Prompt Eleven Responses
Solstice
Summer had arrived as if on an express train that has missed the spring stop. The fulness of the trees evidenced this in May. The heat has left her disgruntled and the cloaked night air barriered her from sleep.
Offspring of others, not engaged in studious deliberations, gathered the sun’s rays and payed them out in whoops and hollers.
Swifts emulated Spitfire pilots and they used the controls to take any course but a straight one when flying from roof to nest down the street. A fat bee, dusted with pollen did a touch and go landing on the windowsill.
She turned away and wheezed her way to the phone. Four o’clock and that young nurse would be ringing. She will ask her to tell Ronnie “Happy Birthday”.
Lesley
Long awaited season
Fresh buds and cherry blossom
A cunning guise, a true temptress
You taunt us with an extra hour
so that we might be impressed
But the days are not yet warm
and the sun is lacking in heat
It's just a glimmer of the future
as your work is still incomplete
Amid hard frosts and bitter winds
come the most treacherous rains
It doesn't feel like Spring time
but like winter all over again
Our clocks tell us you have gone
That it is British Summer Time
But this too must be an illusion
as conditions are far from benign
Give me long lighted evenings
with a soft scented breeze
The smell of burning charcoal
as we picnic under trees
Sipping tangy ice cream sodas
and lazing in the glorious sun
Is definitely my idea of heaven
And a season second to none.
Mela
Spring turns to Summer
The birth of a new Summer sun dapples the lawn with cloud-shadowed patches, as I sit alone in the garden, waiting for warmth.
A clump of upright yellow flag irises stand bedraggled yet not defeated. Above them sways a thorny rose branch, its single red bloom clinging on to life.
Washing sways, pendulum-like on a taut plastic line, stretched between two trees, as a bird chirps its way into the future with naive anticipation.
Through the thick wooden bars of the garden fence, I glimpse tan-hided cows in the distance, their heavy heads bent towards the greening grass, motionless as a painting.
The air is contagious with the incessant hum of numerous insects, welcoming the Summer with the buzz of a thousand spinning tops.
An unprecedented Spring has given birth to an uneasy Summer.
Larraine
The dream passes
A child’s present is full of promises,
Seductive wrappings reveal delight and optimism
Oh! This is just what I wanted.
But too soon
The birds stop singing
blossom falls from wind-tossed branches,
like discarded gift wrap on the ground.
The playful hedgerow buds are now dark sullen leaves.
The heady scents become
the coarser smells of prickly grass and rain-soaked earth
The lengthening days halt in their tracks
Retreat concealed by summers by the sea.
Humid skies scowl down
On expectant fields.
The dream is passing.
Soon the annual harvest of pre-loved toys.
And then the naked winter comes
clothed only in wistful dreams about
a joyous season still to come.
John S.
Emergent
Come
Leave the blackness behind
Depart the chilling gloom,
Slowly unfurl,
Stretch towards summers
Blanketing warmth
You must
Reach towards the heavens
And turn towards the light
Respond to care
Drink in the health-giving love
And blossom into joyful life
Once more.
Gwyneth
Two for Joy
And the diggers came in despite the Lock Down!
Magpies have deserted nests in the sycamore that have been home for donkey’s years. All foliage disappeared including five stalwart Lombardy poplars that edged the farthest lawn.
Early spring next door’s garden was usually alive with earth’s bounty, daffodils bordered a sunken lawn complimenting a delight of bluebells under the double white lilac and laburnum with hazel catkins embellishing the summer.
All decimated in a machine!
Restricted to move no further than my gate, I found plenty of time to reflect on the adjoining property that was being desecrated. And feel for the bungalow that had been envied by many over the years; roof vandalised to build into a four-bedroom house. Windows boarded up, paving dumped in the skip, while mechanical rhinos flattened in twenty-four hours, a garden that had been lovingly nurtured by the former owners for over sixty years.
I’ve perused the plans...Two chalet bungalows to be added to the site! Permission already granted! Apparently, the project is going to be a big improvement.
My fence has already fallen over the drive owing to all the ground levelling. But, Alan, the man responsible for this development assures me that the boundary is going to be put right. A low stone wall with rattan fence attached (may fit in with my property, which is passed its century).
However, in the process I have to savage an innocent old friend, a clematis Montana, who for twenty years, has gladdened our hearts with drifts of pink flora like snow cascading the drive-in summer.
Still swooping are the resourceful magpies. Smart in their
tuxedoes, they held Parliament on a towering elm close by.
I counted in twelve...two metre rule, not applicable.
Que Sera Sera
June
Earthy Air
Blackbirds bulging,
beckoning.
Impossibly wide
cloudless skies.
Trees heavy with
deep, green
weeds, rushing, thickening
for attention.
In the woods
after rain,
earthy air
that puts
sweet bluebells
to rest.
No black hearse.
Lay me here
in this wood.
Deborah
Dog Fight
The trees had gone from bare to fully clothed. Quite the fashion parade. It was like Spaghetti Junction in my garden with the never ceasing traffic from my feathered friends. The takeaway was busy too, as I refilled the bird table with nuts and other specialities on a daily basis.
Enjoying a quiet cup of coffee one morning, the calm was shattered by a cacophony of shrieks. So, ear splitting the noise I got up to investigate the cause of the disturbance, even my lazy husband came to the back door.
I spotted too evil looking black crows, magpies and other species too quick and small to identify. It was like a dog fight over the English Channel. I knew exactly what was happening. In full defence mode, I did my best impression of a windmill in a force 8. Calling on my lazy cat to spring into action. He just watched, ears rotating like radar dish.
To no avail. Both mine and the parent’s defences failed. The battle was lost. I found the shattered remains of the eggs lying in the drive.
Lyn
Summer had arrived as if on an express train that has missed the spring stop. The fulness of the trees evidenced this in May. The heat has left her disgruntled and the cloaked night air barriered her from sleep.
Offspring of others, not engaged in studious deliberations, gathered the sun’s rays and payed them out in whoops and hollers.
Swifts emulated Spitfire pilots and they used the controls to take any course but a straight one when flying from roof to nest down the street. A fat bee, dusted with pollen did a touch and go landing on the windowsill.
She turned away and wheezed her way to the phone. Four o’clock and that young nurse would be ringing. She will ask her to tell Ronnie “Happy Birthday”.
Lesley
Long awaited season
Fresh buds and cherry blossom
A cunning guise, a true temptress
You taunt us with an extra hour
so that we might be impressed
But the days are not yet warm
and the sun is lacking in heat
It's just a glimmer of the future
as your work is still incomplete
Amid hard frosts and bitter winds
come the most treacherous rains
It doesn't feel like Spring time
but like winter all over again
Our clocks tell us you have gone
That it is British Summer Time
But this too must be an illusion
as conditions are far from benign
Give me long lighted evenings
with a soft scented breeze
The smell of burning charcoal
as we picnic under trees
Sipping tangy ice cream sodas
and lazing in the glorious sun
Is definitely my idea of heaven
And a season second to none.
Mela
Spring turns to Summer
The birth of a new Summer sun dapples the lawn with cloud-shadowed patches, as I sit alone in the garden, waiting for warmth.
A clump of upright yellow flag irises stand bedraggled yet not defeated. Above them sways a thorny rose branch, its single red bloom clinging on to life.
Washing sways, pendulum-like on a taut plastic line, stretched between two trees, as a bird chirps its way into the future with naive anticipation.
Through the thick wooden bars of the garden fence, I glimpse tan-hided cows in the distance, their heavy heads bent towards the greening grass, motionless as a painting.
The air is contagious with the incessant hum of numerous insects, welcoming the Summer with the buzz of a thousand spinning tops.
An unprecedented Spring has given birth to an uneasy Summer.
Larraine
The dream passes
A child’s present is full of promises,
Seductive wrappings reveal delight and optimism
Oh! This is just what I wanted.
But too soon
The birds stop singing
blossom falls from wind-tossed branches,
like discarded gift wrap on the ground.
The playful hedgerow buds are now dark sullen leaves.
The heady scents become
the coarser smells of prickly grass and rain-soaked earth
The lengthening days halt in their tracks
Retreat concealed by summers by the sea.
Humid skies scowl down
On expectant fields.
The dream is passing.
Soon the annual harvest of pre-loved toys.
And then the naked winter comes
clothed only in wistful dreams about
a joyous season still to come.
John S.
Emergent
Come
Leave the blackness behind
Depart the chilling gloom,
Slowly unfurl,
Stretch towards summers
Blanketing warmth
You must
Reach towards the heavens
And turn towards the light
Respond to care
Drink in the health-giving love
And blossom into joyful life
Once more.
Gwyneth
Two for Joy
And the diggers came in despite the Lock Down!
Magpies have deserted nests in the sycamore that have been home for donkey’s years. All foliage disappeared including five stalwart Lombardy poplars that edged the farthest lawn.
Early spring next door’s garden was usually alive with earth’s bounty, daffodils bordered a sunken lawn complimenting a delight of bluebells under the double white lilac and laburnum with hazel catkins embellishing the summer.
All decimated in a machine!
Restricted to move no further than my gate, I found plenty of time to reflect on the adjoining property that was being desecrated. And feel for the bungalow that had been envied by many over the years; roof vandalised to build into a four-bedroom house. Windows boarded up, paving dumped in the skip, while mechanical rhinos flattened in twenty-four hours, a garden that had been lovingly nurtured by the former owners for over sixty years.
I’ve perused the plans...Two chalet bungalows to be added to the site! Permission already granted! Apparently, the project is going to be a big improvement.
My fence has already fallen over the drive owing to all the ground levelling. But, Alan, the man responsible for this development assures me that the boundary is going to be put right. A low stone wall with rattan fence attached (may fit in with my property, which is passed its century).
However, in the process I have to savage an innocent old friend, a clematis Montana, who for twenty years, has gladdened our hearts with drifts of pink flora like snow cascading the drive-in summer.
Still swooping are the resourceful magpies. Smart in their
tuxedoes, they held Parliament on a towering elm close by.
I counted in twelve...two metre rule, not applicable.
Que Sera Sera
June
Earthy Air
Blackbirds bulging,
beckoning.
Impossibly wide
cloudless skies.
Trees heavy with
deep, green
weeds, rushing, thickening
for attention.
In the woods
after rain,
earthy air
that puts
sweet bluebells
to rest.
No black hearse.
Lay me here
in this wood.
Deborah
Dog Fight
The trees had gone from bare to fully clothed. Quite the fashion parade. It was like Spaghetti Junction in my garden with the never ceasing traffic from my feathered friends. The takeaway was busy too, as I refilled the bird table with nuts and other specialities on a daily basis.
Enjoying a quiet cup of coffee one morning, the calm was shattered by a cacophony of shrieks. So, ear splitting the noise I got up to investigate the cause of the disturbance, even my lazy husband came to the back door.
I spotted too evil looking black crows, magpies and other species too quick and small to identify. It was like a dog fight over the English Channel. I knew exactly what was happening. In full defence mode, I did my best impression of a windmill in a force 8. Calling on my lazy cat to spring into action. He just watched, ears rotating like radar dish.
To no avail. Both mine and the parent’s defences failed. The battle was lost. I found the shattered remains of the eggs lying in the drive.
Lyn
Prompt Ten Responses
My Chair
My chair. My wonderful chair
It was truly love at first sight
With the finest tanned leather
So distinguished and magisterial
You stood a cut above the rest
I set you up in pride of place
Fit for a king, majestic and refined
A joy to behold, to have and admire
The Jewel in my crown for all to see
Timeless comfort for days to come
I've sat in you, I've lounged in you
I've even curled up and slept in you
Beckoning me when I was fit to drop
that I might rest and relax a while
You cushioned my old and weary bones
Old chair, old faithful chair
Look at you now, your regalness gone
You served me well for many years.
Ashamed to see you in this sorry state
You're relegated to the furthest corner
Crushed and defeated, as if in the wars
Cracked and torn, your suspension shot
Pushed out of shape, sides all disjointed
Old and shabby; you've had your day
A heap of junk, discarded and spent
And like me, you've seen better days
But your days are finally numbered
Now comes that sad and bitter end
You're ready for the knackers yard
And I dispense you to the tip.
Mela
All That Swaying
So this is where we sit alone
Swung high and low
As moss licks paint from your post
And weathered breeze oils the rusted hinge.
To and fro...to and fro.
Remembered laughter gasped in giddy height
moves gems of dew to slacken jaded thirst,
feel once more warm breath on freckled skin
and chase rainbows to bridge the balmy days.
Up and down...up and down
Sway when everyone has gone
And lightning strikes on bolted doors
Your oak seat drenched in crushed strawberries
my flailing heart cradled in sturdy rope
Back and forth...back and forth
Whisper together as the house moans
her solitary tune and gathers dust on yesterday.
Gently swing...to and fro...to and fro
June
Fernando the potato plant
Fernando the potato plant was last along the row.
The gardener thought that he was dead, he took so long to grow.
The other plants all called him names from when he was a seed
They claimed he was a loser and they said he was a weed.
But Fernando was a hero, destined for heights of fame.
From Jerseys to King Edwards, they would tremble at his name.
For it was his ambition, indeed his dearest wish
To grow the best potatoes for the gardeners favourite dish.
Now on one July evening, when the moon was crystal bright
Fernando he was dreaming of the great potato blight
When along the row of sleeping plants, a cat began to crawl.
Awakening our Fernando with its manly caterwaul.
When several other cats appeared to join the evil sound
A great fight to the death began to dig up all the ground.
The other plants lay dying, their roots torn from the land
But Fernando he was waiting, cos he had it all in hand.
With mighty strength he grew his leaves with stems as big as trees,
Lashing at the startled cats, now quaking at the knees.
Woe to any garden cat that takes Fernando on.
His stems can strangle any foe he sets his eyes upon.
The next day when the gardener came it was a sorry sight.
The only plant left standing from the night to end all fights
Was Fernando, Yes Fernando. He has Potato power.
Providing all potato needs. The hero of the hour.
Larraine
Apple
Behold you beautiful creature
How I adore you. Even better than myself
Sleek of body. Bathed in rose gold hues
Omnificent eye, pixelating
Capturing intimate moments
You are my whole world
In the dark nights, I wake
I shall not be distraught
You are there to comfort me
I caress you softly
Cupped in the palm of my hand
By Heaven. Without you I am naught.
Lyn
She is More Than a Bath
Taps are turned.
The temperature adjusted.
Water gushes, bubbles.
An Alpine spring
in full spate
would not compete.
Taps are off.
Then, oh then,
left foot in
right foot in
and ohhh you
slowly lower and
then slide into
the liquid caress.
Toe just reaches
the hot tap
and Vesuvius gushes.
Shoulders swathed in
Champagne froth and
I am cocooned
in scented gloriousness.
Lesley
Bright and Shiny, Red Balloon
It’s an empty balloon, in great need of air.
I blow it up and work my magic on the piece of rubber.
Up, up and its full of helium. It bounces about on the end of my string.
The rubber stretched and filled.
Soft and shiny, bright and clean. It gleams.
Bouncing about.
I tie it to my bedside post.
The open window adds to its bounce.
Weeks go by and I forget my friend, that entertained me so.
The shiny surface, wrinkles and curls and I softly poke its sides.
No more does it float about the air, tight and strong.
Just droops upon the floor.
Alice
That Old Devil Moon
Thou horned temptress of the night
Weaving thy wily spells
In hearts and minds of lovers young and old.
Thou wreakest havoc on the rational gods
Who rule through prudent thoughts and deeds.
Only the noble Sun can stay thy power.
What can quell thy sensual charms?
The rain-choked clouds of night
May briefly draw a veil
Across thy enticing brow.
But oft-times that veil is rent in twain
Torn by the storm-tossed clouds.
Then work’st thou thy darkest magic
Thy horns, strung taut with silken faerie thread,
Fire darts of desire into the maiden soul
Canst thy nocturnal power be ever held in thrall
By other than one small step for mankind?
John S
Prompt Ten
Well, prompt ten. Who’d have thought it? So, here we are about to consider hyperbole and mock-heroic language. How intimidating is that? Well it shouldn’t be because those terms mean something quite simple. Look at these definitions and examples:
Hyperbole – the use of exaggerated terms not in order to deceive but to emphasize the importance or extent of something.
Mock-heroic – the presentation of low characters or trivial subjects in the lofty style of classical epic or heroic poem.
Example:
“Sol through white curtain shot a timorous ray
And ope’d those eyes which must eclipse the day.”
Pope, The Rape of the Lock
O Rug, I Praise You
I praise you, rug.
I praise the purpleness of your weave.
You are like a glass of Ribena
Sipped in the summer sun through a straw.
Compared to you, Roman robes are drab.
