Miranda Kate's Blog, page 59
November 1, 2017
Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 28
This week's photo prompt is another one from Sarolta Ban who is a Hungarian photographer and artist. I love her surreal work.
This story developed as it went along. I did rather enjoy it. Hope you do too.
The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
Cutting Action
Roger found the first one on his desk when he returned from his hourly walk round the house.
Writing wasn’t just a solitary business it was a motionless one too. The walk round helped him clear his head, especially when he was busy editing. It was so hard to decide what to cut out and what to keep. He was so undecided on what worked and what didn’t. The walk not only got his legs moving but his mind too.
The tight ball of paper was lying in the middle of the blotter pad when he came back. He wondered if someone had thrown it in from outside, but the large leaded windows were shut.
He picked up the crushed paper and unfurled it. There was one letter written on the lined sheet of notepaper, a large C. It looked handwritten. It looked like he’d written it, but he knew he hadn’t. He frowned and screwed it up, tossing it into his wastepaper basket.
An hour later when he went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, he found another one by the kettle.
Roger checked the windows, they were all closed. He even tried the backdoor, it was locked. This time the letter was a large U.
He made his cup of tea and took it back with him to his desk, racking his brain as he walked trying to imagine who would have thought it was a fun game to play on him. He half expected to find another ball of paper on his desk, but this time it was a pair of scissors, lying there as though someone had just been using them.
He sighed and put them back in the pot on his desk. How could any of his family members or friends be doing this? They were all at work or school.
“Hello?” he called out the study door, hoping to prompt anyone who might be lurking into a response or movement. But besides startling himself with the loudness of his own voice, there was no other sound. He stood in the doorway for a few seconds, letting the silence permeate. All that reached his ears was the ticking of the clock in the hallway.
When Roger turned back to his desk there was another ball of paper.
The fear that ran up his body rolled all the way along his arms, too. He watched the hairs lift with the goosebumps. He edged his way to the desk and peered at it, a little afraid to touch it. He forced himself to breathe and relax; he was being silly. He snatched it up, opening it to find a big T this time.
“Cut?” he mumbled to himself. What could it mean?
But he didn’t have time to ponder as a strange sound emitted from the kitchen. It was like the cutting sound Magpies made. Were there birds in the kitchen?
He didn’t hesitate to find out and rushed along the hallway, coming to a sharp halt at the door: There were scissors, lots of pairs spread out across the counter. What?!
He watched them, waiting for them to move or make a sound. Nothing.
Then came a tearing, crunching sound from his study. He rushed back. A collection of scrunched up balls of paper were piled on his desk. What was going on?
The cutting sound came again from the kitchen, then the crunching sound in the study. The balls of paper shuddered and rose.
Roger sank to the floor. He must be going mad. He shut his eyes and covered his ears willing it to stop. He stayed that way for several minutes.
When he uncovered his eyes the pile was still there, but when he took his hands away from his ears there was silence.
He waited. Nothing.
He slowly stood up and went over to the desk. He picked up one of the balls and opened it. Besides the letter there was a number on it. He opened another and found the same. He opened them all and then put them in number order. The message spelled out:
“YOU CUT US, WE WILL CUT YOU. LOVE YOUR WORDS.”
This story developed as it went along. I did rather enjoy it. Hope you do too.
The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
Cutting Action
Roger found the first one on his desk when he returned from his hourly walk round the house.
Writing wasn’t just a solitary business it was a motionless one too. The walk round helped him clear his head, especially when he was busy editing. It was so hard to decide what to cut out and what to keep. He was so undecided on what worked and what didn’t. The walk not only got his legs moving but his mind too.
The tight ball of paper was lying in the middle of the blotter pad when he came back. He wondered if someone had thrown it in from outside, but the large leaded windows were shut.
He picked up the crushed paper and unfurled it. There was one letter written on the lined sheet of notepaper, a large C. It looked handwritten. It looked like he’d written it, but he knew he hadn’t. He frowned and screwed it up, tossing it into his wastepaper basket.
An hour later when he went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, he found another one by the kettle.
Roger checked the windows, they were all closed. He even tried the backdoor, it was locked. This time the letter was a large U.
He made his cup of tea and took it back with him to his desk, racking his brain as he walked trying to imagine who would have thought it was a fun game to play on him. He half expected to find another ball of paper on his desk, but this time it was a pair of scissors, lying there as though someone had just been using them.
He sighed and put them back in the pot on his desk. How could any of his family members or friends be doing this? They were all at work or school.
“Hello?” he called out the study door, hoping to prompt anyone who might be lurking into a response or movement. But besides startling himself with the loudness of his own voice, there was no other sound. He stood in the doorway for a few seconds, letting the silence permeate. All that reached his ears was the ticking of the clock in the hallway.
When Roger turned back to his desk there was another ball of paper.
The fear that ran up his body rolled all the way along his arms, too. He watched the hairs lift with the goosebumps. He edged his way to the desk and peered at it, a little afraid to touch it. He forced himself to breathe and relax; he was being silly. He snatched it up, opening it to find a big T this time.
“Cut?” he mumbled to himself. What could it mean?
But he didn’t have time to ponder as a strange sound emitted from the kitchen. It was like the cutting sound Magpies made. Were there birds in the kitchen?
He didn’t hesitate to find out and rushed along the hallway, coming to a sharp halt at the door: There were scissors, lots of pairs spread out across the counter. What?!
He watched them, waiting for them to move or make a sound. Nothing.
Then came a tearing, crunching sound from his study. He rushed back. A collection of scrunched up balls of paper were piled on his desk. What was going on?
