Poet?

 POET?

She picked up her #pen

to express her grief

at losing the bloom of youth -

her poems weren't great

and brought her no fame,

but they carried the #ring of truth.

FLIGHT

 FLIGHT

I’ve never seen the moon so bright

as it was that night

of the long watch,

shining through the slatted blind

of the side-ward window -

harvest moon rays lighting

the way for him to take his last flight

pain-free home.

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My first post on my blog for over a year, written following a prompt from @FromOneLine.

TIME TRAVEL

 

TIME TRAVEL

Dave and Roscoe were the acknowledged computer whiz-kids of their college, so when they announced they’d built a time machine, everyone was agog to try it.

Benny drew the first ticket. ‘Take me back to the fifties, when booze was cheap, and I’ll bring back a bucket-load.’

Laughing, Dave turned the dial, and they all waited. And waited. And waited.

Two days later Benny returned, unmistakably drunk, his arms full of bottles.

‘Guess you had a good time?’ Roscoe said.

‘I’m not going there again,’ Benny said. ‘They only have black and white television – and only two channels!’

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I've been AWOL from Friday Fictioneers for far too long. Life has thrown various obstacles in my path, but here I am now, hoping this select group hasn't forgotten me completely!

Thanks are due to Ted Strutz for the image and to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running FF.

KENYA

They flew to Kenya

those boys just out of school

sent to ‘resolve’ the MauMau situation -

their legacy was sights and deeds

rarely spoken of

but never forgotten.

National Service taught discipline

people say -

it may be so

                                             but they were forever scarred.

 

 

WOKE

 

WOKE

Punch and I have been performing on Swanage beach for a century. I don’t look old enough? So kind. It’s amazing what a touch of lipstick can do – and years of covering bruises with greasepaint!

What was I saying? You’ll have to forgive me – memory’s not what it was. Oh yes – the Woke Brigade. They’ve decided we’re too violent. Can you believe it? Compared with the way those kids’ parents behave, a few head-bashes are mild.

Here we are, two pensioners without an income, and they’ve stopped our winter fuel allowance. They want rid of us.

That’s the way to do it!

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It is a month since I joined in Rochelle's Friday Fictioneers' party. I have had major surgery on a badly broken ankle, and my mind hasn't been in the right state for writing. But Sandra Crook's photo of Swanage Beach - I could hardly resist, could I? I spent a summer there 50 years ago, and have fond memories of my children digging on that very beach. There were even donkey rides in those days - something else that has gone, I suspect, with an increasingly obese population becoming too much for the poor beasts to carry.

This was us back in 1973!

BUNKER

 

BUNKER

We won our places in the nuclear bunker in a lottery. Five thousand people who’d bought the right to live and, eventually, re-populate the world.

After ten years I was too busy raising our kids to worry about the anarchy – no-one had thought to stock birth control pills.

The building contractors hadn’t followed the specifications either, and things were always breaking down.

Ted and I were, naturally, the maintenance team, so we were first to spot fungus growing through the skylight.

“Get the kids,” Ted said, “I’ll grab some guns.”

If outside was breaking in, we wanted a head start.

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It's a whole month since I last wrote any flash fiction - life has been busy with family visits, a damaged ankle, and working on my next novel. I've kept my short fiction and poetry going with frequent posts on Twitter - @young_liz if you'd like to follow me.

Meanwhile, thanks to Lisa Fox for the photo prompt and to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for encouraging us to join her select group Friday Fictioneers. 

Next month I've been invited to join a small group of local poets to read our work at an Arts Festival, so my next job is to decide which poems to choose from my recently published book: Footprints, which you can find on Amazon along with my other books. Be aware that I'm not the only Liz Young out there!

 FIRE!

Yesterday, with my back door open, I smelled smoke. From my garden I saw smoke coming from my neighbour's upstairs window. Banged on the door, no answer, so I called 999.

The firefighters arrived just in time to save his dog.

It reminded me of ten years ago, when my daughter's apartment burned due to a candle and a wafting curtain. A whole month it took us to erase the stink.

A salutory lesson never to leave a naked flame burning, and keep your insurance up to date!

