For Ted and his collie, Sal, life secluded in the wilds of Yorkshire appears perfect. That is until one day when everything changes. What direction will Ted’s life take now and how does Jase fit in?
Standing in one of the sheep fields next to a tussock of grass, Ted gave a loud, two-fingered whistle. A black and white collie immediately appeared over the nearest ridge, tail wagging.
“Here, girl!” The dog obediently trotted down to him. “Good girl, Sal.” He made a fuss of her.
Sal was his only companion. Often he talked to her like he expected a reply. It gave his voice an airing if nothing else. Though of an evening sometimes, he read out loud to break the silence.
“We’ve no time for games now, lass. There’s a stretch of dry stone wall that needs repairing.”
He set off across the fields, dog running in front of him. He loved this part of Yorkshire: sometimes bleak, largely treeless, miles from anywhere. Heather in flower coloured large areas a soft purple. Early autumn sunshine and a steady breeze made for good walking weather. Good also for his solar and wind power generators – the household batteries needed recharging.
As he crested another ridge, he stopped and looked up at the clear, blue sky. Where were the Air Force jets? Their paired practice runs were as regular as clockwork, apart from yesterday. He scanned the horizon. Two days ago, a whole squadron screamed past, hugging the contours, not giving a fuck about his sheep. Continue reading
Upon a plane as Euclid never knew,
white-sheeted cotton, woven of the best,
made we a tessellation just for two
of interlocking patterns while at rest.
So perfect each concavity and curve
was made the other’s fond, fair form to fit
and tantalize each osculating nerve,
as edge to edge, our warm mosaics knit.
But if broad two-dimension’d space be tiled
through every corner, to horizon’s end,
then endless hours must we recline, beguiled,
until one can’t discern where our shapes blend.
No mere illusion to enchant the eye
are we as lovers drawing where we lie.
© Copyright, Parker Owens, October 2020.
You can find all of Parker’s work at GayAuthors.org
Their hold on me had long since loosened.
Questing fingers found only decay as life withered. Bypassing my rotting frame, eager tendrils now seek sustenance elsewhere.
Glossy green leaves taunt me with their vigour.
Sinking with torpid grace to loamy floor, my final thoughts are of renewal, eager, next spring.
© 2020, northie
Your comments and constructive criticism are welcome on this, YeahWrite’s final grid.
Image by Henning Westerkamp from Pixabay
Classical music has an image problem.
Even that opening sentence poses issues. Which ‘classical’ music am I referring to? Why, Western, of course. Silly.
As part of my (lockdown) work, I’m preparing a very short guide to classical music history. First off, I’m following the traditional narrative. Jeez, so much of it concerns dead, white men who are, on the surface at least, also straight. That’s not to denigrate those individuals whose music transforms so many lives, but rather, it illustrates how monochrome the narrative remains. Continue reading
In three hundred years from now, what will people know about us and our world?
Am I concerned about my own infinitesimal contribution? Hardly. It’s more of a general meditation around what we leave behind.
Reading Robert Harris’ novel The Second Sleep is to blame. Continue reading
If you’re thinking mornings spent with Joe Wicks or Mr Motivator, dream on. Workouts at any time of the day are anathema to me. Except where my brain’s concerned.
At the start of lockdown, I discovered the New York Times’ puzzles section. I’d taken out an online news subscription to the paper a few months earlier. Why? Well, I can get my fill of UK news and views from elsewhere but the NY Times offers intelligent writing about a country whose kaleidoscopic existence I find endlessly bewildering, intriguing, and frustrating. Continue reading