Reena’s Exploration Challenge #137 – Writer’s Reality

When I sit down to write so often there is an idea in my head to explore and elaborate on.

It’s also the reason why sometimes I don’t write. There can be days where I have nothing to say in relation to a prompt and so rather than force something, and not be happy with it, I let it go, as there’s always next week.

My reality is I have to be enjoying the experience. It must be of value to me. If my readers find some meaning in it be it only entertainment then that I consider is a winner.

I write for me. I long ago came to the conclusion that writing to please others was not a good way to go. I’m not trying to sell my work; another aspect of my reality is my short attention span!

But when I start and I find the words flowing then I get on the proverbial roll, as they say and away I go. Word limits are useful but so often a pain as I have to limit my verboseness. You might say I like the sound of my own writing.

As long as I enjoy the experience and feel I have something to add to the conversation then I shall continue.

It’s a lot of fun playing with words, shaping them into a meaning you hope makes sense to others for that is another aspect of my reality, as long as I continue to blog I am mindful that from time to time other bloggers will read and comment and that reality urges me to strive for the best I can do at the time.

Words, so many possibilities, so much fun.

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Crimson’s Creative Challenge #81 Crisp On the River.

My aged companion, Crisp, and I were standing by the canal that meandered its way through the village.

“When I was sixteen I went on a ‘romantic’ date with Toby Felch, our towns heart-throb. We went rowing, and as we went along, he regaled me with river stories. At the time, I was more terrified of falling into the river than of him, and so I tuned out to his drone of a voice.

He was telling me, as we approached the bridge over the river, that tradition said if you kissed your loved one as you went under the bridge, it ensured a wholesome and fruitful life. The next thing I knew Toby’s large bulky form landed on top of me. I began thrashing about repulsed by his rotten fish smelling breath.

The next thing I knew we were in the river, my greatest fear realised. I went home soaked, embarrassed and thankfully aware Toby would never ask me out again.

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Tale Weaver – #277 – Reading – 28th May


As Grandad aged it became obvious to us that his love of reading was beginning to fade.

It wasn’t he grew sick of reading but rather his eyesight was not getting any better and he struggled to stay awake when he tried to read.

He’d often be found sitting in his chair, a book on his chest, his eyes shut and a gentle snore would emit from his lips.

All his life he had been an avid reader, he had beside his bed a bookcase in which he stored the new books he’d purchase on line. He said he liked to know he had new novels to select from, and in fact it was the choice of novel he liked best.

Sometimes it would be crime fiction, sometimes some historic fiction he even delved into the occasional romantic account of some person’s life, as he’d say variety is the spice of life.

The source of many of the books he read was what he read on the senior’s book club sites. I’d pick up a new book and look at the cover and if he was watching he’d tell me he’d read several good reviews so was looking forward to finding out why it was so well recommended.

I knew he was struggling and so I offered to go to the library and find out about their audio book collection.

He wasn’t all that keen I have to say and I could tell it was because he liked the feel of a book in his hands and he knew he could just as easily drift off to sleep listening as he could reading.

I took to reading him the paper each day I visited; he liked to keep up to date with the goings on in the world. He had a great social conscious and was very interested in the political side of life.

The audio books he took to better than I anticipated and he’d be waiting for me to return from the library with what new text I was able to borrow. He had me scouring the Internet for them as well and before long had a subscription to several podcast sites. He actually loved the podcasts as they might be only an hour in length and he usually had something to say in support of a topic or was incensed by some ‘crackpot’ as he called them.

By the time he died he was all but blind and his source of information was via his ears. He accepted his fate as he knew his love of language and words could be maintained not just through his eyes but also from listening.

“Who ever would have thought I could be reading through my ears,” he would joke to me as he’d slip on his new headphones and settle back into his chair.

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Photo Challenge #317 – Joan’s Grandad

girl in yellow shirt lying on bed

Photo by cottonbro on

When Joan was little she knew she loved her Grandad. She also knew he loved her.

He had a habit of showing up at her place carrying a shopping bag within which he hid something sweet and something educational.

“Eccentric” is the word Granny used to describe him. “What’s he done this time?” she’d ask when Joan mentioned Grandad had been over to visit.

Grandad felt you were never too young or too old to learn and never too old to enjoy a lolly.

Joan’s mother was Grandad’s daughter, and was forever going on about him spoiling his granddaughter by giving her lollies when she was doing her best to feed Joan a healthy diet which didn’t include sugar in large amounts.

“You’re only young once,” he’d say as he slipped a jellybean into his mouth.

“Your blood sugars must be astronomically high,” remarked his daughter.

“Perfect,” he’d say, “my GP says I’m the fittest sixty-year-old he knows.”

Joan loved listening to Grandad’s stories, which were usually about fantastic things he said, lived in his garden. Joan soaked it all up and wandered about Grandad’s garden when she visited looking for the fairies he said lived in various parts of his yard.

She arrived one day not long before Christmas to find both Granny and Grandad in the kitchen, huge pots and pans on the stove and Granny shouting orders at him.

“It’s Granny’s witching time of the year,” he said to Joan as she stood mouth agape watching the frantic goings-on.

“Best stand back,” he said, “ Granny uses a lot of ‘double double toil and trouble’ at this time of year. Get too close and you might end up in the mix and we wouldn’t want that.”

So Joan stood back as Granny mixed the heavy dough and poured it into cloth bags, which she suspended over huge boiling vats on the stove. “Keep your eye on the water levels,” she barked at Grandad who winked at Joan and lifted her up to see the bags of dough floating in the vats.