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And my poor neighbour! His windows are no longer blackened - the glass has all been replaced by boards, and he can't even clean up until the insurance assessors have been. His dog survived by a whisker - scorched but alive.

SPADE

 

SPADE

I left her taking her muddy trainers off while I put the allotment tools in the car, dropping my guard for one minute, but it was enough.

She screamed as he bundled her into his van. By the time I’d got my car started they’d vanished. But she’d told me about the hut on the moor – and what he’d done there.

I sped through back roads, hid my car, and when he reached into the van to drag her out I hit him with the spade. Hard.

The hut’s just a heap of charred embers now. So is he.

I bought a new spade.

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Any mother would do the same, wouldn't she? Thanks to Ronda del Boccio for this week's image. To read other interpretations of the prompt, follow the frog link from https://rochellewisoff.com/

While I have your attention, please take a look at my latest publication - a 'slim volume of verse', as we poets say! In other words, a small book of poems, selected from a lot more written over a loooong lifetime.

FOOTPRINTS: Amazon.co.uk: Young, Liz: 9798328843089: Books

LIBRARY

 

LIBRARY

I wish I was better at marketing

my books, 'cos they’re really quite good,

but I plucked up the courage to ask

at the library in my neighbourhood –

I donated a copy of two of my best,

which are now on display on a shelf –

‘New books by A Local Author’ –

I’m inordinately proud of myself!

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Six years ago I was brave enough to take a stall at an Authors' Fair, which entailed lots of preparation and minimal sales - not an experience I have repeated!

Dale's image of a roadside library reminded me of Covid lockdown, when I put a box of books in the village bus shelter and an invitation on Facebook for people to help themselves. Any one who was afraid of contamination could stay clear. Others donated too and itt grew exponentially - in fact it became a chore to keep tidy - but for that year (when was it? - I forget) a lot of people were grateful for their reading matter. 

Must dash - it's my granddaughter's school sports day and I have to go and cheer.

TRAINING

 

TRAINING

They trained the orcas intensively in their secret location, then sent them off with attached cameras to spy on the enemy fleet.

 

The gamble paid off – every whale returned to their beloved trainer Edwin. The management took the cameras to be recharged, but Edwin overheard them talking over late-night drinks. ‘Kamikaze whales’ they dubbed them, laughing.

 

Edwin amended the training sessions and surreptitiously replaced the glue with his own concoction. Next time the orcas left, they scraped their backs under the jetty before departing.

 

Two days later the scientists stood on the jetty and pressed the control button.

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Perhaps it's the lighting, but they look like orcas peering over a jetty to me! Thanks to Lisa Fox for the image, which also reminds me of warm evenings in Tenerife. To read what other writers 'saw' in her image, go to https://rochellewisoff.com/  and follow the Frog trail.

ICE

 

ICE

‘Let’s go camping,’ he said.

‘In winter?’

‘Warm sleeping bags, a fire under the stars, it’ll be romantic.’

It was easier to agree – he always got his own way eventually.

.... 

I woke to the sound of a growl and shook him awake. ‘Bears!’

He peered through the flap. ‘Can’t see anything.’

‘There it is again – I’m scared.’

He went out, determined to prove this mere female wrong, and slipped on the ice.

As the huge mouth closed around his body I ran for the car.

 ....

True as I’m stood here.

'In a jail cell?'

Unfortunately the cops don’t believe me.

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Thanks as ever to Rochelle for running Friday Fictioneers, and to Roger Bultot for the photographic prompt. I've revived an old story for this week as I missed last week's FF, but I'm busy compiling a poetry book and subbing a novel, and my brain can't cope with too much at once these days!

TERRANIUM

 

TERRANIUM

They sat together in silence,

reading by lantern light,

oblivious to cicadas

and traffic noise alike,

as if they were enclosed

by a terranium of peace,

until her phone buzzed –

their hour was over.

 

She stood up,

closing her book.

‘Same time tomorrow?’

He nodded, smiling.

‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

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A cheeky one this time, combining three different prompts - this photo taken by Dale Rogerson (thanks, Dale) and twoTwitter prompts by @FromOneLine and @vss365. I hope you like the combination!

