He woke up in darkness, the window he has climbed through last night was now boarded up. He was alone in the barn, but his hands were tied behind his back. He heard a quiet rustling in the straw. A squeak and he realised there were either rats or mice sharing the space with him…..
Everything had been quiet when he had crept into the barn about 8 o’clock the previous evening. He’d been setting up the camera when something or someone had hit him on the head.
What the hell do I do now? he thought. I’m stuck.
He glanced about and he saw something black in the corner, an old scythe? Yes stck under some sacking. It was so easy in mystery stories. Just rub against the blade and escape…. Two hours later he’d got through one strand of rope, his wrists were bruised and cut and he was sweating with the exertion of trying to escape. If he ever got out of here he would have words with his mates…
This was not how a stag party was meant to go!
She looks out of a plastic bag, a face from abroad, from Asia, the orient as it used to be called. Whose life is it? How many lives and stories are recorded inside the pages.
Why collect newspapers? Why not bin them ? They go to a friend who does not get a paper but likes to catch up with the news once in a while.
So a weeks worth of news travels a mile to be read again. Perused, inspected,, imbibed.
Words of faith, hate, crimes, love, jeopardy, booze, history, mainstream and minor musical scales. Obituaries and marriages, births and birthdays. I like to share. Yesterday’s news but not just chip wrapping paper yet. ..
Hot coffee with cream, a slice of black forest gateaux. She sat and stirred the cup, hearing the spoon tinkle against it.
Only an hour ago she had been running to catch the bus into town. She’d told Al that she was meeting a friend….
This isn’t a trashy romance story, she told herself. Just a meeting with an old friend. But she couldn’t help feeling excited. He’d sounded just the same on the phone as he had all those years ago at college.
The cake was delicious, but she only tasted it, she was too nervous to eat. Too many butterflies in her stomach, too much anticipation and anxiety.
Oh god, she thought. I’m too old for all this, what will I say? Should I put some more lipstick on? She was also thinking about Al. How could she tell him about this. No it would be her little secret.
It was half an hour later, he was 20 minutes late… He promised he would be there. She remembered a tall young man. Long hair, a leather jacket and jeans. Black doc marten shoes….. Where is he? She thought.
Just then the glass door opened. She saw a once tall man, now stooped over. A bald head, what hair that was left was grey and in a ponytail. A walking stick, a gold medallion.
She decided not to say hello. As he walked into the room she went to the counter to pay her bill. On the way out of the door she felt mixed guilt and grief. Had she done the right thing?
She looked in the window and caught her reflection. Her once slim body was wider now, her hair not just grey, but white. Oh well she thought. At least I have Al.. …
It’s interesting to think what is the optimum time to write….?
I find that I’m usually busy in the day, but sometimes have a bit of time like now, to write. But the normal time I write is in the evening. Usually when the TV is on and I’m not particularly engaged in the programme. Sometimes I find myself listening to the television with one ear and my husband with the other whilst typing here. My brain can be quite scrambled when I’m doing that.
At the moment I’m listening to a TV programme called countdown when contestants choose a series of vowels and consonants and try and make a word up to 9 letters long. The longest word wins the round. A bit like scrabble really. The other game they play is a mixture of 6 small and large numbers and they must use arithmatic to get to a random number that the computer generates. Each game is only 30 seconds long…….
So getting back to when I write, sometimes I’m racing to publish something before midnight. It’s become a bit of a challenge to myself. I don’t really know why I do it, it may be because I’m quite competitive and I like to try and keep my writing limited to the same day. I guess I treat it as a bit of a deadline.
My other habit is writing late at night or early in the morning when I can’t sleep……as long as its not too boring.
Book avalanche ….
I once had one book.
That wasn’t enough,
Then I had two
One too few?
So I got three
Which I read in a tree.
Soon I had four
How many more?
Five or six, a feast
No seven at least,
Enough for a shelf?
With my twelfth….
Once I had forty
I felt rather naughty.
Just a few more
Came through the door…
Once I read paperbacks
Now I’m on hardbacks,
My addiction is growing,
The books they are flowing.
Trying to count ’em
How can I stop them?
Over one Thousand?…..
No space for me and
My cats.. .
Now there once were giant people throughout the lands. The Southern Giants were strong and smart, they were made of copper and bronze and shone in the sunlight. But the Northern Giants were also strong, and as they lived in the winter lands they were made of ice as hard as Iron. They could breath ice and snow when they fought. Because of this they were known as the Ice Giants.
After many years of war, Ralf, King of the Southern giants went to fight with them. He knew that if he did not win his lands would be forfeit and his wife would be killed by his enemies.
Lora, his wife, was scared when he told her his plans, but she knew he would have to go to save their fellow giants.
She watched him leave and cried tears which fell into her lap and made a huge pool of liquid copper, each tear making a ripple many feet high.
As she waited she thought she heard him calling her, she stood up and the copper spilled onto the ground, making a lake of copper at the base of the mountains where they lived.
Meanwhile in the North the Giants fought each other to a standstill. Ralf was winning, but as the battle came to an end one Ice Giant hit a fatal blow against him. He was dying but he hit back and felled the last Ice Giant.
His wife foresaw his death and started to weep again, she could not bear his loss. Her tears flowed over the land. Then the wind strengthened from the North. Forcing Lora to stand and start to run from its freezing grip. She was so tall that her tears fell from such a great height that they froze solid and shattered as they hit the ground.
It is said that there is a land in the south where her tears sit like trees in a forest, they are so many. And if you are far away you see the autumn colours of their copper and bronzes glinting in the sunlight.
Definition from Wikipedia :
A spoonerism is an error in speech in which corresponding consonants, vowels, or morphemes are switched (see Metathesis) between two words in a phrase. These are named after the Oxford don and ordained minister William Archibald Spooner, who was famous for doing this.
An example is saying “The Lord is a shoving leopard” instead of “The Lord is a loving shepherd.” While spoonerisms are commonly heard as slips of the tongue, and getting one’s words in a tangle, they can also be used intentionally as a play on words.”
I only mention this as I was talking to the cat this morning and said “you’ve got pappy haws this morning”. Of course I meant “happy paws” but it struck me how often you can get words mixed up ….
I don’t know how much I will be online over the next couple of days, so I will say Yappy Hew Near! Or Nappy Yew Hear!