Identity – A Dash of Sunny

September 3, 2016freyathewriter 10 Comments

I’m taking a breather from

the emails

the documents

the deadlines

the treadmill of files

the Escher-like never ending work mountain.

I’m taking a breather from

the headache

that sits like a heavy, black dog

inside my head.

I’m taking a breather – dammit.

I’m listening to music in the sunlight outside,

pushing obligations to one side,

just for a few moments.

I close my eyes, and breathe…

And then, there he is –

“Excuse me, Miss, my name’s Marcus”

I look into his eyes,

see the worry lines creasing his forehead,

the hesitant, apologetic half-smile

hovering around his mouth.

“I’m scared. I’ve nowhere to stay tonight.

I’m scared.”

I’m taking a breather…

He cannot.

We chat for a bit, I tell him my name in return,

I give him some money (that I really won’t miss)

and wish him well

and mean it.

I did nothing really,

except…

give him some time

give him my attention

give him my name

give him recognition

give him humanity.

He gave me peace.

It’s time for the weekly prompt from A Dash of Sunny where we are invited to write about something that is important to us. This mish-mash of a poem isn’t a work of fiction, Marcus really did enter into my world for a few minutes during Thursday last week.

I didn’t do anything earth-shattering. We just spoke for a while, like people do. The trouble is, too often homeless people are ignored by the rest of us. I can’t imagine the amount of bravery it takes to ask a stranger for help. The cynical part of me does sometimes question what any money I might give will be spent on, but really, who am I to judge, if it helps that person get through another day with no place to call home?

He gave me more than he imagined, in any case. He took me far away from the concerns of work, and on that particular day, it was a blessing. Thank you, Marcus.

Ironbridge – Microfiction challenge #12

September 3, 2016freyathewriter 6 Comments

1024px-henri_rousseau_-_un_matin_de_pluie

Here is where my father lived – and died.

Here is where I learned to walk, to talk, to do as I was told, without question, without demur, without a thought for my own safety.

This is where my nursery rhymes were the constant thrum and clatter of gears, spindles, wheels and metal grinding on metal. This is where wool was not something to cuddle up to or keep me warm at night, but to wipe from my streaming eyes, the gossamer fibres burying themselves between my eyelashes as I dodged the never-halting carders and pulleys. Here, I learned that loose-flowing curls were a death-sentence, not a young girl’s crowning glory.

All is quiet now. The scene is pastoral, industry has long gone.

Thank the Lord.

It’s time for Jane Dougherty’s Microfiction Challenge where this week she asks us to respond to this pastoral scene painted by Henri Rousseau. I had in mind the now peaceful, countryside scene that greets visitors to the fascinating Ironbridge Gorge Museums, once a hub of the Victorian industrial revolution. It must have felt and sounded like bedlam at the height of its productivity.

Reflect – TJ’s Household Haiku Challenge

September 3, 2016September 3, 2016freyathewriter 1 Comment

we think that the streets

were quieter then, ringing

with horses’ hooves

imagine iron

on stone, multiplied beyond

our eardrums’ bearing

It’s time for TJ’s Household Haiku Challenge, where this week we are asked to write using the prompt word, ‘reflect’. Given that I am also a member of the Haiku Hub, we have also been challenged to incorporate some sort of retro touch to our haiku. I hope I’ve managed to merge the two successfully, using my black and white image of a horseshoe, and reflecting on our thoughts of times gone by, pre-motor car.

Do head on over to TJ’s place, have a read and why not take part?