Day 273 - Cure

 CURE

Prompt - Cure : Write about finding a cure for an illness

So what happens next?

He had spent so long on this project, so many years of failure and disappointment and never ending hope, and, finally, success.  Finding the answers, overcoming the problems, getting the finance, getting others to believe in him, working long days, weeks, months without respite.  That was what his life had been like for so long.  There had never been time to sit, ponder, and try to see what the reactions to his exciting discovery would be.  But now, on the verge of being able to release the news to the world, he realised there was more to this than simply getting to the end of his journey.  There was always another path that had to be followed.

A cure for the common cold.  One of the holy grails of medical science.  Long sought for, never before arrived at.  Until now.  All the clinical trials showed it to at least ninety eight per cent effective, and there were hardly any side effects.  Nothing to worry about.  It could be taken as a weekly pill, or an injection every six months.  No more colds, no more snuffly noses and streaming eyes, no more vague aches and pains and that feeling of wanting to sit down and forget there was a world going on.  Millions would welcome it, look on him as one of humanity's beneficiaries.  But would everyone?

Number one enemy would be big pharma, who would no longer be able to peddle their vast array of large useless 'cures' and 'preventatives'.  Then the chemist chains who would see a reduction in income, and footfall.  Then the people who relied on "I've gob a colb" as a good excuse to take some time off from the jobs they hate.  So his acclaim would not be universal.  

Which side would the media fall?  How would he be portrayed to the public?  He didn't even have anyone working on PR, so he would be fair game to be turned into whatever they wanted him to be.  Saviour or Swindler.  He knew from what was happening with climate change that the science would be ignored, in favour of whatever agendas suited the powers that controlled the output.  And the pharma people had access to a lot of important ears.

It had all seemed so simple until this moment.  At least in terms of knowing what he should do, what course was best to pursue.  Now he was entering into a world beyond his experience.  He would need help.  He picked up his phone.

Day 272 - Scrapbook

 SCRAPBOOK

Prompt - Scrapbook : Write about finding a scrapbook and the memories it contains

With everyone gone, and the first time to herself since his death, she got a cup of tea, a bit of cake, and sat down in her favourite chair.  Picked up the bulging volume by the side.  The cover showed her and him, on their wedding day, taking centre spot.  Black and white of course.  Over the years others had been added around it.  The kids as babies, then at school, until there was no more space.  But it gave enough of a hint as to what lay inside.  The story of their life together.  Well, a story.

She opened it up.  Pages covered in stuck on memories.  Photos, occasionally cuttings from newspapers, the odd handwritten note.  A few child's drawings, standing out from the rest for their size and impenetrability.  All in chronological order, all showing happiness and success and a gradual evolution across the decades.  She smiled at so many of the memories.  A photo of the first time Charlie walked.  The announcement of Jack's appointment to chief librarian.  Amy's swimming certificates.  The betting slip Jack won big on.  

She was in there too.  Usually holding one of the children, or working in the kitchen, or doing the ironing.  On holiday, sitting with her knitting,  guarding their belongings while the others explored.  No cuttings though.  Nothing which showed her name.  Or her time working for Jacksons, or her voluntary work, or her crying.  Nothing to show the bruises.

It showed a life she had been on the periphery of, for forty seven years.  It showed how little she mattered.

He was gone now.  There's be no more pages filled.  She'd offer it to one of the kids, for them to show to their own sons and daughters.  Except... maybe she could add a few things.  That would remind them who she was.  He'd have hated that.

She was glad the bastard was dead.  Now she had her own life to find.

Day 271 - Patterns

 PATTERNS

Prompt - Patterns : Write about repeating patterns that occur in life.

I am my father's son.  That is a biological fact.  I am not my father's son.  That is...  What is it?  A desire?  Wishful think?  An ambition?  He is not who I want to be. He is who I must not be.

I remember.  Tonight I remember too well.  I remember the fear.  The blood.  the bruises.  The broken bones.  The excuses.  The gushing remorse.  The constant forgiveness.  I do not forgive.  Cannot forgive.

My mother knew the pattern.  Knew she'd say the wrong thing.  Wear the wrong thing.  Do the wrong thing.  Be the wrong person.  Be the target.  Better her than the kids.  That was her way of protecting us.  Until he tired of hitting her.  And then... it depended.  He'd had enough. or he hadn't had enough.  We'd got away, hid.  Or been trapped.  Our own fault.  We knew that home was a dangerous place. 

Oh yes, there were happier times.  The times he was just drunk enough.  The times he wanted to play Happy Families.  But I knew.  Knew it wouldn't last.  Knew to keep myself to myself.  Ungrateful he called it.  Sensible I called it.  Because at any time it could, would, change, and it would be my mother, or sister, or me, ending up insensible.  Out cold.  Out for the count.  Out of further harm's way.

She knew too.  She knew better than anyone.  But he was hers.  Better or worse.  Richer or poorer.  Sickness and health.  So why wouldn't she see it was always worse?  Always poorer, sicker, sickening?

Until one day.  We're the same size now.  But I'm sober, he's not.  I'm quick, he's slow.  I'm needing this moment, but to him it's just another day at the office.  I hit him.  Again.  Again.  He's long ago stopped hitting back and I'm still hitting.  And I swear I saw him smile.  A little grin of recognition, of satisfaction.  He had seen himself.  He had seen his image in me.  He had seen me fear what I was.

He left.  Left us alone.  Found someone else to beat?  We didn't care.  Well I didn't.  My mother never forgave me.  Or herself.  But he was gone, and we got on with the rest of our lives.  Moved on, left it behind.  

But you can never leave someone like that behind.

Forty seven minutes ago I punched my wife in the face.  I do not know why.

I am my father's son.

I must not be my father's son.  I.  Must.  Not.

Day 270 - Mind Map it Out

 MIND MAP IT OUT

Prompt - Mind Map it Out : Create a mind map of words, phrases and ideas that pop into your head, or spend some time browsing the many mind maps onl;ine.  Write a poem, story or journal entry inspired by the mind map.

A BIG MISTAKE?

What had he been thinking?  It seemed like a smart idea during the first lockdown.  The streets so quiet, nowhere to go, sun shining and peace in the streets.  But reality has a way of biting back.  Optimism gives way to pragmatism.  What had once seemed sensible, or at least fun, now looks stupid, and more challenge than entertainment.  But that's the problem with a product that takes eighteen months to arrive.  The lockdowns long gone, the streets busy and the air polluted, a second summer waning, the rains coming in from the Atlantic.  So what to make of his rashness?  Could the inspired mouse click still deliver something worthwhile in a world that looks so different?

He set about trying to construct this new situation to his advantage, to find the positives.  One short ride powered by aching muscles had given some idea of the scope, of the tasks ahead.  So he mind mapped his thoughts, trying to work out what needed to be done, and what he could look forward to.  

Four spines ran off the centre circle.  In the circle one short word - ebike.  The spines were labelled Improvement, Security, Riding, and Objectives.  He stopped short of putting in one that said Fears, although it was lurking in his mind.

Security, he thought, was basically doing everything possible to stop his new toy from getting nicked.  The local Facebook page had a constant stream of reported bike thefts, and he had no desire to add to it.  Most important was to make it secure within the garage where it would spend most of it's time.  He had heavy duty D rings to be drilled into the wall and floor, there to attach padlock and chain.  One to secure the frame to the wall, a second attaching the back wheel to the floor, and a third to keep the front wheel with the frame.  Three keys to remember, to forget, to lose...  Maybe he could block in the entrance a bit too, although he didn't want to make it too difficult to take our or put back.  He'd also try to use the back door from the garage, making it look to most people that he kept the bike in the flat, not in the garage which could so easily be broken in to.

And security also meant outside.  Most of the time he'd simply go for a ride, never leave the bike anywhere, return home.  But that negative approach nullified any potential usefulness of this means of transport.  There had to be times when he'd go into a shop, leave the bike to it's own safety.  So two of the locks needed to be fairly portable, so he could always secure the frame to a rack and the front wheel to the frame (again).  He needed to start paying more attention to bike racks, look for the ones where there were constantly people passing by, in well lit areas.  He even thought about getting the bike dirtied up, so it looked less valuable.  But the striking colour was one of the joys he had no desire to compromise.

Improvement had three lines springing from it.  Comfort, which meant getting a new, spongier, saddle, and raised, flatter handlebars, to get the seating position a bit better.  Safety would include getting a better bell, fitting lights (which were surely on their way?), and working out how to use the indicator function on the fancy helmet he'd got.  And Convenience simply ran into one word - Rack.  Something to attach a bag to, should the previously suggested shopping take place.

Riding took in trying to go out on the bike at least once a week (although once November came in that plan might swiftly drop away...), trying to steadily increase the distance ridden, seeing how far the battery life allowed one to go, and finding new and different routes.

Which left Objectives.  Ha, ha.  On one arm he'd written Improve Stamina.  A worthwhile aim.  An unlikely one.  But maybe this, plus a bit of walking and some gym time, might all combine to make him just a little fitter?  That first ride had surprised in finding out how quickly the power assist could kick in, and, more shockingly, just how much effort progress required from him.  It was only six a and a half kilometres, but some muscles were still feeling ti a could of days later.

