This week, I wrote this in response to an exercise to write something about the clocks going back or forward. Just a bit of fun for these challenging days.
Mum Don’t frget to put tour clocks bick.
Sally Will do. For God’s sake, turn on predictive text Mother.
Mum How di I di ths>
Sally Don’t you remember. I wrote it down in your book.
Sally Your notebook. It’s by your calendar in the kitchen.
Mum Is it/
Sally Go there and look. Don’t hang up!!!!
Mum I@m here.
Sally Mother. Where have you gone? Answer the bloody phone.
Mum Hi. Beck agin.
Sally Why don’t you answer when it rings?
Sally Your phone. Answer it when it rings.
Mum How de I de tht
Sally Remember, I showed you the last time I came over. Press the button with the green telephone.
Mum Wher are yu
Sally I explained Mum. There’s a problem with a virus. I don’t want you to catch anything.
Mum I dnt car. I wnt to di anyway
Sally Don’t be ridiculous. What would I do without you to remind me to put the clocks back.
Mum Lov yu
Sally You too, Mum. I’ll call you in a minute. Remember press the green telephone.
Mum Ar u thre.
Esther Chilton has a blog and she poses challenges for writers of short fiction. This week she asks:
Can you tell a story in five words, using the word FREE in it somewhere?
My thoughts (some not particularly inspired) are as follows:
I want to break free.
I never appreciated being free.
Kindness is free. Please donate.
Words are free and wound.
Words are free and heal.
Words are free and comfort.
Use kind words, free gifts.
I used to be free.
That’s it for now but if you want to take a look at some others, visit esther’s blog at https://esthernewtonblog.wordpress.com/2020/04/02/can-you-tell-a-story-in-58/
This is a piece of prose I am constructing for a writers’ group. The topic is pollution.
In November 1999
the ocean extended to the horizon.
From our bow, we saw
an endless bath
on which our vessel bobbed.
Climbing one watery hill
skiing down the other side.
Driven by the wind
towards the tropical islands
with exotic names
and white sandy beaches.
Midway the power of the wind
became a gentle whiff.
We were becalmed, drifting
as we awaited a change in pressure.
Let’s go for a swim, he suggested
and in I dove
to water that caressed my body like silk
and so clear I watched my toes wiggle.
I thought that I was in the purest place on the earth
in those days before our oceans became soiled.
The plastic was probably already drifting
causing death and destruction to our precious planet
suffocating the residents so that the ocean became a watery grave.
Another ocean crossing in 2019
on a ship that towers above the waves
and I look down on specs floating by.
Rubbish created by humans
that scar the blue pond.
Filed under poetry, prose
This is a short story I am working on. It is not finished but please feel free to comment.
In the middle of the ocean, the stars shine bright and the blue water takes on shades of purple, red and black. The hull slaps on the slopes of watery hills formed by the waves. At 38, Alice is the youngest of three crew, and the least experienced, nonetheless she takes responsibility for the yacht on her shifts of the rota. Each night, when the sun disappears behind the horizon, she stills the quivers in her stomach before reminding herself of the alternative. Her colleagues will be at their desks making relentless phone calls in the hope of hooking a deal. Survival and safety are her targets now.
Orion’s belt glows above and she uses it as the base from which to practise her knowledge, working to all sides and reciting the names of the constellations and planets in a whisper; she does not want to disturb the others. Fred is stretched out in the main cabin, on call he says but unlikely to wake unless thunder shakes the ship. Now that the night is set, the peace calms her fears, the wind strokes her face and its air fills her lungs.
It has been 10 days since they last encountered another ship – a tanker crept up behind, nearly running them over before gliding by to fade into the mist – and they were too far from land for wildlife. A seagull had hitched a lift but fled on day 3 and the dolphins had played for a few days but she had not seen a pod this week.
A sail flaps and Alice leaps to tighten the sheet. The wind is changing. She shivers and reaches for her fleece as she scans the skies. The stars have vanished. Should she wake Fred? Shorten the sail? Close the hatches? Or should she observe a little longer?
Sometimes, I feel that I am climbing the Great Wall of China with no end in sight. If you have tried this, you will know that it is steep and treacherous and the only people who scale it easily are the locals. When I visited in 2014, even the ancient Chinese women overtook me (younger by decades) on the way up, and my descent was a glamour-free, undignified trip on my rear-end. There was no way that I was trusting myself not to tumble.
Life has been a series of ups and downs during the latter part of 2017 and first month of 2018. The number of items on my to-do list increases and family events outside of my control act as barriers to completing tasks. There hasn’t been a lot of time for writing and I feel embarrassed when asked ‘how’s the next book coming along?’
‘It’s progressing,’ I answer without adding ‘in my head and dreams.’
I haven’t even joined the Friday Fictioneers for our weekly challenge recently, although I have done some flash fiction pieces on my own.
My New Year’s resolution is finally set – more writing, less procrastination. The trouble is that I have already procrastinated – it’s February!
The amazing Rochelle at http://www.rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com organises photo prompts and links for the Friday Fictioneers. Authors write a piece of 100 word fiction, prose or poetry based on a photo prompt and exchange comments on each other’s work. If you are a writer of short fiction, join our group and let your imagination feed us with your stories.
Hi fellow writers. I’m back! After weeks of chaos, I finally have time to return to my writing. Sorry if this is too sad for you but this story would not stay silent in my head. Hopefully, my sense of humour will return with the next one.
Photo Prompt © Danny Boweman
Even his hand had shrunk, wasted over the months.
Once upon a time, his fingers wrapped around mine, protecting me so that I thought no one could hurt me. What did I know? Poison was taking him from me; rogue cells which searched until they found harbour in his organs.
Fight poison with poison, they told us. We hoped for a while and then, that optimism also wasted away.
The mountain has been too steep and soon, my darling will be a memory and I will be left floundering in a wasteland, tumbling like a weed through the lonely years.