The cutting sound came again from the kitchen, then the crunching sound in the study. The balls of paper shuddered and rose.
Roger sank to the floor. He must be going mad. He shut his eyes and covered his ears willing it to stop. He stayed that way for several minutes.
When he uncovered his eyes the pile was still there, but when he took his hands away from his ears there was silence.
He waited. Nothing.
He slowly stood up and went over to the desk. He picked up one of the balls and opened it. Besides the letter there was a number on it. He opened another and found the same. He opened them all and then put them in number order. The message spelled out:
“YOU CUT US, WE WILL CUT YOU. LOVE YOUR WORDS.”
October 25, 2017
Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 27
This week's photo prompt was taken by London photographer Andy Bate as part of a Powder Dance series. He's got a wonderful portfolio, go take a peek.
Warning: possible triggers for Self Harm and/or Suicide
I had an opening for this story, but it came out differently. Being someone who has experienced mental health issues I know how sensitive these topics are. I personally have no experience with what I have written, but I have friends that have and have an understanding of it. Maybe this will help others understand too.
The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
Release
Maddy was bleeding and she was relieved. It was coming out thick and fast and covering her in its glory. She ran her fingers over it and felt its warmth, the first warmth she’d felt in years.
It glimmered and shined in the dim bathroom light, the candles Maddy had set out picking up the nuances of texture as it slid down her skin.
She smiled.
It felt like a part of her had been released, set free from all the pressures of the world around her. It was like she had opened up a hole in her soul and its bright light was shining out, in all its red glory. She adored it.
She felt for the first time in so long, and it felt good to feel: positive rather than negative, happy rather than sad. It emitted from her like a beam, glistening off the walls and shimmering in the mirror when she looked at her face.
Maddy was not old, barely in her twenties, but she felt old and tired to her very core. Normally the mirror reflected that, but not tonight. Tonight the lines on her forehead had cleared and her eyes shone. She felt alive and energized.
She sat down on the edge of the bath, her legs almost jelly like in the excitement of the release, but balancing became tricky, so she slid down the side of the bath onto the floor.
As Maddy’s energy level subsided she felt a wave of tiredness sweep over her. She wrapped bandages round her cuts and secured them before allowing her eyes to fall shut. She would clean up properly after a rest, and before she faced the world again.
Warning: possible triggers for Self Harm and/or Suicide
I had an opening for this story, but it came out differently. Being someone who has experienced mental health issues I know how sensitive these topics are. I personally have no experience with what I have written, but I have friends that have and have an understanding of it. Maybe this will help others understand too.
The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
Release
Maddy was bleeding and she was relieved. It was coming out thick and fast and covering her in its glory. She ran her fingers over it and felt its warmth, the first warmth she’d felt in years.
It glimmered and shined in the dim bathroom light, the candles Maddy had set out picking up the nuances of texture as it slid down her skin.
She smiled.
It felt like a part of her had been released, set free from all the pressures of the world around her. It was like she had opened up a hole in her soul and its bright light was shining out, in all its red glory. She adored it.
She felt for the first time in so long, and it felt good to feel: positive rather than negative, happy rather than sad. It emitted from her like a beam, glistening off the walls and shimmering in the mirror when she looked at her face.
Maddy was not old, barely in her twenties, but she felt old and tired to her very core. Normally the mirror reflected that, but not tonight. Tonight the lines on her forehead had cleared and her eyes shone. She felt alive and energized.
She sat down on the edge of the bath, her legs almost jelly like in the excitement of the release, but balancing became tricky, so she slid down the side of the bath onto the floor.
As Maddy’s energy level subsided she felt a wave of tiredness sweep over her. She wrapped bandages round her cuts and secured them before allowing her eyes to fall shut. She would clean up properly after a rest, and before she faced the world again.
October 18, 2017
Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 26
I tracked this week's photo prompt down to being taken by Niki Feijen, a male Dutch photographer. The Internet says it is an abandoned chateau in Belgium, but I can't confirm that, or, if it was, which chateau it was taken in. Such a shame.
As soon as I looked at this picture I saw these two characters sitting in the chairs, but what were they saying? And what was their story? So I wrote it to find out. What will you see?
The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
Country Pile
“It had strong foundations, don’t you think, Payton?”
“It did that, Roderick, it did that.”
The two men nodded as they surveyed their surroundings from their armchairs: the majestic arches rising to the ornate ceilings, the large dramatic windows overlooking the acres of once manicured gardens. They sat as kings in their own palace.
“If only we could have saved it from falling into the hands of the Sackville’s we might have had a chance.”
“Yes, they were conniving. Bronte - that’s where it all began.” Just saying her name Payton looked like he’d tasted something nasty.
Roderick sighed. “Yes. She knew how to entrap her victims. Those beguiling eyes. She entranced us. Had she not attended the Opening Ball when father had finished refurbishing the house, we might still be here.”
“Or at least our family line might be.”
“Yes. But she knew how to pit brothers against each other. It was clearly a dance she had been trained to lead.”
“Her father set her up to it; he admitted as much the night of our fight.” Payton gave an abashed glance at his brother.
Roderick’s eyes grew round. “Really? Now that is news to my ears.”
“Well yes, it would be, our fight was fatal for you. I’ve never forgiven myself.”
“Now, now, we were both enraged that night. She played us for fools.”
“Indeed. And mother never recovered from the scandal, and without her father couldn’t manage it all alone. The downfall began – both financially and socially.”
“Yes, but had you managed to sire just one child with her it would have been worth it.”
“Excuse me? How dare you!”
“Brother dear, we are long past recriminations, it’s just a fact.”
