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Songs from the charts 31st October 1998 –
Aerosmith ‘I don’t want to miss a thing’
Bachman Turner Overdrive – ‘You aint seen nothing yet.’
Contains one, bleeped, swear word.
True story
This story involves my youngest daughter, who’s the sassy, won’t give an inch if she thinks she is in the right, type, and the anniversary tale is the day my first grandchild arrived.
Because she was a needle phobic, headstrong, nineteen year old, who stomped along at her own pace, said daughter attended minimal anti-natal sessions and definitely not those involving a needle. Consequently she was not booked into the hospital unit she would be attending when the time came.
On the day in question, 31 October 1998, yes that’s right, Halloween, she began having pains and presented herself at the local cottage hospital only to be told that she had not been booked in by a midwife therefore they couldn’t accept her .
I wasn’t there at the time but my eldest daughter, who had driven her there, said the diatribe my daughter launched at the midwife made the poor woman take a step backward and ended with my daughter falling out with both midwife and her sister and threatening ‘you aint seen nothing yet, ‘cus I’ll go and have it in the F****ing woods.’
Eldest daughter calmed her enough to get in the car and drive to my house. Eventually, we got her booked into the maternity hospital in Southampton and set off again. Halfway there the heavens opened and we drove into a thunder storm that matched my daughter’s mood but we arrived safely and got her settled.
My eldest daughter offered to go back and be there for her younger siblings when they came home from school. Her excuse was she didn’t want them getting wet in the rain …. But I knew better.
She’d been on the receiving end of her fire-brand sisters temper a few times and was choosing the easy option, so I had to support my red-haired, fire-fairy.
It felt as if some cantankerous entity had conspired with the heavens and persuaded the baby to arrive on that particular evening of all evenings. Thunder boomed outside, rain spat at the windows in a heavy clatter and, that girl growled in rebellion at the nurses, called me a few truly shocking names, and yes the numbers 666 definitely crossed my mind a few times but at a quarter to midnight, with a flurry of midwife activity the baby arrived.
That’s when it happened.
There’s an injection new mums get right after birth.
Number one midwife came at my daughter jabbed her in the leg. My daughter had a panic attack and passed out, hanging off the bed.
Hand on heart, honestly, I’m not making this up. Number two midwife who was holding the baby thrust him at me and went to assist midwife number one. That when I looked down at my first grandchild all damp and tiny and you know what? I’m so, so glad I didn’t miss a thing .
Footnote :- Said daughter now has four more sons and a little red -haired fire-fairy of her own.
(497)
Jill – this story was woven with the muted grey overtones of something unpleasant being cast off. I enjoyed how you linked the idea of metamorphosis with the prompt word butterfly as well as showing the protagonist dealing with the stages of an abusive relationship and its outcome with quiet strength too. Perceptively written.
Sandra, I loved how the child’s voice in this piece progressed, seemingly outwardly disconnected, but gave all the relevant details of the butterfly incident. It contrasted sharply with the more ordered adult dialogue and painted a lovely image of a blue butterfly juxtaposed abruptly with the harsh act of ‘poobum’ Nigel’s horrid behaviour.
Both pieces are captivatingly written, both entirely different from each other and both worthy of being chosen winner. I’ll be honest it was really difficult to pick …but the task of creating Mays competition goes to Sandra. Thank you both for taking part and creating two first class entries.
Just to remind everyone there are only two days left until the end of the April competion and as there are only two entries so far, both equally as worthy of being chosen as the other, I may have to resort to flipping a coin or standing at midnight by candlelight and chanting one of those weird childhood choosing rhymes ….midnight by candlelight definitely has more appeal.
Thank you for helping out here Janette, and thank for choosing my offereing as winner. I felt all the entries captured Ath’s remit for this March madness comp so well done Jill, Sandra,Libby and Sea.
The April comp challenge will be posted shortly .
You asked for mad? Well, here’s the slice of crackpot absurdity I came up with .
The necklace of tiny silver bells about her neck tinkled softly as she backed against the garden wall. ‘You’re all mad, you know,’ she muttered holding the sharp seed dibber, labelled ‘Mr Pointy’, like a knife at the advancing crowd.
