Archive | July 2014

Frank

‘Yes, she is a good daughter, mostly.’  Frank has a coughing fit.  When he settles, I ask him more questions.

‘You thought she would be better with you then?’

‘That damned husband of hers got hisselph killed.  She was just mopin’ back in the city.  Needed to be back home where she could be more useful.’  His eyes harden.

‘But she was mourning him.’

‘So she said.  She came back though.  Talked to her brother, he suggested it really.’

‘But then she met David!’

‘Useless piece of crap.  Caught ‘im, caught ‘im good.’ Franks eyes glisten. ‘Sleeping over, in her room.  Can yer believe that?”

‘She is a grown woman,’ I tell him.

‘Huh!  She may look grown, but she’s only seventeen.  Now would I be a good father if I let that happen, and unde my own roof too.?’

The nurse comes into the room.  ‘Now Frank, you telling tales again!’

She wheels him back to his own room.

 

 

Beaches. Most people think of beaches, All sand. Sea-lapping shore, But there are beaches everywhere With something more in store. The craggy, rocky headland, Is strewn with granite slabs, So waves can crash and feel no pain, When chasing hermit crabs. The flat rocks have striata Like so much flaky paste, Where salt-water lettuce can take root, And crawling things make haste. So too, the rounded pebbles, All tossed by roilling surf. Millions of them, laying deep Untouched by grassy turf. They come in different sizes, All jostling, one, two, three. Painful as you tread them down, As you approach the sea. Beaches that have sandy bays, Are more what folk might think, If you ask which they do prefer, They plump for sand in a blink. But sand’s a strange commodity, You think it’s soft like silk, But if you take a sample, It can turn, like tainted milk. Some Spanish beaches have the look Of peachy sand, so bright, But silica is textural, Not so much a delight. And gravel also tends to be Upon the coastal bay, But out in tropical beaches, It’s like powder all the way. Copyright Evelyn J. Steward. July, 2014 . Sent from my iPad

Once An Alien”……………part if a short storyOnce An Alien…! Radick’s flaming locks fanned his chiseled tace. Prominent eyebrows bristled pewter above deep-set eyes the colour of deep oceanic pools, the foreboding obsidian belied the warmth of his soul. Angular cheekbones in his swarthy countenance made him look like a quartz outcropping on the distant hills. He had adopted a solid stance, rock solid on the uneven ground. His muscled torso gleamed in the bright daylight, like a hunk of hewn granite. Some would have called his figure squat, but he came from a heavy gravity planet and was built almost square. The spike he held beside his frame was thick, heavy and a trusty weapon. He doubted the locals would even be able to lift such weapon, they were puny, these creatures. As an alien invader, the indigenous creatures were wary of his kind; he was not harsh, like his leader who whipped any being not adhering strictly to the Laws of Invasion, whereas Radick was somewhat more lenient and passed on the finer points, more for a happier life. He was tired of moving from planet to planet, subjugating the local population, if there was one, reaping the benefits that planet could offer his race then moving on. His partners were sat back on home world awaiting his return. That future seemed a world or twenty away. His children were growing without his guidence. He missed them. Gazing into the distance, Radick watched the star disappearing over the horizon of rolling hills. The fading light gathered in his deep eyes, turning them a lighter shade for a few heartbeats, then disappearing into darkest obsidian once more. His hair lost the colour that the star highlighted, becoming gnarled in the growing darkness. Soon it would be fully dark and he would rather be back at base, having sustenance and resting, discussing any events with the rest of his group of the invading force. Turning, squaring his impressive shoulders, he retraced his steps, leaping small rocks that strewed the terrain. It would be a short trek. He glanced at the skies filling with bright stars as the darkness approached. There were billions of them in various patterns, a lot different from home skies. Strange shrieks assaulted his ears. A night-flying bird called from one of the high black plants to his left. His eyes, growing accustomed to the dark around him, searched the black shapes, watching to see where the sound came from, what kind of bird it was. Some, if caught, were quite edible, in fact, tasted good. Trouble was, they were hard to bring down with a spike. On this planet, the indigens were adept at hunting, or so he had found. He had coaxed a couple a while back to catch one of the flying ones. Not bird, but furry. It wasn’t too good to ingest. They spiked him a bird later which tasted better. They indicated it was a ground dweller. Radick liked it and shared it with the others. The bright star breached the horizon. Winds blew across the plain where tall plants weaved from side to side. A time of great noise. Those birds calling to each other. Dagrit came in, a small furry creature on the end of his spike. It was not the first he had caught and was soon busy removing the entrails and outer coat. A small fire glowed and a hot stone to the side sat awaiting the meat. When they had eaten, the light was full. Radick waited instructions, listening for sounds from the distance. Dagrit grumbled. “We could be here all the day. The Leader should have been here during the dark phase. Why did we have to wait around getting tired, and with little to do?” “You moan too much, Dagrit,” complained Radick. “Things are going well. No need for training, it is an easy conquest.” “I want to be on the move. I desire to get back to Home world.” “And you think i do not?” Radick replied, wishing the Leader would turn up and give them all commands. The rest of the team, though speaking softly in the background, were agreeing with Dagrit. “Quiet the rest of you or you will be reported to the Leader when he comes.” Their voices became more like whispers, but they did not stop. He wasn’t second so he had no control to exert. Radick moved from the fire, stepping over to the perimeter. A wind had arisen and although the star had plenty of heat beating down, he felt a chill sweep through his chunky body. He shivered involuntarily, gathering his outer apparel close around his masive shoulders. It was worn, brought little comfort, was whipped as the wind blew stronger. Flames from the meager fire were battered, almost going out. “More kindling,” he called to one of the team. “The Leader will need a beacon. More kindling, quickly'” His comrades set to work, gathering a few twigs here and there. It was an open plain, not much burnable material. Every bit of burn material was shoved on the fire which burst into a blaze of light, only to die down once the flames had consumed it. ‘Not good enough,’ Radick yelled at them. ‘Go further, hurry!’ There was grumbling but the team got to their feet and loped off across the plain, searching for dead plants. Some covered the ground quite close to the camp site, making sure they had missed nothing. Others, in pairs, set off fa into the distance where tall branches grew around the base of low hills. Whilst they were gone, Radick stripped some if his under uniform and fed it slowly to the fire, trying to keep the flames going until the teams arrived back.