There were two further objectives.  He knew they'd been in his head long before the bike arrived, so he had to include them.  He also knew that his first riding experience in about nine years had made them look ridiculous.  One was to cycle east, to North Berwick, there to catch the train back to the city (or perhaps the other way round?).  The other headed west, to his friend's place in Bo'Ness.  Where he could cadge a recharge then make the return journey, fully juiced up.  How realistic were either of these madcap ideas?  He would only know once next spring arrived and he could really start to build up mileage as the weather improved.  If... he still had the motivation to build up mileage as the weather improved!

There would be other ideas, notions, thoughts, schemes occurring to him.  Other plans, maybe more realistic in learning process of experience.

But in all his planning there was one inescapable truth from which he could not escape.  One simple set of facts that, cruelly, mocked several of his conclusions.  He was sixty five years old, unfit, and dead lazy.  

Day 269 - Quotable

 QUOTABLE

Prompt - Quotable : Use a popular quote for a speaker and use it as inspiration for your writing

Quote from Martin Luther King : You don't have to see the whole staircase, just take the first step.

She sat back from the keyboard, pushing her chair out of reach of the desk.  A bit of space, a little pondering time.  Slow the breathing, untangle the nerves, allow the fear to sink back down below the surface.  Feel with the gut.

There are no certainties in life, are there?  They say that death and taxes are, but is even that true?  You have to earn enough to be taxed, and they seem to change every year anyway.  Death will come, but you don't know how, or when.  As for the rest of it, nothing is predictable.  Especially when a global pandemic hits and turns lives this way and that, changes old habits into new, rearranges your world.

She'd been happy in her job.  She thought she'd been happy in her job.  She thought they were happy with her.  But working from home provided new evidence, and she wasn't sure who was guilty.  Her mental health suffered from trying to work in isolation, and the lack of support provided.  Zoom meetings provided further stress as she struggled to get her words across, orr even out.  And when it became clear that management saw big advantages in costs to have reduced office staff it became too much.  

Confidence frayed to ripping point, she tried to see a way forward.  Through a fog of confusion and doubt.  Through tears that all too often dropped a veil across her view.   There had to be something better than this.  Conversations with friends, with family, all advising change.  But she'd been in the same place for six years, didn't feel she had the skills she'd need to move on.  

It was her old schoolfriend who had the key, unlocked the barrier she had put up.  Told her that she was in a bad way, that moving on was the only way out, and up again.

Another friend mentioned a vacancy at her place, that might just be what she needed.  Application submitted, interview faced, and here was the answer.  They wanted her.  There would still be some working from home, but this place wanted people to have face to face contact as well, valued team spirit over immediate cash.  And she already knew someone there.  

But.  There was always a but.  It would be less secure.  She would have to learn it alone at times.  Flying solo.  The company itself had been struggling though the lockdowns and their future was far from clear.  How long would it take her to get into being considered for promotion?   There are no certainties...

There are no certainties...

More of the same or take the risk?  She'd take the risk.

Would she take the risk?

She had the reply all set.  Accept.  Take the job, go for change, however unclear the future.  She was poised to send.  But pushed her chair back.  Where would this lead her?  But where would staying lead her?  There are no certainties...

She pulled her chair back into the desk.  She clicked the mouse.  One step taken.

Day 268 - Shipwrecked

 SHIPWRECKED

Prompt - Shipwrecked : Write about being stranded somewhere - an island, a bus stop, etc.

He knew it was his own fault.  Brining along the hip flask had seemed appropriate, for his first bit of Munro bagging.  Something to celebrate with when he reached his first summit.  But he wasn't used to drinking during the daytime, even such a small quantity, and it had made him feel a bit dopy.  So he sat down in the shelter of some bushes for a minute or two to rest.  Except that the minute or two had turned into thirty once he'd dosed off.  He woke feeling stiff and groggy, and yet immediately aware that the light had changed dramatically.

The blue-skied sunny day he'd dropped off under was now a dark grey, low clouds having swept in while he slept.  With it had come a big drop in temperature, and a dampness in the air that suggested the rain wouldn't be long in coming.  He'd shivered, slowly got up and stretched, and donned his final available layer of clothing, a decent enough fleece which still didn't feel like it would do the job.  

His watch told him to get a move on.  Her knew the bus times, had known which one he was aiming for, and now saw he only had twenty five minutes to cover a distance that had taken over forty on the way up.  Still, at least it was mostly downhill.  But too rough to run at anything more than a slow jog, without risk to ankles or worse.  He was still over four hundred metres from the road, and his target, when the bus emerged from the corner to his right, drove on by the bus stop he was aiming for, and vanished down the sloping bend to the left.  With nobody waiting at the stop the driver hadn't even slowed down, and his frantic arm waving was for nothing.  

Now he sat in the shelter, torn between feeling sorry for himself, berating his own stupidity, and trying to work out a practical course of action.  The problem being that there wasn't one, not really.  There was no bus until the morning.  Walking to the nearest village would mean at least eight kilometres across country, and he wasn't exactly sure of the direction, or twice that if he stuck to the relative safety of the road.  But it was obviously going to get dark in less than an hour, much less if the impending rains broke.  He could sit here and hope that a car or truck or van went past, and that they would be decent enough to offer him a lift.  He could try walking up the road the wrong way, and see if that got him any phone signal - but that seemed unlikely.  The rain began.  Heavily.

He felt fear clouding his judgement.  How cold would it get?  The bus shelter was misnamed, for it did little to keep the wind off him, and didn't do that much better a job of fending off the downpour.  He had no food, no blanket, no spare clothing, no hope.

Then he saw lights jumping around in the dark, the beams picking out the steady streams of water descending, and seeming to come closer far slower than they should.  The bearer of the light turned the corner up the road and came down towards the shelter.  As it came closer he could see it was a farm tractor, complete with a greenhouse canopy that kept the driver dry.  This might be his only hope - and at least it wouldn't be going too fast to notice him.

He stepped out into the road and waved his arms above his head, one hand holding his phone in the hope it would make him more visible.  The tractor grunted to a halt, diesel idling noisily.  He went towards the cab.  A window slid open, a face looked down, hard to see in the darkness.  

"Lost?"  A woman's voice, which surprised him.  

"Missed the bus, not sure how best to get back.  Can you help me please?"  He had to shout over the chugging motor.  

There was a long pause, as the farmer considered his request, deliberating with intent.

"Aye, why not?  But you'll have to climb on the back, no room in here."

He looked at the space indicated.  It was hard to see through the wetness, but there looked to be some kind of platform behind the cab.  He found rungs for his feet, hauled himself up.  Looked around for somewhere to sit.  A gear engaged, and the tractor lurched forward.  He managed to grab something to hold himself up there, and pulled closer to the cab as they set off along the road.  He was getting soaked, he was getting colder, without the shelter of the shelter, but he was going somewhere, with someone (who?) so that had to be an improvement.  Didn't it?

The tractor pulled off the road about ten minutes later, and up a track, into a big yard, and drove straight into an outbuilding.  The relief made his knees fold, for he knew his hands wouldn't have been able to grip much longer.  Falling off the back, on to the dark wet tarmac two metres below, had not been a pleasant prospect.  

The farmer got out.  It was still hard to see what she looked like.

"Sorry about that, you must be soaked.  Come away into the house and we'll get you sorted."  She offered him a hand down, which he was glad to accept.  Her hand felt calloused, but warm and steady.  He followed her into the long low slung farmhouse, and they got their first good look at each other.  She was medium height, short haired and rosy cheeked.  As she shed her outer clothing he could see she was big breasted, wide hipped, but held herself in a way that suggested there was plenty of power in the body.    "Time to get those wet clothes off and find some ways to warm you up."  Her leer was surprising.  He thought he knew what way or warming up she had in mind, and he didn't feel averse.  Getting stranded in the hills might turn out to have been one of the more fortunate events of his life...

Day 267 - Clipboard

 CLIPBOARD

Prompt - Clipboard : Write about words you imagine on an office clipboard

The blonde mullet fluttering in the wind was as much of a landmark as his vibrant dayglo vest.  In his left hand a clipboard, in his right a pen.  On his face the glow of jobsworthy authority, his place in the sun.  Senior firewarden.  He loved it.  His moment to shout at anyone not following the instructions, be they a cleaner or the big boss.  His chance to show his mastery of the moment.  And be the man to talk to the firefighters.  What could be better.

He knew what to do, had rehearsed so often for this moment, but he would still do the right thing - by going through the steps on the sheets of paper tightly clipped to the board in his hand, by following instructions.

He waved his pen at stragglers, indicating their need for speed, shouted commands to the other vests.  One by one they came up when called, to give their situation reports.  Tick, tick, tick went in as each section reported back, as floors were identified as cleared, as the annexes were added to the list.  The last report as the first fire engine drew up, and he could proudly march to the first man out and make his report, show him the facts and figures he'd collected, show him that procedures had been followed.

