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.
A wealth of helpful information for the perhaps as yet unpublished but aspiring wordsmith,
Writer Opps Wednesday today brings you an Emerging Writers Contest; a Screenplay Writers Contest; a link to a great site that lists 33 children’s book publishers looking for submissions; a magazine looking for submissions on three themes, and an acoustic music festival delighted to welcome spoken word performers, poets, storytellers, anyone, in fact, with text based art they can perform to add to, and enrich, the music.
The Ploughshares Emerging Writer’s Contest
The Emerging Writer’s contest is open from March 1, 2019 at noon EST until May 15, 2019 at noon EST.
Since 1971, Ploughshares has been committed to promoting the work of up-and-coming writers. Over the years, Ploughshares has helped launch the careers of great writers like Edward P. Jones, Sue Miller, Mona Simpson, Tim O’Brien, and many more.
In the spirit of the journal’s founding mission, the Ploughshares Emerging Writer’s Contest recognizes work by an…
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The ice age happened so quickly we didn’t get the chance to flee.
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.
nose to tail they climb,
with matriarch in the van
the herd in pursuit
It was just after dawn. I was up beside the pond. It was one of those mornings when you can be at peace with the world. The sun through the clouds gave an indigo tint which was most noticeable on the branches that formed the dam. The calm waters set me to thinking of another time when I had visited this spot. A darker time.
My mother had called me to tell me that my stepfather Joe had gone out again. I feel that I should explain about Joe. Both he and my mother believed he was getting a bit absent minded. Neither would face the truth. A visit to the doctor was out of the question. I couldn’t convince them he should go, if only for a check up.
I knew where he might be so I set off for the brook. I met Steve in his garden and trying to appear casual asked if he’d seen Joe. He knew the story but confirmed that Joe hadn’t passed within the last half hour. He offered to take a walk round the village to see if he could find him. I thanked him and hurried on, sure that I was most likely to find him.
I walked out from the trees that bordered the river and there he was. I shouted out so as not to startle him, he was standing on the bank without coat or hat. He turned and his eyes were red. Suddenly his face lit up and putting a finger to his lips motioned me to be quiet and come and sit down. Not speaking, he pointed to the far side of the lake. I followed his gaze knowing that I would not see what he imagined he could see. We had been through this before as he looked for lost memories.
This time though was different. I heard a splash and to my amazement saw what appeared to be the snout of a very large rat. It was moving rapidly , leaving a vee-shaped trail of bubbles. Then I understood his tears, not sadness but joy. For the first time beavers had re-colonised the river and they were the builders of the log dam that had formed this pond. I too cried. We sat quietly watching these settlers until I finally put my arm around Joe’s shoulders to guide and help him home.
Across the wide sound,
dark ripples stirred to motion,
storm winds approaching
Open up your friends and follower base with this simple idea.
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.