Alright, big boy, what’d ya reckon it’ll be: beef or chicken? Let’s bet on it. Fish. Fish!? Stop messing about. Only cats eat fish. Whippets eat fish too. Maybe in your house. What’s he like anyway, the old boy? Pretty useless. That figures. He’s kindly and forgetful. Always apologising. Not a pack leader. Not like yours. OK, anyway, beef or chicken? Chicken. No, I’m betting on chicken so you’ll have to choose beef. So how’s it going? Like it down here? Alright. Warmer than where I’m from. Oh yeah? Don’t start the old grim up north toffee with me, brindle lad. Where exactly you from? Born in Boston. Boston? That’s in bloody Lincolnshire. That’s not north, that’s midlands. Then we moved near Doncaster. Ok that’s a bit north. So was it always just the old boy? No there was an old girl too. She was the pack leader. She used to feed the cats but after two nibbles they’d clear off so I’d reach up and nudge the bowl off onto the floor. Clever. There’s an art to that. There is. So I’d eat the rest of it in one go. She never minded. Made her laugh. Soft-hearted? I don’t know about that. I used to get a few tellings off. Yeah? See she had this old Jack Russell. Ugly-looking. Had a docked tail. Really? That’s cruel in it? I wouldn’t want that. Mind you, if I could have chosen between losing that or me nuts… That’s right. But I think it made him mean. He could be a bit of a bastard but he was like a dad to me in the end. Cunning though. Yeah? You got stories? Well, in the kitchen they were always leaving out stuff thinking we couldn’t get it. One day they left some pork pies in a bag on the counter. So the old Jack Russell said, You reach up and get em and we’ll share em. So I get right up on my hind legs, strain like mad to get the bag - just about get my teeth to it - drag it to the edge then pull it over. It come crashing down to the floor, but before I had chance to get some he’d snaffled the lot, just leaving a bit of crust for me. What a bastard. Yeah, but I gradually learnt how to bring things down so he didn’t get so much. He still got most of it, though. But it was fun. We had quiche - anything with egg in I liked best. Actually I could tell you a story about an egg. We had sausages, bacon, bread rolls, biscuits, fruit cake. And you can guess who got all the blame? Coz old shortarse could never get up there could he? Yeah, clever. But they’re all right, int they, terriers? You can have a laugh with them. Not like some of these other tossers. That’s right. So tell me this story about the egg. Oh boy. They had a huge garden once. Lawn was on two levels. They had four chickens. Vicious bastards. They are int they? I’ve found that out. So one day the old girl’s picked up some eggs from the hutch and put them in a basket, then she starts yakking to a neighbour like she always does. Distracted. So I stick my head in and get one in my mouth and run away with it. She starts shouting and I’m off racing round the garden. Leaping over raised beds and wooden steps and fish ponds. They’re shouting and laughing and they can’t catch me. Five minutes later I just stop, open my mouth and the egg’s still perfect. Wow. You were a master thief. And I got the tea. Tea? What’s all that about? Yeah. She would always leave her tea on the window-ledge when she went to the bathroom. I found I could stretch up and put my snout right in. Never spilt a drop. Never knocked a cup over. I like tea. And she always had Earl Grey. Lovely and sweet. I had the lot. Earl Grey? You’re having a laugh now ain’t you? No. I’m not. Earl Grey? Is that what you grim-up-northerners drink? Not like softy southerners eh? I never say that. So you ever get caught? Only by the old boy. He told her and laughed about it. She told me off. Then the silly cow left her tea out the next day too. So it was just you and him, this Jack Russell then? Well, there were three of us at one time. We had a Jackawawa for a while. Jackawawa? Yeah. More wawa than Jack though. You know, chihuahua cross. I see. Another annoying yappy thing. That’s right. Hilarious she was. Silly as arseholes. If we encountered a German shepherd or something in the street she’d play the little Napoleon, telling him to get out her way and he’d just stare at her like she was a rat. Funniest thing was her trying to get up a tree once to catch a squirrel. Frantically trying to get her little legs up the trunk, she was. She couldn’t do it. The squirrel just sat on the branch laughing at her. That’s funny. Handbag dogs they call em. But I ask you, what’s the point? I mean, you ever been in someone’s handbag? Yeah