@janette
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Hell, Ath, this is too much for one person to put up with, and must have been (and continues to be) very frightening. I really do hope that the ‘frightening bit’ is treatable, and that you get an upturn in health very soon. Thinking of you loads and sending positive vibes your way.
Simple, I thought – judge a few stories for the March competition while Ath is out of action (Ath, if you’re reading this, sending BIG healing vibes and willing a speedy recovery). But – what a dilemma to be handed. These are all excellent and worthy to be winners in their own right.
But judge I must, as promised, so here are my thoughts:
Jill – Madness on the Ides of March
An obviously successful marriage here, celebrated on their big O anniversary. Loved the mood of the piece, like being on holiday with them. Sounded totally believable too (is there an element of truth here?). Thoroughly enjoyed.Sandra – Not Yet Mad Enough
Big contrast to Jill’s piece (and hopefully no element of truth!), here a couple not so cozy, especially she, having been discovered straying. The subtext of this gave me chills down my spine, and it was deliciously descriptive. Wanted to read on.Terrie
I adored the madness of this piece, the references to nursery-rhyme characters. Menacing – yet not. Gave me a satisfying chuckle and had to read it over again. Loved the lightness and the voice.Libby – Running
The descriptives throughout were stunning. Poor Sis, all eyes on her in that pub. Then cut to the willow-weaving workshop and her sister becoming so immersed in her ‘hare’ making project that she literally did make a hare – by way of transformation! Brilliant surprise ending, so original, and another strong voice.Seagreen – Dribbles and Splatters
I loved the swell and the ebb of her (very familiar) inner feelings, doubt fighting certainty. Satisfying that strength won out. Remarkable that so few words can say so very much. Clever indeed.To help with my decision, I read through what Ath had asked for (not much help – you all nailed it), but the maddest story of all, I felt, was Terrie. Take it away, Terrie, and thank you all for trusting me with your brilliant writing.
Running the Christmas Gauntlet
Brace yourself, girl. Everywhere is going to be madness today. Most of the throng will be feeling much the same way … which means shouting and kids screaming; means shoving and pushing … but take a deep breath. Concentrate on the list. You’ve successfully run the Christmas shopping gauntlet before.
The vegetable aisle greets me with an abundance of colour. Carrots, spuds, parsnips – tick. Hell, will it really ruin Christmas should I ‘forget’ the sprouts? The air would be sweeter, much as Dad likes his musical farting competitions.
Oh, get them in the trolley and stop whinging.Bakery next. Hey, those mince pies could be passed off as homemade at a stretch. I could call them my secret recipe. Mustn’t forget fruitcake either, marzipan picked off for his-nibs: more for yours truly.
Cans – tick; packets (not forgetting Paxo) – tick; cheeses in pretty boxes at twice the price – tick. Appetizers … but who wants a battered prawn on a stick? A mini pie with pea topping? – before Turkey – really? And for how much? Brussels pate on Ritz it is and you can shut your mouth, Santa. This part is my show.
The trolley mountain rises. I’d like nothing better than to uninvite Aunt Belinda and Uncle Gary, who insist on seeing Mum and Dad on the big day, at my expense of course. With them come Paula and their grandchildren, who join my terrors in racing round the sofa, sneaking drinks, the cheeky little sods.
Aw, come on, Mrs Grinch, get into the spirit of Christmas.
Talking of spirits, I’d best replace that bottle of cheap Baileys and the spiced rum that his-nibs claimed to have sprung a leak. My phone pings. Mum: can I get in some what? Advocaat? I’d tell her it’s sold out, but to whom? The guy next to me is arguing the same. The rest of us have been hearing their domestic from the frozen aisle on.
Oh no! To cap it all, I’ve been *Whammed!
I see others playing the same game and laugh with them.Yeah, let’s laugh at each other. At ourselves.
That’s right, missus, bring on the visitors – isn’t this about joy and togetherness after all?386 words
* challenge is to avoid hearing ‘Last Christmas’ for as long as possible (if at all).
As the Veil Grows Thin
Hey, Vee, I’m still at your side my dear. My old bones are aching in this hospital chair but, aye, I’m still watching over you.