At the front of the group, Mr Spratt adjusted the crumpled tinfoil hat he was wearing, drew a carrot from the holster at his waist and pointed it at her. ‘Mary, Mary, ‘ he said, with a dramatic flourish of the vegetable, ‘why are you so contrary?’
Beside him, his wife wiped grubby fingers across her grease-stained bib.
Mary eyed them and the wilting carrot. A small smile twitched on her cheek as she hefted the dibber to her other hand and twirled it expertly.
For a moment no one moved.
A small, bent, man wobbled shakily through the crowd. He leaned heavily on a gnarled, crooked, cane, before waving it at Mary.’ You were the last person to visit me, you stole my money.’
‘And our dinner,’ piped up Mrs Spratt
‘My tooty horn too,’ added a young lad, dressed in a cornflower blue uniform.
‘A tray full of pies rumbled the pie man.
‘My favourite sheep, ‘added a young shepherdess.’ You know, the rambunctious one with the diamante bow.’
‘Oh, come on, it wasn’t me.’ Mary launched the dibber into a nearby tree trunk with a satisfying thwack. ‘Some of my garden decorations have been stolen as well. Just think, who would be mad enough to steal so many things from us?’
There was a noticeable silence.
An eye- widening look of understanding passed between everyone.
‘It IS March,’ whispered the crooked man.
‘THEY have been mighty quiet of late,’ added the pie man.
Mr Spratt holstered the carrot. Both he and Mrs Spratt looked a little uncomfortable, ‘sorry, Mary,’ they said in unison.
Mary shrugged and retrieved the dibber. With a cursory wipe she stowed it in the tool belt at her waist, ‘I s’pose you’ll be wanting ME to reclaim as much as I can from the larcenous little layabouts then?’
‘Well, you’re the qualified…assass …er…monster hunt… um, retrieval expert,’ the boy in the blue uniform managed to say.
There were nods from the group.
Mary shrugged again, ‘fine, but only the goods. I won’t hurt the sticky-fingered, amateurs.’
There were more hurried nods.
Somewhere in the woods, in a clearing, hidden from prying eyes, a sheep, adorned with an enormous, gem studded, pink bow, stood, tethered to a tree while a tall hare, in a dark velvet waistcoat, capered triumphantly around an out of place dining table. He stopped every so often and trailed a hand through the pile of ill-gotten items scattered on the tabletop.
A fat, semi-conscious, dormouse lay face down and burbling into a half-eaten pie in the centre of everything, while a grinning Hatter sat, boots on the table, and trickled a crooked sixpence expertly between his long, nimble, fingers. ‘Well, that was fun,’ he said to no one in particular.
500
Thank you Jill, Sandra and Libby for giving me totally engaging entries composed in three distinct voices. This monthly challenge is always a great showcase for the talents of the members of Den of Writers.
Jill:- Lots of new beginnings in this piece. New start new job new house new baby. A well-crafted thoughtful story with lots of changes happening within it and you captured the theme of the challenge in more ways than one
Sandra :- Like you, Sandra, I have a small pile of ‘How To’ books all of which have been read once and not reopened since so it is good to hear you have discovered one with new approaches that inspire you . I enjoyed the way you cleverly linked the new book with an old memory too.
Libby:-. Just visualizing what he was doing made me smile and wince in equal measure. I enjoyed the wifely, matter of fact, solution to the problem and then laughed out loud at the final sentence which left me with a definite image of a farmer in wellies doing a sort of downward dog. I’m not sure Jim has retained any lessons from his initial foray into keeping fit.
Now for the difficult part of deciding who will take on the task of providing the theme for the next challenge.
Just when I was thinking this was going to be a ‘toss the coin’ choice between Sandra and Jill (because I enjoyed and appreciated them alike), Libby snuck in with an entertaining, slightly darkly humoured, description of Jims keep fit efforts. I truly like all the entries equally for their differing approaches and voice, and I found it tough to decide on one above the others.
After changing my mind several times, and because it tickled my sense of humour, I am going to nominate Libby for her imaginative and witty description of a farmers misguided keep fit efforts.
Just a reminder that there is less that a week until the the January comp ends and there are only a couple of entries so far . If you have something you think will fit the fairly broad remit of the theme then do please submit it .
