Google+ Followers

Thursday, June 22, 2017

The Well

22nd June 2017.

Welcome to the six sentence challenge for this week. The word is "well".

The Well

Nicoshi peered over the small brick wall and tried to see to the bottom of the well.
There was no bucket attached to the rope, curled up neatly as it was, with a meter or so  hanging  loose, which made him wonder if, somehow , the said bucket had fallen and was now buried under water way down at the bottom.
He leaned in, straining  both body and eyes, but all he could see was the wall that stretched  far below,

becoming a pool of  deep blackness.  Image result for pictures of wells

Desperate now to find  water, he took hold of the rope and, guiding himself by wedging his feet against the wall,  descended, slowly, resurfacing some minutes later with a perfectly good, dry,  wooden bucket tied to his belt.
While he slumped  onto  the parched earth, against the wall , trying to put himself in as much shade as possible, he looked around the arid landscape to find a tree or something to give a bit of relief,  but there was no escaping the hot afternoon sun.
This was the third day he'd been on the run, hiding and without any form of sustenance and now he puts his hand in his pocket and pulls out a photo of a young woman with a little girl and himself, which he strokes with fingers wet with tears .

Friday, June 16, 2017



The mother brushes her daughter’s hair,
 teases the tangles
knots turn to soft,  smooth locks, shining  golden.
Each single hair so fragile, could easily be pulled 
from its follicle,
effortlessly snapped.
Slowly, deliberately, she divides the whole in three 
equal parts
brush on autopilot with every stroke.
She takes the separate tresses 
 plaits them together
one over the other  - delicately - and
she remembers
she remembers the spray of the sea on her face, 
the yacht, the rope,
her father,
his strong hands - power of nature contained there-
sails swinging this way then that in the sway-
working together against the elements,
his patience unending - no let up till the thick rope is secured
 firmly to the quay.
He was her life pulse, threads to her hope - 
merciful, kind- her comfort, 
her link to the future which now has a sad space
 where he is no more.
She weaves the plait into a coil and when finished
lays her hands on her daughter’s 
and sighs . 

Image result for free picture of mother plaiting hair

Friday, June 9, 2017


9th June

Here is another six sentence story:
The word was "lift"

Mike was riding home late that evening,  battling against the rain and wind, when he saw her standing by the side of the road, young, dressed in jeans and jumper but with no coat.
Putting his foot hard on the brakes the motorbike screeched to a sliding stop about fifty feet up the road, just avoiding going into the ditch, and walking back he saw her waiting there,  long wet hair falling down her face, eyes on him, her hand raised expectantly and as he approached her he asked , "Can I give you a lift somewhere?"
"Yes please, home," she said, holding the hand  he held out for her and giving  him her name and address.
She sat behind him on the motorcycle as  he drove off slowly but after a few minutes he was aware that her arms she was no longer wrapped around  him so, fearfully,  he turned back to search,  thinking she must have  fallen off.
Tired with trying to find her in the dark, he decided to drive to her home, which wasn't far away and at least inform her parents who would want to get the police involved.
He took a deep breath before  knocking  on the door and when a middle aged woman opened it he stumbled over his words saying, "Does a Diane Coulter live here ?"
The woman's face became a bit grey  and as she asked him in she started , "She did once, but she died twelve years ago when a truck mowed her down on an evening just like this actually, just down the road there ...."

Tuesday, June 6, 2017

A Walk With Orange

6th June 2017

In this Election week many of us are concerned about the future of the country and maybe of the world.
Recent events in Manchester and London have caused  quite a disturbance to our peace .
However, the response to those who would try to take our freedom away from us is surely to use it and get out and vote on Thursday.
We all have the freedom to vote for whoever we think will do a good job of running the country for us. I am not going to say which name/party you should put your cross against. But just be sure to go and do it.
If the majority of the country got out to the polling stations, wouldn't that be a vote for freedom and democracy and fly in the face of those who would interfere with them.

