Morning Terror. #Horror

\nLooking

Looking out my back door I see the well, my eyes are drawn in its direction. I hear a clinking of the chain. A bitter taste hits my tongue, sticky liquid begins burning the back of my throat. I stare harder until the frosty air pinches my nose and makes my eyes water. I push my feet into the wellies left by the door. Again the chain shakes, a frantic determined rattle. With sweaty palms pressed into my dressing gown pockets, I place one foot on the deck and slowly creep forward.

My ears hurt at the clatter! The heavy lid begins to rise, only an inch, but enough to for me to see gnarled fingers at its edge. There’s a scream, then I realise it came from me. pyjama clad legs get cold, my wellingtons fill, which force fogged air to escape. I wobble as the  stench of urine made me gag! The lid slammed closed. Forward I go across the lawn, trembling, with each crunch that the morning frost makes underfoot. One more sudden rattle and fear for myself vanished. Faster I ran, and as the sound became louder my breath quickened. The rusted chain stilled as I put out my hand. I tugged the heavy lid upwards. Both hands grasped the rusted ring. It raised a crack. “Whose there? Can you push? I can’t lift, it’s too heavy.” I cried. I feel  veins bulge in my neck and blood pump in my ears as I force the lid, blood filled my mouth with each tug. Teeth biting down on flesh. Gritty rust particles bore into my hands biting, burying deep into my soft flesh.

I run to the shed, face wet with sweat and tears, grabbed a hoe to wedge its handle through the ring. With all my strength I pushed, until finally, it lifted. I leap back at the sound of a splsh, and scan the crystal clear water beneath. Bubbles broke the surface, then a sigh. Two Newts were the only occupants of our well. When John wakes he won’t be best pleased,  having to repair the hinges and mend the cracked oak lid. Frowning I looked once more into the abyss below, but there is nothing, just cold, clear, water, and a pair of Newts. As I turned to face the door I whipped  back my head, just in time to see deep rents in the underside of the lid begin to fill, until they vanished …

A close up of our Newt.




That was my response to the  #RagTagDailyPrompt which today was, ‘ looking out of my back door’    press here  to join in or read other fantastic tales.

Did I scare, did I paint the picture clear? Answers in the comments, please.
P.S. what would scare you?

A little classroom Protest.

In 99 words, no more or less, by the 21st January write using the prompt ‘Protest’ 📚 press the pile of books to join in at Charli’s place or to read some amazing responses … after the 21st.

“Quiet!” shouted Miss Brooks, “Okay Girls, hands up if you think you’re the weaker sex.” Shouts, and stomping shoes echo. Her voice raised, her palm hit the desk. A puddle formed in her eye, she grabbed her hands rubbing vigorously, as a drip plopped against her lip. Her tongue, snatched it away unseen, while she counted raised hands.”Please miss,” eyes swivel, and I colour. “I think it depends if they smack the desk harder than you.” The noise level climbed. “It isn’t gender or braun that predicts strength, but Emotional intelligence Miss, females win that every time.”

tough one this week, the lone voice stood up for what she believes is right. Do you think the question should even be asked? Have you ever spoke up, voiced your opinion? Answers in the comments i can’t wait to reply.

Nothing. Rag Tag Daily Prompt.

To read or visit other responses press This “empty”

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Nothing, an empty desk, a crowded head,

Rumpled sheets on an empty bed.

A void, a hole, another missed goal.

A black cloud in a sunny space,

 A blank look, on an expressionless face.

An empty cupboard, an empty purse,

Hollow meannings in a hollow verse.

No energy to pick up my pen,

To use it for judging men.

An empty shell,

Nothing left

Just me,

Bereft.

 

A burst of verse, in response to the prompt. First I had to feel the word, have empathy, then … if I was nothing … what would I be? I am fortunately, not nothing. But did you like what I penned, was it fit for purpose? Let me know in the comments. I am full of chat. 😆😉

Misconceptions of what makes a good Wife.

We worked hard, determined I was, not to be ‘A Carried Wife.’ More worried about other’s perceptions, I got it wrong. Because he was a lawyer, earning big, didn’t mean people would expect me to slack. Engrossed in that thought, I took my eye of of the ‘us.’
Not seeing his palor, hearing that cough. I failed as his wife. Each night I fell into bed shattered, not fit for the part. Worked, unaware of his appointments. I didn’t hold his hand, wipe his head. Here I am now, clutching a cold yellowed hand, wishing … it wasn’t his deathbed.

