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Postcards and office cubicles

From the archives, but rewritten …


Carin stared at the wall of her office cubicle, and the pinned up postcards from Mongolia and Bhutan jeered back at her. She could have been there right now, with muddied boots and a backpack, or developing her horse-riding skills on an empty plain. But since she’d said no, Derek had said farewell to her as well as to everyone else and gone alone. Meanwhile she sat where she had sat for the past nine years, stable in salary, possessing a comprehensive insurance plan, and ready to scream.

Carin sat up straight in her chair so she could peer over the divide and see the rest of the room. Her desk was one of five and was positioned in the corner furthest from the entryway, so she had a clear view of everything. When bored, which was often, she would survey the small week-based world she shared with four female colleagues.

Tamryn, who was just 22, was at that moment rifling through papers in a cabinet drawer in an important fashion, so Carin knew she had no clue what she was doing. Janette was standing by the fax machine, wearing a blank stare and fiddling with her nose ring. Faith was not at her desk, but then Faith was never at her desk. Carin had great admiration for Faith. Finally, if she looked left, Carin could see Sonya in the opposite corner. Sonya had turned 50 yesterday but had the joie de vivre of a five year old. She was presently punching away at the keyboard with her two index fingers and humming to herself.

Carin slid back down into her chair. She put her feet up on the windowsill and considered the sky.

She had ended up staying with the company longer than anyone expected. She would have had her own office years ago if she hadn’t kept moving departments. But changing around within Sutton Ink was her way of shaking things up in life, without ever actually shaking anything up. Right now she was in logistics.

It was 11:50am and Carin had a busy schedule of nothing much to do.

She decided she may as well make her way to see Sean on the ground floor. One of the more tolerable tasks of her new position was that twice a day she had to go down to deliveries to hand over and then later collect paperwork from hairy-armed Sean. She appreciated the legitimate break from not only her desk but also her landing. If anyone whinged about having come to speak with her and not finding her at her desk, she could say, “Oh really? What time abouts was that? Ah, I was probably downstairs at that moment doing paperwork with Sean. So sorry about that.”

The logistics department was on the third and top floor at the back of the building. Carin could see out the window down onto the trucks in the loading zone directly below. There was a stairwell just twenty feet away that would lead her straight down to Sean’s office, so she could be there and back in a minute flat.

She walked towards the stairwell but at the last second swung left, having recollected that she had a question to ask Shona Hartley in marketing (a department on the second floor at the front of the building). It was an urgent question, able to make or break the company, both locally and internationally. But by the time she reached Shona’s door she’d forgotten the question. So she went in, sat down, and said, “How did Molly’s vaccinations go yesterday?”

Ten minutes later Carin meandered through the second floor back towards the stairwell leading to Sean. If you’d asked her how, she couldn’t have explained it, but her route somehow took her past Khosi, who worked in the call centre. Right then Khosi sat with the phone lodged between her ear and shoulder, hands gripping her armrests. Carin slowed down enough for them to exchange a sisters-in-arms fist bump as she passed. The air was thick with Fire and Ice, and Carin caught sight of the slender red and black canister on Khosi’s desk. She knew the deodorant was there to freshen the air after phonecalls with odious customers. The air frequently contained toxic levels of freshness.

While paper-towelling her hands in the second-floor bathroom and checking in the mirror for any wrinkles around her eyes, Carin realised she hadn’t actually brought the papers for Sean with her. She went and fetched them, then walked down to see Sean, stopping by the first floor on the way to steal milk and sugar from the bigwigs’ kitchenette.

Sean was standing outside his office. He smiled when he saw her, bumped her arm with his elbow, took the papers, and said, “All good.”

Twenty minutes after she had first stood up, Carin shambled back to logistics. She deposited her stolen edibles in the little logistics kitchenette and made herself a plain black coffee, then went and dropped into her chair. She proceeded to stare sourly at the postcards on her cubicle wall. Last she had heard he was living in some small Bhutanese village with a name nobody could pronounce. He didn’t write much on those postcards; his scrawl was hurried and loose. He was clearly doing well. He was doing very well, the handsome, saintly scumbag.

