Border / Cast

14th Sept 2017 

Joining this weeks six story sentence challenge with  the cue cast. As I didn't post anything for the cue "border" a few weeks ago, I thought I could amalgamate the two .

Border ....

While Adnan's  hands grew painful and his throat dry with the fumes from the lorries ahead making it more and more difficult for him to breathe, he dreamed of a new life that was awaiting him when he crossed the border and pondered  what it might be like and decided that all of this would be worthwhile in the end.. 

It had been easy to stow away on the underside of the huge artic, finding a place where he could almost sit , although perched precariously, needing both hands to hang on. 

The lorry slowed now as they neared the border, and he prayed like mad, his heart thumping loudly, water running from his face and dripping onto the road as, looking through the gaps he could just spot other lorries being stopped and checked. 

Was this going to be the end of the road, his new life cut short before it had begun, all the suffering of the last four weeks for nothing , just to be sent back to Syria?

He let out a soft , slow breath when the artic was waved through and with no inspection the journey began again.  

Two hours later in a dark motorway car park the lorry pulled to  a stop and as all seemed quiet Adnan  uncurled his cold, aching bones,  lowered himself to the ground and on hands and knees,  crawled out and cast a furtive glance around him wondering which way he should go now. 

Bend

31st Aug 2017

In response to the cue from "Six Sentences" :

Bend

Two grandsons, faces set with pensive frowns,slowly, deliberately,  lower two baskets into the  hole in the ground as the rest of us bend over and peer in , some giving instructions - "mum slept on the right," and "they'll enjoy that  lovely view down the hill ".
I can't believe that it's a year ago today since that little scene took place on the day we buried my mum and dad's ashes side by side,  together forever.
It seems that time only increases the emptiness that cannot be filled, as on so many occasions I long to hear their voices or listen to their stories -  stories of our history which I know I should have paid more attention to.
They were the ones that kept me connected, always happy to pass on news of how things were with the rest of the family.
 All too soon the chances are taken from us and there is a gaping chasm that cannot be filled or covered over.
Maybe with time it will lose it's importance and certainly we become the older generation who pass on wisdom to the one below.
Although  I really don't feel up to the task of being the "elder", I know that from me the younger ones will learn about their roots and the people that make them up, so the cycle will continue.

Ponchos

3rd August 2017

Yesterday our family welcomed a new baby. A  new grandaughter for me - Maria. Although we now have twenty four grandchildren, the miracle of new life doesn't diminish. If anything it becomes more special, more precious  Congrats to the little family .

Changing the subject, I'm posting a six sentence attempt just to try and get back in the swing of things. The cue word  is pickle. I did think I'd write something about our "new little pickle", but changed my mind.

Anyway here goes:

Ponchos

It had seemed a good idea at the time to get ponchos for, you know, that unlikely scenario when the weather on the continent might not be so favourable.

 It came down, in the end, to a choice between a "pac a mac with hood" or a "full covering poncho"and as we tried them on in Go Outdoors it made perfect sense to have something that kept dry, not just you , but anything you might be carrying.  

So, having bought said ponchos we secreted them at the back of a cupboard in the camper, behind other items that weren't likely to be needed often, such as my "going out|" jewellery box and my red 

high heel shoes.

Anyway, to cut a long story short and for the sake of the six, from the minute we hit French soil we were soggy, with rain set to be our constant bugbear for the next five days.

No worries, we said , we'll keep dry under our new ponchos and carry on enjoying our pilgrimage.

That was all very well until I got in a right pickle every time I wanted to get to my bag or to use my arms in a normal way, at which point I thought , those pac a macs would have done a darn site better job .

Photo

2nd August 2017.

One of the many beautiful views that we saw on our travels. We only captured a minute selection and of course never had the camera ready or couldn't stop for some of the more amazing , jaw dropping ones. What a wonderful world we live in . This one was taken as we were creeping up the side of a cliff that was just over a car width wide with clear drops to the bottom.

Of course , as always , the photo doesn't do the place justice. You can't capture the whole and a lot of the atmosphere is lost . 

So Much

1st August 2017

Well, it's been a long time since  you heard from me dear readers and I apologise for that.

We ( my husband and I) have been away for a month in our camper. More on that later.

Today I'm going to join in with Josie Two Shoes' TTOT - ten things of thankfulness - blog.

So, where to start?

So Much

1. I love our camper and am thankful that we got some time away in France and Spain. I even had a chance to try out the two languages, although more study is definitely needed.
2. We saw some really beautiful places - mountains, rivers, waterfalls, beaches, pretty towns and villages, cathedrals and churches.
3. We met some wonderful people, and some so generous they inspire you to be better.
4. The weather, apart from the first week, was brilliant. I did have to buy a hat to protect my lips.
5. We swam in the sea, in lakes, in rivers and in a swimming pool.
6. We made a pilgrimage and prayed in the most interesting and sacred places, feeling close to the real meaning of everything.
7. We ate lovely bread and cheese and red  wine was cheap enough to enjoy more than a few times.
8 We kept within budget, only using a camp site two nights during the whole four weeks. The aires are totally adequate when you've got a camper. We also did quite a bit of wild camping, one time right next to a seven mile stretch of beach.
9. The Pyrenees were amazing . Need to repeat: the Pyrenees were absolutely amazing and will give a background to my every waking moment as long as my memory holds out.
10. Although, we loved our adventure and had to come home early for health a appointment, It was the most delicious feeling falling into my own bed. Yes, good to be home too. And see some of the children. Hopefully see all of them throughout the summer.

I will write more about the expedition later.

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.