This is such a beautiful quote, I had to share it.
For visually challenged readers, the quote reads:
“Each time a person passes by you and you say ‘hello’, imagine that person turning into a candle. The more positivity, love and light you reflect, the more light is mirrored your way. Sharing beautiful hellos is the quickest way to earn spiritual brownie points. You should start seeing hellos as small declarations of faith. Every time you say hello to a stranger, your heart acknowledges over and over again that we are all family.”
Such a touching idea isn’t it? I was always taught to say hello, please and thank you. Especially to neighbours, shopkeepers, bus drivers etc, etc. A little kindness and politeness go a long way. Now that I have my own little one, I am trying to pass that message along. Just last week at a visit to the baker, he rather shyly perused the tempting selection before picking out a gingerbread man as his treat. His big blue eyes watched carefully as the biscuit was tucked carefully into the bag and handed to him. He turned and made his way to the door whilst I was paying, regularly at this point I would say to him, something along the lines of say thank you to the lady but whilst I was sorting my purse, completely unprompted we heard this tiny voice which echoed around the shop:
“Thank you, Lady”.
I think there was a collective awww around the shop from both the girls behind the counter and the queue which had formed behind us. The girl who had served us then told me that little gesture had made her day.
Have you had any hello’s, please or thank you’s lately that have made yours or someone else’s day that little bit brighter?
The inspiration just won’t come Surely I’m not the only one Let’s turn to the greats for advice There I should find something nice
A classic quote from Mr Thoreau An essayist, poet and philosopher too A Harvard College education Plus much more I haven’t mentioned
So what’s his advice for me to do “Write while the heat is in you” My heat has cooled down indeed Perhaps a break is what I need
But wait, a new quote, from Stephen King A writer indeed above all things His books are a favourite, his advice is a must He is certainly a voice I would trust
So what’s his advice for me to do I guess it’s something I already knew “Just get up and go to work” Get on with it, I think with a smirk
Fingers to keyboard I begin to type The classic or conventional which is right This is my creation, I’ll let you judge But it was the King that provided me that nudge.
Originally written in response to Writer’s Quote Wednesday Writing Challenge (#WQWWC) now hosted by Marsha Ingrao at Always Right.
I often feel the devil and angel on my shoulders when it comes to writing. I have so many ideas but when I find decent time to write, they seem to escape me, I think that’s why I would lean towards Stephen King’s advice. Which quote do you feel more connected with?
9am: Your eyelids fluttered awake. I was watching. You giggled pushing me away from you and rubbing your sleepy eyes. And sitting up to have a stretch. I pulled you back into the duvet, kissing you, playing with your hair, caressing your subtle soft skin. At first you joined in playfully but soon things got hotter, heavier, and I found myself sliding off your pyjama shorts and taking things further. It was ecstasy.
10am: I set you up on the little bistro table on the patio with a hot cuppa then set to making you breakfast. I watched through the patio doors as your hands twirled the cup handle. You soaked in the garden, the birds, the sounds of the world moving busily outside, whilst we stayed here in our sheltered cocoon. You glance towards me and catch me watching, give me a smile and return for another sip of your cup. I take my attention back to the breakfast but at each opportunity, my gaze wanders back to you.
1pm: We set off in the car to the marina. You turn the radio up and we sing loudly to all the cheesy tracks that play. I wish the car was a soft-top so we could put the roof down and I could see the wind flow through your hair and watch as you raise your arms in the air dancing in your seat. Actually, I don’t, that would be a complete waste of a wish. Especially in my circumstances.
3pm: The marina is too busy. People are everywhere, you love it, stopping to idly chat to passersby or stroking the occasional dog out on a stroll with its owner. It’s too much for me, I hang back and give the odd nod if someone looks over enquiringly. Sensing my hesitation, you suggest a picnic. I head back to the car for the rug in the back whilst you gather us some food. We climb the grass to the cliffside and find a secluded area on top where we can survey the bay and the little boats moving in and out. I pick a daisy from the long grass and place it in your hair. The freckles across your nose and cheeks seem to glow brighter in the sun as you smile and laugh and chatter. I nod and eat my sandwich, all I really want to do is kiss you, kiss you and never stop.
7pm: I shower and stand in the doorway, watching you put your mascara on, the concentration on your face makes me smile. Then goes the earrings 1, 2. You turn and find me staring, then give me a little twirl. “Wow”, you push me away jokingly but there is no other word to describe you. You are quite literally breathtaking to me. A car horn beeps outside, the taxi announcing its arrival. It sends you into a flurry of action grabbing shows, handbags, coats and scarves.
