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  😀 😄 😮

The Bird Was Witness.

 

ALERT! This flash does contain two swear words, I do not wish to offend therefore am letting you know before you read. This is a refreshed  #flash from Nov 2016.

Photograph by permission of Derrick J knight. Thank you once more.

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bird sat high on top of a telegraph pole, its black shape stark against the sky, I watched it through the steam on the window. With my palm flat against the glass, I cleared a better view; while my novel was clenched snug under my armpit. Sitting in the window seat reading I could zone out the sounds of the room and breathe easy.

Then it started… “Ange, Ange, come here now! come to me bitch”. I looked at the bird looking back at me and placed my book on the windowsill. The card game was getting rowdy, ”Angie” he shouted, warily I approached, “What Tom, what do you want? “ He grabbed my waist and tugged me into his lap, laughing, that sneery false laugh I grew to hate. Fear ran up my neck as he made a show of me in front of his mates.

He looked at them and pinched my chin as he forced my head to face them. Tom wrenched my hand between my shoulder blades. “Here boys, have you ever seen such a miserable cow… eh eh?” his grasp was cruel, his breath thick with stale booze and cigarettes. I felt the spray from his mouth warm as he spoke against my ear. Tom released my arm and pretended to tickle, but he dug and prodded with force, my cheeks flushed and prickles ran up my spine. My legs jerked as he stabbed his fingers deep between my ribs. The table caught by my ankle shifted, cards scattered as it righted itself with a thump. I struggled, kicking my denim clad legs in retaliation his fingers jab jabbing painfully; as his temper deteriorated.

The mood instantly changed, Stan leapt up threw his hand on the table, he kicked a spent chubby and took the Iou’s in his calloused hands and tore them; throwing the pieces like confetti in the air. “Fuck this you knob”, he booted the table over…”I’m off” he shouted. Pictures rattled as he banged the door. Mark and Des were worse for wear, swaying, they glanced from one to the other and back, both stumbled to the door in pursuit.

One swift movement had me flat on the floor with a swaying Tom above me. “You fuckin bitch, you just had to, didn’t you? Each word was punctuated with a kick and a gob from his mouth. The first one caught the bone of my hip the second connected with my thigh as I struggled lobster like across the carpet. A flurry of pokes, punches and kicks came thick and fast, he crushed my lips into my teeth with a direct punch. Stubbies bounced and rolled about like Otters at play, I spat two teeth onto the carpet which got his attention, it gave me a chance to swallow some air.

From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of the bird, me looking at it, it looking at me. Ashamed at this spectacle being seen. Me, a weak victim, small and helpless. Somehow the thought made me gather myself. I grabbed a bottle and scrambled to my feet. Holding the neck with cramped fingers I drew my arm out to the side. I remember screaming “No” He lunged forward teeth barred.  I screwed my eyes tight and swinging right to left the bottle connected. Phlegm hit full in my face and mingled with the tears and blood that dripped from my jaw. As if I was a character in a novel,  in slow motion the bottle cracked him below his left ear and flipped from my grasp. His eyes bulged, snot flew from his nose as he fell back. Stretching myself forward fingers splayed I tried to grab him before he fell, but only caught air. His head thudded against the leg of the upturned table and he dropped. Blood puddled behind his head and a lone trickle dribbled from the side of his gaping mouth.

Unable to look, I turned my head to face the window. I could see him, the bird, looking at me. He seemed to bob his head like a gentleman does when he catches your eye in acknowledgement. He ruffled his feathers and continued his pose.

 I felt the vibration of feet through the floor when I dialled 999. “Police and ambulance, I can’t hear you… I think he is dead, we are at 42 Granby street, come quick *hiccough* please”. Still holding the phone the door flew from its hinges the room filled with uniforms and bodies. A policeman shook me, grabbed the phone and spoke into it. My ears and head were ringing but I could only see angry faces as lips moved silently and Tom lay still, and only the bird was witness.

 

What do you think, was she in the wrong ?  please leave any comments as they are my wages for writing and each one is valued and replied to swiftly. Have a great week.

