My goodness I am in awe. I can, get my brain around a poem, deliver an artistic > cough < free write, a passable rhyming piece, or a limerick. But the poetry I read over at Colleen Cheeseborough’s place, this is so far away from that.
I penned a rhyme to let the true poets know what I think of their work. And below is none of the following. Types of Poetry.
Tanka. … Haiku. … Cleve … limmerick. … lyrical poem. … narrative poem. … ode. … sonnet. … Ballad. … Acrostic. … A double Enneade. … these are just some forms that I can list, though there are many more I have yet to find.
I bow before you all, Composers of life, Love and lament. Winding words with Gold-leaf, painting Architectural prose, Like attempting To cement back on The Sphinxes nose.
How poor my attempt,
too ashamed am I to lay it here,
discarded like Vincent’s ear.
But yet I parry the expected blows
from fencer’s cries and a Sphynxes nose,
for who am I to try?
And so in this place I walk away,
I concede defeat
When you read sophisticated Poetry or verse, do you think … best concede defeat? Answers or comments down below please, I love to chat.
My muse loves to surprise me! She won’t be wrangled or shoved in a slot for my writing needs. It was three in the morning, I was poked from behind closed eyelids, her pencil sharpened to the stabbiest point.
Did she not hear me say, “I will write from 11/4 three days a week,” I had thought about it long and hard. Once I decided on the most beneficial time I began.
At this point I will admit that since stopping work, I never plan anything but medical appointments, and family visits. I no longer wear a watch, except for my fitbit, again I admit, I never look at that, except to see if I actually got up from my desk in the last eight hours. I eat when hungry, or when the husband feeds me. I get up when I need a pee, or the dog squeaks a toy at my feet and presses her nose into my knee. Oh, and I prefer ‘pantsing’ when I write, which I know, makes for a much more difficult editing process.
On days that I am unable to write, unwell, preoccupied, fatigued or just not in the space, I read. Scrabble, the word game is also my thing. But even, then my procrastination involves me writing on my blog. So what you have learnt, is that I write to rest, I read and blog and scrabble to procrastinate. There is a theme going here, I am just a wordy bird.
So, lets get back on point. I made the decision to be, … more organised. The Husband laughed raucously at that bit. I shaded sections of my spanking new planner, set reminders and post-it notes on the fridge, my phone and laptop. Dog walking poop picking (a fur mummies job) and feeding 6.30 /7.30 bin sorting, (eco freaking the husband calls it). Shower and clean myself and the bathroom and sort the washing and kitchen by 10.30. Thirty minute catch up with ‘The Husband’ shared kisses and moans, laughter and news, then settle to write.
Well that was the plan. I think that word, … plan is what done it, scuppered the whole thing. 3 am poke poke, my muse awoke. At first, I ignored her mutterings, but she was persistent. It started with faint whispers, ones I had to listen to with great care. The next thing I knew, was that there was absolutely no use in staying in bed.
So that was that, wrapped in pyjamas with my lucky pen, at my desk my day began. Before I knew it, it was dusk my mind was empty my muse asleep. So you see there is no use planning without the agreement of your muse. Mine refuses to comply or to enter into any discussion. I rise, when I am woke by the mutterings. I sleep when they sleep and then there is life.
Are you a planner? or a seat of your pants type of person? Do you have a muse? answer please in the comments. I love to chat.
The nail-biting journey through the pages of this book will be a vacation from the norm; a holiday (for U.k. readers). The stories of Spellbound are wrapped in mystery. Each tale penned within is steeped in intrigue, magic, and mayhem. Written by a group of writers who each bring a different take on the theme. You will be drawn in by witches and sorcerers, have your head poked and prodded with warped psychological twists and turns. You will read fairy tales no longer fit for fairies.
There is something for everyone to enjoy. None of the Authors have suffered any permanent damage in the writing of this book, … <eye twitches>. There are tales written by authors from across the globe, so expect some differences in Grammar and spelling. None of the language used within, Is deemed lewd, or unsuitable. As a precaution, I suggest that people with a delicate nature may wish to adopt the safety measures that follow. Seat yourself in the corner, the sofa or a comfy place, hold firmly to a cushion, to be used to muffle screams, or cover eyes, knees bent under the chin, feet pushed into the seat, to grip and prevent any involuntary leaping.A raised heartbeat is considered normal during the reading of this book.
Finally, I thank Dan Alatorre, for the opportunity to submit a story and have it accepted. My third story included in the series “The Box under the bed.” I thank Robbie Cheadle for making the advert shown, with an excerpt taken from my story. “The Comeuppance Of Rob Kearney.” it goes without saying I thank, the editors, beta readers, promoters and marketers. without whom, this would not have been published.