Well done Jill, Janette and Sandra , December comps always seem to be more of a challenge as most of us are usually busy with other things.
Thank you for the chance to set the January comp Ath.
Sorry was busy yesterday and forgot to pop in to see the results . I will post the January challenge as soon as I come up with one . Definitely by the end of today though.
Lord of Yule
Riann contemplated her decision of allowing the snow-covered stranger, now tending the fire, into her cottage. His ice-sprinkled cloak and hood hung at one side of the fire’s mantle, a puddle forming below it, while his boots and mittens lay close to the hearth.
He hadn’t actually set her senses tingling with alarm but there was a practiced timelessness in his movement. The easy way he wriggled his bare feet toward the warmth and the earthy tone of his voice accompanying the old look in his eyes hinted of ancient power and wisdom.
It made her skin prickle in the strangest way.
His eyes were hypnotic, dark brown, almost black, but she could see flashes of gold in his gaze making him seem, both old and young at the same time.
Darkly inked marks on his hands crept over his wrist and coiled under the sleeves of his tunic. Similar markings spiralled about his feet and ankles. Firelight dancing across his face cast shadows about his shoulders making his hair, silver-threaded against dark, seem to curl toward the warmth and, as he leaned forward, poking at the crackling logs, his beard almost touched the floor.
They’d been discussing Yuletide and the turning of the year. He glanced across at her. ‘I’m not saying the legend of Christian faith is unfounded, for it is true, but the Christ mass celebration hides something older, unfathomable, something rooted deep within the earth itself.’
Riann breathed softly, ‘the Old Ones, and the old ways. Those stories have been in my family for generations,’
‘Ahh I knew I was right, the faeborn scent is unmistakable.’ He looked her squarely in the eyes and the flash of gold was unmistakable.
Riann noticed, with unsettling clarity, his hair snaking and curling into the semblance of a crown over his brows. Suspicion twisted in the pit of her belly and unease curled with it.
‘What are you?’ A pointless question because she already knew the answer.
‘Come now lady, faeborn always recognises faeborn, we sense it in our blood and the very, earth, air and water that sustains us. Your question should be “who am I”.’
There was a pause, ‘Who are you, then?’ her voice was quiet.
He laughed, an easy, hearty, laugh, ‘I have many names. My favourite though is Kern. I bid farewell to the old and herald in the new.’
Riann stood. The inky marks on his feet were moving now, sprouting and creeping in tendrils, across the floor toward his boots. She stepped backward, ‘Cernunnos, Two-faced hunter, horned one.’ It was not a question but a whispered truth.
‘Those too,’ one bushy eyebrow raised and a faint smile caught the corner of his mouth, ‘I was passing, your quiet scent intrigued me, it has been long since I sensed faeborn in this world.’
Riann’s voice came out as a breathy hiss. ‘I am not faeborn’
‘You are muted, and spell-tangled but definitely faeborn. Even your name, in the old tongue, means great queen or goddess.’
She looked shocked, ‘How?’
He shrugged, ‘Ancient spell-binding of bloodlines, it happens.’
Vines from his boots, his cloak and from Kern, himself stole up the walls and across the ceiling in thickening branches.
‘I’m afraid.’ Riann whispered.
‘Don’t be,’ his hand closed over hers, ‘you’re coming home.’
550
Still a few days to go and i am on it, honestly , Ath.
After a hectic but lovely build up to xmas and a family orientated day yesterday I settled down about half an hour ago to try and finish my offering. ……. son was carrying a very large bucket of soapy wash water out to the drive to clean his motorbike when the whole thing split open and dumped the water all ways to the underworld over my 6 month old wooden kitchen floor.
Major panic from son and the last twenty minutes paddling a bout in about half an inch of water amid all the bathtowels we could find floating down the stairs like big birds – plus a string of unrepeatable words from my son. Nevera dull one here … a bit damp but thankfully all sorted and just have a huge pile of bathtowels to wash.
Back to the December challenge now .
Jill – a heart-warming tale with a hint of caution and a happy ending as luckily the fairies didn’t try to whisk Ellie away.
The warmth between Ellie and her grandma really shone through and I enjoyed how you blended something modern with a fairy tale too.