Your weight is heavy and for this I praise you.
You remind me of the deepest wine
Made in the best oak barrel.
I wish you were magic and I would travel with you to China and Timbuktu and
back again.
I praise you, rug, because your fabulousness overwhelms me.
Olivia Warburton
So, our task this week is to choose an everyday, ordinary subject and praise it up to the skies. But please don’t forget that writing often takes off when there is some tension evident. Think of the bit of grit. Think of the other character that was present in our last selection of work: the irritant, the source of conflict.
Responses in by Sunday midnight as always. Off you go and enjoy!
Hyperbole – the use of exaggerated terms not in order to deceive but to emphasize the importance or extent of something.
Mock-heroic – the presentation of low characters or trivial subjects in the lofty style of classical epic or heroic poem.
Example:
“Sol through white curtain shot a timorous ray
And ope’d those eyes which must eclipse the day.”
Pope, The Rape of the Lock
O Rug, I Praise You
I praise you, rug.
I praise the purpleness of your weave.
You are like a glass of Ribena
Sipped in the summer sun through a straw.
Compared to you, Roman robes are drab.
Your weight is heavy and for this I praise you.
You remind me of the deepest wine
Made in the best oak barrel.
I wish you were magic and I would travel with you to China and Timbuktu and
back again.
I praise you, rug, because your fabulousness overwhelms me.
Olivia Warburton
So, our task this week is to choose an everyday, ordinary subject and praise it up to the skies. But please don’t forget that writing often takes off when there is some tension evident. Think of the bit of grit. Think of the other character that was present in our last selection of work: the irritant, the source of conflict.
Responses in by Sunday midnight as always. Off you go and enjoy!
Prompt Nine Responses
Reflections
The bench could do with a coat of paint
In parts, its crumbly innards exposed.
But it’s our bench.
It’s in the shade now
Occasional dappled light washes over.
Strictly speaking it’s my bench now.
I sit. The sound of tricking water soothes.
What was it you said?
You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine
We did
I felt much better.
Lyn
A time Unknown
A candle burns in a corner of the room. Its fumes intertwine with the sent from joss sticks and rows of books line the walls; some as thick as doorsteps and laden with a foundation of dust. An oriental rug marks the centre of the floor; threadbare, but clean and a couple of wingback armchairs sit either side of an open fire place.From outside, a street lamp projects its image on to the blind at my window, like a hideous figure waiting to pounce.
As I gaze, half conscious, a breeze from afar extinguishes my candle and a shape appears in the doorway.
The pipe that I grip in my hand, falls with a thud as it hits the floor. I rub my eyes, dislodging my specs. Am I seeing things, is this person truly here or is my conscience allowing my eyes to play tricks on me? Surely after all this time.
My mind wanders back to that fateful night. The one person who had stuck by me through thick and thin, believed in me and even saved my life. Is it really time to settle my account?
The shape comes closer, but still no distinguishing marks to make an identification. Just a dark hollow where the face should be, beneath a deathly black hood.
I relight my candle that I might look upon the face of my spectre and as light resumes I sit with bated breath. But it's gone. All of it gone.
Now there's just bare, white walls with a couple of paintings. Wall to wall carpet covers the floor and a large leather settle with curved contours, nestles snugly in a corner.
As daylight pours through a patio window, I wonder with uncertainty, is this a dream or have I woken from a hellish nightmare?
Mela
The bench could do with a coat of paint
In parts, its crumbly innards exposed.
But it’s our bench.
It’s in the shade now
Occasional dappled light washes over.
Strictly speaking it’s my bench now.
I sit. The sound of tricking water soothes.
What was it you said?
You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine
We did
I felt much better.
Lyn
A time Unknown
A candle burns in a corner of the room. Its fumes intertwine with the sent from joss sticks and rows of books line the walls; some as thick as doorsteps and laden with a foundation of dust. An oriental rug marks the centre of the floor; threadbare, but clean and a couple of wingback armchairs sit either side of an open fire place.From outside, a street lamp projects its image on to the blind at my window, like a hideous figure waiting to pounce.
As I gaze, half conscious, a breeze from afar extinguishes my candle and a shape appears in the doorway.
The pipe that I grip in my hand, falls with a thud as it hits the floor. I rub my eyes, dislodging my specs. Am I seeing things, is this person truly here or is my conscience allowing my eyes to play tricks on me? Surely after all this time.
My mind wanders back to that fateful night. The one person who had stuck by me through thick and thin, believed in me and even saved my life. Is it really time to settle my account?
The shape comes closer, but still no distinguishing marks to make an identification. Just a dark hollow where the face should be, beneath a deathly black hood.
I relight my candle that I might look upon the face of my spectre and as light resumes I sit with bated breath. But it's gone. All of it gone.
Now there's just bare, white walls with a couple of paintings. Wall to wall carpet covers the floor and a large leather settle with curved contours, nestles snugly in a corner.
As daylight pours through a patio window, I wonder with uncertainty, is this a dream or have I woken from a hellish nightmare?
Mela
The Borrowed Room
‘You know this is my room don’t you?’
I swing round from the computer, mildly irritated at the interruption. My eyes scan faded snapshots, framed amid rows of heir-loomed books.
But there is no-one there. There never is.
I shrug my shoulders and resume writing, but I know whatever I do, the voice will not be silenced.
‘My bed was just where you’re sitting now.’
I cannot see him, yet I feel his breath like the whisper of morning mist and trace his tears like a child chasing raindrops down the window.
‘No one owns a room for ever,’ I say.
He laughs loudly, just as I remember him doing all those years ago.
‘I was the first to have this room,’ he says. ‘My memory will always live here.’
‘Only if whoever remembers you is still here,’ I say.
‘Ahh,’ he said, knowingly. ‘That isn’t quite true. See that green school exercise book with my name on. See that photo of me on a trip eating ice pink cream. See that blown up photo from my funeral. They’ll still be around. Someone, somewhere will keep them.’
‘Is that all we are in the end?’ I say. ‘Artefacts and images?’
He let out a long sigh. ‘Everyone hopes they’ll leave something behind,’ he said.’ But what really lasts is not an image or a thing.’
I pick up a mug with his photo on. ‘So what does last then?
‘Kindness,’ he said. ‘And laughter.’
He laughed again. He often laughed. Amid the pain and the ignorance of his condition, he tried his best to laugh. As I sit in my borrowed room, writing amid the photographs, I can hear his laughter echoing around the walls.
Larraine
Shelling eggs and becoming Vegan
Listen.
A hen croons softly listening with head one side
wattles wobbling.
She can hear small echoes coming from her clutch.
Watch.
The eggs are moving .
Chicks peck, peck, peck
Eroding nature’s gift to help the work of release.
Even pressure cannot break an egg.
Each chick is searching out the corner stone
Smash that and the top of the arch
Shatters
I am shelling brown, hard boiled eggs
Willingly given every day from Leghorn hens.
Yellow, mealy middles, the richest food destined for building
chicks.
I pull at the inner membrane,
slide it off with my thumb like wet paper.
This is the sac that holds the chick
Now discarded.
Bright white revealed in shiny perfection.
Cut in half
Serve.
Eat.
Viv
Tricky
It’s going to be a tricky meeting. There’s Rob, me, and Brenda the Assistant Treasurer. We’re in the main Village Hall office, which smells of furniture polish, cleaning fluids and mouldy flower vases. Brenda looks after the little Hall down the road like a mother hen.
Shame Phil took his bat home. He was a good Treasurer. As Trustees, Rob and I have got to ‘pick up the baton and run with it’. Unless we can find someone who knows what they are doing.
“This job’s a doddle” he says
“Phil always did double-entry book-keeping” I remark.
“We don’t need that, do we?”
I want to say “It’s not just about cashing up and banking the takings each week”
But Brenda knows the future of the halls is under review. So, I keep quiet. She has her eye on us.
We start on the three months’ backlog. Ever heard of digging a bigger hole for yourself? What is Brenda thinking?
Rob’s mobile rings.
He answers “Hello. What!! Oh crumbs! O Lord! I’ll get home as soon as I can.”
“Brenda and John. I’ve got to get home.”
“Yes, you’ve got to go” we chorus sympathetically.
Very quietly I breathe a selfish sigh of relief.
At the next full meeting, Rob’s full of smiles. “I’ve told Tom this job’s a doddle” Tom stands in the background with a weary grin. I can’t look Tom in the face but turn sheepishly away.
Tom and I are still friends and so for that matter is Rob.
John S.
Pain Control
On entering Sloan’s studio Carla’s flailing heart sank in dread. Since his disappearance she had been spooked by shadows. The continued menace of her ex-lover lingered in the smell of turpentine and oil paint, causing her to retch. Her vainest hope was to bleach away her torturous days with him.
Mac was close behind as they stepped into the glaring light of the window. The slow smile that played around his mouth petered into tight lips as he took full view of the picture on display. She had not envisaged this moment of revelation and cringed at his imagined thoughts, seeing her stripped bare of artifice.
He stared mesmerised.
The nubile figure at the forefront was jumping through a circus hoop like a Toby dog, clown-white face framed in a ruffled collar, with eyes that stared out in pleading dark despair like an animal caught in car headlights. The eyes were deeply arresting, too large for the face that haunted the canvas. Her open mouth distorted in an agonising scream resounding in a prurient arena. One ankle was held in a studded dog leash giving the impression of being tugged.
Carla lowered her eyes and covered her ears.
“I guess you think it’s dreadful this awful insight into my psyche? I’m all goose bumps. The portrait is a touch of genius.... You saved me!..
Now you find me hideous.” Her courage failed before the enigmatic face that scrutinised her naked agony.
“Infatuation’s not the easiest thing to lick girl even clutching broken ribs. You rescued yourself the moment you lifted the latch on this place and fought the swirling madness of the storm. You were drenched and fainting at my door... Do yourself another favour.
Pick up that spray paint and direct it at those chains.”
June
Please Hear Me Out
The room needs dusting, but that can wait. I’m finishing my lunchtime coffee, feet up, in my chair and trawling through TV. I stop on a channel. The faces are familiar; I used to watch this ages ago.
Oh dear! What has happened to them? Everything is taut, pulled, plumped – unnatural. They look, dare I say it, all alike. It isn’t just the ladies either, the male guest has been ‘got at’ too.
Girls, girls why have you done it? Is someone blackmailing you? Is an agent predicting a dire future if certain ’procedures’ aren’t followed?
I remember when you used to laugh and there were laughter lines. You smiled and the little crinkles came round your eyes. If you were worried, others could pick up on it because your brow was ‘furrowed’. Now where has all the emotion expressed so beautifully by nature gone? There is no motion to show the emotion.
And your next guest, she won a talent competition at 21. She is not being herself, she being Instagrammed. Her eyebrows would make Groucho Marx proud and her top lip, in profile, looks like a ski jump.
This all seems like a type of self-harming; it is just that the scars are hidden, but maybe the reasons are still the same. I know that the mental health people have coined the phrase “It’s OK to be not OK”. Maybe I can paraphrase “It’s OK to be the you, you are”.
I just want to hug you all and say STOP now. Stop filling your bodies with poison. Stop having unnecessary operations. Stop pandering to agents, producers, casting people and social media. Reclaim yourselves. You are so much more than a face or body.
Practise being the strong women you all claim to be. Love yourselves more.
Lesley
Home Again, Home Again, Jigety Jig
For forty-four years it has evolved into what is my home. Unperceptively the changes took place, like the opening of a bloom from its bud, according to how our tastes and needs changed. Now though, I struggle to recognise it with the television in the corner nearly as big as a cinema screen, the massive mother- in- law’s tongue pushing the furniture into unfamiliar places.
It was your home too, daughter. You married and then came home for a short time after your divorce and now are home again for a few weeks, or so we thought. Now for the foreseeable future, until builders resume work and complete your new home.
We used to fight when you were struggling to emerge from childhood to womanhood, confusing me. When I spoke to the child the woman protested. When I spoke to the woman the petulant child responded with sulks and door slamming. The demanding disputes with your brother were wearisome as you both were changing from who you were to who you would become. Sibling rivalry shows itself even today although you enjoy each other’s company socially.
After your divorce, you and your daughter lived here with us with mutual tolerance and respect. Now though, not only you with husband in tow but also half your possessions have moved in.
Welcome to you my beautiful daughter and first-rate son- in- law. I love you both but the television and mother-in-law’s tongue will have to grow on me.
Gwyneth
‘You know this is my room don’t you?’
I swing round from the computer, mildly irritated at the interruption. My eyes scan faded snapshots, framed amid rows of heir-loomed books.
But there is no-one there. There never is.
I shrug my shoulders and resume writing, but I know whatever I do, the voice will not be silenced.
‘My bed was just where you’re sitting now.’
I cannot see him, yet I feel his breath like the whisper of morning mist and trace his tears like a child chasing raindrops down the window.
‘No one owns a room for ever,’ I say.
He laughs loudly, just as I remember him doing all those years ago.
‘I was the first to have this room,’ he says. ‘My memory will always live here.’
‘Only if whoever remembers you is still here,’ I say.
‘Ahh,’ he said, knowingly. ‘That isn’t quite true. See that green school exercise book with my name on. See that photo of me on a trip eating ice pink cream. See that blown up photo from my funeral. They’ll still be around. Someone, somewhere will keep them.’
‘Is that all we are in the end?’ I say. ‘Artefacts and images?’
He let out a long sigh. ‘Everyone hopes they’ll leave something behind,’ he said.’ But what really lasts is not an image or a thing.’
I pick up a mug with his photo on. ‘So what does last then?
‘Kindness,’ he said. ‘And laughter.’
He laughed again. He often laughed. Amid the pain and the ignorance of his condition, he tried his best to laugh. As I sit in my borrowed room, writing amid the photographs, I can hear his laughter echoing around the walls.
Larraine
Shelling eggs and becoming Vegan
Listen.
A hen croons softly listening with head one side
wattles wobbling.
She can hear small echoes coming from her clutch.
Watch.
The eggs are moving .
Chicks peck, peck, peck
Eroding nature’s gift to help the work of release.
Even pressure cannot break an egg.
Each chick is searching out the corner stone
Smash that and the top of the arch
Shatters
I am shelling brown, hard boiled eggs
Willingly given every day from Leghorn hens.
Yellow, mealy middles, the richest food destined for building
chicks.
I pull at the inner membrane,
slide it off with my thumb like wet paper.
This is the sac that holds the chick
Now discarded.
Bright white revealed in shiny perfection.
Cut in half
Serve.
Eat.
Viv
Tricky
It’s going to be a tricky meeting. There’s Rob, me, and Brenda the Assistant Treasurer. We’re in the main Village Hall office, which smells of furniture polish, cleaning fluids and mouldy flower vases. Brenda looks after the little Hall down the road like a mother hen.
Shame Phil took his bat home. He was a good Treasurer. As Trustees, Rob and I have got to ‘pick up the baton and run with it’. Unless we can find someone who knows what they are doing.
“This job’s a doddle” he says
“Phil always did double-entry book-keeping” I remark.
“We don’t need that, do we?”
I want to say “It’s not just about cashing up and banking the takings each week”
But Brenda knows the future of the halls is under review. So, I keep quiet. She has her eye on us.
We start on the three months’ backlog. Ever heard of digging a bigger hole for yourself? What is Brenda thinking?
Rob’s mobile rings.
He answers “Hello. What!! Oh crumbs! O Lord! I’ll get home as soon as I can.”
“Brenda and John. I’ve got to get home.”
“Yes, you’ve got to go” we chorus sympathetically.
Very quietly I breathe a selfish sigh of relief.
At the next full meeting, Rob’s full of smiles. “I’ve told Tom this job’s a doddle” Tom stands in the background with a weary grin. I can’t look Tom in the face but turn sheepishly away.
Tom and I are still friends and so for that matter is Rob.
John S.
Pain Control
On entering Sloan’s studio Carla’s flailing heart sank in dread. Since his disappearance she had been spooked by shadows. The continued menace of her ex-lover lingered in the smell of turpentine and oil paint, causing her to retch. Her vainest hope was to bleach away her torturous days with him.
Mac was close behind as they stepped into the glaring light of the window. The slow smile that played around his mouth petered into tight lips as he took full view of the picture on display. She had not envisaged this moment of revelation and cringed at his imagined thoughts, seeing her stripped bare of artifice.
He stared mesmerised.
The nubile figure at the forefront was jumping through a circus hoop like a Toby dog, clown-white face framed in a ruffled collar, with eyes that stared out in pleading dark despair like an animal caught in car headlights. The eyes were deeply arresting, too large for the face that haunted the canvas. Her open mouth distorted in an agonising scream resounding in a prurient arena. One ankle was held in a studded dog leash giving the impression of being tugged.