Anyway enough of that. I'd like to share a little bit of writing I did today for a workshop.

We were asked to choose a colour and then take a walk for about half an hour, taking notes if we wanted or pictures to inspire us .

So, on my walk I spotted :
a broken terracotta pot , dirty, half hidden in the  earth 
I wondered how it came to be there  in no one's garden,
but alone with a wreck of a truck for company;
a lily - like flower straining joyfully  towards the sky 
basking in the sun;
a diversion sign for traffic, a necessity it seemed as 
cars waited in long lines for some movement;
a lone marigold bud peeking out from under a wall
maybe tomorrow it will bloom;
five orange buckets - two men in overalls intent 
on some decorating, no doubt;
and then, some oranges in a bowl in someone's 
window- inviting fruit on a hot day;
and in contrast, in the road a distinctive
 orange sainsbury's bag full of rubbish;
a board outside a cafe with a menu for lunch;
a sign above a shoe shop - almost draws 
me in with its familiar letters;
a long dress in orange and black, for the beach,
taking me back to a long ago time of dreams;
and sandals with gold straps to add to
my life, my style, my look ( the orange New Look 
lastly, beneath the windmills, out to sea specks 
of tangerine calling to me - time
to come home.

And a poem :

 A Walk with Orange                                              

There it sat in the bay window, right in the centre.
On either side, navy curtains dropped in symmetry
giving my OCD a comfortable moment of happy, that large bowl  
 full to the brim with vibrant  oranges.
You’d always said they were good for you, rich in vitamin c
one of your five a day. You picked them straight
 off the trees in our Spanish garden  in Valencia,
heavy scent of orange blossom hung as a taste throughout the house.
Our small, hilly grove gave up her fruit - sometimes bitter, 
sometimes sweet, sometimes in warm hands – large, safe.
Other times cut up on a tray, seeping inner juice to mingle
with my tears -silent , soft, tears drawn from your pain
You never spoke, there was no conversation, not really,
apart from those words of getting by.
Today I eat the pithy pigment with reluctance 
and not without your voice sounding in my ear

Next time I hope to have pictures.

See you soon and thanks for stopping by.

Friday, May 26, 2017


 26th May 2017

A story using the word master

"Come on little man, you're doing so well , you'll master it it no time", Kevin beamed at  his four year old grandson, legs and arms splashing about as he was holding him just on top of the waves.
He taught all twelve grandchildren  to swim in exactly the same way , as well as his own five children, and they all  loved the sea because of it.
A lot of them were there today , some with him in the water and others sitting with their grandma on the beach, or playing a ball game on the sand.
Kevin looked over at Julie, his wife of nearly forty years, catching  her eye for a  brief moment the sadness they were both trying to keep hidden, at least for the moment, was visible on both their faces.
"Dad," his daughter called from the little group sitting a few feet away from the water, "We're going to have the picnic now, so can you bring Noah out please so he can get dry?"
Kevin picked Noah up with ease and threw him in the air and walked back with him to his mum wondering how on earth He and Julie were going to tell the family 

Also ...
 I would like to master Spanish so that when we go to Spain with our camper next month I'll be able to converse with the natives. I know, I know, I've left it a bit late, but I'm always a last minute pony and usually come up with something.
However, I think this is going to be a difficult one, especially as I have very little time to spend on said learning, what with getting everything ready to go.
But my theory is that when we're there, surely it will be easier, hearing the language all around me, to pick it up and I will have to try because we'll be in some remote places where my tiny bit of Spanish will be the only way to communicate;  not for us the popular places for tourists where all the staff speak English.
We want to go down country lanes and talk to the local people in the small villages. So, I'd better go and find my phrase book now .

Wednesday, May 24, 2017

Thre e Years On

24th May 2017

Three Years On

Today there was a "memory" waiting for me on facebook of the start of my blog . It told me that three years ago today I began my blog. It feels like so much longer !

