tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76645278102240733422024-03-13T00:23:36.493-07:00As the forest bird flies"A forest bird never wants a cage" wrote Henrik Ibsen. So let's be free. Forest Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11296984682432477255noreply@blogger.comBlogger182125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664527810224073342.post-12610260972293422052016-05-10T01:31:00.003-07:002016-05-10T01:31:44.033-07:00Flash fiction - The Crossword<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Morning. Another long break I know, but this morning all my work is done and I have a break at home alone to get a story out. So I've linked up with the lovely folks at Studio 30+ again. I used the prompt <i>humiliating</i>. </span></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><u>The Crossword</u><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">It was still humiliating, Derrick thought,
as he stepped out of the tabac. For over thirty-five years he had made this
town his home. The butcher, the grocer, the laundry lady, even the mayor
accepted his well learnt and practised French with graciousness and without
sarcasm. And yet every morning, in the simplest of exchanges over a packet of
cigarettes and a newspaper, the man in the tabac replied in English, as crisp
and smooth as a tennis lawn. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Derrick
walked across the square to his favourite café. Inside the smell of freshly
ground coffee and the remnants of last night’s menu greeted him. He took a seat
by the window. Jean Pierre waved at him from behind the bar. Breakfast would be
on its way shortly. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> He
opened the paper. Train strikes planned over the long weekend. Cars stolen by
pretend hitchhikers in the south. A new production of Hamlet touring. Laws to
be changed regarding dog ownership. He turned to the crossword and got to work.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> His
pencil was nibbled, was tapped. He scribbled. It was a short, stubby, well-worn
and well-travelled pencil. This was its 1000 crossword. He should savour it. Derrick
leaned back, stretched out his legs, sipping his coffee and pondering number 19
down. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Out
in the square delivery vans beeped to the shop owners and tardy teenagers
flopped past wanting any distraction to stop them from going to school. Derrick
remembered what it was like and smiled. He licked croissant crumbs from his
mouth and signalled for another. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> The
door opened as Derrick was filling in 19 down. He listened to the exchange at
the bar and the voice made him look over. It was the man from the tabac. He had
never seen him in here. He put down his pencil and listened. His pencil rolled
off the paper and onto the floor. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> The
tabac owner’s daughter was seeing the café owner’s son and he wasn’t happy
about how late they were staying out. They needed to agree for them to both be
home by 11 each night. Jean Pierre shrugged, but agreed. The tabac owner
pressed him, wanting him to agree again. Jean Pierre did so. The tabac owner
sighed, thanked him and turned to leave. He noticed Derrick.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> “Hello,”
he said briskly as if he was going to pass, but he stopped at Derrick’s table
and looked down at it. “Oh. You do the crossword I see?” He stared at the
paper, scrutinising Derrick’s answers. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Derrick
said nothing and watched him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> The
man from the tabac stepped back and looked at him. “I see you speak French
then. How very bizarre I never knew!” His tight face slipped open for a second
with a smile. “Au revoir Monsieur.” He turned and left the café. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Derrick
sat, stunned. He let the feeling wash over him and he soaked up his little win.
The man from the tabac finally understood. Tomorrow morning would be different.
This deserved a little celebration. He ordered a cognac with another coffee. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Back
to the crossword. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> He
searched and searched, but he never found his pencil. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Forest Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11296984682432477255noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664527810224073342.post-41413352823508682952015-12-11T22:55:00.000-08:002015-12-11T22:56:17.445-08:00Miscarriage<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">It’s not a
word that I ever thought would become part of me. There are lots of other words
that I had readily accepted as part of my life: death, grief, cancer, failure,
pain. Words that fill us with dread. But miscarriage isn’t one I saw becoming
part of my landscape, part of my history. Part of me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">And it’s a
part of me that is being lost. Right now. Waves of pain crash into an emptying
void where, just three days ago, bright hopes lay. I cannot sleep and so I
write this. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Utter
hopelessness was my first reaction. I am a doer. When the doctor shook her head
and said “Oh dear” I wanted there to be something I could do. But there wasn’t,
and there isn’t and so I am losing this little life, living through this
process as nature decides and my body responds. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">I am OK with
that decision. Nature has its reasons and I understand that it is for the best.
But it is a decision of such sorrow. It is a decision where light and laughter
and fun and wild times of a growing family are snatched away before you had the
chance to see them properly. It is a decision which is an aggressive attack on
me as a woman; a decision which rips out what it means to be female. I can no
longer nurture or protect that little life as I should. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">And it is a
decision I have no answers to. There can be no whys because there are no answers.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Just
silence. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">So we hold
hands and we savour every drop of our beautiful young son, so full of life and
love and curiosity and mayhem that being with him you can forget, just for a minute,
the dark hole of loss happening right now. We are lucky to have him. We are grateful
that he came first, before this, so that we know the possibilities when nature
is on our side. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">And we wait.
