All posts tagged: dailypost

No Room For Parlay

Lillith turned her face away from the horizon and the purple sunset. It was beautiful, a part of her still recognised that, but the beauty failed to warm her like it once had. ‘Captain!’ The cry came from beside her and the knot of tension that had been twisting in her gut for the past week began to loosen. It was time. She’d found him. ‘Captain! They’re in sight and we’re gaining fast. What do you want us to do?’ What did she want them to do? The question had been buzzing around her head like a fly that refused to leave no matter how much she swatted at it. ‘Captain, we’ll be on her in an hour, what are your orders?’ ‘We kill them,’ she answered drily, the words leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. For a second she thought about him in her bed, legs and arms tangled, his lips tracing a path down her spine. He’d known even then that he would betray her someday. She focused on the boat and …

Down By The Brook

The brook was our boundary marker, it belonged to my sister and I, and only us, because it was only us that weren’t allowed across.   Grown ups could pass. They could come and go as they please. With their dogs and their bikes and their children of their own, who raced across our boundary like it didn’t exist.   It did exist.   On maps it marked a divide, the line between Ash and Higher Heath. But even our address forgot that.   And the bridge. It didn’t look like a bridge, all concreted in with the road. Squat, fat and grey, with weeds and grass on top!   It was a very unbridgey bridge.   But it was my bridge. My secret, hidden bridge across my very own moat that kept out the monsters lurking in the woods.   The first time I crossed I managed three or four steps. Then the knots in my stomach got too tight and the sky seemed too grey and the day too cold.   It wasn’t far, …

Not Of This Era

In the years since her childhood the village had changed. It wasn’t a village anymore, it was something bigger, sprawling, full of people who she didn’t know. Kathy had known everyone once. There wasn’t a person in the village who she hadn’t been able to name, to link into the fabric of them all. These days such things didn’t matter and the only one who remembered things the way she did was Thomas. Good old, crotchety Thomas from Ivy Down Cottage with arthritic hands and nose that would put an elephant to shame. ‘Look at ’em,’ said Thomas, pint in hand. The Old Bell was due to close in ten minutes but the landlady let the oldies hang around for a little longer if they wanted. Mick’s granddaughter, or was it great granddaughter, Kathy couldn’t remember clearly, but Kathy had know the woman since she was born. She followed Thomas’ disgruntled tuts to the group of teenagers gawking at the sky. ‘No clue,’ she sighed. It was cold and she would have preferred to be in …

Words

I. For a while I carried words like weapons. Saw them only for their sharpened edges the way in which they could slice, leave mouths open, gasping, they way they burrowed into skin and clanged like gongs in the silence of lonely, sleepless nights. I had enough scars of my own to show just how dangerous words could be. I knew where to aim for, which veins would bleed the most.   II. Anger can only burn on a short fuse. It fizzles out after a while and you are left cold, holding knives slick with your own blood. No one warns out about the energy that pain steals. The way the hollowness can swallow whole everything you had built of yourself. III. Healing takes time. On nights when I’m awake and he is not I pick words from beneath my skin, the ones I half forgot, scabbed over but not yet gone. I will turn them over in the blue light from the wireless router on the night stand, and try to make sense of …

Paintings And Promises

‘Lot three hundred-and-eighty-two.’ Alexi’s head picked up at the auctioneer’s words. Not much, just a slight twitch that shows she’s still paying attention and has been for the last three-hundred-and-eighty-one lots. ‘This one,’ she says, handing the paddle across to the tall man beside her. She’s short herself. Four foot eleven with dark hair that reaches her waist when loose but currently curls round itself in a tight knot at the top of her scalp. The tall man nods and turns the paddle over in his hands. ‘Now,’ says the auctioneer. ‘This particular lot…’ Alexi blurs out the voice, focusing instead on the rotating wall beside the auctioneer’s podium .She sucks in a breath as her father’s face stares back at her. The bidding starts. ‘Remember, wait for the field to thin.’ The tall man nods again and puts his hands behind his back, hiding the paddle. Alexi continues looking at her father, high cheekbones, thin lips, blue eyes, all features that he passed onto her three hundred years before. All of a sudden she …

Taking On Obstacles: Learning To Be Positive

I’m not good at letting things go. For instance, today’s prompt for NaPoWriMo was to write a poem using a memory as the inspiration. I used a memory from when I was at primary school and the worst day of the year rolled around again. Sports Day. Now I’m still not massively into fitness and I don’t think I ever will be. However, since primary school I have learnt where my strengths lie. I am good at long distances and surprisingly, I wasn’t too shabby at the high jump. Neither of these events were available in my primary school and instead I was forced to come last in pretty much every race and spend the first part of my childhood convinced that sport wasn’t for me. The worst event was probably the relay. I was so far behind that the teacher literally had me skip the last two challenges and run to the end instead because everyone had finished already. This was the memory I based my poem on for today’s NaPoWriMo. Sports Day made …

Breath

Quiet Moments I have taken to standing on the patio just to breathe. I am not a yoga person, gym based exercise tends to leave me gasping, sucking down mouthful after mouthful, while my face turns beetroot purple. On the patio I do not worry about my complexion, or how many dishes are left to wash, or which load of laundry is due next. I can just stand and listen to myself breathe. A little poem for today’s daily-post prompt. Since today is also National Haiku Poetry Day [apparently] I thought I might as well add in a little haiku as well. My hands on your ribs, I feel each breath lift and fall until the stillness. If you want to read a few more of my haiku for today then you can find them on my post A Slightly Tipsy Haiku and even add your own in the comments.

Key Takeaway

I often forget how long I’ve been blogging for. Some days it seems like I’ve only just started and on others I’m reminded that it has in fact been almost six years since Writing and Works came into existence. Back then I had very little idea what I was doing and even less idea of where this blog would go. I still don’t know where this blog will go but oh well. Things seem to be going well and people seem to like what I post. So for those of you who are interested, here are my top five tips for new bloggers. Make use of the tools at your disposal. The Daily Post provides a new prompt everyday. If you don’t like the current one you can cycle through until you find something that suits you. There are loads of link ups and prompts across the blogging platforms and many of them don’t require you to use the same platform as everyone else. All you have to do is write sometime based on what …