Carin turned her head to look out the window at the massive 70s-era block building that pushed down on the earth on the other side of the parking lot. She knew it was the twin of the building in which she presently sat, and had been sitting in for a third of her life. She tried to erase the thought, since counting up years and fractionalising her life only ever led to a tray of lasagne and a large bag of chocolate-covered mints while watching cheap reality shows. But that afternoon her inbox was empty, her desk was all perpendiculars, and there wasn’t any work worthy of a sentient being, so the thought of all her joyless years in that brick mausoleum wouldn’t go away.

Carin looked longer than usual at the wild open spaces portrayed on the postcards in front of her, the number 1/3 like a watermark across her vision. “First-rate baboon,” Carin said to herself. Blinking a long blink, she saw herself wearing muddied boots, a walking stick in hand, and Derek’s sun-ripened face a part of each new scene. There were no open windows in the office, but Carin could feel her fears of the unknown being tugged at by a cold and determined Himalayan wind.


It was night time, I was a woman alone, and I went to investigate the unknown noise in my aubergine flannel jumpsuit

I was drifting off, then my leg jerked upwards and I was awake. Why was I awake? I lay static, trying to figure it out. Then I heard a prolonged scrape, and I knew it was a repeat sound.

I shimmied out of bed and mashed my feet into the loose piles of thread I call slippers. I went out to the landing, put an arm across my chest, and trotted quietly down the staircase.


There it was again. Coming from the kitchen. A shaft of light from the front door transom bisected the central living area. I zigzagged between the closely packed furniture to reach the arch leading into the kitchen.

I flattened myself against the wall alongside the arch, then poked my head around the edge. It struck me as a Charlie’s Angels sort of move, and if I hadn’t been wearing aubergine and starting to sweat I would have rather enjoyed the moment. I saw nothing.

There it went again. Rr-eei-k.

I dropped onto all fours and crawled into the kitchen. As I passed the sink I stretched an arm upwards and felt gently for the peanut butter-smeared knife I knew to be resting on the edge. Whiffy weapon in hand, I edged forward to the far window,  my knees bruising as they pressed against the unforgiving tiles.

I reached the window. It started two feet above the ground. I looked up at the thick yellowed netting that served as a curtain. It was there when I bought the place, and I hadn’t got round to changing it. Sliding my head under the netting, which hung a few inches below the window’s lip, I inched up to peer outside. A pair of eyes stared straight back into mine and I choked on air, my eyes welling up from the reaction.

I stood up and yanked the window open. Samuel – at least that’s the name I used for him – barely blinked. There was a complete composure to him, as always, and I thought about shoving him off the ledge.

We stared at each other a moment longer, then finally I said, “If you want to live here – fine. But for this, you’re getting neutered.”

Weeds and flowers (flash fiction)

0c10743a07da171182eadcf5c62b7f39It was a Tuesday and I was at Shari’s weeding behind her day lilies when it popped into my head that I loved him. I didn’t miss a beat with the trowel, but that’s not to say the realisation had no effect on me, because it did. From his crooked bottom teeth to the scar on his jawline that I’d given him during our handstand efforts at Mitchell’s Park when we were seven, he’d never occurred to me as a romantic candidate.

I edged over to the little patch of garden that I actually cared about – the patch around the statue Shari’s mom had chosen – and found I couldn’t dislodge the idea. It was certain that I loved him. But I never got to tell him, at least not so he could hear me. That weekend I just had to lay down my flower like everyone else and then walk away.

Running to lose yourself, or is it to find yourself?

Nothing was to be heard, only the steady plea of the wind across the moor and the susurrus of the grasses closest to me. I knelt down on one knee, intent on listening to this raw environment but also needing refuge from the wind. My fleece was zipped up to my chin, and I could feel cold sweat sliding down my neck.

I had left the sheep farms well behind me to follow a path of heavy slabs that led across the crown of the mountain, past a line of lambing shelters and then on towards what appeared to be nothing but past-prime heather and dirt blending into mud. Tiny raindrops started to settle themselves onto my face as I knelt, but I didn’t turn back. This place – this rough expansive place that belonged entirely to me in that moment – was a place I wanted to store within me. I couldn’t rush it.

So I hovered there for insensible minutes, knowing it would all have to last me a very long time.


Megan’s UK diary: Ted Hughes Arvon Centre, Lumb Bank, West Yorkshire. The art of life writing.