"Aye, but has anyone identified a potential fire source, anyone smelt or seen anything?"

Blondie looked down at his papers.  That wasn't on the list.  He didn't know.  The clipboard had let him down.

Day 266 - Railroad

 RAILROAD

Prompt - Railroad : Write about a train and it's cargo or passengers

The train came to a halt.  Heads looked round, expressions changed.  Outside, to the left, was all fields, for kilometre after kilometre, with just the occasional house or barn to break up the stolid vistas of green veg and the softly waving assemblies of beige cereals.  Was that a few hills in the distance?  It was hard to tell.

To the right an ugly plug of functional grey engineering, some kind of processing plant.  Everyone had their own guess.  Cement?  Flour?  Waste disposal?  Nobody got it right.

The announcement produced a flow of sighs and groans across the four carriages.  A train had come to halt up ahead, blocking the line.  Nobody knew how long the delay would be for.  They would be providing updates when they got any news.  People looked at one another, shrugged or growled or slumped or, for one person, gave way to relieved laughter.  It was going to be a tedious afternoon.

In carriage A Janice Snow wore a look of deep embarrassment, for she knew how her three kids were going to take the news.  She didn't want to look into the eyes of loathing she was certain were being focussed on her.

In carriage B Ben Tester held the hand of Gerry Macefield and gave it a squeeze, while across the table Geraldine Baxter scowled at them in disgust.

In carriage C Marty Horsman emptied his bottle, grabbed another from the bag at his feet, and dealt a poker hand to his mates, Garth and Peewee.  While on the other side of the aisle Jaz Patel looked with envy.  He was thirsty.

And in carriage D?  There sat Carl Treadway.  He was a frustrated man.  Made redundant, thrown out by his girlfriend, reduced to returning to his parents' house to get a bed for a few nights.  And now here he was, fertile fields to one side, a grey behemoth of productivity on the other.  Carl took a gun from his bag.  Across the aisle the Revered Gillespie looked on in surprise, then worry.  He asked Carl what he was doing with the gun.

Ten minutes later all of the above, and two of Janice Snow's children, would be dead.  If the train hadn't stopped by those fields...?

Day 265 - Smoke and Fire

 SMOKE AND FIRE

Prompt - Smoke and Fire : "Where there's smoke, there's fire".  Use this saying  as inspiration to write!

There was a rush of flashes as the Minister walked towards the lectern, took his place before the assembled journalists.  He shuffled the papers he'd brought out in his hand, keeping his eyes down, before taking a deep breath and looking up and around, fake smile held tightly across his tension.

"Thank you for coming today.  I have decided to make this clear and definitive statement in order to fully clarify matters regarding the recent rumours, and to put these to bed once and for all.  There is absolutely no truth to alleged witness statement saying I was with a young blonde woman on Saturday night.  I did have dinner with a constituent who wished to discuss a problem with me, but I am not at liberty to disclose further details of this meeting for confidentiality reasons.  At no point on that night, or on any other night previously, have I been with any young woman in any way which might be taken as inappropriate, and am considering legal action against those who have stated otherwise.

"I would ask that this story now be dropped for the sake of my wife and family, who have been the primary sufferers from this groundless speculation.  I thank you for your time and trust that this brings the matter a close."

He turned swiftly and walked back into the door of his department, ignoring the multiple cries of "Minister!  Minister!" that went up from the frustrated throng.

"I think that went rather well" he said to his special assistant, and walked on without noticing their astonished expression.  

After a few hours more work the Minister called for his car, was driven to his London flat, and went in through the front door, out by the back, and over to his own small, inconspicuous vehicle.  He drove to a small mews house in Maida Vale, parked, and opened the door with his key.

"Are we going to be doing something inappropriate then?"  The giggled question came from a young blonde woman.  

Day 264 - Light at the End of the Tunnel

 LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL

Prompt - Light at the End of the Tunnel : Write about a time when you saw hope when it seemed like a hopeless situation

"It's for you."  Jess put the phone down and walked away, with one muttered word.  "Her."

I picked up the receiver, with a mix of trepidation, exultation, puzzlement and surprise.  

"Hello?"

"You're going to get what you wanted."  The words were half sobbed, half rushed, but I knew what they meant.  Immediately.  We would be together.  Carol, who I'd known and loved for more than three years, would finally be leaving her husband and coming to be with me.  For good.

Our conversation was brief, the tearfulness from the other end dampening the excitement of the moment.   When I put the phone down I went to find some space to myself, time to think, and to go through the implications of that short conversation.  When I finally came out of this dark tunnel I'd inhabited for so long there would be a destination to head for.  There would be a goal.

But this wasn't the moment when the light had first hit me, when I'd been able to visualise my route out.  That had come a few months before.  

The tunnel had turned and twisted for almost two years, and there plenty of times when I felt like giving up.  Of accepting the darkness because that's what I deserved.  Jess wouldn't let me go, Carol wouldn't be coming to me, I was worthless to everyone, including myself.  Our affair had lasted nine glorious months, in less than glorious circumstances.  Sneaking about, meeting in cars parked up quiet roads, finding ways to leave secret messages, the odd night away in a hotel, always shoulder looking for fear of discovery  Exciting and degrading at the same time.   

Then it ended.  She had decided to give her marriage a try.  So I did the same.  Came clean.  Aimed for a new beginning.

I tried.  Jess tried.  We really did.  But by then I was deep into the tunnel, and with every mile, every twist, it became clearer that she wasn't the light I was looking for, the light I needed.   Until she admitted it was better if we parted.  For ever.  There was still a lot of tunnel to go through, with the house taking months to sell, but there was that chink of light.  There was glimpse of sunshine I needed.  A life without Jess was a return to open skies, to possibilities.  Even if it didn't include Carol they were still enough for me.  It was hope, and I thought I'd left hope behind me a long time ago.

Now when I came out of the dark, out of this broken relationship, it was with a purpose, a chance to build a new reality.  But even if that failed to happen the light was still there.  I had learned to love me again.

Day 263 - Symbolism

 

SYMBOLISM

Prompt - Symbolism : Think of object, animals etc that have symbolic meaning to you.  Write about it!

We are all a mix of different talents and abilities.  With different ways of looking at the world.  Some are more adept at seeing things numerically and mathematically, some in images, others in words, or sounds or smells.  Each individual will process the same scene in different ways to all others.  Of course we are all a constantly changing mix of these attributes, but most people have one or two of those traits which are most prominent in their way of thinking and of learning about their surroundings.

So what's all that got to do with symbolism?  It's my way of getting round to saying that the visual is not my dominant way of thinking.  I am largely a words person, sometimes numerical, sometimes sound.  My visual imagination is comparatively limited, and I use images less than others.  So I don't really think much in terms of symbols.

Of course there are some symbols which make me react more than others, and I'll come to a couple of those in a minute.  But I don't have any tendency to think of animals symbolically, except in their relation to the kind of imagery used in writing, especially in times long gone by.  When asked to think of the symbols that mean something personal to me I struggle to come up with an answer.  Or at least a consistent one.  There are various symbols at various times that will have meaning, or objects with which I imbue symbolic resonances, but it's hard to think of a constant symbol in my life.

So in tackling this subject I found myself pondering on two symbols that reflect my political, and emotional, thinking right now, and have for the past seven years.  One I react negatively to.  The blue, red and white UK flag, aka The Butcher's Apron.  I found it more offensive with every year that passes, because what it stands for is less and less tolerable.  The UK is a broken institution, and that flag is now a symbol of the ongoing disasters of brexshit.

But my positive choice of image is the one I've chosen to head up this post.  It was created by Stewart Bremner for the 2014 Independence campaign, and became one of the most recognisable images of the time.  And it has become a part of my life.  On small pictures around the flat, on my favourite mugs, on a tee shirt.  The image of Bella Caledonia is a powerful symbol, one associated with seeing independence for this country as the chance to create a much improved, fairer society, than the one the UK fosters.  Where greed and inequality, symbolised by the monarchy, are no longer the dominant factors they have become in Westminster.

A symbol that hints at a better future is a symbol worth keeping.

Day 262 - Remote Control

 REMOTE CONTROL

Prompt - Remote Control : Imagine you can fast forward and rewind your life with a remote control

She was on the telly.  It had been a long day, a long week, and she'd fallen asleep on the sofa about eight.  Woken hours later, gritty eyed and furry tongued, trying to figure out what had happened, what day it was.  Then realising she'd drifted off in front of the TV.  Couldn't recall what she'd been watching, but she'd turned the sound down so it can't have been up to much.  What the hell was on the screen now?

It was her.  It was her, looked at fairly close up, but shot, in her flat, just before she slept.  How was that possible?  There was nobody else here.  Was there?  She blinked a few times, rubbed her face, stretched her weary body, trying to come to, trying to make sense of the world.  Got up, walked round.  Nobody there.  No camera could possible be at the angle she was being shown on the screen.  She sat down again.

