She brings it in with her, the rain, clung to the tip of her nose and through her hair so it’s blacker than night. Strips out of her waterproofs till she has shape. Colour, risen high in her cheeks, on the knuckles of her hands. Reveals the desperation of it, crept through zips and openings. Slid a caress down her neck till she bears a collar of its touch. Trails it deeper into the kitchen, Siren kettle a song to sodden socked feet, printing a vanishing trail across the tiles.
We warp in the heat, buckle beneath the buzz of thick cut air pressing in on all sides. Can’t blame trains for stumbling. As unsteady on tracks as we are. Yesterday they seemed straighter, smoother, solid. Today everything is melting, running into gutters. I would stop too. Choke my mixed signals and lurch into whatever station offered refuge. Poem for the hottest July day on record.
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 …
I’ve discovered that hair and beards are tricky… very tricky.
‘We’ll have an Indian summer’ he tells me, all confidence and smiles, as the weatherman points out the weather band of rain and thunder storms still yet to reach these shores.
Calling all NaNoWriMo fantasy writers out there! Are you ready for November yet? How’s your world-building going? Have you got those factions sorted out yet? What about races? Are you going to have any? Will there be friction between them? Who’s ruling your world? Is there more than one ruler? Do they get along? Are there wars? Who’s winning? Why are they fighting? Does one side thing they’re fighting because of one issue and does the other side think their fighting because of something completely different? Wait! Are there more than two sides even? Dear flubberworts, writing a fantasy-fiction novel can be confusing. For those of you who haven’t checked out the about page I’ll let you in on a secret well known fact about me. I love my history. Especially medieval and early modern Europe. Anything under two hundred years old can suck it, you’re too young and I’m just not that into you. But I digress. My point is, history is awesome and if you have any sort of background studying history in …
His boots were still damp in the morning when James Cullock forced his feet into them and let the dogs into the yard. The concrete was damp from rain but that wasn’t the water creeping across what was left of his pasture. He shook his head and retreated to the kitchen where the kettle boiled his wife clattered about with mugs. Greg would be there in a few hours with the trailer, reading to head north to a friend of a friend three counties up, willing to give them his spare fodder. God knows what James would do for feed when that was gone but it would keep what was left of his livestock fed for now.
Between the rainstorms among birdsong and sunlight I can see new lakes.
Determined not to be beaten by the power cuts here in Shropshire my mother decided that she could boil water on top of our little log burner in the sitting room. After about three hours of playing cards by candlelight the water was just about hot enough to make a cuppa. Not the best tasting tea apparently, but it was something.
May I introduce you all to the celebrated Mrs Macaulay! For those who you who haven’t read my profile, (not blaming you, I’m not really a profile reader either), and for those of you who have simply forgotten what it says, (I think it is mentioned), I am currently studying for my history degree at Bath Spa University. The core module for second years, the very enticingly named HY5001 module, is basically looking at how and why history was written, with case studies of Historians such as Herodotus (Greek historian; so called ‘Father of History’) and others such as Catherine Macaulay (First female British historian.) Catherine Macaulay is the topic of my joint presentation which is due in on the 9th of December. So this weekend I am working my war through a lever-arch-file, of about one inch in thickness, all of which is either journal articles on Mrs Macaulay or the first segment of her History of England. (I think the printer must have been short of the letter ‘s’ when it was printed …