Life writing is simply what it suggests – writing that is rooted in the experiences of real life, whether biography or memoir, or something akin to that. One of the best things I discovered through my week-long residential course at Lumb Bank was the clarity and authenticity that life writing afforded me in the story-telling process.

Photo by Phil Champion

Photo by Phil Champion

Lumb Bank was originally built by a mill owner in the C18th. Eventually Ted Hughes bought it, and his wife, Sylvia Plath, is buried in Heptonstall, the hilltop village less than a mile away.

This area of West Yorkshire is full of hills and dales, tight lanes, moors and forests, sheep farms, abandoned mills and steep villages.

The view from my attic bedroom

The view from my attic bedroom

During an Arvon residence course, which takes in about 17 writers per course, you take part in morning writing workshops, cook one meal (in team), attend evening readings, have one-on-one tutorials with the two published authors leading the course, and still have free time in the afternoons to write, gaze at the abandoned mill, chat in the garden, concoct plum-based mulled wine, and, in my case, hop up and down over every bunny spotted on the lawn and then go get lost on the moors.

We were an eclectic bunch, ranging in age from 20 to 84, coming from England, Ireland, Norway, Bulgaria and South Africa, and presenting a mix of personalities and perspectives. As a group, I imagine it could easily not have worked, and yet it did. It really did. The success of it had something to do with all the hours spent around the diningroom-cum-workshop table where we got to know each other through conversations as well as through each other’s writing. We laughed hugely (sometimes we downright crowed), occasionally we gasped, and also occasionally we cried, because, well, this was a life writing course, and life isn’t always neat or pretty.

Here are the lovely and talented writers that now make up the group Subtext:

All the lovely people that now make up the writers' group Subtext.

Flash fiction: Running to the Karoo

Suddenly and unexpectedly even to me, I swing on the steering wheel, peeling into a small lay-by that boasts a dirtied bench and table and one scrawny, dust-covered tree.

I pull up harshly on the handbrake, turn off the engine, remove the key, put my hand on the door handle – and then pause. A forty-ton truck barrels past, causing my car to rock, then there is silence. The powerful, marrow-reaching silence of the desert. I let go of the door and drop my head against the steering wheel. Shoulders sink forward and I allow the already fast-falling tears to land wherever. I start to hear the horrid little gaspy noises that my body makes when it is truly venting.

The tears are hardly new – they have become a way of life. They were the threat that caused me to leave Durban early that morning, so early that I missed the hadidas’ coarse wake-up call. That was almost a thousand kilometres ago, but even with windows down for some of the way my emotions managed to keep pace and it is clear that nothing has been left behind on the road. The heartache, the fear – they are still with me in the car. They have dogged me devotedly for months. But then, how can anyone be so pathetic as to think you can outrun them? We all know I could travel to the farthest place on the planet – please, I could travel to the moon – but I would take them – I would take me – with me. There is no escape. Only the reality, more real now than ever in the silence, that I will have to work through every wrenching thought, withstand every fresh wave of pain, and sit it out. For however long it takes. There are no shortcuts in anything, and one must let life play itself out.

Stitched Karoo_001 Edit

Image from The Max Files (visit

Enervating Karoo air is seeping in now the air conditioning is turned off. What am I even doing here? I swore I’d never travel this road again. But a broken heart changes things – things you knew deep down you would never think or do are the things you now say and do. At times you watch yourself move though life like an impassive spectator, curious to see what will happen next.

Last night I woke up around 2am and lay staring at the ceiling, a strip of light from the crack in the curtains illumining a line of nothing. My soul screamed out against it, and in the austerity of deep night time I felt myself thrashing against the cruel confines of my story …. I told myself that I refused to lie there again fighting the void. I would react – I would do something unconsidered, something incited. So I had climbed into my car, and headed cross country.

Before true wakefulness arrived, and before I began to feel feeble with hunger and fatigue, I topped the escarpment and saw my first kopje. Clinging to my overwrought desire to express my situation, I pressed down further with my foot, willing my 1.4 litre capsule to blast past the gentle willows and pretty cosmos and enter into the waste of the Greater Karoo. When I finally reached it, a blessed leadenness set in for a couple of hours. The whirr of rushing car was all that filled my ears. But eventually the flatness wore off, as I knew it would, and the mirages on the sun-soaked tar began to look especially real through a fresh wash of tears.

