Story Starter October 2016 – Pamela Meacher

Our October Story Starter features a beautiful work by Pamela Meacher.

To enter, write a short piece (100 words maximum) inspired by the art featured below. It can be any form of writing (poetry, prose, dialogue, haiku, etc.) as long as it is original. Submit your entry in the comment section below. Check the full entry rules and format here.

Introducing our October inspiration piece:


About the artist: 

pamela-meacher-picPamela is an irrepressible dedicated conservationist and passionate floral artist. She was exposed to the mysteries of nature early in childhood in the U.K. and Quebec. Faerie’s magically pop themselves into her botanical watercolour works. This style of watercolour painting harkens back to the Victorian Arts and Crafts movement thus evoking a sense of innocence, peace and calm.

She served as Chair, for five years for a multicultural group in Toronto. She was one of the first members and Chair of the Richmond Hill Group of Arts and created their original logo. Pamela got hooked on native flora when she became one of the founding directors of the Canadian Wildflower Society served on their board for ten years. She also created their original logo. Pamela has been a part of the Lake Scugog StudioTour for the past fifteen years. Pamela is past V.P of the Scugog Council for the Arts for the last six years and curator of the gallery space. She also served as V.P. of the Scugog Public Arts Acquisition board. Since its inception Pamela has been deeply involved with the Mayor of Port Perry’s Gala Fundraising Dinner for the Arts. Including her art work she has raised a total of $33,000.00 for the Steven Lewis Foundation.

She is a member in good standing with the American Society of Botanical Artists and the Canadian Botanical Artists. She recently moved to Barrie and is presently a member of the Barrie Art Club, The Innisfil Arts, Culture and Heritage Council, and the South Simcoe Arts Council.

Pamela has written illustrated and self-published three books. The first two of the trilogy have both won awards for illustration in the U.S.A. ‘Emily’s Enchanted Guardians’ won a ‘Bronze award’ and ‘Emily’s Perils and Poisons’ garnered a ‘Gold award’. Emily’s Spirits of the Snow was launched in November 2015. These were awarded by Moonbeam Children’s Book Awards U.S.A.

Want to check out past contest entries? Click here.

Feeling inspired? Paste in your 100-word entry below!

  • Delicate fingers
    on gossamer wings know the
    ripeness of the fall

  • Apple before seed?

    She had come unhinged
    Or so it was said
    Her motions erratic
    Her thoughts full of dread.
    Under it all, not a soul could conceive
    A dream weaver had stolen her sense of belief.
    So it was said that the woman did wander,
    Given all but one thought upon which she would ponder.

  • Oh, my brother, sister, friend, and families. Come with me to this place, I known. Share with me the beauty from within and without. Take a glance at the world above, and below. See its beauty shining down on you, and me, and you. No wonder, a glance is all it takes, breath-taking, inspired beauty. The wonder of the mind, heart and soul. A surface unknown comes to life, a picture to behold. Beauty only the Artist hands and mind can produce. It comes from within. Behold, a piece of Art never seen before, only the eyes can behold afar.

  • She figured it was her son but he’d stayed behind the chair. He took her down the hygienic corridor, wheeled her down the ramp. The pace was as lollygag as her lower jaw, saliva at the left corner.

    He wouldn’t believe it, but she could feel the clean air vivifying her skin as it slipped through the tattered crochet loops. He rolled her over crap-apples, parked her there. A colder wind pushed through now, and the berries nodded with the rotting leaves. She thought of her beloved uncle. They’d called him outmoded names. His unbounded fear of sprites and gremlins.

    “Let’s pick a cherry,” said Abigail Faerie to sister Naomi who flitted about.
    “I don’t think they’re ripe, and for sure not my type,” chirped Naomi, beginning to pout.
    “They must be delicious ’cause Winnifred wishes to gobble them all the day through.”
    “Oh, now I know why Winn keeps fluttering by in a hurry towards the new loo.”

  • Michelle Dinnick October 3, 2016 at 2:17 pm

    Happy Autumn!

