She Had Motive

Weekend writing prompt #64 In 33 words write a poem or story using the word motive. Thanks Sammi. Press here if you want to read or join in.

She went to make up. Now, looking at bloodied hands, him slumped on the table. The steak knife dripped as the sirens stopped and scarlet spread like a virus across the white cloth.

Thirty three! Talk about stripping your story bare. Could you see she had motive and opportunity? Do you think it stripped to far or was there enough left?

Leave me a word or two

A Little Wind Wreaks Havoc.

Thank you Sue Vincent for this weeks picture prompt go ūüĒúhereūüĒô 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.

 

The Capture Of Ralphie.

image

“Ralph, Ralphie,”
she called from a faraway place.
As his soul had been captured
In lead and not haste.

Lured was Ralph,
by the scratch of a pen
Captured on parchment,
Seen never again.

Now Ralphie lives
In charcoal and ink
Rolled in a box
Stuffed under the sink.

Whisked away,
his name never spoke
Once long before
he was a laugh and a joke

He lived with a friend
Stole socks from the floor
Dj’d a nightclub
Now never no more.

Ralph got too big for his bone
Now Lynn and Michael
Live all alone
Memories haunt every day
Ralphies fame finally got in the way.

A bit of indulgent whimsy scratched out for a virtual friend.
Ralph is the face of an Indie music promoter he has his own blog, http://fruitbatwalton.blogspot.co.uk/2016/04/ralphs-top-10-blogged-band-chart-16416.htmlpress the link and see.
Ralph has a radio station and facebook page. Lynn Gerrard is one of the keepers of Ralph along with her husband Michael Lindley ( i secretly think he is the Djay and promoter). Lynn is a madcap stand up comic, Blogger, poet, Author and playwright who’s books make me laugh, cry and enjoy the madness she evokes. Darkness and Decadance, Musing and Mischief the Grumblings of a Gargoyle.

The poem came about when I thought what may happen if he becomes more famous than Michael or Lynn (as you do) I’d love your comments and let me know if you have a celebrity pet, or know of one. I hope I made you laugh and alerted you to Your first four legged celebrity.