A Little Wind Wreaks Havoc.

Thank you Sue Vincent for this weeks picture prompt go 🔜here🔙 to join Thursdays #writephotoprompt smoke.

 

A strange smell hung over the village it had done so for most of the summer; bad eggs, that’s the nearest I could Identify it as. Mornings around ten O’clock it was at its worst, and if the summer breeze wafted your way you knew it. People stopped hanging their linen out and they kept the windows firmly shut. The local shop took a bomb of money selling airfreshners, scented oil bottles the expensive ones with reeds. When they had a huge delivery of oscillating fans, which incidentally sold out in two days; suspicions arose. Fingers were pointed directly at the village postmistress who was the only one not complaining, and the only one rubbing her hands together behind the counter in our village store.

Emergency meetings were held in secret down the allotments, neighbourhood watch was only watching one place. Only Farmer Longstockings was  unbothered, he said “country folk should be used to country smells” refusing to join the village folks scuttle butting and finger wagging. Farmer Longstockings was now suspect no.two.

I loved it when folk came up to bluebell woods to gaze on the blanket of colour that spilt down the bank and mingled with pink orchids. Groups of camera clutching walkers kissed by the sun and happy to be part of a flora and fauna celebration. I made scones and best home made jams, we sold them at the village hall, the monies raised paid for the  party at harvest festival time. Several of us took part bringing sandwiches pasties and bottles of chilled cider. Some of the lads would charge three pounds to take them to the woods, they would give an elaborately expanded story on how they came to be. But this year our month of lucrative money-making seemed to be in jeopardy.

The scout group were making stench masks to sell when the visitors arrive, some bought up the dolly pegs from the shop and became peg wearing investigators with bandannas over their mouths. It wasn’t long before the scoutmaster took badges away for scaring the three pensioners in the Almshouses… No. Three on the suspect list.

One bright morning a gentle breeze hummed across the rickety bridge where I liked to sketch and gaze at the water, but with it came the stench and tails of pure white smoke.I covered my nose with a confiscated peg put on my sunglasses and followed the tails that licked the blue sky.  Beyond the bluebell woods past the copse of silver birch was a cave it was once a mine; it was said that it never produced much, a few fossils and semi-precious stones. There were tales of magic and folklore surrounding the cave, but mostly it was on private farm land (suspect no.two)  and unsafe. None the less it was time this was sorted and I believed it would be down to me to do so. Just as I thought in the distance I could see it curling as if from a chimney out of the mouth of the cave. My childhood memories of the tales came rushing back I hadn’t believed them at six so why did they make me tremble at a fully grown seventeen. A resting place for the last dragon my Father had told me, and of secret trysts and growls that came from below. Then there was the eerie light and fog that sometimes was seen from across the miles. What if…

Farmer Longstockings had spotted me, I watched him turn the rusted tractor in my direction, now I was… concerned, but as I was almost an adult I straightened my back and ploughed on.  Philip had spotted the smoke trail and guessed that maybe his ole snout was so used to stink that he could no longer smell, but his eyes made him suspicious. We arrived at the same time “Farmer Longstockings” I nodded my head and planted my feet with a stomp. “Philip! yer too long in the leg to not use my given name”.  He pushed his hat to the back of his head, wiped his eyes with a bit of scrim, they  were streaming as he gazed up at the gentle wisps emanating from ten feet above us.

“This is no task for a young lady, you go see the missus an tell her to send Toby with the big chains”.  Off I went pleased to get away from the vomit-inducing stench. Toby was the Longstockings son that hadn’t seen me since I was a child. He must be home for the summer, he’d been away at horticulture college for two years and the thought of actually seeing him made my heart beat most peculiarly.

Ann wasn’t as pleased to have me disturbing her chores and didn’t relish me talking to her son; that much was apparent. Three hours passed before they returned, wet, dirty and very smelly. They had capped the opening to stop the escape of sulphuric smoke that came from way beneath the earth. Philip phoned a geologist who would work with him and supervise the fitting of a permanent plug. Together they’d make  safe the cave  over the next few weeks. Before I left we had agreed that less said soonest mended would be the order of the day.