Carla lowered her eyes and covered her ears.
“I guess you think it’s dreadful this awful insight into my psyche? I’m all goose bumps. The portrait is a touch of genius.... You saved me!..
Now you find me hideous.” Her courage failed before the enigmatic face that scrutinised her naked agony.
“Infatuation’s not the easiest thing to lick girl even clutching broken ribs. You rescued yourself the moment you lifted the latch on this place and fought the swirling madness of the storm. You were drenched and fainting at my door... Do yourself another favour.
Pick up that spray paint and direct it at those chains.”
June
Please Hear Me Out
The room needs dusting, but that can wait. I’m finishing my lunchtime coffee, feet up, in my chair and trawling through TV. I stop on a channel. The faces are familiar; I used to watch this ages ago.
Oh dear! What has happened to them? Everything is taut, pulled, plumped – unnatural. They look, dare I say it, all alike. It isn’t just the ladies either, the male guest has been ‘got at’ too.
Girls, girls why have you done it? Is someone blackmailing you? Is an agent predicting a dire future if certain ’procedures’ aren’t followed?
I remember when you used to laugh and there were laughter lines. You smiled and the little crinkles came round your eyes. If you were worried, others could pick up on it because your brow was ‘furrowed’. Now where has all the emotion expressed so beautifully by nature gone? There is no motion to show the emotion.
And your next guest, she won a talent competition at 21. She is not being herself, she being Instagrammed. Her eyebrows would make Groucho Marx proud and her top lip, in profile, looks like a ski jump.
This all seems like a type of self-harming; it is just that the scars are hidden, but maybe the reasons are still the same. I know that the mental health people have coined the phrase “It’s OK to be not OK”. Maybe I can paraphrase “It’s OK to be the you, you are”.
I just want to hug you all and say STOP now. Stop filling your bodies with poison. Stop having unnecessary operations. Stop pandering to agents, producers, casting people and social media. Reclaim yourselves. You are so much more than a face or body.
Practise being the strong women you all claim to be. Love yourselves more.
Lesley
Home Again, Home Again, Jigety Jig
For forty-four years it has evolved into what is my home. Unperceptively the changes took place, like the opening of a bloom from its bud, according to how our tastes and needs changed. Now though, I struggle to recognise it with the television in the corner nearly as big as a cinema screen, the massive mother- in- law’s tongue pushing the furniture into unfamiliar places.
It was your home too, daughter. You married and then came home for a short time after your divorce and now are home again for a few weeks, or so we thought. Now for the foreseeable future, until builders resume work and complete your new home.
We used to fight when you were struggling to emerge from childhood to womanhood, confusing me. When I spoke to the child the woman protested. When I spoke to the woman the petulant child responded with sulks and door slamming. The demanding disputes with your brother were wearisome as you both were changing from who you were to who you would become. Sibling rivalry shows itself even today although you enjoy each other’s company socially.
After your divorce, you and your daughter lived here with us with mutual tolerance and respect. Now though, not only you with husband in tow but also half your possessions have moved in.
Welcome to you my beautiful daughter and first-rate son- in- law. I love you both but the television and mother-in-law’s tongue will have to grow on me.
Gwyneth
Prompt Nine
Well, we've got a bit of reading to do before we get into prompt nine. First of all, two more responses to prompt eight have been received including one from Gwyneth which we are always pleased to see and the other from Mela who has provided us with a salutary tale about pride in possessions. Have a read of those please and then read Nathan Fidler's striking poem, New Brown Shoes which was the source for prompt eight.
Maybe One Day
“You chose me, brought me to your home and then locked me in a dark place. Ignored, passed over in favour of others. Why? Is it because I don’t fit in? I will try to please you, take you to happy places, comfort you and protect you but please just let me try.”
“You ask me why. I will tell you. There was a sale at the Hotters shop. You were a bargain at ten pounds as were the soft, cream coloured, leather trainers which lie there with you, unworn. It’s not your fault little brown shoes or yours, leather trainers, that I am not able to bend down and reach to tie your laces.”
Gwyneth
Stanley Limpet
Stanley Limpet was a timid little man and despite being somewhat frugal always insisted on being well turned out.
He'd decided this day to treat himself to a new pair of shoes, the finest pair of shoes to be seen in many a good day
A dark tan luxurious leather, the inside of which cosseted his feet like a pair of sheepskin mittens. A pair of shoes that would last him to the end of his days.
So pleased and delighted was he, with his accomplished purchase, he decided he would wear them straight away and had the shop assistant deposit the old ones into a paper bag.
As he walked out of the shop it started to rain. Already his new clean shoes were going to get dirty and stained, so he quickly took himself off to a nearby cafe.
He bought a small coffee and sat himself in a nice quiet corner.
Having purloined a couple of extra serviettes he carefully bent down in his seat and started to wipe clean the splashes that speckled his new shiny shoes.
Job well done, coffee finished and seeing that the rain had now stopped, he turned to leave his table and a woman stepped backward on his foot with her high heeled shoes.
Stanley was horrified. The heel had scratched a long gorge into one of his new shiny shoes; not to mention the pain.
Red faced with anger he left the cafe and frantically made his way to a bench across the street where he tried to administer his foot.
Disappointed in his resolve, he slowly made his way home, taking great care to walk around a ladder that had been erected in his path.
As he did so, a tin of paint fell from above and as it hit the slabs, it splattered all across Stanley's new shiny shoes.
Head held high, he removed his shoes, put them in the bag and placed them in a bin.
Never to buy another pair of shoes again.
Mela
New Brown Shoes
sitting on the carpet, bedding in.
Used sparingly they’ll last me,
maybe until I’m a father.
Maybe I’ll be wearing them
in a sterile waiting room,
tapping them on the plastic floor,
or maybe they’ll be there
when a doctor shines a light
into my eyes for a reaction,
spots the uncontrollable shaking
of my hands,
asks about my family’s history.
Nathan Fidler
PROMPT NINE
Okay here we go. Imagine please you are in a room or a space which is very familiar to you. You know all of the sights, sounds, smells, tastes and what things feel like. In addition, this place is bound with your past, present and future and you are there now taking stock. So far, so good. However, there is someone else present and I don't know who this other person is. Someone who has always loved and supported you? Or someone who has been a source of irritation, tension or conflict? What are the pair of you doing? Can you engage this person in conversation? Or are you working through this situation by thinking your thoughts aloud?
There is a lot to think about here and more time than usual to complete your piece of writing as there won't be a prompt set next week. So this is the timetable:
Responses to prompt nine emailed to me by midnight on Sunday 31st May. They will appear on the website the following day as usual.
Remember, you can respond in either poetry or prose. But use the extra time well. Think carefully about the task before you begin to write. Start writing well in advance of the deadline and give yourself plenty of time for editing and drafting. And remember one last thing: it is not so much what we write but how we write it. Crafting, folks, crafting!
Good luck and enjoy.
Maybe One Day
“You chose me, brought me to your home and then locked me in a dark place. Ignored, passed over in favour of others. Why? Is it because I don’t fit in? I will try to please you, take you to happy places, comfort you and protect you but please just let me try.”
“You ask me why. I will tell you. There was a sale at the Hotters shop. You were a bargain at ten pounds as were the soft, cream coloured, leather trainers which lie there with you, unworn. It’s not your fault little brown shoes or yours, leather trainers, that I am not able to bend down and reach to tie your laces.”
Gwyneth
Stanley Limpet
Stanley Limpet was a timid little man and despite being somewhat frugal always insisted on being well turned out.
He'd decided this day to treat himself to a new pair of shoes, the finest pair of shoes to be seen in many a good day
A dark tan luxurious leather, the inside of which cosseted his feet like a pair of sheepskin mittens. A pair of shoes that would last him to the end of his days.
So pleased and delighted was he, with his accomplished purchase, he decided he would wear them straight away and had the shop assistant deposit the old ones into a paper bag.
As he walked out of the shop it started to rain. Already his new clean shoes were going to get dirty and stained, so he quickly took himself off to a nearby cafe.
He bought a small coffee and sat himself in a nice quiet corner.
Having purloined a couple of extra serviettes he carefully bent down in his seat and started to wipe clean the splashes that speckled his new shiny shoes.
Job well done, coffee finished and seeing that the rain had now stopped, he turned to leave his table and a woman stepped backward on his foot with her high heeled shoes.
Stanley was horrified. The heel had scratched a long gorge into one of his new shiny shoes; not to mention the pain.
Red faced with anger he left the cafe and frantically made his way to a bench across the street where he tried to administer his foot.
Disappointed in his resolve, he slowly made his way home, taking great care to walk around a ladder that had been erected in his path.
As he did so, a tin of paint fell from above and as it hit the slabs, it splattered all across Stanley's new shiny shoes.
Head held high, he removed his shoes, put them in the bag and placed them in a bin.
Never to buy another pair of shoes again.
Mela
New Brown Shoes
sitting on the carpet, bedding in.
Used sparingly they’ll last me,
maybe until I’m a father.
Maybe I’ll be wearing them
in a sterile waiting room,
tapping them on the plastic floor,
or maybe they’ll be there
when a doctor shines a light
into my eyes for a reaction,
spots the uncontrollable shaking
of my hands,
asks about my family’s history.
Nathan Fidler
PROMPT NINE
Okay here we go. Imagine please you are in a room or a space which is very familiar to you. You know all of the sights, sounds, smells, tastes and what things feel like. In addition, this place is bound with your past, present and future and you are there now taking stock. So far, so good. However, there is someone else present and I don't know who this other person is. Someone who has always loved and supported you? Or someone who has been a source of irritation, tension or conflict? What are the pair of you doing? Can you engage this person in conversation? Or are you working through this situation by thinking your thoughts aloud?
There is a lot to think about here and more time than usual to complete your piece of writing as there won't be a prompt set next week. So this is the timetable:
Responses to prompt nine emailed to me by midnight on Sunday 31st May. They will appear on the website the following day as usual.
Remember, you can respond in either poetry or prose. But use the extra time well. Think carefully about the task before you begin to write. Start writing well in advance of the deadline and give yourself plenty of time for editing and drafting. And remember one last thing: it is not so much what we write but how we write it. Crafting, folks, crafting!
Good luck and enjoy.
Prompt Eight Responses
The New Brown Shoes
Sometimes, writing about the seemingly innocuous, new brown shoes for instance, can take us deeper into the human condition than we perhaps expected and the shoes become a vehicle for exploring a little further into our thoughts and feelings. Which is as it should be. Sometimes we need to look under the stone and see what lies there. That is what good writing is all about. I invite you therefore to read the responses to the eighth prompt where we start with the shoes but we end up reading about memories, characters and relationships.
Her New Brown Shoes
“Are they waterproof?”
“Yes, yes they are. You could go in a peat bog with them.”
He picked them up and made ready to take them to the counter.
“Would you like the box?”
“Please and could you put them into my carrier bag?”
The box nestled beside the bright, shiny travel brochures. She removed the card from the machine and slid it and the receipt into her purse.
“You have a month to return them.”
She was home soon after 4:00. It was getting dark and she turned on lamps and closed curtains. After dinner, she pulled the box from the bag and opened it. The walking shoes were stout, well-made with a sturdy sole. They were milk chocolate brown with pink detailing with a spare pair of laces tucked inside for when the first wore out. She lifted one from the box and examined the ridges and valleys on the sole imagining the mud and the dust and the tiny rocks that always get trapped in the grooves. She carefully put it back, folded the tissue paper over it and closed the lid.
She reached in again for the hiking socks, pink to match the detail in the shoes. The brochures tumbled out and slid down the side of the chair. They could wait. She needed to get to bed. It would be an early start tomorrow, hospital by 6:00 am, no breakfast and three night’s stay. And then? And then, she really wanted to wear those new brown shoes.
Lesley
Almost New Brown Shoes
Mrs Sixsmith’s library was a sort of bizarre, in a red brick end terrace house, where I would pop in for a browse coming home from school. I had a purpose on this occasion, a pair of shiny brown shoes I had previously secreted at the back of a wardrobe.
She peered at me over pulled down glasses, while I ached to be reunited with my stash. I waited at the counter standing on one leg rubbing the back of my stockings with the other.
“I’ve a book that will suit your mother.”
“She only reads about deserts and sheiks” I said moving towards her palace of ob-ja-dah.
“Ten minutes,” she mumbled.
Free at last I made a dash for the wardrobe, skipping passed the table of outgrown children’s Sunday clothes and discarded Whitsuntide straw bonnets. The shoes were still there, russet brown like shiny apples waiting to be devoured. I caressed their buckles and shaped heels. My heart sang. Like Cinderella, on my feet they fit perfectly making me three inches taller. I dragged off my gym slip and pulled on a calf length low waisted silk flapper gown then danced over the linoleum wearing a pink cloche, hiding pigtails. I gazed in the mirror delighted at seeing ankles, pulling a face at a padded Punchinello.
“I can guess where you’ve been.” Mum, wearing her sleeveless pinafore and pom-pom slippers, wrinkled her nose at the whiff of mothballs clinging to my blouse.
“She’ll not charge us much mum.” I wheedled in desperation, handing her the novel.
“Dream on darling girl, no daughter of mine is ever going about in TARTS shoes.”
June
The Eternal Optimist
Brown Shoes! Why did you buy them? They’re no good for funerals or interviews.
Ah I know. The sales assistant said they look really stylish. And they don’t pinch my bunions. So far, I’ve only worn them indoors so as not to scuff the soles.
Well you should get out more, you sad person.
My only other shoes are open toed sandals and sloppy slip-ons with the elastic nearly gone. So maybe these would do the trick for opera or meals in posh restaurants.
Hang about. Where are these operas and posh restaurants you’re rambling about? With the money you’ve paid for them, you’ll have to put up with opera on YouTube. As for the posh meals, you can get your gastronomic kicks from a pizza home delivery place.
I know, a nice country walk- less than an hour - and it’s not too muddy.
They’re a bit good for that. Haven’t you got some walking boots?
Oh, I left them behind on Derwent Edge in the autumn, cemented in a cowpat.
What about a nice walk in the park but keep walking and don’t make eye contact?
That sounds a barrel of laughs.
Aren’t you being defeatist?
I don’t think so. I can return them within 90 days if they’re still in merchandisable condition. So at least I haven’t lost any money, and I could even arrange an on-line date with the sales assistant.
Have you tried some rose-tinted specs - or perhaps you don’t need them.
John S.
New Brown Shoes
Usually I would be happy
To have a pair of new brown shoes.
I would admire the way the light danced across
Their highly polished uppers.
I would try them on,
Walking soft-footed on carpeted floors, glancing in low mirrors
Testing the comfort for long standing days.
I would fling open my wardrobe,
Team them with favourite outfits, pair them with handbags.
Search out matching gloves.
Usually.
But things are not usual now.
So, I tissue-wrap them carefully in a box, like an old memory
And place them in a cupboard, locked away alone,
And think of busier days, when I would have been happy to wear
My new brown shoes.
Larraine Harrison
New Brown Shoes
Maybe I’ll be wearing them
When I’m seventy-five
And learning to jive
In my new beehive
Or when I turn eighty-five
And I learn to skydive
And land on the drive
Or at my party for ninety-five
When I arrive
with my new husband Clive
Who’ll be fifty-five.
I shall surely be wearing them.
Lesley
Sole Partners
It had been love at first sight and that love had not diminished. The day she first saw them she knew they would be a perfect fit. Size, shape and delicious softness. How many miles had they walked together with laces presenting a perfect double bow?
But there had been scuffing along the way and they had grown worn and down at heel; they needed vigorous applications of T.L.C.
Now look at them; buffed hard, they still shone, and they were still good for a few miles yet.
Jules Warren
Sometimes, writing about the seemingly innocuous, new brown shoes for instance, can take us deeper into the human condition than we perhaps expected and the shoes become a vehicle for exploring a little further into our thoughts and feelings. Which is as it should be. Sometimes we need to look under the stone and see what lies there. That is what good writing is all about. I invite you therefore to read the responses to the eighth prompt where we start with the shoes but we end up reading about memories, characters and relationships.
Her New Brown Shoes
“Are they waterproof?”
“Yes, yes they are. You could go in a peat bog with them.”
He picked them up and made ready to take them to the counter.
“Would you like the box?”
“Please and could you put them into my carrier bag?”
The box nestled beside the bright, shiny travel brochures. She removed the card from the machine and slid it and the receipt into her purse.
“You have a month to return them.”