Libby – I tried to leave the scope of the challenge a little open ended as I guessed there might be a at least one not so heart-warming tale wanting to emerge so it was good to see something that teetered on human darkness and horror. You cleverly revealed the self-blame of the mother in not noticing the problem sooner and likewise hinted, although the storytellers daughter ‘liked’ the loch it seemed to echo the darker side of her mind working. A clever fireside tale. Thank you.
Ath – Almost from the outset I guessed this was heading into a dark and disturbing tale. The almost throwaway line ‘if the stories were true’ was the first hint. The likeable taste of the whisky was another while the reoccurring flicker just added to the sense of building horror, and when it manifested with the image of Percy in the picture I definitely flinched, imagining the fate of the poor journalist. The use of the changing picture frame gave off veiled echoes of a Dorian Grey type individual and was a clever modern twist.
Still wincing as I think about this tale.
Oh dang, after the enjoyment of reading each story, this is the part I find the most difficult. Three eloquent tales each woven quite differently from the other – they are all excellent examples of writing talent that hooks a the reader and carries them along to the end of the piece.I wanted to choose them all … but finally …
I chose Ath to take us into the end of year competition challenge becasue the revolving picture image of Percy kept drawing me back to his story.
Only one more day remaining for anyone thinking about submitting something for the November competiton .
I expect lots of you, like me, are creating and drafting exciting entries for the September Song competition but dont forget there are only fourteen days until the monthly (November ) competition closes and i’m looking forward to reading your entries for that too .
Thank you for choosing my entry Libby.
All the other entries were of such high calibre I had been thinking ‘I’m glad I’m not the one having to chose one above the others’ and now that’s going to be my dilemma at the end of Novembers competition challenge .
<u>Pocket Money</u>
Hidden in gloom-light, he shadow-shifts within the numinous cloak of darkness rippling and folding into a Samhain-shadowed mist, as it protects him within its unsettled veil.
Hood pushed back, revealing small horns twisting, like red fingers, on dark hair, falling away over his shoulders, he glides over the grass.
Drawn by the scent of souls, he is hunting, tracking the faint glimmer of echoes upon the breeze.
A thin ribbon of gold, sparking and trailing the air, reveals a soul in limbo.
Eager wisps of smoke curl from the corner of his mouth.
Catching the thread in one hand he follows its direction, running it gently through thin fingers as he bounds along.
Unexpectedly, the thread intertwines with another and another.
A gathering of souls.
He hesitates, knowing that, in groups, these souls are unpredictable, desperate, and may not heed the summoning song.
The chatter of their noise confirms exactly where they are. They have breached the All-Hallows mantle separating each moment and are firmly caught in the solid instant of now.
He dislikes this place because his cloak of shadow-dark is useless here and will not hide him.
Still, he must collect these souls, because his timeless pledge binds him to the task.
Crouched in the shadowy portal between moments, he sees them. They have found a human child and are crawling over it, calling, begging for recognition.
The veiled-light between moments mutes the melody of his summoning song.
The souls ignore it, coiling, like shifting smoke, around the human plucking at its life force, drawing the breath from its body in their attempt to gain its attention.
The child, weighed down where they cling, stumbles.
He leaps into the moment, impaling the nearest soul on sharp claws. Pulling it away, he stabs at the others who wilt against his hand like plucked flowers. The fire of his touch scorches away all form until they are small, pale, coins in his palm.
The child watches him but he does not meet her gaze. Instead he summersaults backward into the safety of the in-between and draws the Halloween enchantment with him.
Mindful of the coins, he pockets them safely, unaware of the hint of silver trailing away behind him as he leaves, nor does he hear the quiet voice of the child purring in the darkness. “How careless. So predictable. What is yours will soon be mine.”
(397)
Thanks, Ath, for this months competition theme, what a great crop of entries it garnered.
Congratulations ,everyone, for the interesting and well crafted reads and well done Sea for being the one taking the lead into the July challenge.
Just pulled the last bit of candy floss from my brain, looked at some famous last quotes “Julius ‘Groucho’ Marx and Noel Coward.” Played with some authors and their book titles, used some well known sayings and came up with this bit of fluff.
<u>The last question</u>
I was surprised when the invite appeared mysteriously on my lap.
