Across the wide sound,
dark ripples stirred to motion,
storm winds approaching
Monthly Archives: Mar 2019
RonovanWrites #Weekly #Haiku #Poetry Prompt #Challenge #244 Sound&Motion
Filed under Factual, Haiku, nature inspired, Self compositions, Uncategorized
Weekend writing prompt #96 #Seashore
She stands alone above the shore,
where waves roll in, roll out once more
wet shingle sings throughout the night
reflecting beams of pale moonlight,
while those who visit from the land
leave loud footprints in the sand
each brief message only lasts one day
till every trace is washed away
like their dwellings built on banks of clay.
Filed under As you read it, On the lines of romance, Self compositions
What do you see? Mar 5 2019
While the tambours played
Psyche dancing, offered him
the key to her heart.
Crimson’s Creative Challenge #17
Donovan had committed the unthinkable. Whilst being groomed ready for the North of England livestock fair he had suddenly gone berserk. With a furious snort he turned and kicked Old Bill, the farmhand and groomer. While he lay winded Donovan had stamped upon his heaving chest then thrust his horns directly into Bill’s stomach. By the time they had controlled the bull, poor Bill was dead through shock and loss of blood. These countrymen were superstitious, Donovan could not go unpunished. Custom decreed that Donovan must die and the punishment had to be hanging. There was one problem, gallows had not been used for many years and the wooden beams would never hold his weight. At once the solution became clear. The old railway bridge. The central girder was strong enough. That evening honour was satisfied. Later in the evening the unexpected ox roast went well.
MLMM’s First Line Friday: March 1st, 2019
This day was summer when the sun shone, and biting winter when clouds overtook the sky, a tumultuous mix of seasons in the span of an afternoon. An apt description of Exmoor, an unforgiving place. In one day you can walk through a whole year of weather, warm, wet, cold the whole shebang. It is all part of it’s magic and sometimes mystery.
A young family were staying in Porlock weir, the husband a warehouseman, his wife a part-time classroom assistant. She had returned to work after a two and a half year break after the birth of their first child, Millie. It was Easter half term and they had managed to rent a small cottage.
With Millie tiring of rock-pooling and net-dipping every day they decided to visit Culbone church, reputed to be the smallest church in England. Although a long walk, the path was suitable to take a buggy through the woods along the gently sloping cliff edge.
It was a glorious Spring morning when they set off, Millie well wrapped up but her parents dressed as if for a Summer stroll. A cloudless sky when they set out but while in the church it began to darken. On the way back the rain started to fall. At first just a few large drops but gradually increasing to a downpour. They had just passed what appeared to be a cave entrance. He took Millie by the hand and ran back to the cave while his wife dragged the buggy. A leaflet in the church had stated that charcoal burners used to live in the woods during medieval times, part of a leper colony so they assumed that this had once been a dwelling. In fact it was the entrance to an ancient, disused lead-mine. This was an industry that was not mentioned as it could be bad publicity for the countryside.
The rain was incessant and after a while where it had been seeping from above their heads it became a constant stream. They were amused when without prompting, Millie made a cup of her hands and started to drink the water and splashing it on her face. After about fifteen minutes the rain stopped and once more the sun came out. They hurried back to their holiday cottage as fast as possible ready to change and relax before the journey back to their home the next day.
In the car Millie started to complain of stomach ache and seemed in so much pain that they called into accident and emergency at their local hospital. After many anxious hours they were told how lucky they had been. Millie was suffering from arsenic poisoning from the water that had seeped through the mine roof. She had been very close to death. They would be prepared for any weather without sheltering next time.
RonovanWrites #Weekly #Haiku #Poetry Prompt #Challenge #243 Swim&Float
Rope around her waist
they will test her by the swim,
please don’t let her float.