She was home soon after 4:00. It was getting dark and she turned on lamps and closed curtains. After dinner, she pulled the box from the bag and opened it. The walking shoes were stout, well-made with a sturdy sole. They were milk chocolate brown with pink detailing with a spare pair of laces tucked inside for when the first wore out. She lifted one from the box and examined the ridges and valleys on the sole imagining the mud and the dust and the tiny rocks that always get trapped in the grooves. She carefully put it back, folded the tissue paper over it and closed the lid.
She reached in again for the hiking socks, pink to match the detail in the shoes. The brochures tumbled out and slid down the side of the chair. They could wait. She needed to get to bed. It would be an early start tomorrow, hospital by 6:00 am, no breakfast and three night’s stay. And then? And then, she really wanted to wear those new brown shoes.
Lesley
Almost New Brown Shoes
Mrs Sixsmith’s library was a sort of bizarre, in a red brick end terrace house, where I would pop in for a browse coming home from school. I had a purpose on this occasion, a pair of shiny brown shoes I had previously secreted at the back of a wardrobe.
She peered at me over pulled down glasses, while I ached to be reunited with my stash. I waited at the counter standing on one leg rubbing the back of my stockings with the other.
“I’ve a book that will suit your mother.”
“She only reads about deserts and sheiks” I said moving towards her palace of ob-ja-dah.
“Ten minutes,” she mumbled.
Free at last I made a dash for the wardrobe, skipping passed the table of outgrown children’s Sunday clothes and discarded Whitsuntide straw bonnets. The shoes were still there, russet brown like shiny apples waiting to be devoured. I caressed their buckles and shaped heels. My heart sang. Like Cinderella, on my feet they fit perfectly making me three inches taller. I dragged off my gym slip and pulled on a calf length low waisted silk flapper gown then danced over the linoleum wearing a pink cloche, hiding pigtails. I gazed in the mirror delighted at seeing ankles, pulling a face at a padded Punchinello.
“I can guess where you’ve been.” Mum, wearing her sleeveless pinafore and pom-pom slippers, wrinkled her nose at the whiff of mothballs clinging to my blouse.
“She’ll not charge us much mum.” I wheedled in desperation, handing her the novel.
“Dream on darling girl, no daughter of mine is ever going about in TARTS shoes.”
June
The Eternal Optimist
Brown Shoes! Why did you buy them? They’re no good for funerals or interviews.
Ah I know. The sales assistant said they look really stylish. And they don’t pinch my bunions. So far, I’ve only worn them indoors so as not to scuff the soles.
Well you should get out more, you sad person.
My only other shoes are open toed sandals and sloppy slip-ons with the elastic nearly gone. So maybe these would do the trick for opera or meals in posh restaurants.
Hang about. Where are these operas and posh restaurants you’re rambling about? With the money you’ve paid for them, you’ll have to put up with opera on YouTube. As for the posh meals, you can get your gastronomic kicks from a pizza home delivery place.
I know, a nice country walk- less than an hour - and it’s not too muddy.
They’re a bit good for that. Haven’t you got some walking boots?
Oh, I left them behind on Derwent Edge in the autumn, cemented in a cowpat.
What about a nice walk in the park but keep walking and don’t make eye contact?
That sounds a barrel of laughs.
Aren’t you being defeatist?
I don’t think so. I can return them within 90 days if they’re still in merchandisable condition. So at least I haven’t lost any money, and I could even arrange an on-line date with the sales assistant.
Have you tried some rose-tinted specs - or perhaps you don’t need them.
John S.
New Brown Shoes
Usually I would be happy
To have a pair of new brown shoes.
I would admire the way the light danced across
Their highly polished uppers.
I would try them on,
Walking soft-footed on carpeted floors, glancing in low mirrors
Testing the comfort for long standing days.
I would fling open my wardrobe,
Team them with favourite outfits, pair them with handbags.
Search out matching gloves.
Usually.
But things are not usual now.
So, I tissue-wrap them carefully in a box, like an old memory
And place them in a cupboard, locked away alone,
And think of busier days, when I would have been happy to wear
My new brown shoes.
Larraine Harrison
New Brown Shoes
Maybe I’ll be wearing them
When I’m seventy-five
And learning to jive
In my new beehive
Or when I turn eighty-five
And I learn to skydive
And land on the drive
Or at my party for ninety-five
When I arrive
with my new husband Clive
Who’ll be fifty-five.
I shall surely be wearing them.
Lesley
Sole Partners
It had been love at first sight and that love had not diminished. The day she first saw them she knew they would be a perfect fit. Size, shape and delicious softness. How many miles had they walked together with laces presenting a perfect double bow?
But there had been scuffing along the way and they had grown worn and down at heel; they needed vigorous applications of T.L.C.
Now look at them; buffed hard, they still shone, and they were still good for a few miles yet.
Jules Warren
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Prompt Eight: Look at My New Brown Shoes
5/14/2020
Well, last week we opened the wardrobe doors and look what tumbled out. Today we are going to be more specific. We are looking at one specific item: a pair of new brown shoes. That's two shoes but one item, Mr Hancock.
Anyway, imagine looking at a pair of new shoes and wondering how long they will last and where indeed they will take you in the future. We have a poetry prompt for this as the beginning of Nathan Fidler's poem is as follows.
New Brown Shoes
sitting on the carpet, bedding in.
Used sparingly they'll last me,
maybe until...
Maybe I'll be wearing them
…
So there we go. This is the starting point and complete as you see fit in either poetry or prose. But remember please, less is often more. Be precise and accurate. Capture those images, include the pieces of grit and leave your reader thinking about the big picture. This piece is more likely to be about the slings and arrows of fortune as it is about a pair of shoes.
Good luck and enjoy.
5/14/2020
Well, last week we opened the wardrobe doors and look what tumbled out. Today we are going to be more specific. We are looking at one specific item: a pair of new brown shoes. That's two shoes but one item, Mr Hancock.
Anyway, imagine looking at a pair of new shoes and wondering how long they will last and where indeed they will take you in the future. We have a poetry prompt for this as the beginning of Nathan Fidler's poem is as follows.
New Brown Shoes
sitting on the carpet, bedding in.
Used sparingly they'll last me,
maybe until...
Maybe I'll be wearing them
…
So there we go. This is the starting point and complete as you see fit in either poetry or prose. But remember please, less is often more. Be precise and accurate. Capture those images, include the pieces of grit and leave your reader thinking about the big picture. This piece is more likely to be about the slings and arrows of fortune as it is about a pair of shoes.
Good luck and enjoy.
Prompt Seven Responses: The Clear-Out
This week's responses come complete with the smell of mothballs, the resounding clamour of good intentions and a fashion photograph printed here with the kind permission of Fashion Style magazine. As always, read, enjoy and comment.
The Clear Out?
I couldn’t see my feet when I wore my flared Wranglers. They were always ironed so that you ended up with white lines front and back were the creases were. They are next to my cheesecloth top and skirt. I still wear the top. Another cheesecloth dress lives in a drawer under my bed. A black crepe maxi skirt and electric blue handkerchief dress bought for me by my nanny are in a dress bag. Oh, and a red lurex maxi skirt for wearing to Gary Glitter concerts is in there too.
These remnants of a 70’s life don’t and won’t ever fit me, but they will be sticking around for some time yet.
There is one item that I will definitely keep as it reminds me of the rest of the outfit. It is a hat bought from BHS. This one is blue, navy with a veil. There are three tiny feathers on the front, yellow, red and white. It went beautifully with my navy suit from Lady at Lord Jon. It was a pinstripe with a fine red and blue stripe. The jacket had a peplum waist and the skirt was straight with a split at the back. My shoes from Moda in Pelle were navy blue leather with leather soles (not good in the rain on smooth floors), with tasteful red inserts at the front. I looked lovely in that outfit, but ruined it when I had it altered by a tailor (I had lost weight).
I gained weight again, stopped wearing the shoes cos my old feet couldn’t cope and the suit went in a charity bag. The hat lives on in a BHS bag on the top shelf.
So, as you have gathered, clearing out is not my thing. Until then I will just lend my things out for 70’s fancy dress parties.
Lesley
The Clear Out
A bag of washed-out Babygrows, 40 years old,
Spewed tiny knitted bonnets from within their softened folds.
The green flowered wedding dress of Flower Power days
Hummed with hazy music from the San Francisco ways.
Blue beads swinging on a summer night, dancing on the beach
While long-haired boys played new guitars, with chords they could not reach.
A box of dolls with painted smiles and eyes that stay awake
Lay stiffly in a solid row, like candles on a cake.
The red and yellow plastic boat that sailed inside a bath,
Obscured a well-known toddler’s book with pages torn in half.
And then there was the music box with ballerina swirls
That played a haunting melody, beloved of little girls.
But as my hands delved deeper in the recess of the drawer,
I grasped the threads of someone gone that shook me to the core.
The scarf I sent on Mother’s Day, the jumper that she wore.
The blue and white striped apron always hanging by the door.
You can clear out your belongings, but what I always find
Is whatever things you throw away, you cannot clear your mind.
Larraine
One amongst many
Every year, I think of delving into my wardrobe, with a view to managing its contents. Though if I'm honest, this doesn't extend to what might not be worn, in the not too distant future; just rearranging a 'crammed to the gunwales' closet.
So, if memory serves right, working upward, two totes filled with bedding, another with excess toiletries, a holdall with some brand-new towels surplus to requirements, a bag with three quilted jackets, and another filled with jumpers.
A comparatively new addition to my wardrobe, so not an horrendous amount, but too many to fit in a drawer.
On to the rail; a dress, one Regatta, an imitation Barbour, a fur lined bomber jacket, three drape macs - of course coats - and a denim jacket; I'm sure there's another one of those somewhere.
Where was I, oh yeah; a few more dresses which haven't seen the light of day for at least twenty years, a black down filled jacket, a long black cardigan, the type one wears instead of a coat, but not a coat. A heavy black wool coat, a few tops and shirts, that have to be hung for the purposes of non-creasing and more than few, boxes of shoes on the top.
Now to get started, and surprise; a duffle coat I'd completely forgotten about, along with a suede and a leather jacket and a black trench coat.
And I already know that in the next closet along, there's another three jackets that wouldn't fit in this wardrobe to start with.
But if I really put my mind to it, upstairs there's an artificial afghan coat, a white padded jacket, clean surrounding occasions only, another suede coat, and one heavy and one lite rain mac.
Seriously? Maybe next year.
Mela
Holding On
Stay dear gown, draped over the bedroom chair.
Frayed chenille mopper of nursery tears
Ever ready use through sleepless nights
and rocking-horse years
Practical encourager of life’s dance
long leg pirouettes down the hall
Notions caught up in romance
Stay let me nuzzle in warm wrap
Ease the pain
Be here when hearts adventure
tantalises far from me
For we know she’ll have to go
Love is witchery
June
Clearing the wardrobe (gradually)
Polyester, cotton, wool and silk,
Warp and weft of a lifetime’s fabric
Like my bookshelves, some parts I visit rarely
Some old friends, some family whom I will not see again
Others, people whom I’d rather not.
Some happy times, some sad times,
Some ‘why did I bother’ times.
The dinner jacket and bow tie
To pose 7 seconds with the captain of our cruise
‘Move along now, next please.’
The bell-clad Christmas cardy
To show the world I’m really not a Scrooge.
The paisley patterned cravat,
A present from a loving ‘ex’.
Now how did that survive?
A silver Chinese dragon wedding tie
(it was the Seventies)
Restores the balance.
The claret-coloured cord jacket
Picked up in a flea-market
Pre-loved by a German pastor
For preaching to the flock
Later by me for secular discourse.
The ‘must have’ magenta shirt
Alleged by some to make me look episcopal,
Next to it, deferential mid-blue shirts
remind me of my humbler calling.
The bespoke hand-made suit in blue
That proudest day, my daughter’s wedding.
The dutiful pinstripe suit or interviews,
But latterly for funerals.
Like a Christmas card list
The assortment shrinks with time
The ward robe looks less cluttered
I find more easily what I’m looking for
To serve my needs for now and times to come.
John S
Keep
I blend into my background like a fairy in a garden.
In a pale blue shirt with pale daisies on it
I stand here just like this
with the fields and the sea behind:
I am invisible.
My presence barely causes a ripple
in the swaying grass.
You only see me when I move.
Chuck
Socks. All my socks. I hate them all.
The sour-faced ones bring no joy
nor the ones with loose threads
the crinkly-toed from being pegged out
the bleach- spotted from when I cleaned the toilet
and it splashed.
All colours, except black: all more than one year old.
Mostly supermarket offers at the ends of obscure rows.
No youngsters. Veteran socks
huddled in a drawer.
Waiting for the cull.
Sharyn
The Clear Out
I swing my feet to the floor and pad to my shoe cupboard. Time for a clear out. Why, when you want to sort your life out do you start with the wardrobe?
I have brown boots, black boots, navy boots and even purple suede boots. I wear the same battered, neutral, l beigey boots all the time. Comfy, safe, dependable. No choices to be made.
Lurking at the back of my cupboard are my walking boots. They have travelled a bit. Yorkshire Dales, Derbyshire Peaks, The Lake District, Loch Lomond. A little bit of each trapped in the grooves of the sole. Each scuff a mark of experience like the lines on an old man’s face.
In contrast, my bright pink Sketchers, purpose bought to pound the avenues of Italy. They have worshipped in St Peters, were overawed by magnificent murals and huffed and puffed up the Spanish Steps, to be delighted by The Trevi Fountain. They have danced over the Rialto Bridge and bobbed on the canals in Venice. Star struck by David in Florence, stood on tip toe to gaze at the audacious Duomo. They also got lost in Rome Stazione, running frantically to find her sister pair.
Elevated to the middle shelf are the peep toed, red Marilyn stilettos, which danced until dawn, then hobbled home on tired feet.
Finally, on the top shelf and still in the box, the twice worn pair, with sky scraper heels and gold sole.
Matched with posh frock and hat for the mother of the bride. They have seen tears and laughter, and therefore are attentively returned to their tissue paper bed.
I flop back down on the bed, through the open cupboard door drift the notes of songs played by your favourite DJ, the smells of cafes and restaurants, fish and chips soaked in vinegar, garlic bread. Images of paths walked, like postcards from around the world.
I put my feet in my trusty Clarkes ballet pumps and head, empty handed, downstairs for a cup of tea.
Lyn
Prompt Seven
It's Time to Clear Out that Wardrobe (and shoe cupboard)
Thinking Points:
As you are clearing out your wardrobe, which items bring back memories and what are those memories?
Which items were once oh so fashionable and yet now...?
Which items were an extravagance and rarely worn?
What are the old favourites? Do you still wear them? Can you not bear to throw them out?
Which items do you expect to be with you as you go into the future and face possibly momentous events?
Which items remind you of someone else?
OR: perhaps there is one particular item about which you wish to write.
WRITING TASK: The Clear-Out
A piece of writing stimulated by the thinking points above. This might be an autobiographical piece or fiction. It might be prose or poetry, but remember: avoid whimsy, keep it tight, concise and acute.
Good luck and enjoy!
Thinking Points:
As you are clearing out your wardrobe, which items bring back memories and what are those memories?
Which items were once oh so fashionable and yet now...?
Which items were an extravagance and rarely worn?
What are the old favourites? Do you still wear them? Can you not bear to throw them out?
Which items do you expect to be with you as you go into the future and face possibly momentous events?
Which items remind you of someone else?
OR: perhaps there is one particular item about which you wish to write.
WRITING TASK: The Clear-Out
A piece of writing stimulated by the thinking points above. This might be an autobiographical piece or fiction. It might be prose or poetry, but remember: avoid whimsy, keep it tight, concise and acute.
Good luck and enjoy!
Prompt Six Responses
Writing Space or a Space to Write
Card-making, colouring and culinary conjuring. Homework, hot glue gun and handicrafts. This is where I do my writing.
Two radios; one for Radio 4 and Radio Leeds and the other for Ridings FM, but they aren’t on when I am writing. When the TV is on in the living-room I try my best to blank the sound (I am so easily distracted).
Mismatched chairs and second-hand table both bear the dents and chips of wear. A clip-on lamp throws light on my paper, whilst more light glows from the large paper shade in the middle of the room.
Handy for a drink of tea, coffee or just water, but too handy for the box with the biscuits in.
A zip bag and a concertina file hold my ring binders and couple, well several, OK many notebooks and sheets of paper with the original work and edits (yes edits), before I type them up. I have three fountain pens that between them strive to slow my scribblings. One day I might have a desk and drawers and a pile of pristine paper.
Until then I shall be creative in the kitchen.
Lesley
NB The response to this week’s Prompt was mostly written in the living room in my recliner chair with the end added in front of the computer. The table was full of kitchenalia.
