Paint water

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I never knew what paints she used, said the man, the pictures were always bright and colourful. I guess they must have been water based. Look here is a glass mug full of water.

Yes, said the policeman. But no paintings? And no sign of her? You told us she’s been missing for a week.

Yes, said the man. I thought she had gone away for a break. But she’s not been in touch. Not phoned or emailed me. It’s very unusual, and she wouldn’t take all her art.

The conversation did not identify any additional information.

Meanwhile, in a small costal village, she sat and painted the sea.

Sparks

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Sparks flew up into the night, blooming like a flower as he threw her old books onto the bonfire. He thought back over the last few hours. Finding her asleep on the bed, the sun slanting through the curtains. He’d left her to rest.

She’d come into the kitchen for coffee but barely noticed him. Just muttering fine when he asked he if she was OK.

She put the radio on, one of those inane poppy channels he hated. Started a little jigging dance. She seemed happier now, so he asked again how she was? OK she responded. Then she looked at him, a long stare. Who was that woman you were with last night? she said.

He knew he would have to answer. But not now, not yet. He hadn’t decided what to do.

Cat got your tongue she said?

Now it was night, the books were making sparks. He threw her record collection onto the bonfire.

She always asked too many questions he thought as he walked back into the house.

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 !

Witchery

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Old Belladonna Green watched as the moon rose. It was full and glowing tonight. Just the right time to be abroad for some witchery…..

She stood on top of the hill looking down at the old town. What enchantments could she weave to change people’s lives tonight?

She was a solo witch. A bit like solitary bees. Not part of a coven, but quietly making a difference where she could. The world was too modern for her really. No apprentice had been to see her for twenty years and her stock of charms had worn out long ago. Yes she could go to the local magic shop, but the stuff in there was mainly tat. Who wanted to buy a whoopee cushion to help indigestion?

And the Internet? It spread such falsehoods that no one knew what to believe anymore. When texting arrived she almost gave up. As it was she had to be very circumspect about what she did. All those satellites and droney things. She was good at weaving invisibility which she needed to keep out of sight of CCTV! More than once she had been forced to take the form of a black cat to avoid detection.

She looked over at Larch Street. A small row of terraces which were humble but cozy.

Oh yes. Mr Hughes, he needed some help, he was losing his hair rapidly…. She climbed up the drainpipe. She was still quite nifty at climbing even though she was 74… As she had thought, the bedroom window was open to let the cool moorland air in. She pushed the sash window open and deftly stepped through. Her soft shoes made no sound… She had a pouch of green herbs on her belt and she moved over to where Mr Hughes was sleeping. Gentle fingers massaged the green goo onto his head, he snored and turned in the bed, putting an arm round his wife. Belladonna stood back, approving her own work, then swiftly left the way she had come.

As the alarm clock went off the following morning Mr Hughes went into the bathroom. He was rather shocked to see in the his face in the mirror… A full head of hair…. But why was it blonde?

 

Phoenix

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You sparkled as you flew

high above me

a tail of fire,

comet like,

Greens and Golds.

Cold fire flew from you wings,

Hot fire your breath.

Feathers of glass or crystal

tied with silver wire

Shreak of sound

high register like a whistle…

Then a shrinking bloom of fire

like time-lapse in reverse

your feathers folding in

wormhole like

creating a single golden glowing egg

Once created, to hatch and grow again.

 

Meandering

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I sometimes start a blog on one theme and for some reason meander off in a completely different direction. Like a river meanders randomly, curving one way then the other.

Curving frequently, tributaries joining,

Increasing the flow, sinuous,

Like a snake, swallowing its own tail,

In places becoming, forming  through sediment,

A famed oxbow lake, a tiny part of the whole, trapped and landlocked.

When it reaches the sea all its strength is dissipated.

Numerous streams wander a delta down to the water.

Seagulls trim their wings

And fly fiercely overhead.

My story meanders again,

As a gull steals my chips ……

I started at point A, wove around and ended at point B. Strange how like a journey we can be transported by words, drift along into a story or a song… .

Writing….

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Late last night I stared to write a little story about this woman I had drawn, it was called Charlis and it was about her rescuing her village from a flood using powers that she did not realise she had. It was not meant to be a superhero / comic type story, I was hoping it would be deeper than that.

I had got about half way through   (it was only short) and was concentrating on the plot when my tablet ran out of battery power and closed on me. This morning the story has gone.

I find it difficult to write stories, to put myself in other people’s lives. Doing something like this is quite daunting, would it be too verbose?  too convoluted? did it make sense, could I take people with me into the story?

I can’t remember half of what I had written, and I don’t want to inflict something on you that might not be any good.

So what should I do, recreate it, is it worth the hassle?  I tend to write things spontaneously, without any planning.  Late night writing when you are tired is not the best way of going about things. I don’t think I’m much of a writer, I don’t feel my words flow, I am just learning. At least I have age and some experience to fall back on.

I will ponder on this. …