The images had moved on.  Now she was asleep, curled up, wearing exactly what she had just woken up in, everything about her appearance suggesting this was footage from just a few hours ago.  She sat back on the sofa, trying to figure out what was going on.  Picked up the remote.  Pressed FF, just to see what would happen, not expecting anything.  But the images sped up, flacked through her time asleep, showed her waking up.  She went back to normal speed, watched in fascination as she looked at the screen, bewildered.  Looking round, bleary eyed.  Rubbing her face, getting up to look around the room.  It was only about five minutes behind her life in the real.  She fast forwarded again.

It took her past her sitting there holding out the remote, to a more thoughtful moment, and then showed her getting up, going to get a notebook and pen, and coming back to the sofa.  Which is exactly what she had been thinking of doing, needing to make notes to make sense of it all.  She sped up, got to the next day, slowed a bit, saw herself having breakfast, going out to work.  The lens always close by, always keeping her in shot, in focus, being the centre of the shot.  She saw herself get through her day at work, come home and immediately place her bum back on the sofa, pick up the remote and frantically try to bring something to life.  Her face showed the results to be a failure.

So did that mean she had only one shot at this, whatever it was?  That this phenomenon was temporary, time limited, and wouldn't be there tomorrow?  Or would it come back another day?  She whizzed past chunks of her future (if that's what it was?) looking for any sign that she might be able to do this again, but it looked unlikely.  A few days of trying to get it back, and then it was back to ordinary life.  Nothing in the future there to get excited about.  So what could she see of her past?

She set it to run backwards at maximum speed, chose a random point at which to stop.  The screen showed her, a younger her, in the flat she used to share with Darren.  They'd broken up about eighteen months ago.  She still missed him, still hadn't really moved on, still wanted those days back.  Maybe she could, for the next few hours...?

She watched the two of them together.  Flicked about to see the best bits.  The meals together.  The nights out.  The sex.  Then there were the other bits.  The arguments.  The night he hit her.  She didn't want to see those bits, skipped over.  And then realised this was her chance.  To be rid of him in her head too.  So she made herself watch all the worst bits.  Replayed the blow ten times.  Replayed the arguments.  Replayed her own miseries.  

A cure?  A rebalancing?  A reminder of why?  It gave her all those things, and helped her to let go.  She whizzed forward a bit again, to when she moved into her little flat.  The sadness of being alone again.  The sadness and happiness of not being with him, of being able to control her own space.  Making her own choices again.  

Altered perspective.  A chance to relive the past becoming a chance to live the future.  She took herself off to bed.

Day 261 - Rocks and Gems

 ROCKS AND GEMS

Prompt - Rocks and Gems : Write about a rock or gemstone meaning

"And this one?" I said, pointing at a smooth whitish brown pebble with black speckling, a bit like a quail egg.

"Oh, now that is special, and is something that can be a help in so many aspects of your life.  That's a Dalmatian Stone.  Named after the dog obviously, but ironically it comes from Chihuahua in Mexico, not Eastern Europe."  She giggled unappealingly, seeking my approval for her formulaic attempt at humour.  "It has unique spiritual attributes that will help you get in touch with your Inner Child, help you to play more and thus rest from the stresses of life.  It is such an important element in my crystal healing kit, and I have really benefitted personally from it's powers."  

My Inner Child was shouting "BOLLOCKS" very loudly, but remained within.  So I just said thanks and walked on.  I could hear her calling after me, but by now my Inner Child was having convulsions and we went off to be together.  I had no need of Dalmatians from Cruella.

Day 260 - Forgotten Toy

 FORGOTTEN TOY

Prompt - Forgotten Toy : Write from the perspective of a forgotten or lost toy

He'll be back soon.  He wouldn't let me down.  I'm too important to him.  He needs me, I know because he said so.  Like he said I was the most important one in his whole world.  How could he leave me?

But it has been a long time.  I don't have a watch - well, I wouldn't, would I? -so I couldn't say how long.  But it's been longer than he's been parted from me before.  He'll be worrying, and I don't like to think about that.  

Some one did pick me up.  A woman I'd never seen before.  She turned to her companion and said "Some poor kid'll be missing this, eh?  I guess we'd best leave it here in case they come back for it.  Looks well loved anyway."

And I am.  There's a couple of balding patches to show that.  I don't mind, shows how much I'm appreciated.  How well I'm doing my job.  To be happiness.  To be comfort.  To be a friend, a necessity, a cuddle.  What's more important than a cuddle?

There was a girl who looked at me, reached out, but was stopped by her mother.  Told I was someone else's, told not to touch, she wouldn't know where I'd been.  But why would she?  And she wanted me, I could see that.  Of course she did.  I'm cute.  I'm adorable.  I'm soft and squidgy and good to be with and to hold.  I'm fun.

So who could resist and thirty six centimetre hugh blue elephant with big black eyes and flappy ears?  With a trunk that swings and can playfully slap and swirl?  With soft pink feet that give me that vulnerable look?  I'm gorgeous.

I'm also alone.  And it's getting dark.  I should be home with Thomas.  We should be together.  But how do I get there?  Who can help me?  Why haven't they...

"Ellie!  You're here!"  Thomas was here!  He was running towards me.  He tripped, fell down, got up, rushed on, leaving his mother behind.  I jumped up and down and smiled and yelled.  In my head.  He grabbed me, held me close, tears in his eyes.

"There, I told you we'd find him.  Now, can we home and get you to bed?"  Thomas held me, his mother held him, and we were on our way to the car.  And home.

I knew he wouldn't let me down.

Day 259 - Under the Influence

 UNDER THE INFLUENCE

Prompt - Under the Influence : What is something that has impacted you positively in your life?

Something?  Or someone?  Have people influenced me more than 'things'?  Of course.  'Things' can influence of course.  Many of my political stances go back to my time at university, with the content of some courses a major influence.  But I'd credit the biggest changes to my Sociology tutor, who opened my eyes to many aspects of sociopolitical life.  Or at least that's what memory says, for my diaries are surprisingly mute on this evolutionary aspect of my thinking at the time.

There's the problem - looking for influences is dependent on memory, and memory is flawed.  So whatever I choose as my major influence here will probably ignore some aspects of my life that I've long forgotten about.

In more recent years I could choose hockey as a major influence, or at least my involvement with Caps, because it made me realise what supporting a team was all about, something that had eluded me for decades.  Or there's my work at Advocard, which has made me look more closely at my own beliefs, and appreciate my privilege more fully.  If the greatest influences have come from people then my parents had a huge role, although not always positive.  There have been teachers, colleagues, friends, lovers, all of whom have had some positive impacts upon me in so many ways.

But ultimately there is only one answer to the question of what, or who, has been the greatest positive influence in my life.  Barbara.  My wife of twenty four years, partner of twenty eight, obsession of thirty one.  She has helped shape me, and make me a better person, more than anyone else.

But what is 'positively' anyway?  What is 'better'?  I think there are two main aspects to this, closely interlinked.  The way in which I treat and think of others, and the way in which I treat and think of myself.  And in influencing the latter for the better she has also influenced the former.  For it took Barbara to make me realise that you can't have love and respect for others unless you have those things for yourself.  You need to be your own 'number one'.  Not in a selfish, grasping, me first manner, but in recognising your own worth, knowing and understanding who you are, believing that you are perhaps more interesting than you thought.  She did much to shape, or help me to shape, much of my character, which had been ground down by several years in a lopsided marriage.  I had little belief in myself as a person.   Felt sexually, socially and professionally inadequate too much of the time.  Had little real self confidence, despite some career progression and being able to take the stage in amateur dramatics.  So what did she actually do to effect some gradual transformations?

Most of the influences are more subtle, but some were obvious.  Like dress sense.  I dressed cautiously, like an old man, looked a mess.  Barbara changed that, helped me try on 'looks' I wouldn't have ever considered, persuaded me to buy clothes I wouldn't have looked at before, made others notice the change in me.  That others noticed was something I hadn't been used to, having always preferred to fade into the background.  I discovered styles of dress I'd shied away from, and over the years developed the confidence to find my own style.  Now I rarely feel the need to consult her, although I always seek her approval.  But she's given me the confidence to be me.

That was a part of treating myself better, of starting to like me more.  She also encouraged me to follow my own little dreams.  The 'sportscar before I'm forty' became a reality, which it never would have without her.  That in turn led us on adventures, Matra meetings, I'd have missed out on otherwise.  We became a part of a diverse group that had nothing in common but the cars they drove.  An interesting period in my life.

Now I'm trying to write.  She encouraged my blog, commented positively on my dedication to my 750words, has appreciated my efforts this year to write stories and poems (in this blog).  And now, in her own time of crisis, she has made me appreciate again how much I love her, how big a part of my life she is, and how cataclysmic would be the change in my life were she not here. She is more than an influence.  I am my own person, but would be a lesser one without her.