By and by I stop crying. I look up and around, squinting into the hurtful light. The potholed earth of my lay-by looks scorched and the stones intolerant, as though they themselves have endured too much to know any sympathy. An empty can and a few chip packets crowd around the base of the tree. It is an exhausting scene. But the mundaneness of the Fanta logo sobers me a little.

Right, I tell myself, time to wipe your face and get out of the desert. The drama must end.

Still, I step out of the car. The heat is everywhere, instantly; a month ago I would have railed against the air for pressing itself all over my battered existence, but I no longer have energy for poetic pain. My face quickly feels tight with evaporated tears. I walk to the edge of the scrub, where I stand quietly, hands loose at my sides, and look out over an emptiness I understand.


If you enjoyed reading this, I’ve written some other flash fiction:


A picture worthy of a story. Jemmica

A picture worthy of a story. The day Shelley became brave

Michael had opinions.

A picture worthy of a story. The day Shelley became brave

3cbf3490be49ffe066e98ab15fcd7550Shelley wasn’t the bravest seabird that had ever lived. Far from it. In fact, she was the only storm petrel she knew who lived on the mainland, preferring the stability of her life in the big horse chestnut in Mrs Kowalski’s sprawling garden – with its view of the ocean and the sturdy fence that kept out mammals – to a life at sea, roaming up and down the Atlantic. She had visited her cousins’ rocky, summertime home just once as a fledgling; she had found it desolate and inhospitable, and, after one particularly fearsome night of hunkering down as the small islet was buffeted by winds strong enough to pluck the feathers off any little petrel girl, had vowed to never return.

It was lonely, to be sure, living the years by herself in that big old chestnut on a quiet stretch of Ireland’s coast, and when the colony was far away she had to do her trawling on her own, but Shelley’s parents had raised her with the injunction to be true to her nature, and she had always determined to do just that, even if her nature made the other storm petrels call her names like “deviant”, “landlubber” and, possibly most hurtful of all, “weirdo”.

Feeling shunned by her own, Shelley made an effort to converse with the other genera in the surrounding trees, as well as with diverse and seasonal passers-by. Some would give her strange looks, but others were friendly and the hen two trees over always made a fuss of her when she visited.

It was this mothering friend, called Helga, that Shelley visited the day of her fifth birthday. Helga knew a thing or two about standing out from the crowd; she had once told Shelley that she believed her family to be the only Fea’s petrels in the land.

Shelley had cleaned herself particularly well in mark of her birthday; the backs of her wings glistened jet black in the weak sun and her square tail fanned out neatly as she made the short trip. A moment later she hopped onto the branch leading directly to Helga’s home. “Happy birthday, Elskan,” Helga said when she spotted Shelley, making use of the Nordic endearment she’d adopted for her young neighbour. She fluttered her wings in Shelley’s direction, inviting her to come further in.

“I’m five today, Helga,” Shelley said without any to-do, shuffling along unsteadily on her thin little legs. An unexpected wobble had entered into her voice when she spoke, and she had to swallow hard to repress it, hurting her throat. “I’m getting old.”

“Not so, Elskan,” Helga insisted. “Still lots of time to find a mate and have a chick.” At this juncture she nudged her own hatchling further back into the nest with her beak.

“You really think so? Even for a ‘weirdo’ storm petrel like myself who doesn’t get out much?”

Algerlega – absolutely.”

Shelley smiled gratefully at the firmness in Helga’s voice. Knowing her to be a forbearing friend, Shelley added forlornly, “But I never meet any other storm petrels, not now my parents are gone. I eat with them, but none ever talk to me. So how am I supposed to meet a good-looking young petrel who isn’t already partnered, or even just a girlfriend of my own age?” She suspected she already knew what Helga’s answer would be.

“By being brave, Elskan, by being brave.”

Shelley started to tear up. “But I’m not brave. I’m the opposite of brave – I’m, I’m … a chicken.” There was a short pause, then they smiled at one another over the little joke.

