Love After Love

 

The time will come

when, with elation,

you will greet yourself arriving

at your own door, in your own mirror,

and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.

You will love again the stranger who was your self.

Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart

to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored

for another, who knows you by heart.

Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,

peel your own image from the mirror.

Sit. Feast on your life.

By Derek Walcot. R.I.P. 17th March 2017 #WorldPoetryDay  couldn’t pass by without a bow or a curtsie to the painter, playwright, poet, English professor and nobel prize winner amongst his many accolades. He missed this day by four days so I would like to honour him in some small way. 

A Rosy Pairing

press to join in. Sue Vincent’s  picture prompt.

Here is this weeks photo. All.entries to be in by March 22nd.

Stalactites hung like chandeliers from the roof of our cave, the formation split it into two rooms. Since his leaving I had made it welcoming, sweeping the animal waste in a pile,  hanging a lantern from a  root that pierced the ceiling. The rosy welcoming glow was encouraged by the minerals in the rock that cast a sunset; perfect for this night. Animal skins shone silver on the vine that provided cover.

My heart bounced in my chest, as his shadow fell on the ridge. I trembled and perspired at the shape of him. Picking up the mewing bundle I stood at the entrance and thrust it towards his broad chest and said… “Your  gift” With his huge hands he twisted the neck, a crack of splintering bone was heard. A gasp left my throat and I wiped my eyes with trembling fingers. With swift strokes he skinned and gutted it, throwing the debris aside. Taking me roughly in his arms to the inner chamber he reminded me what we were together for.The calf spat and cooked on the fire  as we writhed on its soft skin. Now I was his, I had successfully filled his needs and his belly .
I remember my son asking what it was like when we lived in caves. Though I am not quite old enough for that, I think maybe my story would have fit.I bet you thought that bundle was something else… leave me a comment I am dying to know  ūüėÄ 😄 ūüėģ

A Short Stream Of Consciousness.

Linda Hills stream of conciousness prompt please press ūüĒú¬†here¬†ūüĒö ¬†to read and join, ¬†it Is fun #SOCS ¬†No editing just pouring onto the page.


My Dad used to say “Nice things come in small parcels” he said it mostly to cheer me up. I am one of four girls who were all… a lighter build than me, they had dainty feet and were born fortunate with prettier eyes and full lashes and without double chins. All three had wavy or curling hair, they were popular, and taller than me, all three were in the top choice when teams were picked, and all three had tone, rythm and speed.

wpid-cymera_20141201_190627.jpg

Where, ¬†I never grew into my large clumsy feet or had the ability to beautifully sing and dance. My bum was always big in this … whatever this happened to be. My singing voice… well least said and all that. ¬†I swear someone put my eyes on upside down and stole my midriff… seriously, how is it that I have a standard leg length, a six foot arm span *holds head* “really” and am four foot eleven and a half. I was the girl that the netball captain dreaded having to take, the sister that the vicar told “god had better things than the choir on his mind when he made me” ! Promptly giving the collection plate over ( my then new job). And just in case you think like a butterfly I morphed into my wonderful self… No!

Singing is my passion and I could still win X factor the voice and be a singing sensation, but no one other than me hears the way my ears do… I still have straight as a poker hair, bigger feet, ¬†shorter body, upside down eyes, ¬†two chins, weigh more than them, I hide from the ball, miss with a bat and in comparison my bum is still big in that.

In case you think I feel sorry for myself NO! You see I am unique, I am an anomaly. I can laugh at myself, make others happy, I am kind and generous. ¬†If I don’t compare myself to my sisters, I am average weight and fitness with a standard sized foot. My siblings are smaller (not shorter) and lighter than the norm. They are… ¬†they, and I am me, a friendly, happy, quirky woman who writes. My husband, who by the way insists my differences drew him to me, loves this bonkers loon and wouldn’t alter a bit of me.. except maybe my ¬†penchant for singing and being bouncy as I wake.