“But Roderick, what you miss is that she didn’t want to sire my children. Why do you think I am here?”
“I seem to miss your meaning ...?”
“She was in love with Mortimer all along. I was just a financial conquest for her to gain favour with him. Bronte was clever with chemicals and biology. She pretended grief at my death because she had been the cause.”
“Payton, dear brother, you mean she murdered you?”
“Yes. Mother might not have had strong genes, but father did. I’d never been sick a day in my life until I married her.”
“Did you know?”
“I had an inkling, but she made sure I didn’t have the strength to investigate further.”
“A sorry tale, brother.”
“It is indeed. And the house reflects it.” Payton waved what was left of their family estate.
As soon as I looked at this picture I saw these two characters sitting in the chairs, but what were they saying? And what was their story? So I wrote it to find out. What will you see?
The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
Country Pile
“It had strong foundations, don’t you think, Payton?”
“It did that, Roderick, it did that.”
The two men nodded as they surveyed their surroundings from their armchairs: the majestic arches rising to the ornate ceilings, the large dramatic windows overlooking the acres of once manicured gardens. They sat as kings in their own palace.
“If only we could have saved it from falling into the hands of the Sackville’s we might have had a chance.”
“Yes, they were conniving. Bronte - that’s where it all began.” Just saying her name Payton looked like he’d tasted something nasty.
Roderick sighed. “Yes. She knew how to entrap her victims. Those beguiling eyes. She entranced us. Had she not attended the Opening Ball when father had finished refurbishing the house, we might still be here.”
“Or at least our family line might be.”
“Yes. But she knew how to pit brothers against each other. It was clearly a dance she had been trained to lead.”
“Her father set her up to it; he admitted as much the night of our fight.” Payton gave an abashed glance at his brother.
Roderick’s eyes grew round. “Really? Now that is news to my ears.”
“Well yes, it would be, our fight was fatal for you. I’ve never forgiven myself.”
“Now, now, we were both enraged that night. She played us for fools.”
“Indeed. And mother never recovered from the scandal, and without her father couldn’t manage it all alone. The downfall began – both financially and socially.”
“Yes, but had you managed to sire just one child with her it would have been worth it.”
“Excuse me? How dare you!”
“Brother dear, we are long past recriminations, it’s just a fact.”
“But Roderick, what you miss is that she didn’t want to sire my children. Why do you think I am here?”
“I seem to miss your meaning ...?”
“She was in love with Mortimer all along. I was just a financial conquest for her to gain favour with him. Bronte was clever with chemicals and biology. She pretended grief at my death because she had been the cause.”
“Payton, dear brother, you mean she murdered you?”
“Yes. Mother might not have had strong genes, but father did. I’d never been sick a day in my life until I married her.”
“Did you know?”
“I had an inkling, but she made sure I didn’t have the strength to investigate further.”
“A sorry tale, brother.”
“It is indeed. And the house reflects it.” Payton waved what was left of their family estate.
October 4, 2017
Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 25
I spent an awful long time trying to source this week's picture, but to no avail. It was not credited anywhere by anyone, but used a lot. It's tricky when that happens, and a little disappointing as I am always hoping to see more from the creator. Should you come across the owner of it, please let me know.
I planned on being quick off the mark with this week's entry, but despite starting it last Friday, the story took a while to appear and develop. I hope you enjoy it - and this week's prompt picture.
The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
My Pretty
“Pretty, oh so pretty, my pretty,” Genghis cooed out of the cell window at the raven who had become a nightly visitor.
He suspected who it was and appreciated the gesture. He hoped the bird would bring him a message, but wondered if the raven was also affected by whatever sorcery had been placed round the cell. He pondered how they had managed to create a place where no magic worked.
The raven cawed and turned its head back and forth indicating something in the sky. Genghis pulled the wooden stool over and climbed up, trying to see further out the window.
The moon was rising and it was getting fat.
Yes! That was it!
“Ha, ha, you’re more than just a pretty, my fine feathered friend. Thank you. I know what to do now.”
The raven cawed softly in response and flew off. Genghis remained on the stool, working out the zenith of the moon and when it would light up the cell. He only had 24 hours until it reached its full potential. It should be long enough.
The following day he ignored the guard’s visits: their jeers, their swears, and the gruel they brought him. Genghis had to cleanse himself ready for the moment.
Once the sun went down he prepared the floor. He had nothing to mark it with, but he knew the energy from his finger would be enough as he drew the incantation lines where the moonlight would hit.
He sat in the middle of the cell floor and waited, moving his mind into a trancelike state ready for transition.
He felt the beams cross his body and reach the lines on the floor, the hair on his head rising in response to the two energy forces colliding - the moons and his.
Then blankness took him.
When consciousness returned, he opened his eyes. He was sitting on a polished marble floor which swept away in all directions to meet marble walls encircling him. There was a single large window cut into one of them and through it sunlight streamed.
Genghis smiled. He had arrived. He leapt up and went to the window to see the world outside, but all he could see was a white glare as though the sunlight was trapped in a mist. He couldn’t define his location.
The room had no exit either, which baffled Genghis. He was sure this was Maudlin’s home. She was the only one who could affect the shape of a raven; it had to be her.
Genghis heard a caw and the bird appeared on the window ledge, then materialised into the dark robes Maudlin liked to wrap herself in. She threw back her hood.
“Genghis, you made it.”
“I did indeed Maudlin, thank you. But what is this place?”
The smile on her face increased. “Ah, this is my secret place.”
“Secret place?”
“Yes Genghis, where I extract payment.”
“Payment? For what?”
“For abuses.”