“Thankfully you are far too pretty and dainty to be a chicken. Look at you – you’re a sweet little catch. And maybe you haven’t been especially brave up till now – but you will be. You can be.” Helga batted a moment with the naughty hatchling. Then she faced Shelley again and said, “You’ve spoken to so many of the other birds around here – some of them big, rough types. Other storm petrels really shouldn’t be so terrible after all that. I even saw you talking with a big, testy Northern Fulmar last autumn!”

“It’s not the same,” Shelley pouted. “They – you – only expect me to be whatever it is I am – you don’t know what a storm petrel is supposed to be and do. Other storm petrels do, and I don’t fit in.” She sighed. “At least almost none of them remember me now and I can go feeding near them without having to endure the insults and knowing looks.”

“You don’t think I get looks, a Fea’s petrel in Ireland? Lots of birds are a bit different, a bit … unanticipated. Interesting birds, like us,” Helga said with a brisk devil-may-care shake of her head feathers. She then settled back down and gave her young friend a long searching look, before finally saying, “Why not stay on the waters a little longer tonight? Don’t just fly home as soon as you’ve eaten. Stay. Chat. Mingle.” Shelley nodded dolefully in response. “You don’t have to do much more than that. The right storm petrel will see you with time and he’ll take it from there. You must just let yourself be seen. Baby steps, Elskan, baby steps – tonight, just stay on the water for a little bit longer. Agreed?”

Shelley sat still, her face down, thinking, then she looked up and nodded decisively, a tiny spark in her stomach making her realise she could actually do it – if she decided to do it. There was nothing stopping her, she told herself. She was tired of being alone. Yes, she was living on her own terms, in her own way, but it was lonely. She wanted something more.

“Tonight I will be brave, Helga. I will make you proud of me.” She shuffled away, back along the branch. Just before she leapt off, she looked over her shoulder to smile at her friend and say, “Thanks, Helga.”

“Any time, Elskan, any time. You just hang in there. And Helga will be here to cheer you along all the way.”


That evening Shelley flew out to sea with a light in her eyes. The sky was dark with clouds, and a fresh north-westerly breeze carried her easily along her way. A short while later she dropped down onto the surface of the ocean, cold as always but with waves that were relatively gentle. No excuses, she told herself, and proceeded to nibble on the first piece of plankton that floated her way.

When her hunger started to abate, she slowed down her feeding and looked about furtively in between mouthfuls at the group of nearby storm petrels, all chattering with each other as they ate. They made it look so easy, and Shelley felt the recognisable anxiety wrap itself around her like seaweed around one’s feet. She contemplated abandoning her plan and just flying home. Her stomach was full enough. But then she remembered what she had promised Helga about being brave. The flicker of determination in her belly was still there, and she focused on it, urging it to grow bigger and help her.

Expelling saltwater through her nostrils, she lifted herself up and resolutely pattered across the water towards two youngish-looking birds on the fringe of the group. Having reached their spot, she plopped down into the water next to them, clearly taking them by surprise.

“Hi,” she said. “We’ve never met before. I’m Shelley.”

It turned out the two petrels she had chosen were brother and sister – Bonnie and Ioan – and they had just been discussing their next trip to Malta. Shelley asked them about it, and instead of making her feel embarrassed because she hadn’t been herself, they began to tell her about it. Bonnie described the warmth of the waters and the colours of the flowers on the trees, and Ioan told her about the taste of the food there, and the gentleness of the air. They asked her about her life, and then listened interestedly as she told them about her horse chestnut and the garden. Before she knew it, all the other birds had left and it was just the three of them that remained, talking. She had outstayed them all!

As she said goodbye to Bonnie and Ioan, having promised to meet them the next evening, Shelley felt lighter. She didn’t know if she was any closer to finding a partner – Ioan was a little young at just three years old – but she had been brave, and she knew it. Shelley-level brave, at least. And her future started to open up in her mind’s eye at the prospect of the other brave things she might surprise herself by doing.

A picture worthy of a story. Jemmica.

Jemmica always knew who she was, where she was going, and who she would admit into the company of her life. I never knew her to stutter, falter or second-guess herself. She was Confidence in very high heels and smoky eye shadow. I and my old fraying book bag and baggy jeans hadn’t spoken with her in years.

