Year 1923

Year 1923
 
In the year of our Lord 1923, Emma Vowels was born, the 

first girl to her Irish parents.  The Family Vowels were 

infamous in the Dublin slums, because they were barefoot 

in the city where hob nailed boots rang out across cobbled 

streets, as nobody could afford a first bus ride into town.

When Emma grew into a pretty girl, her indigo apron, ragged 

and thready, was scorned by the local boys.  They would 

shout out to each other lewd and hurtful remarks, knowing 

she could hear.  "She's like a piano out of tune when she 

speaks" she overheard an old washer woman say,and all the 

boys laughed.

Emma was always in clogs, but fantasised about shoes,  and 

about being able to read books, and about one day sailing 

away on one of the big ships she saw at the quayside.  But 

the truth was that she would probably end up like her poor 

mother, drawing lines of seams on the bare legs of the women 

at the local knocking shop down the dock road. 

Always windy and bleak, the dock road was a place of terror 

and violence that loomed out of the fog and mist to haunt 

the mind of poor Emma Vowels.

As she got older Emma took to collecting matchsticks and 

from them she modelled a collection of little clipper ships 

which she put into empty bottles.  The same sort of ships she 

dreamt of travelling on, to far away lands where the sky was 

blue and the rain was warm and soft, not hard, cold and brittle.

Emma still dreamt of learning to read and write, own red shoes, 

put on silk stockings, and feel sated, not empty.  This grew into 

a mantra for her survival, she repeated it often and loudly, into 

the empty room.

The copyright of this post belongs to Valerie Rule
 

Bottles

I awoke in a pool of red liquid.

Without my caffeine fix, I thought it was surely my blood, 

as after a night of shambolic wanderings round the seedy 

bars of Soho, I was in a bad awful mood.  But I did not 

bleed easily, as my parrot often told me.  Looking across 

the sheets, the smell of alcohol penetrating my sluggish 

senses, I realised with a shake that it was my precious 

cargo of late bottled rare vintage wine.

The empty bottles rolled across the duck boarded floor. 

Unbroken,  robust,  but truly empty of their juicy liquid.

The dawn now breaking in to the room and in to my soul, now 

sang out that all was now irretrievable lost to me.

My company charmingly called "Broken Flows" was a dead duck, 

and by the flimsy shake of my tail, I was sinking down into 

a deep depressive state that not even a stiff Americano 

could alleviate.

No, this disaster called for the sort of robust action that 

I had previously considered beyond me.  My client, awaiting 

the delivery of his consignment would probably even now be 

making his way to the hotel lobby.  The telephone rang.  The 

deep voice began to enunciate instructions and innuendo, 

soundings full of sensible, coherent utterings.  I hedged my 

bets and sold my soul, agreeing, pacifying and full of bravado 

I arranged for our meeting to go ahead as planned.

Replacing the receiver I surveyed the room and could not 

remember the how or the where or the what of the previous 

evening. 

Only the consequences remained, the empty bottles.  Yesterday, 

worth thousands,  now worth nothing, they may as well be empty 

hot water bottles.

 
Life is always juicy, I said out loud to the empty room.

The copyright of this post belongs to Valerie Rule 

Bone Handle

Bone Handle
I am called by others 'bone handle', which belies my secret 

silver beauty.Like a twisted leaf blown along gutters, I 

can be swooping or twisted, depending on the wind.
I call myself beloved because of my filigree etchings: of 

a delicate and slender nature which is a forever motif.
These marks, darkened and burnished in to my shape, glint 

like silver fish when the sun shines.
When I am being a joy, in full and special use, I am 

swooping like a bird in smooth flight, dipping and diving, 

dry or liquid.
My medium is my message because in spoon time we sup from 

the same bowl, either that, or we are always happy, nesting 

together.

The copyright of this post belongs to Valerie Rule 

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