10pm: Dinner was incredible. Everything just perfect. Even the moment I dropped the napkin, reached down to get it and surprised you with a small box. The jewel inside sparkling. Not as big as I would have liked but everything I wanted to say. My shyness swept over me as the restaurant grew silent but you saved the day like you always do, bursting in with a resounding “yes”. Cheering erupted around us, champagne followed and pats on the back from strangers. Your happiness once again extending to find a home in others. My favourite, the elderly couple two tables down, who shared their story, 55 years together, no regrets. Their one piece of advice – make every moment count. A further taxi arriving to take us home. I wonder if I should have arranged more, dancing or a club but I just want to spend the rest of the evening alone with you. Just you.
2200 hours: My gear is shifted, from car to truck to plane to helicopter. I hated saying goodbye. It’s the worst part. I don’t fear what I go into, I don’t fear the weapons, I don’t fear the bad guys. I fear the pain I see in your eyes when I leave. That someday, you might not wait for me to return. This morning as you stood at the door with nothing on your feet. You reached your arms around me and kissed me. Then whispered gently “See you soon.”
Originally written in response to Writer’s Quote Wednesday Writing Challenge (#WQWWC) now hosted by Marsha Ingrao at Always Right. I know, it’s Friday but I was a bit behind. I absolutely loved this quote, it appeared to pop out at me. So beautiful and it led me to this story of romantic devotion, time being the most crucial element. We don’t always realise when we are short on time and if we did, would we do things differently, view things differently, savour those simple uncomplicated moments. I would hope so, but perhaps I am more soppy and sentimental than I would claim to be – haha.
“The raven swooped down and collided directly with my window, leaving a huge crack where it impacted. It flew around in a large circle and was heading in for a second attack…..”
I dropped my cup from my hand, grasping to catch it and missing, then watched, distraught, as it squashed my prized piece of cake.
What on earth could be going on? Was there some form of apocalypse?
“Here Mills”, I called to the dog and opened the patio door. Immediately the small dog, scampered into the garden and launched her threatening bark which usually worked with most birds, but the Corvid ignored her, returned to a nearby fence panel and watched.
Within a few minutes, Mills had ran into the glass patio doors too?
“What the F-?” Standing up, I made my way to the garden, the Corvid, did not flinch, its dark eyes glistening in the daylight. I glanced at the doors. Mills charged around at my feet, barking madly, no sign of the pneumonia, she had suffered in winter. The raven cawed behind me.
Then from the corner of my eye, I spotted it. In the ancient, scruffy birdbox, lovingly added above our patio doors many years before, but now aging and forgotten, a young fledgeling emerged. Mills went wild, once more, and the great raven spread his wings ready to take flight.
“No”, I shouted. Then pulled Mills inside. Nature seems to have worked out the ending already. She does not need humans interfering & messing things up. I believe that everything balances out in the end…But I do not need to witness it.
Inside, I scraped my cake into the bin and poured my tea down the sink. For some reason, I was no longer hungry.
I am always fascinated by Corvids. They are always such cool, calculated creature who rarely seem to ruffle their feathers. Over the years we have had many of them visit our garden, at present, it is a magpie with a broken foot. Sadly, the main attraction seems to be the fledgelings that have set up home in our various trees and bushes. Nature has its own ways.
Sara had only ever heard of snippets about the caves. The area around them was called Tad-Dlam but it wasn’t until her teens that she had found out that meant “Of The Dark”. Of course, the locals told stories, secrets and whispers about the dark underground hollows that ran below their feet and the spirits that thrived in them. Not being considered an “authentic local” despite her parents arriving before she was born, so Sara was never included in these conversations. Whenever she enquired regardless of if it was at school, shops, post office the people of the town hushed up. She was not one of them.
“Sara…” The voice started when her mother passed away.
“Sara…” It was quiet to begin with, more of a whisper than a voice but increasingly it was more and more insistent.
“Sara. Find me”, it hissed at her in the darkness late at night when no one was around. Grief, Sara told herself. The voice would leave her when she had stopped grieving but did a daughter ever really stop grieving for her mother? She didn’t think so.
Time passed and the whispering, hissing voice became part of normality. It whispered in the darkness until she fell asleep and then it invaded her dreams. As winter approached and the days contained more dark than light, the voice spent more and more time inside her head. “Find me. Sara. Find me.”
Winter came and went and spring began its inviting chorus. Each day Sara walked down the little path that led through the garden to the gate. The garden had been her mother’s pride and joy she had spent hours pottering around, clipping, trimming and planting. They had often joked the Greenhouse was her second home.
