The small boy asks what I am doing?
I reply I am laying pavers.
He asks why and I tell him of paths and walkways.
He asks what it is I have in my hand?
This is a paver I say. He asks why?
Written for: https://patriciasplace.me/2018/06/20/in-other-words-questioning/
“Listen to the pouring rain, listen to it fall
Its raining it’s pouring, the old man is snoring.”
My mother would croon this to me as I lay down to sleep. It was more pertinent when it was actually raining, but it didn’t matter to mum, she sang it every night.
Later she revealed, one day as we chatted about growing up, that I was such a difficult child to get to sleep she found it the only soothing thing she could to get me to sleep.
We lived out of town if you called our town a town. It was tiny place, a pub, a general store cum post office, a one-man police station and the school. Around it were scattered houses of various ages and disrepair.
My dad was the one policeman, and our house was about five kilometres out of town on what was called the city road. The city was a good two hours away, but our road led there, and I think it gave the locals a sense of connection to the big wide world.
Normally when it rained the gutters ran for a day or two then dried up. The river filled slightly, the dam above the town was refreshed and the landscape went quickly back to its drought status.
One year it rained for a week. The river rose, threatened to flood the town, and I remember dad being out all night as they watched the water rise afraid the water rose too high he’d have to organise evacuations.
For us kids though it gave us a new playground. There were puddles everywhere and muddy slopes to slide down. Our parents despaired, as we’d come home each day our clothes covered in mud or wet through.
Thankfully it only happened once in the time we lived there, but it gave us great memories. For my mum and dad though it left them with memories of trepidation as they imagined the disaster that potentially unfolded in front of them.
Sometimes at night now I sing that song to my kids as I settle them down at night.
“Listen to the pouring rain, listen to it fall
It’s raining it’s pouring, the old man is snoring.”
Written for: https://rachelpoli.com/2018/06/22/time-to-write-rain-creative-writing-prompt/
Photo © Jim Kable (Used with permission)
My mother would pack my lunch into my globite school bag and shoo me out the door, so I would catch the train to school.
The train station was a short walk from home, and I’d usually arrive in plenty of time to catch the 8.20. It was just one stop before getting off to walk up High Street to my school. There was always a bunch of us kids who came on the train, so there was always someone to walk with.
As I waited on the platform, it was rare that there would be any other kid waiting with me. I used to walk to the far end of the platform and look down the rails as they curved in towards the next station and watch the skyline above the bridge over the tracks for the tell tale signs of the approaching train.
Sure enough, around 8.18 I’d see the puff of smoke as the old steam engine pulled the carriages towards my stop.
With smoke billowing from the chimney and steam kissing from the wheels it made its majestic entry into the station each morning.
Once you were on and in your seat, it was important to make sure the windows were closed for when the engine pulled out, an open window could result in a mouth full of smoke and more than likely a fine dusting of soot.
You didn’t much time for a lot of things before it arrived at the High Street stop and off we got to trudge the distance to school.
Each afternoon I did the repeat, but we never cared about the smoke and soot on the way home especially so in summer when it was hot and sticky and how could some smoke and soot make you feel any worse?
Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2018/06/21/tale-weaver-176-june-21st-trains/
“At last, the relative had left and – as with most promised things in life – there was no soaring joy accompanying the event.”
Aunt Jean lived in a sprawling house in the country with a large tree in the front yard. I asked her what kind of tree it was and she said it was “Eucalyptus Paininthearses”. My aunt was a blunt sort of woman. “It dropped branches on a whim,” she said.
She told us to stay away when the wind blew for fear a branch would drop on our heads. Her Uncle Lew had planted the thing forty years earlier thinking he was doing the family a favour. It was cute for a while but kept on growing, out of control.
She didn’t like visitors much especially the relatives. They were nosey, and couldn’t help but share their opinions on most things she didn’t care a rats about. She counted the minutes until they left; glad when they did as she grew to like her solitude, just her and the tree.
Written for: https://debbiewhittam.wordpress.com/2018/06/21/50-word-thursday-6/
image: Kai Pilger pexels-photo-462867 Taxi
It had been a very tiring day, and Joyce, my aged companion and I decided we need to get a good nights sleep as the next day Roger our tour guide had promised a day packed with sight seeing of the kind you had to see to believe.
I awoke in the middle of the night to hear Joyce wheezing in the bed beside me. At first, I thought this was a variation of Joyce’s normal nocturnal utterings. Joyce could snore like a wharfie.
I turned the light on to see her staring at me. She couldn’t speak, which was not a bad thing in itself, but her eyes intimated “I need help”.
I rang for the ambulance but it would be a good half hour and could I get Joyce to the hospital in a taxi.
I helped Joyce to the front of the hotel to find a taxi waiting.
No haste was spared as Kai our driver zigged and zagged his way through the late night traffic to the hospital. We were met there by the medical staff who bundled Joyce onto a gurney and took her into the ER.
I woke up from the worst nightmare.
I was standing starkers in the shopping centre.
Around me, people were going about their business paying me no heed.
I appeared to be the only one aware of my nakedness.
I am conservative about my appearance, going to the beach terrifies me as I suspect I would be accosted by the beach inspector to put my clothes back on.
But here I was, starkers in front of so many, thankfully, strangers.
There was a breeze blowing that seemed to be attracted to my nether region as I felt its cold intrusion which at first I thought may have been the cold nose of a dog.
