New-age Punk.

 

 

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Armed with their look

They’ve a gut full of fears,

Their anger disguised

Behind tattooed tears.

 

They hook youth to bring

New music to the masses,

To stir unrest amongst

those middle-classes.

 

Secretly it’s about

Statement and look,

under the guise of a

new-age punk book.

 

Courting social media

With Insta and Mix,

To highlight the movement

With moody selfies and glitz.

 

Power hungry fools

with political agendas

Infiltrate the movement

To fulfil their vendettas.

 

Soon they are castigated,

Pilloried as militant fools.

Credibility lost, they are

just punks without tools.

Another new direction for this have a go woman of words. Let me know if I grabbed the emotion and threw it out there. Maybe it is a step too far? Let me know I value your opinion.

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Paris or Bust.

Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner week 28. Pick up your muse and write, read or join in. Post on the blue frog up to 200 words. press  here

Picture prompt from pixabay.

The easy jet from Paris was disembarking, any minute she’d bypass the baggage collection and speed her way into his arms. I see her looking, calm almost detached, her hand guides her carryon, a hard shell yellow case on wheels. Straightening my tie I breathe deeply, give a tug to the bottom of my uniform then step forward. Her face lights up, her eyes stop momentarily on his and like Judus he nods towards me.

Blond hair flopped over her eye as she turned her head to follow his nod, she sees me. “Mirrium Naughton please,” I direct her with an open palm towards customs. Her pupils enlarged, small beads of perspiration sat on her top lip. She whipped her head back to meet his gaze once more, “come with me.”

My first arrest in my new role was one I will never forget. Handshakes all round, my back slapped several times. But still, the bad taste coated my tongue each time I thought how easily her husband betrayed her.

What do you think she had done? pop your thoughts in the comments I can’t wait to read.

The Documentary.

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Twigs snapped, right then left. Feet pounded and thumped against the parched forest floor. Sounds ricochet as they bounced off trees the echo distorting their direction. Crunch and snap, a rush of air squealed from twisted lips; lungs under pressure.

In my hide I watched the bazaar event unfold. A whoosh of wind lifted dust in a raging swirl; obscuring my view. A flash of red appeared in the clearing. Bent over, the writhing snarling beast set to work. Claws poised, jaw extended, thrusting, slurping and gnawing under the scarlet cloth.

An abrupt silence filled my head. Only the sound of my recording equipment quietly whirled; silent enough to go undetected by the creatures I usually document. I knew in that four minutes, what the people of Pompeii must have felt. Stock still, afraid a flutter of my lashes would alert my presence.

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It raised itself to its full height, turned with speed, the cloth fell leaving me shocked at the reveal. A crown of golden hair spilt free. It froze, cocked its head, alert, wired ready to pounce.

It shockingly spat a mouthful of guts and pulled a blood-soaked forearm across its mouth. All the time its green glowing eyes seemed focused on my hide. I watched, holding my breath as the evil being, shook, flicked its head and changed into a female youth. At her feet the remnants of a huge wolf.

I daren’t move, my life depended on the skill of holding my breath. She wiped her face and hands on the fallen cloth. Tied her hair back and swept the red cloak across her shoulders. While disguising the remnants of her supper beneath the debris on the forest floor with her feet.

My heartbeat as ragged as my breath began to calm. She pulled up her hood and humming a sweet tune sauntered through on through the forest swinging her basket.

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I shot an email to my producer attached copyright and a clip of the recording.

It paid off! I caught the transformation. No doubts. Amazing footage. Meet me at the helipad four am British meantime …………………

 

A twist on a fairy-tale it is a new challenge for me, I would love to know what you thought. Leave your thoughts and suggestions I will answer quick smart, I love to talk.

media on loan from https://www.pexels.com/@pixabay

Cheers.

Here Linda Hills stream of concious Saturday prompt. Press to join in or read

We heard the cheers through the trees,

The music carried on an evenings breeze.

Painted faces and flowered hair,

Dogs and children nap in wheeled chairs.

We raised our glasses nodded our heads.

Unspoken memories we shared in bed.

An earthy voice was the last we heard,

Interupted by the late night trill of a lowley bird.

A nightingale threw back its head

We listened lying in the motorhome bed.

The festival stopped with resounding cheers

But the nightingale stayed with us for many years.