We wait for the storm to pass and peace to descend. We know it will,
eventually, after the swells of sadness. And then the sun will rise over
tranquil waters and we will keep sailing forwards. Together.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Because that
is all you can do.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>I have had
lots of love and support from friends and family for which I am extremely
grateful. Also, reading the information here has helped tremendously: </i> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="http://www.miscarriageassociation.org.uk/">http://www.miscarriageassociation.org.uk/</a></span></div>
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Forest Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11296984682432477255noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664527810224073342.post-44639712735252252482015-01-29T00:55:00.002-08:002015-01-29T00:55:48.177-08:00Flash fiction - An Open Window<span style="font-size: large;">After two months I've happily found a little space and time to write today as the snow falls, not so softly, past my window on the river. Baby sleeps and chirps to himself alongside the pitter patter of my typing. I've linked up this week with <a href="https://jfb57.wordpress.com/2015/01/27/100-word-challenge-for-grown-ups-week-5/" target="_blank">Julia's Place</a> and her 100WCGU write. The prompt is ... <i>the suitcase lay open</i> ... Thanks for reading. Comments welcome! </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><u>An Open Window</u></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The suitcase lay open, like an invitation. Like a white flag. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">How could he possibly choose between what to take and what to leave behind? Everything in the room was meaningless. His heart lurched as he grabbed at clothes and books. His hands touched his things, but he felt nothing stuffing them into the tiny space his whole word had become. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">He knew they were coming, but the bangs on the door startled him anyway. He sprang towards the window, stuffing himself through with his case, his foot knocking the photo of Dora, her face forever etched on his heart. </span></div>
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Forest Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11296984682432477255noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664527810224073342.post-35627303125900105662014-11-29T00:11:00.002-08:002014-11-29T00:13:14.699-08:00Flash fiction - Almost The Last Letter<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I am just in time for the deadline over at Studio 30+ this week, with this bit of flash fiction using a prompt from <a href="http://katybrandes.wordpress.com/2014/11/21/coincidence/" target="_blank">Katy's writing</a> last week: "chills". See what you think. Thanks for reading! Click on the icon below to read more entries. </span><br />
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<b><u><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Almost The Last Letter</span></u></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Dear Editor, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">My whole professional life I have been bound by ethics and cloaked in my own trustworthiness. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">But now I am not. I want to reveal those I have harboured in the name of my profession, in the name of science, in the name of what's right. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">For it has been brutally wrong. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Joanne Cardew, Patient 3682, is a bully. She has systematically emotionally trampled each one of her children so they are mere shadows strewn across our streets. I know this because she came to me in the guise of bettering herself. All she wanted was excuses to stitch into her so on her own deathbed she could say it wasn't her fault. To her children I say, it was. Your mother was never right. Let her vanish and, please, come into the sun. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Reginald Cross, Patient 0081, should be in prison. A long time ago he was party to something so cruel I get chills thinking about it even now. And he does too, let it be known. But that does not escape the fact that every deed he does trying to undo that fateful day gets him no further away from the tragedy that pumps through his veins. His only completion is justice, and regrettably it is only now, with this letter, I can offer it from whoever is out there that can make it happen. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Jemima Anne Forsythe, Patient 2003, is a liar. Everything she does, everything she says, simply builds up her house of cards. If you are in her life, you are not alone. There are hundreds like you, being used, discarded, reinvented. She feels nothing except for the tales that spin off her wickedly shiny tongue. One day, hopefully soon, it will all come tumbling down and she will be swallowed by her own vicious inventions, trodden into nothing because when there is not even one truth to cling to, there is no real existence. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I have more but my writing wavers and I am tired. As our maker knocks soon on my own door, I will save my energy and write again tomorrow. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Very best, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Dr Virginia Whiticker.</span></div>
