Charlie A Poem At Christmas.

“Charlie.”

Charlie wasn’t keen on Christmas, because of the paper, the lights and all the waste, He didn’t think it good to eat so much, when others went hungry, It soured the taste.

Charlie loved wearing Granddad’s flight jacket, the best ever Christmas gift, Grandma said he wore it each day, walking back from his overnight shift.

The coat was cumbersome and heavy, if zipped it came past his throat. His arms needed to be longer, and the leather smelt like a dirty old Goat.

But Charlie could fit mucky Ethel, underneath it when the rain soaked all her card. Or the snow made her fingers go blue … as she sat in that old butchers yard.

He could fit a curled up ham sandwich and an apple from Grandma’s dish, Deep inside the fur lined pocket. And he made a new Christmas wish.

He wished that all people had bedrooms, a place to rest their head. That mucky Ethel could have a bath and a coat to hold over her own head.

But Santa, he did not come calling, to the people who lived on the street. Instead he hoped they would have their own Charlie, who would give the shoes from his feet.

https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B7WJ-42kvYrWZVJhRWxLVDhxMUVQbjhJOF9obUU2clJxd3Jz/view?usp=drivesdk

I added a sound bite for anyone wanting to hear me read this. “Do you think a child has opinions on subjects such as this?” I would love a comment please 😁

Nightmareland #Horror #Anthology

This book, and two more sit in ‘The Box Under The Bed.’

Waiting … if you dare to peek.

Where writers come together, to gather their tales.

The #spooktacular, the sad, and the creep.

Each delivers a different take on the weird,

Feel the mysteries unfold, and the havoc they reek.

Visit the ghool, the macabre, the wandering and the lost.

Do it now! you’ll find it all

In Nightmareland, the cost of which

Will be … your sleep.

https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07K2KV723?ref_=dbs_w_series&storeType=ebooks

Today you can hold it in your hand. Now available in paperback.

#writephoto picture prompt.

I wished I hadn’t seen him, I squeezed my eyes and prayed that he would disappear once I unscrewed them.

In the forest, Granddad always carried his loaded gun; broken of course, but … shot ready. “Just cos you a girl don’t mean nowt” he would say. “You needs to know, and to do.” Each time I nodded my head, I secretly begged not to find him. In the clearing he glistened with snow. Head held proud, no hurry to go. He looked back the way he had come. I darted forward; a distraction technique. Without a breath his gnarly hand caught my nose and cheek. A backhander he called it, a gentle reprimand. Grabbing my lobe he dragged me, not releasing for a second until home. My face wet, my heart bled but … my conscience clear. We never spoke of our last hunting trip. We neither repeated or apologised. Our last meeting was on his deathbed, our eyes met one last time. Silently he closed his lashless eyes, and nodded his naked head.

 

 

Press the thanks to join in or read other responses to the #WritePhoto prompt. Thank you Sue

Do comment please.  “Have you had a moment? when you stuck to your guns?

The Devil failed to take the soul of a poet.

She sidle’s next to him at the cocktail bar. Tempts him with a challenge, shows him her new car.

But he is a wordy poet who has seen her type before. He bandies words that were meant to anger. Soon she is heading for the door.

The poet sips his nectar, ashamed at his poorly chosen words. Notices the sky, thick with feathers, his ears filled with squawking birds.

He puts it down to the liquor and gulps another drop. Wobbles on the stool, leans to swallow a final shot.

Wipes drool from his chin, straightened up his shirt. He puzzled, when last he drank enough, to make his body hurt.

Then he hears a sultry voice as if it’s in his ear. As he hails a passing taxi the sky suddenly is clear,

Quietly, he wishes, he’d not behaved like a clown, He may have dozed, the way that drunkards do. But wouldn’t be wearing a frown.

That devil can not get you, no matter what she may think. Your soul is spread far and wide, inside the words you think.

It has been scribbled on cardboard cartons. Etched on an Angels wing. Put inside birthday cards and in every song you sing.

Your soul is in each thought you think. It is dribbled in your poetic Ink.

You see, the devil doesn’t stand a chance. So pour her a final conciliatory drink.

Painting of Crow by my sister Anne Maxwell. No one other than myself has permission to copy this painting in any way, without express permission from A.M. Maxwell or myself.

Devil.

This came about when I was set an exercise By Sophie Hannah of Dream Author Coaching. The task was to take a random dream and write. Nonsense and theatre included.

Thanks to Esme for allowing me to join her Halloween spooktacular press https://esmesalon.com/43-senior-salon-2019/ to join in.

Was He Living A Dream?

Sheets tangled, tightened and stuck to the flesh of his flailing legs. It took, what felt like hours to realise the grating and rasping breath was his. Tom steadied himself and the race of his heart slowed, his eyes screwed and fists clenched as he said out loud “I woke up and realised it had all been a dream.” He voiced that statement, many times over during the coming hour, never making it true … but desperately wanting it to be.

