short stories
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In the Parlance of Time
A storm had gathered during the night with torrential rain, the lightning illuminating the clouds. Through closed eyelids, the on off of the lightning gave a near continuous picture followed with snake-like wriggles spilling and tumbling in a couple-coloured sky. In the parlance of time, I had longed for scenes like this, as I in childhood sweetly slept, full of thoughts unborn. By mid-morning the storm had ceased, and the sun began to split the clouds, I could hear the rustle of the wind in the trees close by and the land with rain was now rinsed. As I followed the sounds everything was descending earthwards, leaves, twigs and acorns, across the cedrous bank the old mossed cottage trees were bent with apples, their fragrance and ripeness filled to the core.
Moon Sparrow
Hurrying along life’s thoroughfare, we pass him by but unaware For I could see his merry eyes, bright and shining,
they caught my stare A tiny sparrow, oh so small Now all alone when the night did fall Unlike the birds of bright voice, plume and flight Spadger the moon sparrow sings late into the night Where clouds of starlings passed his way Now every sound is hushed away
Moses’ Call to adventure
How privileged I felt watching him, he snuffled as he suckled, letting go of his mother’s teat momentarily and whimpered as he sought to regain it, I knew then that he was the one.
Several weeks later he left his mother and siblings from the dimly lit barn and came to a bright and happy home. He settled in quickly and in no time at all had formed a strong inseparable bond with Maverick. Moses quickly became a curious and playful ginger kitten, always ready to explore the world around him.
A Lovely Dawn
The sun was streaking the dawn sky pink and mauve, with the perfect light catching the dew on the ears of whiskered barley. With a pair of watching eyes, I marvelled at the majestic flight and mesmeric sound of the seagulls as they rose into the sun, clipping the misty air. As Maverick and I ambled along the narrow lane, I began to reflect on how I had enjoyed the ariel display of the swifts screaming eagerly for the sunset and their mystical star games when we last visited this place.
One Moonlit Night
Through a little gate at the bottom of the garden is a buttercup meadow, where a fox I named Finbar often frequented. He was aware of my presence as I felt his stare, but knowing my scent had no fear of me. I watched as he stretched out his length in the sunshine, I could see his long ears and his elliptical eyes. I named him Finbar, for a name makes a difference, be it a person or an animal, don’t deal with them as strangers.
By the Muddy Mire
With the pink and white roses and the honeysuckle bines scrambling through the trees, a delicious ambrosia of fragrance lingered heavily on the air. On the sand bank in the centre of the estuary the curlews gave their liquid burbling call of pure happiness, and where a heron tall and grey was wading through the shallows. However, he soon became aware of our presence and with the slow and stately beat of his wings, and his longshanks trailing behind, as he takes to the air, a slow and tranquil mood was evoked.
Devils and Angels
In years gone by the magpie a member of the crow family was a rare sight. They are a beautiful large bird with exceptionally fine plumage of black, white and blue, their beauty concealing a violent and menacing disposition. Their diet consisted of worms, beetles and carrion. However, as our roads became much busier due to the ever-increasing amounts of traffic, so too did the amounts of roadkill.
Bobbit Comes Home
Beyond the orchard was a little place called bunny hollow where the rabbits tell their fear by thumping their hind legs and where the beehives range in the orchard half hidden by the tall weeds. There in the undergrowth stood an old shepherd hut looking rather worse for wear, the curtains drawn, and the door locked; under the third step was the key. Above the door was a small plaque with the name ‘Bobbit’ beautifully painted, but who was he? Many myths had grown up around him; he had been presented as an ascetic, a recluse, even a village mystic.
MINDFULNESS – The Artist’s Way
In the cloudless blue coloured sky, I watched a crow and a buzzard rise way up high, they then fought a spiralling duel, with the buzzard making all the noise as they continued to carve the sky. Finally, they disappeared into the silhouetted woods, for the wise old crow knew the buzzard’s menacing intentions and had taken the buzzard away from his nesting site.