Day 258 - Out of the Box

 OUT OF THE BOX

Prompt - Out of the Box : Imagine finding a box.  Write about opening it and what's inside

"Look what I found!"  Simone's shriek pierced the silence of the forest.  Anne and I ran forward, concerned about what our daughter might have uncovered.  An animal trap?  Syringes?  A used condom?  Unsuitable images  piled up in our list of possibilities.  But the object was more prosaic.  A box.  An old, old fashioned, hat box, like nobody had nowadays.  "Can we look inside?"  Anne and I looked at each other, both back into unsuitable images mode.

"We shouldn't, it's not ours" became my first line of defence, a chance to clear some thinking space.  It clearly wouldn't satisfy, but would do as an opener.  "Let's take a closer look at it before we decide to do anything."  This was met more receptively, so we all gathered around this unexpected item in the woodland area.

"What is it?"

"Looks like an old hat box" said Anne, "the kind people used to have when everybody wore hats.  Especially women who often wore hats with big wide brows."

"When was that?  When you were little?"

"No, longer ago even than that, way back before the second world war.  Back before even Nan was a little girl."  Simone paused to ponder on such levels of antiquity.

I'd been studying our discovery with a deeper scrutiny, squatting down to get closer.  It was a big circular box, about half a meter in diameter and maybe thirty five centimetres high.  The exterior looked to be leather, green with some embossed gold pattern which had faded to almost nothing, the lid secured by a thick brown leather belt.  The colour, the length of the grass surrounding it, and it's place at the base of large oak made it near invisible to most.  It was simple luck that led Simone, poking her inquisitive little nose in everywhere, to come across it.  

I thought about what might be inside, and why it would have been left here, deep into Morestang Woods.  Concealment seemed the most likely explanation.  What would someone want to hide away in a hat box?  Not hats.  Nobody hides hats, do they?  So it more likely to be something less innocent.  Perhaps even more shocking.

I admit it.  We watch far too many crime drams on TV, especially those gripping Scandi Noirs with inventively, artistically brutal murders.  Which is why my first thought was a severed head.  Or, given the time it looked it might have been here, a skull?  I sniffed, not really sire why I was doing so.  There were certainly odours of decay, but that's woods for you.  The circle of life is self evident on any forest floor.

Once that thought had entered my mind it became hard to replace it with anything else.  A gun?  Money?  Stolen jewels?  Incriminating documents?  Explosives?  Is it booby trapped?  My brain became ever more ridiculous.   But I kept coming back to black, staring eye sockets...

"What is it Daddy?"  Simone's demand brought me back from my rapid fire tour of man's cruelty to man.  "Can we look inside?"  

I looked up at Anne, seeking an answer, but she had that look on her face that said I was on my own here.  She'd clearly come up with the same answer as me, the penalty for us both being addicts to fictional homicide.  

"Why don't the two of you have a look around the area, see if you can find any more like it, while I think about this one, eh?"  Anne looked relieved, Simone intrigued, while I hoped I hadn't set them up discover anything worse than the object before me.  Mother grabbed daughter's arm and pulled her away.

"Come, let's leave Daddy to look a this and see if we can find another one, OK?"  The idea of further exploration clearly appealed to our girl, and narrowly won over from her curiosity about the contents of the box.  They started to circle the adjoining spaces, while I outlined the conundrum in my head.

Despite my cranium fixation, I at least had the sense to know how ridiculous I'd sound if I called the police.  And it wasn't as if there was any obvious means of determining ownership, if such a thing really existed after however long the box had been there.  Narrowing down the options made me realise all along that there was only one course of action I could take (because I couldn't ignore it - much as I hated to admit it to myself, as I was a desperately curious about the contents as Simone, only the scenarios in my thoughts were a great deal blacker than hers).  

I lifted the box up, gave it a gentle shake.  Things rattled.  It was fairly hefty, but a lot of that could be down to the sogginess of the leather.  I put it down, tugged at the rusty buckle on the belt.  One good heave and it reluctantly gave way and allowed me to pull the belt away.

I  looked at the box.  I looked up and around at my family, happily darting in and out of the trees.  I looked back at the box.  Best to do it before they came back, just in case...

Prising the lid up was tricky.  My house keys helped me get a couple of fingerholds and it slowly rose, in jerky movements, until suddenly it popped up in my hands and rolled backwards in susprise.  

"Bugger."  My expletive attracted the others, who came rushing across to check I was OK.  I rose, but not in time to stop Simone being first to look in.  She didn't scream.  But she did look very disappointed.  We joined her in peering in at the contents.  Shapes of felt, outlines of wire, tatty ribbons, a hint of disintegrated linen, a tarnished metal buckle.  Hats.  Well, former hats, now obliterated by time.

Why had I thought it would be anything else?  It was a hat box.

Day 257 - Magic

 MAGIC

Prompt - Magic : Write about a magician or magic trick

"Tina, I'm home" I shouted from the hall, "where are you?"

"In the living room, come in quick."

I went through.  She was sat in her armchair, which was unusual for this time of day.  Normally she'd only go through the pantomime of getting in and out of it at TV time.  I went over to kiss her.  "Take a seat.  You'll need it.  No not in your chair, on the sofa."

I looked at her quizzically, wondering what the huge smile was for.  As I sat I realised that there was something even odder about her being sat there.

"Where's your chair?  How did you get into the armchair?  Are you OK?"

"Oh yes.  More than OK.  Much more.  Prepared to be surprised."  And I was.  This woman I lived with, who had been in a wheelchair for fourteen years, stood up, shakily, and slowly, deliberately, walked over to me, then sat, half fell, down on the sofa alongside.  I was speechless.  Gobsmacked.  Stunned.  Unbelieving.  Confused.  WTF?

She sat there grinning at me, waiting for me to say something, anything.

"How...?" was all I could manage.

"Nobody is going to believe this, but here goes."  She took a deep breath, before launching her improbable tale into my turbulent mind.  "Remember that big stoppered jar we brought back form Turkey, years ago?  You could never get the stopper out."  I nodded dumbly.  "Well, I'm not sure why, but I was rummaging about in the dresser and found it hanging about at the back.  I remember we got a bit fed up with it and took it off the hall table, and it must have ended up back there.  Anyway I thought I'd give it a clean up, see what it looked like.  Gave it the damp cloth treatment, then a bit of spray and a rub.  I don't know how I did it. but the stopper suddenly came away in my cloth.  Then it started to sort of smoke, like some kind of grey gas coming out.  The stream of this stuff got quicker, I moved the chair away, and when I looked back the gas had..."  Her shoulders slumped, her face suggested a hurdle to overcome.  I tried to look encouraging, but on top of my utter bewilderment probably just succeeded in appearing imbecilic.  But she pulled herself back up and got going again.

"The smoke had turned into a woman."

"What??"

"The smoke had turned into a woman."

I heard that bit, but I've still no idea what you mean."

"You know those old stories about the genie in the bottle, that kind of thing?  Well it turns out they're not quite the fairy stories we thought."  She looked at my disbelieving expression.  It felt like my wife was cracking up, but... she had walked over to me.  Maybe I was the one who was losing it?  "I know you won't believe me at first, but look at me.  I walked over to you.  I did.  You saw me.  I'm here now, beside you", and she touched my arm.  Real enough. 

"OK.  Go on.  I'm listening.  I'm trying to believe you."

"She said her name was Emine.  Well not said exactly, because she didn't speak as such, but I could hear what she was saying inside my head.  In English.  She said she was grateful to me for her release, though I'd no idea how I'd done it, and she would grant me three wishes.  I must have looked like you do now because she went on to explain that it was true, there really were genies who had the magical power to grant three wishes to the person who gave them freedom.  But that I should choose carefully and wisely.  so I asked if it was true that she would literally do what I say, and that if I worded things badly I might not get what I thought I was asking for?  She said it was how it worked, and many had been fooled that way, but she liked me, and wanted to really help someone who had a problem like mine, so she would guide me on what to say."  She paused again.  "Could you get me a glass of water please?  I'm still a bit shaky on my legs."  

I went into the kitchen, ran the tap cold and got us each a glassful.  While I stood at the sink a creature rubbed itself against my legs.  I looked down and saw another sight I shouldn't be seeing.  Phoenix, sleek, slinky, purring, looking up at me expectantly.  Phoenix was our seventeen year old cat, and we'd been having conversations for four months now about when would be the kindest time to have her put to sleep.  She was incontinent, unsteady, losing weight, rarely able to move from one room to the next.  But now... she looked like the Phoenix of old, just as we got her all those years before.  Was this a replacement?  Or further evidence of the truth of Tina's crazy story?  I stroked her, picked her up, looked closely.  It WAS Phoenix, it had to be.  I put her back down and took the water through.

"I saw Phoenix.  It is her, isn't it?"

"It is.  Isn't she beautiful?  She can be with us for years to come."

"That's ... amazing."  Words felt inadequate.

"So, like I said, she said she'd help me through the wishes, but I only had an hour to make them in, and I had to do them all by myself.  Honest Ted, or I'd have called you"  I believed her now.  "So I asked how it worked, and she explained how I should phrase the wishes and we agreed on the first one.  Which you've already seen - making me able to walk again.  She told me to stand, and I did.  Well, it took a couple of goes, because I didn't have enough belief in it myself, but I made it.  It's going to take time to get the muscles strong again, but I should be like I used to be within a few months."

