#writephoto picture prompt.

I wished I hadn’t seen him, I squeezed my eyes and prayed that he would disappear once I unscrewed them.

In the forest, Granddad always carried his loaded gun; broken of course, but … shot ready. “Just cos you a girl don’t mean nowt” he would say. “You needs to know, and to do.” Each time I nodded my head, I secretly begged not to find him. In the clearing he glistened with snow. Head held proud, no hurry to go. He looked back the way he had come. I darted forward; a distraction technique. Without a breath his gnarly hand caught my nose and cheek. A backhander he called it, a gentle reprimand. Grabbing my lobe he dragged me, not releasing for a second until home. My face wet, my heart bled but … my conscience clear. We never spoke of our last hunting trip. We neither repeated or apologised. Our last meeting was on his deathbed, our eyes met one last time. Silently he closed his lashless eyes, and nodded his naked head.

 

 

Press the thanks to join in or read other responses to the #WritePhoto prompt. Thank you Sue

Do comment please.  “Have you had a moment? when you stuck to your guns?

The Devil failed to take the soul of a poet.

She sidle’s next to him at the cocktail bar. Tempts him with a challenge, shows him her new car.

But he is a wordy poet who has seen her type before. He bandies words that were meant to anger. Soon she is heading for the door.

The poet sips his nectar, ashamed at his poorly chosen words. Notices the sky, thick with feathers, his ears filled with squawking birds.

He puts it down to the liquor and gulps another drop. Wobbles on the stool, leans to swallow a final shot.

Wipes drool from his chin, straightened up his shirt. He puzzled, when last he drank enough, to make his body hurt.

Then he hears a sultry voice as if it’s in his ear. As he hails a passing taxi the sky suddenly is clear,

Quietly, he wishes, he’d not behaved like a clown, He may have dozed, the way that drunkards do. But wouldn’t be wearing a frown.

That devil can not get you, no matter what she may think. Your soul is spread far and wide, inside the words you think.

It has been scribbled on cardboard cartons. Etched on an Angels wing. Put inside birthday cards and in every song you sing.

Your soul is in each thought you think. It is dribbled in your poetic Ink.

You see, the devil doesn’t stand a chance. So pour her a final conciliatory drink.

Painting of Crow by my sister Anne Maxwell. No one other than myself has permission to copy this painting in any way, without express permission from A.M. Maxwell or myself.

Devil.

This came about when I was set an exercise By Sophie Hannah of Dream Author Coaching. The task was to take a random dream and write. Nonsense and theatre included.

Thanks to Esme for allowing me to join her Halloween spooktacular press https://esmesalon.com/43-senior-salon-2019/ to join in.

Forest Child.

Sue Vincent invites you to join in press here to leave your piece or read many imaginative others.

Today’s word is track.

Some say those that were born here have … the thing. The magic of the forest, sap running through veins, nooks and crannies, corners that hold secrets. A quirky look at life, grounded in soil and mulch.

I was born of this place, in the cottage hospital on the edge of Savernake forest. An ancient wood 2750 acres of mystery and as you would expect history. As a child, I once was found sleeping at the foot of the Great Bellied Oak.

Fred liked to walk with his girls through the forest, when time allowed,The youngest would no doubt need carrying before the track had stopped its meandering. The day was sunny and all was lush, branches flicked light this way and that, birdsong was full-throated all in all he thought, its a good day for a walk.

Me, the three-year-old, me, loved to walk the most, but my chubby legs would not always keep up with the want to finish. That was when Daddy’s arms helped out and shoulder high I would grab his ears to hold on and soak in the atmosphere. Shafts of light threw colours or that was what Dad said, I knew it was something special. My sisters four and six didn’t really want to walk but we all loved Daddy and his treats. The story goes that I had held daddy’s hand until we stopped to share a picnic; a bag of Smiths crisps with a twist of salt and a bottle of Orangina. Three straws he pulled from his handkerchief pocket we sat on Dads tweed Jacket three little bums; eyes as big as saucers. Once the feast was over we stood so he could shake his Jacket. Like a magician, he pulled a white paper bag stuffed with soft Pontefract cakes from his cap. I remember how we oohed and ahhed, how he did the Dad magic, producing a perfect round Pontefract coin from behind our ears.

This is where our stories differ, (Dad’s version) the sisters playing chase ran off the track, I couldn’t keep up my legs were far to short for his turn of foot. So he told me to wait and not move from the spot and he’d return as quickly as he could. (My recollection) My feet could not go fast enough as I was swept behind a frightened Dad through the forest, my hands wet from licking the liquorice from my fingers slipped free, and I fell with a bump. When I woke Dad was not there, I was laying on a bed of moss at the foot of the Giant oak. A voice whispered as I sat up; ‘do not be afraid child, we forest folk always look after our own.’ I looked around but could not see anything more than a wisp of colour flash by my head. Daddy, with one sister under each arm, was struggling to walk and calling my name. I told a very cross face that he wasn’t to worry his head, the forest folk took great care of me, when you were gone.

Our stories have like Chinese whispers altered with the years, but last week was the first time I returned to that spot. Now a road is next to the Old Big Bellied Oak, and the A346 south of Caudley trundles caravans and cars by oblivious to the magic.

Were you born somewhere magical? Or have you visited such a magical place? leave me a comment I love to converse.

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*