Sea Beads

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.

 

 

Mermaid

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?

The Lines

I wake and stretch

and for a moment, all is well

Then I remember

and another cell in my heart

Dies

Another furrow marks my face

and I wish for the past

When my lover was well

and my child had a future.

The Last Hike – a story for the Friday Fictioneers

 

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.

Poem Challenge at https://businessinrhyme.com

Below is a short poem I wrote in response to a challenge set by Maja at https://businessinrhyme.com. Visit her website and enjoy some of her lovely prose.

NaPWriMo: Day 5

Poetry prompt: What’s in the news today?

Pick one news headline and that can be something you really dislike; now write your own news that are quite the opposite, news you would like to hear or read in the newspaper, news in the form of poem or a story.

 

Headline – Russia blames rebels for Syria gassing

We are two
Friends not foe
Hands joined
Our breath as one
Pure air the prize.

Left Behind – 100 words (ish) for the Friday Fictioneers

Photo Prompt ©Jellico’s Stationhouse

A shout out to the amazing Rochelle at http://www.rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com. She organises the 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 the group and let your imagination feed us with your stories. 

 

‘How will you manage?’ A snowfall of damp tissue fell from Rosie’s fingers, scattering on to the hall carpet. She resisted the urge to reach out her shaking hand and grab his shirt.

His back to her, Geoff ignored her cry, grunting as he lifted the dufflebag strap on to his shoulder.

He had given up answering.

‘Who’ll look after you?’ A sob broke the question. She chewed her lip. Why couldn’t she keep quiet?

Geoff sighed, quickly pulling the door open but as he stepped through, he turned and blew a kiss.

‘I’ll be back next weekend, Mum.’

Moving On – Friday Fictioneers

Photo Prompt © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

He left and darkness fell.

For days she hid, reluctant to share the news. Plates collected in the sink, bags of rubbish gathered by the door. She ignored the red light flashing on the telephone. The candles she burned did not mask the smells of stale food and unwashed body. Her flat became a temple of the lost forever.

One day the pain ebbed a little, and she opened the window for air before returning to her nest on the settee. The twittering song of a visiting finch filled the silence. She opened her eyes, ready for the new day.

 

A shout out to the amazing Rochelle at http://www.rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com. She organises the 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 in and let your imagination feed us with your stories. 

Beauty – A Story for the Friday Fictioneers

Photo Prompt ©Roger Bultot

Chalk and cheese: one of the girls caught his eye, beckoning him closer. The other disturbed him. She would not last, her beauty was fragile and he saw the poison in her eyes. Blonde and the red hair interlaced, a colourful curtain that joined them as they whispered.  What secrets did they share? He edged nearer and she caught his eye once more. That glance sealed their fate.

He never looked elsewhere and nurtured by his care and love, the beauty within blossomed until she dazzled everyone.

 

When I read out some of my work recently, I realised that sadness and gloom dominates my short writing. This week I have attempted something with a more positive slant and am interested to find out if it works for my readers. If not, I will have to return to my dark side.  

Thank you to Rochelle at http://www.rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com who organises the Friday Fictioneers. Authors write a piece of 100 word fiction, prose or poetry based on a photo prompt and exchange comments on their work.  If you are a writer of short fiction, join us and see where your imagination takes you.

Cinquain

I’ve been experimenting with the form of cinquain in poetry today.  Poetry is not my natural writing model but I love reading it and today I have been told that my daughter has felt my grandchild kick for the first time so it seems a fun thing to try today. Feedback is welcome as I am always striving for improvement.

 

BIRTH

Hello,

Precious being.

We have waited and yearned

for this moment of arrival.

Our child.

 

This form of poetry has 5 lines

2-4-6-8-2 syllables

 

THE MAN IN THE PARK

He danced

through the wild night,

caring not for the others,

his spirit abandoned and free.

Mad George.

Whispers – Writing inspired by Art

Oil by Fabian Perez

 

We shared secrets once upon a time, our thoughts fused, harmonious as though we were one soul, not two. I never asked your opinion; rarely did it differ from mine. We played our games at the expense of others – everyone knows that children can be cruel, and the weak suffered when we sharpened our tongues. Our beauty and youth protected us; no one dared to mention the word ‘bully’. You were my world and I was yours.

Then Maria arrived. At 15 she was already a woman, with Latino eyes that glowed with promises of passion and with a shape that drew hungry stares from all of the boys. Your loyalties shifted and suddenly I was invisible. From the side-lines, I watched as this witch cast her spell and I had no power to warn you of the danger. The remainder of my school years were not easy – victims do not forget or forgive. Your new love rallied their support and I was made mute. Friendless, I left those school days behind me but the lesson was not lost.

People say that I have grown into my looks. My once willowy figure has swollen so that curves accent my tiny waist and shapely legs. At great expense, a surgeon softened my face. Illicit earnings paid for the changes (but that’s a secret you aren’t allowed to share). It isn’t hard to get lost for a while – I didn’t need forever.

‘So, here we are again. Who would have guessed that we would run in to each other? Do I know what you do now? Please tell me, I want to know it all.’

Are you able to read my mind? Can you detect the plan? Of course not. You are enticed by my shape, and my eyes, and the messages I imply.

‘Two children within two years. That’s a lot of work for you. Yes, I understand. You must be so tired. Why doesn’t your wife understand? No, I don’t have children, life is too good. No husband either.’

Do you know that I am reeling you in? Tantalising you. I know you. You were my soulmate. You still are. Let me in again and I will show you dimensions of my personality that you never knew.

‘Yes, I have a wonderful career. My job takes me to exciting places. I do meet interesting people. Things are never dull.’

Are you envious? Is that a spark of desire I spy? If I move a little closer, will you be able to resist – the swell of my bosom, the scent of my perfume? Not too fast, it’s better to wait for what you want. Can you feel the heat of my hand against your ear, the warmth of my breath?

‘Can I let you in on a secret? Are you able to guess what it is? Something to do with lust. Keep trying. You’re close.’

The bulge in your throat moves as you swallow and a sweat is dampening your brow. I pretend to stumble and your arms reach out. We are a perfect fit, my dreams have not misled me.

‘This wine is going to my head. Time for bed. Would you? I may not get there on my own.’

Everything is ready upstairs. Two wine glasses half filled, one stained with the print of my lips. A rumpled bed. The camera. An envelope addressed to a tired mother.

 

 

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