To read other interpretations on Friday Fictioneers, go to https://rochellewisoff.com/ and follow the Frog.

I've been sidetracked these past few weeks by other writing, of flash fiction and poetry - more about that when I'm ready to let it go public.

POOH BEAR

 

POOH BEAR

 Pooh was different – he was special –

he wasn’t yellow, he was red;

born one Christmas in a stocking

on the end of John’s small bed.

 He and John were never parted,

everywhere together travelled,

till one day with all that loving

Pooh’s red tummy came unravelled.

 ‘Oh!’ said Pooh Bear, ‘All my stuffing’s

coming out!’ ‘Don’t fret’ said Mum,

‘Here’s a bit of good strong sort of

stripey fabric for your tum.’

 So she set to work and made his

tum and back and legs like new;

Pooh and John could go on playing -

that was all that bothered Pooh.

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Anyone who knows and loves A.A.Milne's writing will realise why I chose this Pooh Bear poem today. It's taken from a book of poems I wrote for my children about their special toys, and the story of John's Pooh Bear is true.

In fact, years later, I was asked to re-cover Pooh completely so that he would be hygienic enough for John's own son!

If you would like to read the book, it's on Amazon - STRIPEY CAT and Other Poems.

Thanks as ever to Rochelle, our never-failing hostess, and to Fleur Lind for this week's image, which took me straight to the Ashdown Forest in Sussex, UK, and to the tree in which lived the owl known to Christopher Robin as Wol.

AT THE WATER'S EDGE

 

AT THE WATER'S EDGE

Karen stood right at the edge, the ebb and flow of the moonlit estuary echoing her emotions. Each retreating wave dragged shingle from beneath her feet, and she fought to keep her balance, just as her mind struggled to maintain equilibrium in its turmoil of thoughts.

How could things have gone so wrong? She was tempted to let the tide take her, but when the wash of a passing ship knocked her over she scrambled up and back.

Back to life without him, back to prove she could do it alone.

No man was worth her death.

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I've been having deep and meaningful conversations with a friend about our former love lives - you can blame this sombre story on our retrospection. Though to be fair, the last time I entertained such dramatic thoughts I was a teenager! 

Thanks to Sandra Crook, a regular contributer of photos, for this image, and to Rochelle  https://rochellewisoff.com/  for hosting our select group of writers on Friday Fictioneers.

PLAYING THE MAN

 

PLAYING THE MAN

Back when I was just nineteen

I learned to ballroom dance;

how it came to happen

was totally by chance.

My manager’s young daughter

needed a chaperone,

so off to a dusty hall we went,

me and my plus one.

Because I was the elder girl

I had to play the man,

although I studied all the steps

a girl should know.

I can

even now dance properly,

but only if I lead –

try to steer me backwards

and I trip over my feet.

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There's a lot of truth in this story, although later I did, thanks to a talented friend, learn to follow a man's lead when dancing. Since then I put more self-expression into my dancing, but even those days are over. I turned 80 a few days ago and the sight of me gyrating to modern tunes is not something I care to inflict on anyone else, but my feet still tap, and occasionally I dance, alone in my living room where nobody can see!

Thanks are due, as always, to Rochelle for hosting our group of writers on her blog,  https://rochellewisoff.com/  and to Dale Rogerson for the image which prompted this week's stories. The 'Dance Studio' in which Juliet and I had our lessons was much less colourful, resembling as it did the entrance to a sleazy dive rather than the class establishment it claimed to be.

Two photos - one of me plus family and friends enjoying a pub lunch on The Big Day. The older man is the one who taught me to dance with a man! Taken by my elder daughter who flew in from Northern Ireland to surprise me.

And one with my younger grandson who was working but came round later.

I felt very loved.

A MIDNIGHT SWIM

 

A MIDNIGHT SWIM

They couldn't resist the lure of a free concert, and the waiter told them bikinis and sarongs were the norm. 

Starting on the vodka in their hotel, they mixed generous slugs into bottles of Coke, and went to the beach.

It was heaving with party-goers, the music loud, the atmosphere electric as they danced on sand that still radiated the day’s heat.