Anyway, I lost it and couldn't retrieve it but it got me thinking. I clearly din't know how it was going to go - and I still don't, obviously .

 But I do have a lot of writing on the blog and over 30,000 visits , so it must be relatively successful.
I enjoy posting and will continue because it has been a wonderful tool to get me writing . Short stories, poetry and ramblings of various sorts.

There have been great comments from a host of lovely people who sometimes say encouraging things about what I write , which is wonderful.
I've had a few spin offs , one of them when I was to review an authors work, someone who is already well known . That gave me a bit of a boost. And getting involved in the napowrimo month which I love.
I get to read and comment on other poet's work and mine is also read by them.

So, from that shaky beginning I have not looked back.
I hope to improve how I work and to reach many more people.

Stay with me

Give me ideas

And share you writing too

Below is that first , uncertain post . The day I set out on my blogging adventure  with just a laptop and no idea what to do with it.

24th May 2014

Ok, so here goes. Let's see how I get on with a blog. No idea what I'm doing but I trust that  it will work.
And I hope, if anybody ( yes you) does come to read it, that they will enjoy it and enter into conversation with me. And maybe we can do some "putting the world to rights" or something.
Just heard on the news that they found the upturned boat that the four British sailors were on with the life raft still attached, which means that they are dead. Very sad news indeed. My heart goes out to the families whose hope has now been dashed.
But stars only shine in the darkness and I believe that even from this painful situation good will emerge.
I did shiver when I thought of them drowning, though. That would be my least favourite way to die, I have to say.
So, what will I write on this  blog?
I think I shall answer all sorts of dilemmas. The sort that they have in the women's magazines. And if you have a different opinion then by all means let me know. It could make for an interesting chat. It would be like you were in my kitchen joining in the debate. For today I just want to see if I can get started.
So God Bless.
Talk again soon.

Monday, May 22, 2017


22nd May 2017

The birds are making a racket but I love it and am thankful. I don't think I can get to TTOT today ( Ten Things Of Thankfulness) 
One more though - I did do a book review for a magazine this morning and sent it off.
That'll do for now. 

A little story from the prompt "found". 


Sally rolled out of bed, stretched, took her pink dressing gown from behind the door and slowly put it on taking time to tie a neat bow at the front.  She loved its softness against her skin and hugged herself as she went to open the curtains.  The bright sunlight that entered the bedroom, showed up dust and untidiness, which she hated, so she set about making the bed and clearing the clothes from the floor, taking extra care with her husband’s things, folding everything neatly and putting them in his drawers. 
She arranged the items on his bedside table as she liked them:  the lamp with movable head so he could read in bed, the photo of him with a lump of rock - apparently a particularly important find.  She spat on it, then polished it with her sleeve and placed it back with delicate precision.  Lastly she picked up the book he’d been reading for over a week now, “Reading The Rocks” by Marcia Bjormerud, a present from her the previous Christmas.  
Instead of putting it back she took it with her downstairs to the kitchen, where, after filling the kettle, she sat and opened it.  On the inside of the cover she had written-
To my dear husband with much love.
Hope this gives you many rocky moments to remember.
Happy Christmas,
Rocky moments - she thought he would find that amusing, but, as with most things, he wasn’t moved at all. Apart from seeing him reading the book avidly night after night she would never have known if he appreciated it or not.
She flicked through a few pages aimlessly, then threw it down on the table and went to make herself a cup of coffee, switching on the radio as she went by.
And now the news where you are. – she pours water into the mug  - Early this morning the  body of a man was found in the  River Colne, three miles north of Watford.  – she puts sugar in, one, two, three, stirs, takes her cup and sits at the table -  The police haven’t released his name but say they are asking for witnesses and think it may be suicide. There have been two other deaths in the past year in this stretch of the river, both of which turned out to be suicides.  
Sally sips her coffee.

 Image result for free pictures of the river colne