The Author is Alone

The author is alone in her chair.

Thinking. Judging.

Moving the words from here to there.

Sits back to scrutinise.

Feeling insecure.  

A need to criticise.

She stares out the window.

She leaves her chair.

More coffee.

Resistance?

She sits again.

Persistence.

Delete. Restore. Add more.

She leans forward in her chair.

Plotting. Planning.

Aims for perfection.

Fear of rejection.

The author’s chair holds her there.

Until she is fulfilled.

Until everything fits.

And more ink is spilled.

It all comes together.

When she stays in her chair.

Her passion for writing.

Keeps her there.

Right to The End.

In response to Charli Mills at Carrot Ranch. In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story about an author’s chair. It can belong to any author. Where is it located and why? Does it have special meaning? Go where the prompt leads!

Image by Ray Shrewsberry • Thanks for Downloads and Likes from Pixabay

Last #SoCS

Near the end they said

Not long left now

I rubbed my chest

I furrowed my brow

Somewhere else I’d rather be

Other folk I’d rather see

I looked ahead and saw them there

My faithful friends waiting for me

My legs like jelly

They couldn’t move fast

But I crossed the line

Even though I came last

Marathons are not for me

I find them quite bizarre

Will I ever run another one

Maybe I will—if it’s not too far

For Linda G Hill’s Stream of Conscious Saturday #SoCS

Use “near/far.” Use “near,” use “far,” use them both if you’d like. In fact, if you start your post with one and end with the other, you get bonus points!

The Headless Blacksmith

The blacksmith was hanged on a tree that once stood tall and strong. Now, its branches hang low, weeping for him; an innocent man. Guilty only of seeking to castigate the cretin who violated his wife; the influential man who smoked cigars and drank fine whiskey.

The headless blacksmith rides the dark lanes on his big black horse. With no need for sight nor light, he circles the weeping tree before galloping into the night, hunting for the dissolute rich man—who has long since perished under the hooves of the black stallion. The blacksmith rides on; doesn’t rest.

In response to Charli‘s Carrot Ranch 99 word flash fiction.

In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story about a Big Black Horse. It can be a horse, a metaphor or an interpretation of KT Tunstall’s “Big Black Horse and a Cherry Tree.” Go where the prompt leads!

#SoCS Monkey Puzzle

Stream of Consciousness Saturday #SoCS prompt for this week is ‘puzzle’. Use it any way you’d like.

I used to look at monkey puzzle trees in stranger’s gardens and thought how beautiful they looked. I wanted one. I used to say that when I’d have my own garden, I’d plant a monkey puzzle tree.

I never did. Do you know why? Because foolishly I allowed myself to be influenced by someone else’s opinionthat the monkey puzzle tree is ugly!

I was an awful eejit!

Yes, I could plant one now if I wanted to, but our garden where we live now is quite small. I wonder if there’s such thing as a miniature monkey puzzle tree.

Holy guacamole…..I’ve just discovered that I’ve been spelling miniature wrong all these years. I thought it was minature! Well, now I’m puzzled as to how I didn’t know this before now! Obviously, it’s not a word I’ve used too often (if ever) in my writing because my spell checker would have flagged it. The dunce’s corner for me today!

The Red Dresser

I’m very late contributing to this month’s picture prompt. I did start the prompt a few weeks ago but…..you know yourself. Life!

Write a story, a poem, a limerick inspired by the last picture on your camera roll, and join us here at Strange Bloggers Picture Prompt 2.
Come and share your own story with us once you checked your camera roll.

The last picture in my camera roll was of this old style dresser taken in the Kerry Bog Village Museum, which we toured while visiting my uncle in Glenbeigh. Since I started writing my fictional novel I’ve become more interested than ever in Irish history. The Bog Village Museum gives an insight into the lives of people in the 18th Century, and this beautiful red dresser stood out for me because a similar one features in my story (insignificantly)…even though my story begins in 1956.

So I decided to share an excerpt of my story. Please let me know what you think! Thank you. 😉

Flossie looked the place up and down. A wave of childhood memories consumed her; the smell of baking and oranges filling her senses. Mrs Connolly always had a bowl of oranges on the table, believing that they encouraged conversation and happiness. It was a different house now. The net curtains were the same except they were grey and frayed, not snow white and pristine as they once were. The red paint peeled in patches on the dresser that was once filled with odd pieces of vibrant coloured pottery. 

Flossie sipped at her tea, but she couldn’t face a sandwich. She took a Marietta instead. It would keep her hands busy. Everyone was talking about the deceased. The sombre atmosphere was fraught with speculation and disbelief. The wide-eyed busybodies were hungry for the latest gossip, whispering and watching, listening to everything that was being said. Some only there for the drink, others there out of genuine neighbourly concern. 

John nudged Flossie with his elbow. ‘We should go on in.’ 

All the chairs in the mourning room were occupied, mostly with strangers—relations probably—and a few men whom she knew worked in Corries. Those men he worked with; Flossie wondered did they know what went on in this house. Did he ever tell any of them? Even one of them? No, of course he didn’t. That would’ve been a great laugh for them. She knew how they carried on, how they teased and ribbed each other. They were the last people Frank would tell about the mental torture he had to endure in his own home. The same house that was his home since the day he was born. His happy childhood home!

A gentle breeze from an open window flickered the tiny flames on the candles that surrounded the closed coffin. The smell of incense brought Flossie back to her father’s funeral, and she remembered gazing at him, laid out in his best suit, coins sitting on his closed eyelids, and Auntie Bridgey pulling her away. She thought it was the strangest thing; the coins. 

She will touch the coffin and she will say a prayer. She was glad it was closed because she can pretend it’s merely an empty box. A big brown wooden box with nothing in it. 

Parent Pie

Today’s post is in response to a new feature from Sharing Inspiring Promoting Bloggers. Write a story, a poem, a limerick inspired by the below picture and join us here at Interesting Bloggers Picture Prompt 1.

In this picture I see a relaxed mother holding her new baby. Dad is sitting a short distance away. Maybe he’s a little nervous; a new baby is a huge responsibility!

I have a recipe for the new parents. I’ve used this basic recipe a few times down through the years, but tailored it to suit different needs and personalities. Oh…mistakes were made when often I used too much of one thing, or not enough of another.

I’d be interested to know how you would tailor this recipe to suit your own family’s needs.

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