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Forest Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11296984682432477255noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664527810224073342.post-69327356991987259602014-11-20T21:56:00.000-08:002014-11-20T21:57:11.922-08:00Haikus - Dandelions<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYokeeUctr_rdZeLiC8wh7vFFIYwpfHTnm9T2tBFMuwbh5luAd2ePHjgDRdcL1crwEQ4xE9SOxC6_sLbxgZX07VvTiu13Oe_am0boGTitFUeCJ4JDaqLBLyFyPxa_MU56UR9MCBFEvs9MP/s1600/dandelion-1-150x150.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYokeeUctr_rdZeLiC8wh7vFFIYwpfHTnm9T2tBFMuwbh5luAd2ePHjgDRdcL1crwEQ4xE9SOxC6_sLbxgZX07VvTiu13Oe_am0boGTitFUeCJ4JDaqLBLyFyPxa_MU56UR9MCBFEvs9MP/s1600/dandelion-1-150x150.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">In the early morning when my baby just wants to play by himself and laugh at the fact his hands are attached to him and can find things, I sit half asleep and write some lines for the writers' posse over at Studio 30 Plus. Ideas pour, but I am tired, so I will just leave these two poems, using one of the prompts this week: dandelions. View more by others by clicking on the icon below. Thanks for reading.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><u>Soldiers</u></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">They stand poised but burnt,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Like old dandelions, war</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Scarred in a new world.</span><br />
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<b><u><span style="font-size: large;">Untrodden</span></u></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">A summer moon hangs</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">On fields of dandelions</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Where no one has stepped.</span><br />
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<br />Forest Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11296984682432477255noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664527810224073342.post-77267114653640885232014-11-04T06:20:00.000-08:002014-11-04T06:20:01.021-08:00Flash fiction - Afterwards<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Time has changed its meaning for me recently. This time, right now, is precious because I don't know when I'll get it again. So, get those words on the page (furiously! furiously!) and on we go. Here's this week's write for the wonders over at <a href="http://studio30plus.com/page/prompts?commentId=6495482%3AComment%3A35802&xg_source=msg_com_page" target="_blank">Studio 30+</a> who kindly used my writing from last week - <a href="http://birdoftheforest.blogspot.co.uk/2014/10/newborn.html" target="_blank">Newborn</a> - to source their prompts: 'chamber of secrets' and/or 'stars'. I went for the double whammy this time. </span><div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b><u>Afterwards</u></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">“When we are old, will we still love each other?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">“Of course, only more.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">They were sixteen when they had had that conversation,
laying in the sand dunes, under the stars, high on life. Now, some sixty-odd
years later, they held hands against her life’s setting sun and she asked him
again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">He looked over at her. Her eyes were still roaming and sparkling
and as curious as they had been at birth. His friend. His confident. Later, his
lover, his love. His wife. Mother of his children, grandmother of their
children. He briefly wondered how much more wonderful could a person be before
answering,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">“Of course, only more.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Despite the enormous pressure of the pain from all corners
of her body, she grinned, wildly and openly. Laughing hurt, but smiles could be
a good measure of their time. One more smile. He always had that to go for.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">“Darling, what do you think will happen. Afterwards?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">He looked out over the fields stretching past their bedroom
window. He thought of his return to the world out there, alone. Though this
room had been stifling at times during the past weeks, it was their last space
together, their comfort, their chamber of secrets. Yes, it was also the end of
her life, but he took great comfort in the fact it was he and he alone who was
passing her on. No doctors, no smiling strangers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">“You will wait for me in a place where, when I go, I will
know exactly where to find you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">“You romantic, you.” Another smile.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">“No? Then tell me, where are you going?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">“Nowhere. I’ll stay and haunt the house. I’ll be in the
teacups and the bathroom taps and the pots in the shed.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">He laughed. “Still nagging me no doubt?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The last smile. “Of course, only more.”</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://%E2%80%9CWhen%20we%20are%20old,%20will%20we%20still%20love%20each%20other/?%E2%80%9D%20%20%E2%80%9COf%20course,%20only%20more.%E2%80%9D%20%20They%20were%20sixteen%20when%20they%20had%20had%20that%20conversation,%20laying%20in%20the%20sand%20dunes,%20under%20the%20stars,%20high%20on%20life.%20Now,%20some%20sixty-odd%20years%20later,%20they%20held%20hands%20against%20her%20life%E2%80%99s%20setting%20sun%20and%20she%20asked%20him%20again.%20%20He%20looked%20over%20at%20her.%20Her%20eyes%20still%20roaming%20and%20sparkling%20and%20as%20curious%20as%20they%20had%20been%20at%20birth.%20His%20friend.%20His%20confident.%20Later,%20his%20lover,%20his%20love.%20His%20wife.%20Mother%20of%20his%20children,%20grandmother%20of%20their%20children.%20He%20briefly%20wondered%20how%20much%20more%20wonderful%20could%20a%20person%20be%20before%20answering,%20%20%E2%80%9COf%20course,%20only%20more.%E2%80%9D%20%20Despite%20the%20enormous%20pressure%20of%20the%20pain%20from%20all%20corners%20of%20her%20body,%20she%20grinned,%20wildly%20and%20openly.%20Laughing%20hurt,%20but%20smiles%20could%20be%20a%20good%20measure%20of%20their%20time.%20One%20more%20smile.%20He%20always%20had%20that%20to%20go%20for.