Stine86Engel@pixabay.com.
I awoke with a start. Disappointed I found myself in my cramped bed-chamber but I was intoxicated with joy for I had dreamed of an encounter with the Gods. Voices from on high had echoed in my head. Inviting me to join with them in their magnificent palace in the skies. Zeus himself had called my name. He had sent a magnificent swan to stand beside my bower. I climbed upon the beautiful bird’s broad, silk-soft back and was carried up into the heavens. Faster than the wind we flew till we reached a golden castle adorned with towers and minarets. Oh, so gently the swan landed in a magnificent garden where fountains played and I was greeted by a group of hand-maidens who, laughing at my shy confusion, ushered me into a scented room. Along one wall was a carved ebony bench on which a smiling cherub sat, in his hands a lyre from which he teased a tune of infinite harmony. In the centre of the floor was a steaming pool of water on which floated many brightly coloured lotus blossoms. I was invited to bathe and afterwards. emerging from the pool was anointed with sweet perfumes. They wrapped me in silken robes and I was gently ushered into a room with white marble walls. Each covered in damask tapestries of intricate design. Dazzled by the opulence of my surroundings I was urged to recline upon an amber couch furnished with cushions of infinite softness. My feathery steed stood sentinel and held his wings above me as a canopy. I laid my head upon the pillow and immediately fell into a deep slumber. That is all I, Leda, remember of my encounter with the Gods, be it fantasy or frolic.
We sit before the screen, our eyes intent. A soothing voice, as familiar to the viewer as their own is guiding the scene; explaining the misty grey image. We make out the lumbering shapes and follow their glowing white tusks as they pick their way delicately over the rocks into the cave mouth. A journey repeated many times over the millennia and now diminishing with the shrinkage of the herds. The craving for salt that can never be extinguished.
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.
When the pen takes control. 