Last week I made my first entry into the weekly challenge brought to us by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields – I enjoyed taking part so much, I thought I’d do it again. I loved reading others’ offerings! Here are the rules: Use the photo as inspiration, write a hundred(ish) words – and share! Here goes this week’s – and I welcome your comments again!
Welsh Mountain Magic
I stood, staring into the distance, feeling the rage build up inside. I kicked the flat tyre and arrows of pain shot from my big toe, burying themselves deeply in my knee.
This town mouse had forgotten that mobile phones were completely useless in the depths of mid-Wales.
I rubbed the tears of frustration out of my eyes and blinked. A telephone box appeared out of thin air – a little bit of Celtic magic to save this modern-day damsel in distress. Plus, there was even ten pence in the slot, ready to make a call.
Click the blue froggy to read other writers’ offerings – and enjoy!
I’m on holiday, so have penned three short pieces inspired by my countryside idyll. I hope you enjoy them all!
This perfect patch of blue, framed by curtains flung wide. The big city, frenetic with self-importance, lingers only as a distant fragment on the edge of my thoughts.
This perfect patch of blue, punctured by a bird of prey, intent, suspended, focused on the earth below. I too am suspended, in splendid isolation.
We are mesmerised by her sudden twist of friendliness. Her tail twitches imperiously.
We take the cat’s eye tour – the cow barn, the hens, the sheep scattered over the mountain fields. Finally, we reach her boundary, a nodding dandelion not quite at the end of the meandering lane. A final writhe of fur around legs, and she is gone, trotting back to her fireside sanctuary.
Goodbye for now, puss.
A tractor, bouncing on man-tall tyres – the driver waves us past.
A ewe and her twin lambs, scampering to the steep verge, eyes wide, stopping to chew on grass, just in case.
A mud-splattered van, straining to chug to the top of the hill, clouds of fumes belching from a rusting exhaust.
This is rush hour in the countryside.
This story isn’t very pleasant, so please be warned.
We’ve never had much money. Put it this way, I come from the sort of family where we don’t buy cream. Mum uses a syringe to syphon off the ‘top of the milk’ to drizzle over puddings, and it’s strictly doled out to make sure nobody has more than anybody else – even Dad.
We spend a lot of time at jumble sales, helping out as well as buying. Anyone who knows anything about jumbles will know that if you help set up the trestles, pile up the clothes, toys and bric-a-brac, sort out the tea urn and custard creams, you get first pick before the crowds surge through the doors. It’s amazing what people chuck out. We get some pretty good stuff, but not knickers though. Mum draws the line at underwear.
Anyway, that’s where my dress comes in. I see it, shoved under an old dressing gown, right before they open the doors and the old biddies elbow their way in. A bright red sundress, hardly worn. Mine. It’s cotton, broderie anglaise Mum calls it, and fitted at the bust and waist. Since I’m finally getting boobs and hips, I will definitely look grown up in it. Best of all, it’s short, way above my knees, and it makes Mum’s eyebrows rise in that way that means she’s really not happy, but won’t say why. It’s perfect. Continue reading “The Red Dress”