The distant thunder
woke her up from deep slumber
welcome rains coming
The distant thunder
woke her up from deep slumber
welcome rains coming
What an invitation. Come on, our lives have been spent in the shadow of people, places and events, real or unreal and it would be such a shame not to pass them on and told of as they should be.
It is five o’clock here in England and my daily featured spot is empty again. I feel unwanted, abandoned, bereft… Here I am, all ready to welcome guests, and not a guest in sight! I could just sigh and reblog a post I have enjoyed, or I can use the space to offer it to you. I already have the regular Be My Guest and the Elusive Realities series detailed below, but what if I asked for something else?
I love learning about different times and places, especially the kind of lore that seldom makes it into books. The blogosphere has no nationality and encompasses the whole world… what better place to learn?
How did your granny predict the weather? What did your great uncle Albert tell you about the little green men he saw in the woods that night? What strange creature stalks the woods in your area?
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Maisie and her mother Jeanie sat nervously at the kitchen table. Thomas, Maisie’s father and husband to his long-suffering wife Jean was late home from his Friday market. Both knew what this meant. Red-eyed the younger children had all been sent to bed top to toe in the back room despite the eldest boy Declan’s protest and all of their cries.
Eight o’clock came and went, Maisie picked up the shovel and scuttle and skipped out the door. She turned left along the ash and cinder path around the side of the cottage to the woodshed. She would need to pick up some more slabs of peat turf for the fire. They were getting low, she realised, and she would have to remind her mother when she got back indoors.
As she was picking up the turfs she heard the wooden garden gate squeal then close with a loud bang. It must be her father. Clasping the scuttle to her breast she ran back to greet him. She stopped, he was standing with one hand resting on the low wall staring up at the darkening night sky. “Dad, dad, “ cried Maisie and rushed to hug him but he brushed her away and stumbled his way to the front door muttering words that she couldn’t understand.
Tears came into her eyes as she realised that her father was empty-handed. It looked as though he had brought nothing back from the market. She waited outside undecided as to whether to enter. She imagined that her mother would soon be getting him ready for bed.
Plucking up courage she walked in. Jean turned around and then back to her husband who was leaning against the large china sink and in icy tones hissed, “ and I suppose you haven’t got the ribbons you promised for our little lassies birthday tomorrow?” The look on her father’s face said it all as both Maisie and her father found tears forming in their eyes despite her efforts to hide them. She turned and ran into the small back room ignoring her father’s pleas for her to wait a minute. Her anger remained with her as she fell asleep.
The next morning Maisie awoke, she had slept the whole night in her clothes. Realising the time and that she would be late for school she grabbed a piece of bread and with a cheerful, “Bye Ma,” scooted out of the door not waiting for any reply or any best wishes for her big day.
In fact she felt quite light-headed, the sun was shining and everything would be new and an adventure. There was no use worrying about her beloved father but she knew her anger would pass by the evening. Once again he would scoop up his little girl in his arms and both laughing loudly, he would whirl her around till they both felt giddy.
She followed the path down to the woods for the walk to school was only about half an hour if she went through the trees rather than the cart track that led between Mr. Thomas’ fields. Then she saw it. All her prayers seemed to have been answered. A tree was leaning across her path. It’s branches festooned with thousands of gaily coloured streamers, torn cloth pieces, ribbons and flowers. She realised it was a wishing tree. And it knew that this was what she was wishing for as she selected the finest ribbon she could reach for her hair.
Almost alluding to a poetic note, a clay plaque found in Olympia – the home to ancient Olympics and feats of athleticism, might just pertain to the oldest known extract of Homer’s epic poem Odyssey. The potential discovery was made courtesy of the three-year-long The Multidimensional Site of Olympia project, a collaborative effort from researchers…
I walked in through the doors and imagined that somehow I had stepped through a time warp. The sight and smell, like a punch in the stomach.
Walls festooned with countless bags of accessories, tables covered in cardboard boxes. Overspilling from the top of each, multi-coloured rolls of fabrics.
All the colours you could ever imagine, just like some technicolor movie.
From somewhere would come the clattering sound of sowing machines, incessant, monotous yet somehow comforting. I half expected to see my white haired grandfather in his apron, hands resting on the counter, excitedly smiling.
My eyes started to moisten.
By lust for riches
and impolite behaviour
we became swine.
Jason through his piety
made Circe reverse her spell.
Cardeen crouched low on his steed’s broad neck. Flecks of foam escaped from her wide, flaring nostrils and hung in long, white streams from her sweat-soaked mane.
He knew that she could not continue at this furious pace for much longer. Her eyes wide and bloodshot, her hooves thundering on the hard baked earth of the forest path.
Cardeen smiled, behind them there was no sign of his pursuers but he could not afford to slacken her pace. They would be safe only after crossing the bridge which he knew could not be far ahead.
The sun had set and evening was jut beginning to close in as dusk came down and as they rounded a bend, ahead of him between the trees he spotted the bridge ahead. The border between Devon and Cornwall, the river Tamar which raged below.
Taking one hand off of the reins but keeping the pressure on so that she would not slacken her pace he adusted the leather bag slung from his shoulder.
With only fifty yards between he and the bridge he caught a movement in the corner of his eye. His heart sank as from between the trees emerged the red tunics and white waistcoats of a small group of soldiers. Two had muskets raised. He tried to coax one last effort from his already exhausted companion. A puff of smoke showed that one shot had been fired. The first one missed but hearing another report he instantly felt a blow on his chest.
He felt a damp stain below his throat and his grip on the reins loosened. The horse started to slow and came to a halt about ten yards from the bridge. Cardeen felt himself sliding off the saddle to one side.
As his feet landed on the ground he wrenched the leather bag from his neck and swinging it around his head managd to throw it with it’s precious cargo into the middle of the fast flowing stream.
A smile of satisfaction passed over his face as he realised that the documents in the bag would no longer be legible even if they were retrieved. The evidence of treason against his Lord, the Duke of Cornwall would not be found despite his having failed in his attempt to bring the letters back to the castle as his master required.
His eyes closed and sinking to lie on the damp soil Cardeen passed away knowing that he had done his duty.
The old chorister
spends his days in song and faith
knows death holds no fear
On the calm waters
the majestic vessel sits
Captain and crew all waiting
for signs of a Summer breeze.
A veil gives safety
as you watch mosquitoes
outlined in moonbeams
Alex Markovich. 40 y.o. Russia. Artist. Author. MarkovichUniverse AT gmail DOT com Feel free to use my paintings and photos on your blogs and social networks as illustrations for your stories, poems, etc.
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