What is it all about.

 

image

 

I try to do my best

like I suppose, do all the rest.

so why do things go wrong

even if I sing my song?

 

So what, you say, does it matter?

if I stop and have a natter

With friends that I have found,

On Internet, and around.

 

Time will just stand still

Whilst I talk and laugh my fill.

The days will not swing by

If I idle, I tell a lie.

 

Of course, the time is gone

When I realise my song

Should have ended long ago,

For now, a tale of woe.

 

For time does not stand stil,

Not even to my will,

And, very sad to say

That my life just ebbs away.

Copyright. Evelyn J. Steward.  July, 2014

 

Summer Poem – Late June Observations When a perfect summer morning With heat to calm your soul, And a cooling breeze that fans you, Begins to wain. And flees. Grey clouds loom adorning, The wind starts getting bold, The sky grows dark, hear the silent coo Of pigeons in the breeze. No time to sit there yawning, Get out your breakfast bowl, Start working, there is much to do, Peel carrots, shuck the peas. No sitting under the awning, Just go and feed the fowl, The cat has jumped onto the roof, A tasty bird he sees. Later on the sun is joining Chooks. The dog gives howl When clip clop goes the horse’s hoof, Harness jingles, merrily. So do not come a’moaning, Be like the wise old owl, When rainclouds come, be quite aloof, And dream of woods and seas. Copyright Evelyn J. Steward. June, 2014

Summer PoemfNature’s Summer People. There are mute swans, down in the wallow, The canal has a few swimming by, And little Moorhens swim along by the barge, Black coots, with their little ones, nigh. Above on a branch, the kingfisher Is watching the glittering fish, His bright turquoise feathers and orange, get wet, When he catches the tastiest dish. No worries, the droplets fly outwards, As he flexes his wings, like a shower, They hang in the sunshine to dry out, Whilst he sits in his summmertime bower. The trees that are shading the tow bank, Are glistening, and dappled with sun, They’re hiding the drowsy old barn owl, Resting before his night fun. Starlings fly over the meadow That borders the fields and the streams, And down in the grass, there lies sleeping, Field mice, and hares having dreams. A slithering sound, like a whisper, Wreathes inside and out of the grass. His harmless meander, his wander, Frights none, as they watch him pass. Soft breezes sigh as the goshawk Flies quietly over the ground, And high in the sky there are swallows, Singing a wonderful sound. As rosehips glisten, and berries Grow ripe on the prickly bough, The squirrel is busy, just gathering, No time to dally, not now. For winter will soon be upon them, The birds and the rabbits and mice, Food will be scarce in the winter, But spring will be here, in a trice. Copyright. Evelyn J. Steward. june 2015