I have actually. The old girl’s. Oh yeah, sure. No I have. I’ve pulled out cosmetics, hair brush, hair net, notebook, cigarette pack. You’re a right little kleptomaniac. Where’d you put ‘em all? I kept them on the lawn till she found them. I had hats, shoes - visitors were told to keep theirs on - even one of them little umbrellas. Blimey. Could have had your own shop by the sound of it. I could. Except I’d never want to sell em. I just liked to have them. I see. So what happened to the other dogs? The Jack Russell died of a stroke and she— The jackawawa? Yeah. She went back to her original owner. She was trouble. That’s interesting. See,I think all these new breeds nowadays are either just vicious bastards or totally useless. All fluff and nonsense. Might as well be in the zoo. Breeds had a point once. You had your chasers like us, you had your catchers, diggers like your Jack Russell mate, and so on. This new lot - we’ve had a few of them in here all dandified, prettified little tossers, but cross them and you’ll know it. Right mouth on some of them. I mean where’s the grace, where’s the elegance, and what’s the bloody point? That’s right. So how do you find it here then? Lots of little yappy things round your way, is there? Yes. Quite a few whippets too. Some of the young uns? Boisterous little buggers int they? Need to keep out of their way. Yeah but we all used to be like that. I still am. Yeah? Yeah, when I’ve got my zoomies on. Zoomies? Yeah I have my routine. I run from the lounge sofa through the hallway, to the bedroom, fling myself around like crazy on the old boy’s bed, race back to the lounge, leap clean over the coffee table straight on to the sofa. Then do it all again. It winds up the old boy something chronic, worried I’ll injure myself. Yeah? And after how many Earl Greys is that then? None. He don’t drink earl grey. Darjeeling he has. Oh blimey. Not as sweet though. Plus he’s crafty with it. Well, I’ve just seen something. I reckon it’s chicken so you can concede the bet now. Too early. OK. But i do know she bought some today coz I saw her taking it out of the car. So, tell me, you got any hard nuts down your way? One or two. They don’t tangle with me. Fancy yourself, do you? I’m used to it. I used to have three German shepherds on the regular walk barking away. Bark back? No just gave em me look. I bet that worked. Oh hang on I think the food’s coming now. So we’ll see who won. Winner gets first dibs. Ok. You know, I’m glad you’ve come. We’ve had a good laugh. Whippets got to stick together. Better than the miserable bastards we usually get here. Always moaning. Owner does this. Owner does that. Get over it, I tell them. Oh no. No I don’t believe it. It’s bloody fish! I can smell it. What’s going on? She must be clearing the freezer out. Must be for your benefit. And it looks like she’s put sweet corn on it. Like that? Love it. So I guess since I chose chicken I won. How’s that? I said fish. No we agreed it was between beef and chicken. And you chose beef. Alright. So it’s a no bet then. No as I said, I chose chicken and, being white meat, that’s closer to fish, so I won. But you’re a guest so we’ll forget about it. Very gracious of you. And you can have some of the sweet corn since you like it so much. Have it with your Earl Grey. Come on tuck in, me first.
Kevin's response to the trigger 'book'
Ginny Lynn sat in the light and airy atrium, which is the waiting hall of her city’s new law court. She was hugging her hessian shopping bag, knowing that the look on her face was a smug smile. She was proud of herself.
On New Year’s Morning, admittedly many months ago, but that was Covid’s fault, not hers, Ginny was alone in the house and thought the noise she heard might be one of the family sneaking guiltily back in. Her ears alert, she heard no more. No spoil sport, she didn’t want to reinforce any pangs her children Will or Amy may feel about staying over at his or her girlfriends’, so she stealthily donned her mules and crept out to the landing and peered over the banister.
No one in the hallway below.
Ginny stole down the stairs taking a stretch over the known creaky step and peeped through the glass-paned lounge door.
Her hand went to her throat. Her new Christmas table cloth was spread out on the floor in front of the TV. She froze, only her eyes exploring. Will’s new virtuality goggles were peeping out of their box, and Amy’s fancy new hair rollers were sitting on top of their box. Was that her own new coffee machine behind it?
There was a movement under the Christmas tree.
A pair of legs.
