When I am Full

When I am Full
When I am full, my hands go up and my toes go up. 

I imagine myself floating in a great ocean of spring water. 

Perfumed, fresh and smooth.
I am like a fish shaped spoon, carved for movement and 

speed, as well as for idle flotation.
In my fiddlehead pool my maverick habit of always having to 

walk on the left,  deserts me.  I dive and swim, float and 

paddle like a seam ripper shoving the water aside.  Brick 

walls can only crumble at my approach, as I majestically 

spout, soar and judder my way through the lagoon lake.
My fullness finally sated, I am empty again.
 

The copyright of this post belongs to Valerie Rule

The Runcible Spoon

I belong on a grand table, primly and precisely placed near a bone china gravy boat, translucent  and glowing.  In a room, high of ceiling, deep of velvet; curtains swooping their soft hush as sentinels of the dining room.  I belong in a polished mahogany canteen, burnished highly, tucked in deep red velvet stalls, not chucked in a basket with all manner of twisted cutlery, most darkened with age, tarnished reputations rising from their rounded bowls.  My delicate curves have graced the fine table of the same family for generations, in rooms full of soft candlelight, tinkling crystal and refined conversation.  Known always as the Runcible Spoon, I belong in the slender hands of demure ladies, resting on starched linen laid with Limoges and Waterford. I am smooth and symmetrical,  a hint of decoration - filigreed lace made of moonlight.

The copyright of this post belongs to Lynn Hillston

The First Piece of the Year

The First Piece of the New Year
 
Chase the Lady was always my game of choice.  The family 

squabbles are now a fond memory and one I cherish. My 

family were the mavericks of the town.  The butcher's shop 

my father inherited was central to the small country 

community where the slaughtering of animals and the the 

cries of midnight foxes could judder even me from deep 

dreaming sleep.
I would always win the card games every Saturday night, 

much to the chagrin of my raucous family.  My brothers and 

I would cheat, bet and play long into the night.  My father 

would benignly look on, refusing to arbitrate, but instead 

play at being the minstrel.  Strumming on his battered
guitar singing Elvis Presley songs until we boys would scream 

for him to leave us be.  We would deride him for his awful 

voice, but secretly I thought him very good.  I was thoroughly 

jealous of his talent, skills and general good looks.
I could understand how lady customers admired his strong arms 

and his muscles as he wrapped up their lamb chops.
They would nervously finger their cheap jewellery and flash 

their best smiles in the forlorn hope of luring him away from 

the home, the shop, and his beloved boys.
My father was a widow who had carved a unique place for himself 

as eligible but unattainable.  Surely the best position in a 

small town.
It was the reverse for the Misses Fiddlehead and Fiddlesticks, 

who in turn beguiled him and our family.  A duo of unmarried 

sisters, their real names were Frances and Fiona.  They gave 

private music and singing lessons, and voice and drama training 

to we three boys.  Spiritual without being stuffy or boring, 

they had become Godparents to all of us, as well as our musical 

educators.
I still have my little baby cutlery set from that time, pristine 

still, it always sits on my "special" shelf.  The two small 

silver items lie nestled in their blood red velvet box, unused but 

forever cherished. 
My brothers received variously silver teething rings or 

christening mugs, but I love my little spoons.
The sisters were much older than my father, always sprightly, 

eccentric and musically alive.  They would pedal around town calling 

at various houses, music sheets flying away in the fierce wind that 

blew incessantly off the St. George's Channel.

The copyright of this post belongs to Valerie Rule 

Mr X Remembers

James remembers the accident but not as well as he could, the images not quite red, but punctuated by orange. It was Autumn, by the bus stop. Suddenly the glass was broken. The driver had been furious and, aware of the repercussions, had not stayed to find out the true cost. Now it was spring and James felt he could allow optimism to seep back into his life.

The copyright of this post belongs to Ellen MacCree

The Complete Unsent Letters of Muff and Sorry #2

Sorry you hapless cretin,
Conjure yourself a new tent. You don't need my old teepee in order to move on. I'm fed up with your unctuous arguments of self-defence, your missing commas (did you think I wouldn't notice?) your cards with the heads all unseen in your pockets. Even your shadow wants nothing to do with you. Take the wild and worn heart of you and fuck off into a ploughed field; Go where the smoke will rise from the stubble and purify you. You have made an igloo out of the capricious coldness of your heart. Light a fire for God's sake. Forget the whale. Let him boom boom in the murky depths. Let his whale heart be cut out and worn to the sweet beating of the doldrums.
Even if I were to divulge the location of the tent, you'd not find it. Its coordinates would baffle a man like you; the rose-finch upon your shoulder, forever nibbling your lace collar, would distract yuou long before you found the chink that leads the way. And I'm not talking inscrutable random Easterners either. You say nothing is delicious: Light a fire on the parapet. Toast yourself a sweet feast to tell the time by: meringues at seven, praline brittle at 9.30 and marshmallow fingers at four.
Be dauntless Sorry, if you can. Melt the snow-queen in your jasmine heart, sweeten your sour breath with parma violets. Ah you have me.
The tent is in the piutched field in a landscape where rain links the Church, the mill,  and the stream. Be good Sorry, for now you have it all
Your vey own Muff

The Complete Unseen Letters of Muff and Sorry #1

Dearest Muff,
I'll come straight to the point: Where is the tent? (tails you win) The sky hangs heavy with unshed snow and I am growing increasingly anxious about the whale. It seems to me that the known world is being distorted in unknown ways, and nothing about this is delicious. If I could find the tent, crawl in beneath the weight of the white, I am sure I could devise a plan that would get us out of this mess. The whale lives so far below the frequencies of love and collusion, he has no truck with our private delights masquerading as work. He knows the secret of death's gift, that once life's gone there's no retrieving it. Oh we can plan to cut it into ever thinner slices, but it is still itself, entire, a life shot through with randomness: the taut arrow about to fly from the bow, a child choking on a peanut, the bruised yellow jellies lined up on the banquet table in front of the sea. Just because you cannot recall their names does not mean these things don't exist.
I'm sorry to harp on about it Muff but, you must see, if I could find the tent, erect it in this wilderness, we'd all have a slender chance (heads I lose). The world quickens Muff. Still the whale calls, its song pure lament. Still the sea moves in distress.  Write now dear heart and tell me please where oh where is the fucking tent?
In hopefulness and in equal despair
I remain ever your
Sorry

The copyright of this post belongs to Claire Steele

Izzy's Paradise

It begins for most people at the filigree gates, portal to a different paradise.  Step through peeling iron sentinels to find a garden of primal beauty.  Wilderness, untouched by trowel, stippled with sunlight, has spread flora for acres.  Something pricks Izzy’s foot. Swearing softly in this hallowed place, she bends to take communion with the mossy underfoot.  Examining the unfamiliar thorn, she reflects on her purpose for venturing further into the cathedral of venerable trees.  The sun is inviting, comforting, seducing her with promises of lazy stupor.  She tilts her face upwards, her closed eyelids showing a stippled map of fine red tracings, a treasure map to her inner secrets.

The copyright of this post belongs to Lynn Hillston