It’s rather humid in Horwich (Bolton) today. A little heavy and rainy and as I drank my cup of tea I thought of my brother’s Southern Home State of North Carolina and all that heat. Travel further South from there, and you’re in James Lee Burke country where swamps
‘‘I wonder that the great master who knew everything, when he called Sleep the death of each day’s life, did not call Dreams the insanity of each day’s sanity.” (Dickens, Night Walks). It’s human arrogance to assume your dreams are your own.
A few weeks ago I walked around Barrow Bridge Village in Bolton. The village is beautiful and wherever you walk you can hear running water. Moss hangs luxuriantly over the stone walls and seems to be the scent holder of all the olfactory goings on in the village! So here in tribute to
Little Momma left them in June. Most days they dropped by, concerned she might miss them. They quit work. They listened hard; softly too. ”Hold to thy faith,” intoned Pastor Paul. Clarence stared at the new earth and gave thanks. He returned to her car and took out a
The Horwich Carnival may soon be upon us and this short 50 word tale came to me in tribute to all those poor goldfish trapped in bowls, yearning for something better: some other richer life? It was the teeth that worried her. The long eyelashes too. ”But he’ll o
I could smell chilli pesto. ‘Search in my small bag.’’ Your voice carried smiles in it. Sunshine lit up the room. There was a brown bag over a chair. Beside it sat another-cream, like wool. Macramé. ‘’You find what you needed?’’ ‘’Oh yes!’’ smiled my voice. ‘’ I think so.’’ &nb
Cleaning That was the summer I changed to thin bleach. I could be brave about stains. It was the other that unsettled me . But bleach offered gentle purity, a sort of slow healing unlike everything outside. There lurked the truly impure. So here I am watching, waiti
Bats. ‘They’re all swooping about again.” ‘Harriet, your eyes are closed.” ‘I know.’’ Then she fell asleep. Apparently it was my turn to create dinner. In her kitchen such colourful piles of ingredients; easy to add yet another spice. Later she ate,
Writing a 50 word short story is great fun and an excellent way to discipline your writing and recognize the value and effect of word choice. Short stories, like poetry, involve a pronounced degree of selectivity,as short stories require thrift! They also require a particular form of
This short piece of writing records a dream about Katherine Mansfield in 2007! She did have wet hair and was very hungry, being perhaps marooned in another dimension where breakfast is unnecessary and relegated to memory! Dreams are a great source of fascination and often prove more l
This still remains one of the most vivid and revealing dreams of my life! I woke up feeling so protective of my dream companion; deeply affected by the emotional power and resonance of this strange encounter in the dusky heat of a Roman night. Who could resist this beautiful arctic
They had been playing cards for hours and the fire was low. The boy smiled strangely as he turned over his last card. ‘But that’s not a card we play with!’ his Uncle cried. You are not playing Uncle, the cards are playing you. And he uncovered his hand.
Perhaps if she could give these worn words a little nudge in another direction then the tired old anchors about the past might fly again.But a sort of magnolia ink dripped steadily from her pen and nothing she read raised even half an eyebrow. She craved turquoise. In everything
A wet smudge of green lime and dark chocolate across the back of my hand recalling my grandmother’s wooden back stairs down to her walled garden overlooked by a Quaker Meeting House with three children shy enough to listen to my stories and the &nbs
1940’s York, the wintry river and a dark weedy bend stretches ahead; me face down, submerged, covered with his cloak. I am Hunted by these rigid men in black, their drooling animals leashed tightly against hard gloved wrists, as they patrol what has never been theirs, nor ever
Wiping away the stains of Christmas dinner, a smell not unlike spiced up turpentine with wings, wafted before her, and she halted, breathing this reminder of borrowed time, trying to shape the scent into something solid she could lean her head against, when hope ran o
Everyone over seven was wearing an apron to differentiate themselves from the children, who flung their brightly wrapped presents into Esther’s ‘birthday grotto’ then scurried off to the garden. Nina stood silently on the edge of the lawn watching Edward-
Tin wanted to love the woman with the whisper of liquorice about her neck but his in-box this morning had a new case of a missing person and his mother kept calling from Israel demanding he find her case with that brown suede handle.
Can a white bear embrace a house so tightly that sleepers spill out everywhere into darkness? I never gazed upon the bear’s face and maybe that was the point. The house had secret layers and when the huge shape shadowed every wall, I curled
I opened my eyes this morning to dark black ink hanging in the air in front of my face and I knew it was a signature and I had to read it out aloud before I got out of bed. And then I laughed, as this had happened just the other week. What could I do? Comply!
Your words sat on the supermarket notice board, red, blue, green and trolley pushers went past but looked up as they counted their soft loaves, minding feet, anticipating the rain as they broke out of this sharply lit place. Poetry for the people you were saying and I wondered if anyo
There were strange ripples on her skin, like soft scales. The sunlight danced on the diamond shapes and when the arm lifted, sharp colours fell onto the path and then across her face. She wanted to say ‘pomegranates’ and she did, just once. Time had relaxed his possessive
We stepped into the night and they were calling from across the dark road. You knew someone was lost and you found their huddled shapes on the wrong side of the wall. You ran in white shoes crying to them to move safely, to keep off the unlit road and somewhow they heard you, trusting
Your time melted away faster than I had tears to cry. The brimstone throat, the silent smile, the helpless shrug of those who knew enough medicine to kill you. And even now, smells of fresh washing, bring back the only nurse to tell us your fate. In a laundry c
Value your mind said the crow – who spoke only when Swiveller wore dark grey. All else is dust and wind… And when you find soul time, your souls’ time, then trace her prints tenderly. For your breath knows the shape of eternity’s kiss.
Oliver wanted more of more. And if Oliver was more woman than man (so Swiveller said celebrating) then all that lonesome wandering had to lead somewhere and that was to the Artful whose hands knew the shape of this city’s scented secrets. Believe me.
‘That crow knows that you love me.’ Swiveller was sharpening her pen. Metaphorically of course. For this was the twentieth century after all. How did she know then? It was the angle of the head she decided. And the wink; one lid, one wink. For love; Eye to eye lo
Flo was between floors and held her famous long thumb exactly three inches away from the bell. But she didn’t ring, there was no need , as the shadow of a smiling gentleman waving a purple handkerchief swept over her arm, warming her skin. ‘Enchanted! ‘ The
Flo lifted her thumb over the golden script and shaped her perfect mouth around the letters produced out of the purple handkerchief: ‘I can choose to go why-ing, anytime …’ She lifted her mouth in the general direction of the world at large and cried out as