I would love you to leave a comment, cheer me on, share, or both,
Our local Theatre put out a call for writers of stories. They were to be set in locations where people live in the town or surrounding villages. Stories that could be fact, fiction, historic or contemporary. The one proviso was they must invite the listener to walk the tale, like a tour you get in the grounds of a stately home, or a museum. To encourage people to take a journey to a place that may be new to them, and immerse themselves in to the experience.
I researched the historic facts for authenticity. The costume from the period it was to be set. My idea was coming together, to help me think it through, I ran myself a bath. It is a foible of mine, to soak in warm bubbly froth; to think, and probably why I am somewhat vertically challenged ( maybe I shrink).
The pen twitched in my hand, the bath grew tepid, the skin crinkled on my feet. My pen scratched for hours as a tale began to form on the page.
There was a time limit, and it had to fit with health and safety in mind. “Turn to the left and beware of traffic.” Over the next weeks it was pinched and squeezed. It was lengthened and shortened and tweaked. Next, it had to be recorded as I walked, we needed to see if It would fit in the allotted ten minute slot. Eventually I entered my piece.
My flushed, excited face spent days grinning after I was told my tale had been chosen. Things were happening, auditions for readers, music scores written and sound tracks found to enhance the world as I saw it. An artist drew a map so people could print it off and follow it as a guide. And this was done for each of the seven stories that were chosen. Please click on the link below to download any story that catches your eye.
To make it through this year, as I am determined to do. I will strive to fight. The statement to show how I will get to the final day of this extraordinary year, Is “Ellen, Perseveres.” That is my intention.
Wearing an anti covid-19 mask,
I vow to set myself the task
that each day from now until then.
I will rise above the parapet
and repeat it time and again,
until it rings in my ears
and all can see,
The last few months I have folded myself into a the smallest space. Closed my eyes and hid, I have begun to surrender to the empty. I feel me fade away as if a smudged pencil sketch. My shape is real enough, my face still there. The essence of me is fading … it feels like whisps, or steam from a cup of tea on a cold day. Not quite sure you saw it slipping silently away. The person that is left is no longer curious enough to find out. So it will be a case of finding … me.
My intention is to learn something new. Today, I signed up to an online class. Together, we the group, will learn how to write and produce an audio play, with the Theatre Royal in Bury St Edmunds. I have also pledged to find myself within the words I write. To see it through, to excel the best way I can. Lock down and health issues have taken their toll, but not any more. Ellen will come through, As I Pledge to persevere.
When I teach my daughter about Lemons. She’ll say, ‘they are sour, and need loads of sugar before you use them.’ I will pour her a homemade lemonade, sweetend with Agave. I’ll tell her how lemon juice can cure heartburn, it’s the only, citrus fruit that turns alkaline once joined with saliva. While passing her a slice of my lemon drizzle poppyseed cake, I clean my glass to a sparkle with a used lemon skin as we speak. We will chat about life and love as I slice lemon and freeze them, for days when there are no more.
August 27, 2020, flash fiction prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story that features Lemon Queens. Maybe it’s an ancient fairy tale or a modern brand name. What ideas seep into your imagination? Is there a character or place involved? Go where the prompt leads!
My response to Charli at the Carrot Ranch was a no brainer because Lemons are magic.
‘What do you use yours for?’ Answers in the comments please, I hope to find some new things to do with the queen of fruits.
What better way to call in the season than snuggled up in your favourite chair. Listen! ‘Shhhush’ is it the howl of the wind? A beastly growl, or the sound of conjured spells? A book packed with writers imaginings, open the pages in this book to reveal the secret tales within. Your reading style will never be the same again as you delve into the minds of sixteen Authors and dare to read what it is they see.
Our pre-order price for this fabulous anthology is available for a limited time to grab yours while the price is low.
Spellbound: A horror anthology, with 27 stories from sixteen Authors (The Box Under The Bed book 4) eBook: Compiled by Dan Alatorre, USA today’s best selling Author, Robbie Cheadle, Ellen Best, Kaye Booth, Alana Turner, Geoff LePard, Christine Valentor, Nick Vossen, AM Andrus, Adele Marie Park, Daniel Alatorre, Victoria Clapton, MD Walker, Dabney Farmer, MJ Mallon, Ernesto San Giacomo, Betty Valentine, Frank Parker, Joanne Larner, Maribel Pagan. Each one an award winning author.