%20%20%E2%80%9CDarling,%20what%20do%20you%20think%20will%20happen.%20Afterwards?%E2%80%9D%20%20He%20looked%20out%20over%20the%20fields%20stretching%20past%20their%20bedroom%20window.%20He%20thought%20of%20his%20return%20to%20the%20world%20out%20there,%20alone.%20Though%20this%20room%20had%20been%20stifling%20at%20times%20during%20the%20past%20weeks,%20it%20was%20their%20last%20space%20together,%20their%20comfort,%20their%20chamber%20of%20secrets.%20Yes,%20it%20was%20also%20the%20end%20of%20her%20life,%20but%20he%20took%20great%20comfort%20in%20the%20fact%20it%20was%20he%20and%20he%20alone%20who%20was%20passing%20her%20on.%20No%20doctors,%20no%20smiling%20strangers.%20%20%20%E2%80%9CYou%20will%20wait%20for%20me%20in%20a%20place%20where,%20when%20I%20go,%20I%20will%20know%20exactly%20where%20to%20find%20you.%E2%80%9D%20%20%E2%80%9CYou%20romantic,%20you.%E2%80%9D%20Another%20smile.%20%20%E2%80%9CNo?%20Then%20tell%20me,%20where%20are%20you%20going?%E2%80%9D%20%20%E2%80%9CNowhere.%20I%E2%80%99ll%20stay%20and%20haunt%20the%20house.%20I%E2%80%99ll%20be%20in%20the%20teacups%20and%20the%20bathroom%20taps%20and%20the%20pots%20in%20the%20shed.%E2%80%9D%20%20%E2%80%9CStill%20nagging%20me%20no%20doubt?%E2%80%9D%20%20The%20last%20smile.%20%E2%80%9COf%20course,%20only%20more.%E2%80%9D" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrBH27uDdbH7YUkx9tKFeJpTNqSPPlZdCU5G7PUOPhXDL498mFP57w55AiywKFrr2cf4HpSX6hsWgjoXLO171cNYXaNBG3xY8Pk0MUci-KghnhKwWD3CdahoTABtzeZpCTM3UotyGlC_rT/s1600/S30PBadge.jpg" /></a></div>
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Forest Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11296984682432477255noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664527810224073342.post-67838552089883753362014-10-30T11:31:00.000-07:002014-10-30T11:33:17.313-07:00Newborn <span style="font-size: large;">In the quiet space when my baby is asleep I have a moment to reconnect to all that was before. So, here I am again, writing a little for the grand folks over at Studio 30+ with one of their prompts, "best hidden away". Forgive me for changing its punctuation!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Please click <a href="http://studio30plus.com/page/prompts?commentId=6495482%3AComment%3A35398&xg_source=msg_com_page" target="_blank">HERE</a> to be taken to some great writers, who are way more regular than me!</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Newborn</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">You were my best, hidden away for nine months in a chamber
of secrets, dark to the stars. Like an unfurling pink petal you rose from
depths I knew not I had; unflinching at this world, a conqueror, and smooth as
sea worn pebbles. You, so rounded, so complete, so nestled into your role: you,
my love, are the bridge between then and now. </span></b><o:p></o:p></div>
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Forest Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11296984682432477255noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664527810224073342.post-72524646398597677332014-10-12T02:31:00.001-07:002014-10-12T02:31:56.164-07:00Silent Sunday 12-10-14<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Forest Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11296984682432477255noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664527810224073342.post-10673456739905430042014-09-16T04:33:00.000-07:002014-09-16T10:25:17.666-07:00Flash fiction - Sanatorium, 1972<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The ladies over at Studio 30+ gave us homework along with the prompts this week. It was to write and then wait. Sit back, read, re-read, let it stew and check it again the next day. I wrote <i>Sanatorium, 1972</i> yesterday and it was good practice to come back to it today. I made some vocabulary changes. Reading it out loud was great. I don't do it enough, so thanks for that ladies.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The prompts this week come from Opal Reflections and the poem <a href="http://opalreflections.com/2014/09/09/pre-dawn-reflections/" target="_blank">Pre-Dawn Reflections</a>. They were "taught by my example" and/or "echoes". It should be obvious which I used! Thanks for reading.</span><br />
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<b><u><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Sanatorium, 1972<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Isabella Snow thought she had them fooled: the memories, the
trauma, the extreme mood swings and the night terrors. Famous painter turned
poet with the fading white scars up her arms; she who had checked in over a
month ago, hours before her deadline, clutching a yellowing photo of her father
and a bottle of gin, no shoes. The first therapist, a fan, wanted to talk of
her portraits, especially ‘Broken’. She hurled a vase at him. The second asked
about her childhood. She spilled over herself, tripping on lost memories that
made no sense with what the world actually knew. He gave her more pills, just
sugar. The third therapist opened with, “I hated your last anthology.” Isabella
smiled inside and cowered in her chair. ‘Echoes’ had been a roaring success,
but she knew it was full of rainbows, shredded ropes of hope for the mindless
to cling to. Here was what she really needed in order to write again. Pain.
“Tell me,” she whispered back and prepared to really break herself open. </span><o:p></o:p><br />
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<a href="http://studio30plus.com/page/prompts?commentId=6495482%3AComment%3A35534&xg_source=msg_com_page" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrBH27uDdbH7YUkx9tKFeJpTNqSPPlZdCU5G7PUOPhXDL498mFP57w55AiywKFrr2cf4HpSX6hsWgjoXLO171cNYXaNBG3xY8Pk0MUci-KghnhKwWD3CdahoTABtzeZpCTM3UotyGlC_rT/s1600/S30PBadge.jpg" /></a> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Read more here.</span> </div>