    It starts to linger, that cooler breeze,
    And we notice brightly coloured leaves;

    Roasted veggies and mashed potatoes,
    Turkey and roast beef, with gravy volcanoes!

    Craving fresh whipped cream, and pumpkin spice,
    Let’s warm up, with a nice big slice!

    Chips and chocolate form large piles,
    On living room carpets for miles and miles!

    Crunchy bright leaves fall all around,
    Suddenly, we can’t see the ground…

    “Time for snow!” Someone will say,
    And the sky shall turn that familiar grey…

    Hush your mouth! You’ll think, and smile;
    Hoping it won’t show up for a while!

  • Without her Harry, tending the garden this year had not been the same.

    After kids left home, the garden had become a renewed focus in their lives.

    Now, with the vegetables stored in the root cellar, Marjorie sighed as she closed the garden gate and slid the iron strip into place.

    The garden had lost its passion.

    Marjorie plopped onto a deck chair where the garden’s continued existence occupied her thought.

    Perhaps she could do some knitting or sewing or crocheting…

    Marjorie buried her face in her hands.

    “Oh Harry, why did you have to leave?”

  • Herb was hungry. Stuck on the wrong side of the gate – the side with no latch — Herb licked his lips and looked longingly at the foliage of a tree beyond his reach. Apples swung merrily on their stems, taunting him.

    “If only … ” Herb wished, “if only I could have one bite of a luscious apple, I would die happy.”

    Herb shivered as a pink gossamer ribbon fluttered by a branch. Mouth agape, Herb watched a tiny winged figure pluck a rosy apple from a stem and drop it into his mouth.

    The little fairy’s wings shimmered in the soft morning sunlight. She flitted around a delicate fruit-laden tree that leaned gracefully over a gate on Ginger Grove. She was so tiny, I almost missed her. My imagination was set on fire when she played her lyre. “What magic lies beyond the weather-beaten gate?” I pondered. With desperate fingers, I often tried the rusty lock in those early days of my youth. Now, almost 70 years later, I’ve returned to Ginger Grove. Beyond that rustic gate I sing and dance with the fairies. The sign on the gate reads: ‘Ginger Grove Cemetery’.


    She was the apple of my eye;
    And far too young to die
    With aching heart, I buried her ashes
    Even during her illness, her passion for nature
    Remained with her
    I planted a seed in her memory
    On the spot where she was buried
    The tree grew virtually overnight
    In the radiance of her beautiful light
    One misty morning, I heard a gentle whisper
    And my eyes beheld a whimsical creature
    “Please don’t be sad anymore, Mommy
    I’m whole again and I’m free.”
    I finally broke down and cried and cried
    For the first time since she died

  • Marie Beswick Arthur October 10, 2016 at 2:06 pm

    Take what you want,” said Shrub. “My fruit is here for those who enjoy it.”

    “Only what I need,” said Brownwing. “There will be others lacking winter provisions.

    “Your thoughtfulness reminds me of your grandmother, Sandwing,” said Shrub.

    The delicate faerie bowed her head. “I never knew her.”

    “Would you like to hear what I remember of her?” asked Shrub.

    “Oh, please,” said Brownwing. “And what can I do in return for gifting me food and memory?”

    “Promise to retell the stories,” replied Shrub.

  • The Gift

    Where is my heart? It left today
    as my Father followed Alice through the looking glass.
    A divine invitation he could not refuse,
    Memories swirl, confusion reigns.

    His warm honest reflect back the kindness of his soul.
    At the foot of my bed in the pale morning light
    He waits like a lone blue heron, and quietly speaks:

    “It was my time.. I am at peace,
    All is well I will wait beyond the gate.”

    Generous beyond time
    Free to wander the land he loved so deeply.
    He came to give me comfort.
    I hear the wind whisper,
    “This man stands alone among men.”

    This man my Father.

