Eighth July Blog


Eighth July Blog

By a Road, Darkly.

The tarmac gleamed. It had been raining all day and was saturated. Orange street lights and yellow shop illuminations, shone in the puddles that hugged the potholes in the road, causing shimnering reflections that gave the impression of an early Christmas, though it was barely autumn.

Cars spashed along, the relections danced as droplets fell back into the momentarily dark liquid. Only to be eradicated when the next vehicle passed through. Summer’s mad heatwave had eased, though even with the rain, it was not yet cool. People walked with a purpose. Those going home from their daily toil, were late. Others already fed, were heading out for an evenings entertainment. The pub, a few doors down, was filling up, its doors continually opening and closing as new customers entered.

Suddenly, a woman screamed. Then a loud male laugh ensued as a car drove through a deep puddle along by the curb. A horn from the car behind, hooted as the driver screwed back out into the oncoming traffic. Other horns blared in unison. It was no night for niceties. People wanted to get home and out of the rain, thinking about the roast pork they were expecting, or the fish and chips they would pick up when closer to home.

Harvey Sental pulled his hat down lower, flicked his lighter, setting the new cigarette glowing as he drew a deep breath. He had tried to giving them up, but was finding it hard. So few people smoked these days. He knew it was bad for his lungs, the early morning coughing alerted his senses to the cancer scares. But the doorway where he stood viewing passers by, was womb-like and a cigarette was mother’s milk right now. A balm to start the night shift.

Ash dripped down his mac. He brushed at it, automatically. Maybe he could stop, he thought. But not tonight! Tonight was more important than giving up the weed.

Curls of blue smoke, lit by the neon sign above the doorway, strayed Heavenwards, giving away his poisition. Harvey stepped back. There was just enough space for him to lean right up against the door, taking him out of sight of the flats across the road. The windows opposite were dark, presumably no one home. But Harvey Sental knew different.

His quarry, for that was how he saw Novac Lentavich, was behind one of those windows.. A small-time crook, was Novac. With one difference. Harvey believed that Novac held the clues to the disappearance of a young girl. The police had been searching for Alison Croucher for days. The Family had contacted Harvey, for the sole purpose of finding Alison, feeling that a P. I. would stand more chance of locating the girl than the local constabulary. They had money, loads, from what he could tell. His contacts were good and already information about Novac had set him on a path.

Raindrops began falling again. More of a deluge this time. Water slanted inside the doorway. Harvey felt wetter than ever. He would have to make a move soon.


Just a short atmospheric piece. Sometimes it gives one a good feeling about writing. Knowing that this is juat a vignet. Something to blow away cobwebs, start one on a new path. A refreshment, if you will, in the writing game. A piece that tales one on a different trail, with new ideas, other scenes, descriptive challenges. I am in the mood to shake things up. Explore new artistic environments. Use different words, if possible and other locations. Spring cleaning the writing mind, if you will.


Darkness pervades
As the falling night
Townscapes, awash
With orange light,
From street lamps,
Shop windows,
Homes of weary workers,
Blazing, as entering donains.

Countryside, sinister,
Dark shapes loom,
Trees herald a horizon
Barely illumined
By night’s indigo sweep,
Before the moon’s
Eternal rise.
A mist, etherial
In its ghostliness,
Unseen by those
Safely in their
Cottages and mansions,
Sweeps across field,
Hugs moorland,
Swirls branches, like
Some unknown demon.

Olden times, the night
Gave fright. No street
Lights to cheer
Late travellers.
None moved where
They were not
Impressed to do so.
Only a risen gliobe
Poured pale light
Over a vastly darkened

How lucky is
Modern man,
Living in cities
Where light
Pervades over all?

Copyright Evelyn J. Steward. July, 2015.

Stay safe, my friends and enjoy your days.


2 thoughts on “Eighth July Blog

  1. Thank you very much, Jenanita01. They are perhaps, for me, memory jogs, to get me going into writing novel or novella type writing, rather than always poetry, these days. Bless you for that comment.

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