1853 - The Hallowed Evening

 

  Image by ChatGPT

The Sunday Whirl presented these twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  

magic back broken nest seems drag news breeze life ghost need tell

Poets and storytellers invited us to build on Halloween.

I also draw inspiration from dVerse - Poet's Pub

The Hallowed Evening

“There is no death, daughter. 

People die only when we forget them.” 

— Isabel Allende

I The Ritual

A candle burns,

Setting the scene.

Magic in a way—but solemn too.

Not to recall ghosts,

Not to roughly drag up the past—

To remember.

To remember,

In silence.

II The Remembrance

To look back

Is not a reversal—

The timeline is eternal,

Recall is intermittent—

Not broken, just granular.

No need to force it,

Just a need to sit there.

To remember.

To remember,

In silence.

III The Renewal

Life, or lives, long past.

Vespers. Just a breeze in time.  Of time.

They bring no news,

Tell no secrets,

All seems ephemeral

But, bidden, the love comes to nest,

To settle gently upon me.

To remember.

To remember,

In silence.

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1852 - The Repository

  Image by ChatGPT

The Sunday Whirl presented these twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  

serve medicinal gratitude mind triggers blow control shoot practice treasure you stories

Poets and storytellers invited us to use the number 10.

I also draw inspiration from dVerse - Poet's Pub

The Repository

“Ah, jar 10!”

He blows off the dust, opens it and inhales—

“Eight years old, walking home from school,

Aniseed balls, 4 for a penny!

Oh, and look, jar 23, my sixth birthday party!

So many balloons!  And sticky children!

◊

He is rummaging through treasures,

Each triggering echoes in his mind,

Unveiling the stories of his life.

The magic of the bottles—

The purpose that they serve—

Is beyond his control.

No anticipation.  No practice. No warning.

He and you are transported involuntarily

To distant places, first loves, past events.

Some smell medicinal, some smell sweet,

Some evoke gratitude, others regret,

Some leave you wallowing and teary,

Others shoot you to the stars.

But all have meaning.

◊

“Look at that, Jar 6: Granny’s fruitcake!”

Jar 3 smells of his mother, warm and embracing.

“And jar 36, that sweaty aftermath of sports day!

Oh no! Not jar 17, that’s tripe in white sauce!”

Some memories are best forgotten.

He shuts the jar quickly.

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1851 - The Circus

 Image by ChatGPT (and me!)

The Sunday Whirl presented these twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  

draped moment velvet reveal tips jazz touch back roar filmy strips forgotten

Same twelve words in both acts.

The Circus

Act I

Music: "Entry of the Gladiators" - Fucik

Anticipation!

The smells!  The sounds!

The murmur of the crowd.

The tent. Lights, ropes, a trapeze.

All eyes on the velvet-draped entrance.

The music starts, the crowd inhales—holds…

The moment is near.

The curtains pull back

To reveal the ringmaster, top-hat and cane,

The crowd erupts in a roar—

The world outside forgotten.

The grand parade begins:

Jugglers, clowns and acrobats,

Elephants and horses,

Fire-eaters and magicians,

Ladies in filmy outfits

And legs to their armpits

Parade around the ring

To the music.  Modern gladiators.

“Let the show begin!”

And begin it does. Act after act,

Cheer after cheer, entranced children.

And then, after the normal jazz and pizazz,

After a little more than a touch of showmanship,

The show is over.

The crowd leaves.

The lights go off.

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Act II

Music: "Heureuse" - Edith Piaf

A moment to reflect.

Too many moments 

to lie and reflect.

No velvet here,

Just strips of filmy curtain.

Pull them back to reveal

A small, drab caravan.

Ornaments serve as a touch 

Of a home, largely forgotten.

Exhausted, 

she is draped on a narrow bed,

Her back aching,

Her hands still chalky,

The trapeze forgotten.

Too tired to wash.

The adrenaline—gone,

The roar of the crowd—gone.

A melancholy jazz tune plays

On a small battery radio.

Alone and tired,

She tips into sleep.

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1850 - The Concourse

 

Image by ChatGPT

The Sunday Whirl presented these twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  

sparrows bell migrate emerge flutter still stretch slinking memories branches fidgeting crash

The Concourse

“All journeys have secret destinations 

of which the traveler is unaware.”

— Martin Buber

There is a sparrow on the concourse.

What can it be thinking?

This is an airport, perhaps it feels it belongs.

◊

People sit near me,

Focussed on the fluttering sign, the flipping letters—

DEPARTED . DELAYED . LANDED

I wonder idly if one crashes, is it just ‘delayed’?

Some fidget, most just scroll.

Some stretch out—relaxed, or bored, or tense.

The honks of passing electric trolleys, 

More indifferent than urgent—

Going past with their own agendas.

◊

People pass by me.  

Around me.  I’m invisible.  Observing.

Some stride, full of intention.

Some, travel-weary, trudge.

Are they migrating?  Perhaps.

Or returning home.

Others emerge from the opening doors,

Doors we are forbidden to enter,

Searching for familiar faces—

A blank look struggling for recognition

Where what were only memories 

Coalesce into laughter and hugs,

Branches returning to the tree.

Others slink out, downcast—

Seeing no-one, expecting no-one.

◊

I watch the fluttering letters search for a word—

“LANDED”.  I give a long exhale.

Soon...

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