  • Beyond the Gate – (alzheimer)

    A tiny lady smelling of Jasmine and spices,
    Her pale grey twinkled with glee, “who are you?”
    She whispers “I cannot stay long” as she unlatches the gate.
    Turns, then quietly mumbles ” I know I know you, I know I should remember.”
    Slipping through the gate she turns and smiles.
    Her mind drifts further away with flickering strobes like a silent movie of her life.
    Love long since withered, images of what was long ago.
    Her soul leaves the pale grey eyes as it is now lost beyond the locked gate.

  • I enjoyed Sue Brown’s unique twist. The others although well written dwell on romantic scenes. Sue’s is funny. Well done

  • Remembering My Beloved

    We had spent many decades together. You died young. I loved every moment when I saw you. When you died I remembered my regrets of not saving you but your last words saved me from emotion pain. The first few decades of my life without you was hard. I am now elderly but every morning in my life I would still wake up and see the fence we made and the tree we planted. They all remember me of you. I gotten old, I am now seeing fairies picking fruit. I think I will be seeing you soon. My Beloved

    The little crab apple tree peeped cheekily from behind the derelict wooden gate. An apple landed on my head one day. I immediately spotted a little fairy looking down at me! Wearing the cutest hat, she flitted around the tree on wispy wings. “I’m Robyne and I’m ever so mischievous!” she declared. Mother told me Robyne wasn’t real. But I spoke with the whimsical fairy, until she just magically disappeared the day I turned five. I forgot about her until my daughter saw a little goblin today. “Ah, our delightful imaginary friends from early childhood,” I thought with a smile.

  • Kathleen Boyle Hatcher October 16, 2016 at 3:19 pm

    This tree has been left to us. The lock to the gate is rusted, the wood weathered and gray. Like the fish who fling themselves upstream each fall, we float on the air, drawn to the ripening nubs of our ancient shelter. This is my first arrival, yet all is familiar. Fluttering on the tail winds of the Old Ones, I land on a branch. Like them, I pluck the first fruit, give thanks to the tree and drop the rosy offering to the ground. Leaves enfold us and the boughs sway with the weight of my tribe, home again.

  • She hadn’t been back since the fire.

    There was nothing left of the barn or the house. Even the old fence was barren and skeletal: the posts had sagged under the weight of time; the paint was peeling. Nails and fixtures wept tears of funereal rust down the old pitted wood.

    But there on the field’s edge, the old tree had come back to fruition. It had weathered the drought, withstood the war, endured two generations, and now survived the lightning that killed Henry and tore the family asunder.

    It had outlived everything.

    “You and me both,” she whispered.

  • Trinabelle, Tinkerbell’s younger sister was on a mission. She had to find a magic berry from this special tree. If she chose the wrong berry then all the magic of the land would disappear. It would return only after one year of sadness had spread over the land. Was the one she chose the right one?

  • The gate closed on the lake a long time ago, but never did Angela’s heart. Every day she makes the journey to look out, until all the leaves fall, and the snows come, and she must remain inside. Snow is her enemy. In her wheelchair, she can’t manage the journey. A hex on the seasons hasn’t worked. She can only sit with memories spun into ribbons as the leaves turn and fall.

  • There’s no telling when they’ll open the gate again.
    Before Thanksgiving?
    That’s past now.
    We could give up … we’ve looked backwards towards that tree for too long. We’ve got the whole sea before us.
    And what? Sit here with no idea of how those people live?
    We tried. We shot out roots.
    We sent rust spores.
    We could call the wind and waves up.
    And risk losing the whole cliff!
    That tree has the fruit of their knowledge! They celebrate it with pie. Just for once, it’d be nice to have an apple fall our way.

  • Tastes of Spring

    And stood he there with gilded wing
    a broken heart no song to sing,
    until the Southwest wind blew in
    and filled his soul with hope again
    From brown to green upon the tree,
    with berries bright he beckoned me
    to taste the nectar warm and sweet
    He laid the berry at my feet
    Such sweetness made my taste buds sing,
    my body drunk with tastes of Spring

  • The old apple tree dropped its fruit on both sides of the fence in much the same way that a politician often reacts. But the fruit of the tree is nourishing while its limbs provide shelter, unbiased by mans borders and limits of tolerance.