 

There I kept it short and shared pieces of me.

Do you fit neatly into your family have you grown into your space? I am dying to hear.

Auschwitz 1.

Arbeit macht frei” (work set’s you free)

 

Beneath a winters sun a biting wind blew,

Where nobody saw and nobody knew.

With tears in the eyes of our guide

Shock on our faces no-where to hide.

I couldn’t remove her words from my ear

The ones no decent human wants to  hear.

Watching through a fog knowing the reality

It slid beneath flesh and warped earth’s polarity.

Ramming evil home, planting it deep

like marrow into the bone.

Escape was not made for here,

corrections happened and slaughter… its clear.

They walked towards death one by one,

Without the fear of what was to come.

When water became gas, to help them cope,

they sang the  Hatikvah, their song of hope.

I see piles of  hair when I try to sleep,

the discarded shoes torn from innocents feet.

I see their faces before me as I softly weep,

Brush crematoria soot from a tear stained cheek.

This place bore witness to pure evil that time,

it can not be erased from the depths of my mind.

At the shooting wall I picture them standing that day,

Singing hopeful  prayers they refused to face away.

The Nazi machine, its power so strong,

kept the furnaces burning all night long.

Hundreds were cremated day after day,

Not fast enough to clear the piles of decay.

First their status then their pride

Ripped them apart nowhere to hide.

For all the souls that gather there,

Their fortitude, their pain and despair.

I beseech you all, to stand and see

the shooting wall… just like me.

The rose was placed on one of the beds that held six bodies in the barracks of Auschwitz one. Poignantly positioned, by someone paying respects on March the second 2017.

A  piece of me shifted that day, my eyes clouded and my heart cried. I thought long and hard before posting this and though I hope you leave me a comment I will umderstand if you don’t.

Wearing A Smile.

The prompt for ‘A Scribble Of Writers’ is the picture below. The picture belongs to Margaret press to here to ask for use of the picture or to join in with the scribblers.

City life is fast and furious, not a soul knows your name once you’re out of context. Heads down watching feet, wrapped up on a dark street. Christmas is only Christmas until midnight, then it loses its glow. Sales hit the high street stores and only a few twinkling lights remain, as the remnants of the day disappear.

 “This year will be different” I said,  pulling the collar up on my red Christmas coat, I stand tall, I feel like a super hero wearing this. I march down the main street, buildings in shadow, frost in the air, me on my toes. I trail plumes of white from both nose and nostrils; a determined stride soon warms the soul. *Thinking* this year I will make it different. I take time to notice the faces and smile at each figure I pass; regardless of no forthcoming response. “Nice evening, seasons greetings” I call; with a skip in my step. 

Our eyes meet so I nod,  a twitch of his lips makes me feel great. Ten steps more and I see her, she looks about eighteen, tying her belt, checking her phone, brushing away hair with her hand as she walks, then bam! “I am sorry” she said scrambling to her feet, she pulled me up while rubbing my cashmere coat with her cold thin hand. “No problem, no bones broken”. Are you okay? Late for something are you”? I said concerned. Her bottom lip trembled as she mumbled a sorry once more. “Look I am fine, let me buy you a drink,  there’s a wonderful teahouse around the corner, we will both feel better for a hot cup of tea”. She stooped, grasping her bag from the pavement; wide eyed, she swallows and nods. 

 The tea was hot and the fondant cakes comforting. She wipes her mouth with a serviette and quietly tells me her story. I nod and smile, shake my head in… I believe all the right places. Her story was one most of us knew and had experienced, girl meets boy and it doesn’t quite work out the way they hoped. We shared the bill and clasped hands for a second as she continued on her way,  and I on mine. 

On return to my flat, in this loneliest of cities, my keys rattle and echo through the hall. On the surface,  all  was just as I left it … but everything had changed. I felt good, invigorated from the walk, and worthwhile. My face is still wearing its smile and my red coat didn’t lose its glow the day after Christmas.