Ghenghis was puzzled.
“And how have I abused you, Maudlin?”
“You defiled my sister.”
“Your sister?”
“What did they arrest you for, Ghenghis? Did you think it was just for being a sorcerer?”
Ghenghis did think that. The girl had been used as bait, he was sure of it.
“She was nothing but a decoy, a fake, a peasant to entrap me.”
“Oh no, Ghenghis, she was real and she was my blood.”
“But I only did it to show them, to prove to them that I saw through their games.”
“It seems your paranoia got the better of you, Ghenghis.”
His eyes widened. “But Maudlin you have to believe me, I intended no disrespect, no desire to cross you.”
“It’s too late, Ghenghis, you are here now.”
“And where exactly is here?”
“A plane where things like to visit.”
Ghenghis felt his breath catch and his flesh ripple as cold swept over it. He knew the things that liked to visit in other planes; they haunted every sorcerer’s nightmares.
“But Maudlin, please you have to forgive me.”
She turned her back and walked to the window. He followed, imploring her further.
“You have to understand, I had no idea who the girl was.”
“I’m sorry, Ghenghis, it is already done.”
Her form shrank back until only a raven was perched on the windowsill. It cawed at him, its steely black eyes perusing him once more before it flew off.
Ghenghis fell to his knees in the pool of sunlight. Once that disappeared he knew his life was forfeit.
I planned on being quick off the mark with this week's entry, but despite starting it last Friday, the story took a while to appear and develop. I hope you enjoy it - and this week's prompt picture.
The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
My Pretty
“Pretty, oh so pretty, my pretty,” Genghis cooed out of the cell window at the raven who had become a nightly visitor.
He suspected who it was and appreciated the gesture. He hoped the bird would bring him a message, but wondered if the raven was also affected by whatever sorcery had been placed round the cell. He pondered how they had managed to create a place where no magic worked.
The raven cawed and turned its head back and forth indicating something in the sky. Genghis pulled the wooden stool over and climbed up, trying to see further out the window.
The moon was rising and it was getting fat.
Yes! That was it!
“Ha, ha, you’re more than just a pretty, my fine feathered friend. Thank you. I know what to do now.”
The raven cawed softly in response and flew off. Genghis remained on the stool, working out the zenith of the moon and when it would light up the cell. He only had 24 hours until it reached its full potential. It should be long enough.
The following day he ignored the guard’s visits: their jeers, their swears, and the gruel they brought him. Genghis had to cleanse himself ready for the moment.
Once the sun went down he prepared the floor. He had nothing to mark it with, but he knew the energy from his finger would be enough as he drew the incantation lines where the moonlight would hit.
He sat in the middle of the cell floor and waited, moving his mind into a trancelike state ready for transition.
He felt the beams cross his body and reach the lines on the floor, the hair on his head rising in response to the two energy forces colliding - the moons and his.
Then blankness took him.
When consciousness returned, he opened his eyes. He was sitting on a polished marble floor which swept away in all directions to meet marble walls encircling him. There was a single large window cut into one of them and through it sunlight streamed.
Genghis smiled. He had arrived. He leapt up and went to the window to see the world outside, but all he could see was a white glare as though the sunlight was trapped in a mist. He couldn’t define his location.
The room had no exit either, which baffled Genghis. He was sure this was Maudlin’s home. She was the only one who could affect the shape of a raven; it had to be her.
Genghis heard a caw and the bird appeared on the window ledge, then materialised into the dark robes Maudlin liked to wrap herself in. She threw back her hood.
“Genghis, you made it.”
“I did indeed Maudlin, thank you. But what is this place?”
The smile on her face increased. “Ah, this is my secret place.”
“Secret place?”
“Yes Genghis, where I extract payment.”
“Payment? For what?”
“For abuses.”
Ghenghis was puzzled.
“And how have I abused you, Maudlin?”
“You defiled my sister.”
“Your sister?”
“What did they arrest you for, Ghenghis? Did you think it was just for being a sorcerer?”
Ghenghis did think that. The girl had been used as bait, he was sure of it.
“She was nothing but a decoy, a fake, a peasant to entrap me.”
“Oh no, Ghenghis, she was real and she was my blood.”
“But I only did it to show them, to prove to them that I saw through their games.”
“It seems your paranoia got the better of you, Ghenghis.”
His eyes widened. “But Maudlin you have to believe me, I intended no disrespect, no desire to cross you.”
“It’s too late, Ghenghis, you are here now.”
“And where exactly is here?”
“A plane where things like to visit.”
Ghenghis felt his breath catch and his flesh ripple as cold swept over it. He knew the things that liked to visit in other planes; they haunted every sorcerer’s nightmares.
“But Maudlin, please you have to forgive me.”
She turned her back and walked to the window. He followed, imploring her further.
“You have to understand, I had no idea who the girl was.”
“I’m sorry, Ghenghis, it is already done.”
Her form shrank back until only a raven was perched on the windowsill. It cawed at him, its steely black eyes perusing him once more before it flew off.
Ghenghis fell to his knees in the pool of sunlight. Once that disappeared he knew his life was forfeit.
Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 24
I think I might have unraveled a world of images I want to write for when I sourced this week's image. Sarolta Ban is a Hungarian photographer and artist, and her work is just amazing. I have always loved surreal art, but these really speak to me.
I also have a thing for keys. I don't know what it is, but they just represent so many things to me - in some ways you could say they 'unlock my mind'!
I also have a thing for keys. I don't know what it is, but they just represent so many things to me - in some ways you could say they 'unlock my mind'!
