Wednesday, 21 June 2017

WEP - JUNE 2017 - BRIDGES


BRIDGE OVER TROUBLED WATER

I was standing in my kitchen this morning preparing lunch for myself and my husband, in reverie chopping celery and spring onions to toss in a salad when a song starts playing on the radio. 

Immediately I am transported back to the age of 16 years old. I was standing in my first ‘serious’ boyfriend’s room where he had just put on the gramophone Simon and Garfunkel’s record, A Bridge Over Troubled Water.

It is such a strong memory, even after all these years. It was the first time I had been alone in a room with a young man without any adults around – his parents were out for the afternoon.

He was a couple of years older than me, he had his own car and was very cool.  His parents converted their basement for him into his own ‘pad.’  There was a sofa, table, chairs, something to make drinks with and he had his OWN record player.

He asked me if I’d heard the record before and I think I’d replied I had heard it on the radio.  He asked me if I had ever listened to the lyrics.  I had never really actually listened to the lyrics of a song before.  I’d always known I’d liked the tune, liked the chorus but had never given it the attention it actually deserved. 

That one question stayed with me throughout my life and since that day I have always made of point of actually listening to the lyrics of a song.   


When you're weary
Feeling small
When tears are in your eyes
I will dry them all

I'm on your side
When times get rough
And friends just can't be found
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down

When you're down and out
When you're on the street
When evening falls so hard
I will comfort you

I'll take your part
When darkness comes
And pain is all around
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down

Sail on Silver Girl,
Sail on by
Your time has come to shine
All your dreams are on their way

See how they shine
If you need a friend
I'm sailing right behind
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind

We listened to that record over and over again in those very happy couple of hours in his basement.

So thank you Peter for that truly amazing gift you gave me.






THE BRIDE

The diamond ring set sparkled on her hand

She had travelled many miles over sea and land

To celebrate Christmas with her friends and family

Her wedding day four days later, elegant and fancy

She felt a twinge of regret but a deep sigh relieved her

There was a question with an unknown answer

One person was missing and she didn’t know what to do

Should she have made advances, was she wrong not to?

Stupidly, stubbornly she’d burned her bridges several years ago

She had achieved her dream, she was the blushing bride

She walked proudly by her husband’s side.

Five years later she reached out

Offered the olive branch but filled with doubt

She need not have worried so

The answer she’d been waiting for

Came back with love and care

The past is the past, gone, can’t be changed

Replied her dad, let’s not be estranged

Now a planned visit in a few months’ time

As she returns but in the meantime

They write over emails, stay in contact

She’s always loved her dad, that’s a fact

She thought of him every single day

From 12,000 miles away.


BRIDGES PHOTO ALBUM

Photo credit:  Sally Stackhouse

Pedestrian Bridge over M20 motorway Ashford, Kent, UK on a dark, stormy day in January 2015.  


Photo credit:  Sally Stackhouse
Medieval Bridge at Teston, Maidstone, Kent, UK. Not just one arch but several spanning the River Medway. 


Photo credit:  Sally Stackhouse
The same Medieval Bridge at Teston, Maidstone, Kent, UK showing the beautiful arch.

 Medieval Bridge at Teston, Maidstone, Kent, UK.

Photo credit:  Sally Stackhouse

 Newenden Bridge spanning the River Rother, Kent, UK. 

My grandparents brought up their family of three boys in this village, my father was the eldest child. 

Photo credit:  Sally Stackhouse

Bridge at the River Alde, Suffolk, UK.  We visited here on a holiday a few years ago. 

Photo credit:  Sally Stackhouse

My grandson and his father feeding the ducks standing on a bridge at Eastwell Lake, Ashford, Kent, UK, nearly four years ago now. 


My eldest grandson and my daughter a few years ago on a bridge over the river Thames looking at the London Eye.  These days my grandson is taller than me!