  • “Um, what are you doing?” The apple tree reached out and talked to me in an angry voice.

    I stepped back. Trees weren’t supposed to talk. I hated apple-picking, but this tree was sort of cool. He didn’t seem happy I was picking apples, but I’d never heard a talking tree before. “I need to pick a full bushel for my aunt.”

    “Um, I didn’t think so.” The tree got more upset the more I tried to pick more apples.

    “Just a few more,” I said.

    “No!” He threw apples at me with his branches until I started running away.

  • Look at this. He forgot again to trim that crab apple branch which scratches my face each time I am trying to open the gate. I like to go that way into the open fields to clear my head and relax.
    i keep telling him that we both should work on reorganization of the garden so we can handle the maintenance so we can stay in the house. We are both too cheap to pay somebody to do the garden work. None of us would like to move, as we need this garden for life balance.

  • The abandoned house had been empty for years. Its wood was paint bare and many windows were boarded up. Neighbours complained it was a sight for sore eyes. On his way home from school, Peter saw movement in the old crab apple tree. He stopped in his tracks to take a closer look. Among the ripe fruit and sparce leaves he saw a tiny winged girl. Was it a fairy? He knew there was no such thing. He turned to continue on his way, when she plucked an apple the size of her head and tossed it to him.

  • A mystical chill came across
    This is the last of all
    That you have
    Most special divine colours
    Off to the distance
    You can seek but never find
    It is the tallest
    And closest to the white gates
    Where the fields are vast
    Further than one shall go
    But to get this divine fruit
    One shall go beyond lengths
    Follow the wind
    And it shall take you there
    If you trust the path
    The magic will always last
    Your secret is safe with me
    With all this time that has passed
    Let me keep you company
    As the seasons pass

  • Cherry Haiku

    pink spring blossoms bring
    fruit too sour to taste of life
    but they bring winter

  • Fantasy is stupid, Gerald thought as he passed the fenced-in crab apple tree. His sister, Laura, stuck in a make-believe world, insisted on painting that tree, filing it with winged creatures she called fairies. It was irritating. Her fairies didn’t resemble the pictures in books their mother read when they were little. If she just stuck to traditional designs, he — everyone — would be so much happier. Every time she posted new work on her virtual gallery Aaron and his crowd would make snide remarks. That led to pushing, then punching, then the Principal’s office. Fairies were crap!

  • Pam, who painted pictures
    saw me at the gate.
    “Hold still!” she ordered urgently.
    I did, though I was late.
    The king, finished supper,
    was demanding his dessert
    my arms extended heavily
    ‘till they began to hurt.
    “Be quick,” I called. “Please hurry.
    I must be on my way.”
    “I’m hurrying…almost done…
    I’m painting fast today.”
    The moment she said “Finished!”
    I took off like a shot
    then doubled back behind her
    to see just what she’d got.
    I almost passed for graceful
    I needed some new clothes
    my hat was just the perfect thing
    perched above my nose.

  • They looked suspiciously like persimmons although the little creature insisted they were crab apples to match my personality. Both fruits are miserable versions of nicer fruit. Frankly, if it mattered, I’d rather be compared to a persimmon than a crab. But it doesn’t matter, since the fairy will make me eat the fruit seeds either way and I’ll become whatever she turns me into. This is all the fault of my half brother’s half sister who viciously identified me as the one who destroyed the Primal Honey Pot. The laugh’s on her though. Spells have a way of backfiring.

  • Faery Magic

    Faeries dwell in the trees
    Picking ripe crab apples
    In the autumn breeze.

    When one fairy saw me gawking
    She spoke to me with ease.

    Take this fruit I offer, handle it with care
    It holds magical powers, a child you shall bare.

    Later I returned, an infant in my arms
    Finding no faeries I became quite alarmed.

    The owner of the orchard approached without delay
    Don’t worry about the faeries dear they’ll return another day.

    That man became my husband, a father to my boy
    Thank you faery godmother for bringing me such joy.

    Thanks and good luck to all who entered. A longlist of the finalists will be announced Spring of 2017.

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