Photograph taken by me at #RedRoosterFestival JUNE 2018 Held at Euston Hall Suffolk.

A VERY QUICK #SoCS

Have you been to a gig or festival recently? Do let me know in the comments😇

For The Love Of Milly.

This is a completely reworked story that I penned a while ago and hope you agree it deserves a second shot.

Press here to join in and post your own story, to read all the others tap the blue frog over at Esme’s place.

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At lunchtime Bob tied a napkin beneath her chin, he softly crooned as he spooned sustenance between her lips. With the touch as soft as mallow, he caught the spillage caring that none other could see. I watched Bob care for his wife over many years, he accepted help only when he had to. Milly would batt her lashes and flirt with Bob openly, I am sure she believed they were alone. Milly whispered and giggled, sometimes you could hear her singing to Bob. One summer evening through the window, I saw them dance, in some imaginary place they took to the floor; such an intimate sight.

What they had together was gentle, the connection was tangible, respectful yet fun.

Bob and Milly were the only couple living in the home where I work, Milly in the early days was fit and able, she took an active role in the running of the home. Bob for the first four years went out to work; until Milly’s episodes became continual.

When Bob was out or having a break we nurses, would cover our uniforms and distract her by being her guests. Me with a floral crossover pinny and a pink plastic curler in my fringe. In her own space she was calm and liked the familiarity, but she came alive, I’d say animated; when Bob was near.

Milly was failing fast and still, Bob continued with the rituals she came to expect. Many a day I came on duty to see his eyes cloud, his shoulders down; it took its toll on him, loving Milly. I went into their room with a tray of tea and cake, the intention was to assess discreetly the situation; to offer support. Milly was unresponsive, as If I didn’t exist. She lay very still, occasionally her eyes would flicker. Each time she heard his voice her mouth would lift and lashes would batt. He bathed and brushed, stroked, and dressed her. For six days he never left her side, the doctor had been and we all waited in a hushed silence for the inevitable.

Worried for him, I wondered how he’d be once she had passed.

I tapped the door; it remained closed, pulling a crack just enough to peek. I could see him, cradling her in his arms; on the bed with her. Bob’s face pressed into her hair, his cheeks glistened as he rocked her to and fro humming a long forgotten tune.

At the funeral I stood next to him; he seemed spent and sad. The small chapel was full of flowers, sun-streaked through the glass as bright as the cheerful hymns they played. kindly words and reminiscences were recalled. Bob stood at the pulpit and said his last goodbye.

Bob and five clients took the minibus back to Green Hays for Millie’s high tea. Once goodbyes were said and each person had gone, I sat in his armchair for the longest time remembering the fun that was Milly, not maudlin but good happy talk. I asked…
“How did you do it, Bob, where did you get the stamina to keep on for years?” He clenched his hands to stop them trembling. As if deep in thought, he slowly nodded. “Once her memories had disappeared, (his lip trembled) it was my place to make her feel love every day. So each day for her was our first date. Then whenever it was her time to pass, she would know… to-day she was loved.”

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Wouldn’t you wish to be loved as much as Milly? Leave a comment If I touched that spot?

I May have #Clothestraphobia.

I have a fear of being stuck in clothes … bear with me … I’m sure I am not the only one. I have been a spectator on many occasions in the past to this phenomenon, as a fashion retail manager. But only this morning, I became the subject of what I believe is Clothestraphobia.

Recently we took a few days away. Whilst we were there I took a liking to a garment. I spied the concoction, through the window of a quirky clothes shop in Bridport Dorset called Butterfly Boho.
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After many years as a regional trainer for a luxury brand, my shopping is coloured by how the layout of a shop works, how garments are displayed and windows are dressed; not to mention the service. Needless to say, those things can have me wandering for hours; rarely buying. All of the above baffles the husband. If you are ever around us at such a browsing session, you could possibly hear the words “For goodness sake just buy something” coming from the exasperated husband’s mouth, or the occasional expletive (for f*’s Sake Buy it!). More often than not I go on my own.

Last week he caught me gazing, heard me sigh and followed my look. Grabbing said bull by the horns, he strode in and made a purchase. Looking is not usually a good measure of shape or fit. looking and sighing is, however, a measure of wishing, hoping you would look like that mannequin if … you wore the garment. Bearing in mind you would need to be as firm, as that hard piece of physicality, perfectly shaped and as tall as that mannequin to get the same look … often that gaze and sigh is where it ends.