They say you might hear me but – I don’t know. See, I can’t get used to how still you are. Never would’ve been afore, hey? Specially when we first met, when we danced like demons and made love like maniacs; ran barefoot through summer sands, chasing each other.
Never would’ve bin so quiet either. I still hark back to the times we laughed together. Sang together. When you shouted my name in the throes of your passion, writhing and moaning …
… and nagging, and blaming, and belittling. Yelling as soon as I opened the door of an evening. Years of it – shouting ‘til you were red in’t face. Yelling ‘til you burst a ruddy blood vessel.
Even then you didn’t have the decency to leave me in peace, did you? Lingering on. Squeezing every ounce o’pride outer me as I turned into an object o’ pity. I could at least stand proud in fronter folk away from home. Now all I get is pouting. Folks telling me how they think I must be feeling. Fetching me meals, like I’m charity.
Hey, but there might be an end to it soon. D’you know what today is, Vee? In that bed in your winceyette nightie, your mouth shut for once? It’s Halloween. At midnight, they say, the veil between life and death is at its thinnest. Thin as that web o’ lies you spun at me all them years ago, to love and to cherish.
It’s comin’ up late now. I’d normally be gone, only they said I could stay, given your frailness. Come on, dear, don’t keep me waiting. The veil must be fine enough now, to pass through it to that mother of yours. Don’t worry, I’ll give you a proper send-off. Be seen with a tear in my eye. Tears for’t poor worms, between you an’ me; give ‘em indigestion, you will.
Hey, Vee, best get a move on, it’s about to strike midnight. Go on, old lass. It’ll be as quick as flicking a switch … like this one here … on your machine. Everyone’s expecting you to go after all.
Tell you what, since I don’t bear gruggles, allow me to give you a hand …
395 words excluding title
The Woman Whose Nose Pointed North
I had already met my mother-in-law, years earlier, not that I could have known. We had moved onto a still-being-built estate, the house across from ours taken by a large family. So many children were a draw for a five-year-old girl and her brother.
The children, I remember, seemed friendly. Not so the mountainous woman who came to the door and lifted her nose. ‘Don’t be letting them in,’ she griped, her voice polished as though she were speaking on a phone. I remember wondering what we had done wrong, and why my parents later concurred that I mustn’t go to that house.
And then we moved.
And this might have been lost to irrelevance …
… until, in my teens, I began dating Taffy.
‘So, where do you live?’ I asked on our first date.
‘You don’t want to know,’ he dismissed; but after some coaxing I heard mention of a familiar council estate.
‘Hey, I once lived there!’ I countered, nettled by his snobbish manner, though I understood the estate had gone downhill since we left it. Where, precisely, had we lived? Taffy asked. Faint memories took me to a side-street off a lane heading towards woodlands. ‘… below a clubhouse they were building. Ours the first house.’
He mentioned a name I rejected. Then another.
A third had me declaring, ‘Yes! That’s the one!’
Taffy frowned. That was his street – he must have inadvertently mentioned it before. Having lived there for so long, he would surely have remembered us since the house I recalled was directly opposite his own. We agreed to ask our parents – see if they could confirm my claim.
‘Please, tell me he’s not one of that lot,’ was my father’s reply, followed by a damning account of the woman and her husband with such insolent snobbery, they offended every neighbour bar none. They, he concluded, had no room to look down on anyone.
‘After you,’ Taffy insisted when we came to reporting back, biting at his lip and struggling to meet my eye.
‘I have an awful feeling we heard the same kind of answer,’ I said as nervously. ‘So, what now? Do you want to call it a day?’
‘Hell, no. That was between them – years ago. I mean, what can you remember of anything?’
I wanted to say the big, snobbish woman, but diplomacy guarded my tongue.
Weeks on, Taffy showed me into the house I had once been barred from. And there, not rising from her chair, was the same corpulent woman, nose-in-air. The unkempt room said there had been no effort made to welcome ‘her from that family’. Dad’s words sprang to mind of this woman’s double standards.
‘So this is her, is it?’ she sniffed, meeting my eye like I was something dragged in on Taffy’s shoe.
‘Let’s go through to the kitchen,’ he grumbled.
‘Or just go?’ I suggested. ‘It’s been a while since I walked the country lane. As I remember, it’s pleasant there.’
