Word it Right

It's a very good question and one I've often found myself pondering, to the point where I'm now convinced that you cannot find it if you look for it. Inspiration is something you chance upon when you are least expecting it and the transient nature of inspiration means you cannot necessarily capture it when you need it most.

Maintaining your inspiration long enough to write something that when read back a day later will evoke that same feeling is difficult but if it means always carrying a note pad and pen or, for the more technologically-advanced writer, an ipod or like device, then so be it.

If walking in the dew-dropped morning glow of an autumnal landscape does not get your creative juices flowing then try sinking your teeth into the lucious, velvety warmth of a decent bar of chocolate whilst watching the world go by from behind the just-parted bedroom curtains.

If watching a waking babe in arms open her eyes to voraciously imbibe the sights and sounds of her world does not enthuse you, try closing your own eyes and letting your senses tell their own story.

Inspiration may be lurking just around the corner...but if the sweetly poisoned fangs of inspiration have not yet bitten you on the bottom do not despair for, as Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe once stated;

"Magic is believing in yourself, if you can do that, you can make anything happen."

And if a lack of passion and drive is giving you a serious dose of writers' block remember that:

"A writer is somebody for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people." (Thomas Mann)

Happy scribbling/key bashing

It's been a while since my last post, so I hope you will all forgive me now that I am back in the world of the written word.

Here's a comical poem for a Friday lunchtime, enjoy and have a good weekend all

Grandad and the Breadcrumb

In the crinkled crease of Grandad’s smile,
A breadcrumb sat to rest a while,
Nestling in his greyed moustache
The toasted morsel found a lodge.
I wondered whether I should say
A wayward crumb had lost its way?
But decided that instead I’d watch
To see the crumb become dislodged.

Grandad coughed and cleared his throat,
Oblivious to the speck of loaf,
Still anchored in his grizzled hairs,
Devoid of purpose, wish or care.
But as he delved into the butter
The toasted crumb began to flutter.
Up and down with every breath,
Clinging on until the death.

Gingerly, as if tempting fate
Grandad, quick, refilled his plate.
Piles and piles of crumbs, I feared
Would soon be heading for his beard,
Plastered thick in strawberry jam
And draped with rind from roasted ham.
In Grandad’s whiskers, who could know
How many crumbs had made their home?

Armed with knife and low-fat spread
Grandad set upon his bread,
Sloshing jam and slicing fast,
Determined that the fun should last.
But how I longed to make him sneeze
And watch the crumb fall in the cheese.
Yet still the speck refused to lurch,
Stuck fast on its wiry perch.

Then all at once, amidst the chatter,
The crumb sank slowly to the platter.
Floating down without a sound,
The tiny dot espied firm ground.
But Grandad, using two stout fingers,
Scoured the plate for all that lingered
A with a lick, a wipe and gulp
The poor breadcrumb was turned to pulp.

© Frances Pallett

Meant to post this poem earlier this morning, as it is pretty irrelevant now, but what with work, picking up son from nursery and taking said son (scared and bewildered) to dentist, I haven't had chance. Better late than never though, here's one I made earlier:

I'm really rather sleepy

I’m really rather sleepy,
I’d go as far to say
That my body’s walking freely
But my head’s not yet awake.
My fingertips are snoozing,
Hanging limply from my hands,
As I try to type a blog entry
That none will understand.

I’m really rather sleepy,
Though I slept til half past eight
And I’d rather not be woken
From this semi-drowsy state.
If I could keep on dreaming
I’d crawl straight back into bed
But my brain has other things in mind
Like reading posts instead.

I’m really rather sleepy
But perhaps I’ll give it time.
Perhaps in half an hour or so
I’ll find I’m feeling fine.
And if the foggy clouds of slumber
Still beckon me at three,
You can bet, under the duvet
Is where you’ll all find me!

© Frances Pallett

Who said poetry needs to be read in context! Have a pleasant evening all

Thanks to la_spice for providing the title for this one

Here we go, then, another story in 100 words, except this time I have departed from the norm somewhat and gone for poetry rather than prose with comic rather than serious undertones.

Hope you enjoy

First Cut

Toni Blain was seventeen

Her world revolved around glamour.

She changed her face, her hair, her clothes,

For fashion, she did clamour.

She hated school, she left last year

And lived a life of ease.

‘Til her parents demanded more from her

Than 2 measly GCSEs.

So Toni, keen to live at home,

Went off in search of work

And found a little hair salon

Where chit-chat was the perk.

And so she trained and gained

Respect whilst frothing in shampoo,

Til they let her make her first cut

And she drove the scissors through.

© Frances Pallett

I think that just about completes the 100-word story challenge and well done to all of you who took up the mantle for the 50-word mini sagas. I might get around to writing another one of those myself, time permitting, if not I'll be thinking about the next writing challenge so watch this space

Ok, so not one to dwell on anything too long and yes I know I still have one 100 word story yet to write I have decided to challenge you all to write a mini saga.

If you thought 100-word stories were challenging then wait until you try to fit a story into 50 words!