Ping! his eyes opened, he was wired at the squeak a turn of the handle. Once more his chest pumped his legs violently kicked. Why couldn’t he free his legs? A screech of rusted hinge and rubbing wood made him still. Play dead, play dead, he mumbled to himself. Kate’s face pushed the door wider her hands holding a tray, her perfectly straight yellow teeth on show. “You are awake, well that’s good.” She nodded. Kate placed the tray on the dresser after swiping items on top to the floor. Tom watched as her palms pressed into the denim covering her thighs.

“Kate? What … (he stuttered) the Fuck is happening?” Slowly she lifted her eyes, they had held a gaze on the smeared denim encasing her thighs. In Toms mind, a little too long. “Happening? Happening … what, is, happening?” She approached the bed, wide eyed, smiling. Her mouth sour, her clothes grimy. “Tom, Tom, Tom. Think!” He flinched, snatched his head back and gulped at the stagnant air. Not wanting to make things worse he looked back; forced a smile in her direction, and asked. “I am a bit lost in this, my mind is confused. Why are we here?

“You passed out, on my Nan’s bed. She is not best pleased. In fact she was gonna call Gramps, until I arrived.” Think yer sen lucky I was about. Now lay still while I takes a closer look.” Kate tugged the damp sheet, untangled it from his calf’s. A sharp suck of air whistled, Tom lifted his head as his bare belly was exposed. “What a numpty, jeez this is worse than she said.” Tom heaved, the smell of burned flesh and hair filled his nostrils. That was when he caught sight of his abdomen. “N,n,n,n no tell me its not true.” He roared. Gramps bust through the door a face like thunder his fists as big as young Tom’s head. “Shut yer mouth, you good for nothing clown.” He threw Tom’s shoes and jeans st the white faced boy, picked up the empty whisky bottle as if to strike the boy. Kate took her Granddads arm and crooned gently in his ear. “S’okay Gramps, come, I will sort this … go sober Nan up.

Kate gave him a few minutes before going back in the room. Tom trembled, sat on the edge of the bed staring down. She put the tray next to him and began to clean the area and cover it the way Nan had shown her so many times before. “Your’e a fool Tom” she cleared the swabs and put the rest of the dressings back on the tray. Kate turned at the door “you’ll not live that down,” she nodded “there are reasons people retire and reasons you have to be over 18.” Tom clutched his Jeans covering his groin, tears threatened but never fell. Jeers from his pals followed him home. He carries the tattoo to this day, an exquisite snake, rising up to his belly button, fangs on show. Poor demented Josy had long since gone, and Tom … well, he wears her last tat.

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The story above is a writing exercise from the Dream Author Coaching Programme I am taking part in. To use the statement “I woke up and realised it had all been a dream” within the body of a story. Use it in a way that is refreshing, surprising and or interesting, to delight the reader and not disappoint.

Let me know in the comments if I succeeded or not. I am thick skinned be kind but honest.

The Ebb Of Summer.

As I captured this mornings buds on the bush by the door. I was reminded of this writing from last year. After a tweak or two I repost it. A throwback Thursday; as relevant as it was back then. The last of my roses, still beautiful to me … even as they fade. Like the Ebb of Summer.

I shiver, pull my wrap tight about my shoulders. Evenings have drawn in; become sharper. Dew-laden mornings make my toes curl and the chill pinch my nose. Only two weeks ago we sat in the garden … way past ten. We sipped wine and listened to the night. We had no inclination to close the bi-fold doors, or to shut out the last of the warmth. Instead we jabbered about everything and nothing, until the light crept below the moon and purpled the sky.

As I flinch from the chill I know, my pyjama clad gardening this year has passed. Nor will we eat breakfast outside amongst the birdsong. I already miss him … reading aloud from the papers; while crunching toast. Tomorrow I will put flip-flops, sleeveless tops, shorts and sunscreens away. But today I will savour the last rays that warm my bones. The last of the peach Roses next to the door.

As the sun sits low in the morning sky; I see the Autumnal work to be done. The dust motes that dance in its lowered beam across the table, the streaks on glass that summer hadn’t seen. The Rhubarb’s last crumble waiting to be cooked. I see the rake that needs an oil before leaves hit its Tyne’s. There are beds to be made warmer. A sigh leaves my lips as I turn to go in. A season departs as I rouse another in its wake.

Thoughts of frosty mornings, warming soups, logs crackle and muddy boots. Rosy faces, knitted hats, harvest suppers, coconut mats. Shepherds pie served with peas. Suppers by the fire on cushioned knees.

Cuddles on the sofa under fluffy throws. Hear the crackle of a fire, taste hot chocolate laced with Brandy while warming our toes. Heathers pop their heads up to view Autumn’s arrival. Hedgehogs scurry past along the fence-line; like dryer balls, they roll up when the Cat flicks its tail. A memory beckons and Autumn has taken the Ebb of Summer away.

Could you taste the Autumn? Leave me a comment or two … just to please me.