499 words excluding title
Thank you, Sea, for the challenge and for the kind words. Congratulations, Sandra, your words clearly came from the heart and made you a worthy winner.
The Last Sense
Curse my tears, dissolving my bold exterior to expose the raw feeling beneath. How dare they come at a time when I needed to show courage? To offer a united support when Mum’s strength had finally crumbled?
And see how the foundations of mine gave way, leaving the sturdier ones to put on the brave faces; carry the weak link of their collective efforts. So selfish of me. So pathetic. I wasn’t worthy of the stroke to my arm, Mum lending the support I should have been giving.
Aching for solitude, I begged my leave once blessings were uttered, and took to the brook by the burial woodlands. There I sank to the mossy banks and finally let my emotions have their way.
Unlike the fervid river I cried, the waters below me were calm … and yet strong, their silvered dance sashaying smoothly over pebbles and past stubborn rocks. Mother nature’s collective tears. Not weak, but a powerful sedative; a life-force to creatures within and around. And hadn’t the leaf-lit canopy above me grown high from her weeping?
Below me, tinier life forces pricked her waters as they sought their own sustenance. Among the reeds, dancing dragonflies showed off the beauty she had bestowed on them.
So much life thriving from –– from tears.
And hers were not always so gentle. Mother Nature, when the mood took her, brought torrents and storms. All for a cause, I am sure …
… as were my tears. They were my rawest truth; my messengers, relaying what words failed to tell. And my loved ones, they had read them and not called me weak.
Because my tears spoke of love.
They told my mother how losing her felt.
Hers spoke as intensely, to all of us, collectively.
What need was there to say more?
It was as she left us I realized we had all likewise spoken.Hearing is the last sense you experience, they say. But I disagree.
The last, and lasting, sense, is love.
Told through tears when they govern over words.
So my tears are a strength, and a blessing.
Let them say what they will.356 words
The First Steps and the Last
‘Come on, Mum, two more steps and you’re there. I’ve got you …’
Why was she raising her voice? I wasn’t deaf.
My mind wasn’t the disabled part of me.
And what was the rush?Hold your tongue, old lass. It’s all said through care, not to mention a familiar tone of concern that she might slip or let go.
It took me back to a time when I was the one holding onto her, starting the day she was born. She was in too much of a hurry then, to hold on fourteen more weeks. No heavier than a pack of sugar, she were the tiniest, pinkest, wriggling wee angel.
‘She’ll be an angel alright – these ones don’t survive,’ said the midwife, in the stiff-upper-lip manner of her generation. I’d have other kiddies, she said; there was no point in maudling over this one.
‘Give that bairn to me!’ I snarled as she made to place her on a table. I snatched her up, put her to my breast …
… and there she stayed, defying those who reasoned she would never amount to anything. She would amount to being a cherished daughter, was my dangerous answer. Aye, and much more if her fighting spirit were anything to go by.
My tone, like hers today, betrayed I was scared of dropping or hurting her while promising I wouldn’t let go. Since then, it’s been a life-ride of lettings go.
Like the last time I had need to hold on while I bathed her.
The last time I breast-fed, then held her spoon or fork.
I wish I could remember those last days I helped her to dress, or hold onto her while she took her first steps. Hold her hand while she walked.
I can’t recall the last time I prepared her a meal, or cleaned her shoes, or pressed her air-scented clothes. Or mopping her tears after she fell, turning from scuffed knees to bruised hearts when the falling became in and out of love.
It didn’t feel so special then, because it’s something mothers just did. If only I had understood how important those last moments were, I’d never have let them pass without celebration;.and it was a celebration, to see my little sugar-bag mite evolve into the personification of sweetness she became.
Of course, those ‘last’ days marked so many ‘firsts’ as she learned to care for herself. Most of all, she had learned the art of caring for others. I witnessed as much while she experienced her own ‘last’ times raising my three grandchildren.
Who knew I would be her next charge?
Those words, which take me back through the years, they are the reason I know she won’t drop me today, or slip while cleaning, or scald me while feeding.
I’m now the one who weeps into her breast, as I prepare for my own last day. But I go proudly, on seeing the achievements those ‘last’ days created.
495 words
Ps, yes, thank you all for your brilliant entries, I meant to say- sorry if this didn’t come across in my summary.
