Tag Holiday

Meat market – Writing Prompt #165 “Collage 26”

freyathewriter 6 Comments

collage-26

Zayde* and Bubbe* loved the seaside. In the olden times, when money was plentiful and the sun always seemed to shine, they had rented out a holiday home, placed two old benches in the garden that meandered down towards the cliffs and felt that life was just perfect.

So it had been, for a little while. Zayde had always rejected the idea of owning a car, telling anyone that cared to listen, and many that had no choice, that the country’s public transport system was so efficient that he had no need. Why waste energy, time and most of all money on a heavy, fuel-hungry machine, when he could sit back and relax in comfort in a luxurious private compartment in a train, and dine in the dining car whenever he felt like it? Bubbe’s misgivings never got a look-in.

Then, the transport system let Zayde down. Oh yes, it was still efficient, still kept to the timetable, but what a timetable. No more being lulled and rocked to sleep as he and his wife sped to their holiday home on gleaming rails. No more steaming coffee and pastries to sate their morning appetites. No more smiling porters wheeling luggage to a waiting taxi.

 

The benches are still there in the garden, but empty of their companions.

There are no seats on cattle trucks.

There is plenty to be afraid of, these days.

* Zayde and Bubbe are Yiddish for grandfather and grandmother.

 

Here is my entry into the Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie collage writing prompt for this week. I’m afraid it took a dark turn, but hey, you know me, right? I couldn’t help but make the connections I did, it just seemed to fit. I know there are brighter stories out there inspired by this prompt because I’ve read at least one in my WordPress Reader feed, and I’ll be reading some more soon!

Why not join me in reading, or even, maybe, take part yourself?

Holiday High Jinks

freyathewriter 20 Comments

Hello, dear and faithful readers.

I had planned to write an amusing and witty poem to round off my pre-Christmas contributions to this blog, but like pie crusts, good intentions are made to be broken and blasted by other commitments such as work, which pays the bills.

I started this blog back in the spring this year with no idea in my mind that I would manage to attract such a wide readership, have so many visitors or expand my writing skills into poetry. I have met so many lovely and creative people, read wonderful work and felt my own craft develop over the weeks and months. Writing has probably saved my sanity this year. I have grown older, wiser and learned some very hard lessons along the way. I lost my dad in the summer, a pain more excruciating than anything I have felt before, and really don’t wish to repeat again for a long time. I hope this blog would make him proud. At the very least I’ve been brave enough to put myself out there and feel I can hold my head high.

Anyway, thank you to everyone who has stopped by, read, liked, commented or just trawled around to see what’s going on. You are all welcome.  I am taking a break in the countryside for the holidays, so the pages will lie fallow for a couple of weeks. I will recharge my batteries, recoup, soak up some calm and return, full of energy and food 🙂

See you all on the other side – 2014 is going to be a good one. I have already decided!

The fabric of this land

freyathewriter 7 Comments
Old mine workings near Pontrhydygroes, Ceredigion - copyright Freya The Writer

Old mine workings near Pontrhydygroes, Ceredigion – copyright Freya The Writer

Touch the walls, feel the past reach out to you. Push away the stone, the plaster, the layers of paper upon paper and molecules of paint. Hear the voices rise from the earth, seeping between flagstones, carried on the air, drifting through the sightless windows. Feel the door’s rough grain, its paint bleached and crackled by the elements, year after year.

Step back, take it all in.

The mountains, bleak and sparse, each tree a skeletal surprise, a victory against the wind, the rain and unforgiving sun.  Notice how, at one side, the roof has triumphed over the elements, sheltered by the nearby slope. Here, a solitary sheep nestles, chewing the grass, untroubled by the wind. Turn your gaze back to the roof, see the sudden break in its spine, slates snapped, shattered and tossed to the ground. Like the broken ribs of a long dead animal, the rafters are exposed, silvered by the biting wind.

Now look away. Look out into the distance.

Tear up your romantic notions of this country idyll. The industrial roots of this land burrow deep into the earth. Still your thoughts long enough to hear them skulking and slithering, grasping hold of the boulders beneath your feet. They will not be silenced – they refuse to hide. See the heaps of spoil, punctured by wooden pilings, markers of tunnels and structures abandoned long ago. Open your eyes and heart to the rusted iron carcasses resting, now dormant as the streams continue roaring ceaselessly in the valley below.

Here broods an industrial land, exhumed by man’s hand.

Here is a land of secrets, laid bare if you care to look.