Written in response to the picture prompt set at Charli’s Carrot ranch. Thank you for having me back. If you want to give her challenges a go, press the horse 🐎

Please comment I love to talk.

My Word Of The Year. #WOTY

Tap on the title to read comment and share.

#WOTY Laughter/laugh.


My Woty was inspired by many posts but Deb from Des world inspired me to chose mine. Press here to read Debbies

My word of the year the one to inspire, it is a word that will keep me on track, the one to make me feel I have my Mojo back.     

I didn’t help my funny bone, I neglected my happy,
By failing to remember, how to not be unhappy.
I forgot to tend to the need of mine to smile,
to exercise my face at least for a little while.

So in twenty twenty, the plan is to be,
The smiliest person, of any you see.
I want to laugh until eyes spring a leak.
To inject humour each time I speak.

I want back that cheeky I once had,
It got lost in the busy, replaced by sad.
People enjoyed my infectious grin,
The one that shone from deep within.

 

I can still recall the feel of a laugh,
The giggle made; as I trip up the path.
The burbling feeling of one almost there.
The ache in my belly, a huge gasp for air,

 

So join me as I inject this with a smile,
And share one of my favourite poems
By Spike, who made the world laugh
for the longest while.

If you smiled just,  while reading, leave a comment, share the fun.
Let me know if you have a poem or saying that always makes you grin.

Having A Chin wag.

Having a chin wag means to chat, talk or gossip. I try to paint a picture of an area of an industrial town in Northern England in the 1950s. I am using a smattering of dialect to paint a picture.

My question is was it enough? Would it be better without? Looking forward to your answers in the comments. “As I am known to enjoy a bit of a *chin-wag* with you.”

There they were the two of em, hanging over the garden fence; arms folded. Florrie’s were under her tiny breasts; maybe to push them up; pretend like, making out she had more. She was long, stringy almost, she wore a pinny and a cotton square covered her hair. Mum, though she was no better than she should be … flaunting her coral lip stain and seamed stockings. What I could see of it her hair was yellow, oh and them teeth … they jiggled about as she spoke; *me mam* said it made her retch. Then Mum would.

Mavis well she was different, Gramps would say “like chalk and cheese those two” I love Granddad, Me Pops as I call him, he had lots of funny sayings. If he liked something he would slap his knees double-handed and call out “That’s champion *lass*, rite *champion*.”

Down the Ginel.

‘Anyhow, back on track, where were I, Oh yes, Mavis. Short n’ stocky with fat knees. You’d see them knees, when she cleaned the windows, dimpled like dumplings. The lads down the Ginel said they looked through letterbox last Summer, seen her naked thighs as she washed by the kitchen sink. “Like *gert* big hands of ham they were” laughed Smithy. My Mum says it isn’t often you’d see them knees … because she’s not too particular about the housework. Then Mum would, she has a sharp tongue, my Mum. Mavis has pin curls peeking from under her scarf. Tinged, more of a dirty grey colour, from the coal fire I expect. That lass is as short as she is wide, wears a fancy wrap around pinny; not many had one of them. I can’t help me sen, so I snigger at her wrinkled stockings and get a clip round the *earlug*; a backhander for doing so. Her roundness comes from having ten kids. Six were lads, all gone and grown now. We live in back to back houses, terraces with Ginels behind. On Monday Morning if School was out, I’d sit astride the sill with a book; the sun warms my skin right through the glass. Mum told us when we were kids “It’s God kissing you.” I am not so sure about that.

They, Florrie and Mavis, think I’m reading. Really I am watching, and listening, you’d be surprised what I hear; looking down at the backs. Those two, over the fence putting the world to rites … having a good old chin-wag. Got to go now, Mam’s got my Pop’s snapping ready, I’ll take it up the allotment to him, he is busy after all; digging us tea. I better have my wits about me in the Ginnel, that Smithy boy, he’d likely have his hand in my liberty-bodice if I loitered. Catch you another time tatty bye.                 

No copyright infringement intended.

This post was very different first time around. Reworked, new dialogue and a new character in Old Jack. I hope you enjoy the changes as much as I. “comment please it is fun to talk.”

*earlug* = ear, *Gert* = big, *Champion* = magnificent, *Tatty bye* = farewell, for now, *Ginel* = secreted alley, *lass*= young girl, Having a *chin-wag* = a gossip or a chat.