Covid 19–May 2020
My writing space has been clouded by the satanic virus that has encircled the world in an anaconda grip. These months in total lock down(food left on door steps, concerned family visits through glass windows,)has driven me into an inner cave of procrastination. Swaths of bluebells delight the woods surrounding our city setting to work the creative juices in the mind. Pity I have not been allowed outside the home to fully appreciate the spring. For others creativity has been born through necessity.
However, this gives me time to reflect the murals thrown into relief on the dusty walls of memory. As a child Iiving through WW11 enduring deprivation for the (duration)...Double summertime and relentless dark lamp-less nights. I cannot fail to compare the two social situations. That of being huddled together in deep concrete shelters to find safety; this viral one keeping us at a safe distance from human contact. Six feet away from family and friends is the Devil’s work attacking the bones of civilisation?
Wearing masks are future courtships to be conducted like the ‘Dance of the seven veils’?
The world has been knocked off its axis by this silent serpent making social awareness a major concern. Through the newsreels of the 40’s we learned of man’s inhumanity to man. Yet Satan has not had it all his way. Via the media of today and the doorstep help we are witness to an enveloping kindness, kindred of spirit and concern for wrapping the vulnerable in care.
The pop anthem in WW11 was “There’ll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover tomorrow…”
I’ll settle for a rainbow over God’s own county and a cheeky robin in the garden.
June
My Writing Space
I write in the safety,
Of my little warm spot.
I don’t bother anyone,
I like my little world a lot.
Cherry blossoms blooming,
Outside the window ledge.
And views you’d love to see,
From my spot behind the hedge.
When I get bored from writing,
I turn myself around.
And never let my troubles,
Ever get me down.
My spot is very precious,
To anyone who sees.
My tuck shop brings me joy,
And helps me write with ease.
Alice
The Yellow Room
Lent to us by a friend.
High ceilinged, airy.
French windowed into a loved,
not particularly well-kept garden.
Books and old family photos,
walls tended with art.
A place of calm
to ease down into comfortable couches.
The Yellow Room offers light,
to be with others,
no pressure, gentle nurturing
and words that reach and wrap.
Words that linger.
Deborah
A place of self-discovery
My books and maps stand look-out.
Shield me from a life not yet sampled
The deeper works a task to take up, sometime.
Near the ceiling, shelves of Lonely Planets
Places I ‘ve seen, places I haven’t.
The classic photo of the Colisseum
but didn’t bother with the T-shirt.
I can enter into many aural worlds
Bowie, Cohen and Schubert,
should I want.
Yesterday I dusted down Scott Walker,
Not a time-honoured favourite.
But something inside me stirred.
A memo to myself
I really should get out more.
Emley Masts wink in the dusk.
Footpath maps throw down a challenge
Ways through garish rapeseed fields,
and bluebell tinted woods.
Others pass at the prescribed distance
Looking to transcend their being.
John S
My Office
I like the silence in my office. It helps me to write. But one particular evening things began to change.
The old brown clock on the shelf above my desk was the first to speak:
‘You don’t like me much do you?’
I looked up at its aged golden face, sandwiched between road maps and a hand-made Xmas card.
‘You’re too heavy and you don’t work.,‘ I said. ‘You’re only here because my husband remembers you.’
The old black flat-iron on the window-sill sighed deeply. ‘No-one remembers me. I’m too old.’
Next to the flat-iron, a large stone ink jar stirred into life.
‘You’re part of history like me, flat-iron. I was found in an old school stockroom. We’ll never get thrown out.’
The rows of CDs on the shelves began to laugh. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that. I mean you don’t have any purpose now do you? Who needs ink and flat-irons these days?’
The ink jar bristled with rage.
‘At least I’m decorative. You’re just rows of plastic. They never listen to many of you these days anyway. Not even the jazz ones they were once so mad about. Not like those children’s books she’s so keen on these days.’
‘There was a purring from the colourful books in the little bookcase by the door, ‘she loves us so much,’ they giggled.
A gruff booming voice came from inside a larger adjacent bookcase.
‘Stop that giggling. We’re trying to sleep. It’s tiring being old heavy volumes like us. Some of us go back as far as World War 1 you know.’
I put my hands to my ears.
‘Can you please all keep quiet! I’m trying to write about my office for the Agbrigg Writers.’
Larraine
The Space
There is a space, where the words whirl on full spin
Piped in through the eyes, the nose and ears
Gathered up on trains and buses and boats
Witnessed amidst the tower blocks and rolling hills
Their aroma sniffed in the bakers, the bars and the coffee shops
Felt in the brush of a hand, the thrill of embrace, the taste of a kiss
Listen. And the word will come
Like something submerged for a long time
Rising out of the shadows
Slowly coming to the surface
Lyn
My Space
Tranquil in essence,
faint murmurs of storm cracking
like a wave against a rock.
The floor to ceiling patio doors
allow for a panoramic view
of the garden I’ve nurtured.
Rain drops poised on the gangly arms
of a potted monkey puzzle while
other trees line the boundaries:
acers, a Christmas tree and a rambling rose
draped over the tingling water feature.
Pots and troughs flourish
with lilies, hydrangeas, fuchsias and
bamboo bushes of red, yellow and green.
Giant ornamental mushrooms
and wire sculpted insects:
butterflies, dragonflies and ladybirds.
Wind chimes,
metal on metal, wood on wood
and vibrant green shards of glass
singing in a light breeze.
A blackbird dances on a carpet of plum slate
and soft echoes bounce
off a nearby wall.
Daylight fades and crystal balls
release an array of colour;
my garden’s magical glow.
Inspiration drifts towards me
intertwines with the books
nestled between palms, cacti
and spider.
Mystic, fantasy and ancient texts
flood from their bindings
to the nib of my pen.
Mela
My Writing Space
inside my head
nooks and crannies with dusty memories
an attic-full of gritty thoughts,
foreign aromas and flashbacks
a biological filing cabinet
of proteins, synapses, neuro-transmitters
my brain is my briefcase
with a leather flap and a brass lock
hundreds of hand-written sheets
hugging adventures and secrets
some are cute and kitsch
some are crying in the night
Sharyn
My Writing Space
My writing space is – er – is
between my ears.
Limitless and endless,
but not empty.
The space is a scarred battle zone roamed by armies of emotion,
marking their shifting territories with way markers and spent arsenal.
Sometimes there are striped marquees,
cheerful glamping models
strung with prayer bells and fairy lights.
Guy ropes tension the big tops down
but they loosen.
Tents will suddenly explode
like hot air balloons into a sky.
This is when, needs must, I start to play tiddly winks
on a snakes and ladders board.
In the drift of my landscape thoughts open out
like fronded ferns.
Spores of ideas cadence together forming
hybrids - and sometimes weeds.
A plant sets.
Sometimes I water it,
other times I don’t.
On a star blessed evening, I stroll about my meadows,
inspect the plants ready for harvest.
Take the scythe and cut, cut, cut.
Search for caterpillars and dead leaves
and then …….
Arrange in an old pot for all to see.
Viv
Prompt Six: My Writing Space
Writing Prompt 6. My Writing Space
Write about your writing space? Well that sounds easy enough doesn’t it? It’s just a straightforward piece of non-fiction description. Have a look around and describe the space you normally write in.
But wait a minute. What if your writing space gives you access to an imaginary world, or a doorway into the future or the past? What if your writing space allows you direct access into your own heart? What kind of writing emerges then? What if your writing space allows you, like Arna Radovich, to comment on those things which threaten all of our lives? How then do we use our three hundred words of prose or construct our poems?
Remember, that what we write may be important, but how we write it is crucial. Look at Arna’s, “Bushfires encircling us like a noose” for instance.
Good luck!
Blue Mountains
My writing space is nestled in the bush in the Blue Mountains of Australia. The exotic trees are starting to turn red and gold, and yet there’s still only a pinch of chill in the air. Following years of drought and the devastating summer bushfires, we’ve had more rain than we’ve seen in years and the bush is full of colour and new life. Before the rain, we’d lived for months in a state of constant anxiety. Mega bushfires ignited on all sides, gradually encircling us like a noose. And now this—this virus that has ripped away the foundations of our lives in ways that were unimaginable a few short months ago. It is difficult to think or write about anything else.
Arna Radovich
Write about your writing space? Well that sounds easy enough doesn’t it? It’s just a straightforward piece of non-fiction description. Have a look around and describe the space you normally write in.
But wait a minute. What if your writing space gives you access to an imaginary world, or a doorway into the future or the past? What if your writing space allows you direct access into your own heart? What kind of writing emerges then? What if your writing space allows you, like Arna Radovich, to comment on those things which threaten all of our lives? How then do we use our three hundred words of prose or construct our poems?
Remember, that what we write may be important, but how we write it is crucial. Look at Arna’s, “Bushfires encircling us like a noose” for instance.
Good luck!
Blue Mountains
My writing space is nestled in the bush in the Blue Mountains of Australia. The exotic trees are starting to turn red and gold, and yet there’s still only a pinch of chill in the air. Following years of drought and the devastating summer bushfires, we’ve had more rain than we’ve seen in years and the bush is full of colour and new life. Before the rain, we’d lived for months in a state of constant anxiety. Mega bushfires ignited on all sides, gradually encircling us like a noose. And now this—this virus that has ripped away the foundations of our lives in ways that were unimaginable a few short months ago. It is difficult to think or write about anything else.
Arna Radovich
Prompt Five Responses: A Piece of Cake
This week responses include energetic pieces on walking, jogging and swimming, a plan to pull down Durham Cathedral, a resolute spider and some salutary advice on courting which would have been useful to the editor many years ago. Additionally, we have a piece about life organisation and it all seems very pertinent at the moment. I should also mention that we also have a visiting poet, Deborah Robinson. She is winner of the Wakefield postcode prize in the Red Shed Competition 2020 and I invited her to submit another one of her beautiful poems, Ways to Tell Him. Please give her a nice warm Agbrigg welcome. Read and enjoy, and as always, look out for the next prompt on Thursday at one o'clock.
Many thanks everyone. Stay safe.
John
Many thanks everyone. Stay safe.
John
Jogging
It was a bright sunny day so I went for a jog
It was a bright sunny day, I saw a dog
I saw a dog then a cat then a walker
I went even faster, he may be a stalker
I spotted a duck, a grebe and a tern
I spotted a swan, a plover, a bittern
I spotted a heron, me steps didn’t falter
I went head over heels straight into the water
Lyn
Swim
I am learning to swim.
I am learning to swim and stand away from the side.
I am learning to swim and stand away from the side and raise my arms.
I am learning to swim and stand away from the side and raise my arms and bend from the waist.
I am learning to swim and stand away from the side and raise my arms and bend from the waist and grab the side.
I am learning to swim and stand away from the side and raise my arms and bend from the waist and grab the side and I will lift my legs.
I am learning to swim and stand away from the side and raise my arms and bend from the waist and grab the side and I will lift my legs and I will float.
I sigh and pull on my swim cap.
Lesley
North Face of the Shower Basin
A spider, leaves his safe cocoon.
A spider, leaves his safe cocoon and stretches out in the morning sun.
A spider, leaves his safe cocoon and stretches out in the morning sun. He ventures across a window ledge.
A spider, leaves his safe cocoon and stretches out in the morning sun. He ventures across a window ledge and carefully abseils to the floor.
A spider, leaves his safe cocoon and stretches out in the morning sun. He ventures across a window ledge and abseils to the floor. His legs take him for miles.
A spider, leaves his safe cocoon and stretches out in the morning sun. He ventures across a window ledge and carefully abseils to the floor. His legs take him for miles, then he runs into a giant wall.
A spider, leaves his safe cocoon and stretches out in the morning sun. He ventures across the window ledge and carefully abseils to the floor. His legs take him for miles, then he runs into a giant wall. He grapples frantically up the side.
A spider, leaves his safe cocoon and stretches out in the morning sun. He ventures across a window ledge and carefully abseils to the floor. His legs take him for miles, then he runs into a giant wall. He grapples frantically up the side, risking life and limb as he reaches the top.
With the gust from a prevailing door in the west, he plummets to the other side.
Mela
Recipe for Romance
“A make no wonder you’ve had no success in the dating game lad. All this on-line stuff’s unreal. Take a few tips from an old realist.
First find a suitable setting to get the measure of each other.
A casual walk to a coffee bar or the local pub helps size up the person behind the face.
Always see that you smell fresh, something subtle. By this time, you will be aware of her scent and don’t want to overpower this with your Paco Raban.
Don’t flirt! Leave that for nights out on the pull.
Be complimentary...teeth, hair, infectious laugh.
Blue Stockings know they’re intelligent without unintentional patronage, so introduce frivolity into the chat.
Brash remarks are often misinterpreted always be up front, say exactly what you mean. Expect the same from her.
Remember nobody likes a smart arse.
Opposites are known to attract but it’s as well to find some common ground...Musical interest is pretty safe but leave out the politics.
Try out a bit of romantic stuff on the drive over to her place...Keep everything on the light side.
“Dad your old-fashioned ideas are rubbish! The whole thing was dry as last week’s bread.”
“The fault is mine son! I failed to mention the main ingredient. An indefinable chemistry; a spark that kindles a warm sensation in the pit of the stomach...without it nothing is ever going to prove.”
June
Repurposing
Durham Cathedral is too beautiful
Durham Cathedral is too beautiful so pull it down
Durham Cathedral is too beautiful so pull it down and build a shopping mall
Durham Cathedral is too beautiful so pull it down and build a shopping mall with the recycled bricks
Durham Cathedral is too beautiful so pull it down and build a shopping mall with the recycled bricks and pre-loved stained glass
Durham Cathedral is too beautiful so pull it down and build a shopping mall with the recycled bricks and pre-loved stained glass and charity shops
Durham Cathedral is too beautiful so pull it down and build a shopping mall with the recycled bricks and pre-loved stained glass and charity shops and KFC
Durham Cathedral is too beautiful so pull it down and build a shopping mall with the recycled bricks and pre-loved stained glass and charity shops and KFC and 70% off, all must go
Durham Cathedral is too beautiful so pull it down and build a shopping mall with the recycled bricks and pre-loved stained glass and charity shops and KFC and 70% off, all must go, and a soup kitchen in the basement
And this shall be the People’s New Cathedral
Sharyn Owen
Ways to Tell Him
She turned a page,
She turned a page and hesitated in thought.
She felt his presence,
She felt his presence and he smiled.
The light smeared him,
The light smeared him and would he speak?
She was still,
She was still and the room was silent.
He was still,
He was still and the room was silent.
He spoke but she couldn’t hear him,
She spoke.
And he turned away.
Deborah
No Change
I yawn
I decide to go to bed
I’ll get ready in a minute
But first I will empty the dishwasher
I will just make a note to ring Bethany tomorrow
I haven’t written her birthday card so I will do it now.
Goodness I haven’t wrapped her present so will do that now.
I meant to record tomorrow’s film; it will only take me a minute.
There are one or two more things I meant to do but didn’t get around to it
I can quickly do them now and then they won’t be hanging over me. I’ll start by sewing
the seam on that pillow case which has been irritating me for over a fortnight now. It shouldn’t
have split.
While I’m at it I might as well sew those couple of bits I have been meaning to do but haven’t seemed to find time
I yawn again and look at the clock. It really is time for bed or be tired tomorrow. Thank goodness I don’t have to go to work tomorrow.
Whoops it is morning.
Gwyneth
Jogging
It was a bright sunny day so I went for a jog
It was a bright sunny day, I saw a dog
I saw a dog then a cat then a walker
I went even faster, he may be a stalker
I spotted a duck, a grebe and a tern
I spotted a swan, a plover, a bittern
I spotted a heron, me steps didn’t falter
I went head over heels straight into the water
Lyn
Swim
I am learning to swim.
I am learning to swim and stand away from the side.
I am learning to swim and stand away from the side and raise my arms.
I am learning to swim and stand away from the side and raise my arms and bend from the waist.
I am learning to swim and stand away from the side and raise my arms and bend from the waist and grab the side.
I am learning to swim and stand away from the side and raise my arms and bend from the waist and grab the side and I will lift my legs.
I am learning to swim and stand away from the side and raise my arms and bend from the waist and grab the side and I will lift my legs and I will float.
I sigh and pull on my swim cap.
Lesley
North Face of the Shower Basin
A spider, leaves his safe cocoon.
A spider, leaves his safe cocoon and stretches out in the morning sun.
A spider, leaves his safe cocoon and stretches out in the morning sun. He ventures across a window ledge.
A spider, leaves his safe cocoon and stretches out in the morning sun. He ventures across a window ledge and carefully abseils to the floor.
A spider, leaves his safe cocoon and stretches out in the morning sun. He ventures across a window ledge and abseils to the floor. His legs take him for miles.