Five great stories this month, making my decision oh-so difficult and changeable.
Sandra – Lyrical Determination (thin on legend)
Smartly-penned descriptives throughout, giving vivid imagery of Fran lying prose on the attic bed, having decided to give her virginity to Ivo (having been inspired by the words of John Martyn). Love that she bathes in the magical May dew to ensure irresistibility, also how her mind must have wandered while posing. Great hooky ending.Sea –
Great visualization of urban life going on and yet she with a sense of solace. Loved the homeless man being wrapped like a burrito, and then the slip into a surreal world when the feather moves with her and her mind wriggles free from its restraints (beautifully put). Oh, and that bee, like a red carder paddle boarder – delicious. I would have loved to have hopped aboard that feather.Terrie – Renewal Dance
Loved the strong feel of May here, and the green man/May queen flavour of it all. Loved the imagery of the threads and ribbons of the colours of springtime, and how she waters his acorn with her tears; how she melts into the water which will sustain new growth, not to mention the descriptive of the wheel of time and how it eternally plays out.Athelstone – May
Such a strong voice takes us through this story of the cactus. Never knew they called the paddle things ‘Cladodes’. Chuckled at the thought of cacti claiming pensions, also of Jacqueline covering her arms ‘at this time of year’ so as not to entice him. Get the real feel of Mr Hoskins overstaying his welcome – and then came the twist: Jacqueline being a plant he had come to admire. Loved the thought of her clones being spread around the world.Libby – Somewhere to Bloom
Some wonderful undertones put real depth into this story. Loved the cottages wearing their gardens like a skirt; also ‘the newness that was a repeat of oldness’. Underneath this, the rising feel of all not being well in this relationship, her feeling his plans were to suit him (alone). Interesting how she preferred the ‘real life’ feel of the terraces. She dreaded their next discussion – I’m wagering it might be one of their last – great hook.Any one of these stories deserved to be a winner, and I hope they are considered for other competitions. But decide I must, so for voice and twist, I pass the baton to Athelstone.
Heck, I did not expect that. Thank you for such an awesome feedback, Libby, and for a competition prompt which challenged my writerly boundaries. Also well done to Sea and Sandra for their excellent stories.
I have nothing in mind for the next topic – a walk is in order to mull it over, not that I need and excuse to set out in this wonderful sunshine.Parsnip Wine
Our back-facing neighbours were the first to acknowledge our arrival. Each time I looked out, the ever-preened woman was at her bay window, dog-in-hand (at least I think the explosion of fur was of canine origin). Gerald supposed she were sun-worshipping, her glances only polite curiosity – then he always did see the good in everyone.
I waited until the woman was missing from duty before I stepped out with the rubbish.
‘Mayhew!’ she suddenly called from the fence, shaking the wits out of me. ‘Or Cynthia and Rupert, if you will.’
Names traded, she nodded down at our inherited vegetable patch. ‘Parsnips, I see. Tiny as yet, but do not despise them: we thought that of ours when we moved here in the Summer of ’76. A little tending and, come Autumn, they’ll be the finest ingredient for wine. Rupert has won gold year-on-year at the Willowdale Wine Society Awards with ours. Any resident can take part, if you’ll consider joining us.’
Her snort was copied by the floppy-tongued furball she clung onto.
Or was it a growl at me? The feeling was mutual.Gerald answered her call like a converted disciple, gaining acceptance in this leafy, insular village. His first attempt won a honourable mention.
He keeled over in the excitement.
The Wine Society members were a beacon of support, handling the reception of Gerald’s funeral at their HQ, aka the village hall. ‘Don’t lay Gerald’s efforts to waste,’ Rupert encouraged, his wife and attached dog fast approaching. ‘Yes, do have a go yourself,’ she gushingly agreed.
Both continued their friendly encouragement …
… until, call it beginner’s luck, I went on to win gold the next year.
It was after that the furball would accidentally escape from their house, burrowing its way into our garden. Plants were dug up. The parsnip patch became a stinking toilet.
‘But you should factor in wastage,’ Cynthia flippantly offered regards spoiled vegetation. ‘As for what Fifi leaves, I should charge: compost doesn’t come cheap.’
It was she who insisted Furball composted my parsnips. Who was I to challenge it?