Bluebell month was glorious, and a new romance blossomed between Toby and me. That Summer I filled my bottom drawer in preparation… items purchased with monies earned from my book. The Tale of The Last Dragon. The story came about one summer’s day when a little wind wreaked Havoc.

 

A Taste of Freedom.

#Fridayfictioneers  are here once again, in 100 words use the picture as the prompt, (picture to be used for fridayfictioneers only) Thank you for the loan Jan Wayne fields.

My guy drove us through France, stopped to sample the Volvic water, and take in the spent volcanoes. We camped on the edge of the Tarn under some lime trees. The grass scorched and brown, the water coming from the Gorge was numbingly cold; after the eighty-degree heat of the day. Water sloshed over the huge smooth pebbles and gurgled its way under the arched bridge. Together, skinny dipping without a care. Bravely we swam with the Beavers under the arches and warmed our bones on the stones while slurping cold beer and humming along with the cicada’s closing notes; enjoying the taste of freedom.

Photograph taken with my own hand Ellen Best.

Did you attempt “Risqué camping”? Let me know in the comments… surely we weren’t the only ones to bare our skin in a place where nobody knows you?

 Waiting For Iliya.

Micro fiction #24

Go over to Jane’s to read and join the prompt  presshere

painting by Iliya Repin ,
Margarita waited at the river on the predetermined night … just as she had promised. She brought his faithful dog though she thought, five years passed would surely have switched his allegiance.  Margarita tried not to remember the promises once made for fear of being a fool, she had not spoke of her secret beau or told a living soul why she thwarted all advances. Her parents had not taken kindly to her refusal to commit to suitors presented frequently over the period. Mother couldn’t comprehend why such a rough working hound was loved so dearly, as Margarita had kept him close for many a year.

A fluttering in her tummy and less than calm colouring was thank goodness disguised by the moonlight. Patiently they waited by the waters edge, she questioned her memory, tried hard to recall the tone of his voice, the turn of his strong jaw. Now only time lay between Love and a broken heart.

Dog lifted his head, pricked his ears and with a low grumble he rose from the bank. Margarita didn’t notice as the wind filled her ears she continued to gaze in the other direction. Dog’s grumbles became unmistakable growls, she turned to sooth him when in the distance she caught sight of it. A canal boat, there on the bow stood the unmistakable figure of Iliya, his wavy hair flopping carelessly over one eye as the wind ruffled it, a flat cap he pushed to the back of his head and the teeth… how she longed to feel the nibbles down her neck, and see the broad smile showing those teeth. As man leapt a ground, dog slipped from his lead and pounded towards him. Margarita hand on her beret gazed on. Her beau had come as promised, he left as a penniless artist, to earn enough to come for his bride. Her heart was lodged in her throat as he swept her off her feet and carried her aboard her new home…

 

“Have you been swept off your feet?

Were you brush in hand doing the sweeping?

leave me a note I won’t tell your secrets… Happy Sunday eyerone.

The Sycamore

To climb a sycamore of which I have three,

the trunk so long too high for me.

I would  get up if I were a bee

Or a squirrel, that, I can see.

But, oh… to sway up high

amongst the leaves

where I could  grieve

for lost innocence.

A place to shed

My silent tears

Allow them to fill

These ageing ears.

Without a  care,

I would climb

skinning  knees

One at a time.

High above

where no one

Knows

no one

sees

And

No one

Goes.

My thanks goes once more to Bernadette for her sharing at the senior salon

press salon to find more amazing blogs.

My poetry is light, short and hopefully gives a bite to read like a wrap or sandwich at lunch. QUESTION ALERT! What do you read in your break? Or don’t you? Answers please in the comments I’d love to read them in my lunch break ;)😇.

I’ve Eaten My Post.

As I am away until the twelfth of July and  have scheduled a few posts so as not to dissapoint my visitors. I am planning an occasional coffee shop visit to beg wifi so do keep coming,  😇 😘

Today my healthy breakfast was even healthier than usual. In my strawberry pot little pops of goodness grew and  I chose this bright morning to pick them.