A spider, leaves his safe cocoon and stretches out in the morning sun. He ventures across a window ledge and carefully abseils to the floor. His legs take him for miles, then he runs into a giant wall.
A spider, leaves his safe cocoon and stretches out in the morning sun. He ventures across the window ledge and carefully abseils to the floor. His legs take him for miles, then he runs into a giant wall. He grapples frantically up the side.
A spider, leaves his safe cocoon and stretches out in the morning sun. He ventures across a window ledge and carefully abseils to the floor. His legs take him for miles, then he runs into a giant wall. He grapples frantically up the side, risking life and limb as he reaches the top.
With the gust from a prevailing door in the west, he plummets to the other side.
Mela
Recipe for Romance
“A make no wonder you’ve had no success in the dating game lad. All this on-line stuff’s unreal. Take a few tips from an old realist.
First find a suitable setting to get the measure of each other.
A casual walk to a coffee bar or the local pub helps size up the person behind the face.
Always see that you smell fresh, something subtle. By this time, you will be aware of her scent and don’t want to overpower this with your Paco Raban.
Don’t flirt! Leave that for nights out on the pull.
Be complimentary...teeth, hair, infectious laugh.
Blue Stockings know they’re intelligent without unintentional patronage, so introduce frivolity into the chat.
Brash remarks are often misinterpreted always be up front, say exactly what you mean. Expect the same from her.
Remember nobody likes a smart arse.
Opposites are known to attract but it’s as well to find some common ground...Musical interest is pretty safe but leave out the politics.
Try out a bit of romantic stuff on the drive over to her place...Keep everything on the light side.
“Dad your old-fashioned ideas are rubbish! The whole thing was dry as last week’s bread.”
“The fault is mine son! I failed to mention the main ingredient. An indefinable chemistry; a spark that kindles a warm sensation in the pit of the stomach...without it nothing is ever going to prove.”
June
Repurposing
Durham Cathedral is too beautiful
Durham Cathedral is too beautiful so pull it down
Durham Cathedral is too beautiful so pull it down and build a shopping mall
Durham Cathedral is too beautiful so pull it down and build a shopping mall with the recycled bricks
Durham Cathedral is too beautiful so pull it down and build a shopping mall with the recycled bricks and pre-loved stained glass
Durham Cathedral is too beautiful so pull it down and build a shopping mall with the recycled bricks and pre-loved stained glass and charity shops
Durham Cathedral is too beautiful so pull it down and build a shopping mall with the recycled bricks and pre-loved stained glass and charity shops and KFC
Durham Cathedral is too beautiful so pull it down and build a shopping mall with the recycled bricks and pre-loved stained glass and charity shops and KFC and 70% off, all must go
Durham Cathedral is too beautiful so pull it down and build a shopping mall with the recycled bricks and pre-loved stained glass and charity shops and KFC and 70% off, all must go, and a soup kitchen in the basement
And this shall be the People’s New Cathedral
Sharyn Owen
Ways to Tell Him
She turned a page,
She turned a page and hesitated in thought.
She felt his presence,
She felt his presence and he smiled.
The light smeared him,
The light smeared him and would he speak?
She was still,
She was still and the room was silent.
He was still,
He was still and the room was silent.
He spoke but she couldn’t hear him,
She spoke.
And he turned away.
Deborah
No Change
I yawn
I decide to go to bed
I’ll get ready in a minute
But first I will empty the dishwasher
I will just make a note to ring Bethany tomorrow
I haven’t written her birthday card so I will do it now.
Goodness I haven’t wrapped her present so will do that now.
I meant to record tomorrow’s film; it will only take me a minute.
There are one or two more things I meant to do but didn’t get around to it
I can quickly do them now and then they won’t be hanging over me. I’ll start by sewing
the seam on that pillow case which has been irritating me for over a fortnight now. It shouldn’t
have split.
While I’m at it I might as well sew those couple of bits I have been meaning to do but haven’t seemed to find time
I yawn again and look at the clock. It really is time for bed or be tired tomorrow. Thank goodness I don’t have to go to work tomorrow.
Whoops it is morning.
Gwyneth
Prompt Five
A Piece of Cake
Prompt 5
Read the following poem by Sandal poet, Felix Evans very carefully.
Look at the way he has structured the poem, starting with the simple sentence: My mum is making a cake.
Then he adds some more information to the initial statement: she gets a bowl and a spoon. That is the first line complete.
The second line is formed by repeating this first line and then adding one more piece of information to that.
The process continues for seven lines in all.
Then the final line breaks the pattern with a twist.
My mum is making a cake
My mum is making a cake she gets a bowl and a spoon.
My mum is making a cake she gets a bowl and a spoon and puts in some eggs.
My mum is making a cake she gets a bowl and a spoon and puts in some eggs and flour.
My mum is making a cake she gets a bowl and a spoon and puts in some eggs and flour and sugar.
My mum is making a cake she gets a bowl and a spoon and puts in some eggs and flour and sugar and sunflower oil.
My mum is making a cake she gets a bowl and a spoon and puts in some eggs and flour and sugar and sunflower oil then she mixes it.
My mum is making a cake she gets a bowl and a spoon and puts in some eggs and flour and sugar and sunflower oil then she mixes it and puts it in the oven.
Oops she burnt it.
Felix Evans
Your task is to follow this structure. Think of a subject where the initial statement and be gradually built up over the following lines until you reach the final “surprise” line.
Read the following poem by Sandal poet, Felix Evans very carefully.
Look at the way he has structured the poem, starting with the simple sentence: My mum is making a cake.
Then he adds some more information to the initial statement: she gets a bowl and a spoon. That is the first line complete.
The second line is formed by repeating this first line and then adding one more piece of information to that.
The process continues for seven lines in all.
Then the final line breaks the pattern with a twist.
My mum is making a cake
My mum is making a cake she gets a bowl and a spoon.
My mum is making a cake she gets a bowl and a spoon and puts in some eggs.
My mum is making a cake she gets a bowl and a spoon and puts in some eggs and flour.
My mum is making a cake she gets a bowl and a spoon and puts in some eggs and flour and sugar.
My mum is making a cake she gets a bowl and a spoon and puts in some eggs and flour and sugar and sunflower oil.
My mum is making a cake she gets a bowl and a spoon and puts in some eggs and flour and sugar and sunflower oil then she mixes it.
My mum is making a cake she gets a bowl and a spoon and puts in some eggs and flour and sugar and sunflower oil then she mixes it and puts it in the oven.
Oops she burnt it.
Felix Evans
Your task is to follow this structure. Think of a subject where the initial statement and be gradually built up over the following lines until you reach the final “surprise” line.
Remember, you could "honour" the form by producing a piece of writing which has an incremental build up of the subject or situation and then ends with a deflation. In other words artistic license applies (up to a point.)
Good luck with that.
The usual procedure applies: submit your response to me by Sunday midnight and I'll post it on the site on Monday morning.
Good luck with that.
The usual procedure applies: submit your response to me by Sunday midnight and I'll post it on the site on Monday morning.
The Story of Lucy Gault (extract)
It rained in the night and all the next day. They played bagatelle, and Lucy began the conversation she wanted to have about Vanity Fair. Then they played bagatelle again. Ralph said:
“I love you, Lucy.”
Lucy did not remind him that he had told her so already and more than once. Gently she stroked with her fingertips the back of his hand. She stroked his hair.
“Dear Ralph,” she whispered, “you must not love me.”
“I cannot help it.”
“One day, when you marry, will you write and tell me? So that I know and can imagine that too. And will you write when each child is born? And tell me your wife’s name and give some slight description of her? So that I can always see you and your wife, and children, in that house beside the sawmills. Will you promise, Ralph?”
“It’s you I want to marry.”
William Trevor
Prompt Four Responses
Another set of varied responses to last week's prompt. Well done everyone. Have a read of everyone else's work now and then make a positive, constructive response. I'll post the source of the prompt in a day or so.
1. Bagatelle
It rained in the night and all the next day. They played bagatelle, and Lucy began the conversation she wanted to have about Vanity Fair. Then they played bagatelle again. Ralph said:
“My uncle Fred made me a bagatelle like this when I was a boy. He was more like a father to me than my own dad ever was.”
Lucy did not remind him that he had told her so already and more than once. Gently she stroked with her fingertips the back of his hand. She stroked his hair.
“Let’s not talk about the past,” she whispered, “I want to talk about the future. Our future. You and me.”
“People like me don’t have futures with women like you.” said Ralph.
“Why are you so pathetic Ralph? Why do you let your father tell you what to think? Just tell him we’re getting married. This is the twenty first century, not the middle ages. You don’t need your father’s permission to get married, even if he is the most powerful man in the town.”
“You will never understand. I need his approval. I always will.”
Larraine
2. I Don’t Want to Play This Anymore
Ralph: I don’t want to play this anymore. Daddy is coming for me soon and I want to go and watch for him.
Lucy: Daddy can’t come for you today Ralph baby. He loves you but he just can’t come. He has had to go away for a long time but he will come back to see you. He said to tell you he misses you.
Ralph: I am not playing with you. You sent him away and I am not your friend anymore. I heard you shouting at him and calling him names. It’s your fault he has gone away. I want my daddy.
Lucy: I didn’t send him away Ralph but he had to go because he did something to upset the policeman. He has had to go and stay in one of the Queen’s big hotels. When you do something naughty, I sometimes take away your toys to punish you or make you sit on the naughty step. Daddy has had to go to the naughty man’s place and be taken away from you to punish him for being naughty. Sadly, that means that we are punished too because daddy was taken away from us even though we haven’t been naughty. Do you want to play again?
Gwyneth
3. Sweet
It rained in the night and all the next day. They played bagatelle, and Lucy began the conversation she wanted to have about Vanity Fair. Then they played bagatelle again. Ralph said:
“This game developed from a French game called trou madame. It’s a kind of indoor croquet.”
Lucy did not remind him that he had told her so already and more than once. Gently she stroked with her fingertips the back of his hand. She stroked his hair.
“We will be able to go out soon,” she whispered, “It’s only going to be another three weeks of lockdown.”
“I’ve read every book, completed every Sudoku in the flat and watched every box set of Breaking Bad. And before you ask, no I don’t want you to read me my horoscope from that bloody magazine. Why don’t you buy “Red” or “Chat? At least it would have real people in it. Vanity Fair is a stupid name for a magazine. I keep thinking about those tins of sweets we used to get at Christmas.”
“Ralph. I know you want to play golf. Believe me, I want you to too. I can’t wait. But we have to be strong, protect the NH…“
“Aargh!! I’m just going out to the shed dearest, to find that axe.”
“OK dearest. I’ll put the kettle on for a nice brew.”
Sharyn
4. Demanding Answers
It rained in the night and all the next day. They played bagatelle, and Lucy began the conversation she wanted to have about Vanity Fair. Then they played bagatelle again. Ralph said:
“I tell you Lucy, bagatelle is the single that is gonna launch our band.”
Lucy did not remind him that he had told her so already and more than once. Gently she stroked with her fingertips the back of his hand. She stroked his hair.
“Oh yes Ralph” she whispered, “Can we listen to Demanding Answers now?”
“Why? What for?”
“Ralph! We have just listened twice to your little guitar band single. Why do you rubbish anything my band Vanity Fair do? Our band is good. There’s three of us and we make more noise than you. We have good lyrics and we are great musicians. People like us. Don’t be so self-absorbed. Take a step out of your ever so tiny world of you and support me for once.”
“OK, so let’s listen to your little single then.”
Lesley
5. Vanity Fair
It rained in the night and all the next day. They played bagatelle, and Lucy began the conversation she wanted to have about Vanity Fair. Then they played bagatelle again Ralph said:
“We’ll have to get rid of that nag”
Lucy did not remind him that he had told her so already and more than once. Gently she stroked with her fingertips the back of his hand. She stroked his hair
“I’d visions of entering him in Ascot” she whispered,” he’s a thoroughbred.”
“Good money after bad Luce.”
I appreciate he does not appear able to move from the back of the line but he is our access to the Royal Enclosure.”
“What else do you plan to use? You can’t count on a Flirty Fascinator and beckoning eyes being an asset in that cavalcade...Takes a bit of craft”.
“You are a true lord darling Ralph...Leave the rest to me”
“Touché”
June
1. Bagatelle
It rained in the night and all the next day. They played bagatelle, and Lucy began the conversation she wanted to have about Vanity Fair. Then they played bagatelle again. Ralph said:
“My uncle Fred made me a bagatelle like this when I was a boy. He was more like a father to me than my own dad ever was.”
Lucy did not remind him that he had told her so already and more than once. Gently she stroked with her fingertips the back of his hand. She stroked his hair.
“Let’s not talk about the past,” she whispered, “I want to talk about the future. Our future. You and me.”
“People like me don’t have futures with women like you.” said Ralph.
“Why are you so pathetic Ralph? Why do you let your father tell you what to think? Just tell him we’re getting married. This is the twenty first century, not the middle ages. You don’t need your father’s permission to get married, even if he is the most powerful man in the town.”
“You will never understand. I need his approval. I always will.”
Larraine
2. I Don’t Want to Play This Anymore
Ralph: I don’t want to play this anymore. Daddy is coming for me soon and I want to go and watch for him.
Lucy: Daddy can’t come for you today Ralph baby. He loves you but he just can’t come. He has had to go away for a long time but he will come back to see you. He said to tell you he misses you.
Ralph: I am not playing with you. You sent him away and I am not your friend anymore. I heard you shouting at him and calling him names. It’s your fault he has gone away. I want my daddy.
Lucy: I didn’t send him away Ralph but he had to go because he did something to upset the policeman. He has had to go and stay in one of the Queen’s big hotels. When you do something naughty, I sometimes take away your toys to punish you or make you sit on the naughty step. Daddy has had to go to the naughty man’s place and be taken away from you to punish him for being naughty. Sadly, that means that we are punished too because daddy was taken away from us even though we haven’t been naughty. Do you want to play again?
Gwyneth
3. Sweet
It rained in the night and all the next day. They played bagatelle, and Lucy began the conversation she wanted to have about Vanity Fair. Then they played bagatelle again. Ralph said:
“This game developed from a French game called trou madame. It’s a kind of indoor croquet.”
Lucy did not remind him that he had told her so already and more than once. Gently she stroked with her fingertips the back of his hand. She stroked his hair.
“We will be able to go out soon,” she whispered, “It’s only going to be another three weeks of lockdown.”
“I’ve read every book, completed every Sudoku in the flat and watched every box set of Breaking Bad. And before you ask, no I don’t want you to read me my horoscope from that bloody magazine. Why don’t you buy “Red” or “Chat? At least it would have real people in it. Vanity Fair is a stupid name for a magazine. I keep thinking about those tins of sweets we used to get at Christmas.”
“Ralph. I know you want to play golf. Believe me, I want you to too. I can’t wait. But we have to be strong, protect the NH…“
“Aargh!! I’m just going out to the shed dearest, to find that axe.”
“OK dearest. I’ll put the kettle on for a nice brew.”
Sharyn
4. Demanding Answers
It rained in the night and all the next day. They played bagatelle, and Lucy began the conversation she wanted to have about Vanity Fair. Then they played bagatelle again. Ralph said:
“I tell you Lucy, bagatelle is the single that is gonna launch our band.”
Lucy did not remind him that he had told her so already and more than once. Gently she stroked with her fingertips the back of his hand. She stroked his hair.
“Oh yes Ralph” she whispered, “Can we listen to Demanding Answers now?”
“Why? What for?”
“Ralph! We have just listened twice to your little guitar band single. Why do you rubbish anything my band Vanity Fair do? Our band is good. There’s three of us and we make more noise than you. We have good lyrics and we are great musicians. People like us. Don’t be so self-absorbed. Take a step out of your ever so tiny world of you and support me for once.”
“OK, so let’s listen to your little single then.”
Lesley
5. Vanity Fair
It rained in the night and all the next day. They played bagatelle, and Lucy began the conversation she wanted to have about Vanity Fair. Then they played bagatelle again Ralph said:
“We’ll have to get rid of that nag”
Lucy did not remind him that he had told her so already and more than once. Gently she stroked with her fingertips the back of his hand. She stroked his hair
“I’d visions of entering him in Ascot” she whispered,” he’s a thoroughbred.”
“Good money after bad Luce.”
I appreciate he does not appear able to move from the back of the line but he is our access to the Royal Enclosure.”
“What else do you plan to use? You can’t count on a Flirty Fascinator and beckoning eyes being an asset in that cavalcade...Takes a bit of craft”.
“You are a true lord darling Ralph...Leave the rest to me”
“Touché”
June
Prompt Four
Thursday 16th April
After the splendid efforts last week, we are going to look in more detail at speech and dialogue in prose fiction this week.