Firstly, because both the envelope and the final ticket for the, oddly named, “last train to Clarksville” were created from spiral spores of the extinct Sigillaria tree, and secondly, because the train itself, verged on mythical so tickets offering a chance to witness the beginning, and the end, of things were as rare as promethium, and to be honest, I never thought I would be the person to receive such an opportunity.
I hastily packed a rucksack with essentials before hurrying around derelict buildings and along ruined roadways, to the terminal at the end of eternity.
A fading sign over the door-portal to the terminal read, “Here, find answers to Asimov’s last question.”
There was no-one to collect my ticket, so I hurried on through.
The train and a single carriage, both ancient and rusted, waited in the station.
Sweet-scented blossom and green leafy vines coiled into the cab, covered the trailing truck, arched over the carriage doorway and crept through its windows.
I laughed.
There seemed no way this ancient rust-bucket would ever move but, surprisingly, the carriage door opened and someone shouted, ‘All aboard, quickly now.’
Well, you didn’t need to tell me twice.
Inside, a man shook my hand and said, ‘Welcome aboard, I’m Mr Coward, let me clip your ticket. We’re all keen to meet the ticket-holder for the last seat on the train, you know.’
Looking around the carriage, it wasn’t what I expected. No intruding vines or flowers. It was much bigger than it seemed from outside, and was clean and comfy too.
Only one seat remained unoccupied, mine.
‘Hello, I’m James, James Cooper,’ the man beside me said as I sat down, ‘I say, have you brought anything to pass the time if not you can borrow this.’ He waved a book titled “The Last of the Mohicans” at me.
I declined and was actually startled, and a little worried, as the train shuddered into movement. ‘I hope we don’t die in this rickety machine’ I said, a little too loudly.
A well-dressed man with glasses, dark hair, and a moustache turned and, with a grin, fluttered his cigar at me. ‘Die my dear? Why that’s the last thing I’ll do. Now, courage man, after all, you were the last man standing on the planet, besides, you do know your final fear is your worst fear.’ He spun toward to the ticket collector, ‘Noel, any chance of a whiskey?’
Mr Coward shook his head, ‘sorry Julius, last orders were ages ago. You can have my last rolo, if you want.’
He winked at me then looked around at other passengers. ‘This night-train is about to go inter-galactically super-sonic so get some rest, blankets are above your heads if you need them.’ He paused, ‘Goodnight my darlings, I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he said, before strolling through a door at the rear of the carriage, which should not have led anywhere.
(496)
Congratulations, Ath, for your interpretation with a twist and well done Sandra, Sea and Libby as well.
I enjoyed everyone’s entries.
Its always interesting to see others take on a challenge prompt.
Renewal Dance
Below a patchy canopy of leaves, sunlight falls in dusted shafts of light, highlighting small tufts of fluffy-winged seeds, spiralling and soaring in the breeze and somewhere, within the cool, dark, caverns of under-earth, the chime of rock, root and soil begins its soft, ceaseless, song of renewal.
Stirred from slumber beneath the ivy-curled bank of fallen oak, he hears the call of Beltane’s melody, shakes himself awake and waits.
As daylight shadows lengthen into dusky shades she comes to him, walking barefoot and silvery, along the hidden, mossy, pathways to his door.
Of course his soul leaps at the sight of her for she is the heart of him and, threaded with all the coloured ribbons of springtime, she is woven into each un-ending dance of loves flame.
He bows his head and the maiden reaches up, plucks an acorn from his leafy brow, plants it carefully in the hollow of his large, furrowed, footprint and waters it with her tears.
Together they waited for moonshine to fall, in silver shards, upon the watered spot then, with the wheel of time falling away behind them, they join the rhythmic dance in the circle of Bel’s flame.
Soft and slow the tread of their feet echoes and, as it always does, gathers up the aging memory of past dances. Then, soundlessly, with the twirling and shifting of the years, comes the added weight of all those dancing on the wheel of time.
Bel’s blaze soars and curls in anticipation as, two by two, the dancers leap over the flame until only he and the maiden remain, locked together in the brief embrace of their un-ending fate.
Together, entwined, savouring every moment spent together, they stand within the flickered heat. Steadily it scorches his woody veins and the green sap of his life bursts from his core to nourish the earth.