And, I must say, this season’s were looking particularly robust.
Cynthia often glares from her suntrap bay windows, lip-chewing and eye-narrowing. Could it be the suspicion I might snatch another award from under Rupert’s nose. Or has she guessed why Fifi’s bark, strangely, has not been heard for some time?
397 words
The Prophecy
You will mistake the gulls
for the screaming of a girl
and run out of your flat
to an empty landingThis dark prophecy will forever haunt me.
An old neighbour uttered it; a self-proclaimed psychic, who called by to pass on the warning. Such a pathetic attempt, I thought, to scare me from moving to the new flats offered to tempt us out of our homes. Didn’t need no carrots-on-strings, said I, to move from this rat-ridden slum. No made-up prophecies would change my mind either.Don’t you ever wish you could wind back time, given what you know, and try again?
I thought she was missing old friends when my girl grew silent. ‘Be patient, Em,’ I reassured her. ‘Your old friends will be able to visit, as can the new. Didn’t I see you talking to some this morning?’
‘Like you’d ever listen!’ Came the screaming reply as silences turned to swinging moods and I dared to ask why.
Foolish me put it down to teenage angst.Blind me saw nothing untoward in Em’s pallor when I invited these new girls inside: the ones who hung around her of late.
Deaf me took their utterances to be light-hearted quips – the kind her father and she once traded. If Dan were still here, naïve me insisted, he would agree that she needed to offer more back in this new game of banter.
So blinkered was I; so desperate for this move to work, that I condemned my daughter to her terrible fate.
And me to mine, ceaselessly replaying the prophecy; evermore cursing my ignorance.New friends indeed.
So keen to see theirs that they would wait on the landing to greet …
… their enemy, that’s who: the one with large, glassy eyes.Those beautiful eyes, they had stared lifeless from the floor of the stairwell, their last appeal for help still glistening. And her last utterances, those piercing screams, were mimicked from dawn ‘til dusk by the council-tip gulls.
They had sneered from the dock, those girls, once their mischief was dismissed as misadventure; the court as believing of their tears as their false accounts. While their minds closed, mine opened …
… except Em wasn’t around for ‘I told you so’s’.
Nor was my old neighbour.Forevermore I would hear her screams; race to the door, only to find an empty landing.
396 words.
This is my second attempt – lesson learned in posting too hastily without allowing time to edit (not that this one fared much better). Please feel free to disqualify if this is outside of the rules.
Snuffle and the Tylwith Teg
Brittle scales fell from his body as he staggered to the edge of hanging rock. Laughter rang out all around, but I couldn’t abandon him as they had; as my Tylwith Teg sisters had me: a bald fairy, stumps for wings.
Snuffle’s claws skidded on rock-shards and we plummeted, round and round like a sycamore seed, I clinging fast to his shoulders. ‘Steady, boy,’ I urged as kindly as panic allowed.‘ Come, you can do this!’
Snuffle gazed back, his yellow eyes widening at the uncommon faith in him. Then he narrowed them determinedly. He snorted and pointed his snout skywards. In the next instant, we were soaring, my gasp of dread turning to a whoop of delight.
I grinned back at our doubters as we left: those who had turned from the pedigree red-backs only long enough to laugh at their pale sibling, and at the equally pathetic-looking Tylwith Teg who had shown him some kindness.
‘Suit one another you do,’ one taunted.
‘Have a care, if you take him. You’ve no backup if his wings fail too, isn’t it?’
‘They won’t,’ I cut through their scorn, stroking Snuffle’s trembling neck as I mounted him.
They’ll have written us both off during that dive … until out from the valley we rose, his belches of smoke turning to fierce boughs of flame.
I dared to steer him, around tall stacks, through druid’s arches, skimming hills, his skin pulsing as I praised him, turning it into a vivid red. The pulsing pushed away dull scales; in their place bold ruby ones glistened in the light. And look! His wings were growing! His rattling purr was a song of belief – a song of transformation.
On we flew, ‘til the moon claimed the skies. Snuffle glided to the shores of a lake, where he curled up by the fire he put flame to. I approached the water’s edge, peering down, ready to wash … then leapt back in shock. Had my sisters found me? Come to taunt and shatter our peace?
