Category: Creativity

Literary?

Dear Boadicea,

Despite not being a “literary” person, you did an excellent job at very short notice.

But what makes a “literary” person?

I certainly do not think I could be described as such. I did write a play at the age of nine but I feel that possibly I peaked rather early.

I know I am deemed to be a “creative writer”, as regards MyT, but I really did not feel anything other than an imposter.  Now that is not to say I didn’t enjoy being part of this group; I most certainly did. I started to write poetry, albeit very bad poetry,  but I enjoyed it and people were kind and provided constructive criticism and encouragement. It was quite an eye opener that I could turn my hand to anything more creative than a shopping list. I am most grateful that I felt I could even attempt this. Continue reading “Literary?”

Get ready baby… for some hot gerbil lurve

I’m not going to go into this but had to post.

This is the kind of stuff I aspire to write.

The fact that it wins an award too is the icing on the gerbil-themed cake.

Story here

That prize-winning quote:

“For the first month of Ricardo and Felicity’s affair, they greeted one another at every stolen rendezvous with a kiss – a lengthy, ravenous kiss, Ricardo lapping and sucking at Felicity’s mouth as if she were a giant cage-mounted water bottle and he were the world’s thirstiest gerbil.”

Could be worse, I suppose.  Could be ferrets…

A couple of nice paintings

One of my favourite paintings is in the news today. Teacher Barbara Mills’ research enabled her to discover and reveal for the first time the precise location whereSir John Everett Millais painted it – the Hogsmill in Six Acre Meadow, Old Malden, Surrey. There is even the fallen willow.

Continue reading “A couple of nice paintings”

Brave Monty Mouse: Midsummer Hell

One summer night when all was calm,
The nest of mice slept safe from harm.
Little snores and soft faint sighs,
Then Monty woke and rubbed his eyes.

He pricked his ears and listened hard.
Something strange; the silence marred,
By haunting notes from somewhere near;
His sleep disturbed, a touch of fear. Continue reading “Brave Monty Mouse: Midsummer Hell”

Mid-Summer Roses

The house is an old rectory with a large driveway surrounded by a shrubbery which is beautiful in a rambling, neglected sort of way. The front door is surrounded by climbing roses – a deep, deep red one and pale pink with huge thorns. Maybe Albertine, I think? When I press the bell I can hear it echoing through the house. Continue reading “Mid-Summer Roses”

Midsummer Madness: A short story

It had been a lovely weekend. For once the weather was perfect and the children had amused themselves for hours, splashing in the shallow bay and exploring the rock pools at low tide.

Such a pity they had to leave and start the long drive home. Thinking ahead, and checking her watch, she pulled off the motorway and parked her four wheel drive at a convenience store. It was not the most salubrious of areas but she needed some milk, bread and eggs. The children would be hungry and tired and require feeding before bedtime.

Continue reading “Midsummer Madness: A short story”

Short Story: Global Warming- a lesson.

Global Warming; a lesson.

So, Bea decided, it was actually happening!

What to do?

Now Bea, not a scientist or a particularly sharp cookie, had made up her mind. She was not entirely convinced, but given an element of doubt, she decided to err on the side of caution.

Continue reading “Short Story: Global Warming- a lesson.”

Popocatapetl in the sunlight gleams

When I was but thirteen or so

I went into a golden land,

Chimborazo, Cotopaxi

Took me by the hand.

“It will be out secret”, said the priest. “I want you to promise not to tell anybody, not even your mother. Nobody must know?”

Antonio sat silently, on the edge of the bed looking down at his feet, brushing away a tear from his eye.

The priest placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

“Promise me?”

“I promise, Father”, said the boy.

“There’s a good lad. Here, let me dry your tears away. You don’t want anybody to see you have been crying.” He reached for a handkerchief and wiped Antonio’s eyes.

“Go back to your own bed now and get some sleep. You will fee better in the morning.”

“I am not crying because of the pain,” said the boy.

“I know. Continue reading “Popocatapetl in the sunlight gleams”

Short story, “Coming up for Air.”

Once under the water she always tried to reach the grill at the bottom of the deep end before completing the length – without coming up for air. The dive had taken her right down through the chlorinated water which stung her eyes and reflected blue from the cracked ancient tiles until she nearly reached the bottom. Two deliberate kicks and she propelled herself further down. Continue reading “Short story, “Coming up for Air.””