PICNIC - WEDNESDAY WRITINGS

Here is our writing prompt from Debb the Minimalist Wednesday Writing
If you want to join in please go to her blog:


June 15, 2017
Writing Prompt 6/15/17
Hello!  Ready for a picnic — or an outside snack – now that summer is almost here?
This prompt will be a bit unusual, but I know you can handle it!
See the photos below.   I would like us to write a story of any length – long or short! and tell which was the favorite picnic according to a person that was present at both picnics.  Why did they like that picnic the most?  What were the negative things he or she remembers about the best picnic?  (IF you want to take it a step further — what were the positive things about the picnic not chosen to be the best?)
Craft your adjectives to bring us directly into the scene by the strength and beauty of your words.  Help us to “use” all our senses when we read your story.
I wish we could all go on a picnic together!  Wouldn’t THAT be fun?  Well, the best we can do in that regard is to really have fun writing about the picnics…


HERE IS MY STORY:

PICNICS

Sunday afternoon the rain was lashing the window panes, the wind howling outside, eerie sounds moaned through the cracks in the wall.   Jim bent and lit the fire, Geraldine had laid it ready this morning before she put the Sunday roast in the oven.  Now they’d eaten the wonderful meal she’d prepared, he’d finished the dishes and she was making a cuppa while he tended to the fire in the lounge.  Really he should have done it sooner before they settled in for the afternoon but it wouldn't take long for the heat of the heat of the fire to penetrate the room.

Half an hour later, tea consumed husband and wife sat back and relaxed.  Geraldine had removed several photo albums out of the bookcase and together they opened the pages reminiscing about the photos and the people, friends and loved ones that were memorialised amongst those pages.

The album with a summery cover was the next one to peruse.  Jim opened it and the first photo brought back many memories of several years ago.  Geraldine started to relate her thoughts about that time they all went on a picnic. 


The red gingham tablecloth covered one of the put-up tables, a patterned cloth covered the other one.  Now were they just setting up or packing up, neither of them could actually remember.  What they did remember wasn't necessarily the food but the company they were with.

Jim remembered the smells of the grass, the aroma of the green leaves on the sapling trees in the background and the sunlight filtering through the branches.

Geraldine remembered their friends laughing, chatting and joking together.  That time was perfect.  It was an ideal setting, the weather was perfect (unlike today).  It was probably one the best days out they had had out for a long time. 

Gazing in to the fire, watching the flames, Geraldine and Jim thought back to that particular summer’s afternoon.   They did remember the food was good, nothing special, a few sandwiches, a pork pie, a salad, some fruit for dessert and a few Thermos flasks, one with tea and one with lemonade to keep cool. 

‘Ah yes, those were the days,’ said Jim, ‘but what about the bees and wasps?’

Geraldine laughed, ‘yes, and the ants.  Oh my goodness, those pesky ants.’

They both laughed as they remembered the good and the bad.  Eating outside wasn't always idyllic.
They turned several pages in the photo album, remembering events and people and places.  The last page contained another photograph of a picnic. 


‘Now this picnic was entirely different,’ said Geraldine.

‘Ah yes, I remember,’ replied Jim.

An open-air concert held at Leeds Castle in Kent with the Philharmonic Orchestra playing live, with the 1812 overture as a finale and real cannon fire.

‘Well that cannon fire went right through me.  I thought my chest was going to explode when that went off.’  Geraldine laughed, Jim patted her hand, ‘you always were such a wimp, my dear.’  He winked at his lovely wife.

‘It was a lovely summer’s evening, packed with people but that didn’t spoil our enjoyment of the music.’

‘No, nor the glasses of Rosé wine, chased down with a few fresh strawberries.’

‘I wish we were young enough to do that sort of thing again,’ sighed Geraldine.

Jim laughed, ‘yes, but if we got down on the rug we’d never get up again.’

Geraldine continued, ‘then we trekked back to the car park, luckily the bags were much lighter.  The queues to get out of the car park were horrendous.’

‘We decided to stay and wait until it had died down.  We ate the last of the sandwiches and had a swig of cold tea to wash it down.’

‘Oh, the smell of the petrol fumes as the cars idled in front of us waiting to get out of the car park. That wasn't very nice.  How long did we wait?’  Geraldine couldn't remember.

Jim thought they’d sat there for a good hour or more before he even attempted to switch on their engine.  They listened to late night radio under a starlit sky and eventually made it home in the early hours of the morning. 

Word count: 700


Saturday, 17 June 2017

THE BIG HOUSE

FLASH FICTION FOR THE PURPOSEFUL PRACTITIONER- 2017 WEEK #25
Posted on June 14, 2017 by rogershipp

FLASH FICTION FOR THE PURPOSEFUL PRACTITIONER- 2017

WEEK #25

https://www.pexels.com/photo/architecture

THE BIG HOUSE

The library in the big house was an unknown quantity.  There were rumours in the village that it was stacked from floor to ceiling with books and papers.  Hetty had never read a book in her life.  She wasn't lucky enough to go to school.  Her mother kept popping out babies and Hetty, being the eldest, was a surrogate mother to all the children while her mother struggled through yet another pregnancy.  Her father worked at the big house.  He told her that it was another world.  Another life that wasn't for the likes of her.  All she could hope for was to enter into service when she was 12. 

