Job

I've dipped into another Writing Challenge from Our Write Side - have a look and perhaps have a go!  I took a lot of inspiration from the picture as well as the word.  

           Joe met Diane outside her work.  “I’ve got a great deal,” He told his wife.  “Liam down the road let me have the timber he had stacked for a really low price – half what I would pay in the store.  He told me it would be perfect for a garden shed, all drilled and ready to go.  I can’t wait to get started.”

“Good luck with that job.” Diane sighed.  She knew Joe’s love of a bargain.  He fell for the sales talk every time.  “We haven’t got a garden.”  

Search

I am having far too much fun writing.  Here's a response to a prompt from Thin Spiral Notebook (which has awesome stuff!)

They had to be here somewhere.  I didn’t need my glasses.  I could do all sorts of things without my glasses.  I could read the microwave settings.  I could tell the difference between shampoo and conditioner.  I could read large print and work the tv without my glasses. 

I moved the clutter on the bedstand.  I looked in my all the pockets of all my coats.  They weren’t in their case or my handbag.  They weren’t on top of the bathroom cabinet and they weren’t next to my knitting. 

I absentmindedly pushed my glasses up my nose and kept looking  

Memories in Dreams

Memories in Dreams

I am dreaming.

Down the empty, echoing corridor,

Step by ringing step,

Heels click and soles tap,

Door after door.

I stop at the first door.

Inside I can hear memories, my memories

I don’t want to know,

I don’t want to remember.

The memories tap at the door.

I hold the door shut.

I can hear the urgent whispers.

I turn the lock in the door.

I think hard about a picture of sunflowers to blot the memory out

And stumble to the next door.

I stop at the second door.

I can hear the memories, more memories.

A snatch of music and a tap, tap, tap.

I see fingers against frosted glass and I hold the door shut.

I don’t want to hear the music.

I don’t want to remember.

The door is tugged.

I hold harder against the music.

I turn the lock in the door.

I think hard about the sound water over pebbles to blot the memory out

And stagger to the next door.

I stop at the third door.

I can hear memories, many memories.

A scent of flowers and old books drifts past.

I feel the door tremble as I struggle to hold the door.

I don’t want to smell this.

I don’t want to remember.

The door shakes.

I see the handle turn as I lock the door.

I think hard about the feel of clean sheets to blot the memory out.

I slide down and crawl to the next door.

I stop at the fourth door.

I am too late.

Memories spill out.

Your smile in sunlight.

There Should be Storms

I have been inspired by the prompt from Our Write Side, and their Friday Flasher - A Small Cafe.  If you are interested in writing, do have a look.  I had quite a lot of fun.  

There should be storms, not the calm, still sky.

There should be storms, and dark castle walls.

This faded coffee shop, half empty, in the shade,

Is not the place to watch your life crash down.

I wait for you, and you are late again.

In the corner, reading a cheap magazine,

A woman droops and, trying not to yawn,

Turns the page to new adulteries.

I check my phone, there’s nothing new from you,

Just half an hour wait and waiting still.

I wonder if you know what waits here, crouching,

In this faded, shaded, tired coffee shop

Two girls behind the counter, talking low

Of boys and school and last week’s hair.

They bend the paper clip from next week’s hours

To try and free the block in the machine

They sound so young and earnest, taking care

Warning each other about the burning pipes

Promising to be there at the club

And one will lend the other their new dress

The woman yawns again and leaves the place

Out into the bright and shining mall

Past the old rabbi playing careful chess

Facetiming with his friend in Tel Aviv

The two old men talk with kindness, they are kind

And measure the words they use across the miles

What words can I use to you so close

When I stare across the table at your face.

The old rabbi taps his hearing aid and shouts

A gentle, kind goodbye across the miles.

Packs up his chess and leaves into the mall.

I am reading the left magazine

The coffee shop is shutting with the mall,

The sun is draining down the peaceful sky

There should be storms.  I text you, ‘It is over

Do not contact me again.  Goodbye.’