Mid-Week Flash Challange - Week 24
I think I might have unraveled a world of images I want to write for when I sourced this week's image. Sarolta Ban is a Hungarian photographer and artist, and her work is just amazing. I have always loved surreal art, but these really speak to me.
I also have a thing for keys. I don't know what it is, but they just represent so many things to me - in some ways you could say they 'unlock my mind'!
I also have a thing for keys. I don't know what it is, but they just represent so many things to me - in some ways you could say they 'unlock my mind'!
September 27, 2017
Mid- Week Flash Challenge - Week 23
This week's photo prompt is an image of a 'Mirror Man'. This is one of four sculptures that was on display at the Four Season's hotel, in St Fillins, Scotland, back in 2013 (although a comment on the site in July 2017 suggests there is still one there). They stood in Loch Earn for visitors to enjoy. The hotel commissioned artist/sculptor/photographer Rob Mulholland to make them. This particular photo was taken by Flicker user Alec Gibson.
My first attempt at writing for the picture seemed lack-lustre - particularly in light of the picture. I did make a second attempt but didn't like it, so reworked the first. I hope you enjoy it.
The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
Connection
Lori lay in the plush surroundings of the room she’d booked for the week, absorbing the peace and the early morning light that streaked across the thick carpet. The bed was warm and cosy. She didn’t want to move.
She was exhausted – physically and emotionally. Touring the country to promote her work had taken its toll: all the talking, the standing, the pacing on stage, the networking, the late nights, regurgitating the same old answers to the same old questions, finding new ways to say the same thing and give the same advice; eventually the mind gets fuzzy with all that noise.
And then coming home to find her home gone, her possessions gone, everything she had owned and all the art she’d had stored there, gone. Her adjoining neighbours were also gone, the gas explosion having emanated from their boiler, taking the lives of their children and their pets. It had made her feelings about the loss of her art seem trivial.
And then it had all stopped; she hadn’t been able to function. Family took her in, but she couldn’t get her thoughts together, her mind constantly returning to all the time and effort that had been wasted, how easily it had gone, and how it all seemed so pointless now. Every time she attempted to do anything creative she drew a blank.
So after more than a year of nothing, despite finding another home and settling again, and with the pressure to provide more work for sale and exhibition mounting, she had booked this trip in an attempt to relax and just be for a while, without any expectation.
As the room became brighter with the rising sun, Lori was lured out of the bed by curiosity. She had arrived late the night before, so had yet to glimpse the views promised when she had made the booking.
She was not disappointed; the Loch swept away to the horizon, the lodge perched at one end of it. Sunbeams peeked through broken clouds lighting up the water, creating a myriad of sparkles that danced across the surface. Lori felt drawn to it. She wanted to get closer, even touch it if she could.
She dressed and took the main stairs down, hoping not to encounter any guests or staff. The early hour afforded her this luxury, and she left through the front door unseen, striding across the lawns at the front down to the water.
Once there, she was relieved to find a small strip of shingle enabling her to step into the water. The cold bit into her toes, but she found the chill refreshing as she continued in until the water was at her knees.
Lori stood still, letting the cold numb her lower legs while she watched the light glitter across the surface. At this angle she felt as though she was a part of the glimmer, as though it reflected off her too. The warmth of the sunlight kept her there, disembodied from the knees down.
She imagined herself floating on the surface, her body rocking with the sway of the water while her mind drifted with the clouds above. She wanted to stay there forever, imagining herself a statue like those she used to create. But as the freezing water started to lap at her thighs, she came too, knowing it was time to return to the lodge and hopefully breakfast.
Lori went to turn but nothing happened. At first she thought her feet had gone to sleep, but her upper body hadn’t moved either. She tried again and nothing happened.
Looking down, she was shocked to find her torso a beacon of light. It shone out of her, moving and jostling, scintillating like the light on the water. She moved her hand to touch it and found her hand reflective too, her eyes captured by its trancelike qualities. She had become as beautiful as the radiance around her. She wanted to capture this moment, and recreate it in art.
Her head buzzed with ideas and this seemed to unlock her. She moved; the light across her body dying as she turned and waded out of the water, wanting to return to the lodge and release the images lining up in her mind clamouring to be created.
The need for rest and peace was forgotten. Lori’s mind had come alive with what it needed to construct. This would be her greatest work yet.
My first attempt at writing for the picture seemed lack-lustre - particularly in light of the picture. I did make a second attempt but didn't like it, so reworked the first. I hope you enjoy it.
The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
Connection
Lori lay in the plush surroundings of the room she’d booked for the week, absorbing the peace and the early morning light that streaked across the thick carpet. The bed was warm and cosy. She didn’t want to move.
She was exhausted – physically and emotionally. Touring the country to promote her work had taken its toll: all the talking, the standing, the pacing on stage, the networking, the late nights, regurgitating the same old answers to the same old questions, finding new ways to say the same thing and give the same advice; eventually the mind gets fuzzy with all that noise.
And then coming home to find her home gone, her possessions gone, everything she had owned and all the art she’d had stored there, gone. Her adjoining neighbours were also gone, the gas explosion having emanated from their boiler, taking the lives of their children and their pets. It had made her feelings about the loss of her art seem trivial.
And then it had all stopped; she hadn’t been able to function. Family took her in, but she couldn’t get her thoughts together, her mind constantly returning to all the time and effort that had been wasted, how easily it had gone, and how it all seemed so pointless now. Every time she attempted to do anything creative she drew a blank.
So after more than a year of nothing, despite finding another home and settling again, and with the pressure to provide more work for sale and exhibition mounting, she had booked this trip in an attempt to relax and just be for a while, without any expectation.
