With a smile steeped in pomegranate wine you laughed, tipped your head back, closed your eyes against the sun painted in place in a sky that never greyed, unlike me who seemed to leech all colour from our Elysium, so perfect in the way it held you, in the way it caught me like a trap.
Blue lipped kissed, laid your cheek on the ice and searched for a gap you would slip beneath. Like hunting for pennies beneath kitchen counters, their copper wink bite so, so cold in your palm. And a creaking below of sheets shifting, rising, a threat to throw you out into the wakeful night. What you would give for stillness another side of the looking-glass. Thank you for stopping by, and if you enjoyed the poem above then you might enjoy my poetry collection ‘It’s All In The Blood’ which can be purchased from Amazon.co.uk or Amazon.com. It’s a self-published collection so I have to rely on readers buying and reviewing the book to help promote it, especially in places such as the USA. Thank you again for your time.
Well September is over and October is here in full force. Leaves are on the turn, England has turned grey and rainy (well even more so than usually) and everywhere you look people are prepping for Halloween (or in some cases Christmas). This is the second month that I’ve had the honour of hosting the Speculative Fiction Prompt and hopefully this month’s image inspires as much as last month’s. If you want to read the stories for last month then you can check them out at the September Speculative Fiction Prompt. The guidelines for those of you who are new are as follows: Speculative Fiction: a genre of fiction that encompasses works in which the setting is other than the real world, involving supernatural, futuristic, or other imagined elements. [Oxford Dictionary] Use the image below to write a story, poem, perhaps even a script. There are no rules about form or style. If you would like to create a piece of art in response that is also welcome. This prompt is about being artistic and …
Earlier this year a new speculative fiction prompt was kicked of by D Wallace Peach on her sight Myths Of The Mirror. Unfortunately she had to set this fantastic prompt aside due to personal matters after only a few months, despite the fantastic success and take up that it was met with. After asking for her blessing, I decided that I would pick up where she left off and host the prompt here on Writing and Works. It will follow much the same format, publishing on the 1st of each month, using imagery from Pixabay, and focusing on the speculative fiction genre. Speculative Fiction: a genre of fiction that encompasses works in which the setting is other than the real world, involving supernatural, futuristic, or other imagined elements Oxford Dictionary Our September image is the one directly below. For any visually impaired writers, it is a black and white image showing a young woman with a septum piercing, wearing a scarf or hood which casts her face into shadow. Post your response to your site …
‘How can you forget where you left it?’ Samantha demanded, shooting Michael a withering look before closing her eyes and counting to ten. In a moment she would let out a deep sighing breath and give Michael her best, why do you insist on embarrassing me stare before ordering another drink from the bar and forgetting the subject altogether. 1,2,3,4- ‘I mean really Michael!’ Michael blinked, confused as to where the last 6 seconds had gone and why she hadn’t ordered a large glass of red wine. She wasn’t following the natural order. ‘It’s a bench!’ Samantha spluttered. ‘You cannot misplace a bench! Especially not one of yours! They’re massive and made of wood. WOOD MICHAEL! WOOD!’ Everyone else in the pub had fallen silent now, the hum of conversation dying as all eyes turned to stare at the couple having the argument. Or rather, Samantha yelling at her bemused husband since Michael rarely said two words to anyone about anything. ‘I could understand a nail or two, perhaps even your level metre, but misplacing …
Dream State Darkening “Slowly we slept into our fears” Ritwik Some nights the dreams slip past like minnow, dark and shadowy in the water. I am frozen, mud stuck and slow with limbs like old trophies bent, broken, scratched, the polish flaking like old paint till the wooden skeleton is left with all its pitted fragility, no more than a twig shivering in the storm. When I wake, I am still the scarecrow. Clothes tacked on in mockery of skin. Here I know the birds do not fear me. Instead they will come in flocks to peck at what is left when the last of me is withered and gone to dust. Some nights the dreams slip past like minnow, dark and shadowy in the water, and dawn is brought on by blinking, slow and succulent it bleeds through the glass, an orange splitting from its skin. In an echo of better days the dreams swim deeper, far enough that I can pretend to forget. These are the moments of peace between the nightmares. We’re …
I imagined that she was some great coastal cliff. Stone strong for thousands of years, but now the sea has managed to find a way between the cracks and it’s taking her apart in chunks. It doesn’t sound like a landslide though. She doesn’t shriek and splinter as pieces of her sheer away from herself. There’s only silence as another memory, another name, another face, slips beneath the waves and into darkness where it can’t be reached. There are still pieces of her left. Like fossils, preserved inside the depths of the cliff face. On days where it seems like everything has crumbled, they can find a way to the light. The willow withered its roots turned to dust and ash but it kindles still.
My Grandfather’s biography would be called ‘I’m sure a bit of string would fix it’. The cover held together with bailer twine splint ended and bright orange beside the tight, crisp pages of neatly suited companions, with their dapper dressed poses, and carefully choreographed covers. It would be part of the collection. A Night Away For The Nile, Never Going Back To The Bog, Butchers Bike To Farmer’s Wife, Livestock Before Children. A Gate To The Face Or Three, Tales From The Garden Path. Down Drainpipes Up Ladders. Sheep Are Very Important! How To Escape The Country. How To Escape Back To The Country. Why Mad Families Are Worth It. Are You Really Going To Read This? SHEEP ARE VERY IMPORTANT! It’s almost enough to fill a library. NaPoWriMo Prompt Day Three: A list poems about items with made up names.
Barefoot I followed you across the shoreline. My feet shy of sharp things, I squinted in the darkness for warnings before edging my toes closer to the water not quite prepared for the bite brought about by the sunset three hours before when this had seemed like a good idea and I’d taken little convincing. While you waded in hip height I lingered in the shallows tide around my ankles, cold fingers creeping up my calves and a knot in my stomach that wouldn’t let me go any deeper. When I asked you to drive me home, you didn’t ask why. Daily Prompt: Dim
The map had been tucked inside the cover of an old Beano annual and still smelt faintly of coffee. The kids, well they thought it was real and suddenly her borders were on the lawn and the geraniums were roots over leaves with the dog chipping in to help with the carnage. All for the sake of plastic lunchbox. ‘But mum! X marks the spot!’ She couldn’t argue. Not when she’d been the one twenty years beforehand, digging up the same borders and tossing out plants without a care for what her mother would say. The photo though… she must have forgotten she buried it. Strange that. ‘Who’s that?’ He’d hated photographs. Never wanted to stand still with the rest of them. ‘Mum, look.’ For this one he’d been sandwiched in place. Her on one side, her mother on the other. Bookends to stop him toppling over and out of the frame. ‘There’s another one. Hey, it’s Granny. Mum! Granny’s photo is in the buried treasure.’ He was smiling. She’d forgotten how he could smile, …
