Test

Using my phone and testing whether I'll be able to write on my blog.

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.  



Desperate now to find  water, he takes 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 .

Rope

Rope.

The mother brushes her daughter’s hair,

 teases the tangles

 until

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 
shoulders 
and sighs . 

Lift

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 ...."

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 
slogan);
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.