I thanked him very graciously, all the time hoping he hadn’t wasted his money. Secretly fearing my four-foot-eleven frame and all its wobbly bits would look like a sack of King Edwards, ones that have wrinkled and softened with age. In fact, I hoped I would be blessed by the garment once it was on, suitably disguised and my figure enhanced.

A few days have passed since we returned, ( to give me time for a manic starvation diet and detox) this morning after a bath ( imaginary steaming off/melting more blubber) I donned my prettiest underwear, brushed my flowing hair, and applied lip gloss to give myself the esteem trying on the new dress deserved.

This is where I attached myself to the word ‘Clothestraphobia. The garment is two dresses. One is an underdress, fixed just above the hem on the inside but seperate everywhere else. The top layer is voluminous and has hitches and tucks that make it quirky. Picture of the garment below.

I love the different; after years of looking the part while working in fashion. I now try to be … alternative.
Things didn’t go to plan. The first mistake was stepping into it. Nevertheless, I did. Somehow I dropped the inside layer during entry and put my foot in the underskirts armhole. I know, hard to believe that but I did.

Continuing to pull it up and put my first arm in resulted in the other arm/leg hole tangling around my knee; horrific. By now I could hear the sound of belly scratching, stumbling and yawning as the husband, disturbed no doubt by my grunts and bangs, began to wake. Not wanting to be caught in a state of inelegant pose, I dropped my free arm and head inside. I thrust my hand in the inner skirts free arm hole and tried to stand. Now thoroughly stuck with my arm bent like a flipper above the head which is covered by the outer layer … I begin to move crab-like. With a now inner layer being pulled around my crotch, made tighter by the act of me trying to stand.

Below is a picture was taken of me while trying to show the reproduced moment. Though I really couldn’t get quite as tangled as I truly was.

My face was hot and my husband could be heard flushing the chain. At first, I felt a little bubbling in the depths of my throat, I remember thinking … NO! I shuddered when the filthiest laugh startled me, I hiccupped several times. Uncontrollable laughter took over, I wandered bumping into furniture while trying to twist my body free; doubled up inside the dress.
A tangle of hair, red cheeks and smeared lippy eventually looked into the eyes of a stunned husband. As only Ellen would. I said, “Thank you for that .. tea?” I pulled on my dressing gown without looking at what I know was a bemused face with a crumpled dress in his hand. We Sat, silently sipping our morning tea. You could hear a fly batting off the glass on the stable door.

I sniffed straightened my back and said, “well, things can only improve” he nodded, then slowly shook his head. That dear readers … is “Clothestraphobia”.

Have you suffered this affliction? Or assisted in the extraction of someone suffering? Let me know that I am not alone.

p.s. all photographs are the product of my own zapping.

A River Rat #FridayFictioneers

The picture curtesy of https://fatimafakierwrites.com/ #fridayfictioneers 100 word story. Read many more stories “here

River rats we were called, no better than gypsies they would shout. I grew with a chip on my shoulder and a frown on my brow.

I came to Venice; fell for a gondolier or two. Nobody spat on my shoe, my art degree held weight … my purse too.

Some nights when the stench is thick, I hanker after our canal boat, on a canal in England;

with Mum and Dad. Me, throwing my fists, defying the world. A tear Stained face wrapped in muscled arms smelling of old spice and tobacco. I am now a river rat wrapped in Ermine.

Beneath The Deep

He finished his book, watched the moon glow red on the day. With closed eyes, he inhaled … as if in a dream. A flash, then he falls away.

Into the deep, his arms like tentacles flap as if he’s waving goodbye. There’s panic, an unheard scream, bubbles bursting towards the sky.

Down in the grime the muck and the slime beside the hull of an upturned boat, Protrude oars, like arms reaching out … as if to get ahold of his throat.

An eel comes to look at the boy with a book, who into the water was spilt.Who struggles and fights, his legs disturbing the silt.

Deep he plunges, the light disappears in a mist. Like angelic detritus he floats, intoxicated with heavenly bliss.

The dark clears, a nymph beckons with barely a flick of her wrist. A wisp of a thing lures him deep. Her face he tenderly kissed.

