Crimson’s Creative Post #40 – The Steps of ‘History’.

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Crisp, aged companion, was convinced the steps were ancient. “Just think,” she said, “there could have been Celts, Romans and Saxons traipsing up and down these steps.”

I asked why she thought this could be the case.

She explained that if I looked closely, I would see the steps had been carved meticulously, had been there a long time and had been created to take the traveler to come site of significance.

There didn’t appear to be anything of significance that I could see but Crisp was having none of it. “Can’t you imagine warriors in past years, charging up these steps in pursuit of some enemy, a villain or a valiant knight fighting a fire breathing dragon?”

The dragon image I thought romantic but a tad far-fetched to which she agreed.

As we moved on I noticed a sign saying the steps were the work of the local Lions Club, 1998.

 

Written for: https://crimsonprose.wordpress.com/2019/08/14/crimsons-creative-post-40/

 

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Tale Weaver – #236 – 15th August – Over the Back Fence – The Wexlis’.

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Patrick and Ada Wexlis lived beyond my back fence down under the old rail bridge.

As kids, we had played in and under the bridge, but time had treated the remaining timbers poorly. It was a shadow of its former self, neglected and left to rot.

To Patrick and Ada though, and their two small children, it was an ideal place to camp.

From my back fence, I could see the top of their tent, pitched beside the tiny stream that fed its waters into the creek which eventually poured its contents into the river below the town itself.

I came to know the Wexlis’ as they would often pass by, Patrick asking if he could have the odd lemon or orange from the trees that produced prolific amounts of fruit the result of my own neglect.

Patrick had once been someone important in the bank, but an accounting error had seen him lose his job and all he owned.

He took to the streets and travelled wherever he could find work, and in time they found themselves under the bridge beyond my back fence.

They didn’t seem to mind the life they had.

“We’ve been driven to it,” said Patrick

“We’re proud people us Wexlis’,” added Ada.

That was how it was, and they were determined to do the best they could for themselves and their children.

Being so young, the children didn’t seem to mind the life their parents subjected them to. As long as their mum was about, they were happy and how many kids get to play under a bridge, in a creek gathering the tiny mud guddgets and setting up their own fish tank.

A couple of times the council would come around and threaten them with action if they didn’t move on or even worse imply they may act to have the children removed. But they never did.

No one ever complained about them. It wasn’t as if they stole or made a nuisance of themselves, in fact, most people felt for them and offered them food and clothing more often than not.

They had become a permanent fixture in our neighbourhood with Patrick doing odd jobs and displaying an uncanny knack for fixing anything electrical. It was a gift he had, and his efforts were always appreciated.

Patrick and Ada lived under the old bridge beyond my back fence. They minded their own business, were polite and cared for their children. Perfect neighbours, you might say.

 

Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2019/08/15/tale-weaver-236-15th-august-over-the-back-fence/

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Photo Challenge #276 – A Perfect Park

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Image: David Kovalenko

It appeared from above, an amazing feat of parking.

Nestled snuggly between the trees

As if dropped strategically into place.

The vegetation had stepped back, swaying out of the way

Making a space, welcoming it to earth.

But from ground level, it was a different story

The plane’s canopy was intact,

Creating an illusion of all being well

The undercarriage though was spread throughout the forest

Littering the landscape with metal and people bits

No chance of survival,

Some still strapped in their seats.

All that was left to do was gather up the pieces.

 

Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2019/08/13/photo-challenge-276/

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Wordle #146 – Under the Poplar Tree.

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This week’s words: Poplar Tree  Brusque Traipse Rigorous  Shaken  Pump  Downtrodden  Starvation  Cuddle  Spittle  Hardwired Forever

“I missed you and your cuddles,” she said as we sat under the Poplar Tree. She’d been away six weeks, and it had felt at times like it would take forever for the days to pass before she returned.

As a child growing up, I had been hardwired to accept what I had no control over, and as a result, my behaviours were at times brusque. I was sorry I had been that way when she had taken her leave and flown off into the north.

Her time away had found her traipsing around the tourist sites in far off countries leaving me to traipse around the all too familiar settings in my own small world.

Her journey had been rigorous at times, and she was shaken the day her plane experienced some serious turbulence coming in to land at Heathrow. Thankfully I heard about this after the event which left me shaken fearing for her safety.

We’d come to the park with the Poplar Trees and sitting arm in arm we looked across the valley to where the pump station worked away keeping the farm community supplied with all it needed to keep starvation away from us all.

She was so excited to tell me of her travels, of her observations of the downtrodden who seemed to inhabit most of the major cities she visited that small rivulets of spittle would ooze from the corners of her mouth as she worked overtime to get every story out in as much detail as she could muster.