Three years from now and Hetty would be out of this hovel.  Out of washing nappies, wiping runny noses.  She would be able to see all these books, maybe she would be allowed to touch them while she dusted them.  Maybe she could learn to read, somehow, someday she would read.  That was her dream.  A dream that she didn’t dare voice.  A dream she would never share with anyone.   A dream that kept her going.  A dream to see her through the drudgery of her days. 

Word count: 197

Friday, 16 June 2017

THE MISTAKE





I'm joining in with Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle



https://rochellewisoff.com/2017/06/14/16-june-2017/

The next photo is the PROMPT. Remember, all photos are property of the photographer, donated for use in Friday Fictioneers only. They shouldn't be used for any other purpose without express permission. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor credit.

Photo credit: Dale Rogerson 


THE MISTAKE

Just one more drink.  He smiled at me, a leering grin that turned my stomach. I was with him now.  I’d said the words yesterday at the Registry Office, pledged myself to him.  Now we were on honeymoon.  Now I regretted my decision.  He was already showing his true nature.  My phone had gone missing.  I was never alone.  He waited outside the bathroom door.  He waited until I was asleep before he did what he needed to do.   The man at the table opposite kept looking at us.  Any minute now his temper would rise.  Any minute now. 


Wednesday, 14 June 2017

A NEW LIFE


Debbie hosts Wednesday Writings where she provides us with photo prompts, random words and a word count.  This week we have three photos and six random words.

June 8, 2017
Writing Prompt 6/8/17
Use the three photos here and incorporate these words into your 600 word story:


mouse   stage   screw   lap   map   uniform




A NEW LIFE
The memory hit her hard. Lilian swallowed back the tears.  She would not start crying again.  Sitting on the bench she surveyed her surroundings. The stage was set for a beautiful day.  A border of flowers grew behind her, uniform in colour, the bright yellow cheering up her mood.  The birds were singing, the summer breeze light and soft whispering around her face and cheeks.  Did she imagine it or did she feel the gentle touch of Dan’s fingers caressing her face.  Well of course she imagined it.  It wasn’t possible or was it? She rested her hands in her lap as she thought back to a week ago.


Mystic Meg at the summer fair in the local village had given her a reading.  Lilian was so sceptical when she emerged from the tent.  Her friend, Daphne, looked at her raising an eyebrow.  Laughing Lilian told her what Mystic Meg had said, utter scorn and disbelief in her voice. 

‘Dan is always by your side.  He said he loves you and will show you in many ways that he is still with you.’

Linking arms the two friends laughed as they made their way to the ice-cream van to enjoy a delightful cornet.

Back to the present Lilian smiled as a family of four went past her seat.  The children were bickering in the way brothers and sisters always did with chastisements from their parents.  Dad carried a picnic basket, checking the map on his smartphone, Lilian heard the Sat Nav giving them directions.  Mum carried a hold-all with all sorts of pieces contained therein.  Lilian could see a Frisbee poking out of the top.

Enough of this. Lilian got up and continued her walk.  She left the park and continued down a country lane, only known to the locals for which she was grateful.  Glancing at her watch she affirmed there was time to continue her ramble before she met her friends.

Lilian stopped at the edge of the copse, taking the opportunity to unscrew the top of her bottle of mineral water and take a drink.  The water had stayed cool and was so refreshing she felt revitalised.  A movement caught her eye.  Something scurried away in the undergrowth.  She wished she knew a bit more about wildlife in the country.  She thought it was a shrew or maybe a harvest mouse but she’d have to look it up when she got a signal on her phone.    



Lilian relied on her memory.  She was almost certain there was a path through the small woodland to the next village.  Checking the time once again she realised there was only half an hour before she was meeting her friends at the Jolly Farmer pub.

Traipsing through the woods, the smells were delightful, that green hint of bark, the slight damp smell of rotting leaves underfoot and the dappling of the sunlight through the branches of the trees all contributed to lifting her mood.  Once again she thought of Dan, she imagined she felt his hand in hers as he helped her over a fallen log.  She shook her head admonishing herself again.