He’s now way below,
Where tides

ebb and flow.

And dreams

Reappear

With

The

Fish.

This re worked piece gets a second chance as I attempt to capture something new.

Did my foray into fantasy work? Answers will be most welcome *waves*

A Little Recognition.

Today I want to …

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For still being here, staying with me through sporadic posting over the last year. while I learned to cope with my newly diagnosed medical condition. My plan is to come more often, to give consistency a go once more. For me to share a story or a snippet of me … weekly to begin with.

In order to recognise and thank you all I have reworked a post from two years ago as It said everything. So lay back, sit in a comfy chair and enjoy basking in my praise of you.

On my blog I lay a cornucopia of words. This site is (or will be) costantly replenished, offering a buffet of stories, a picnic of poetry, prose and pieces of me.

This is a place where I choose to show the shape of me. Not my figure … that like a shape-shifter, changes by the hour with age and gravity. No, here I show the shape of the soul of me, my words and machinations.

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As I edit my first full manuscript and one day soon novel, I try to grow and make connections. Coming here to breathe on my blog when the edit bites my bum and frustrates me, this gives me the distraction I need. I read and reply to comments left here, many urge me on and inspire confidence; I learn from you all. I seek out more followers, visit blogs and join conversations, in hope that they/ you appreciate something I write, or maybe begin to hear my voice or see my shape.

Like fallow Deer i am inquisitive, on the brink of that leap. The excitement is palpable when I read something fresh … stumble across a post or a someone I connect with.

I follow places and like minded people, honest writers and bloggers with passion and soul. “I thank you from me” for accommodating me and allowing my presence in your space.

To all who share and promote and care, those that take time to comment, I drop a curtsie, bend a knee, and thank you, I recognise your talent and appreciate your time.

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If I could see you all gathered in one place I would share my picnic with you all.
Now if I did, what would you bring to my blanket? Let me know in the comments. Bye for now and keep coming and sharing as I do. 😘Mostly keep coming back.

Different Can Be Good.

This morning he made me a cuppa; called upstairs to let me know. Gazing out the window into the sunlight, he stood pressed against the sink, my tea sat alone on the worktop. Silently I took in the shape of him, placed my flat palm in the arch of his back. Pressing firmly I rubbed slowly towards the back of his neck and twiddled the edges of his hair damp from his morning ablutions. I closed my eyes as my cheek found a space just the right shape; between his shoulder blades. I whispered softly, “I do love you” as my nostrils sucked in his fresh morning scent. The husband, (as I often refer to him) gave a low chuckle “Jolly good” he said. This was a response I had almost got used to, a tongue in cheek remark that sometimes … slips under my skin.

The thing is when you move and breathe in unison when you know what is about to be said … just once, you’d like something different, a fresh surprising thing. Aware as I was that although he did not want tea himself … he thought of me. Though he could have said I love you too, it would have been what many would have said. He chose to say something that he knew I would recognise as his. Even so, deep down, I would have been excited by a new response.

At the end of a special dinner, I know he enjoys a cheese board with all manner of pomp and smell. But just occasionally I surprise him with sticky toffee pudding made from scratch. I Serve it with a salted caramel sauce and fresh cream; in potbellied jugs. But this day, the one about which I write … I purchased a bun from the baker, one that I myself can’t eat.

He cooked us a roast with all the trimmings. We laughed at what we had both read and had done during our day. I spoke to him about his response this morning, how occasionally it would be good to be different, how different is sometimes nice. Not something you’d want too much of you understand, but good to be surprised with occasionally.

Then I presented him a warm hot cross bun, after all, it is Easter.

I listened to the locks turn as I climbed into our bed, I can hear him muttering something under his breath. Once settled we chat about everything and nothing; “Goodnight Husband, that I love” we kiss and squeeze. He wriggles closer, traps me from behind with both arms and legs. “Till morning you funny old thing.” As he blew a raspberry on the back of my neck. “That different enough for you.”

“Perfect,” I said.

Click on ‘Stream of consciouciousness Saturday to join or read other responses. SoCs the prompt was ‘Bun’. I hope you enjoyed my response.

Do you think we need to make the effort to be spontaneous … occasionally. Leave me a comment I can’t wait to read.