As the room became brighter with the rising sun, Lori was lured out of the bed by curiosity. She had arrived late the night before, so had yet to glimpse the views promised when she had made the booking.
She was not disappointed; the Loch swept away to the horizon, the lodge perched at one end of it. Sunbeams peeked through broken clouds lighting up the water, creating a myriad of sparkles that danced across the surface. Lori felt drawn to it. She wanted to get closer, even touch it if she could.
She dressed and took the main stairs down, hoping not to encounter any guests or staff. The early hour afforded her this luxury, and she left through the front door unseen, striding across the lawns at the front down to the water.
Once there, she was relieved to find a small strip of shingle enabling her to step into the water. The cold bit into her toes, but she found the chill refreshing as she continued in until the water was at her knees.
Lori stood still, letting the cold numb her lower legs while she watched the light glitter across the surface. At this angle she felt as though she was a part of the glimmer, as though it reflected off her too. The warmth of the sunlight kept her there, disembodied from the knees down.
She imagined herself floating on the surface, her body rocking with the sway of the water while her mind drifted with the clouds above. She wanted to stay there forever, imagining herself a statue like those she used to create. But as the freezing water started to lap at her thighs, she came too, knowing it was time to return to the lodge and hopefully breakfast.
Lori went to turn but nothing happened. At first she thought her feet had gone to sleep, but her upper body hadn’t moved either. She tried again and nothing happened.
Looking down, she was shocked to find her torso a beacon of light. It shone out of her, moving and jostling, scintillating like the light on the water. She moved her hand to touch it and found her hand reflective too, her eyes captured by its trancelike qualities. She had become as beautiful as the radiance around her. She wanted to capture this moment, and recreate it in art.
Her head buzzed with ideas and this seemed to unlock her. She moved; the light across her body dying as she turned and waded out of the water, wanting to return to the lodge and release the images lining up in her mind clamouring to be created.
The need for rest and peace was forgotten. Lori’s mind had come alive with what it needed to construct. This would be her greatest work yet.
September 20, 2017
Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 22
This week's photo was taken by Hendrik Sorensen, a Danish born photographer and filmmaker. He takes some incredible pictures; you can view on his website here. It has so much to offer, look forward to what you will make of it.
I had a couple of false starts with this picture, where I felt like I was rehashing the same old story. So I basically ended up with the rush of emotions it brings to me, written in a form of prose. Flash writing can, afterall, be whatever it needs to be. The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
Living in limbo
What is it like to feel you can’t show your true self, feeling you have to hide it from the world? When you can’t be who you want to be; when everything around you stifles and chastises you? It’s like dancing under water, trying to move elegantly and beautifully while being restricted, each movement an effort as the water pushes back against your limbs; holding your breath, fearful to release it as though doing so might bring the end of you. The pressure on your lungs painful in your chest, squeezing you heart.
I want to soar and rise, and burst free from my shackles; release the burdens holding me down.
I want to let the light from within me shine out like a beacon to guide others, and not be scattered or reflected off things or people around me, which diminish or leech off it.
I want to fill my lungs with the air of freedom. I want my heart to expand with joy; to liberate and open it up to giving and receiving.
Most of all I want to grow, and be, and live.
But until that time, I will keep on swimming my beautiful dance; appreciate what I have to offer in my confined space, and do it with grace and sophistication.
I had a couple of false starts with this picture, where I felt like I was rehashing the same old story. So I basically ended up with the rush of emotions it brings to me, written in a form of prose. Flash writing can, afterall, be whatever it needs to be. The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
Living in limbo
What is it like to feel you can’t show your true self, feeling you have to hide it from the world? When you can’t be who you want to be; when everything around you stifles and chastises you? It’s like dancing under water, trying to move elegantly and beautifully while being restricted, each movement an effort as the water pushes back against your limbs; holding your breath, fearful to release it as though doing so might bring the end of you. The pressure on your lungs painful in your chest, squeezing you heart.
I want to soar and rise, and burst free from my shackles; release the burdens holding me down.
I want to let the light from within me shine out like a beacon to guide others, and not be scattered or reflected off things or people around me, which diminish or leech off it.
I want to fill my lungs with the air of freedom. I want my heart to expand with joy; to liberate and open it up to giving and receiving.
Most of all I want to grow, and be, and live.
But until that time, I will keep on swimming my beautiful dance; appreciate what I have to offer in my confined space, and do it with grace and sophistication.
September 13, 2017
Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 21
This week's photo was taken by an online friend of mine, Stuart Hancock while he was travelling in America. It shows legs of the pier on Pismo Beach, California. I asked him if I could use it because it is begging to be written for. So many tales are glimpsed between those posts. What will yours be?
I ummed and arhhed over which tale to tell as several vied for position, although I felt a few were a bit cliche or darker than I fancied going. So this is what got written.
The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
Tied vs Tide.
The sloshing sound and rocking motion woke her.
Her eyes focused on the slats of wood far above her head. She kicked her feet and heard splashing; they were underwater. She put them down and felt mud and seaweed debris squelch between her toes. She tried to raise her arms to balance but found them tied to one of the pier posts. Damn! She’d forgotten about that.
Veronica awkwardly tried to stand, but couldn’t get up to full height, the rope tied round her wrists restricting the ability to do so. She could only move the rope up the post a little. Bent over with legs straight, the water had reached her thighs; the tide was coming in.
She look back at the beach, but it was wet and windy; there was no-one in sight.
She looked at the rope. It was orange poly rope: extra strong, extra tough, not easy to break. It occurred to her that if she had been able to tie herself up, surely she would be able to untie herself. Then she smiled; ever the perfectionist with attention to detail. She’d practiced that knot for months, tying it with her teeth, but never quite foolish enough to tie both hands in – not until last night.