"Quite how we explain to people you're impossible recovery I don't know, but what the hell.  So what was the next wish - Phoenix?"

"Of course.  I couldn't bear to see her suffer, and I didn't want to lose her - you didn't either, did you?"

"Of course not.  Wise choice.  So what was number three?  Where have you stashed George Clooney?"

She laughed.  She laughed like my Tina used to laugh, before the accident.  She laughed like the woman I'd married twenty two years ago.  I laughed too.

"Look on your phone at our account.  Go on."  I still didn't know how I was supposed to be reacting to all this, but I slowly did as I was told.  I looked.  I looked again.  I looked at Tina, open mouthed, slack jawed, trembling.  "I know.  It's amazing isn't it?  It's real.  Well, as real as me and Phoenix."  There was ten million pounds in our current account.  I thought the bank might be in touch very soon.  We had some explaining to do.

"What would I want with George Clooney?  You're magic enough for me."  

Day 256 - Write for a Cause

 WRITE FOR A CAUSE

Prompt - Write for a Cause : Write a poem or essay that raises awareness for a cause you support

Scotland's had enough dependence

On Westminster's tedious superintendence

Needs a moment of transcendence

Again a nation of resplendence

Celebrating the impendence

Of our long sought independence

Day 255 - Dance

 DANCE

Prompt - Dance : Write about a dancer or a time you remember dancing

I hate dancing.  Not that I've got anything against other people doing it.  And there are often times when watching dance can be entertaining.  It's me doing it I can't abide.  Self consciousness.  Awkward of movement.  Lacking grace.  Easily embarrassed (by myself).  Even more so nowadays when I can no longer get pished enough not too care too much.

So any exceptions to that basic rule stand out in my memory.  There are two that live on in my head.

The first was when I went to a ceilidh with a pal, neither of us having been before.  We'd been invited by another friend who was playing fiddle in the dance band.  Our first half hour was spent sitting on the distant fringes of the hall, pints being downed, a well placed table cutting us off from any possible involvement with the rest of humanity.  Then a guy took to the floor in his kilt.  Not just a kilt, but the full formal outfit, right down to the sgian dubh.  "He'll be good" we thought, probably worth watching.  Well he wasn't good, and he was definitely worth watching.  He inspired up.  If somebody that crap at it could get up there and not bother then why not us?

So, come the next dance, we tentatively lined up, found ourselves allocated partners, and listened to the caller's instructions.  I remember her well.  Her name was Sheila Kidney, and she was short and round.  She was also, when she demonstrated what we were to do, incredibly light on her feet.  More importantly she was a good caller - clear, able to demonstrate, patient and funny.  So we walked through the movements, had one trial run, and realised that if there was chaos it wasn't always down to us.  Maybe fear made us listen more closely.

The dance began, we both got through it without major cockups, and returned to our table.  Puffing slightly, grinning a lot.  This was more fun to do that it had looked.  I don't think we sat one out for the next hour or more.  A couple of women friends arrived and we soon tired them out, had to move on.  We had a great night, and would go to several more.  The memories of those times also took me along to a couple of barn dances when I was living in the south of England.  Just as much fun, despite, having driven, being pretty sober.  So when I say I don't like dancing it's the kind where you have to make stuff up that's the problem.  If I'm told clearly exactly what to do, and realise I can run through it rather than actually dance, I'm in my element apparently.  (Except that nowadays I'd be out of breath too quickly!)

So there's one further exception to my original rule, and it also breaks the second one, for I had to improvise my movements.  Fortunately my dance partner, when she wasn't laughing at me too much, was helpful with advice and guidance. 

It was my best friend's wedding, we'd travelled down to York for it, and there was a big party afterwards.  With dancing.  We knew hardly anyone, other than bride and groom, but a few introductions were made, alcohol was consumed, and Barbara was insistent.  This was an opportunity she wasn't going to miss, no matter how awful I was at it.  So I found myself on the dance floor.

I must have had just the right amount of booze in my system, for I found myself, shockingly, having fun.  It was a cheerful occasion, I was happy for my oldest pal, and I was with the woman I loved.  Circumstances.  Context.  The one dance I can really recall was after all the quicker, shaking about (!) stuff, we held each other close and danced to The Bangles' Eternal Flame.  Not the greatest of songs, but it became ours in that moment.  We were in love, really deeply in love at that moment, intensely connected, and is that something dance can do?  It never has again, probably never will, but that moment is seared across my memory filaments.

I still don't like dancing though.

Day 254 - Timer

 TIMER

Prompt - Timer : Set a timer for 5 minutes and just write.  Don't worry about it making sense or being perfect.

Ramblish , shambling Ranulf Sheldon was feeding the ducks, sat on a park bench by the pond in the park.  And old man passing the time, communing with nature.  Was that what other people saw?  Was he an 'old' man?  What was 'old'?  Was seventy four 'old'?  He didn't feel particularly old, well not all the time.  He still cooked his own meals, usually from scratch.  He cleaned his flat, he washed his clothes, changed the bed every week, lived a civilised life.  He repaired or replaced things that broke.  His life was ongoing.

He didn't just sit in the park either, although it was one of his favourite pastimes when the weather was kind.  But he also walked.  A decent distance, every day.  Not dawdling either, but as briskly as he could manage on the day, in his awkwardly rolling gait.  He'd always walked that way though, this wasn't some product of arthritis or some other sign of debilitation, but the walk he'd grown up with, inherited from his wayward father.

But he recognised he was no longer much use to society.  A little voluntary work.  the occasional offer of help to a neighbour (Mrs Johnstone - now there was somebody 'old', even if she was technically younger than him.

[I did correct seven typos before copying into this post!]

Day 253 - Poker Face

 POKER FACE

Prompt - Poker Face : Write about playing a card game

Al could, daren't look at her.  Had to suppress the image from his mind.  He knew how tense, pursed, scared she must be, knew she wouldn't take her eyes off him.  But he couldn't spare a glance.  These were the moments that would decide his life.  And hers.

His concentration focussed on the dealer, awaiting the sliding actions that would signal the beginning of the end.  A card to Shapiro, a card to Chang, a card to him.  None picked up, all waited.  Another.  Another.  Another.  Al watched the others, trying to pick up on reactions.  But Shapiro only stared back at him, Chang looked on his pair impassively.  He picked up his cards, making himself laugh as he did.  A nine.  A five.  Already at risk.

The dealer looked at Shapiro, who nodded.  Another card slid over, a three.  The hood looked at his card, looked at the other players, one sour glare at a time, looked back at the dealer, nodded.  A Jack appeared.  Three others were thrown atop it, accompanied by an angry growl.  Only two left in.

Chang nodded, got a six.  Looked back at the deal, slight shake of the head.  He was done, he was in, and he had given nothing away.  Al's turn.  What to make of that six?  Must make Chang there or almost there.  Or was this the big bluff?  But he knew fourteen wasn't a winner.  Ever.  He had no choice.  The slight nod, the hand on the pack, the slide, the flip.  Another six.  He was in.  Chang was in.  Al felt his whole existence pivot on the turn of those three cards.  He couldn't look Chang in the face, could look at nothing but the two cards lying face down.  The Chinese man turned one over.  A ten.  Sixteen lying there, life down to five alternatives.  Al had stopped breathing.  The last card turned over.  Three.  His breathing returned in a rush, his heart went in to bass drum mode, he felt the colour in his face deepen.  He turned over his nine.  Still couldn't look up.  The five joined it.  He heard, felt, the mush of shouty whispers rise around the room.

He could look at her now.  He had won his wife back.

Day 252 - Alliteration

ALLITERATION

Prompt - Alliteration : Use alliteration in your poem or in a sentence in a story

Arthur 'ad 'is 'am

Between some big brown bread

Cassia consumed carrots

Don devoured Dairylea spread

Enid's eaten eel pies

Freddie's forked up fish

Gary's gone for a grill

Holly has hake in a dish

It's an interesting indication

Just how this jingle jumps

Keeping up the cadence

Leave a poem with loads of lumps

Day 251 - How To

 HOW TO 

Prompt - How To : Write directions on how to do something

Beep, beep.  A text.  She checked her phone.  From Dave.  

'Go to the corner of Leith Walk and Iona Street.  Immediately!'

What was the daft beggar up to this time?  But she knew he knew she wasn't busy, so she wouldn't have a viable excuse not to go along with it.  Other than not being arsed...

So off she went, assuming he'd be there, waiting.  But no, not a sign of him.  Her phone beeped again.  

'Find the guy with the mullet who runs Epoca and tell him you're Sandy'

She knew who he meant, everyone did.  Wee fella, always some kind of weirdly smart outfit, and a seventies hairdo.  He was hanging around outside the shop, as he often did.  She approached.

"You must be Sandy.  Just a minute."  And without her saying a word he vanished into his boutique, quickly returning with a small envelope.  "For you."