Mouth on mouth they pledge their love as she melts into the water that will sustain new growth. Gently, and together, they curl into the soft shell of memory, falling onto the starry cradle of earth’s renewal, and vanish into the flame-stained earth.
Quietly, below the ivy-curled bank of fallen oak, the eternal and blessed seed sprouts anew.
(369)
‘you will mistake the gulls
for the screaming of a girl
and run out of your flat
to an empty landing’
No.
The landing is not empty.
You know what you see.
And the gulls, well, you should have remembered, they’re always there. Wheeling and calling, ghostly as Valkyries, looking for a better prize than picking at bleached bones of the long dead, littering your landing, the walkways and the open spaces beyond.
With a curl of recalled horror, you remember those crow-speckled places were the first ravaged by the outfall of unthinkable disaster your kind wrought upon themselves.
Now, in the twilight of existence, those gulls are the lure, the memorial promise of life lost to the reckless savagery of humanity. They have become the link to that dangled memory of time in sunshine and air. Their company is a stark souvenir that only magnifies the lost sense of time spent among bustling shopping malls, meandering with the fragrance of fresh bread and coffee.
Fool!
It was not the screaming of a girl you heard.
You should have remembered, the gulls are always there, temping you with recollections of country lanes, the fading remembrance of farmland scent and always, always, calling to you with the sound of the sea and the memory of its salty taste against your tongue.
Your thoughts, addled with loneliness and the rising understanding of what man has done, have betrayed you.
You should have remembered.
No one goes out onto the landing.
(227)
Although this started out as a response to the monthly competition and is probably moving at a much slower pace that the challenge might have intended, it has blossomed into an opening for something larger. I’ve written a lot more than 400 words and tinkered with a plot line and title too.
The old man stared into the flames. ‘There weren’t always dragons in the valley’, he said, waving away a wisp of firedrake smoke, ‘I was here when the sky darkened and they first came, like thunder, roaring over the mountains.’
Flames rose and fell, casting flickering shadows against the cave wall, as he poked the fire with a charred stick. The small drake on his shoulder shifted, puffing more thin smoke into the air, ‘You aren’t that old Kall. No one can be that old. There have been Drakes and Dragons in the valley for time beyond remembering.’
Kall smiled, ‘I was there when you hatched you forgetful little fire-snout and you can count three hundred years.’
The drake curled her tail around his neck, ‘I’ve often wondered about that. Most creatures age and die sooner than firedrakes or dragons, yet you seem the same as the day I first looked up and saw your face. You look like other two-legs, but you’re not the same.’
‘What kind of two-legs am I then, Emerie?’
‘You’re the kind that doesn’t need me to light your fires, if that’s what you mean. You carry the scent of magic on you, I’ve always known that.’
Kall shrugged, ‘Watching for signs of the oracle over the years has made me careless.’
Emerie gave a snort and fire sparked in her nostril, ‘you’re never careless, Kall, you’ve let me see what you wanted me to see.’
The flames guttered as a stray breeze blew in from outside and with it came the sound of sea on stone, sighing on the barren beach below. The air in the cave shimmered with the taste of salt and Kalls expression was unreadable in the flicker of shadows. ‘Perhaps I have,’ he said quietly, ‘but everything has been in preparation for what is coming. The time of the oracle is come. I’ve sent summons to the dragon-clans to meet at the place of burnt rocks.’
The drake gave a scornful huff and flames shot into the dark like small, bright, spears, ‘Kyesir will come, so will, Morseg, Sildree and Teldriss, but Beowmug won’t even acknowledge your invite.’
Kall chuckled quietly, ‘I have a plan, Em. He’ll come because I haven’t invited him. He’ll be so incensed his arrogant curiosity will force him to attend. He won’t want to be left out of this meeting.
We’ll be leaving at dawn-light.’
(400)
Oh Sea, cleverly written, this really tugs at a range of emotions: Well, it did mine.
I hope ,when I walk into the dawn, someone does this for me .
ODDS AND ENDINGS IN MY LIFE, INCLUDING THE STICKY ONES. .
For me the phrase ‘the end’ invokes a variety of feelings.
Some, such as the end of a candle or bit of soap are not memorable. Those endings flash out of existence in a blink of thoughtlessness, never to be recalled again.