“I’ve got to keep the water at a height just above the top of the bag or the mix will dry out and not cook properly. It’s an important job, so I’m glad you’re here to help keep an eye on them,” he said sounding very serious.

So Joan knowing her Grandad was serious watched the water levels as the vats bubbled away, telling Grandad the water needed topping up from time to time.

“She’s a powerful witch,” said Grandad to Joan, “she can turn a bag of flour into the most delicious cake and pudding, just watch what happens.”

“Don’t take any notice of the silly old fool,” said Granny, “I’m making Christmas cake and puddings is all. We do it each year and every time your Grandad makes up these wild stories about me being a witch.”

“She’s magical,” said Grandad lifting Joan up to see the puddings bubbling away.

Joan giggled with delight as Grandad and Granny set her down at the table later when the cooking was done. Granny had made a batch of scones and cutting one in half covered it with jam and cream, the perfect morning tea in Joan’s eyes.

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What do you see # 31 -25 May 2020 – A Dark and Foggy Night.

“There’s a light, over at the Frankenstein place” funny how I thought that as I trudged up the path towards the old house seeking help in the middle of the night.

It sucks breaking down on a country road miles from anywhere.

The fog had come in making the scene far more eerie than it probably should have been but I’d seen the Rocky Horror Show many times and the song just came to my mind.

There was no light over the front door; the room above the door was where the light shone.

I knocked feeling bad I was probably awakening someone and realising they would be as anxious about answering the door at this late hour.

The door was opened by a small-wizened lady carrying a lantern. She looked at me as I explained my situation and asked if I could use her phone, as I had no reception on my mobile.

“Oh course dear,” she said, “come through I was just mixing up a brew for the morning.”

It was then I became aware of the aroma within the house.  Wouldn’t say it was pungent but it was pretty close to being so.

“I’ll put the kettle on while you call, its cold out and you need a bit of a warming up,” she said shuffling down a dark corridor and out of sight.

I put in my call and organised help and put down the receiver. She was then back beside me, a cuppa in one hand a chocolate biscuit in the other. I was grateful for the hot coffee and more grateful for the biscuit.

My head began to swim, I felt unsteady and in the back of my mind the Eagles “Hotel California” was playing:

“You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave.”

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Thursday photo prompt: Painted #writephoto – Crossing the Bridge.

Mum had always said not to go beyond the bridge.

Walk anywhere we wanted but don’t cross the bridge.

When we asked her why she’d say there were something’s better not known and certainly not explained.

So we grew up with that thought, and that mystery.

Years later I did venture across the bridge and on the other side was pretty much the some as was on the side I’d come from.

There was a difference, a subtle difference. Where the landscape on our side was flat across the bridge the landscape sloped down, and the further you went the steeper it got until eventually you realised if you kept going there would be no way back as the terrain grew more and more impassable.

It was nightmarish, as I soon found myself clinging to the sides to stop myself sliding uncontrollably into some abyss I was growing more and more terrified of.

Eventually there was a flat section where I could rest and a sign asking if I wanted to go on or return to the top. It was like a last change situation.

I decided to go back, it was a slow climb, treacherous, but not as long as I initially imagined.

Back at the bridge I now understood mum’s warning.

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Sunday Writing Prompt “Uncontrollable Nonsense”

It all came as such a surprise when he was notified that he had won. What was remarkable was he couldn’t remember entering the contest. He looked it up.

“Write your thoughts on the notion that most creative thought is really dressed up nonsense.”

He knew the topic was one close to his heart, after all most of his life he lived in a bubble as far from reality as he could manage and he’d been told on more than one occasion that his writing was little more than creative nonsense.

After all who in their right mind mind would write an entire novel, five hundred pages, centred around a man and a bath towel. But he had, he found his mind going there day in and day out. The towel took on a life of its own and he become obsessed with it giving it characterisations he knew it clearly didn’t deserve.

But here it was, a prize winner and wondered what that meant.

Another letter arrived congratulating him and offering to buy the rights to his novel in order to turn it into a movie. He initially thought it was the silliest of ideas, how could you sustain a film about a man and a towel and retain any sort of credility?

A week later and three days out from the presentation ceremony at the Opera House he received another letter from the film company with ideas and plans for a range of merchandise. This of course included a range of towels with smily faces similar to the one mentioned in the novel.

He had planned to ignore the film idea, he knew what he had written, and yes he began to agree his novel was well written but that didn’t elevate it to anything note worthy in his eyes, as far as he was concerned nonsense was nonsense and he’d passed off his novel as something more than nonsense and in his opinion that made the whole notion of an award even more ludicrous.

He received a call from the presentation people outlining the presentation and suggesting what he might wear, black tie was apparently the way to go, as the presentation, in the Opera House was considered a big deal and according to the caller there was a huge expectation from the committee for him to attend and say something pithy during the award ceremony.

He went back over his notes to see if and when he must have submitted the text to the contest. In the back of his mind he thought Mavis his cleaner who was always rooting around on his desk under the guise of cleaning and dusting may have taken matters into her own hands as she had stepped beyond her role on more that one occasion. He liked Mavis, she cleaned his house each Wednesday, she was eccentric and he liked her for that. If it was Mavis who sent in his novel would she expect a part of the reward as it was her initiative that resulted in his being recognised.

But Mavis, duster in hand, denied all knowledge of doing anything other than cleaning his house.

He sat a pondered his situation as the novel had now taken on an air of ‘uncontrollable nonsense’.

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