One day, I was walking to the grocery store, my scarf wrapped around my head to fight the cold, and I saw Jemmica across the street. She was bunched over, one hand propped against the gnarled tree outside Mr Grobalt’s double-storeyed house. I assumed she was fiddling with a problematic shoe, and wondered abstractedly if she was ruining a manicure. Then I heard her cry out.

I did a hasty ‘right then left’ before running over the road, almost wiping out on a patch of ice. I reached the pavement and leaned over next to her, asking, “What is it, Jemmica? Are you okay?”

She moaned and leant forcefully against me. I had to brace myself to hold us up.

“What is it?” I repeated, bewildered and increasingly fearful. Her hair was slipping out of its band and partially curtaining her face, but I could see that her cheeks were flushed, and she was sweating.

“It’s gone,” she whined painfully. “I got rid of it.” Then my strength gave out and we collapsed together with a hard thud onto the ground. I grimaced but didn’t make a sound, just held onto her and looked up and around for help.

She leaned into my chest, and started shuddering. “I’m so sorry,” I muttered into her head, horrified at what it was I suspected she had revealed to me. I stroked her forehead soothingly and made subdued sounds. She continued to keen, and I rocked her on that cold pavement as though she was one of my little boys.


Please note: This story is of course complete fiction, and has absolutely no real-life connection with either the photographer or the model. I found the image on Pinterest, pinned by If anyone knows the photographer’s and model’s names, please let me know so I can make proper attribution.

A story in just 6 words, then 5 words, 4 words … all the way down to a story in just one word!

I found writing stories in just 8 words a fun challenge, and so I decided to up the ante and whittle the word count right down.

I’ve realised that Stories 1, 3 and 12 in my post A story in only 8 words weren’t actually complete stories, so I’ve reworked them below. I’ve also worked hard to ensure that I’m only telling full stories in the shorter word counts as well. Interestingly, I’ve found that the shorter the word count, the more profound the story tends to be.


A story in just 8 words (original version, then reworked version)

Story 1

The castle flooding, he raced towards the turret.

–       The castle flooded. Gaynor survived in the turret.

Story 3

Harper’s chair started shuddering, then too the windowpanes.

–       Harper’s chair started shuddering. Then there was blackness.

Story 12

Secretively, she mixed the cordial into their drinks.

–       Sissy was a spy. Nobody ever knew it.

Story 14 (new)

She lived in a box with no sides.


She lived her life without him.

She lived her life without him.

A story in just 6 words

It’s raining. I’m inside. Happiness reigns.

“Let’s party!” Mickey shouted, then collapsed.

Raindrops fall lightly in his world.

Venter’s love for her was suffocating.

The turtle laughed at the tortoise.

David spoke passionately – the world reconsidered.

She held his hand, and stayed.

The ballroom was painfully heated. Again.

The chocolate melted into a heart.

He held his breath for forever.

Yolandi’s life is littered with gumdrops.

He looked once, and loved forever.

Tarryn was short, always too short.

“I called your name.” “I know.”

Meike only ever sang once. Beautifully.

Everything fell upwards, and stayed there.

Tina gives businesscards to absolutely everyone.

Relieved, Adam threw the photograph away.


Rough seas goaded his life.

Rough seas goaded Joey’s life.

A story in just 5 words

He didn’t want to know.

The doorframe shattered without warning.

Since birth, Piper wanted revenge.

Johanna quailed, but went on.

He bedded down in newspapers.

Charity only wears vintage jewellery.

Jackson gave up on life.


A story in just 4 words

“You’re it,” Talita said.

I see pretty people.

Singing is now banned.

Her name was Mildred.

That dog never barks.

I choose to believe.

They were always together.

Up close, she glowed.

She chose the dragonflies.

Sarah chose the dragonflies.


A story in just 3 words

The ice melted.

Sunset cheers me.

She walked alone.

The dam breached.


A story in just 2 words

I’m close.

Sin kills.


A story in just 1 word





Again, please respond if you have a mini story of your own that you would like to add!

If you enjoyed reading this, you’d probably also enjoy Inksomnia and Exaltation of doves and & destruction of wild cats: mediaeval collective nouns.

A story in only 8 words

Here are several individual, complete stories, each told in only 8 words. I thought this a fun exercise in imagination and brevity – maybe you’ll like to try your own hand at writing some!

Story 1

There was no one in Paris that day.