The prompt is taken from a published novel only I've removed the actual words spoken.
All you have to do is try and pick up the tone of the conversation and add what you consider to be the most appropriate words to fill the gaps.
Remember: this is an extract. You are not expected to produce a story with a beginning, middle and end. It is lively, engaging written speech we are looking for.
Good luck! Contributions will be posted on Monday as usual.
It rained in the night and all the next day. They played bagatelle, and Lucy began the conversation she wanted to have about Vanity Fair. Then they played bagatelle again. Ralph said:
“ 1. A line of speech from Ralph.”
Lucy did not remind him that he had told her so already and more than once. Gently she stroked with her fingertips the back of his hand. She stroked his hair.
“2. Lucy speaking,” she whispered, “3. Lucy continues_______________”
“4. Ralph’s response.”
“5. Much lengthier speech from Lucy_______________________________
________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________
___________________________________________________________ “
“6. Ralph’s response.”
The prompt is taken from a published novel only I've removed the actual words spoken.
All you have to do is try and pick up the tone of the conversation and add what you consider to be the most appropriate words to fill the gaps.
Remember: this is an extract. You are not expected to produce a story with a beginning, middle and end. It is lively, engaging written speech we are looking for.
Good luck! Contributions will be posted on Monday as usual.
It rained in the night and all the next day. They played bagatelle, and Lucy began the conversation she wanted to have about Vanity Fair. Then they played bagatelle again. Ralph said:
“ 1. A line of speech from Ralph.”
Lucy did not remind him that he had told her so already and more than once. Gently she stroked with her fingertips the back of his hand. She stroked his hair.
“2. Lucy speaking,” she whispered, “3. Lucy continues_______________”
“4. Ralph’s response.”
“5. Much lengthier speech from Lucy_______________________________
________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________
___________________________________________________________ “
“6. Ralph’s response.”
Prompt Three Responses
Decisive
01924 Where was that paper with the rest of the number. You would have thought she would have remembered it by now. She scrabbled in the untidy pile on the pull-down desk. She had bought it to hide all the stationery bits and pieces. That was three years ago and she long since stopped shutting it.
The piece of paper was at the bottom of the pile and as she opened it, she thought she would practice what she would say. She must remain decisive. This was new and she didn’t want to mess up. Imagining him laughing at her made her want to hang up now.
The first three numbers and, oh dear, her courage was fading. No! Be firm! Next three numbers and it was ringing and click “Hello?”.
She replaced the receiver. She also knew that tonight she would ring back and order Chicken Tikka Masala, just like every Friday night.
Lesley
Patient 8999
Georgina Sampson dialled the number they gave her yesterday.
She had woken with a start from troubled sleep, after dreams of being trapped in a white, metal, humming machine, airless and claustrophobic.
It was 8.15 am.
There was no morning mug of tea – the first time for, she couldn’t count how many, years.
A blackbird was singing: It was the softest Spring morning she could remember. Quiet without traffic.
He went in the ambulance. The paramedics were wonderful. She couldn’t go with him, but they gave her the special hospital number to ring. It had a time slot. 8.15.
She had had rung the children, her sister-in-law, their friends and the rest of the extended family; she spent most of the day phoning and emailing. In the evening she had toast and thickly spread marmite. It was all she wanted. It didn’t taste of anything.
It was strange to think, when they were standing at the altar of Putney Methodist Church 46 years ago, that this was where it might end.
She had no idea how or when he picked up the virus. She told him not to buy a newspaper. But he always liked to take risks. He thought she was over-fussy.
She shook herself. It would be OK. He was a reasonably fit 73-year-old. No heart problems, no diabetes. Boris Johnson had recovered; so would he.
“All things shall pass.” She said to herself.
A click and a voice said “ICU. Which patient are you calling about, please?”
Sharyn
The Phone Call
Ring, ring...The person you have dialled is busy press 1 to return the call...Done that...Who could he be talking with now?
Our time together is strewn with tear-stains but still worth holding on to. How can I make him see that he is the pulse that keeps my soul alive. He must listen. I can’t let him walk away.
Crash!!!
God that hurts! Typical, it would be the lamp he bought for us.
For goodness sake. That’s a lot of blood...I’m nauseous. The glass has sliced a vein. God!!! I’m stuck...Must elevate the leg somehow and tourniquet.
How?
Everything is going black round the edges I’m about to faint. No, no take air in deep breaths. Now drag along the floor to the window. Reach up for the tie back. I can’t get the satin cord round my thigh. If I can lift my bottom and raise my leg onto the chair, I may be able to pull the phone down by the wire and call for help.
Oh, it’s ringing out...Burr, burr...the receiver is close but difficult to grasp. I don’t feel my hands anymore.
The voice is distant...” Sorry for the delay my husband is not available is there anything I can help with?”
The voice, echoes further and further down the chasm. My words will not form coherent sound. I hurtle into the blackness.
June
A call too far
01924 ------. That was the phone number on a leaflet Emily had found on her front door mat.
'Free valuation for those unwanted possessions'.
She'd been thinking about a good clear out for a while. There was a lot of stuff that hadn't seen the light of day since the last century.
Emily rang the number, but it was an answer service, so she left her name, number and address, then she hung up and thought little more about it.
She decided to work through all the gubbins and junk just the same, and about midday the phone rang. She relished the interruption as this was how she gauged her chores.
There was a deathly silence which she dismissed as a bad connection. No sooner had she replaced the handset; it rang again.
"I'm coming "
She hung up again, a little bemused, but unconcerned.
Perhaps it was a good time to take a break. She picked the leaflet back up and read through it again.
'Fast and efficient disposal, we don't disappoint.'
The phone rang again, but this time giving her a bit of a start.
"I'm coming for you."
She slammed the receiver down and sat staring at the phone.
What was she going to do, should she call someone?
Suddenly there was a loud knock.
Cautiously making her way to the door, she put the chain on and opened it.
"I'm here in response to your call."
Was it him?
She opened the door.
"It's this way."
He followed
Emily reached into the cupboard under the stairs, turned round and fired.
She mused to herself. Junk indeed.
I always knew this stuff would come in handy someday.
She dialled the number on the leaflet again, 01924 ------ .
“I’ve decided I won’t be requiring your services after all.”
T. van Olffen
01924 Where was that paper with the rest of the number. You would have thought she would have remembered it by now. She scrabbled in the untidy pile on the pull-down desk. She had bought it to hide all the stationery bits and pieces. That was three years ago and she long since stopped shutting it.
The piece of paper was at the bottom of the pile and as she opened it, she thought she would practice what she would say. She must remain decisive. This was new and she didn’t want to mess up. Imagining him laughing at her made her want to hang up now.
The first three numbers and, oh dear, her courage was fading. No! Be firm! Next three numbers and it was ringing and click “Hello?”.
She replaced the receiver. She also knew that tonight she would ring back and order Chicken Tikka Masala, just like every Friday night.
Lesley
Patient 8999
Georgina Sampson dialled the number they gave her yesterday.
She had woken with a start from troubled sleep, after dreams of being trapped in a white, metal, humming machine, airless and claustrophobic.
It was 8.15 am.
There was no morning mug of tea – the first time for, she couldn’t count how many, years.
A blackbird was singing: It was the softest Spring morning she could remember. Quiet without traffic.
He went in the ambulance. The paramedics were wonderful. She couldn’t go with him, but they gave her the special hospital number to ring. It had a time slot. 8.15.
She had had rung the children, her sister-in-law, their friends and the rest of the extended family; she spent most of the day phoning and emailing. In the evening she had toast and thickly spread marmite. It was all she wanted. It didn’t taste of anything.
It was strange to think, when they were standing at the altar of Putney Methodist Church 46 years ago, that this was where it might end.
She had no idea how or when he picked up the virus. She told him not to buy a newspaper. But he always liked to take risks. He thought she was over-fussy.
She shook herself. It would be OK. He was a reasonably fit 73-year-old. No heart problems, no diabetes. Boris Johnson had recovered; so would he.
“All things shall pass.” She said to herself.
A click and a voice said “ICU. Which patient are you calling about, please?”
Sharyn
The Phone Call
Ring, ring...The person you have dialled is busy press 1 to return the call...Done that...Who could he be talking with now?
Our time together is strewn with tear-stains but still worth holding on to. How can I make him see that he is the pulse that keeps my soul alive. He must listen. I can’t let him walk away.
Crash!!!
God that hurts! Typical, it would be the lamp he bought for us.
For goodness sake. That’s a lot of blood...I’m nauseous. The glass has sliced a vein. God!!! I’m stuck...Must elevate the leg somehow and tourniquet.
How?
Everything is going black round the edges I’m about to faint. No, no take air in deep breaths. Now drag along the floor to the window. Reach up for the tie back. I can’t get the satin cord round my thigh. If I can lift my bottom and raise my leg onto the chair, I may be able to pull the phone down by the wire and call for help.
Oh, it’s ringing out...Burr, burr...the receiver is close but difficult to grasp. I don’t feel my hands anymore.
The voice is distant...” Sorry for the delay my husband is not available is there anything I can help with?”
The voice, echoes further and further down the chasm. My words will not form coherent sound. I hurtle into the blackness.
June
A call too far
01924 ------. That was the phone number on a leaflet Emily had found on her front door mat.
'Free valuation for those unwanted possessions'.
She'd been thinking about a good clear out for a while. There was a lot of stuff that hadn't seen the light of day since the last century.
Emily rang the number, but it was an answer service, so she left her name, number and address, then she hung up and thought little more about it.
She decided to work through all the gubbins and junk just the same, and about midday the phone rang. She relished the interruption as this was how she gauged her chores.
There was a deathly silence which she dismissed as a bad connection. No sooner had she replaced the handset; it rang again.
"I'm coming "
She hung up again, a little bemused, but unconcerned.
Perhaps it was a good time to take a break. She picked the leaflet back up and read through it again.
'Fast and efficient disposal, we don't disappoint.'
The phone rang again, but this time giving her a bit of a start.
"I'm coming for you."
She slammed the receiver down and sat staring at the phone.
What was she going to do, should she call someone?
Suddenly there was a loud knock.
Cautiously making her way to the door, she put the chain on and opened it.
"I'm here in response to your call."
Was it him?
She opened the door.
"It's this way."
He followed
Emily reached into the cupboard under the stairs, turned round and fired.
She mused to herself. Junk indeed.
I always knew this stuff would come in handy someday.
She dialled the number on the leaflet again, 01924 ------ .
“I’ve decided I won’t be requiring your services after all.”
T. van Olffen
Prompt Three
Congratulations to all of our contributors. Look what turned up after last week’s prompt. A dystopian mystery, two autobiographical accounts and a ghost story. And remember, I was asking for the piece of grit, that moment of dislocation that left us feeling that the world wasn’t quite how we would like it to be. Well look at these extracts:
“I still wince at the memory of the class clown hugging his swollen hands.”
“I remembered miserably standing up in that room, explaining my project to the whole class.”
“On unsteady legs she turned and ran for home.”
“it’s not like I enjoyed it while I was there.”
The search for the piece of grit continues with this week’s prompt.
The Phone Call
Your piece of prose or poem will start with a dialling code being tapped into a phone and it will end with someone picking up at the other end. What happens in between is entirely up to you. It could be a descriptive piece about the surroundings of the person making the call, it could be an interior monologue from the point of view of the person making that call, their thoughts as they wait for an answer, or it could be a flashback piece explaining how the situation reached this point.
A word of advice: don’t try and over-explain. Dropping a few clues will be sufficient e.g. “She scratched at a small stain that had appeared on her nurse’s uniform.” tells us that she is a nurse for instance.
You have three hundred words at your disposal and a gang of Agbrigg Writers eager to read what you come up with. Don’t forget to email your work to me by midnight on Sunday and it will appear on the website on Monday morning.
Good luck!
John
“I still wince at the memory of the class clown hugging his swollen hands.”
“I remembered miserably standing up in that room, explaining my project to the whole class.”
“On unsteady legs she turned and ran for home.”
“it’s not like I enjoyed it while I was there.”
The search for the piece of grit continues with this week’s prompt.
The Phone Call
Your piece of prose or poem will start with a dialling code being tapped into a phone and it will end with someone picking up at the other end. What happens in between is entirely up to you. It could be a descriptive piece about the surroundings of the person making the call, it could be an interior monologue from the point of view of the person making that call, their thoughts as they wait for an answer, or it could be a flashback piece explaining how the situation reached this point.
A word of advice: don’t try and over-explain. Dropping a few clues will be sufficient e.g. “She scratched at a small stain that had appeared on her nurse’s uniform.” tells us that she is a nurse for instance.
You have three hundred words at your disposal and a gang of Agbrigg Writers eager to read what you come up with. Don’t forget to email your work to me by midnight on Sunday and it will appear on the website on Monday morning.
Good luck!
John
Prompt Two Responses
Well here we go. Thanks to our contributors, we have four very different pieces of writing to keep us engaged over our continued lockdown as well as the original poem which inspired the prompt. (Our thanks here to Alan Payne whose poem, Cinnamon was published in the North issue 58 2017.)
Please read all of the pieces and let's have loads of responses.
Don't forget that I will be posting prompt three on Thursday at one o'clock, I don't think I'll be going anywhere else, and the deadline for submitting responses to me is midnight on Sunday.
After
It was only safe to go out in the daylight hours now. In the distance I could see what remained of my old school. I don't know what possessed me to take a look; it's not like I enjoyed it when I was there. From the five-storey building only three levels appeared to remain and I could only hazard a guess as to how safe the stairs would be.
I approached one of the classrooms. Standing in the doorway, there was an eerie
feeling and a shudder came over my whole body; yet sunlight poured through a hole in one of the walls and tiny specks of dust floated in the bright rays, giving an almost godly appearance.
There was an odour, not unpleasant, stale perhaps, maybe a hint of vanilla, and something else. A sudden whiff of flora came from cracks in one of the exterior walls which had allowed plant life to take root. As I stood, open mouthed, a dry, chalky taste danced on my tongue. Thick dust felt soft to the touch, like freshly ground sawdust. And high above, was the rustle of feathers as a bird preened itself.
Rows of laminate tables in formation, where there had once been wooden desks with lids, a place to stash your belongings and keep them safe. How niaive - as children - we were.
A plain white board where the black board had stood; the ones that used to roll upward continuously taking most of my education with it.
But this wasn't right. Chairs pulled out in a haphazard manner, lain fallen on the floor, reading books, writing books and pens, strewn across surfaces, satchels open, leaned against table legs. What had happened, that they had to leave in such a hurry?
Why did they never return?
Mela
Boblingen
I climbed the stairs one at a time. Not two together like when I was at school here for 7th and 8th Grades. Where were the rows of army green lockers? These pretty pastel ones were surely not the same lockers.
And there, just there, the noticeboard was missing. Well the noticeboard as we knew it. Now there was an electronic screen showing the menu for lunch. I wonder, did they still have spaghetti on Thursdays? The smell would drift up the stairs and lunchtime could not come too soon.
But it was Mr Firth’s room that I needed to see. I knew from forums that Mr Firth had died. He was probably the most popular and entertaining teacher that any of us had had. His room walls were covered with pupil’s projects.
As I put my hand on the door handle, I prepared to see a ‘normal’ classroom. How wrong. The walls were still hung with the projects collected over the many years he had taught there. It was changed, but the same. The hand-copied replica of the Declaration of Independence was still over the chalkboard. Hand-stitched samplers
and replica items lined the walls. This room was a study room and a memorial to a great teacher.
I remembered miserably standing up in that room, explaining my project to the whole class. I had had three months to do it and had put something together the night before. I failed that semester but worked hard at the next project. It was a proud moment when he pinned it to the wall.
I still felt the misery of standing before the class, but I knew I had learnt a lesson about getting work done on time. I wonder what the others took away from this truly great man’s class?
Lesley
The Old School
I approached the building through the park. The school appeared much smaller than memory allowed but little had changed to the exterior since it had become an Adult Learning Centre.
On that spot stands a memorial to Richard Duke of York killed in the Battle of Wakefield in 1460. I attended there in 1945 up to leaving for a dressmaker’s apprenticeship in 1948.
It was a Secondary Modern School so none of us left sporting a GCE. However, all the girls knew how to clean, do the laundry ironing in particular, under the heading Domestic Science. The boys were taught woodwork and metal work (not allowed to do cookery because that was girl stuff.)
On reflection nostalgia creeps in because of the sense of belonging it invokes, being part of something bigger than family. Quietly filing into hall assemblies accompanied by piano renderings of “Jesu’ Joy of Man’s Desiring” and “Sheep May Safely Graze” resounding through the high ceiling. In the same hall dancing like Isadora Duncan wearing green cotton tabard and navy knickers when dust particles floated through primrose rays.
