Julia at http://www.juliasplace.org.uk gave us this this week … why does the world fight back when….
Here’s my take on it:
“Does anyone know?”
“I thought you were listening.”
He shook his head. Stuffed another handful of crisps in his mouth. Swallowed. “Sorry. I am now. Know what?”
“Why does the world fight back when you poke at it?”
He shrugged. “Damned if I know.” He finished the sandwich he was holding. Swilled the mug of tea down. “Right. Come on, back to work. This fracking won’t do itself.”
I looked into the hole that we’d been digging. Saw the deep zig zag fault line that stretched away. A line we hadn’t dug. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”
The world lost another great this week, with the passing of Terry Wogan. Julia at http://www.juliasplace.org.uk asked us to write a limerick in Terry’s honour, using … There was a young man called Terry … as the first line. Here’s my attempt.
There was a young man called Terry
Who took the overnight ferry
He arrived in London
His heart big as the Sun
And proceeded to make us all merry.
Thank you for the memories, that thoroughly nice man, Terry Wogan. https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Terry_Wogan
Thanks Julia at http://www.juliasplace.org.uk for this prompt this week:
the crumpled paper and tinsel meant…
The crumpled paper and tinsel meant another Christmas achieved. Another 365 days lived. Every one a bonus. And most days that couldn’t be taken for granted.
I give my little girl a hug and a kiss. As long as I’ve got her I can cope wth anything.
My parents stand up, awkward, and take Lisa by the hand. She walks away, holding the teddy they bought, wrapped and brought in for me to give her.
No one looks back.
The prison officer’s voice is understanding. “Ok Stella, Time to go back to your cell. She can visit again next month.”
Julia at http://www.juliasplace.org.uk gave us a lovely photo prompt this week. Here’s my 100 words based on it:
“I hate autumn. Bloody leaves get everywhere.”
“They’re very pretty, Fred. Make the garden colourful.”
I remember Grandpa saying it, even now, twenty years later.
And I remember hearing Grandma too.
But what I remember most, when she lay in bed that last autumn after her stroke, unable to move, dependent on others for every need was when I saw him come from the garden with a dozen of the brightest leaves and take them to her bedside. He kissed her forehead, picked up her hand, oh so gently, and stroked her fingers over the beautiful, dying, leaves.
A nice prompt from Julia at http://www.juliasplace.org.uk this week that I’ve interpreted darkly, as I often do. ‘… the flames leapt skyward.’ Here’s my take:
People brought a picnic with them. They milled around, waiting. Salem had burned three witches that I could remember, and I’m only ten now.
She was just old Mrs Groat to me. But the townsfolk must have seen something witchy about her that I didn’t. They took her, bound her, watched her. And as the flames leapt skyward, some said they heard her speak. ‘Bugger this, I’m off.’
Martha Gray said she saw a small black cat streak out of the pyre.
I kept quiet. Tiddles had followed me from home.
There was a lot of ash for a witch.