The Water Monitor.

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.

The sound clip is here. https://drive.google.com/file/d/1gHPtCWbMaL60X9NZH5QLn8V26T0eRVn9/view?usp=drivesdk

The Water Monitor.

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.

the church yard is from pixabay.

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.

Fears and Parinoia

Picture Prompt, copyright belongs to Roger Bultot

Graffiti covered barred windows held back his fears. His pantry stuffed to the brim. Melons, grapes, mangos, legumes … the list goes on. It began with Brexit.
The worry burrowed like a disease in his brain. He became panicked at the thoughts that filled his head; day and night. Not sleeping, it stole any semblance of rational

Family, neighbours, friends all tried, but still he hoarded all the things he could not grow. Convinced that only chlorinated Chicken and produce laced with corn syrup and squeezy cheese would be on the shelves after Brexit. Resulting in a slowly fermenting unappetizing  soup.


This is a Friday Fictioneers prompt   press to join in.

Hoaxes And Angry Penguins

GO HERE To read about the Hoax, And to see the picture source.

Follow this link to join in or read other responses to the terrible poetry competition.

The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest 2/29 – 3/6/2020

Beneath is The Sacrilege of mixing Rebecca Hilare Belloc With WH Auden.

The Funeral.

Stop the clocks cut off the telephone.

Prevent the dog barking

With a juicy bone.

A trick that everyone abhors

In little girls is slamming doors.

Silence the piano

With a muffled drum.

Slap that girl on the bum.

Bring out the coffin

Let the mourners come.

She would deliberately go

Slam the door like billy-ho.

To make her uncle Jacob start

She wasn’t really bad at heart.

He was my north my South

East and West.

My working week

My Sunday rest.

The funeral sermon

(Which was long

And followed by

a sacred song)

I thought love

Would last

Forever

I was

Wrong.

My Poetic explanation of The Great Austrailian Literrary Hoax.

A Sister wrote of her brothers passing

She sent his poetry for an editor to peruse

Not knowing the lot was a terrible ruse.

The Penguins were angry, who was the culprit

The Catholic church roared from the pulpit.

It bought down the wrath of the literary giant

When the hoax was revealed they became silent.

They had penned a collection of modernist rhyme

They made up a sister and gave him not much time.

Duplicitously they staged Ern’s demise, Graves disease

Both James McAuley and and Harold Stewart did freeze,

When eventually Ern Malley became more famous than they

His literary prowess like the phoenix raises its head still today.

Do follow the link If you do not know the story Chelsea Anne Owens explains it simply.

As the badge of honour suggests it was indeed a successful attempt at produduce a poem using the Hoaxers formulation .

Did I succeed? in my mix, to deliver the most terrible poem in your eyes? leave me a comment and I will get right back.

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”

2020-01-16 101511055064..jpeg

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. 😆😉