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Forest Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11296984682432477255noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664527810224073342.post-10585390207853433572014-09-14T01:04:00.001-07:002014-09-14T01:04:12.849-07:00Silent Sunday 14-09-14<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Forest Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11296984682432477255noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664527810224073342.post-12293034335674781892014-09-07T06:08:00.002-07:002014-09-07T06:08:26.775-07:00Silent Sunday 07-09-14<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Forest Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11296984682432477255noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664527810224073342.post-61935842852030364802014-09-05T02:29:00.000-07:002014-09-05T02:31:30.653-07:00Flash fiction - The Anniversary Cake<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I have no idea what I've been doing these past couple of weeks which has meant I haven't been able to write, but well, this maternity leave must have left me busy! Anyway, here I am again joining up with the cool peeps over at Studio 30+ and their writing prompt of the week. My offering is called <i>The Anniversary Cake</i> and uses one of their prompts, <i>iron</i>. Thanks for reading and let me know what you think! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><u>The Anniversary Cake</u></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The cake didn’t look like it had all the other times she had
made it. The lemon glaze was less shiny, was her piping unsteady,
unsymmetrical? Martha laid her hands either side of it and stared down. It
smelt as it always had with the hint of ginger poking through her trio of
citrus flavours. Thirty-eight years ago, David’s mother’s face had cracked a
smile, gliding her fork through Martha’s cake. Crumbs had fallen into her lap,
and she had left them there, devouring her plate, eyes skyward. Martha had
beamed at the sight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> But looking
at it now, it didn’t hold the same attraction and Martha felt a tear spring up
and roll down her cheek. It wasn’t good enough. She glanced at the clock. She
didn’t have time to make another one. It would have to do. David was so busy,
maybe he wouldn’t notice the shaky piping or the lack of lustre on her fruit
topping. She left the cake to cool and hoped on her way upstairs it would at
least taste the same. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> The iron
was now hot enough and she laid out her dress, the pale blue linen one she
saved for special occasions. Friends remarked how wonderful it was she could still
fit into her clothes from times past. It wasn’t something Martha thought about
much. She had always been slender and enjoyed her daily walks on the grounds
with the dogs, weekly swims and Pilates classes. Her friends said she was
dedicated, and they lacked the commitment to exercise. Martha didn’t remind
them that they had children and busy lives, while she had little to do. She
enjoyed the compliment too much to open the discussion and her life to more
scrutiny. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> She took
the dress through to the bedroom and hung it on the wardrobe door while she
undressed, sprayed a rose scent over her body and ran almond cream over her
arms and legs. She paused, looking at the mirror. <i>Why not</i>? She thought. She
dipped her hand in the cream and rubbed it into her breasts and belly. Maybe,
just maybe, David would want to make love tonight. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> It hadn’t
gone well. Five phone calls interrupted dinner. He didn’t even notice the
present beside his plate until she pointed it out. He hadn’t got her even a
card. Then, once the cake was on the table, he started on the fact she always
made that “bloody cake” and didn’t he give her “enough money to buy new
clothes? Why was she wearing that old thing?” Martha tried to take him back to
a place on the seaside and a cosy little Italian where she had worn that dress;
to a mid-afternoon picnic when she had surprised him at the office many years
ago with prawn sandwiches and her cake. He wasn’t interested. He took his
brandy to the study, leaving the door slightly ajar, like a dare. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> She didn’t
take him up on it. She quietly took her coat and slipped out of the front door,
crossing the curved driveway armed with huge lavender pots and onto the lawn.
Clouds crumbled the moon’s light. She heard an owl in the distance and wondered
how long it would take to reach that owl, and fly into the night with it.
Somewhere, anywhere. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Martha
headed towards the thicket at the bottom of the lawn and crossed the style. The
wooden beams were slick with moss and dew. She made no sounds on the wet leaves
as she took the path which eventually opened up at their little lake. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Martha
looked at the water and thought of the vows they had made on the pontoon
opposite thirty-six years ago. She thought of David’s disbelieving mother who
would give up the rights to the house; of his father, distracted by the
illegitimate child the cook was carrying; of her parents’ puzzled faces at the
beauty that some people lived in; of David’s seriousness and her own, complete
joy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Now she
understood her parents’ confusion about how the poor girl from the village
would make it work with the rich, handsome gent from the house on the hill. She
understood why they had cast her adrift, quietly and unceremoniously, setting her
off on this path they couldn’t follow. But it had only led her here.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> She
stepped towards the water’s edge. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Have a look at what others have written by clicking on the icon below.</span><br />
