: Transform the Boys By Ray Shearer

Word: TRANSFORM

Word Count 500+

 

Transform the Boys

By Ray Shearer

Twelve years old is magical. New priorities come to light, lines are recognized, some are crossed.  July fourth was approaching. The rules were simple: You must be between the ages of ten and twelve; you must build it yourself, You must wear a helmet and breaks are required, Adult supervision a must when working with power tools.  Materials were needed, along with designs. The search was now becoming fierce.

The dump was always good for wheels and lumber. Some boys used wagon or carriage wheels. Jim didn’t to scavenge. His dad owned a machine shop. All his parts were made and ready for assembly. Jim might even get a chance to help.  Tom’s neighbor, Mr. Tilden, donated an old clunker Schwinn and a smaller Huffy.

Soapbox building was as exciting as the race itself. The boys went to work, keeping tabs on each other, always lending a hand or making suggestions.

“How can I put these on a cart?” asked a puzzled Tom, not sure how to rig the bicycle wheels.

“Bike wheels?” Jim questioned his friend. “Couplings,” came his reply. “Match them with threaded rod then u-bolt them.”

The boys got busy. An old garbage can for the front; Jim’s idea, “Taper the front, for aerodynamics.” Assembly of Jim’s racer was underway. A metal frame and a body with fenders. It looked fast.

“But dad,” called Jim. All the other racers anr wood and the guys get to build their own. Isn’t this like cheating?”

“ADULT SUPERVISION,” his dad yelled, over the sound of an air wrench.

July fourth at last!

The race marshals were the three most prominent men in town: The mayor, the police chief, and that guy who owns the Stop’ n’ shop.  Racers were inspected for safety. Drivers moved carts to the course. A half mile long, the first leg down a steep hill for momentum, then a short flat, into “DEATH’S DOOR” curve, a quick drop into a short incline, then a long drop speeding to the finish.

The mayor called,”On your mark!” No pushing here. “Get set!” Release the brake. “GO!” Gravity do your stuff!  Some never left the start. A few crashed after a short sprint, and a few more along the turn.  Jim took an early lead. Tom caught him in the turn. Jim pulled ahead in the drop. His car was heavier. Tom got out front at the incline, for the same reason.  Now tied, both looked at each other, smiling, oblivious to surroundings, the finish line approaching quickly.  On the outside a white flash. The racer came from nowhere.

“See that?” shouted Jim.

“Who was that?” Tom questioned. The winner removed the helmet.

“A GIRL!” Tom exclaimed..

Jim’s dad protested “Where does it say a girl can race?”

Tom, happy with the outcome, asked “where does it say they can’t?”

Jim, happiest of all, beamed. Nora, the race winner, planted one on him for helping with the build.

Twelve years old is magical. New priorities come to light, lines are recognized and some are crossed.

 

TRANSFORM: Transform Upon Awakening By Maggie Robertson

Week 14:  Transform

Word Count: 497

 

Transform Upon Awakening

By Maggie Robertson

 

Vivian came downstairs that morning to find someone had scratched “moo” into the fat left in the skillet from cooking hamburgers the night before.

“Darn gnomes” she muttered.

The gnomes were responsible for all sorts of things.  They hid her tools, her scissors, her favorite coffee mug, only to slip them back into places she had already looked.  They left her water running, turned on lights, put dirty dishes in the hallway, and ate her chocolate.  This time, however, they had perhaps gone too far.

Vivian fumbled for her first cup of coffee, which seemed particularly troublesome this morning.  As the liquid stimulant hit her veins, she stopped cold.  Something had changed.  It must have taken many tiny hands all the overnight hours to transform her abode.  At first, she thought she woke up in someone else’s house, but no, her internal GPS told her she was in the same location, even though it looked completely different than it had just 8 hours ago.

No wonder she had such a hard time getting her coffee.  The coffee maker was upside-down, although somehow the carafe still held the magic elixir.  The kitchen cabinets were mounted sideways, so she had had to lift the door up to get her coffee mug.

Baffled and blinking, she walked into her dining room to discover it was now her bedroom.  At least, she was pretty sure it was her bedroom.  What’s more, her bedroom was now the bathroom.  The bathroom was now the living room, except that only the sofa fit.  The rest of the furniture she found in random places. An easy chair in the kitchen (how had she missed that?), the rocking chair on the roof, the television in the closet (well, that may be an improvement.)