As the anniversary of her mother’s passing approached Sara took to the garden. At first, it was little bits trimming the trees, and hedges and cutting the grass. Sara had never been green fingered. As the little garden responded to her attentions Sara’s confidence grew and soon she decided it was time to take the next step in tackling the Greenhouse. At first, the sight of her mother’s apron and gardening gloves caused a lump to rise in Sara’s throat and she had just grabbed the first tools she needed and headed back to the garden. Steeling herself she decided it was time to evict the cobwebs that now consumed all the equipment her mother had treasured so much.
The Greenhouse seemed to encourage the voices. “Find me, find me Sara”, they whispered into the enclosed space. Ignoring them Sara began to pull each item out into the garden. Giving some things a clean and wipe down others stacking in a ‘to be discarded’ pile. The work was hard and the light began to fade but it had taken so much strength to get to this stage so Sara was determined to continue. As she heaved and lifted and cleaned and sorted the voice spoke to her continuously almost like a rhythm to the tasks.
“Sara. Find me, Sara…
Sara. Find me, Sara. ..”
As Sara emptied the bottom racks of the shelves her eye was caught by a crack extending out under them. She pulled the cabinet out and saw it extended under the wall to outside. Climbing from her knees she walked outside to the greenhouse. This side of the garden hadn’t yet been touched. Nettles and bramble bushes grew far and wide. Sara thought and scratched her way through until surprisingly she came to a large opening. The earth had fallen in just outside her greenhouse. Yet the way the ground opened appeared to slope downwards.
Sara’s curiosity got the better of her and she found herself ignoring the cuts and the scrapes of the gnarled bushes snagging at her skin as she pushed her way back to the greenhouse to go in search of a torch. Dusk provided a warning red glow in the sky but she was oblivious. She had to get a torch. The voice no longer whispered it championed her. “Find me, Sara. Find me.”
Relieved she found the tool she needed and returned to the opening, enticing her in like a venus fly trap to a spider. Flicking on the torch she began to descend.
Written in response to Sue Vincent’s prompt – #writephoto. You can join in this weeks image or have a gander through the many interesting posts inspired by this wonderful photo by clicking here. KL ❤
She covered her arms, her face and her chest in the luminescent paint.
Quiet and unassuming, normally no-one noticed her. Today was different. Today was the day of the dead. Her heart beat fast at the thoughts of the festivities that would unfold over the next two days in an explosion of colour and life-affirming joy.
More importantly, she would see him again. Each year she made the offering to the dead and each year he had stayed a little longer. This year she was finally prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice. Herself. He would be hers for eternity.
Written in response to Daily Posts daily prompt. You can join in this challenge or have a gander through the many interesting posts by clicking here.
They had heard the planes before they had seen them. The hum distant at first, then getting louder and louder, a thunderous roar approaching. At first, the villagers did not understand. The village was made up of farmers, market traders and weavers. Those that took the village produce to the big town markets knew of the war, but they were not soldiers, they had no reason to be involved in the war, so, they presumed, no reason for the war to come to them. They were wrong.
A few of the men recognised the planes as they came into sight. Their dark shadows and flight formation now looked so similar to the photographs printed in the paper. Panic filled the men and they began to shout orders to those around them. Others did the same and soon the village woman had grabbed the children and headed for the church but as they approached the priest came running through the doors. He had assessed the simple structure and knew that it would not do to protect his people.
As hysteria began to surface amongst the group, a man stepped forward. A strangled hush came across the group with the thundering plane engines providing most of the noise. Few of the villagers recognised the man, he was a shepherd who usually followed his herd amongst the mountains, it was rare he stepped foot into town. Today the villagers were lucky.
He said only one word, “There”. Pointing his hand towards the mountainside. Then he quickly began to walk.
The villagers followed his gaze and although few could see what he was talking about all immediately followed his quick step. They made it to the trees and some of the agitations dispersed as the group huddled and walked, step after step. They were not in the treeline long when they heard the first bomb drop on their town. The ground below them shook and immediately cries escaped them. The priest shushed them gently, as they gathered themselves, they noticed the shepherd kept walking. They scrambled to keep up with him and soon once again the huddle was moving this time, each member of the village was on full alert.
Several more bombs made their way to the ground until the noise was no longer as shocking to the villagers. A few times the shepherd stop and held up his hand to stop the travelling group. As the priest moved towards the man he saw the reason for stopping. Flying low above the trees the planes seemed to be searching. Only once the shepherd moved again did the villagers follow suit. It was pitch black by the time the villagers made the mountain. They all crammed to get inside the cave first, whilst the priest instructed some of the stronger men to begin to gather wood to make fires.