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Forest Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11296984682432477255noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664527810224073342.post-86928748464442811692014-08-31T02:27:00.001-07:002014-08-31T02:27:22.782-07:00Silent Sunday 31-08-14<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifmI8lOfO2FRtIcq17tiRqdy6aMJEQkqS1pYVTwzE0WuSihemJJyTDAjw9J9-7WzbEY2vtP91HT2BGSgZtJAIiHVSrgsRNhgWwnWkMLgZvWbgdTRwSDzBqTVQdgNBAq1gO_-hkT6-j18QE/s1600/DSC_0115.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifmI8lOfO2FRtIcq17tiRqdy6aMJEQkqS1pYVTwzE0WuSihemJJyTDAjw9J9-7WzbEY2vtP91HT2BGSgZtJAIiHVSrgsRNhgWwnWkMLgZvWbgdTRwSDzBqTVQdgNBAq1gO_-hkT6-j18QE/s1600/DSC_0115.JPG" height="422" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />Forest Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11296984682432477255noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664527810224073342.post-44972536475393421082014-08-17T02:46:00.002-07:002014-08-17T02:46:40.919-07:00Silent Sunday 17-08-14<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo-JvSTUdKHLnHpecaUJ9yvzwcLFr2bBQshyphenhyphen8aezYJMsIRhYn1gclDeqvTEbVx0va9EVwSgM5XTLe5IrnUwJhL1YycMoVOhHTAIZdWMMsWwWQPUX0a0Lqx32mFdC7o3wrRav2toSIPjoGW/s1600/DSC_0051.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo-JvSTUdKHLnHpecaUJ9yvzwcLFr2bBQshyphenhyphen8aezYJMsIRhYn1gclDeqvTEbVx0va9EVwSgM5XTLe5IrnUwJhL1YycMoVOhHTAIZdWMMsWwWQPUX0a0Lqx32mFdC7o3wrRav2toSIPjoGW/s1600/DSC_0051.JPG" height="422" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />Forest Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11296984682432477255noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664527810224073342.post-24740091781591035702014-08-10T10:13:00.000-07:002014-08-10T10:13:08.051-07:00Flash fiction - Emerald<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Joining the party a little tardy after the cool crew at Studio 30+ chose this week's writing prompts from my haiku last week. Better late than never, though, right? The prompt I chose of the two was <i>ladybirds</i>. Thanks for reading. </span><br />
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<b><u><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Emerald<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The handkerchief of increasing despair lies in her sweaty
palm, charting her demise. Those in the shadows know it won’t be long and they
shift in the cluttered boudoir, avoiding the burgundy, pink, ivory and pale
blue bodices and skirts of their friend, their lover, their employee. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Emerald still manages to draw them to her, as she always
has. As this place, probably, always will. Her chalk white fingers encircle the
material as she brings it to her mouth, those sounds breaking the silence of
waiting. It’s now more than blots that plan her final path; gone are the
ladybirds of blood that signalled the beginning of the end. Huge countries map
themselves onto the handkerchief, stains of where she has been. Is one of them
where she is going? Is heaven or hell depicted among the blemishes her insides
thrust out of her? Would she be able to tell the difference?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Canto moves forward and pushes down on her shoulders as the
heaving subsides. The pillows and cushions welcome her back. Emerald remembers
she is wearing her favourite dress. She has been wearing it for three days. She
remembers Majorie putting her into it after the priest’s visit. It still makes
her feel ready. She closes her eyes and hopes it isn’t too stained for whatever
is coming next. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Canto stays next to her and takes her hand. She knows he will
be the last to leave after everyone else has gone; back to their rooms, their
stages, the work that awaits them. Time is money, she has always understood
that. Canto will continue to hold her hand afterwards, talk to her, stroke her
face, kiss her eyes – her eyes which gave her her name. He will stay with her
and among her things, the lace, the little china cups she treasures.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">One last breath. <i>Treasured</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">And he does stay, holding on to the moment where, finally,
he has her to himself; his pure, beautiful Emerald whom everyone loved but no
one could keep. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Forest Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11296984682432477255noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664527810224073342.post-67078942572145596102014-08-10T02:40:00.002-07:002014-08-10T02:40:39.123-07:00Silent Sunday 10-08-14<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg8rT1HJ0AbWpFUJaEFghdhDFNV9naqzFXyMJr5-GvHvQtsnD3bLMjTkI9gj14fvAD_5xYc6qxbWE9bThKd47pzqZSeumjHmWxkRYytbq8cAPGvy_O3V8hRZgVoH-JQML4StWXL4rImyGQ/s1600/Esch_Sur_Sure.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg8rT1HJ0AbWpFUJaEFghdhDFNV9naqzFXyMJr5-GvHvQtsnD3bLMjTkI9gj14fvAD_5xYc6qxbWE9bThKd47pzqZSeumjHmWxkRYytbq8cAPGvy_O3V8hRZgVoH-JQML4StWXL4rImyGQ/s1600/Esch_Sur_Sure.jpg" height="478" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />Forest Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11296984682432477255noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664527810224073342.post-25235207377578276822014-08-03T02:21:00.002-07:002014-08-03T02:21:41.107-07:00Silent Sunday 03-08-14<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgazVrq4O2jTxw7QJSV29LTeprTyEh4OQI9Rnk4bn-I2oS8IZpmtMkReumLCLMSuIfQbwJyLoCzu5l13L_BvN9UT-_GONKyc0_ZlpKfCazsnqsj8rPyKwm5QA8i68u6xyAq7M3maPJhRdr5/s1600/photo+2+(11).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgazVrq4O2jTxw7QJSV29LTeprTyEh4OQI9Rnk4bn-I2oS8IZpmtMkReumLCLMSuIfQbwJyLoCzu5l13L_BvN9UT-_GONKyc0_ZlpKfCazsnqsj8rPyKwm5QA8i68u6xyAq7M3maPJhRdr5/s1600/photo+2+(11).jpg" height="478" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />Forest Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11296984682432477255noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664527810224073342.post-36728536921511919492014-07-30T10:21:00.000-07:002014-07-30T10:22:48.826-07:00Haiku - Summer<br />