Filed under Alternative history, As you read it, Factual, Haiku, Old knowledge, Self compositions
Sunday Photo Fiction – March 3, 2019 #Journey
Julie frowned and looked at her watch. Then once more she checked the illuminated board above her head. There was no notification of any delayed trains. She moved back and took a seat on the empty, cold, plastic bench. She started to examine her fingernails then opened her bag and took out a glossy red lipstick. With shaking hands she pulled out and unfolded a small mirror. She looked to see if anyone was watching and then started to apply a thin coating to her moist lips. She checked in the mirror and seeming satisfied, replaced the items in her bag. She glanced up at the departures board. Nothing had changed, her chosen train was still due. She checked her watch again. To her right she noticed a stirring in the people at the far end of the platform. The announcer called the arrival of the train. Julie stiffened as the sleek, silver nose of the engine appeared round the bend. She looked for a clear space, grabbed her bag and moved forward to the platform edge. She looked over to see the engine driver sitting high up in the dark cab and without a word, jumped.
Filed under As you read it, Flash fiction, Self compositions
Colleen’s 2019 Weekly #Tanka Tuesday #Poetry Challenge No. 125#SynonymsOnly #Cinquain
Sensing
the beginning
of a relationship
we inscribe our names on the bench.
young love
Scene from my window #tanka
Ashen faced, the skies
discharge leaden, liquid cargo,
to the playful breeze,
now their voyage is complete,
gifting life to Mother Earth.
Filed under As you read it, nature inspired, Seasons, Self compositions, Tanka
Sue Vincent’s Thursday #Photoprompt #Writephoto #Invitation
It was late June when I was told I would be working in London for a couple of days. I was booked in to “The Charnel House”, in the Clapham area, a pub that had a few rooms to let above. After a two hour drive I rolled up at the front of the pub which was on the corner of Downs View Road and a cul-de-sac called Church Way because directly opposite stood the parish church of St. John the Baptist. A quite imposing building. It had a large black, wooden gate and a gravel path led up to the church door. Although the graveyard looked unkempt and unattended there was a board with a list of services so it was still a functioning church. I noticed there was a young black guy looking intently through the gate towards the church porch.
I went up to my room, dropped my case and went out to work. I noticed the guy still standing in the same position as before. He had a large parka draped over his arm on a warm, sunny morning. He looked about fourteen or fifteen, not moving, just standing, staring intently up the path.
After what felt like a long afternoon, dusk was closing in so I decided to take a leisurely walk back to my room. Turning the corner to the entrance I saw a figure outlined in the street-lights by the church gate. It was the same youth who had been there when I had left mid-morning. I turned the key and went in through reception. I watched the TV for a while then decided to retire.
Next morning I made do with just a cup of strong coffee for breakfast before setting off to work. It was eight thirty and imagine my surprise as, when I walked out onto the street, the same guy was in exactly the same place. Had he been there all night? Was he okay? It was time to get off to work.
I made my way back to the guest-house at about eight. Of course the guy was still by the church gate. On the third day, my last, as I left the reception there was a row of blue and white bollards closing the road off. A board was placed saying that there was to be a funeral at eleven o’ clock.
They were closing the street off now before any cars came in to park. The youth was no longer there, perhaps keeping out of the way of the funeral. I pulled into the motorway services on my way home. There was a large-screen TV. at the far end of the coffee house and the news was on. A youth of fifteen who had been involved in the Tottenham riots was to be buried that morning. The service was to be held in the church on the same road where I had stayed. The youth had been injured during the riots. and there was a strong belief that the police had been heavy-handed in their treatment of him. He had been struck a blow to the head and collapsed. He was taken to a hospital , Accident and Emergency department but he had remained in a coma without regaining consciousness until a week ago, when he had finally expired. Because of the potential risk of violence, there would be a police presence at the funeral as it could become the catalyst for further riots. I gave a start when they showed a photo of the young man. He was wearing a parka and a hat and looked just like the guy at the gate. I could only think that perhaps his lonely wait was over and he was finally invited to enter?
Filed under As you read it, Flash fiction, Otherworldly, Self compositions
When the pen takes control. 