MARCH – The Season of Hope
Far away a lonely bell was ringing, and it echoes through my mind, for here I come when fuss and fret seems set to overwhelm. As I stop to listen, I could hear the cries of the herring gulls sailing high above. Suddenly two gulls fall from the sky, the male then begins a long-drawn-out cry raising and lowering his head. His cries are audible above the thrum of the traffic close by, and intrude my thoughts, arresting my attention. He then dances for her with potent perplexing sounds, woven into dense mesmeric spells, which hide inside its complexity and posits the existence of an invisible natural force.
FEBRUARY – A Coastal Ramble
With the forecast of a fine day ahead we decided to take a trip to the seaside. In times gone by we would frequent this coastal haven with Blue our faithful spaniel who loved this place and adored his walks along the seafront and chasing gulls along the beach. With Maverick my new companion at my side we followed in Blue’s footsteps. We decided to stop off at the Botanical Gardens to stretch our legs where we were delighted with floral displays.
JANUARY – A Winter’s Mantle
There is a huge calm sky above on this January morn, as the low sun bathes the land with golden light, and with just a fret of wind, the rain had delayed its coming. With a diamond wink of the sun, my trusty companion Maverick and I head for the fields and woods once again.
DECEMBER -Winter’s Grim
The heavy rainfall in November had silvered every twig and branch with heavy raindrops, that slide gently, merging into depths and flooding the land. The water lay in vast catchments over long periods as the ground was already turgid enticing many gulls inland. Like technicolour snowflakes, the autumn leaves had fallen silently without the merest whisper of a sound, a palette of many colours now lying dormant that will decay and become vital nourishment, given freely without delay.
Idle Thoughts
Little Maverick would always greet me with a stretch and a yawn, bound across and sit to attention with his head in the air, waiting eagerly to be patted and told what a good boy he really is, then with demi-pause he rises and runs to the door. With keen anticipation we make our way across the fields to the rhynes and ditches where my ear catches the sound of a male blackcap and I garner the quality of his song. As I caretake in the moment I immerse myself into the landscape. All the while Maverick rests easy watching the moorhens with their ingratitude of chicks, feeding diligently on a smorgasbord of scattered food. Suddenly from the reeds, Stumpy the rat joins the throng. With his three paws down, he wobbles around feasting himself on the tasty delights.
NOVEMBER – An Autumn Spectacle
On frosty mornings when the fog veils the fields with an eerie haunting loneliness, there is a spooky ethereal quality as if there is something hidden from me. However. there is no caveat alarm as a pall of grey hangs over the sky, where a thronging of geese, indistinguishable, were exploding into an echo of sound.
OCTOBER- the season of Acorns, Cobnuts and Conkers
With the autumn sun now at a lower angle in the sky, Maverick and I lead our longer shadows over harvest fields now ploughed and forsaken. The sky began to break like an ice cap, where cracks in the laden clouds widen to crevices of weightless blue. All around the leaves of the hazel amongst the hedgerows took on the golden-green of spring in the beams of the low autumn sun.
SEPTEMBER -The Mysterious Season of mist and Spiders
It was a sultry day after the sun had drunk the dew. The hedges in the hedgerow had been studiously fretted trim. But there, woven between the dew-laden branches were festoons of spider’s webs, far more than previous years, where the dew drops hung trembling on the translucent whisps, enhancing their beauty. There the spider will be waiting, just out of sight, and with the slightest vibration she will come to seize. They are resilient intricate artists and are adorned with many skills.
AUGUST – The Mute Season
It is now early August, the lanes and the woods are silent, without the pellucid sound of birds singing. Only the yellowhammers in the hedgerows are with song. In the skies above the cries of the buzzards can be heard. This is the time when birds begin their summer moult to replace their suit of feathers ready for the harshness of winter.
JULY-Thunderheads and Lightning
It was now early July, the morning was fine, the sky blue, and the clouds below like fluffy white balls of cotton. The lane was awash with the great willowherb, a splash of pinkish mauve amongst the tall umbellifers. There was an abundance of golden yellow ragwort, this plant being the distain of many, but not for the ephemeral wings of the cinnabar moth who rears her yellow and black striped caterpillars on this tenacious plant.