The Tylwith Teg copied my stare back into the waters; mimed my examination of long, silvered hair in place of brown fuzz; of delicate, unfurling wings. Goodness! – what kind of magic was this?
The magic of belief, perhaps. Whether it be in another, or in the self, it was a power which grew wings.
393 words
It’s hardly fair to say ‘by default’, because @Alex, your story merits more than that. I loved the uplifting ending, and the thread you chose in the challenge, which was a pleasure to read. It is with the same pleasure I pass the baton over to you.
To clarify – this just relates to autumnal references. You can use sight in other parts of the story.
Hope this meets the challenge. It is approaching the end of my book Saving Grace, and has spoilers (in the event this thing gets published!). Pervious feedback said this scene felt too easy/convenient. Now, she panics and resists. I show her conflicts as she starts to make comparisons.
Untitled
While he drove, Michael told me about how he worked as a countant in his Dad’s counting company – my son-in-law, Fay’s husband, a boss. I’ll remember to tell that to the next snotty beggar who looked down their noses at me.
He said how Fay and Roland gave their kids a happy childhood, him and his sister Lucy.
‘Sister? I’ve got a granddaughter?’
‘That’s right,’ he said. I had two grandchildren. Whatsmore, Lucy, had a little boy called Oliver, while he and Christina, his wife, they had three kiddies: Rory, Simon and Imogen.
My head got fuzzier while I tried to take it in: a daughter and a son-in-law, two grandchildren and one-two-three-four, yes four, great-grandchildren, all hid away like them boxes in the attic while I went through life not knowing. They coulda walked past me and I’d not have known, same as I’d not known Michael. They mighta been one of them looking down their noses.
‘Sorry, am I going too fast?’ Michael pulled his car into the side of the road.
‘Nay, lad, your driving’s fine, but … happen your mam might want to see me, but what about these others? It isn’t fair to lumber them. It might be better if she came to my house someday instead. It’ll give me a chance to smarten up.’
I tried to unfasten the belt round my chest. There was a bus-stop over the road, it might take me home … except this buckle thing wouldn’t budge.
Come on you stupid thing!
Michael took my hand. ‘Hey, where’s this coming from?’
I couldn’t meet his eyes, lovely as they were. Instead I found the off-brown button sewn on with black cotton that I’d been fiddling with. ‘Well, look at you, then look at me. I’m from another world than yours. One where my usual seat’s on a bus. A seat covered in wipe-down plastic, not swanky leather. I live in a house as damp as yesterday’s weather. I buy bent tins and charity frocks. Kids in my world, they’ve mouths like a navvy with a stubbed toe, and they chuck muck at windows. When your kiddies see what their dad’s brought home, they’ll –’
‘Understand.’
He gave my hand a squeeze. ‘They’ll realise what their granny was spared. They already know she was found wrapped up cozy in a place she would soon be discovered, and that she was raised by loving parents in a good home, which is the only true difference between you and us. We’ve had all the luck in the world – the same world as yours – and you’ve had none. Until now.’
He said the last bit as he set the car going.
448 words
Strange tastes
Oh, I did miss my Bert. Watching him through the window, wheelbarrow-in-hand, shaping our garden into all sorts of strangeness: gaudy, modern art in bloom.
Me, I preferred order. Neatness. A little chintz perhaps; a Capo Di Monte on the sideboard. ‘Let go, Pammy! Unstiffen your lip,’ Bert would say while waltzing me round in his merriness, though not drunk. Never drunk. I’d rather that than the pipe he’d sneakily puff on, thinking I didn’t notice the drifts of smoke rising from his shed, or the earthy fumes following him inside like an old dog when mealtimes beckoned. Meals I’d not share with him again.
Oh Bert.
I wandered down to his shed. Found his tobacco pouch, drinking in its – his – woody odour as I closed my eyes and held it close.
Go on, give it a go.
Dare I? It appeared to cheer him up.
Goodness, but a lonely mind could play tricks. A world of colour came alive, flittering in from the garden like butterflies, tickling me as he once might. I found his laughter and his visions and shapes and flavours in soooo many words and, hey, why didn’t I dance to them? Do a flamenco on the lawn – ta-darrh!