“No”, said the shepherd whilst the priest was mid-way through the instruction. The priest tried to question but the man only shook his head and continued past him into the cave. Reluctantly the priest followed.
After several hours the majority of the group fell into a restless slumber, the planes had left but the shepherd sitting near the entrance and had given no hint that the villagers should leave. The priest was unaware that he too had fallen into an exhausted sleep until he found himself shaken awake by the shepherd. He waved his hand towards the entrance beckoning the priest to follow him. Understanding dawning on him, the priest made his way to the cave opening. The shepherd pointed down into the town and sure enough in the pitch darkness, lights could be seen moving amongst the town.
“Soldiers?” the priest questioned, and the shepherd nodded in response. To back up his point random gunshots filled the night air and the priest squirmed knowing that it was probably a sick or elderly villager whom in their haste they had left behind.
The shepherd pointed along the treeline surrounding the village and the priest once again followed his instruction. Lights were entering the treeline and the priest gasped.
“Are we safe here?” the shepherd shrugged non-committedly in response.
“Well, what should we do?” the priest gasped exasperated.
“Pray”, the shepherd finally provided the priest before he walked back into the cave and returned to his place, from his shirt he pulled a beaded necklace, a cross dangling from it. The beads clicked together as the man continued to move the item around his idle hands.
The priest looked out into the darkness, following the lights moving in the deep night. Reluctantly he turned to the cave once again. This time he dropped to his knees, closed his eyes and prayed, not only for those in the cave but for the poor souls who had already been lost to a war they did not understand and had never wished to be part of.
The priest found himself being shaken awake once more, this time by one of the men from the village. Light flowed into the opening of the cave and as he came around he noticed more and more faces looking at him. He turned around looking for the shepherd but could not see him.
“He left at daybreak,” the man from the village provided. Stiffly the priest got to his feet and emerging from the cave he looked out towards the village. He gasped when he saw the charred remains of what had been his beloved church. Then he shunned himself as his eyes continued finding where homes had once stood only burnt out skeletons of the structures remained. He crossed himself when he remembered the sounds of the gunshots that had penetrated the night. He nodded to the men that surrounded him and slowly they made their descent back into the woodland.
As they entered the village, cries of despair broke out amongst the villagers as they looked around at the carnage of what had been their homes. The priest continued to walk up to where the church once stood. The remains of the stone baptismal font seemed to rise from the wreckage and the priest stepped around the rubble towards it. He reached his hands into the bowl and pulled out a beaded necklace with a cross from it. To the villagers, he may have seemed mad as he dropped to his knee, pulled his hands together in a gesture of prayer and thanked the lord.
Written in response to Sue Vincent’s prompt – #writephoto. You can join in this weeks image or have a gander through the many interesting posts inspired by this wonderful photo by clicking here.
Just a quick note, although this feels like a religious post, I am not overly certain why this post took on a religious storyline. I am from a mixed religious background with both my parents and grandparents coming from different religions, also my family spans both Scotland and Ireland so I tend to shy away from any religious involvement having seen so much arrogance, hatred and unnecessary arguments that seem to stem from religious beliefs. However, I cannot deny the comfort religion provides people or the fact that unexplainable miracles happen all the time.
The stem of this story for me, I think, was inspired not only by Sue’s wonderful photo but a recent visit to Malta, (which indeed is a very religious island). Despite being a tiny island of only 246 square kilometres (95 sq mi), Malta was of huge importance during the war due to its strategic position. On 10 June 1940, Mussolini declared war on the United Kingdom and France. Upon declaring war, Mussolini called for an offensive throughout the Mediterranean and within hours, the first bombs had dropped on Malta. It is so sad to think that within hours this island of vineyards, farming, caves and catacombs was transformed instantly from a place of peace to an island of turmoil.
Anyway, I am no war historian or any kind of historian for that matter and I am sure there are loads of accuracy plotholes within my tall tale (men with rifles following a few hours behind planes with bombs, probably not?) but I liked the story and I hope I may have shared just a little bit of my inspiration with you and even that you may have championed (even just for a second) the shepherd and his cave.
They had observed the rock formation from miles away, with each step closer to it, it seemed to grow more intriguing.
“It looks like a house”, Josie said to her exasperated husband John who was trailing behind her with a heavily laden backpack. He made a harrumph sound in response but she ignored it and clicked happily on her camera before setting off again.
As they grew closer and closer her excitement to explore the rocks grew.
“Do you think it was a caveman’s home?” Josie wondered once they had reached the opening in the rocks.
“Maybe,” John said, giving in to her excitement. “It could be our lodgings for the weekend, save us on that hotel you booked”. He said smirking at his own joke.