Giving others a greeting, acknowledging  their presence, throwing out a smile or simply listening, takes but a fraction of our time but can change so much. Let me know if you agree in the comments… I love to hear your views. 

The Connection

wall

She sat, on a low wall three bricks high. A wall that once was tall was a crumbled remnant beside the main road. She wore wrinkled long socks, one higher than the other they offered no protection against the easterly wind; that bitter December day. Her ditsy floral skirt flicked against the already chaffed skin; leaving pink welts. A grey knitted cardi hung from her shoulders, the sleeves fisted in her hands as she waited. Flat barren fields of East Anglia solid from the morning frost were inviting her gaze; eyes glassy, and wide.

I notice her many times as we flashed by on the way to Norwich. Each time we’d¬†go I would see her, with pain in her shape a stillness about her. Once we stopped at the village shop while I waited¬†I asked her story. The postmistress said, ” She’s about forty a local she is… not been herself since her daughter… some says she were taken and others say different.”¬†Slowly she shook her head as she stamped my letters. “Only six she was, her girl. Where she sits, it‚Äôs where she waited that day and every one since, for the school bus to bring her; she never came home”.

One occasion I stopped, pulled the car into the lay-by. I walked over and took a space on the rough wall alongside her; leaving a gap of two bricks between us, a respectful gap I thought. I gazed across the flat land as she did. “Hello, are you… Are you okay”? I felt a tug, a connection; fleeting though it was. She sat unmoved, undaunted by my presence. I¬†felt the cold from her, saw the fogged breath, I could taste her sadness. An overwhelming urge to reach her enveloped me. Determinedly I unzipped my parka; putting it beside her, untied my wool scarf and wriggled my fingers free of the gloves. “Please, your skin¬†is blue, take these, they’re for you.” I shouted, as the wind whistled by my ears and bit the end of my nose. The pile almost touched her chest; I began to tremble, a feeling of despair, soaked into me. Her eyes flickered as I put the clothes in her lap. “I don’t need them, can you hear me”? A pat to reinforce the point made her flinch and with a straight back but without a second glance I returned to the car. She hadn’t moved as we passed her, the bundle propped on her lap her glassy eyes staring forward; there she sat.

That day, the clouds gathered so swiftly that everyone around the conference table stared at the snow. The CEO said “Due to the change of weather we will take a working lunch. The sooner I get you home the better”. I remember hoping she had put the clothes on,¬†I wondered if anyone would relieve her… because of the weather. I couldn’t get her out my mind, her eyes, the liquid that refused to¬†drop but puddled in her lids as if scared to fall.

On the return journey we stopped next to the wall. I remember the wipers swished, the flakes came hard and fast, but she wasn’t there. Pleased to think her in the warm I began to feel better. In the spring my job took me once more to Norwich. We stopped, there, amongst the grass which grew in the crumbled brick, wedged between the cracks was bunch of brown withered flowers tied with a bright woollen scarf. The connection had forever made its mark.

 

This is for the bloggers bash competition. here

capture-bb-comp

I hope you like my flash fiction. All comments are more than welcomed.

 

 

Ham!

Linda’s prompt for #Socs ¬†is ¬†Ham! ¬†To join in or read some

fantastic responses click ūüĒúhereūüĒô


I once laughed til I cried

over a song about ‘spam’.

Was surprised when  given a book

Called ‘Green eggs and ham’.
I was thrilled when  cooked

Chips,  beans and ham,

for the first time,

by a visiting man. *wink wink*.
You never know what form

memories will take,

or how we inadvertently

nudge them awake.
A smell of lavender

Reminds me of Gran,

reading the rhymes… you guessed it

From green eggs and ham.

The taste of pig does it for me

It rumbles my stomach

until i fill it with tea….

Anyone for a sandwich?

A whimsical ditty … My husband listened (as they do) and said “You do know you’re weird… dont you”?

