Wednesday, 27 November 2013


Cocooned in the under-earth, for the rabbit, winter’s implacable onslaught is escaped. If she dreams, it is not in wonder, but in certitude: she dreams of spring and an end to the crystalline chandeliers of frosted water hanging from the underboughs of the trees. An end to the dirty sludge, the detritus of campers, hikers and walkers who tramped the ground some four feet above her hibernation.
She waits coiled in the burrow for spring when the fire of the sun lifts her head, she resurfaces to her senses, and life begins anew.

The copyright of this post belongs to Ben Hargreaves

Thursday, 7 November 2013


A parasite - it must be removed! Even in the bright sunshine after a meditation session, she couldn't calm the feeling that action was needed. She sat plotting, staring blindly at the apple on the tray. How best to retaliate? Last time the potion in the tin had worked, but it could have done with improvement. Anyway, it was too precious to waste unless success was almost guaranteed. No, this kerfuffle couldn't bounce along any longer, precise planning would be necessary. Gradually a plan formed. If she was quick it could work. So, she packed up the yoga mat, bit into the apple and set to work.
She worked steadily, tapping, clicking, dialing and finally sat back satisfied that by tea time, the house guests would be packing their bags and rushing to catch the train.

The copyright of this post belongs to Ellen MacRae

The Consequences

One decision. It had seemed innocent, but its fallout reverberated through generations to come. Like a prism turns white into a myriad of colours, so its outcome multiplied, divided and reproduced mutations of further repercussions. Now blind to its original purpose, the carnage was initially invisible, and more dangerous for it. By the time it became apparent, rescue was impossible, cogs turning silently, unstoppable by crown nor red box. The consequences out of reach, dancing before their eyes as if hypnotic, hyperactive burlesque dancers. Regret would reign pensive.

The copyright of this post belongs to Ellen MacRae

Tuesday, 5 November 2013

Small Portraits

A pure blue canvas. This winter sky stretched taut above the sprawling prairie city. She always thought it was the perfect sky. The city was coloured in yellow and orange, and the granite-green of the river was a swift ribbon over rocks capped with tiny snow hats. They say, if you wait five minutes in this city the weather will change. Those two weeks of October heat meant bare arms and sunglasses, and the sun glared on the padlocked patio of the nursing home. Her mother is a poet. Her fragmented brain cells call up wondrous words. They fall out of her mouth amongst broken teeth. This stoic elder is travelling slowly, hunched over her walker. The wheels push into the polished corridor. Her daughter pointed out the beauty of the sun, as though the leaves were on fire. Then the poetry. "Look at that fir tree laden with snow." There was no winter, there. But that was her poem. A snowy image, and she believed in it. Who would not want to see such a scene and instantly forget the row of vinyl chairs beneath the window, and the trail of spilled juice drops dotting the linoleum tiles? Who would not choose that beauty over the tartan cotton bibs tied around the necks of each resident at every meal, or the bafflement over the location of your own bed, as though you might wander forever looking, or a sea of forgettable faces? Only seconds to not remember. The daughter loved the words and phrases. They were 98 year old gems. "I put my smartness in my pocket and left it there."...and..."I'm a stupid cupid!" That poem came with a burst of laughter. Here in this city of the daughter's youth, the sun is now a blur; a ghost sun trying hard to be visible. There were signs placed beneath buildings warning of falling ice. She saw the melting icicles and the sidewalks shiny with the wet. Wait five minutes. Want five minutes for the fragile brain to try to remember. It forgets everything but sheer poetry.

The copyright of this post belongs to Claudia Anne  October 30  2013

Monday, 4 November 2013


The Mexican wave of humanity surged forward as one voice, a crescendo of excitement as the gleaming horseflesh thundered past. Glorious musculature rippled and strained as the sun caught the shadows and marked the flight. The symphony of silks shimmered as frantic sweating bodies fought for the glory of the winners' enclosure. Then the dampened sigh of group disappointment peppered with shrieks of delight as the race was run.
Gloriously attired ladies in ranks of flowing finery, their heady perfume mingling with the earthier scents of equine warriors. Parading bodies of Arabic excellence, strutting arrogantly round the paddock, heads tossing, tails swishing, a cacophony of Chestnut, Grey and purist Black. Majesty personified.
Hearing the discordant, mechanised, shrill announcing of the next race, scurrying Top Hats and Morning Suits, agitating around coarse-voiced Umbrellas. Odds shouted, punters jostling, pick-pockets thieving and the mounting tension as the fillies strut their stuff towards the distant staring gates.
Magic filters out the oxygen iun the air, as the previous winner holds aloft the silver chalice of success and smiles lead away their steaming treasure towards his well deserved rub down and reward.
On the periphery of all this rioutous splendour and multicoloured fantasy, he sits alone, head in hands, pockets to let, a broken dream.
The Social Pariah of the afternoon.
The Loser.

the copyright of this post belongs to CH


Your photograph is radiant, distinctive, glorying in your new jeans and leather jacket. Seventeen and taking on the world in your Rocker gear. The memory of the engine throb, bursting upon the consciousness as you opened the throttle on the long straight road and learned to fly.
The smell of Methanol mix and leather stays with me to this day.
The knowledge of parental disapproval and hazy images of teenage angst, coming full circle and buzzing still. memories that travel the road of time, out of shape and coloured by the encompassing damp of passing life converge on the Salt Box Cafe at Biggin Hill.
You may have been seventeen but you were no new penny. Bruised by circumstance, angered by confusion, hungry for freedom, the worm was on the turn. Too long the boot prints of treachery and stupidity had shadowed the idyllic cocoon, now the drifts of colour were permeating the understanding and the glittering grin of survival greeted a new day.
The Amber Raven of my Tiger 70 kick-started into life, climbing out of the pit, the wind blowing the cobwebs asunder with giant golden wings of promise.
The worm was dead.
Life began.

The copyright of this post belongs to CH