There was the pub, with Anita and Rex, Shirley and Mary just arriving in their cars.  A pleasant hour was spent dining and chatting.  They really couldn't resist the delicious desserts that were on offer and Lilian indulged in a rather creamy affair drizzled with a strawberry sauce. 



All in all a rather wonderful way to spend a Sunday.  She must be grateful and she would.  In her mind’s eye she saw Dan nod his head in agreement.

Word count: 600

Wednesday, 10 May 2017

Writing Prompt for Wednesday Stories 5/10/17
·       May 4, 2017

Debb from Inner Sunshine says: 
Hello again!  If you’re new to this blog, welcome!  Every Thursday I post a writing prompt for those who would like to practice their writing a little bit or simply have fun.  I try to make the prompts interesting and hopefully even challenging…then I publish everybody’s offerings on the following Wednesday.  Each of you is welcome to join in for this prompt….or maybe in a few weeks…or whenever!  Submitting something once does not mean you are now expected to write every week.  So come on out and play!  No need to be shy, because I know our readers to be very nice people!
The prompt for next Wednesday, May 10:
If you like to write stories, write a 500 word story that takes into account all three pictures below.
Poetry lovers:  please write a stanza for each picture, ending up with a total of 500 words, the poem having a unifying theme to it.  Rhyming OR non-rhyming poems are welcome.
What if you want to write a poem AND a story?  Well, I would say “have at it” — and you would deserve a special commendation.  Sure — as many entries you want to make!
Sorry, I cannot personally acknowledge each submission, but just know that I will include all entries for next Wednesday — as long as they are received by noon on Monday, May 8 and follow the prompt’s directions. Personally, if stories and poems are sent in before the deadline, they are just as welcome, if not more so!  If you have any questions, please write to me at stantonsunshine@gmail.com.

The three photos:



Here is my take on the three photos


TIME FOR A CHANGE


THE LAST NIGHT

It was the last night Tom would commute home from the City.  His eyes feasted on Big Ben, a memory to hold on to.  He would miss his colleagues in the office but he was so chuffed at being offered this promotion. 

It was a hard decision to make, even harder broaching the subject with Emily.   They didn’t have long to decide.   One month to uproot their new family, organise the house and contents, say goodbye to family and friends. 

Their friends were already planning their holidays with them, free accommodation – yes, they wish.  We are not a charity.  Anyway we’ll see if any of them actually come through with a visit first.

Tom knew his mother would take it hard, missing him and her first grandson would be such a stretch for her.  He wished he could take her with him.  Perhaps in a little while he could bring her over to live with them. 


TIME

The time will go more quickly once we know what is happening Grandma reassured her grandson.  They snuggled up together, the chosen book open at the next chapter.   Grandma started reading, it would take her mind off the alarm clock set for the early hours of the morning.

Her grandson grew heavy in her arms.  She lifted him gently on to his bed, lovingly tucking him in.  She would keep this precious memory of his sweet childlike smell, his soft fair hair, his wonderful soft skin. 

Nancy sighed deeply, she knew her son and his wife had to take this opportunity but New Zealand was so far away.  It wasn't as though she would ever be able to travel there, apart from the cost, the time it took to get there would be too nerve racking.

Yes, there were various ways to keep in touch, Skype, Facebook, Instagram and email and all the other things but there was nothing quite like physical contact. 


BRAINWAVE

Fred dusted the carriage clock sitting in pride of place on the mantelpiece above the hearth.  The grate hadn't been lit since they’d converted to central heating back in the 1980s.  The pendulum didn't work, neither did the clock but Fred still dusted the piece every single day.

He thought about Hetty every day as well. What on earth she would make of their daughter, Emily, upping sticks and moving 4,000 miles away he didn’t know, all he knew was he would miss her and the little boy so much. 

Time doesn’t stand still, no matter what his carriage clock tried to tell him.  Things move on, people move on, lives move on but emotions and feelings, well they were more difficult to move on from.  You can’t forget loved ones.  He didn’t have much education but he wasn’t a stupid man.

He had some savings, in fact he had a good nest egg.  If he could pluck up the courage maybe he could travel to New Zealand. 

Oh, ding, ding!  Brainwave! 

He could invite Nancy to go with him as his treat. That would surprise the kids.  

