Philip put on his coat and hat. With the rather old but still functional library ladder tucked under his arm he walked out to the now quiet high street. Elated, he realised that the clear night sky held the promise of a stargazing bonanza.
Leaning the ladder against the old viaduct wall and ignoring the stark warning, bright in black on the mud-hued brick, he slowly started to climb. After fifteen minutes he found no inspiration so with a loud sigh he climbed down.
He shuffled home to his apartment. The thought of a tumbler of whisky while listening to a jazz record afforded him much pleasure.
Taking it easy,
we’re just along for the ride,
beware the free lunch.
I cant help thinking I should have been a bit more specific when I engaged that signwriter. I asked him to paint one of those old machines they used to have in the children’s playground. I knew it wasn’t called a helter-skelter but just couldn’t think of the name. What did he do, went and looked it up online, that’s what he did and then thought he was being funny. I’ll give him, “Witches Hat,” when I see him.
I tossed the small, bronze object from hand to hand. Just lying in the sand, a chisel. I marvelled at it’s delicate, tactile, feel. I was familiar with bronze statues, sculpted, sensual, in gardens or on antique, period tables. This though, was a tool.
I placed it in my pocket, placing my palm on a giant limestone block, one of thousands shaped by such tools. The still bright, painted hieroglyphs telling their stories. Through my translation I realised that this one told of an overseer stabbed to death by a haunted chisel. My pocket twitched and suddenly felt lighter.
Consumed by vanity she was absorbed in her own reflection.
Over 50 have joined in this week, great stuff and great fun to read or write.
Sue Vincent's Daily Echo
Caught by the stream
Flotsam and jetsom
Memories reflect themselves
In silent and unruffled pools
The river flows heedlessly onwards
Our tears and laughter define its essence
The photo for this week’s prompt was taken on the banks of the river Wharfe in Ilkley, Yorkshire.The light in the photograph is strange and otherwordly. Careful editing would have corrected it, but I loved the lilac cast as a prompt.
Ilkley is a place I have loved all my life, mostly for the moors above the town and the memories that haunt every pathway… memories both my own and those of the far distant past of my people.
The rover that runs through the valley below is also a very special place. I paddled in its swift waters as a child, and as a woman watched herons fishing there. It was also one of the…
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safe in ignorance,
silver-scaled serpent, slumbers
in his snow clad nest,
overhead his nemesis,
pennant raised, prepares his lance
The coach trip was over. Unable to get the song out of his head he gathered all the bottles he could find, he even put up a fence in case of accidents, sadly none were green.
The ice age happened so quickly we didn’t get the chance to flee.