Ginny tip-toed towards… but froze again at a clicking of plugs and Bill the Burglar let out a quiet gasp and tried to extricate himself from behind wires and unopened twelfth-night presents. His rustling allowed Ginny to look around for some defence. She saw her Dad’s family bible, long in need for purpose and clutched it with the firmest grip.
The deep-pile of the new Axminster, allowed her to silently hover as Bill turned to hear ‘Die Bill!’ and see the white and gold tome flash into his face.
It was the last thing he saw.
‘Mrs Hyman,’ said the voice of her new best friend, PC Hamed Johnson. ‘Your big day. Thank you.’
He offered her a hand up, but she handed him the bag and sprung herself to her feet.
‘So this is what saved the day,’ he said, realising the significance of the bulk in the bag.
‘Yes, Hamed,’ she said. ‘Not the Koran, sorry.’
He chuckled as he steered Ginny towards the courtroom. ‘My Mum might regard it as less blasphemous. But I see it as our saviour.’ He took the Bible out of the bag, placed it on the bench back in front of them. He stroked the white leather, traced the gold lettering, his finger stopping beside a small maroon stain. He looked across to the accused hanging his head in the dock.
Ginny saw both and nodded. ‘Yes, it’s his blood. Just a drip - like him. Something to tell the grandkids. Proof, eh?’
‘Indeed. How Dai Bwlch was Retford’s most elusive cat burglar and their brave grandma saved the day and brought him to book.’
Cadwaladr
Just before dawn, the owls up in Fullers Wood called to each other as young Mordicai followed his father across the cobbled, shadowed filled, yard. Mordicai was cold and sleepy, but he would not miss this day for any amount of warmth or sleep.
His master, Lord Kendrick Griffin, was leaving to join the King’s crusade to relieve Jerusalem.
Mordicai’s father, Jared, along with many more squires and men-at-arms, would be accompanying Sir Kendrick on his long journey.
They would be away for a long time.
With his head bowed, Mordicai held a spluttering torch high and clutched his shawl to his throat as he followed his father between the stout wooden doors beneath the high arched entrance to the inner chamber of the stable block.
This was the first time Mordicai had been allowed into the forbidden area.
This was the first time his eyes would behold Cadwaladr.
Lord Kendrick’s war horse.
Forewarned by his father, with bated breath, Mordicai moved to the shadow of the circular chamber. Holding the torch aside his attuned senses inhaled the comingled stench of horse dung and the sweet smell of hay.
Muttered voices rebounded off stone.
The click clack of hooves on stone.
Flicking light appeared from a high tunnel.
The sound of iron striking stone rang loud.
Two squires entered the chamber.
A dark form filled the tunnel.
Then, led by two burly grooms, Cadwaladr entered the chamber.
Standing tall, black as a moonless night, wide-eyed Cadwaladr pranced and rippled with barely supressed energy.
Spellbound by the size of the creature, with hoof beats ringing loud in his ears, Mordicai bit down on a cry of awe.
From the darkness Mordicai watched his father and the grooms and squires saddle Cadwaladr, place a coat of chain mail on the mighty horse, and drape that with a white caparison bearing large red crosses.
Even as he watched the war horse being prepared, Mordicai heard jangling, metallic footfalls descending a flight of stone stairs.
Then, led by two squires, Lord Kendrick entered the chamber.
Clothed from head to foot in chain mail, and comparisoned in a white gown and long cloak with red crosses, his Lordship stood tall and broad. Upon his head he wore a round helmet and against his thigh hung a long sword.
Cadwaladr, seeing his master, tossed his black head, and pranced and whinnied, eager to be off.
Lord Kendrick mounted the horse and led him beneath the arched doorway into the outer courtyard.
The sun was up over the courtyard.
To the sounds of the readying baggage train, Mordicai watched Lord Kendrick holding Cadwaladr on a tight rein as the horse pranced, its hoof falls echoing loudly as man and beast passed through the castle keep.
In their wake rode Mordicai’s father, Jared, and nine other squires and grooms. The combined hoofbeats of their mounts drummed loud as the party cantered across the timber drawbridge and unto the open countryside.
Mordicai’s mother, Bronwen, laid an arm across his shoulder as he watched his father ride off into the distance.
Mordicai was not to know that he would never see his father again.
