Category Archives: writing

The action is more important

Irregular verbs used: (bring, build, burn, buy, catch)

The house was built
the house was bought
Into the house
belongings were brought
But the house was burnt down
burnt down to the ground
The person responsible
hasn’t been caught.

One minute – One sentence

17 sentences that include the word gloves.

She wore special gloves that attracted the butterflies.
He picked up the vase with the gloves so as not to leave any fingerprints.
The gloves are off for today, meaning I’m done with today.
The gloves were kept in a basket in the cupboard under the stairs.
She had suggested wearing gloves and he had really enjoyed it.
‘Jill! Have you seen my gloves?’
The weather was conducive to wearing gloves.
All you need is gloves.
We had to wear gloves or we’d get blisters.
She squeezed into a new pair of gloves for every patient.
I often have cold hands and should wear gloves.
‘Shit! I left my gloves in the pub.’
The gloves were great but when they got wet after throwing snow I couldn’t stand it.
You are the hand that fits my glove.
‘How many pairs of gloves do you need?’
‘We’ve never had to wear gloves this late in the year!’
It was the one time that he had forgotten to wear gloves: the infection had killed him.

A Turning Point

She didn’t like school, in fact she hated it. Her marks were bad and she was stubborn and she always kicked up a fuss when she had to go.

Her father, who was very concerned, decided one weekend to take her to the beach. They stood at the shoreline and he asked her.
‘The waves they keep coming and coming. You can’t stop them. What can we do?’
‘Build a wall?’ She replied.
‘One day the sea will erode the wall.’ her father continued.

He went back to the car and pulled out a bodyboard and two wetsuits from the boot. The two of them got changed and went out into the sea. She was reluctant, she had never really like the sea and feared she would drown under the waves. Her father however, insisted.

When they were out just past the breaking waves her father told her to hold onto the board tight and move with the waves. She was in tears as she fell off the board the first two times but on the third time she caught one, she screamed with fear but that soon turned to joy as she flew across the water towards the beach. When she at last fell off she looked back at her father and leapt into the air shouting. ‘Again!’

Later that day as he prepared some pizza for dinner he asked if she had enjoyed herself.
‘YES!’ she replied. ‘It was such a great feeling!’
‘Great!.’ he said. ‘Now listen to me. I want to ask you something. Imagine the sea is your school and the waves are your classes. The waves are going to keep coming and coming and coming. You can’t stop them. ‘What you are going to do about it? Continue building a wall or learn to surf?’

Life is like…

Life is like a letter, it’s exciting to receive but one day it rots away.
Life is like a credit card, yours for free but you soon have to pay.
Life is like a leader, it comes and then goes.
Life is like a hinge, helping one door open and another close.
Life is like a slide, you’re up and then you’re down.
Life is like a button, you’re lost and then you’re found.
Life is like a fact, it’s said to be true what we’re told.
Life is like an accident, unexpected things unfold.
Life is like a cliff, ready to crumble and fall.
Life is like a bible, it’s not something most pay any attention to at all.
Life is like a race, for some it’s over faster.
Life is like a recipe, one that sometimes leads to disaster.
Life is like a dodgem car, you can’t always avoid it.
Life is like the opera, it’s dramatic but some can’t abide it.
Life is like a plate, sturdy yet fragile when it falls
Life is like a roof, it’s nothing without walls

A Ritual

Her choir practice took place in the Methodist Church on Thursday night, a gentle five minute drive from her home into the village centre.

Every week, as she travelled in, she listened to a tape her husband had made. Years ago he had carefully hung a microphone over the piano at home and recorded some scales for her.

As she drove in she sang, starting low so as not to over-stretch her vocal chords, and as she sang she left behind her tiredness that had, by that time of the week, begun to weigh her down.

She sang through the wintry evenings of rain and fog and in the summer she sang with the windows wound right down but whenever she sang it wasn’t only her voice that went up it was her spirits too.

