A Jar of Coins

Being busy with work and other stuff means I’m not blogging much at the moment. When I can, I’m writing in my notebook and working on projects. I’m also still enjoying reading other people’s blogs for pleasure and for inspiration. One of my favourites is River Dixon’s The Stories In Between.
Here is a recent poem from River’s blog. Go check it out.

The Stories In Between

A jar of coins
Set aside for another day
Corner of a dresser
Where once sat
A woman’s brush
In its place, now
A layer of dust
Telling a tale
Of lost love, when love
Was not enough
If only we had taken
The time to stand still
Even once
In the open courtyards
Beyond the barred windows
And barricaded doorways
We would have seen
There is no greener grass
Than that which grows
Beneath our feet
And still grows, to this day
Even when we see only dirt
Upon which to stand

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A gift of dreams – a short story for Christmas

A bit of magic to share at Christmas – never forget your dreams!

Harvesting Hecate

My food ran out days ago and there’s no prospect of rescue up here at the top of the world. I try to put up my tent, but the arctic wind bludgeons and tears at the fabric. My compass is gone, my GPS is behaving strangely and the whiteout obliterates the stars. I no longer know which direction to walk in. The next time I fall, I stay there, slumped in the snow, ready to give in to sleep at last.

I drift, watching flurries of snow dart past my goggles. The snowstorm cancels out any differences in the landscape. When my eyes close it’s darker, but that’s the only difference, it seems, between being awake or asleep.

There is something tugging me. Something rough and insistent. I try to shrug it off but it gives me no rest. I open my eyes to a blur of dark movement. It…

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Stan Green’s Secret #FridayReads #shortstories

A very moving story to make us think on this important day.

Judith Barrow

‘How old are you, son?’

 Stan straightened his spine and stretched his shoulders back, looking beyond the man to the recruitment poster of Lord Kitchener, on the wall.  ‘Eighteen, sir.’

‘Hmm. Date of birth?’ The captain studied Stan.

‘October 3rd, 1896, sir.’

‘Okay, lad, you’re in. Report to the sergeant over there.’ He dismissed Stan by shouting, ‘Next!’

 Stan grinned and gave the thumbs up to his mate, Ernest Sharp who stood, behind him. He turned and marched as best he could to the other side of the room to the serveant.

‘If that’s the best you can do as a march lad, I’ve got some work cut out for me.’ But the recruiting sergeant, tall and moustached, gave Stan a grin. ‘Welcome to the East Lancashire Regiment. ‘He winked. ‘We’re doin’ well; you’re the tenth recruit today, so that’s ten half-crowns we’ve earned. We’ll be ‘aving a few pints…

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