“I WOULD live here”, Josie smiled at him, “look at that view.”
As they made their way inside it grew darker and darker, eventually, John rummaged in the backpack and pulled out their torch. As he clicked it on they both inhaled sharply.
“Wow! This is so beautiful.” Josie said. John nodded in agreement. The swirling text that filled the walls, floor and roof of the cave was unlike anything they had ever seen before.
“What do you think it says?” John asked.
“No idea. Oh, look there are numbers there.” She pointed to the area she had spotted.
They both moved closer and focussed the torchlight.
“Is that a date?” Jane’s brow wrinkled with concentration. They both looked at each other in the dull torchlight.
If it was a date, that meant it was one week from today…
My response to Sue’s wonderful photo prompt combined with the Captivating daily post. If you want to give Sue’s prompt a go too, head over to Sue’s Page Thursday Photo Prompt – ahead – and join in the prompt. KL ❤
Her veil fluttered in the breeze and she let out a wail into the dawn sky. The sun was coming and her presence would be hindered in the daylight. She prayed for winter, foggy days and dreary weather helped her stay around for longer.
One of her favourite things to do was to follow one step behind a person, see if they felt her presence. Occasionally she would inhale deeply beside their ear-catching the scents of the sweet perfumes of the modern day. This often made them shudder and she could not deny the shadow of joy that gave to her wandering soul.
Occasionally she would get the chance to enact her true calling, her reason for being. She would watch the young couples strolling around the site hand in hand, or linked arm in arm, giggling merrily to themselves. She watched them captivated by their young naivety. She would watch and she would wait.
As the time approached, and the young man got down on one knee she would summon all her strength and push him over. She would whip the young woman’s scarf or hair or whatever she would grasp. As they regained composure she would scream. A high-pitched piercing scream. She enjoyed that, generally, they began to stumble and run as fast as they could. Sometimes she wondered if they heard her deep chuckling that followed but ultimately she didn’t care. She would be the only jilted bride to haunt these ruins.
My response to Sue’s wonderful photo prompt combined with the Captivating daily post. If you want to give Sue’s prompt a go too, head over to Sue’s Page Thursday Photo Prompt – Arch – and join in the prompt. KL ❤
He looked into the lake. He didn’t believe in fate, fairytales and all that other nonsense but if the sword was in there he was going to get it. Temptation was all he needed, and he was a man fuelled if by nothing else by the chance of an easy reward. He had heard many stories that the sword had been tossed in this water and was now guarded by some lady.
He donned the aqua gear that he had “borrowed” from the museum he worked. It had weighed a tonne and he had started to regret his plan but now that he was in the water the stupid old suit might just prove its worth. He might return it, then again if he was loaded after cashing in on the sword it might be better to keep it as a memento of his genius. Further and further out he waded until the depths of the water surrounded him. It felt like the world was getting darker and darker then, at last, he saw the glint of the gold hilt.
He made his way towards it but as he raised the arm of the suit the water moved and pushed him back a few steps. Once again, he made his way forward and again the water sent the heavy suit away from the sword. He approached again and this time kneeled (as best as he could) in the suit and although the water moved around it seemed to have stopped pushing him away from the sword. He lifted his arm up to grasp the sword but try as he could he could not get the suit to perform a handgrip on the handle. He tried again and again but without success. By now everything around him was pitch black. He would have to somehow modify the suit and come back again for the sword. As a final act to display his disgust he kicked at the sword in it’s resting place, but the movement caused a tear in the ancient leather and ice-cold water quickly began to enter.
As fast as he could he made his way back to land the suit getting heavier and heavier as water poured in the tiny slit in his heel. Eventually, he was at the edge and he pulled the lumbering helmet gasping for air. He started to pull the rest of the outfit off as he made his way up the silty water’s edge onto land. Water had filled almost the entirety of one leg of the suit now and he was more than aware if he had been much further out he might not have made it.
He threw the helmet and rest of the suit down and sat down on the lakeside edge, looking back over the water, he now knew it was there, he had to formulate a plan to get it. He was about to stand up and leave when he heard footsteps and a bark coming from behind him. Turning to face it he could see two officers one holding rather a mean looking dog. He glanced quickly to his right to see if he could escape into the trees.
“I wouldn’t do that, sonny. Believe me, she can run a damn sight faster than you can.” The dog barked in agreement with the officer. As the officer drew closer there was nothing else he could do but bow his head in acceptance of the fate.
My response to Sue’s wonderful photo prompt. If you want to give Sue’s prompt a go too, head over to Sue’s Page Thursday Photo Prompt – Dark – and join in the prompt. KL ❤