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My breakfast mixed in a bowl waited in the kitchen. It waited for the topping that would make it look like muesli;  but in a party frock. Ths addition would bring beauty to the mix and raise the anti oxidants to levels supreme.

 In Anticipation of the breakfast I put out my favourite mug; the one with a picture of a fat strawberry slapped on its side. A coloured spoon that set the scene  was placed just so. The coffee pot pre – warmed and ready. My setting almost complete,  waited for me to photograph it,  A picture to finish off my blog, to proudly show my produce in its best light. A picture taken with a shiny new camera.on my phone.  I’m not a photographer or even a good snapshot taker, but this is brand spanking new and I was excited. After all what could go wrong.

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From the deck outside the kitchen window, I plucked three juicy plump strawberries. They felt good in my hand, warmed by the morning sun. Their scent tickled my nostrils, my mouth filled with saliva and my tastebuds jumped to attention. By the time I walked into the kitchen they had disappeared. The only traces remaining were stains at  the corners  of my mouth. .I had eaten them, relished each one, I rubbed the achenes with my tongue,  they felt like goose pimples. Slowly I slurped, devoured and thoroughly enjoyed all three. That is why this  is incomplete, unfinished and left lacking. Because, I’ve eaten my post!

Post script…

I felt guilty so made a replica of said breakfast… minus the Yoghurt as It has gone too.. I snapped this second one just as my mouth began to water.

 To assuage my guilt I will leave you my breakfast recipe and maybe  the strawberries will get in to your bowl before being devoured.. .

One hand full of organic jumbo oats
Two desert spoons of chopped and sliced almonds, hazelnuts and walnuts.
Two teaspoons of already mixed, sunflower, linseed and pumpkin seeds.
Fresh fruit the sumptuous kind ( red or purple )
A dollap of thick plain yoghurt
Two desertspoons of fresh juice.
Two teaspoons of Agave nectar.
Mix, allow to sit for ten minutes
Then if you managed to get this far without doing so… eat.

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Have you ever left something unfinished?
Have you scuppered your own blog?
Or eaten your post?
Leave me a comment let me know what you think of my photographic skills, and my recipe. I’m away for a bit but will answer as soon as I can. Meanwhile enjoy the sun.

DON’T BLAME IT ON THE MAGPIE.

Singing in the Rain

This is about my rebirth, moving away from familiarity, family and friends. Starting afresh and trying to fit in. Leaving employment where I was held in high regard, to retire ten years earlier than I imagined, given the oportunity to write. Find a new life with a new husband.

Me and He, have only lived in Somerset for three and a half years, we relocated from East Anglia and are still trying to fit in to rural life, amongst people who’s families have resided in the area for generations. We have a pleasant home at the end of a small Cul-de-Sac in a tiny village. We have a mature garden with tall trees and a stream running along the bottom. The gardens a south facing corner plot; the reason we bought it.

Today I will introduce you to Doris and Mandy. Both names I changed for privacy sake; and my safety. Doris is eighty something years young, has a string of children, grand children, and great grand children, Somerset born and bred with a rich accent to boot. She lives alone in her bungalow at the end of the close.
Last year Doris had a car accident, after some weeks in hospital she was allowed home wearing a neck brace and sporting a twisted hand and a nasty leg injury.

The other person is Mandy, she is also Sometset born and bred. We go walking together, shopping and generally enjoy being what my Father would call “Silly buggers”.

So between Mandy and myself we pop in on Doris and check she’s okay. Mandy picks up medicines and shopping, I bring her the few yards to our home where we chat, drink tea and hopefully stop her being lonely. Yesterdays visit went something like this.
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Mandy brought Doris in for a cuppa, a cake and a chat. Doris was selling the church/village monthly paper which she put on the table, as I fetched my purse.
“Thrush hasn’t visited the area for nigh on three years” Said Doris as She took the money for the paper. She sniffed and went on to blame the majestic Magpie that bounced like a youth across my back lawn.
*Pointing* she said “Bloomin vermin they are, steal eggs, eat chicks and hedge hop, that’s the rascal”, she unpeeled her coat and nestled her bottom into a big armchair. I was pretty sure Mr Thrush had been feasting from my lawn for three weeks now, but not wanting to contradict until I was certain; I kept schtum.