I blew out whisps, long and slow, knitting them around my fingers. Prim old Pamela, smoking, would you believe it? Mother wouldn’t.
He’d strange tastes, had Bert. Rather like his tobacco, which I think he harvested from his attic garden, window blocked but lights as luminescent as a street lamp. I once failed to fathom his ways, silly I. But not now.
Thank you, Bert. I did have to let go, didn’t I? I’ll carry on your gardening, my love, outside and in. As for chintz, Screw it! It’s Andy Warhol for me.
296 words
Yes, thank you, Sandra, for a prompt which took me on a tangent I quite enjoyed! I loved reading the entries, in awe at what we all did with that one sentence.
And congratulations, Squidge. Well deserved!
Turning of the Wheel
In a yellow rectangle, in the black façade of a house, a woman is laying a table. Not the sort set for the serving of meat, but one that would see her more trussed and seared than any spit hog.
Candles set: North. South. East. West.
Salt cast for purification.Gaia had fasted for this night of the blood moon, its mellow light falling squarely about the surrounding floor. Amber on black: a powerful pairing. Closing the shutters would smother its magic. Open brought risk of discovery; her naked body deemed vulgar, her acts wicked … unless sought.
Successfully sought.At the foot of each Candle, Herbs, morn-harvested.
Fossil stone.
Owl feather.
Beads of amber.
Brook water, moon-gathered.The wheel of seasons would complete its turning soon, and she must give thanks for her safe journey thus far. Poor Sarah not here to say likewise, cried out by the man who then donned the black cap. Still he sought out the old ways, to deny him as perilous as tending.
In the centre, incense for spirit.
Chalice of silver.
Wand of oak, wind fallen.
Athame, black handled.
Apple, to be eaten entirely.Black Cap had turned to Gaia on hearing whispers of her skills. His wife’s time was nearing, but Gaia had seen death as well as birth. Oh, pray it be not Mary’s or the boy child’s. The gods, they could be sparing, the goddesses kind. And though this was a season for endings, was it not also the doorway to fresh starts? Crone Mother, on my watch, let it be starts.
Incense lit, the smoke rose, curling … widdershins.
An uncoiling of fate? A life spared?Let it be so.
Grant me, I pray, another full turn of the wheel.292 words
How have I missed out on Pete Atkin? Been going to folk festivals for years, and just having heard snippets of him on Youtube, I thought I’d have had recommendations before now, if not seen him in person! I might have to look up some of the gigs you mentioned.
I give up on books that boast complexity of prose above character or hook to read on, which makes me lean more towards plain text. However I am a sucker for a clever turn of phrase or a descriptive which reads like a painting.
I used to wonder if my plainer style showed a weakness, and would never read it out during workshops, after others with more poetic prose had gone before me. That is, until a certain Andrew Wille introduced me to Alan Bennett, and though I would never compare my style with his, Bennett showed how simple could also be clever, and how character and local accent could make a piece stand out. So I suppose, while I have been influenced by the likes of Rachel Joyce, along with many others, including some personally known to us, I have to say Bennett has to take the biggest pat on the back for me.
The Mausoleum
… The star broke down as wife Stephanie’s casket was taken into the mausoleum. The stone masterpiece, testament to their love, could have been fashioned by Wren …’
Justin Mallory’s architect had also been proud of the secret panel to facilitate re-entry: stone-clad, freed by hidden lock and latch. Justin pocketed the key. He swiped away the online report then turned his phone light on the casket.
‘Of course I gave you the grand finale they expected of me. I’m Romeo! You, my Juliet!’
He gazed around the crude interior. ‘But this monstrosity, it’ll soon be forgotten as will you. Wren? This pile of shite went to the cheapest quote, after I drove him down. “We could cut corners, no-one would ever tell.” And muggins was right, wasn’t he? The reporters couldn’t. Just as I’d claimed I hadn’t noticed the mark on your back when your gobby friend spoke up. Hell, that took some acting out, but, jackpot! The cancer had already done its work.’
