An error occurred….

‘Please put down your cutlery, an error has occurred in the seafood menu.’ Blared the tannoy in the restaurant, ‘whelks were mistaken for scallops’. ‘cuttlefish have been substituted for squid’ ‘this restaurant has had to reboot its robot chef.’

Di and Jo sat mournfully waiting, twenty minutes passed. The auto platter was steaming and the Dover sole on it had started to sizzle.

‘So much for a quiet evening out’ muttered Jo. ‘Not very romantic,’ said Di, a frown on her face. ‘Where’s the Piscean monitor when you need him?’

Jo thought for a while ‘all at sea?’ she quizzed. Di replied ‘that’s a fishy tale!’

Dragons

Found these three cuties in a shop in Llandudno. Well the red dragon is the symbol for Wales. 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁷󠁬󠁳󠁿. And the country is full of mountains and valleys where they could be lurking, strangely England’s patron Saint is St George, although he was Turkish as far as I know. By the way, Scotland has Nessie (the Loch Ness monster) that could be of dragon like proportions. I’m not sure about Northern Ireland, perhaps they have their own myth. Although snakes never made it to Ireland and dragons seem to be a distant relation to snakes and lizards.

Being mythological doesn’t mean they may never exist. Maybe a bit of gene slicing could bring about something similar to fire lizards described wonderfully by the fantasy and sci-fi author Anne McCaffrey. She is a splendid author and I would recommend her books. Hopefully though they would not include breathing fire!

Light through clouds

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In the forest it was gloomy, rain had been falling all day, and a grey swirling cap of clouds seemed to sit just above the treetops.

As she walked into the clearing she looked up. No sign of sunshine. It was almost as dark there as under the trees. At least there was a pool which looked clear. She had got a camping stove and would soon be able to make a hot drink. This then would be her camping spot for the night. Only another 20 miles to her destination.

Then as she prepared her evening meal, the clouds started to part and light streamed into the glade.

The light seemed to trigger movement. All around her the ground seemed to lift up into humps which turned into writhing figures in human form. They had been held down by green tendrils of leaves. The green men. An ancient myth. She screamed as she realised they were surrounding her, mirroring the surrounding trees. Tendrils reaching out and pinning her to the ground. She had realised too late that they were carnivorous plants.

Time hopping

Time snuck up on her. She had been waiting for a bus, minding her own business, when.

It was half an hour later. She was still standing by the bus stop but the town hall clock was now striking 7.

She looked at her watch, 6.30? What was happening. Well despite her watch it was too late to get the bus so she started the long trudge up the hill and out of the town.

She was so tired after her walk that she went for a soak in the bath, grabbed a sandwich and went upstairs to bed. She checked the alarm clock, it was half an hour ahead of her watch, so she reset it. She lay her head on her pillow and fell asleep…

Two minutes later it seemed the alarm went off. It must be right as daylight was streaming through the window. She stared at her watch. 10…but was that morning or evening. She looked at the electric clock, 8.30am….what the hell is going on?, she thought.

She felt sick and rang the doctors. As the time arrived for the appointment she hurried up to the surgery. But when she spoke to the receptionist she was told that she was an hour late. She would have to wait until the end of the mornings appointments to see if the doctor had time.

When they finally called her she did not answer. She was sitting there, perfectly still, not moving, not breathing, eyes wide open, staring into space…..

Out of the rain.

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The storm blew in from the North like a runaway train. The wind threw water against the houses. Cars were lifted up by the flood and were caught on the top of the neat hedges that lined the sides of the street. Out of the maelstrom came a figure of a small man dressed in a black raincoat. Water streamed from him, it flowed out of his sleeves and trouser legs. Tears streamed in rivers from his eyes, nose, mouth and even from his ears.

He was called Beck and he was from the North. He was a water god and he had decided to show mankind his might because of the way the World was being treated. He was angry and the storm was growing into a tornado. He had seen the way forests were being cut back, cars clogging roads, ships travelling half way across the world to deliver the cheapest sweatshop goods.

Beck lifted his arms, words bubbled up from his mouth.

Learn or die! He screamed in a high voice. Learn, or, die !

Green door

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I keep missing write photo prompts where you write a piece about a photo.

This was taken at a grand house near Fountains Abbey in Yorkshire. I’m sorry I can’t remember the name of the building. What is important is that they rent out rooms for holiday let’s there.

Rachel ran down the stairs from her room and rushed out of the green door. It had happened again, the light had played a trick on her and she had seen a shadowy figure in the dust motes that danced in the beam of sunlight shining through the stained glass windows. She had decided to see if anyone was playing tricks with a mirror outside? How else could the image have been projected into her room?

But no one was there, not even the friendly female attendant who usually sat in the kiosk by the gate, selling tickets to tourists to visit the Abbey which stood in ruins only a quarter of a mile away.

She stepped back through the mossy green door. But not into the present. A stench of rotting flesh overwhelmed her. Figures scurried about carrying boxes, flowers, rushes for the lamps. She had gone back in time. A woman, who looked like a maid, shouted at her to move. He’s here, the King has arrived. Get on with your work. Fearful and panicking Rachel stepped backwards and fell, tripping off the step.

The kiosk lady stood over her. You OK dear? She asked…..

If cats could fly?

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If cats had wings would they chase birds in the sky? Would pigeons be safe? Would they swoop down like owls and catch voles from on high?

Horses have Pegasus, cats could be mythological, why not. They were worshipped as gods in Egypt, imagine them flying up to tree tops. Mioawing a Dawn chorus.

With genetic modification they could grow huge wings to allow them to hover like drones, waiting to see when their owners come home, spiralling down to perch on feeding stations.

Their coats could be patterned with spirals and chequer boards in blues and purples.

Why not?

Not as we know it.

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I was standing under the warm rain when I heard a thud on the upper surface. I quickly got out of the rainier and looked outside at the up and downs, above them stood the geographical anomaly.

The anomaly was booming and throwing out hot black clouds. The flat world shook and buckled as the molten rocks ran down the steep sides of the anomaly.

Quickly putting on my leg jumper and foot coverings I ran to the four wheel cycle and drove it over to the science walls.

What’s happening? I asked the second leader. It’s exploding. Giving black clouds to the upper air. We think the hot rocks might get here.

Now I am a lost person, looking for an upper surface to cover my top body. No living heart to see after me.

I am uncoupled, I am not joined. Water rains from my seeing tubes.

Why do I write and what am I writing?

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It struck me that my writing is as mixed up as my painting and art. I’m interested in poetry and short stories, documenting life and writing about esoteric stuff like why the earth isn’t flat.

I sometimes ramble on around similar subjects, then get bored and throw something else into the mix – like writing about bread making, or my cats and garden.

I have a lot of thoughts flowing round in my head. I didn’t ask for them to be there.  I’m irritated when Sci-fi shows have sound in the vacuum of space, or someone tells a lie about something that is clearly not true.

I was talking to my hubby about this earlier. I do not want to be different, I was going to write “normal” but perhaps I am. Maybe writers are those people that stick to a specific narrative or genre? Or maybe not. I know I don’t do much research about things, most of my writing is imagined or recollected from books and TV programmes.

I started out thinking it would be purely an art blog, a way of selling my paintings, but it’s morphed. I write mors here than anywhere else and I hope it doesn’t get snatched away. I never check how much content I’m creating. It just flows….. And I was once asked why I don’t have adverts… I don’t like them! I keep seeing photos of lemons, or some green gunk that clears up skin problems…. No, sorry, I’m not happy to sell it….