When the party had fallen below the horizon, and the baggage train was preparing to set out, Bronwen, patting Mordicai’s shoulder, said, ‘Shall we go and have some hot milk and honey and bread cakes?’
Cadwaladr bore Lord Kendrick to Dartmouth. From where the party took ship to Lisbon, and from there to Marseille, and from there, to Rome. From Rome they took the long sea voyage to Acra. From there they journeyed through the Holy Land to Jerusalem.
On that long and arduous trek across central Europe Cadwaladr carried his master through several bloody pogroms against the killers of Christ and other heretics to the true Cross.
Besieged for many months in Jerusalem by Saladin’s mighty Arab army Lord Kendrick’s horse Cadwaladr, although weakened by hunger, was itself one of the remaining sources of food.
Lord Kendrick, unwilling to allow his horse to suffer such an ignominious end, and in defiance of his fellow knights, refused to surrender, chosing instead to go up against the enemy one last time.
Aware that he was being readied for battle a new energy surging through Cadwaladr emaciated frame.
The gates were thrown open.
Resplendent in full battle dress, horse and rider cantered forth.
Before them stood the serried ranks of the enemy horde.
Hearing Lord Kendrick draw his sword, Cadwaladr, snorting and whinnying, pounded the hardpacked sand with his iron shod hooves.
Raising his sword aloft Lord Kendrick cried aloud.
‘FOR THE CROSS OF CHRIST! GO CADWALADR! GO!’
In response, Cadwaladr reared high, snorted and whinnied aloud, flailed the air with his forelegs, dropped down, and leap forward into a ground eating gallop.
Horse and rider were mere metres from the enemy ranks when, unseated by a lance, Lord Kendrick heard the cry go up.
‘DARAR LA AL-HASSAN!’
‘DARAR LA AL-HASSAN!’
‘HARM NOT THE HORSE!’
‘HARM NOT THE HORSE!’ https://medium.com/@husnazainab/another-yusufs-tale-saladin-be48539c2384
It did not conform to any vessel signature I recognised.
It enveloped the boat—swamped it.
Reverberated through the hull and into my bones.
It moved rapidly from the stern, leaving darkness in its wake.
It could not be a torpedo.
If it were, we would be dead.
Lights and power failed in the wake of the noise. I was enveloped in total darkness. I raised my hands off the chart table and brought them to my face. I could not see them. I lowered my hand to the table. But I could not feel it. I felt for it but could not find it.
‘Confirm contact bearing, speed, and range,’ I said into the cloying darkness.
There was no response.
‘Sonar. Confirm contact bearing, speed, and range.’
There was no response.
I was enveloped in silence. It was absolute. I could not hear myself breathing.
‘Chief of the Watch. Report.’
There was no response.
Unsettled, self-consciously, I called out. ‘Is there anyone here?’
I could not hear my voice. I heard my words, in my head. But I did not feel them vibrate my vocal cords or my jawbone. I tried again.
‘Helmsman. Confirm course and heading.’
There was no response.
I did not feel my words in my throat or face.
I tried again.
I spoke. But I did not feel my words.
I moved my thighs against the edge of the chart table to confirm my position in the Control Room.
My thighs met with no resistance.
I stepped forward, slowly.
There was nothing in my way.
I kept moving.
Nothing impeded my way. I realised that I could not feel the floor beneath my feet.
I tapped with my foot. There was no sound or feel of impact.
I bounced, carefully, on my toes. There was nothing beneath me.
I was suspended in absolute empty darkness.
Was I dead?
Did a torpedo destroy the boat?
Is this what being dead is like. An empty blackness?
Or am I asleep in my cabin?
That must be it.
I am asleep.
If I wait, my alarm will go off, and the bulkhead light will come on.
That’s all I have to do. Wait until I wake up.
‘Ma! Someone’s at the door!’
‘Okay Don’t shift yourself. I’ll just stop getting your dinner and see who it is.’
‘Beth.’
‘Patrick.’
‘Can I come in?’
‘Yes, of course. Can I get you anything? Coffee?’
‘Coffee would be good, thanks.’
‘You haven’t brought us good news…have you.’