However, dancing along the polar opposite to that, there are many times in my life that flicker and shine like stardust trickling away into memorable endings. You know what I mean, the end of a memorable movie, a long anticipated kiss, the physicality at the end of schooling, of childhood, of a relationship either good or bad. Those events I can cope with, as well as the more ethereal ending of each day, or of extraordinary conversations, because those things I am able to mull over with the practiced consideration of memory and can revisit them whenever the mood takes me.
There are, of course, those other odds and endings that can make you jut out your jaw and huff with frustration. For example, that last ball of wool ending with a mere three rows still needed to complete the item, or that gifted and distinctive pen spluttering out of ink on some half-finished piece. Those events dip in and out of my thoughts for minutes, possibly an hour, but certainly not more than a day, unless I am required to recall them as a learning curve of life.
Then there are those endings which vex me.
These would be those times when the product I’m using is almost at its end and I’m struggling to extract the very last bit out. You know the stuff I mean; the end of a tube of toothpaste, the creams and lotions you can’t seem to empty.
I admit I have a neat little tool, best on metal tubes, you roll up from the bottom squeezing out everything, but the smallest bit, of what they contain for use, but the endings that create the wasp in my underpants, the twitch in my eyebrow, and send me silently screaming ‘WHY’ at the universe are those cardboard cartons of passata, custard or juice and the plastic ketchup and similar condiment, bottles you often struggle to open the seal of and, most definitely, can’t roll up, or get a spoon, or knife, into to scrape out the remainder.
These are the blight of invention, the tormentors of all that exists in the product container world and lamentations about their unyielding structure and unwillingness to give up ending their habitation of my cupboard space are becoming the stuff of legend in my kitchen.
My feelings about those endings are – ‘sorry, you stiff, unnatural, oddities of nature but I paid for the product so I’m jolly well going to get every bit of the item I’m owed.’
Yup, you guessed it, I let my evil, mad-scientist, persona out of her box, don the apron and gloves and cut them open with relish (pun intended) so I can get at their unseen and treasured innards . Mwahhahhah…
(500)
My offering was much the same Richard.
I thought about all the things that cause me difficulty – didn’t know how to start writing about it and ended up making myself smile with a bit of fun.
Degrees Of Difficulty In My Life
(when it gets difficult – make it rhyme )
I find it difficult to hide the truth, or say things that are untrue.
I can’t fit inside a kayak, or paddle a canoe.
I can’t crochet anything or mend my pushbike brake
and bouncing on a trampoline is a jump I will not take.
At my age I can’t run so fast, or do anything as quick
And I can’t use penicillin, because it makes me sick.
It aint easy reading small-print on labels, like my meds,
It’s the same with lacing needles using wispy, cotton, threads.
I find it hard to do a handstand – It always ends in fails
And I won’t, eat, those escargots, the sticky, icky, snails.
Sudoku drives me round the twist – It’s not my idea of fun.
I used to do them regularly but I’ve never finished one.
I’m not great on moving stairs, or lifts, and I struggle opening jars.
I throw-up on roller-coasters, and in the back seat of most cars.
The keypad on new mobiles have shrunken down so small
My big fat fingers struggle to text anything at all.
I can’t drive in shoes, or boots – its slippers or bare feet
And I can’t say no to chocolate or anything that’s sweet.
I’ve tried to ski on water, I’m even worse on snow.
I can’t follow maps, or tom toms; don’t know left from right, you know.
I can’t eat a mushroom, a curry, or nut-butter
And pineapple and peppers set my tummy all a flutter.
I get seasick out on boats and I just can’t sing on-key.
So many things within my life are challenging for me.
I find it difficult to whistle, to diet, and even tie a knot,
So you might be thinking I’m a sad-sack but, actually, I’m not.
(311)
I popped in a few times but sorry, didn’t managed to post anything for the monthly comp . I’ve been really busy sorting and emptying the kitchen as sparkly new units, sink and other gizmos are being fitted in the new year. the old one is over 20 years old and it’s turned into a major refit having to move pipes, wiring and other things . Have been getting a bit frazzled with all the logistics of it all but things are just starting to fall into place …. I hope.
just wanted to say well done Ath for a wonderfully whimsical offering.
Thank you for setting Octobers comp, Knicks.