Doris and Mandy debated the culling of Magpies and Badgers in Somerset, as they blew their tea, licked chocolate from their fingers and chortled away in their Somerset dialect. John ‘best half’, championed the Magpie and thought Badgers beautiful, which gave me an opening to voice my opinion. Doris was having none of it “Vermin I say, and so would the farmers if you asked them”.
Doris let slip a few snippets of village gossip (which are now in my note book for later use) she wagged her finger in her I’m telling you manner several times before her cake was finished. A pleasant interlude was had, everyone hugged and thanked my best half for the lively debate and the ladies left.

This morning in writer mode I got up about five thirty after an hour #writing #Editing I took my morning tea to the french windows and sat. The sun filtered by the rain began to sneak through the sycamore at the bottom of the garden. Then there on the lawn, delving it’s spikey beak through the sod in search of a juicy breakfast was Mr Thrush. My photographic skills or lack of stopped me from catching a picture good enough for here. But fortunately my sister in law is an avid photographer and allowed me to post her picture of a thrush in full song.
Our love of the wildlife here had me researching the RSPB website; hoping to see if I could do anything to encourage more into the garden.
My googling revealed that the Thrush is on an RSPB red list; which means numbers are very low . But I was pleased to be right when I read that the Magpie and Sparrow Hawk are not responsible for the decline of small song birds.
The ‘offender’ as Doris would say, are the farmers, for filling in wetland ditches and pulling up the hedgerows. The very people that were being defended ( by the farmers daughter) only yesterday at my table.
Now I just have to get the courage to tell Doris she is wrong…
I may leave it a while, after all I can’t afford to lose a source of information, or upset the locals… not this week.

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press  here to read others take on Coleen and Ronovan’s prompt.
My picture says it all… tea the cure for everything, the first step to fit in to a new life. A rebirth of us.

“What Is The Meaning Of This Quote?”

Today I came across this quote, it is not mine I can not lay claim to it or find the person who penned it, but if you take it at face value we human beings are horrendous house guests.
Maybe the  lesson is humility? Just maybe it is to live in harmony? Or it could mean to live, care and nurture the earth, like we would tend the garden if it was all we had to feed us. Well it looks to me like we lost, failled the challenge, destined to stand in the corner and wear the proverbial dunces hat!

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I think C.S. Lewis had read the quote and this is his interpretation above. Or maybe he was hovering around a portal and  talking to Aslan, who knows?
So I would like your oppinions, if you have a moment…  What do you think the quote is trying to say? Or do you know it’s originator?
I look forward to hearing what you think. *Waving* dying to read your responses, I know you won’t let me down.

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A Ducks Search For A Valentine

Sandhill Crane chick

“Where is it? quick me Valentine, quick, quick, got to find it! I know it somewhere.”
Said Doris duck.

She searched high and low in the stream,
for a Valentine  to fulfill her dreams.
Shook her tail and waddled far and wide
Until no place was left for it to hide.

What it looked like she didn’t  care,
She  wanted one from anywhere.
That Valentine she’d heard about,
It made big people flounce and pout.

Alas she was deemed to fail
For Valintines had no tale…
He had no beak for her to peck
And he had the shortest neck.

So to the pond she waddled fast
With her sibblings, home at last.
Munching worms with her Drake,
Fluffing their tails out on the lake.

Was your true love under your nose?
Did you look to hard but failled to see what was next to you?
Or just maybe you couldn’t give a diddly doo dah… let me know leave a word… try and keep it somewhat clean ;)😇

This link takes you to the Valentines party join in it’s for the whole weekend!

YES!! Party Link Live – Love Thing Valentine Blog Bash and Mingle… Join the fun!

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