Cinema……… Your favourite memories.Sixth July Blog. Cinema! ……..What was it like for you? I suppose my earliest memories of cinema were when I was quite a dot. My dad took me and I was held in his arms. No! I do not know what was playing, but my dad said at one stage, I made a rude noises, and very loudly, blamed my father as the cause. I could see that happening in my minds eye, and dad and I often laughed about it in later years I did visit the nearest cinema when i was maybe eight to ten or so years. They had Saturday Morning pictures where they played all sorts of kids films for a couple of hours every Saturday morning. I do not remember going every weekend, but I went to several to see all kinds of films, probably The Lone Ranger was one recurring film genre. I should imagine there were also comedies, like Laurel and Hardy and also, I should imagine, cartoons. I love cartoons. Tom and Jerry, to name but one. now to be seen on Netflix and other such t.v. showings. Later, as I got a little older, I was able to go in the afternoon, provided that what was showing was an all U Certificate. Sometimes they had specials where you could go to the upstairs seats. Mighty posh! It was much better sitting in Circle seats, and less crowded and less noisy too. At that time your admission price gave you a feature film, a second feature, a newsreel, and several cartoons, plus the advertisments for the coming week. The showings only lasted one week (occasionally there could be three films at three different cinemas in the town and it was an effort to work out how to get to see each film that week. On the very odd i Occaion, there might be a fourth film at a cinema much further away. This would make schedulling very difficult indeed, but was accomplished, nevertheless.) One time, we were taken from school one morning and walked down to the town cinema, further from my home but do-able. At the time, I had no idea what was going on. But it was a treat for us school kids, the cinema put on a special showing of ‘Scott of the Antarctic.’ I suppose they deemed it an extra-mural history lesson about Captain Scott and his officers trying to reach the South Pole before Ammunson and his men did. Tragically, they were beaten to the Pole by the Norwegians, and they died, or some did, I do not remember too much about the expedition, although, as it was our men, I suppose I should. So, the cinema became a tool of education as well as entertainment. I must admit, with so many cinemas in my general area, let alone the ones slightly further afield as well, I was spoilt for choice. OK, so sometimes the films were not as good, but often, that did not matter. Going to the cinema was the thing to do. Oh yes, there was the odd dance hall, some distance away by bus, and in the local town, for a while, there was a theatre. I went there a few times. Now, that town has a much larger theatre, in a different location. Although the seats are infinitely more expensive, it is available. The town no longer has a cinema. Which is a shame, I think. There is a multiplex in a town farther away, a bit more than 4 miles. So a visit to that cinema has to be planned and booked in advance, usually. I really cannot count how many films I have seen, at the cinema, in my lifetime (let alone all the films I have seen since on t.v. and Netflix etc.) . I guess, all the big important films and the less important ones too. I saw ‘Soylent Green’ in the cinema, so many years ago. ‘Grease’ was another cinema viewing, and more than once there. I saw ‘The Robe’ in the new wide screen, as it was then. Oh, and so many, many more, too numerous to even think of them all. Come to think of it, when I was single, I saw a great many small Western films. They were usually the second feature. Roy Rogers, countless others whose titles escape me. Then, my favourite B movies, the sci/fi genre that gave value for your ticket money. I loved these, mostly black and white. Titles like ‘I Married A Monster from Outer Space’, ‘THEM’, and many more, mostly now forgotten, I guess. The cartoons were a favourite of mine. ‘Tom and Jerry’, I have mentioned before, but there was also ‘Wily Coyote’, Tweetie Pie’, and though the name escapes me, there was one series about a Rooster, and another one, partly Tom and Jerry, about a bulldog and his little pup son. These films, all of them, provide a rich pageant for me to draw on, when writing my stories. I do not copy them, that would be silly and also illegal, but this all becomes ways of good writing to adhere to, use of colour and imagination and so on, all there in my head, of course. Do you have a favourite film from the past? Do please mention it in your comments. Take it easy, friends, Evelyn