The smell of carbolic and chalk dust infused overcrowded classrooms in a dichotomy of 3 R boredom and inspired interest. Sex education came via the dinner queue where we discovered the word pregnant. Up to then it had been a woman discreetly covering her bump as if ashamed to have it seen. There were various astonishing ideas as to how the baby was conceived.
Six of the best was the usual way to maintain order. I still wince at the remembrance of the class clown hugging his swollen red hands and the collective guilt this tradition afforded.
Crisp brown leaves swirl round the memorial stone. I pull up my collar and move on.
June
Back Tracking
She was one of those cynical people who didn’t believe in ghosts. But she does now.
The space where the coal-blackened school had stood was now occupied by two pristine detached houses. Eyes closed, the outline of the old building became clearer, like the developing photos her father used to process. The old chimney, the Boys’ entrance, the Girls’ entrance carved in stone above the doors. She could hear the shouts and screams of three hundred children, skipping, hopping, the crack of bat on ball. Then the bell sounded, followed by the whistle. The advance in orderly lines to the classrooms, boys and girls together.
She hesitated at delving any further, however a virtual tour of the playground revealed the outside toilets and her nose wrinkled at that and the sulphurous blast emanating from the coke ovens in the pit head yard.
She imagined the shrill blast of the shunter’s whistle as it laboured, carrying its wasted load to the ever-growing tip when a tap on the shoulder caused her to jump around.
‘Give me that.’
She gasped at the familiar voice. How on earth could it be him, he had long ago departed this earth.
On unsteady legs she turned and ran for home.
Lyn
Cinnamon
Walking across the quadrangle
where the chestnut tree had stood
encircled by a wrought-iron seat,
and where the rope for the bell
which had summoned him
from bed each morning still dangled,
he brushed against a boy
removing his glasses
before being punched –
for liking cinnamon on toast,
for reading Gilgamesh,
for not banging his desk-lid
when the 1st XV beat Ashville
by a late dropped goal.
Alan Payne
Please read all of the pieces and let's have loads of responses.
Don't forget that I will be posting prompt three on Thursday at one o'clock, I don't think I'll be going anywhere else, and the deadline for submitting responses to me is midnight on Sunday.
After
It was only safe to go out in the daylight hours now. In the distance I could see what remained of my old school. I don't know what possessed me to take a look; it's not like I enjoyed it when I was there. From the five-storey building only three levels appeared to remain and I could only hazard a guess as to how safe the stairs would be.
I approached one of the classrooms. Standing in the doorway, there was an eerie
feeling and a shudder came over my whole body; yet sunlight poured through a hole in one of the walls and tiny specks of dust floated in the bright rays, giving an almost godly appearance.
There was an odour, not unpleasant, stale perhaps, maybe a hint of vanilla, and something else. A sudden whiff of flora came from cracks in one of the exterior walls which had allowed plant life to take root. As I stood, open mouthed, a dry, chalky taste danced on my tongue. Thick dust felt soft to the touch, like freshly ground sawdust. And high above, was the rustle of feathers as a bird preened itself.
Rows of laminate tables in formation, where there had once been wooden desks with lids, a place to stash your belongings and keep them safe. How niaive - as children - we were.
A plain white board where the black board had stood; the ones that used to roll upward continuously taking most of my education with it.
But this wasn't right. Chairs pulled out in a haphazard manner, lain fallen on the floor, reading books, writing books and pens, strewn across surfaces, satchels open, leaned against table legs. What had happened, that they had to leave in such a hurry?
Why did they never return?
Mela
Boblingen
I climbed the stairs one at a time. Not two together like when I was at school here for 7th and 8th Grades. Where were the rows of army green lockers? These pretty pastel ones were surely not the same lockers.
And there, just there, the noticeboard was missing. Well the noticeboard as we knew it. Now there was an electronic screen showing the menu for lunch. I wonder, did they still have spaghetti on Thursdays? The smell would drift up the stairs and lunchtime could not come too soon.
But it was Mr Firth’s room that I needed to see. I knew from forums that Mr Firth had died. He was probably the most popular and entertaining teacher that any of us had had. His room walls were covered with pupil’s projects.
As I put my hand on the door handle, I prepared to see a ‘normal’ classroom. How wrong. The walls were still hung with the projects collected over the many years he had taught there. It was changed, but the same. The hand-copied replica of the Declaration of Independence was still over the chalkboard. Hand-stitched samplers
and replica items lined the walls. This room was a study room and a memorial to a great teacher.
I remembered miserably standing up in that room, explaining my project to the whole class. I had had three months to do it and had put something together the night before. I failed that semester but worked hard at the next project. It was a proud moment when he pinned it to the wall.
I still felt the misery of standing before the class, but I knew I had learnt a lesson about getting work done on time. I wonder what the others took away from this truly great man’s class?
Lesley
The Old School
I approached the building through the park. The school appeared much smaller than memory allowed but little had changed to the exterior since it had become an Adult Learning Centre.
On that spot stands a memorial to Richard Duke of York killed in the Battle of Wakefield in 1460. I attended there in 1945 up to leaving for a dressmaker’s apprenticeship in 1948.
It was a Secondary Modern School so none of us left sporting a GCE. However, all the girls knew how to clean, do the laundry ironing in particular, under the heading Domestic Science. The boys were taught woodwork and metal work (not allowed to do cookery because that was girl stuff.)
On reflection nostalgia creeps in because of the sense of belonging it invokes, being part of something bigger than family. Quietly filing into hall assemblies accompanied by piano renderings of “Jesu’ Joy of Man’s Desiring” and “Sheep May Safely Graze” resounding through the high ceiling. In the same hall dancing like Isadora Duncan wearing green cotton tabard and navy knickers when dust particles floated through primrose rays.
The smell of carbolic and chalk dust infused overcrowded classrooms in a dichotomy of 3 R boredom and inspired interest. Sex education came via the dinner queue where we discovered the word pregnant. Up to then it had been a woman discreetly covering her bump as if ashamed to have it seen. There were various astonishing ideas as to how the baby was conceived.
Six of the best was the usual way to maintain order. I still wince at the remembrance of the class clown hugging his swollen red hands and the collective guilt this tradition afforded.
Crisp brown leaves swirl round the memorial stone. I pull up my collar and move on.
June
Back Tracking
She was one of those cynical people who didn’t believe in ghosts. But she does now.
The space where the coal-blackened school had stood was now occupied by two pristine detached houses. Eyes closed, the outline of the old building became clearer, like the developing photos her father used to process. The old chimney, the Boys’ entrance, the Girls’ entrance carved in stone above the doors. She could hear the shouts and screams of three hundred children, skipping, hopping, the crack of bat on ball. Then the bell sounded, followed by the whistle. The advance in orderly lines to the classrooms, boys and girls together.
She hesitated at delving any further, however a virtual tour of the playground revealed the outside toilets and her nose wrinkled at that and the sulphurous blast emanating from the coke ovens in the pit head yard.
She imagined the shrill blast of the shunter’s whistle as it laboured, carrying its wasted load to the ever-growing tip when a tap on the shoulder caused her to jump around.
‘Give me that.’
She gasped at the familiar voice. How on earth could it be him, he had long ago departed this earth.
On unsteady legs she turned and ran for home.
Lyn
Cinnamon
Walking across the quadrangle
where the chestnut tree had stood
encircled by a wrought-iron seat,
and where the rope for the bell
which had summoned him
from bed each morning still dangled,
he brushed against a boy
removing his glasses
before being punched –
for liking cinnamon on toast,
for reading Gilgamesh,
for not banging his desk-lid
when the 1st XV beat Ashville
by a late dropped goal.
Alan Payne
The Thursday One O'clock Prompt
Thursday 2nd April
Prompt Number Two
Back to School
Imagine that you made a return visit to a school you used to attend. The school may have been in full session or it may have been standing empty
What were the familiar things you expected to encounter?
What did you see that you did not expect to see?
How were the other four senses: touch, taste, smell and hearing affected?
And memories, what memories came to the fore?
Your piece of writing (poetry or prose usual word limit) will build up to that sense of an ending. The feeling that the world is suddenly altered in some way; things are now seen in a new light.
Don't let your writing drift into whimsical nostalgia, make sure it also contains some grit.
Good luck with that. Responses to me by midnight on Sunday 5th April.
Responses will be posted by lunchtime on Monday. Read, enjoy, respond.
Prompt Number Two
Back to School
Imagine that you made a return visit to a school you used to attend. The school may have been in full session or it may have been standing empty
What were the familiar things you expected to encounter?
What did you see that you did not expect to see?
How were the other four senses: touch, taste, smell and hearing affected?
And memories, what memories came to the fore?
Your piece of writing (poetry or prose usual word limit) will build up to that sense of an ending. The feeling that the world is suddenly altered in some way; things are now seen in a new light.
Don't let your writing drift into whimsical nostalgia, make sure it also contains some grit.
Good luck with that. Responses to me by midnight on Sunday 5th April.
Responses will be posted by lunchtime on Monday. Read, enjoy, respond.
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Thursday 26th March.
Right, here we go folks. Our first prompt is straightforward. You have a maximum of 100 words in which to write a poem or prose piece which contains the following:
1. A character. Not identified by name but by occupation or activity e.g. the man walking his dog, the woman jogging etc.
2. A mode of transport.
3. A human emotion not identified by the name itself, the noun. So, show don't tell.
There is a deadline of midnight on Sunday 29th March for emailing your results to me. Contributions arriving before that time will be posted here for everyone's appraisal and comment. Let's have a great response. Good luck! John
Right, here we go folks. Our first prompt is straightforward. You have a maximum of 100 words in which to write a poem or prose piece which contains the following:
1. A character. Not identified by name but by occupation or activity e.g. the man walking his dog, the woman jogging etc.
2. A mode of transport.
3. A human emotion not identified by the name itself, the noun. So, show don't tell.
There is a deadline of midnight on Sunday 29th March for emailing your results to me. Contributions arriving before that time will be posted here for everyone's appraisal and comment. Let's have a great response. Good luck! John
Prompt No 1
It’s Alright
You viewed the world standing in sawdust and you smelled wholesome, like the pine shavings curled around the aft. You looked up from the bench with steady assurance, melting none-start fears.
I remember you lifting our grandsons, shoulder high, to see the robin thrust lings, nesting in an old fall pipe. Shh! fingers on lips.
Your garden den where we barbecued and beetle-drived with laughing friends, drank Blue Nun and shook the dice.
Your essence lingers with your ratchet screwdriver, a brown hessian tool bag, and in the constancy of twinkling eyes.
June Hurst
2.
Red Lips
She grabbed two pegs from her pinny, and pegged the towel on the line. Those red lips! Where did she think she was going with lips like that at this time of day? She had two children. Bet they were embarrassed. Always out on a Saturday. She never played with those children; they were always with their dad.
She picked up the milk bottle and put it in the crate.
“Mrs Smith, are you awake?”
Red lips and stethoscope in her face.
“You are in hospital, you hit your head, in your yard.”
She closed her eyes. Oh.
Lesley
3.
Shame on them all
Hail and praise, you sister of mercy,
In times filled, with such controversy.
You yield your hands with immense power,
Battered and fatigued after thirty-six hours.
Forced to abandon that old jalopy,
You make your way on shanks's pony.
Just a morsel you require to keep you on the go,
But the shelves are empty, stripped in one blow.
In your eyes can be seen, the harbingers of doom
And on, the horizon, black clouds loom.
You scream and shout, but it's a waste of breath.
Even though it's up to you, to ward off the angel of death.
Mela
4.
Jet-Pak Maid
"O 'Melia, my dear, this does everything crown!
Who could have supposed I should meet you in town?
And wearing an Alpha-One jet-pak I see?" --
"O didn't you know I’m now airborne?" said she.
— "You left us in tatters, without toilet rolls,
Tired of ready-made pizzas, and government dole;
And now you're in Spandex and bright zippers three!" --
"Yes: that's how we dress when we're airborne," said she.
— "I wish I had zippers, a tight-fitting suit,
And a jet-pak’s so handy for buying some fruit" --
"My dear — a raw country girl, such as you be,
Cannot quite expect that. You ain't airborne," said she.
Sharyn
The Lock Down Days
Hi everyone,
Over the next few weeks (or for the duration of our enforced isolation) I'm going to be posting a few things on here to try and generate a bit more activity on the site. The more we use it, the more familiar we will become with its workings and the easier we will find it to share our work and comments.
I'm starting by posting Lyn's enjoyable piece of flash fiction and I'll also include the facility to leave a comment. Please do so and don't spare her blushes.
In addition if anyone would like editing rights to the site with a view to taking a much more active part in posting, please let me know.
All the best,
John
Over the next few weeks (or for the duration of our enforced isolation) I'm going to be posting a few things on here to try and generate a bit more activity on the site. The more we use it, the more familiar we will become with its workings and the easier we will find it to share our work and comments.
I'm starting by posting Lyn's enjoyable piece of flash fiction and I'll also include the facility to leave a comment. Please do so and don't spare her blushes.
In addition if anyone would like editing rights to the site with a view to taking a much more active part in posting, please let me know.
All the best,
John
Touch Down
The trolley whacked me on the back of the calf. Ouch! I hopped around a bit, and then looked over my shoulder for the offender. Meanwhile bewildered shoppers surveyed the empty shelves. In the distance I spotted a familiar figure. She dodged and ducked through the melee like the winger looking for a touchdown. Under her arm a red box, a Malteasers Easter Egg. The last one. She sprinted to the checkouts. The last line of defence. Good try. Good try.
Lyn Graham
The trolley whacked me on the back of the calf. Ouch! I hopped around a bit, and then looked over my shoulder for the offender. Meanwhile bewildered shoppers surveyed the empty shelves. In the distance I spotted a familiar figure. She dodged and ducked through the melee like the winger looking for a touchdown. Under her arm a red box, a Malteasers Easter Egg. The last one. She sprinted to the checkouts. The last line of defence. Good try. Good try.
Lyn Graham
PASTA
Amma cried when she saw them, those people who were piling pasta in their trollies. Towering tins of the good tomatoes pressed up against jars and jars of prepared sauces. Plentiful packets of creamy cheesey sauces to coat the pasta. Parmesan to sprinkle on the top, both dried and fresh.
She looked into the carrier bag and wondered what it would be like to be able to choose to have pasta for tea.
Lesley
Amma cried when she saw them, those people who were piling pasta in their trollies. Towering tins of the good tomatoes pressed up against jars and jars of prepared sauces. Plentiful packets of creamy cheesey sauces to coat the pasta. Parmesan to sprinkle on the top, both dried and fresh.
She looked into the carrier bag and wondered what it would be like to be able to choose to have pasta for tea.
Lesley
Supermarket Sweep
Wendy couldn’t wait for Bob to take her shopping. He was a builder, so his customers always came first.
The Covid-19 alert was recycling on every channel. The larder was empty
She couldn’t work out how much food they would need for twelve weeks – how many packets of crisps, bottles of coke or other essentials.
She found the spare keys to the builder’s yard and climbed into the scoop’s driving seat. At the supermarket everyone scattered when she bulldozed her way straight to the toilet rolls.
She soon filled up, but the eggs were broken when she got them home.
Sharyn
Wendy couldn’t wait for Bob to take her shopping. He was a builder, so his customers always came first.
The Covid-19 alert was recycling on every channel. The larder was empty
She couldn’t work out how much food they would need for twelve weeks – how many packets of crisps, bottles of coke or other essentials.
She found the spare keys to the builder’s yard and climbed into the scoop’s driving seat. At the supermarket everyone scattered when she bulldozed her way straight to the toilet rolls.
She soon filled up, but the eggs were broken when she got them home.
Sharyn
Wakefield Gothic
She felt she was living with the Brothers Grimm in empty streets festooned with toilet rolls. Where houses of old people were marked with the skull & crossbones “forboden ” streaked across their doors. Children showing “Jazz” hands covered in blue glitter, skipping after the Pied Piper toward a soap filled river. This enabled the rats to pile shopping trolleys with “bartering goods” antibacterial. The “canon of no-contact” has been fired from Rapunzel’s window.
“How on earth is she to get her hair done?”
June Hurst
She felt she was living with the Brothers Grimm in empty streets festooned with toilet rolls. Where houses of old people were marked with the skull & crossbones “forboden ” streaked across their doors. Children showing “Jazz” hands covered in blue glitter, skipping after the Pied Piper toward a soap filled river. This enabled the rats to pile shopping trolleys with “bartering goods” antibacterial. The “canon of no-contact” has been fired from Rapunzel’s window.
“How on earth is she to get her hair done?”
June Hurst
The Homework Page and What's Going on
A Christmas Memory
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