‘I’m sorry, Beth. I really am. If it was up to me, I…’
‘You’re calling off the search…’
‘Not totally, no…Beth. We’ve been combing that ocean floor with ROV’s for the best part of a year, and we haven’t found a single trace of the Catfish. The search will be extended beyond their last location. We won’t stop looking, Beth, but we…’
‘It’s Ok, Patrick. I understand. We’re slowly coming to terms with our…I had a bad feeling, Patrick, when Tom left…I think I knew…you know.’
‘Yes, I think I do, Beth.’
All I have to do is hold it together.
The alarm will go off and the bulkhead light will come on.
I will wake up from this black nightmare.
I just have to hold it together until the light comes on.
This week, instead of a prompt, I’m going to set you a bit of a challenge! I have to be honest, I’ve pinched this idea from Peter Sansom’s excellent book ‘Writing Poems’ (available from Amazon and other bookshops (if they’re open…)), in which he has a whole chapter on ‘Workshops and Writing Games’. For this one he suggests writing in the voice of an object and gives various suggestions, including writing as:
A vacuum cleaner in shop window A wardrobe in a hotel bedroom A spoon in a bedsitter A motorbike in pieces on a kitchen floor A safety match in a box in a cardigan pocket
There are several more, but you get the gist, and of course you can think of your own examples.
Although I’ve filched these ideas from a book about writing poetry, I’m pretty sure you could use them as a starting point for a piece of fiction too. As always, use your imagination, let the pen fly across the page (or fingers across the keyboard), and just start writing. Can’t wait to see your work!
Ah, the blame game…. we’ve all done it. It’s so easy to point the finger, either at oneself, or others, when things go wrong, and to be honest, I don’t know which is worse. Goodness knows there is plenty of blame, rightly or wrongly, being bandied about in the news now! So this week’s prompt is, of course:
BLAME
How about writing a story or poem based on when you’ve got it wrong? It happens to the best of us, we lay blame at someone’s door, then find out the situation was more complex than we thought, or worse still, it was our own doing after all. Go on, brace yourself to cover a difficult topic, it’s often where the best writing lies. We look forward to reading your pieces.
See what I did there…Week ‘end’… weekend…. well, you get the gist! Yep you can talk about the weekend if you like, or any other sort of end you can think of (rear end…!) but keep it clean please! Of course, this was prompted (gosh I’m on form today) by the tiny little light at the end of the lockdown tunnel, but we know of course, that everything, good or bad, must come to an end someday. Sometimes the end is a relief, as in the end of conflict, but often endings are sad times, so I’m sure this is a word ripe for storytelling/poetry or any other form of creative writing you care to embrace. I look forward to reading your work. Take care.
After many months of ‘Lock down’ during the Coronavirus pandemic, things were beginning to return to some form of normality, in the sleepy village of Ashburton. A newly married couple looked so happy, as they emerged from the quaint St. Katherine’s Church, on a warm Saturday afternoon in July, with almost every resident coming out to witness the happy event. Confetti fluttered down on them, as the photographer struggled to direct friends and relatives into their positions.
We can’t get away from them these days, so this week’s prompt is:
MASK
Now, apart from the obvious current use to keep infection at bay, there seems to be a vast array of masks as well as reasons to wear them. There is, of course, masked balls (never been to one, have you?), those fancy Venetian masks, gas masks, the masks bank robbers wear, or disguises, masks of famous people… well, I could go on, but I’m sure you’ll be able to think of other examples for yourselves. Don’t forget, you can write in any format: fiction; poetry; creative non-fiction; or even a script (haven’t seen any of those for a while.. give it a go!). Have fun with it! We look forward to reading your work.
I hope you are all still keeping well, and coping ok with the continuing lockdown. Many of us now are dreaming of returning to some semblance of normality, wondering what the new world will look like post lockdown.
So this week we are giving a nod to that concept and we’re asking you to write something using the prompt:
AFTER
Of course, it doesn’t have to relate to the current situation at all, it could be about after you’ve eaten (or drunk) too much; after a losing (or winning) game; after the party; or with VE day remembrance in mind… after the war. As usual, these are just some suggestions to get you going… let your imagination loose and write in any form you like: poetry; fiction; creative non-fiction; prose poetry….. well, you get the gist… any old way that gets your pen or your fingers on the keyboard moving. Have fun.
Retwords 