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<a href="http://studio30plus.com/page/prompts?commentId=6495482%3AComment%3A34932&xg_source=msg_com_page" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrBH27uDdbH7YUkx9tKFeJpTNqSPPlZdCU5G7PUOPhXDL498mFP57w55AiywKFrr2cf4HpSX6hsWgjoXLO171cNYXaNBG3xY8Pk0MUci-KghnhKwWD3CdahoTABtzeZpCTM3UotyGlC_rT/s1600/S30PBadge.jpg" height="144" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">It's my last week of work before I chill out for the rest of the summer and await the birth of our first child. So, this week is a little bit more manic than most as I fit in last classes with my students with a last-minute intensive course I'm giving and the antenatal classes I have booked in. But I couldn't resist joining up with the fine folks at Studio 30+ and their prompt this week which is quite simple: <i>summer</i>. We can do anything we like with it. This came to me last night as I was trying to sleep (unsuccessfully). Other entries can be read by clicking on the icon above. Have a good week! </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><u>Meanwhile</u></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">The ladybirds climb<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Long, green stalks knowing at the<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Top summer will end. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Forest Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11296984682432477255noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664527810224073342.post-10984118238708154532014-07-27T04:40:00.000-07:002014-07-27T04:42:56.882-07:00Silent Sunday 27-07-14<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaHDDuaq8qla5Gpv_Jy40XC1g3uKEkhyphenhyphenp4XvGsPHfnnzNudv-6gUiv8JECQVNzsCHblO74CPYekua6rgcLwjSelmIyvmdxWn68IDHmB1x4EVhEt4VKBJIeoTyxzqAhb2DzZq4yQ9nOCrWx/s1600/Zen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaHDDuaq8qla5Gpv_Jy40XC1g3uKEkhyphenhyphenp4XvGsPHfnnzNudv-6gUiv8JECQVNzsCHblO74CPYekua6rgcLwjSelmIyvmdxWn68IDHmB1x4EVhEt4VKBJIeoTyxzqAhb2DzZq4yQ9nOCrWx/s1600/Zen.jpg" height="478" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />Forest Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11296984682432477255noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664527810224073342.post-72457333169180351932014-07-23T00:33:00.000-07:002014-07-23T00:38:11.265-07:00The virtual bar<span style="font-size: large;">I am in my virtual bar, surrounded by writers, photographers and travellers. There are barmen inventing wonderful virtual cocktails and music that simply surfs the background to the chatter. One minute I am chatting to a couple who live and work in Croatia, travelling with their young family. The next I'm sharing a bright green drink with an eco-warrior who writes for various blogs. Then I'm contemplating the use of the hyphen with a mother who has a penchant for steamy online fiction. After that, I'm discussing tapering with a runner from the west coast of the USA. After another couple of drinks I'm surrounded by teachers from around the world and it turns out students from Korea, France, Brazil, Malaysia all have the same problems learning English. Towards the end of the evening, I'm in a corner with a quiet, unassuming man who takes incredible photos - close ups of things which distort them so they look like abstract art. He needs persuading to show me. We end up closing the bar marvelling at his creativity.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I can't remember all these people's names, although they tell me. We share snippets and stories, we compliment and appreciate each other, we laugh nervous laughter because we don't know each other. We are not friends or colleagues. We are far apart and yet, here in this bar we are brought together by that magic something the virtual world provides: a beautiful, invisible thread. Be it poetry, parenthood, food, running; from the general to the very specific, there is something that draws these people to my virtual bar. There is a reason they are on my guest list, a reason they can be one click away, no matter the miles as the crow flies. They interest me, they entertain me, they teach me.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Sometimes, their thought and kindness reaches through the screen and touches me back in my real world. Their words go beyond the shining screen and enter my heart. The beautiful, invisible thread pulls my real, beating heart. That can be a very powerful thing. These people, merely visitors to my virtual bar, become more than a like or comment. By opening themselves up, they prise me open too. They are the people, who were it not for those miles, I would like to stand next to in a real bar and buy a real cocktail and have a real conversation.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">But that's not possible. And so I just thank them for being able to pop into my virtual bar when they can and making it a better place. In this blinking online world where so much idiocy and awfulness reign, they are real beacons of light.</span><br />
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<ul>
<li><i style="font-size: x-large;">This post was inspired by Tom MacInnes from <a href="http://cobourgcobbie.blogspot.ca/" target="_blank">Cobbie's World</a>.</i></li>
<li><i style="font-size: x-large;">It also links up with the writer folks over at Studio 30 Plus and their prompt of the week.</i></li>
</ul>
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<br />Forest Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11296984682432477255noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664527810224073342.post-21975874771180617402014-07-20T02:18:00.005-07:002014-07-20T02:18:42.335-07:00Silent Sunday 20-07-14<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrulQP3SBHA1crptecw8iOsBRhGp7Uko_MSC1o5gKbC3nXaY88z84pE5Uf7gQhN_w960tCGpTdXydb7Zheco83Yc9tKSUCLxkuqvSUJSknTQmeikl9anbdBbMQ2H795X9-3LuiqmSRHyAI/s1600/umbrellas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrulQP3SBHA1crptecw8iOsBRhGp7Uko_MSC1o5gKbC3nXaY88z84pE5Uf7gQhN_w960tCGpTdXydb7Zheco83Yc9tKSUCLxkuqvSUJSknTQmeikl9anbdBbMQ2H795X9-3LuiqmSRHyAI/s1600/umbrellas.jpg" height="478" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />Forest Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11296984682432477255noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664527810224073342.post-91567966332412025202014-07-16T06:19:00.002-07:002014-07-16T09:43:30.953-07:00Flash fiction - Moving Day<span style="font-size: large;">Finally, a day with some time to write. It's been too long, as always. Here's a short story prompted by our writer friends over at Studio 30+. The words we had to use are in bold. Check out others by clicking the icon below. Thoughts and comments always welcome. I'm now off to enjoy the sunny river...</span><br />