I covered up as best I could, and looked for a way to escape.
Then to make matters worse, a girl approached and asked if I could move a little to the left and let my bits dangle as they should as she was sketching the true life day to day of the mall.
At that horrifying thought, I woke up.
Written for: https://fivedotoh.com/2018/06/19/fowc-with-fandango-stark/
After a week of procrastination and whinging she finally took me aside and explained that it was perfectly normal to go through periods of doubt over one’s writing ability.
She placed the prompt in front of me and said, “Look, this is a sign. It says, ‘Just Start Writing’ and that’s all you have to do. Write.”
I looked at the image in the prompt and thought it cast an uncanny similarity to my work desk. Though to be truthful mine was a heap messier.
I felt the spark of creativity returning as I recalled the desk of a colleague whose pile of papers and miscellaneous items reached to the top shelf and who reassured us he knew where everything was. One day he was instructed by those above us to clean his desk, as it was potentially a health hazard to those of us working near him.
It was a voyage of discovery for him. Documents long thought lost were recovered, a lunch from sometime in the past, we dared not speculate when, emerged from a collection of Year 9 poems he thought at the time worth saving, in case he might need them sometime in the future. Various office implements, belonging to other staff members were found when thought lost, the manuscript of a novel he was working on saw the light of day when he’d given up on the idea some years before.
By the end of the day, we were confronted with a change to our office landscape we knew would take some getting used to. It was like a bare patch had appeared in the room, and we all immediately thought of ways of covering it up, as the change was far too sudden and revealing. As for my colleague, he sat and stared at the wasteland that was now his workspace, lost and not sure as to what to do with himself.
I showed what I had composed to my erstwhile companion who smiled and said, “There you go slugger, knew you could do it.”
Written for: https://athling2001.wordpress.com/2018/06/18/jsw-prompt-6-18-2018/
Image: Enzzo Barrena
He struggled with his and the world’s perception of him.
He had little to no personality,
Once he was told, a cow pat had more.
He buried himself away even though he craved company.
Weighed down by doubt, and life experience,
He suffered from social interaction,
He became accustomed to conversation going nowhere
In the middle of a sentence, his ‘listener’ would turn away
Excuse themselves and move on,
He was ignored, he was isolated,
You’d think he’d learn
But no, he faced up to humiliation once again
Tried to interact, thought he made an effort
But he accepted being shunned.
Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2018/06/19/photo-challenge-219/
Photo by MabelAmber at Pixabay.com
The hatchling had hatched but was nowhere to be found.
It looked like nature at its cruellest.
The struggle to be born and to survive.
Away on a nearby tree sat a bird looking very satisfied with itself.
I took aim, I fired, I missed, but I took the smug look off its beak. (269 characters)
Written for: https://katmyrman.com/2018/06/19/twittering-tales-89-19-june-2018/
This week’s words: Drab Envy Counterweight Correspond Qualify Ginger Revolve Deasil (in the direction of the sun’s apparent course, considered as lucky; clockwise. ) Finite Pressurize Postpone Thewless – Adjective. thewless (not comparable) (obsolete) Lacking morals or virtue. Lacking vigour or energy; listless; weak; nerveless.
Cyril Rum, an angel on sabbatical, lived in a small house at the end of a long street.
As with all angelic deities Cyril had been sent to observe the life forms that had evolved throughout the universe. This he revealed one night as he and his neighbour Mildred Thrupp sat outside looking up at the stars.
“I find it odd,” he said, “that humans think of themselves as the only ones in the universe. Do they think all those stars up there are simply hanging about doing nothing?”
Cyril went on the say that in the course of his existence, and it had been quite a while, he had visited other worlds, which he concluded were all doing well. Before he arrived on earth, there had been other angels who had come to observe. They concluded that earth and its inhabitant were a thewless lot. They were considered drab and preoccupied with each of the seven deadly sins, envy being a major one along with greed.
“The trouble with humans,” said Cyril, “was there was no counterweight for them. Many had come before them pointing out the dangers of sin, whole books have been written about it, but it appears to me like water off a duck’s back.”
“Yes,” replied Mildred, “we are a fickle lot.”
“You know I tried to postpone coming. The reviews coming back were very disheartening, and I’d spent an eternity corresponding with one angel, and another and none of them seemed to have much to say that was positive. Finally, the boss called me in and said it was time for me to step up. After all, he said the universe didn’t revolve around me and it was time for me to put my well-earned qualifications to good work. I tried to argue I didn’t travel well but he told me he had created ginger for a reason. He also said the way the humans were going, treating not only themselves but also the planet their time was finite, and he’d hate for me to miss out on seeing what you don’t do to a planet. So I set off so pleased I had argued initially about the virtues of travelling deasilly, I mean anti-clockwise always seems so awkward, don’t you think?”
“I can imagine,” said Mildred who by now was somewhat lost in Cyril’s account.
“The journey was over in a second, it’s to do with pressurising you know.”
Mildred said she didn’t but was smart enough to let the matter slide past her.
They sat silently for a moment or two continuing to look up at the stars.
“Have I used all the words then?” asked Cyril.
“Yes indeed you have Cyril,” announced Mildred looking down at the wordle. “And used them very well.”
“Good,” answered a smug Cyril.
Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2018/06/18/wordle-201-amwriting-mlmm-wordle/
Morpethroad 