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I think the recent hot weather has dried up my “well of ideas” a little over the past week or so. Perhaps also it’s because my “real world” has been a bit manic. Who knows!

In an attempt to keep these posts varied and fresh, I’m going to play a game with this post. Using an idea from a tutorial book I downloaded a while ago, I’ve taken ten words and will weave each of them into a short piece of fiction.

At least that’s the plan! Here goes….

The ten words are –

gamble, exact, bow, tower, risen, spin, soil, shame, melt, attack.

Wish me luck!

Grave Misgivings?

The full moon had risen, partially hidden behind a wispy veil of clouds. As the clouds parted its silvery light shone down on the pile of soil that marked the fresh grave.

A few hours earlier, from the sanctuary of the church tower, the dark angel had watched as a small group of mourners had paid their last respects to the old woman. The same old woman on whom she had fed a few days before. At the head of the grave, the old woman’s dog had sat watching as its mistress’ coffin was slowly lowered into the cold damp depths of the earth. Now, hours later the dog still sat in the exact same spot.

It had never been her intention to make the old woman her prey. Her sights had been set on younger richer blood but the risks associated with drinking from her preferred choice had been too great. It had proved to be too big a gamble for her to take that night. A small part of the dark angel felt a sense of shame at her attack on the woman.

Gliding soundlessly down from the church, the angel landed beside the grave. Time to pay her silent last respects. Something in the lunar magic of the full moon was tugging at the remnants of her lost soul. As she landed on the damp grass, the dog looked up. Politely she made a deep bow to the grave and the dog. Mirroring her futile gesture of apology, the dog lowered its head too.

A distant sound caused the angel to spin round and re-focus her attentions on the moonlit road that ran behind the dry stane wall of the graveyard. Thud. Thud. Thud. The steady rhythmic tread of the approaching runner caused the last glimmers of remorse to melt away into the night.

Deep within her the angel could feel her hunger stir, no longer satiated by octogenarian blood. Without a backward glance she spread her wings and took to the air in silent pursuit of her next feast.

Did you find all ten words?

(the start of the angels’ tale can be found above under fiction- short stuff and is titled Silently Watching)

I stumbled across “The Writers’ Retreat” cartoon on Facebook recently and it made me smile. (It also reminded me of my favourite jigsaw from my childhood but that’s another story….)

The picture stopped me in my tracks as I was transported back to late last December when I took the plunge and created this blog page with trembling hands.

Over the past seven months I’ve visited many of the “rooms” within “The Writers’ Retreat”.

For many years I’ve hidden in the comfort zone of the “Cave of Reclusive Genius” too shy to let the world enter my creative world and too scared to let it see what I was creating. My heart still pounds when I hit “publish” every week on each new post or page but it slows to a normal rhythm a little quicker each time.

I’ve meandered through “Plot Labyrinth” when my serialised tale “The Imp” took off (It can be found on the fiction-short stuff tab). From a one off piece, that was scribbled to relieve the boredom of waiting outside the school in the dark while Boy Child attended his Wind Orchestra rehearsal, the story twisted and turned and grew into a tale that I’m extremely proud of. Who knows, if I visit “Inspiration Overlook”, the imp may be back.

I’ve sat gazing into the “Reflecting Pool” many times as I debated with myself over which of my poems to share with the world, many of them deemed too personal to share.

The “Shrine to the Muse” has been photographed and acknowledged regularly as my larger “creative baby” has grown.

There have been several frantic visits to the “Emergency Idea Generator” as I’ve flapped about not having a blog post in mind for the week.

I’ve watched the sun set from “Magic Realist Pier”, whilst trying to avoid the siren’s call to “Cliché Island”, and kept my goals in sight, wholly appreciative of the massive challenge ahead of me.

“Procrastination Patio” has invited me to sit back and relax in the sun with a cold beer or a chilled white wine all too often of late!

Currently I’m enjoying the warmth of “First Draft Furnace” with the welcome company of three trusted friends.

Hopefully 2015 will see me visit “Publisher’s Roost” to celebrate the birth of my “creative baby” but, for now, I’m away to climb “Aspiration Tower” and drink in the view.

What room are you hanging out in?

credits to the owner of the cartoon

Pulling the laces tight on his well-worn running shoes, he glanced out of the patio doors at the reddening sky. Another beautiful summer evening for a long training run. With a nod to his wife, who was curled up on the opposite couch engrossed in a trashy TV soap opera, he slipped out of the front door, closing it quietly behind him so as not to disturb their sleeping children. Nestling his earphones into place, he pressed play on his iPod and set off down the hill at a leisurely pace. No sense in heading off too fast too soon since he had his sights set on at least twelve miles. As the hill began to level off he had a choice – go straight through more houses or take the right fork down a narrow single track road. The sight of a group of kids playing football in the middle of the road ahead made the decision an easy one and he turned off to his right into the immediate shade of the overhanging trees and into a cloud of midgies.
In front of him an elderly woman was walking an equally elderly looking terrier. He regularly ran passed them on his evening training runs and knew the dog wouldn’t give him a second glance, unlike the dog at the house next to the church. It would dearly love to sink its teeth into his tattooed calf! The old woman gave him a smile and a nod as he loped passed her towards the cemetery. Surrounded by crumbling dry stane walls, the village’s crowded cemetery lay a few yards further down the road to his left. At the first sight of the walls, he picked up his pace. Something about that short stretch of road sent icy chills to his very core, despite the warmth of the summer evening.
On the aged stone steps opposite the graveyard, the fallen angel sat hidden by the long evening shadows. She had heard his footsteps the moment he turned down the narrow road and had slipped out from the cool sanctuary of the ruined mausoleum that lay forgotten far back in the trees, to watch for him. For weeks she had observed him as he ran up and down the hill. It was the rich metallic scent of his blood mingled with sweat that had first attracted her. Resisting was becoming more of a challenge each time he was within her range. Once she had followed him as he ran down through the village and along the coast road towards the next town. Soundlessly she had flown just above the tree line until his route had reached the lighthouse. With no trees to shelter her and the risk that the lighthouse’s lamp would expose her, she had reluctantly flown home, tasting his scent in air as she retraced her path.
Tonight the air was perfectly still, no wind to rustle the leaves, and his musk was strong. It had been three days since she had last fed and the mere sight of the ripe veins pulsing in his neck as he ran passed her was almost too much. Licking her lips, she slipped further back into the shadows, deciding to wait for his return journey. She was patient; she could wait….for now.
Two hours later in the last dusky light of the day, he turned off the main street to run back up the hill, safe in the knowledge that a hot shower and a clean bed were waiting at the top. His muscles were screaming at him as he dug deep into the last of his reserves and powered his way passed the church. Loud rock music filled his head, keeping his mind from lingering on the hot pain that had crept into his right foot. Another blister was not what he needed.
The turn off to the single track cemetery road was just up ahead. If he took it the route was shorter but steeper; if he took the longer route he had to make it safely passed that nippy dog. Short and steep won. He turned off and was level with the gates of the cemetery when he spotted the old woman’s little dog sitting at the side of the road. There was no sign of its mistress. He paused to rub its ears, glancing round trying to spot the old woman in the fading light. A rustling from behind the walls of the cemetery suggested to him, in his tired state, that she may be on the far side paying her respects to a long gone loved one. Without a backward glance he picked up his pace once more and headed home.
In the graveyard the angel stood up, spreading her magnificent black purple tinged wings out behind her. Carefully she dabbed at her mouth with her long pale fingers, removing the last traces of blood from her full red lips. She had resisted the temptation of him for now. At her feet lay the drained corpse of the old woman, eyes vacantly staring up into the night sky.