There was no one in Paris that day.

The castle flooding, he raced towards the turret.

Story 2

The spider was there, a stomp, he’s gone.

Story 3

Harper’s chair started shuddering, then too the windowpanes.

Story 4

Children die here all the time, he said.

Story 5

Sidney inserted the flashdrive – the city lights died.

Story 6

One day, Max stopped loving her. She emigrated.

She blew on the dandelion, then never returned.
She blew on the dandelion, then never returned.

Story 7

Jake fell out the tree and into heaven.

Story 8

He lived through war. It didn’t change him.

Story 9

The mattress fell with a thud. It hurt.

Story 10

Sam glanced her way, then pretended to paint.

Story 11

Storey 11 didn’t exist. It was a mystery.

Story 12

Secretively, she mixed the cordial into their drinks.

Story 13

Mars flashed red across the sky. Nobody noticed. 

The small key took two hands to lift.

If any of you feel an 8-word story brewing, please share it in the comment box below!

Alternatively, please write 8 more words to one of the above stories, adding to it. Come on … you know you want to!!


Related blog

This blogger has a “6wstory” (i.e. 6-word story) section you might like to visit: allmostrelevant

Dictionaries and tyrannical grannies

Barn-dictionaries, from the blog A Pretty Book, at many of us still look up unknown words and spellings in a big, weighty paper volume called a dictionary, instead of online? I do so quite often, hauling out my wrist-breaking tome and paging through it, embracing the dangers of a paper cut and a little extra effort.

I can picture that fifty years from now, I’ll be the elderly curiosity in a family gathering … when an unknown word crops up, or a Scrabble dispute breaks out, I shall heave myself up and hobble off to the bookshelf to fetch the dictionary whilst the younger generations wave their phones and other gadgets in the air, confused expressions on their faces as they tell my retreating back that they already have the answer.

But I will stubbornly persist – perhaps pretend I don’t hear them? – and will eventually waddle back into the room, tilting to the side because of the weighty antiquity tucked under my arm.

I will sit down, page through it, most assiduously ignoring the sighs and complaints of boredom, and I will nod my head as I’m told the digital definition, all the while still paging through, and finally nodding in assent, “Yes, you’re right, tinctorial does mean to stain or dye something.” The young’uns will raise eyebrows and nod to each other, eyes agleam with filial mockery, whilst the very young will throw their hands up in exaggerated horror, telling me they told me so.

BUT, just as they’re all leaning forward to resume the game, or the meal, or the whatever, I will hold up a bony (or chubby?) finger and claim the floor once more, saying, “Now that is interesting … just here on the same page … do you know what a ‘timocracy’ is?”

“Huh?” will come the universal reply.

“A ti-mo-cra-cy.” I will enunciate. “Anybody?”

Of course nobody will have a clue, and I will flash a short, sly smile of my own into the pages of the open book.

“A timocracy – t-i-m-o-c-r-a-c-y – is a ‘political system in which possession of property is a requirement for participation in government’.”

I will glance up with reproof at their impassive, bored stares, and (old lady that I am) plough on. “OR,” I will say, with great stress, “it can also refer to ‘a political system in which love of honour is deemed the guiding principle of government’. Now isn’t that interesting?” More bemused looks while folks consider how long a pause is necessary before they can resume their pre-dictionary-episode activity and the youngest grimaces over how irritating Nana is.

Just as I hear someone inhale to speak, I shall jump in with, “It says here the word derived from sixteenth-century France, and before that from the Greek timokratia, where timē means worth or honour.” I will then snap the volume shut and look up – happy, unperturbed and really quite innocent – no doubt to meet with expressions that thinly disguise I am an old, tyrannical fossil.

Until, that is, one small soul admits to the spark of a thought. “A government based on honour…?” They all ponder this for a moment. “No way!” this child will say, disbelief evident on his face. Smugly, I will say nothing.

I will at this point gently ease myself back into my chair. Happy to be guiding the mini mass before me, I will quietly contemplate my budding wunderkinds, nodding along intermittently to the ensuing discussion on noble government and men who fall on their swords. I will be the very picture of white-haired amiability and redundancy.