"Thanks." He grinned and turned back to one of the people browsing the racks of old clothes he purveyed.  She wandered up Iona Street a bit, found some shade, and opened up.  A card said 'Go the gates of Walker Woodstock and take off the green ribbon'

Walker Woodstock?  She Googled.  Ah, the builders' merchants, just a bit further along.  She wouldn't have known the name.  Whatever this was about it better be worthwhile.  She walked along, saw the ribbon, untied it, saw the wee man in the yard who winked at her.  How many people were in on this thing?

Written on the ribbon was another message.  'Walk up to Elm Row and go into Johnson, ask for Megan'  Walk?  In this heat?  The bastard!  She'd be a sweaty heap by the time she got up there.  This had better be really, really good...

But she obeyed the instruction, because, as Dave knew, she could never resist a mystery.  Meg proved to be a chubby wee woman who wanted to mother her.  And to know what this was all about.  Sandy couldn't enlighten her.  

"It's just Dave, it's how he is" was the best she could manage.

There was another wee envelope, another wee card.  'Get the next 11 or 16 from Elm Row, heading to Morningside.  Text me when you get on the bus.'  Where the hell was this taking her?  A 16 came, she boarded and texted, got a smiley face back.  He'd be tracking the bus, wouldn't he? She hoped wherever she was headed would be cool.  

As the bus neared the West End there was yet another text.  'Look at the church railings on Lothian Road'  There was a church on the corner, another behind, and the rails ran for fifty metres or more.  At least she was sat on the right, left, side of the bus.  Around the corner she scanned the rails.  Just before the second of the two bus stops a piece of cloth had been tied on to the rails, stretched out so that the words, in purple paint, stood out.  SANDY- BRUNTSFIELD LINKS  Which she took to mean that that was the stop she was to get off at.  As the bus pulled away she noticed a man in baggy green shorts and a Foo Fighters tee.  Ram, Dave's pal.  He smiled.

She got off at the Links.  What next?  No sign of Dave, no text, no banner.  He'll have done something, won't he?  Then she spotted it, on the inside of the bus shelter.  Another of those wee envelopes, blu tacked up and with 'Sandy' written on.  She opened it, wondering if there was another walk or bus involved.  She hoped not.  The mystery was on the verge of becoming irritating.  

'Head for the balloons'  What balloons?  She looked around and could see, tied to a bench, half a dozen of those silvery helium filled hearts, the kind of thing that they always laughed at as being the wrong side of tacky.  Was Dave taking the piss?  She walked on.  Got to the bench.  On the backrest was another bit of cloth with purple lettering.  RESERVED FOR THE LOVELY SANDY  The 'Lovely Sandy'?  He really was taking the piss...

"And here we are!"  Dave emerged from behind a tree, stupid grin filling his face.  In his hand he carried a couple of cardboard boxes she recognised as coming from Meltmongers.  Had he put her through all that just for a toastie, even if it was from one of her favourite places?  He waved a hand regally, indicating she should take a seat on 'her' bench.  

"What the fuck is this all about?"

"Patience my dear, patience."  She didn't know whether to laugh or tell him to fuck off.  So she sat.  He sat.  Handed her one of the bags.  "Un Cuban Melt pour madame, Mac n Cheese pour monsieur", in his cod French accent.  Credit for him knowing her fave though.  He took off his back pack, took out a drinks bottle and two glasses wrapped in tea towels.  Her best crystal?  On a park bench?!  How dare he.

He gave her a glass, unscrewed the top of the bottle and poured.  The liquid near colourless, opaque.  Ice chinked as he poured.  Dave grinned again and nodded for her to try it.  Marguerita.  On a park bench, in one of her best glasses, with a toastie.  It was different, She'd give him that.  "Eat" he instructed.  So She ate.  As delicious as ever.  She drank.  He knew how to mix a good cocktail.  The sun shone, the traffic noise wasn't too bad, and they watched the dogs chasing balls, legs flailing and bodies twisting as they joyfully undertook their purposeless pursuits.  

"That was good" she said, indicating the now empty box, "but it seems a lot of effort just to have a toastie together."  

In response Dave put down his glass, dropped to one knee and pulled a small box from his pocket.

"Sandy, will you marry me?"

Day 250 - Should, Would And Could

 SHOULD, WOULD AND COULD

Prompt - Should, Would And Could : Write a poem or story using the words should, would and could

I should have been a better husband

The one you always wanted

But I'm a creature full of flaws

Yet you took me on undaunted

I would have been a better husband

If I wasn't made this way

Dogmatic, idle, tired and dull

But need to have my say

I could have been a better husband

But it's obvious I'm not

You cannot have a different me

Please keep loving the one you've got!

Day 249 - Sonnet

 SONNET

Prompt - Sonnet : Write a sonnet today

I found you, I lost you, found you again

The finding brought the hope I had missed

The first time we talked, the first time we kissed

The losing you was an epoch of pain

One look and you were forever in my brain

Once we'd connected I could not resist

Without you I'd feel I didn't exist

In my life's ballot I couldn't abstain

It took many years but all ended well

You risked it all to bring us together 

Knowing that the passing of time would tell

If the trouble and storms we would weather

I look back now and can see that I knew

The struggle was worthwhile to share life with you

Day 248 - At the Park

 AT THE PARK

Prompt - At the Park : Take some time to sit on a park bench and write about the sights, scenes and senses and emotions you experience

Take some time to sit in the park they tell me.  And today is both a good and a bad day to choose.  The bad is the lack of time to really immerse myself in the experience, as it's a very busy day in other ways.  But the good outweigh this.  After several days of thick cloud and cooler temperatures we are back to twenty degree and a blue sky.  The feathertrail clouds do little to block out the sun and it feels like the beginning of the end of summer.  People want to be out in this weather, more so as it could be the last such weekend day this year.  And, for Scotland, this is hot in September.

Yet the park isn't as busy as I expected.  I reject the notion of a bench, and head for 'our' log, a think length of tree trunk that has served a seat many a time over the lockdowns, when a turn around the park might be our only exercise for the day.  It is by one of the eastern entrances, and offers a decent view of many of the activities, and inactivities, taking place.  

I take my place shortly after midday, the heat still rising.  It will be cloudy in a few hours, bringing a return of the cool, so this i one of the best times I could have picked.  There plenty of people to observe, but not so many that the space feels in any way crowded.  Everyone has plenty of room in which to do their thing.

Dog walkers walk their dogs and throw balls for chasing.  Walking walkers may stride purposefully, or amble casually, as suits their mood and needs.  Bikes go by, teens too fast for this little universe of dogs and children, a man with child behind proceeding with caution through the trees.  A man plays badminton with his small daughter (who invariably misses the shuttlecock, but shows determination to get it right eventually.)  A woman spreads out a blanker, brings out edibles, chats to her friend who is doing her best to give her terrier a workout.  They will sit and eat soon.  A few lads kick a ball about lackadaisically, laughing too much to have any commitment to accuracy or style.  A woman sits on the grass, engrossed in her paperback.  While another sits on a bench, tying the long dog lead to the arm, to allow her pooch some latitude while she sits and chats to a friend.  

In the distance there are goalposts, complete with netting, and beyond that some boys practicing.  By the time I move from my spot the match has begun, the reds against the black and whites, the kids around thirteen or fourteen.  A few parents hug the touchline, with occasional bursts of applause.  Perhaps out of gratitude for it being arm and dry, knowing there will be far worse to come.

With the end of summer now approaching, the trees and vegetation are still full, but leaves have begun to fall from some.  The wild meadow area continues to provide some additional colour and textures to the sheets of green.  Fertility is still the theme, decay still tucked away.  We are half a mile from the city centre, but this is a different place, one of peace and fun and laughter.  I am lucky to have it so near by.  City life, with nature on tap.  Civilised.

Day 247 - In the Clouds

 IN THE CLOUDS

Prompt - In the Clouds : Go cloud watching for the day and write about what you imagine in the clouds

Here Be Monsters.  Clouds are warnings to the fearful.  Not the wispy cirrus of course, for they are too delicate to be anything other than friends.  Passing puffs of white pursue their peaceful path with pacific progress.  But when the whiteness turns to grey, from grey to blueish, purplish black, the colour of bruises, there is violence afoot.  The wisps are open, the rolling mountains are closed, hiding who knows what.  They are a threat.  They oppress ominously, offering little hope, except of escape.  get indoors, find shelter, cower from their power.  For it is not just water and light and sound they conceal, but those monsters of our imagination.  

How can objects that offer refreshment, to the land, to the plants, to the animal, to the people, simultaneously be such receptors of suspicion?  Because they block the light, hide away the stars, fade away the moon.  They are the blight on our summer days, they loom over prospective days out, over our hopes.  Clouds bring worries, sun cleanses them away.  Watch out for the monsters

Day 246 - Peaceful

 PEACEFUL

Prompt - Peaceful : Write about something peaceful and serene

It took forty seven years of working, but he'd finally realised his dream.  Their dream.  To get away from the city, to leave behind the rush and hustle and noise and dirt.  To breath in unpolluted air, to listen to the birds and the sounds of the sea and the wind.  To have peace, that 'away from it all' feeling.