Vivian moved room to room, taking mental inventory of where everything was. Little scuttling noises followed, accompanied by shadows of movement just out of sight.  She turned, but saw nothing, and her curiosity gave way to rising panic.  What had happened?  Was this just a bad dream, come on from eating too many hamburgers the night before?  Was someone playing an elaborate trick on her?  Had she gone insane overnight?

Vivian felt a loud WUMP! behind her. Instinct took over and she bolted into the bathroom and locked the door.  Except, right.  The bathroom was now kind of the living room, or at least the sofa room.  Vivian curled up on the sofa to think. It had only been 20 minutes since she awoke, and she could not make sense of her world.

The scuttling noises in the hallway paused every time they passed the door.  Her terror increased with each moment.  A cloud passed over the sun, and the change of light reminded her of the window.  In an instant she was outside, her home fading into the distance.

Vivian never returned, nor did she ever tell anybody what happened that morning.  As for the gnomes, they never understood why she left.

TRANSFORM: Transform by Anne Nassar

Word: TRANSFORM

Word Count 450

Transform

By Anne Nassar

 

Tessa never talked about her past. Whenever he asked her questions, she would shake her head and look at him reproachfully.

One day, after they’d been married for two years, she told him that she needed to go “home”.  He asked her what she meant and she said that her mother had had a stroke, and so she would need to go to Delanson.  He offered to drive her. She said no. He asked her why she was trying to prevent him from being a good husband. And she relented.

Delanson was mostly trailers and farms. There was a gas station and a junk shop – and that was it for stores.

She instructed him to turn down a gravel road. They drove past a couple of shacks, and the gravel gave way to dirt. Finally they arrived at a clearing. To the left was an ancient house that had partially caved in. To the right was a newer house. Behind the new house was a field full of rusting cars – including some Model A’s, he noticed.

A couple of German Shepherds ran at the car, barking. He parked, but they didn’t dare get out.

After a few minutes had passed, a man came out of the newer house and strode towards them. He had slanted, bright blue eyes and reddish hair, like Tessa. But he looked to be much older than she was. He also looked to be hostile.

He grabbed one of the dogs by the collar and dragged it to a fenced-in yard and locked it up. The other dog slunk away and hid under a car.

Tessa unrolled her window and called out, Hey.

He glared at her for a few long moments without saying anything. But then he nodded towards the house and said, door’s open.  He turned to walk away.

Wait, Timmy, Tessa said.

He turned back around and raised his eyebrows at her, like she’d crossed a line.

Does Mom…can she talk?

Sorta. Yeah.

Is she brain damaged?

Whadya think a stroke is, Tessa?

How bad is it?

I hope she dun’t live. Now, I got shit to do.

He took off. He disappeared into the ruin of the old house.

You can be sure he’s stealing all Mom’s antiques out of there. Can’t even wait ‘til she’s dead.

He saw that there were tears running down her cheeks. He reached out a hand to stroke her hair, and she batted his hand away.

Are you happy now? she said bitterly, now you know where I come from. I come from dirt and cow shit and thieves.

He understood for the first time that she’d had to transform herself into the woman he knew.

 

TRANSFORM: TRANSFORM(ation) by Sally Madison

Word: TRANSFORM(ation)

Sally Madison

Words: 492

 

My dear sister Emily,

We were relieved to hear that you had made it safely to Scott’s Bluff.  Brother George has sent word, that the chief of the Apaches, Geronimo, has signed a peace agreement. Unfortunately, there are still renegades who need to be rounded up.  George is confident that the territory will be safe, within a few months.

 

Please harden your heart for what you’re about to hear. I can not but hope, that you were in a safe area, when the worse blizzard in our history came over us, last week. It was horrible. In the morning the sun was up, and it was a brilliant day. The laundry was hung out, for the gentle breeze was warm and comforting. Mrs. Anderson had a luncheon party. Most of us had worn a light shawl. As we were enjoying ourselves, we heard what sounded like a train coming down the street. We were terrified when we realized that it was a horrid wind.  The transformation was unearthly. I struggled to get home in the blinding blizzard.  The shapes of the buildings that were normally my guide, were lost in a sea of white.  As the blistering snow pellets stung my face and eyes, the wind tore at my light clothing.  I was terrified when I realized I had lost my way. The force of the wind knocked me to my knees.  Crawling through the drifts, I bumped into a piece of wood plank.  Following the wood I could tell that it was part of the walk in front of the church.  How my heart rejoiced, as I had made my way to the general store, next door.  I pounded in a rhythmic pattern, so that Martha and Ebenezer, if they could hear me, would know it was not the wind knocking the shutters. I stayed with them for two days, while the storm continued.  How blessed I felt that I had friends, but how I fretted for the others that may have been less fortunate.  The temperatures plummeted almost 60 degrees in a few hours. Such a storm does not descend without enormous devastation.