Whether or not I will leave it there for the day, or will verbally (and superciliously?) spell out a little moral to the story, or will perhaps delineate the dictionary as the Wikipedia of my youth, is uncertain. I have not quite decided on the overriding personality of my twilight years; will I be the archetypal wearer of purple socks who eats sausage all day? a saucy, cutting Betty White? a watery-eyed trembler who uses aches and pains to have my way? a softly spoken background meddler, artfully camouflaged in my curtain-like floral jacket? or a quiet little sage who trots out unhelpfully helpful quotes at tense moments? Time will tell.


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A ditty was promised, so a ditty must be written! Also, a love poem, an old railway advert & Gibson Girls

One of my readers – Sean Smithson – spotted an error in my “About” page; the underlined “as” had been accidentally omitted: “If you read my posts you’ll inadvertently learn probably as much as you would like to know about how this mind of mine works.”

Well spotted, I say! I promised the reader who found a mistake a ditty, and so the below is what I devised.

But first, in case some of you don’t know what a ditty is, it’s simply a short, simple song or poem (from Old French ditie – poem).

Here’s mine:

A ditty (that embraces the silly)

Oh, run away word,
where have you gone?
Your home is right here,
are you going to be long?

Sean S., the word catcher,
caught the thing in its haste;
that word was sent packing,
and now sits in its right place.

Perhaps after that I should share a ditty or two as penned by the pros, so as to highlight all that they can be!

A Ditty (by Sir Philip Sidney)

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one to the other given:
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,
There never was a better bargain driven:
   My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.

His heart in me keeps him and me in one,
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:
He loves my heart, for once it was his own,
I cherish his because in me it bides:
   My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.

Now, for an example from the early C20th, the image below is one of a series of advertisements used by the Lackawanna Railroad in the eastern US to capitalise on its use of anthracite, a kind of hard coal that burns cleanly, not creating the soot and cinders that normal coal does.

The advertisers came up with the fictional character of Phoebe Snow, whom they used to promote the line they accordingly dubbed The Road of Anthracite.


The quote below, from Steamtown: Special History Study, explains how the railroad developed this advertising strategy:

Early in 1899, […] Mark Twain, wrote the company after a trip to Elmira that he had worn a white duck suit and it was still white when he reached his destination. [The company] seized upon the idea of taking advantage of the line’s clean-burning coal in advertising for passenger traffic and adopted the slogan for the Lackawanna Road as “The Road of Anthracite.” As a symbol, probably for the first time in 1901, the railroad seized upon the image of a demure “Gibson girl” dressed head to toe in sparkling white, and published a seemingly endless series of jingles or poems.

Three more of the Phoebe ditties go like this:

Here Phoebe may
By night or day
Enjoy her book
Upon the way
Electric light
Dispels the night
Upon the Road
Of Anthracite

Says Phoebe Snow, About to go
Upon a trip
To Buffalo:
"My gown stays white from morn till night
Upon the Road of Anthracite.

A coach or sleigh 
Was once the way 
Of reaching home 
On Christmas day 
Now - Phoebe's right - 
You'll expedite 
The trip by Road Of Anthracite

To read more, you can click here.

During WWI, anthracite was needed for the war effort, so trains couldn’t use it anymore and Phoebe Snow disappeared.


An archetypal Gibson Girl

Phoebe was drawn as a Gibson Girl, and Gibson Girls, I’ve just learned with interest, were designed to be the epitome of supposed feminine beauty at the time: gracious, curvy, fashionable, independent, at ease with themselves, and possessing a fragile outer beauty.


More Gibson Girls, who were popular images in the late C19th and early C20th

The Gibson Girls creator, Charles Dana Gibson, had this to say about his drawings: “I’ll tell you how I got what you have called the ‘Gibson Girl.’ I saw her on the streets, I saw her at the theatres, I saw her in the churches. I saw her everywhere and doing everything. I saw her idling on Fifth Avenue and at work behind the counters of the stores […] There isn’t any ‘Gibson Girl,’ but there are many thousands of American girls, and for that let us all thank God.”

– Quote from Marshall, E. (1910-11-20). “The Gibson Girl Analyzed By Her Originator”. The New York Times.

Camille Clifford, a Belgian-born American actress who was the most famous model for the Gibson Girl drawings

Camille Clifford, a Belgian-born American actress who was the most famous model for the Gibson Girl drawings


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