“I’m glad I’m back, I’m glad you remember me,” she said, cuddling closer.

 

Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2019/08/12/wordle-146/

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Sunday Writing Prompt “5 by 5” – Kevin the Squirrel and Darlene.

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Include the answers to these questions in a story or poem

  1. An item you just can’t live without
  2. Your favourite snack
  3. A bit of wisdom for the youths of today
  4. A coincidence that unites two people
  5. Your favourite word

 

Kevin, the squirrel, looked down on the campers arriving from his favourite perch in the tree above them.

There were two things in life that Kevin knew he couldn’t live without, walnuts and Darlene, the squirrel who lived one tree over from him.

To most squirrels a nut was a nut, but to Kevin, walnuts stood out, they looked delicious, they tasted delicious, and they did things to him the sleek lined almond and shiny macadamia could not. They awakened the squirrel within him, and Kevin liked that feeling.

Darlene was the other thing he needed in his life. Darlene would flash her bushy tail at him, and Kevin felt his legs go to putty. His own tail, not as beautiful as Darlene’s would flash in reply, but it was the tingle in his buts that excited him the most.

But Darlene flirted a lot and frustrated Kevin. He offered her his cache of walnuts, but she was always too coy when he approached her.

He remembered the words of wisdom his parents had given him. “There is more than one squirrel in the trees,” said his mother.

“Don’t expect to squirrel on your first date,” advised his father.

Kevin knew he had to be patient, but he believed the coincidence of Darlene being one tree over was fate telling him that one day, something beautiful would come of it all.

Whenever the thoughts of Darlene became too much, he would select a ripe and crunchy walnut and make the chomping sound he knew was his favourite word. He couldn’t get enough of it

“Chomp, chomp, chomp,” he’d say as each mouthful found its way past his teeth and into his gut.

Tomorrow he would try and temp Darlene once again.

 

Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2019/08/11/sunday-writing-prompt-5-by-5-7/

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Crimson’s Creative Challenge #39 – An Unhappy Crisp.

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My aged companion, Crisp, was livid, upset and downright unhappy. I have to say an unhappy Crisp was not a pleasant sight.

It was all to do with a cruise she booked. The brochure promised, whale watching, reef viewing and a unique oceanic experience.

Well, there were no whales, the reef was all but non-existent, and the only thing that suggested an oceanic experience was being on the boat.

“It would have been more exciting if we’d been chained up by pirates and held for ransom,” exclaimed Crisp. I had been worried about Crisp in recent times as she appeared to embrace some rather extreme behaviours, nude bathing, being chained up, I was wondering if the tablets she took each night were really for her nerves. They were not settling her but firing her up, and I wondered how much longer we might survive on our holiday.

 

Written for: https://crimsonprose.wordpress.com/2019/08/07/crimsons-creative-challenge-39/

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Tale Weaver – #235 – 8th August – Roller Coaster – The Death of a Father.

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He was standing beside the door to the chapel when he first heard her say it. It was a fine September day, and his dad had just been laid to rest.

“Grief,” she said, “It’s a real roller coaster of a ride for a while.” She kissed him on the cheek and wished him well. He took in what she said, as she was a wise woman and he knew she knew what she was talking about.

But right then at that moment, it seemed a far away notion. Right now, with his father’s passing still raw in his mind, he had immediate issues to deal with.

There was a hole in his being. His dad had been there for over sixty years. He had cared for him through the stroke, the numerous colds and flu, the troubles with eating, the ulcers that appeared on his legs, the constant worry over pain medication as the cardio-vascular problems manifested themselves more and more. The nights he was up because his father was disorientated by the drugs, and he’d find him in the bathroom taking a shave thinking it was morning. “Can you see any light coming through the window, dad?”

His dad would look up and say no.

“That’s because its 3am, sunrise isn’t for a few hours yet. Come on, let’s get you back to bed.”

Now after several years of intense care, he was gone. It had been a week since he died. He didn’t know if he had slept most nights, it felt like he lay awake, the house still occupied by memories and the ghost of his dad.

He survived okay for some time. Kept busy he didn’t have time for grief as such. What with the funeral, the wake, the organization of the headstone, it kept him busy, but he knew it would happen.

There would come a time when the roller coaster would descend into the bottom of the trough, and he’d go down with it.

When it did happen, he let go and out flowed the grief he had bottled up, its release cleansing, he felt a weight had been taken off his shoulders, and he could move forward.

But he also knew it was not the one and only moment he would have. There would be more, he knew there would be, it was part of being human, he had to let those moments happen.

 

 

Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2019/08/08/tale-weaver-235-8th-august-roller-coaster/

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