I wish

I wish you were here with me
I wish I hadn’t said what I said
I wish you would reply to my messages
All my messages that remain unread
I wish I could turn back time
I wish you were still mine

Words

Sunrise. Summer. Slumber. Breathe. Seaweed. Damp. Sparkly. Sizzling. Calm. Ripples. Wonder. Sherry. Salt Marsh. Running. Eggs. Candlelight. Wine. Rain. Rugby. Thunderstorms. Glow. Shadows. Warmth. Anguish. Drunk. Confusion. Downstairs. Bright. Sensation. Reading. Running. Detox. Downton. Skyline. Blossom. Bulerías. Processions. Laughs. Nut roast. Cauliflower. Sprouts. Simplicity. Market. Flamenco. Flamingo. Pizza. Silence. Landscape. Music. Clear. Sierra. Horizon. Sofa. Running. Coffee. Brandy. Organic. Light. Memory. Fullness. Wind. Curry. Connections. Sunny. Unravelled. Cumin. Showers. Fish. Sea. Streets. Countryside. Golden. Blue. Visions. Ideas. Prose. Ginger. Blazing. Sunset.

A Walk in the Woods

One day, Tom, a university student was walking alone in the woods eating a slice of watermelon when suddenly a bear ran out in front of him. Tom froze, the bear looked at him. Without thinking Tom threw the watermelon as far as he could to distract the bear but it only got angry so he ran like the wind. Tom was chased through the woods and he lost a shoe but he soon got to a road where luckily a garbage truck was passing and it stopped and picked him up. The bear growled and ran back into the woods.

‘What a relief! I hadn’t expected drama like that!’ Tom said to the driver as they drove away.
‘Bear that in mind the next time you go for a walk in these woods.’ the driver replied.

Stories Everywhere

You know what happened in your life today, what thoughts you had, what people you saw and so on. Simple things like these are often all you need to begin a story.

The Cushions

The sofas looked messier in the morning
than they had done last thing at night.

Had the cushions, while we slept,
been having a massive fight?

Flinging against armrests, cramming into
corners and upsetting the throws.

I wonder what they were fighting about
as they cushioned each others blows.

Misheard

“Your grammar is bad.” said the teacher to the young boy.
Later, while the young boy ate hot stew and potatoes at home, he asked his parents why Grandma had been bad.

Tea with Laurence

How very dare you!
You should be ashamed of yourself.
I simply cannot bear you
How very dare you!
These silly things that you do
So very annoy oneself
How very dare you!
You should be ashamed of yourself.

17 and 71

I was 17. A lot of things were rubbish.
I was 71. Sometimes I felt rubbish.
I was 17. I couldn’t grow a beard.
I was 71. She wouldn’t let me grow a beard.
I was 17. I was glad not to have to wear glasses.
I was 71. I couldn’t find my glasses.
I was 17. I could put a spring in my step.
I was 71. I was no spring chicken.
I was 17. I wore a football scarf.
I was 71. I still had that scarf.
I was 17. On the beach it was ‘Look at me!’
I was 71. On the beach… still no one looked.
I was 17. I dreamed big.
I was 71. I still dreamed big.

The Fire

Sat by the fire he sank further into his velvet armchair. He wanted a moment to truly enjoy it but his head was disorder and elsewhere. The clock on the mantlepiece ticked onwards, striking half past ten and then eleven. How he hated the chimes when they were numerous, especially if he was listening to the radio. Outside the world was silent; the earth knew and understood this silence as did the cold mud as did the tree: stripped of its colour yet not of its knowledge. So he sat by the fire, the perfect image of winter contentment, like a painting, yet he wasn’t content – his thoughts were the sparks leaping to the hearth, each glowing ember replacing another. All that was needed was a pause, a counting of breaths and he too could join them all, the fire, the earth, the mud and the tree, be the man in a painting in a state of enduring wisdom.

The Window

The moon rose as she watched from her window; the city lit up like golden jewels and the winter sky clear, fresh and sharp and only those with proof against it – like her – were able to enjoy it. There were many questions she asked herself, what was her reason for being there? Was one of them. A bug crawling up the window caught the attention of the cat sprawled on the rug below her and in the street a car horn sounded, a couple talked outside a bar – should we walk home or get a taxi? She watched them, she longed to be them, locked in her room, locked in her house. What was her reason for being there? Surely not to suffer like this, surely not to be a prisoner in her own house. The moon rose further still and played in a small cloud, the city became darker yet more golden but she didn’t move. She only questioned her reason for being there rather than being there.

The morning

The cat yawned
and peaked through the curtains
The sunlight poured in
lighting up the dust

The new day had dawned
Earlier than discussed