Lights sparkling on the sea looked different at night – mysterious and hypnotic. Dropping their sarongs, they slid naked into its silken coolness.

Beach cleaners found their sarongs at dawn.

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The dangers of mixing alcohol and the sea - many lives each year are lost this way.

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers and for this week's photo prompt. You can read other stories, or write your own and join in, by following the Froggie Trail from her blog:  https://rochellewisoff.com/

SAY IT WITH FLOWERS

 

SAY IT WITH FLOWERS

After I’d posted something controversial on 

social media the hatred and threatening

comments had spiralled out of control, so the flowers were a pleasant surprise when I got home that evening.

I didn’t recognise the scrawled signature, but I fetched a trowel and planted them in my window box, then picked up the watering can.

An unexpected odour wafted up – someone had filled it with petrol! That could have ruined all my plants, I thought, putting it down carefully. Really, this was going too far.

Then the grey box under the tap began to tick.

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Another image, another 100 word story. I have so many stored on file that I may have to make a book of them! Thanks to Rochelle for keeping all of her Friday Fictioneer flock supplied with inspiration, and to Rowena Curtin for the photograph. A friend who came to tea earlier today brought me flowers, but her intentions were purer than the giver of those in my story!

AND as it's World Book Day today, allow me to remind you that I have a slew of books for sale on Amazon.  Here's a picture of them all to nudge you into buying mode!

Or, for my local followers, a reminder that all seven of my novels can now be borrowed from the library.

...

Happy gardening!

A WHOLE YEAR

 

A WHOLE YEAR

It’s been a whole year since Pete disappeared.

A year of running the farm alone, getting a second job to put food on the table, and answering the children’s questions the best I could.

The scars have healed now and a kind of peace has descended, but I couldn’t help wondering if he’d ever turn up.

Then I turn the TV on this morning and there’s a news flash.

A picture of Pete’s car being hauled out of the river.

I really thought they’d never find him, but he’ll be bones by now.

Nothing to worry about.

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Thanks to Fleur Lind for the photo that prompts this week's slew of stories from Friday Fictioneers. To read them all, follow the frog link from  https://rochellewisofffields.files.wordpress.com/2024/02/from-fleur.jpg

 

TRAIL BLAZERS

 

TRAIL BLAZERS

They piled out of the car and the kids raced through the house to find Granpa.

‘Hey Granpa, what’s that old wagon doing here?’

‘To remind us how lucky we are. Look around – what do you see?’

‘The usual stuff – your home, the pool, Mum cooking with Granma.’

‘Exactly. A house with a kitchen, enough water to swim in. But my Great-granpa arrived here in a wagon like that one. All their goods, beds included. They had to find water and light a fire before cooking dinner.’

‘That’s ancient history!’

‘Not that ancient – it was only five generations back from you.’

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We should remind ourselves occasionally how far we have come - and in a relatively short time. I live in a cottage that only had a bathroom installed in the 1950s, and still has the old outside toilet. The cottage has two small bedrooms in which previous families have raised families of half a dozen or more children!

Thanks to Alicia Jamtaas for the photograph that Rochelle chose this week. You can read how others interpreted the image by following the frog link from her blog  https://rochellewisoff.com/

 

WINTER SCHOOL

 

WINTER SCHOOL

Winters were colder in my childhood. Even in England snowdrifts were deep enough to dig a cave, snowmen were huge, and it was worth making a sled.

The walk to school was hazardous, the pain as chilblains thawed out was horrendous, but the best part was playtime.

The top end of the playground became a skating rink, where the most adventurous created slides. A run to pick up speed before you entered twenty yards of ice, your feet and body poised to reach the end without falling.

I remember the thrill to this day – the bruises are long forgotten!

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See that shining line in the snow? It's probably thawed, but it could be one of  those ice slides of my distant youth. Did they cause broken bones? Probably, but all I remember is the fun. Children shouldn't be too molly-coddled anyway, though no doubt these days such sport would be banned by a health and safety inspector. 

Thanks to Dale for the photo and, as always, to Rochelle for hosting FF.