Comments welcomed and responded to promtly.

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The Rendezvous.

Join in by February 22nd  #writephoto here Thank you Sue Vincent, your prompts always inspire.

 

 

At sunset the summer-house looked beautiful. Scared to be first in case she was stood up, Rebecca held herself tight to the trunk of the aged oak. She watched the darkness and waited while trying to control her breath and her thoughts that made her tremble. Out of the shadow a shape appeared moving with urgency until it vanished inside.

“Breathe just breathe”. She whispered, while shaking her fingers and straightening her back. Heat burned her throat and bile filled her mouth, bent at the waist she spat into the undergrowth. She fumbled in her pocket then placed a mint on her tongue, tugged the hem of her skirt and walked forward.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust but she instinctively knew where her lover was. “You came then, I was scared you wouldn’t,” fingers tangled with hers and felt like sparks shooting up her arm, this couldn’t be wrong it felt so beautiful. She didn’t speak just let things silently take over.

After, tangled in the blanket on the floor, breasts glistened and chests heaved as they shuddered in unison. Watching the sky alter from gold to deepest mauve Rebecca spoke. “It is so beautiful, everything is perfect, I will never forget this” Tears glistened on her lashes as they squeezed each other’s hands and pledged undying love.

“I know, first times are meant to be perfect and it is. I thought you were struck dumb, that I was destined not to hear your voice tonight.‚ÄĚ Rebecca’s laugh tinkled and she covered her face with the blanket wiggling her feet.

As the sky darkened they gathered themselves, collected the evidence, leaving the summer-house¬†as it was found. ¬†Hand in hand they walked to the clearing one last kiss before they reluctantly parted. “I‚Äôll call you tomorrow” said Rebecca walking backwards twisting a curl around her finger. ‚ÄúI can’t wait whispered Sarah‚ÄĚ both wearing grins big enough to shame a Cheshire cat.

 

 

I hope in this day and age we all understand love and kindness come in many guises. My question today is “Do you remember the first flutter of love and was it in a secret place?” please leave your answer or observations in the comments… I will come back to read them soon.

The letter.

Press 🔜here🔙 to join in thank you Sacha Black for the prompt.

The distance between.

It lay taunting me, i hear the voice whining ‘open me please’. I hide, ducking my head round the door to peep. The distance between my feet and the letter will change my life for ever. Deep breath in and go! ‘Rip!’ Scan words, wipe tears, *punches air* manuscript accepted ‘YES’. 💪

Do you remember that fear… the fear of opening results? Did you get someone else to read it for you? Leave me a comment i will get back quick!     P. S. One day it will be a yes in the envelope for me! 

Seeing The Wood For The Trees.

February 9, 2017 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about a rainbow in a puddle. Is it a silver lining of sorts or a false reflection? Think about what it might mean or convey. Simple science? Hope? Or the doom of humankind? Create action or character reflection. Go where the prompt leads you.

Respond by February 14, 2017¬†to be included in the compilation (published February 15).¬†Rules are here.¬†All writers are welcome! ¬† Press to join inūüĒúhereūüĒô

Sandy, her¬† boots¬†splashed, hat pulled low, frowning with¬†lips pursed,¬†determinedly marched on. “Keep walking the same path Sand; (she heard in her head) ¬†you’ll fall down the same hole”. “Okay dad enough!” She roared wiping her face “Avoid the wood; you’ll miss the trees”. ¬†” just leap shall”? ¬†She cried.¬†¬†Jumping she¬†landed¬†smack in the puddle, hiccoughed as¬†tears cleaned mud from her cheeks.

Robert on seeing her, threw a leg over the stile and ran. “Don’t tell me … there was a rainbow at the bottom.” He smiled, his strong arms gathered her and Sandy saw the rainbow.

Thank you Charlie Mills, Cheesy … maybe but today is Valentines.

Did you see the rainbow? Where was yours? Answers welcomed and responded to with relish.