Thursday, 4 May 2017

WEDNESDAY STORIES 5 MAY 2017

Prompt for Wednesday Stories 5/3/17
·       April 27, 2017

Hosted by Debb at Inner Sunshine who says:
Earth Day was last week.  How ’bout we have land and water, farms, birds and animals grace our stories next week?
I have to admit, I have spring fever.  Here in Minnesota it was like summer, and now we are back to freezing temps and possible snow overnight!  So okay, let us be “wild” then, and I will give you some groovy prompts!
Word limit:  700 (believe it!)
How to write — there are many ways (or combinations) this time:
·       A 100 word paragraph for each photo
·       A story with all or most of the photos
·       A story using some or all of these words — or not:  pub; tapestry; soap; basket; gown; bee; thief; morning tea.  The latter two would have fit well into my last story!
Interesting, I chose the number of words before I chose the photos; I found the words as my last step.
This prompt is a memorial to my dad, of sorts.  He was a farmer originally and became an orchardist and gardener in his later years.  No doubt he inspired my love of the earth, trees, nature, and of course – animals and birds.  I was just thinking of how the first picture, of the ducklings, reminds me of a class of students – do you agree, o my friend Mr. T?  

 I decided to write 100 words for each picture as follows: 

People look at me, they ooh and aah at what they see.

They don’t realise how hard life can be.

My long legs and curvy neck, with wings I can fly up high into the sky.

I stride out over a lake

Aware of a volcanic quake

Any moment a geyser could strike pouring out acidic fumes.

I am of the avian species they assume

I am an oddity in the bird world

Naturalists want to know more

My habitat is toxic to humans.

So they won’t bring their guns

Hopefully I’m safe for now


Another day I’m allowed.


There are so many of us I’m sure we won’t all survive.  At the moment we are deemed sweet and cute and gorgeous, as we grow we are designated to feed others. 

I don’t mind, really I don’t.  It’s in my nature to be helpful to people although some days I wonder if it is all worthwhile. 

Jemima Puddle-Duck became famous, immortalised in a book, oh I wish I was famous but alas that story is not mine.  I’ll eat the food on the ground, grow big and round and end up on a dinner table.

 C’est la vie!


I’m cute and fluffy

But not a puppy

Although still adorable

But my life is deplorable

Living on a chicken farm

Where I will come to harm

Just the same as a duckling

Neither of us will be ageing

I’m rather noisy cheeping away

From dawn to dusk all day

When I’m not pecking at the grains

In the sunshine and in the rain

Just biding my time as those before me

It’s the same in most countries

The humans have to feed

We are here to supply that need

Each hatchling of yellow fluff

Becomes a world of dust.




‘Oh, look George, baby alpacas, aren’t they gorgeous.’ 

Anne smiled at her two year old.  He waved his arms and called out to the animals.  They were too busy chomping on the grass.  Anne would purchase a skein of their wool from the tourist shop when they finished their farm tour.  It would knit up lovely although rather expensive. 

What could she make and who for?  Oh, maybe she could actually knit something for herself this time instead of always giving it away to other people. She knew it wasn’t always appreciated, not the time nor the effort involved  


‘Hey Bill do you see that?’

‘Yes, Bob.  What do you think they are?’

‘Well they are bit bigger than us.’

‘But we are cuter,’ said Bob. 

Bob proceeded to frolic and caper for a few minutes and then took up his position next to Bill again.
Bill hadn’t stopped watching the alpacas. 

Bob got his breath back.  He looked down the hill at the group of greedy animals munching away.  There were people standing watching them as well. 

‘Oh no, they are coming our way.’

‘If we just stand our ground,’ Bill said, ‘they won’t dare come any closer.’



Albert had this field left to seed then he could take a break.  It would be well deserved, he’d been sitting in his cab for nearly four hours, up and down the yellow ground, it became rather monotonous, thank goodness for a good radio.  He could get lost in his Country and Western music playing oldies, Dolly Parton, George Strait, Reba, Alan Jackson, it made the time go much faster.  He’d stop and pour out a cold drink from his thermos flask and eat a sandwich before he called it a day and popped to the pub for a pint. 


The shadows became longer as Bert dug his patch of soil.  He loved getting in amongst the earth, it felt right to do it by hand.  Tractors and new technology was great for those huge fields but it was much nicer to get back to nature and do something yourself. 

Doris would be so pleased to have this piece of garden double dug ready for her.  She wanted to plant a salad crop and maybe a few herb plants.  Doris would be due back from the local garden centre in a couple of hours, so he’d better crack on.