A writing space for you to enjoy and a writing space for me to employ to increase my writing pace.

Month: June, 2014

Blue Is the Colour (Walking Story)

Blue is the colour of the house I turn my back to. Blue is the sky and white are the clouds that are swirled by the eastern wind. Brushing past overreaching branches I dislodge a bee from its perch upon an apricot rose. The bee buzzes in acceptance, fluffs itself together, and bumbles off to dance for its colony. Looking down below a magnolia I see pale green leaves lying dismantled by the aphids and little ‘pillars. In their time they will turn brown and feed those that grew them.

Pushing thoughts of the crushing vastness of life I walk on past nine houses and turn right into a tunneled passage. In here it is colder, damp, dark, uninviting. I feel I like it. A crunch sounding beneath my right foot causes a halt in my progress. Tilting my foot over I inspect the damage. A broken shell and what looks like the remnants of snail lunch, mucus, and snail eye are splattered onto my trainers sole and the path. I bet it loved its home here, and its family. Sorry about that, little one. Plucking moss from the wall I wipe the mess from my sole, cast natures tissue to my left, and regain momentum.

Quickly I come to the end of the tunnel and emerge into the clean white light. Before me is a wired railing overrunning with ivy and climbing weeds. I look left and immediately spin on my heel. Three men are walking in my direction, speaking in loud voices, but I hardly catch a word. I hurry back down the tunnel as quickly as stealth allows.

I look down to where I trod on the snail, simply out of distraction, and notice its lack of presence. It’s gone. Not only is the lunch and eyes gone, but the shell, the mucus, every last splatter wiped clear. I look to my right. The moss isn’t there. I spin my head to the left so fast the muscles in my neck burn in pain as they often do. There it is. I pick it up and continue walking, forgetting my stealth at this time. I hear an indistinct shout behind me. I flee all the way home.


Twenty Miles of Blue

A portrait painting lays plastered to the porch, A red red door reads number thirty-seven,

A few men looking neither here nor there, Gather at the gate sporting even’ wear.


A giggling gaggle of flocking lady figures, Feature, swirling serenely to the left,

Turning heads, lifting others slightly, While they move rather spritely.


And above all this small commotion, A blackbird and a rock dove, wile away the hours,

Flying, flocking also, as birds are seen to do, Their feathers flutter and are free in twenty miles of blue.


Afoot and light…

Afoot and lighthearted I take to the open road, healthy, free, the world before me.

I begin my walk in writing with this quote from American poet, Walt Whitman.

Prepared for the procession of progress. Lighthearted, but not carefree. Open is the road, with many adjoining pathways. A healthy body and mind are my walking companions. Free am I from troubles that contained me. The world is presented piece by piece.