 

The horrendous blizzard shocked our simple life with a torrent of disasters. Sister Suzanne has written, from the Kansas territory, that her grief is inconsolable. On the morning of the storm, the children were happy as they set off to school, with every expectation they would return to do chores in the evening.   Those dear, brave hearts set out in the storm, holding hands to make their way home.  They tried to navigate through the blinding storm, but were lost. It is with heavy heart, that I must tell you our two nephews, Mattie and Jacob, have perished.  Their frozen bodies were found a mile from the house, where they had lost their way.

 

Please write immediately that you and your family are safe. With all my heart I wish you safety.   Your loving sister, Margret

TRANSFORM: The Circle of Transformation by G. Ackman

Word: TRANSFORM

Word Count 405

 

The Circle of Transformation

by G. Ackman

They sauntered peacefully along the water’s edge, enjoying the quiet beauty surrounding them.  The sun had already begun its nightly dressing for bed, donning a robe of brilliant orange and yellow, streaked with red.  She wasn’t really searching the sand when she felt something call out to her soul and she looked down.  There it was, more than half buried in sand, just the faintest edge of frosted green showing.  She picked it up and held it in her hand, closing her fist around its smooth, uneven surface.  Its heartbeat synchronized with hers.

Standing there facing the sunset, her hand closed tightly around it, she was no longer herself, a separate being standing on a beautiful beach in Jamaica.  She was a part of the object she held, which was a part of all of time and nature.

She could feel it thrumming its life story to her, transmitting vital secrets up through her arm and straight to her heart.  She knew, in that instant, that it began on this very beach well over a century ago, a grain of sand scooped out along with millions of other grains, then through heat transformed into a utilitarian green bottle, used and discarded back here on the beach.  From there, time had wrought its magic, the wind blowing it up on the beach and the tide taking it back out.  Day in and day out the dance of those two shattered the bottle into thousands of pieces, each piece taking up that dance of wind and wave again and again.  The larger pieces were worn down into smaller ones.  Smaller ones had returned to their natal state and were now microscopic pieces of green glass nestled among the other sand grains, indistinguishable from their neighbors.  This one, though, still retained sufficient size to harbor its history, waiting for the right person to call to.

She held the sea glass close and knew that it would always be a treasured part of her.  Just as the earth transformed sand into glass, glass into function, and function back into sand, she was also transformed by all her experiences and by the natural world that she treasured.  Her sea glass necklace would serve to center her in the scheme of things, reminding her that she was merely a part of a larger cycle, a speck with a role to play, sometimes being useful, sometimes being shaped, and sometimes being treasured.

TRANSFORM: Harmony By Sharon Collins

Word: TRANSFORM/BEQUEATH

Word Count 197

 

Harmony

By Sharon Collins

 

Cuddled in the soft elbow of a shallow stream, the graveyard of St. Just-in-Roseland lies summer lush and full of lark-song. Within its chapel’s ancient walls, a hive of lovelies, the ladies of the Altar Society, dress her for a weekend wedding. Evergreen garlands reminiscent of medieval Yuletides and pert nosegays which Cobweb or Peasblossom might have gathered for Titania, grace arch and niche. A tourist, She feels an interloper, welcome but a nuisance nonetheless, so she makes her curtsey and retreats to the stones

. Here the hum of different hive invites her to softly sing familiar words, “Amazing grace how sweet the sound…” but the melody sounds strange, unfamiliar, slightly medieval. The words are right, but the rhythm is wrong. She shakes her copper curls and starts again, and yet again, a trinity of attempts, her offering to the souls veiled in weathered stone surrounding her.  Compelled, she finds herself singing someone else’s song, “And did those feet, in ancient times…” words and music melding. Woven into the dappled sunlight, Her voice and Their song transform the stones, and They step forth. Four phantoms, add their ancient harmony to Hers in a melody bequeathed by angels.