She had no simple answer to this. She considered whether chewing through it was possible. Looking round again at the deserted beach and promenade, there wasn’t going to be any other option.
Veronica gnawed at it, kneeling in the water to keep her balance as the current of the incoming tide pushed against her. Her mouth was dry and salt water kept splashing up, making her need to spit.
After a while she stopped, barely having made a dent in one of the winds of rope – there were three to get through. She turned facing the beach and started to call out, in the hope that someone might hear her, but with the whistle of the wind rushing round the underside of the pier, the sound was carried out to sea; it was hopeless.
What had she been thinking? Not good things, clearly. Aided by two bottles of vodka she’d acted out a fantasy she’d had for a while. Although, as was always the case, it turned out the reality wasn’t going to go as smoothly as the fantasy: She hadn’t drowned in her sleep, and she hadn’t been rescued by anyone in shining armour - and scanning the still deserted beach she wasn’t going to be either.
The water was up round her waist now. She wrestled with the rope, moving it further up the pole, and continued to chew on it. It was the only chance she had. Would the same courage it took to get into this situation, now get her out? Was she strong enough to save herself?
I ummed and arhhed over which tale to tell as several vied for position, although I felt a few were a bit cliche or darker than I fancied going. So this is what got written.
The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
Tied vs Tide.
The sloshing sound and rocking motion woke her.
Her eyes focused on the slats of wood far above her head. She kicked her feet and heard splashing; they were underwater. She put them down and felt mud and seaweed debris squelch between her toes. She tried to raise her arms to balance but found them tied to one of the pier posts. Damn! She’d forgotten about that.
Veronica awkwardly tried to stand, but couldn’t get up to full height, the rope tied round her wrists restricting the ability to do so. She could only move the rope up the post a little. Bent over with legs straight, the water had reached her thighs; the tide was coming in.
She look back at the beach, but it was wet and windy; there was no-one in sight.
She looked at the rope. It was orange poly rope: extra strong, extra tough, not easy to break. It occurred to her that if she had been able to tie herself up, surely she would be able to untie herself. Then she smiled; ever the perfectionist with attention to detail. She’d practiced that knot for months, tying it with her teeth, but never quite foolish enough to tie both hands in – not until last night.
She had no simple answer to this. She considered whether chewing through it was possible. Looking round again at the deserted beach and promenade, there wasn’t going to be any other option.
Veronica gnawed at it, kneeling in the water to keep her balance as the current of the incoming tide pushed against her. Her mouth was dry and salt water kept splashing up, making her need to spit.
After a while she stopped, barely having made a dent in one of the winds of rope – there were three to get through. She turned facing the beach and started to call out, in the hope that someone might hear her, but with the whistle of the wind rushing round the underside of the pier, the sound was carried out to sea; it was hopeless.
What had she been thinking? Not good things, clearly. Aided by two bottles of vodka she’d acted out a fantasy she’d had for a while. Although, as was always the case, it turned out the reality wasn’t going to go as smoothly as the fantasy: She hadn’t drowned in her sleep, and she hadn’t been rescued by anyone in shining armour - and scanning the still deserted beach she wasn’t going to be either.
The water was up round her waist now. She wrestled with the rope, moving it further up the pole, and continued to chew on it. It was the only chance she had. Would the same courage it took to get into this situation, now get her out? Was she strong enough to save herself?
September 6, 2017
Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 20
Welcome back! I hope you all had a good summer. Now as we face the autumn I am rearing to go, with a litany of interesting photos at my disposal, and here's the first.
This week's photo is of a horse sculpture by Japanese artist, Sayaka Ganz. She creates sculptures out of household rubbish, as she says she has a “strange sympathy for discarded objects.” Apparently the Shinto (Japanese religion) believe in the sacred power (kami) in both animate and inanimate objects. All Syaka's animal sculptures appear to be moving in some way. You can find more of her incredible work on her website: Syaka Ganz, Reclaimed Creations.
I recalled parts of this story from a dream I had had many years ago. It took me a while to squeeze it into the word count, and it begged to be continued. Maybe I will one day. Hope you enjoy it.
The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
Try or Die
I could feel the ground starting to shake, the thundering roar not quite drowning out my racing heart as I ran for my life. Then another sound reached me and I looked over my shoulder to see an entire band of wild horses coming, creating a sand storm in their wake; the thunder of their hooves reducing the magnitude of the quake as they approached.
I looked for a high point, somewhere to scramble to, lest I be knocked and trampled underfoot. There was no shortage of boulders in this patch of the desert, so I climbed one, getting as high as I could until an idea came to me, making me ponder my sanity – not for the first time.
As their steaming sweat-soaked bodies rushed by me I leapt knowing that I risked suicide. But catching a glimpse of the mammoth crack chasing the horses, it was my only chance of survival.
Landing on the hard ridge of the animal’s back hurt, but I grappled in its mane for firm purchase and clenched my legs to stay on, keeping low. It made no attempt to buck me off, intent only on escaping the quake along with every other living thing.
I could see bison to the left moving like a black cloud in high winds. I hoped we wouldn’t run across each others’ path. I attempted to look behind me but there was only a wall of sand.
The sky grew dark, my initial thought being that the dust cloud had blotted out the sun, but when I looked up I realised the sky was full of flying creatures fleeing the disaster. Huge birds of prey mingled with flocks of parrots, sparrows, finches, ravens, every type of desert dwelling bird. I’d never seen so many and I’d spent a lot of time on my porch with binoculars trying. It scared me. How bad was this thing? How big? Would we be able to outrun it?