They'd ben talking about it for more than twenty years.  When we retire we'll...  It had seemed like fantasy to begin with, but as time went by the thoughts achieved some solidity, gained a sense of purpose, became plans.  They'd spent hours and hours looking at islands, at properties, discussing which offered them the perfect getaway, the perfect new life.  Which communities sounded the most welcoming, which offered best value for their savings, where they could just be left to themselves.

With three years to go they knew where, they'd made visits, they'd looked at places, they'd decided.  Still too early to look for their new home, but that didn't top them pouring over property details, debating the pros and cons of east and west coasts, the easiest places to get their shopping, the sights they wanted to be closest to, to be able to take in every week.

And then the accident happened.  Only six months before he finally retired Celia was dead, hit by a drunken driver.  Flung into a shapeless heap among the bins, her life ended before the perfect stage had begun.  He was broken.  He remade himself.  She wouldn't have wanted it otherwise.

But they'd already identified the house they had wanted.  So he went ahead, for her sake, and to be away from the place that had killed her.  He sold up, moved away, left that life behind.  And created a new one for himself.

A life away, a lifetime away, a new way to exist.  He had his books and his music.  He had the ever changing sea to start his day.  He had walks and views and a world to explore.  There were puffins, the funniest of birds, less than a kilometre away.  The people in the village, when he went, were friendly enough, distant enough.  It was as perfect as they'd pictured.

He was soooo bored.

Day 245 - Social Network

 SOCIAL NETWORK

Prompt - Social Network : Visit your favourite Social networking website (ie Facebook, Pinterest, Google, Twitter etc) and write about a post you see there

An Instagram post from novelist Matt Haig caught my attention.  Not so much for the image, which would usually be the primary attractive on that site, but for the accompanying text.  This photo was simply of a laptop, with a blank document open on the screen, ready to be written on.  The standard scenario for a writer about to begin telling their story.  But this was what he'd written to accompany the picture -

"I am meant to be writing a new novel but I just sit and stare at the laptop. This is a problem. Not because I am under contract to write a new novel - though that - but because I have gone a year without writing fiction and writing fiction keeps my head from falling off. I know the old writer cliché that a writer is working when they are staring out of the window. But I am done staring out of the window. I am done staring at the Arctic blankness of a Word doc. I have ideas. The ideas aren’t the problem. The knowing which one to do is the problem.

There are two aspects to writing for me. There is the FEELING and there is the VESSEL for feeling. Writing takes both the feeling you want to convey and the vessel to travel in.

The plot is the vessel. That is the thing I am struggling with. I have nowhere to place the feeling. So I am pure messy feeling and not knowing which plot to choose. And I don’t want to write a novel of pure messy feeling.

I blame The Midnight Library. It has placed me on a lot of radars. I am very pleased but also very self-conscious. I have seen so many writers have a big book and then falter with the follow up because of that feeling of being watched and coaxed into writing something that isn’t quite you.

I want - as every writer wants - to write a brilliant book. But to do that I will have to probably write a disappointing one. What I mean is: I don’t want to write The Midnight Library 2. I don’t want to write The Midday Bloody Videostore. I don’t even want to write something that overlaps. I want to write something completely different and so it will end up disappointing those who want another Midnight Library.

I want to get to a point where I am strong enough to ignore every imagined expectation. To sit there as if it is my first novel and not my 458th-or-whatever-it-is.

I don’t want to GO AGAINST what I have written before or to GO TOWARDS it. I want to lean in neither direction. I just want to write. Write a book. A good one. A true one. And I will. To find that perfect point in the creative process where you open the door and your own true self walks through. You know? Not too cool. Not too funny. Not too fake. Just there."

I am not about to compare myself with a successful novelist.  But I am familiar with that blank white screen, and the levels of procrastination, or helplessness, associated with it.  The sense of not knowing what to write, and then, once the knowledge comes, being too afraid to begin in case it wasn't really there in the first place.  Not quite the problem Haig has, but one phrase resonated more than any other - "I have gone a year without writing fiction and writing fiction keeps my head from falling off".  Because the opposite applies in some ways.

I have gone for decades without writing any fiction.  Until this year, when I began my 265 challenge.  It's been messy.  There have been days when I totally failed to meet the challenge, albeit not too many.  There have been too many days when a fiction idea just won't come and I end up writing some kind of essay, or a piece that's as self indulgent as those I have so often put out on to these 750words pages.  But then there are the good days.

I am now about two thirds of the way through the year.  To date I have written well over a hundred short stories, and more than forty poems.  The quality has been extremely variable, so that many of them will never be shared with anyone, not even Barbara.  But some I have felt quite proud of, and have shared, and will be sharing, on my Bits and Pieces blog (finding the time, and will, to revisit and edit my old stories and poems is something I've not been good at).  By the end of the year I will have maybe fifty or sixty stories and poems to post and share, perhaps a dozen of which I can feel proud of.  But what happens next?

Two things.  The simple, but bold, one is to share a story or two on story writing sites for other writers to read.  See if any comments result.  See if there is any praise that feels encouraging (there might well be none, especially as so few of the stories are more than a few hundred words).  But the other is to try and use this year's work as a platform from which to begin writing longer stories.  Long short stories to start with, but having the ultimate goal of a novella as the longer term aim.  

I may not manage to do so.  But I might.  I may not manage to find the motivation, to make the time, to have the ideas (although I already have several I think I can use), to sit and type away.  But I might.  i want to.  This year has been a bit of a revelation to me.  I can not only write, but I can come up with story ideas, something I've so often lacked in the past.  It's true these have come from a standard set of prompts, but it does mean that if the ideas I do have don't manage to work out I can find some kind of prompting that might help.  The set of creative idea cards that Kris Drever uses would be a sensible purchase.  I am not going to let the promise of this year slip away from me.  I won't be the next matt haig, but I can write like me.  

Day 244 - Fight

 FIGHT 

Prompt - Fight : Write about witnessing two people get in an argument with each other

An early finish at work for a change so I thought I'd treat myself.  A quiet pint in a quiet pub, a rarity in these pandemic stricken times.  Sure enough I found the Fiddler's Elbow near empty.  A cool and shady refuge from the twenty degree heat outside, with a barmaid relieved to see another customer to alleviate the mid afternoon boredom.  I tucked myself into a table in a corner, well away from the only other people in the room.  At one table sat a couple of young guys, suited and smooth, plotting over a laptop.  The other occupants were also male, but the resemblance ended there.  Small, red faced, crumpled looking men in their fifties, one looking like he wanted to hide in the glass before him, the other casting out challenging looks into space.  Neither table looked like offering interesting company, which was fine by me.

I took out my phone and started flipping through the usual nonsense, while enjoying the occasional glug from my ale.  It felt good to be out of the office, away from the pressure, with time to myself before I had to face the exuberance of my kids.  Life was being good to me.  Then my peaceful period of contemplation was split open.

A crash, a smash, a shout.  "You bastard!"  I looked up to see a laptop on the floor, smashed glass around it, and a yuppie standoff.  The blue suit was standing, glaring at his brown suited companion, arms stiff at his sides, neck tensing forward.  Mr Brown sat laughing, helplessly.  I could see our barmaid looking worried, and the crumpled men turn slowly to see what the fuss was about.  Blue picked up Brown's glass - G & T? - and threw the contents into his antagonist's face.  The now moist Brown's demeanour changed instantly.  In one surprisingly swift movement he was up and had turned the table over towards Blue, requiring the latter to jump back or be hit.  In doing so he tripped over a chair behind him and fell back on to another table.  Brown leapt across and was on him, fists pumping into the face that he had been so closely working with moments before.

"I'll call the police" came high pitched from behind the bar, but she didn't move.  Just stood in horrified fascination as blood spurted from Blue's nose, and then Brown was shoved back and also fell foul of scattered furniture.  He crashed down on to the already failing computer, and found a bloody Blue land on top of him.  This was getting messy.  I knew I should do something, I just wasn't sure what.  This was well outside my normal sphere of experience.

"Shall I call the police for you?" I offered the stricken member of staff.

"Aye, yous dae that son."  The gruff voice came not from behind the bar, but from the Glass-hiding man, now up and striding across to the fracas.  "I'll sort these tae for noo."

And he did.  Older and smaller as he was, he was also a good deal more ruthless and more practised in violence.  A well placed kick removed Blue from Brown and left him squirming in glass splinters, clutching between his legs.  "Your want the same?"  Mr Brown, young and angry as he might have been, wasn't stupid, had seen what had befallen his colleague and didn't fancy the same fate.  His head shook urgently to express his negative reaction.  

I got on with my call.  A couple of police arrive about fifteen minutes later.  Blue and Brown were still on the floor, Glass-hiding man still over them, enforcing their prone states through force of will.  And threat.

The police talked to each of us and took the offenders away.  The barmaid got on with cleaning up, aided by the crumpled men, who both expressed concern for her welfare.  As they walked back to their table, and what was left of their pints, Glass-hiding man turned to me.  "Wee bastards, eh?"

It seemed sensible to agree.