Yes, that is the mini saga, an incredibly short tale and a hair-pulling experience for the author.

To give you an idea, here's a mini saga I wrote some time ago:

A Farmers Wife

Tall and lean Jim met short and fat Cynthia.

They endured 40 years of marital bliss, he enjoyed gardening, she liked chips...

Until one day his potatoes didn't come up to scratch, so she buried him under his vegetable plot and eloped to Jersey with an old, bald farmer.

© Frances Pallett

Any new challenges are welcome and in the meantime, for anybody who wants to accept my challenge here are a few titles:

Midnight Molasses

The Girl with the Pink Hair

Grumpy old Men

A Barnyard Affair

Have fun

Thanks to Redflaw for this challenging title! As promised, here is another story in 100 words.

Enjoyed writing it, so hope you enjoy reading it.

When John loved the Whale

John was tired of being ten.

Too old for crying, too young to be taken seriously.

John’s dreams reached above his parents semi-detached, suburban, 2.4 lifestyle to the big world beyond.

The annual family holiday, introduced him to fishing and whale watching. And in the ocean John had found his calling.

30 years later, standing on the decaying pier, watching boats cruise past and carrying the laptop case that signified his mundane work as an IT technician, he thought only of being ten again.

When he ached to be older and fulfil his dreams.

When John loved the whale.

© Frances Pallett

Thanks to la_spice for providing me with another challenging title for a story in 100 words.

Hope my writing does it justice

The Old Boot

My strongest childhood memories are my Father’s fisherman tales.

Then, the port of Lucklorth bustled with trawlers, clanking lobster baskets and Father, aboard the Old Boot, bringing in his catch.

The boat was affectionately named after my Mother and her enthusiasm for darning everything, including footwear. Father could buy just one new boot and make a good pair.

She left, whilst he was out at sea and I was scouring rock pools.

I never saw her again, her infectious smile, her caring eyes.

She said he loved the sea.

But he loved the Old Boot most of all.

© Frances Pallett

Many thanks to la_spice, my blog friend, for providing me with the title for another story in 100 words. It's not as easy as it sounds but if anyone else would like to challenge me, please feel free to send me a title and I'll get writing!

Hidden Treasure

They said I was getting fat.

I said baggy was the fashion.

Who were my parents to dictate what I ate anyway?

I had fat friends. I had thin friends. I had a boyfriend they didn’t know about.

As I sat, alone, in the sterile waiting room, I felt they didn’t know me either.

Cool gel oozed on my plumpness, ‘It’s a girl’ she said. My precious girl.

She couldn’t stay my secret forever.

Her ‘parents’ will collect her from the delivery suite. I’ll be her first kiss and first goodbye.

But like well hidden treasure, she’ll be mine to find.

© Frances Pallett

For anyone who has bothered to count the words, yes I know there are 101, but la I hope you can forgive me

For all those who will soon be jetting off to sunnier climes (which right now could mean anywhere!) and to rekindle memories of holidays past, I give you this poem:

Holiday Time

Holiday time,
Financial whine,
Plane to catch
Shoes to match?
Sun, surf and sea
Waiting for me.
Crashing waves,
All-night raves.
Beach body bared
Public beware!
Tiny thongs
Hide no wrongs.
Each day begun,
With warming sun.
Midday heat
Melting feet.
Watch! oversized
And scary-eyed
Big insects
Bite and peck.
Factor twenty
Should be plenty.
From the top…
Slip, slap, slop.
Reserved sunbeds
Summon hot heads,
Tempting sleep
Time will keep.
Sandcastles brave
The swooping waves.
Flags full mast,
Nothing lasts.
Cocktails all round?
Sparklers abound.
Drinks ablaze,
Children dazed.
Fall sound asleep
Cockroaches creep.
Out to play,
Dart away.
Two weeks of this;
Relaxing bliss,
Almost gone.
Nights left: one.
And so ‘til dawn,
‘Til early morn,
Cases crammed,
Coaches jammed,
We wait. We sing.
Take it all in.
Teary eyes,
Say goodbyes.
Some last snapshots
And that’s your lot.
Roll on next year
T’will soon be here.

© Frances Pallett

A poem dedicated to a wonderful moment, to sharing nature; for only in poetry can we truly appreciate what it is we see.

A Dragonfly took a liking to my freshly washed jeans

A dragonfly took a liking to my freshly washed jeans.
Hung out on the line,
In fitful sunshine.

It landed, proudly displaying its clear gossamer wings,
Holographic gleams
Of shimmering green.

Closer and closer I edged towards its graceful beauty,
Amazed at the sight
Of one not in flight.

Minutes passed, I dwelled with the eternity of silence
And to memory,
Wrote each quality.

A tiny work of art, dappled with vibrant elegance.
Small sections knitted,
Perfectly fitted.

My jeans were dry but I lingered to gaze at the splendour.
Privileged to see
Nature so closely.

Then the breeze tickled my neck and as quickly as it came
Wings fluttered and left
To find jeans still wet.

© Frances Pallett