I knew that the rocky terrain would turn into brush soon enough and then into farmland, until we eventually hit town. Although would it still be there? If the quake had hit my isolated homestead, where else was it hitting?
I could feel the band of horses turning, moving to the right, the border of this scrap of land appearing on the horizon; the dark line of foliage would eventually grow into woods. I could see other groups of animals turning with us, foxes, coyotes, and even bighorn sheep running side by side. It was going to get messy once we hit the resistance of the trees.
But as I watched, the foliage began to shift upwards; the ground becoming sky. Another fork of the quake was cutting the earth. The horses slowed down, moving back to the left. I waited for a clash of animals, but they moved as one, the pace increasing towards the open farmlands.
I prayed to a God I didn’t believe in to keep our path open and let us escape this giant cataclysm, but the horizon started to darken with what appeared to be more groups of escaping animals - this time livestock - heading straight for us.
I didn’t know why our band wasn’t slowing or changing direction, but before I could panic I was falling with the horse beneath me. My eyes had been so transfixed on what was ahead I had missed the chasm that had opened in front of us. My world went black.
When I opened my eyes again I could see a crack of light. The weight on top of me made it difficult to breathe, but it was shifting and moving as other animals became conscious and struggled to rise. There was pain in my body, but would it stop me from being able to get up and out?
Tremors were still running through the ground shifting the mass around me, and I used them to my advantage as I pulled and pushed my way up. It was hard work, but my body allowed it, despite one arm being broken. I hugged it to my side and tried to keep it immobile as I moved up.
I had no idea how long it took me, but once I reached the top of the crushed, damaged and writhing creatures, I saw that it might have been the easiest part of my journey: The sheer wall of the chasm that faced me was galling – but I could try or die.
This week's photo is of a horse sculpture by Japanese artist, Sayaka Ganz. She creates sculptures out of household rubbish, as she says she has a “strange sympathy for discarded objects.” Apparently the Shinto (Japanese religion) believe in the sacred power (kami) in both animate and inanimate objects. All Syaka's animal sculptures appear to be moving in some way. You can find more of her incredible work on her website: Syaka Ganz, Reclaimed Creations.
I recalled parts of this story from a dream I had had many years ago. It took me a while to squeeze it into the word count, and it begged to be continued. Maybe I will one day. Hope you enjoy it.
The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
Try or Die
I could feel the ground starting to shake, the thundering roar not quite drowning out my racing heart as I ran for my life. Then another sound reached me and I looked over my shoulder to see an entire band of wild horses coming, creating a sand storm in their wake; the thunder of their hooves reducing the magnitude of the quake as they approached.
I looked for a high point, somewhere to scramble to, lest I be knocked and trampled underfoot. There was no shortage of boulders in this patch of the desert, so I climbed one, getting as high as I could until an idea came to me, making me ponder my sanity – not for the first time.
As their steaming sweat-soaked bodies rushed by me I leapt knowing that I risked suicide. But catching a glimpse of the mammoth crack chasing the horses, it was my only chance of survival.
Landing on the hard ridge of the animal’s back hurt, but I grappled in its mane for firm purchase and clenched my legs to stay on, keeping low. It made no attempt to buck me off, intent only on escaping the quake along with every other living thing.
I could see bison to the left moving like a black cloud in high winds. I hoped we wouldn’t run across each others’ path. I attempted to look behind me but there was only a wall of sand.
The sky grew dark, my initial thought being that the dust cloud had blotted out the sun, but when I looked up I realised the sky was full of flying creatures fleeing the disaster. Huge birds of prey mingled with flocks of parrots, sparrows, finches, ravens, every type of desert dwelling bird. I’d never seen so many and I’d spent a lot of time on my porch with binoculars trying. It scared me. How bad was this thing? How big? Would we be able to outrun it?
I knew that the rocky terrain would turn into brush soon enough and then into farmland, until we eventually hit town. Although would it still be there? If the quake had hit my isolated homestead, where else was it hitting?
I could feel the band of horses turning, moving to the right, the border of this scrap of land appearing on the horizon; the dark line of foliage would eventually grow into woods. I could see other groups of animals turning with us, foxes, coyotes, and even bighorn sheep running side by side. It was going to get messy once we hit the resistance of the trees.
But as I watched, the foliage began to shift upwards; the ground becoming sky. Another fork of the quake was cutting the earth. The horses slowed down, moving back to the left. I waited for a clash of animals, but they moved as one, the pace increasing towards the open farmlands.
I prayed to a God I didn’t believe in to keep our path open and let us escape this giant cataclysm, but the horizon started to darken with what appeared to be more groups of escaping animals - this time livestock - heading straight for us.
I didn’t know why our band wasn’t slowing or changing direction, but before I could panic I was falling with the horse beneath me. My eyes had been so transfixed on what was ahead I had missed the chasm that had opened in front of us. My world went black.
When I opened my eyes again I could see a crack of light. The weight on top of me made it difficult to breathe, but it was shifting and moving as other animals became conscious and struggled to rise. There was pain in my body, but would it stop me from being able to get up and out?
Tremors were still running through the ground shifting the mass around me, and I used them to my advantage as I pulled and pushed my way up. It was hard work, but my body allowed it, despite one arm being broken. I hugged it to my side and tried to keep it immobile as I moved up.
I had no idea how long it took me, but once I reached the top of the crushed, damaged and writhing creatures, I saw that it might have been the easiest part of my journey: The sheer wall of the chasm that faced me was galling – but I could try or die.