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<u><span style="font-size: large;">Moving Day</span></u></h3>
<span style="font-size: large;">She would like to go backwards because <b>it all began to fall apart</b> just when it had become perfect. Or something close to perfect in her fourteen-year-old mind.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Laying at the edge of the cornfields, bottles of lemonade at their side, satchels flung and just the sounds of crickets, or bees, or some insect she promised to look up later; and them, touching, side by side, breathing the same air and wondering if this was what love could be.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">His sweet lips and the stories that sprung from them, even before she tasted them for real and dissolved into him, letting him cover her with newness and give birth to an ache in her whole being she had not been prepared for.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The note in her locker: Meet me after math next to the gym. The goose bumps of expectation, nerves and the warm sensation sliding all over her body at the thought of just seeing him alone.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Taking her hand under the lunch table and squeezing it, albeit briefly, before stroking her fingers one by one. Her eyes down, trying not to cry at the hurtful things which had been said before; her heart grateful for the kindness shown in secret. Don’t listen to them. You’re nothing like your mother. I am here, friend.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The science experiment the day her best friend was at a music exam and the teacher forced her to move to his bench, where his long fingers cradled the test-tubes and his eyes laughed at her behind the goggles. She hated science. He loved it. She would love it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">His first day at school and the red jacket everyone laughed at, except her because it meant no matter where he was she could find him. Across the grass, his blond hair twinkling in the September sunshine, his hands not knowing what to do as he looked beyond the other boys for something more interesting than football stats. He found her, though she pretended he hadn’t. Then.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Now. The moving trucks looming outside, casting a shadow over the house and her whole life. Her mum gone, her dad with a face as sad as the end always is. Her brothers crying, wailing, as their lives are ripped from the roots of the tree swing, the porch, the sandpit, Harvey’s kennel. Her screaming at the injustice of it all, the pain of separation, her future blinded by him not being there. </span><br />
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<a href="http://studio30plus.com/page/prompts?commentId=6495482%3AComment%3A34914&xg_source=msg_com_page" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrBH27uDdbH7YUkx9tKFeJpTNqSPPlZdCU5G7PUOPhXDL498mFP57w55AiywKFrr2cf4HpSX6hsWgjoXLO171cNYXaNBG3xY8Pk0MUci-KghnhKwWD3CdahoTABtzeZpCTM3UotyGlC_rT/s1600/S30PBadge.jpg" /></a></div>
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Forest Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11296984682432477255noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664527810224073342.post-3134462455306817562014-07-13T05:13:00.003-07:002014-07-13T05:13:45.651-07:00Silent Sunday - World Cup Final Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTYdInBInshHW65R28u-VTSIPfKu3YFMwd6VZoKqjgxoyqypJrwXTv6nSwy2XJ2pnE0MdIMjD8N_0oUOr0k8Ja8yV_zDyyUE6ikYMjRseh6oF9qmC_UGd_MV6hN4YOihZNd0h-MrxIK1Fq/s1600/DSC_0032+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTYdInBInshHW65R28u-VTSIPfKu3YFMwd6VZoKqjgxoyqypJrwXTv6nSwy2XJ2pnE0MdIMjD8N_0oUOr0k8Ja8yV_zDyyUE6ikYMjRseh6oF9qmC_UGd_MV6hN4YOihZNd0h-MrxIK1Fq/s1600/DSC_0032+-+Copy.JPG" height="432" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />Forest Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11296984682432477255noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664527810224073342.post-13205778750306408442014-06-22T00:45:00.002-07:002014-06-22T00:45:49.024-07:00Silent Sunday 22-06-14<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj2q20tvlw13F2OAW2IxbFzQlj2xuli2e0ftebiDz8qjdSU2OJEDCW7Y6F4u390TI-fTHPsk8djKOSVeVX-HQKilchUaMBvtyyZrPR7OWUr53OKRB_fIspdVbxSuVUJ4_DqR67PAFMddTJ/s1600/DSC_0798.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj2q20tvlw13F2OAW2IxbFzQlj2xuli2e0ftebiDz8qjdSU2OJEDCW7Y6F4u390TI-fTHPsk8djKOSVeVX-HQKilchUaMBvtyyZrPR7OWUr53OKRB_fIspdVbxSuVUJ4_DqR67PAFMddTJ/s1600/DSC_0798.JPG" height="424" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />Forest Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11296984682432477255noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7664527810224073342.post-37449661432092419482014-06-01T04:38:00.000-07:002014-06-01T04:38:05.046-07:00Silent Sunday 01-06-14<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX1pIhQbOpysZALar6a0maxFi7PigqpG3OaOBZwGWD29Z5CpcXZcEga6O_4lfEgEUCN9NvDnkK-8sUqqGB-Z0mhjOg26jFKPafl2NYweYjPt3uKhMchBCUzvped8qX3Si4oWZD0uHhpEJY/s1600/photo+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX1pIhQbOpysZALar6a0maxFi7PigqpG3OaOBZwGWD29Z5CpcXZcEga6O_4lfEgEUCN9NvDnkK-8sUqqGB-Z0mhjOg26jFKPafl2NYweYjPt3uKhMchBCUzvped8qX3Si4oWZD0uHhpEJY/s1600/photo+5.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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