His thumping on the casket echoed around the claustrophobic chamber. ‘How dare you out-pose me? Every event. Posturing while I, Justin Mallory, stood back to wait for you! My fault, I suppose, for choosing the best arm-candy. Who. Should. Have. Known. Her. Place! And here it is! Cancer one, Steph nil, rotting while I move on –’
Justin turned in horror at a sonorous grating, in time to see the panel slide shut. He clawed at the seam, preened nails tearing, cursing that corner-cutting had included an interior handle, and the levelling of the site to ensure the moron’s stupid panel held firm. Air vents? Corpses had no use of those, or chargers for dimming phones.
Dimming phones? Justin scrambled for it.
His scream took no acting. It fell upon dead ears anyway.
298 words
Hand Signals
Molly matched the testy huff coming from the seat to her left, though neither were on account of the tailback as school runs jostled with motorway traffic on the approach to the roundabout. ‘For God’s sake, Jake. You’ll appreciate one day why I put school first, holidays with your father second.’
She ignored his mouthed words; the turning away of his head. It would have been so easy to bow to the pressure and enjoy a few days respite into the bargain, but one parent had to show some responsibility, if not the other.
The traffic lights switched to green, then back to red as Molly approached them. Pulling on the hand brake, she looked across at Jake and braced herself for more lip. Except his frown had lifted to a smile; not at her, but at the silver Ford Focus in the right-hand lane, signalling to turn onto the motorway …
… or rather, the girl in its back seat.
About Jake’s age, the girl looked as pleased (not) about her trip to school, although she didn’t appear to be in uniform. She was taking the same interest in Jake.
Molly wasn’t surprised: the boy was becoming the double of his father, hopefully no more than in looks. He had his tight, black curls, eyes and skin the same clear chestnut, and a smile to melt hearts. And she could see why the attraction was mutual. The girl was a raven-haired beauty.
Biting her lip, the girl cast an eye at her driver: a man more the age of a brother than a father, his attention on the lights, not her. She returned her gaze to Jake and raised her hand.
Jake’s smile widened as he acknowledged the guarded wave, thumb placed towards her palm, fingers curling then straightening. The girl’s eyes widened as she repeated her signal to Jake, who smiled.
Molly didn’t.
The lights changed to green. She manoeuvred her car behind the Focus.
‘What?’ Jake curled his lip. ‘Hey, is it Dad’s after all? I thought you said school had to come first.’
‘Not today, Son. Take out your phone.’ She cut into his questioning. ‘Now, please! Call the police. Describe the girl’s car. Tell them we’re following and will continue to give directions. It has a passenger of concern – make that clear.’
387 words
Sorry I’m so late to this. As many of you know, I’ve had rather a bad accident (tripped on a pothole) and suffered several injuries, including breaks to both arms, particularly the left elbow (I’m left handed).I have been warned the recovery will be long and involved, and I’ll probably not recover full movement to my left arm/elbow. Typing is slow and painful (and fogged with meds) so I’ll have to keep this brief. Sorry, but I’m unlikely to be back on a regular basis for a while, but I’ll pop by regularly if only for a read.
As for Den, I agree with many points and hope we can turn it around. I love the idea of offering courses and chat, and also wonder if we can throw out a pay-per-entry comp/s (money prize) to raise funds and attract new people?
sorry, that’s all I can offer for now.
Wow, who would have guessed that no take-up would transform into four superb entries that I can’t fit a gnat’s wing between. I’ve read and re-read, and gone out for a walk – and here are my conclusions, before I change my mind:
Sandra – Catalyst
A gritty, rich voice taking us through a concise, gripping read and an unexpected but brilliantly thought out transformation – that twist at the end finished it perfectly.
Seagreen
Another unique twist – this turning words into poetry, inspired by Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. Another concise, rich read, making the most of every word from a very canny wordsmith.
Daedalus – Transformation
Another oh-so clever piece that had me drawing breath – nature and all things natural, a topic close to my heart. It takes us from the transformation of our vast universe down to the smallest, most fragile insect – in verse. Ingenious.
Athelstone – Rose the Cat
Really touching, young voice, telling us of the transformation of her sister – or was it? The clue near the end, perhaps, of the old lady scratching at the floor; like the little girl making sense of a passing kind of transformation? An absolute delight of a read.
Yeah, how to choose from those? But I have to, and so I’m handing next month over to Sandra.
last (24hr-ish) shout for the monthly comp (do we still want to keep this going in its current form?). Already we have two excellent entries, but one or two more would be lovely.