For a short time only, the previous ebooks in this set of anthologies will be free, in return, we ask you to review a story that gripped you; or the book as a whole. Dark Visions, Nightmareland and the box under the bed. Get the set Here
Childs face on loan from pixabay.co.uk
Let me know your thoughts in the comments. My excitement is practically palpable the closer we get to release day. Thrilled again to have another of my tales in Dan Alatorre’s collection, I promise you won’t be disappointed.
This is a monologue that I crafted for an exercise with the local theatre group. I have been part of the group for a while. It is called Act your age … which of course we never do. Press here to find the workshop.
Throughout the covid-19 pandemic we continue to meet up; with the aid of Zoom. One of the things we were introduced to was writing monologues. The tale below is one of my attempts at yet another new writing firm. This, may not work as a reading piece as well as it does a listening one; because of the vernacular. The pronunciation such as words that finish with ‘ing’, were spoken but the ‘n’ was the last sound made. I hope you see a young boy of about nine years old who lived in rural Victorian England. I will attach a clip of me reading it, but bear in mind I am not either nine years old or a boy, so a modicum of imagination is required on part of the reader and listener.
Good day, I am Walter, you can see I’m standin next to the well outside the schoolhouse. The teacher’s house. This week I am water monitor (whispers) for my sins. I slake the thirsts with my bucket, Miss tied the tin mug on a piece of string to my trousers. I am skinny after graftin all Winter, so the cup it pulls em down … my trousers that is.
This is my job now because the mister kept me too long catching the piglets, doing that made me late. These lug holes still burn where they was cuffed; look at it, it’s fat an sore … Mr Pickles says, it will be blue the morrow.
Any way me cheeks glow under these rough trousers from Miss McCreedy’s split-cane, she is fierce is Miss … she don’t like the lateness of us urchins. Miss says it is ungrate\nfulness, that breads tardy children. She Pulls her arm high when dishin out punishment, swings harder than Mam when beatin her rug. See her arm go, with that cane. I ave hot ears, a hot backside and the rest o’ me is freezing.
The punishment of water monitor aint so nice in the cold, (Walter shivers) when you already done a day’s work before you get to the raggedy school.
I am standin , stampin my boots, tryin to get the chill off, waitin for another waif to want a drink. Then I show my strength, like a strongman at the Freak show. Liftin the lid, turnin that barrel to wind the chain, I hoist the bucket an fill the cup for thirty mouths. It is man’s work, (raises arm and flexes his muscles) specially when yer fingers is blue with cold. I saw it once … that strongman, aint that the truth, with these very eyes I seen. In Piccadilly, Grandma took me … ‘The Harvey’s Freak show’ not many of these raggedy kids as been I know; Walter here (pokes his chest) will not forget that day.
At school we is taught writin readin an rithmatic. Miss McCready bangs a tune with her laced boots against the wooden floor, One Two, One Two, she keeps time as we chant like the old monks in the Abbey did. The only differing thing is, we chant tables and godly sayins. Miss McCready, every day she raises her voice to say, ‘cleanliness is next to godliness, and ‘the mills of God grind slowly but they grind exceedingly far.’ Those words make us raggedy’s fearful, so we are good. We has the reverend in on Fridays. The reverend puts the fear of God into us … for us own good of course. The word of God is so loud he makes the ink dance in the wells when he shouts it. My sister Winnie got er legs caned, four strokes, for peeing with fright at him. Miss called her filth, an stood her on the desk so all could see her shame.
We work at school to be learn-ned. One day when she is six, Winnie will be doin the chickens, wringing necks, plucking and collecting eggs. The numbers learned will be needed then. At sunup, I get old Tom ready, he is the plough horse. I feed, groom and tack him up for work, then I feed the pigs, mend the boundary fences. In winter I breaks ice off the troughs and fill them. Harvest time I cut the hay, work all night, till my eyes pain with the dust of it. Paa does the ploughing, plantin and such. If the Mister is pleased, he lets us use our house and small oldin as wage. Teacher hates market day, cause her schoolroom is empty. So Here we lives, we works and does family proud. Years will bye and still, when I have curled bones and no teeth or hair, this well will still give ice cold water. I am knowin, it will still stand … next to Miss McCready’s house. But some other spinster will be Mistress of the learnin. I know this for there aint none over fifty in the church yard.
Have you learnt anything new in lockdown? did you enjoy my attempt at a Monologue? I love replies they are especially needed at this time xx thank you in advance, answers in the comments and I will reply quick smart.
Eric Sinclair - optimist, author, Stroke Association volunteer, occasional chorister - all views my own but fully endorsed by the whippet. "Being challenged in life is inevitable, being defeated is optional"