I enjoy seeing how differently we all approach the monthly challenges. this months were wonderfully varied.
Congratulations to Seagreen for such an atmospheric winning offering.
A rhyming effort from me for this challenge
<u>All in my head</u>
Emotion, bright as a shooting star, trails across the bowl of dark-light, caught
crackling and spluttering, straining against the speckle and spackle of midnight thought.
I feel it drift, almost mutely, into a cascade of unspoken dreams, tumbling, and falling
slowly, into an open mouth of endless sky-flow shadows , curling and running. Still calling,
and quietly humming, it loops into quietness where reedy seas suck it softly, down to the deep
well of solitude, waking ambition, unfulfilled yearning, and the timeless, soft, restless, sleep
of endless imaginings.
Memory stretches like an old lion, shakes its head, and recalls the sleepy warmth of times long past.
Of birthdays shared, of gifts exchanged. Of broken bonds of friendships, pledged to last.
Now merely deeds, and faces, swimming in a sea of thoughts, all swirled, connecting,
summing up my past. I see sweet success and faltering fails twined in tandem, reflecting
and merging into the bottled view of life achievements. Still, I smile, recalling glitter-sprinkled
Christmas days, filled with the rustle and tear of unwrapped presents and paper wrinkled,
so quickly and cast aside all forgotten, on the floor of childish excitement.
Here in my head I pull those twisted clouds of fancy from the pink and pulsing centre of thinking,
and keep spinning out my dreams, my hopes and fears, in patterned words all sparked and blinking,
like star-shine, in dark places .These things light the way forward. Forward, into that place unknown,
yet still cast shadow-bright melody on the broken shards of all my yesterdays, also lying, windblown,
but steadfast, on the path I walk. Creativity, the wellspring of calmness, touches everything internal.
It is the core of my breathing, waking, time. It is the writer of my life’s voyage; my journeys journal,
and holds the pages of me together in a song.
Love, curls long fingers through memory’s tousled mane, plucks at my heart and smiles, projecting
strong easy warmth as it touches everything. Like the shelter of parent’s arms, protecting,
it carries the scent of baby’s skin, soft on my own, brings echoed laughter, of family and friends,
and teases with the fervent kiss of lovers entwined and curled in the bed of life’s odds and ends
that I can’t forget, even if I wanted to. Here too, coiled snake-like over love, the salty, sweet, scent
of sex lingers, as a memorial, nudging memory and reminding me of potent times spent
touching and touched, enfolded in passion.
Sorrow, shedding soft tears, ebbs, gently, into small corners of my being, leaking like a rusty sieve
for a father gone, a mother failing, for someone needing more care than I know how to give .
Quietly, she lays on my casket of emotion, crooning sad psalms without meaning, or ending,
And, though it seems small, this feeling is huge, like the wide-open sky, or a mountain, unbending
against all effort to soothe it. Such bitter sadness falls, icy as snowflakes, perfectly formed.
She’s unwilling to bow, unwilling to break. She will not be stoppered, she will not be warmed.
She simply sits, crying sad songs to my soul.
In the shadows of loneliness, and impotent as a fettered dog, my rage, mutters and whines
as it scratches the wounds of injustice and betrayal. Sometimes it howls and sometimes it shines,
sparking in the gloom-light of adversity, while picking at the discoloured bones of my work .
Often, it’s not rage, baying, and twisting, but white-hot revenge reaching out in the murk,
secretly packed, full, of cruel venom. It’s the kind with no cure, the kind that’s barb-hemmed,
and sharp-tipped. Yet, kissed by hope, such fury, and vengeance, can swiftly dissolve, or quickly bend,
slowly spiralling away, into oblivion .
How easily the intricate patterns of my beginning, and end, roll and flow through the years,
collecting boxed memories, and shaded, cracked, images, veiled and festooned, in laughter and tears
that dance in the shadow of life, and the enigma of death as they unpluck the ragged structure of time.
Often moving too quickly, or without reason, everything slides, birdlike, trilling, into sublime
melodies of stored experiences, glazed in fine dust, or set in crystals, that hum, glow and glisten.
Dreaming and waking, elusive and free, here, is the sum of me, caught, safe, in my head, but if I listen,
somewhere, within me, the bell of finality echoes it requiem.
730