I’ve thoroughly enjoyed the challenge of coming up with a new word for each letter of the alphabet, in my case “emotions”. Thank you all for reading and hopefully enjoying. I look forward to the next time round.
Larissa was looking with eager anticipation to her first televised show, “Zany by Degree” starring, none other than, herself. She’d invited a mix of some exceedingly well-known and obscure comedians willing to participate. There was something for everyone, or so she hoped.
Her agent had suggested she bite the bullet and take an offer from a local tv station. At first, she’d rejected the idea but after giving the matter serious thought, decided, what they hey, why not?
She’d gained a large following and kudos from some of the best who applauded her zany sense of humour and crazy off the wall antics even though she’d never stooped to vulgarity or swearing, her jokes seemed to leave them laughing in the aisles.
Everything was in place, she stood tall waiting momentarily – it was time. She went to face the audience and welcome them all for attending. Following her opening monologue she introduced the line-up and brought her first guest out.
The following morning, her manager called and whooped into her ear, “Pick up the paper, read, read!” he extolled.
“Zany was right. You can’t miss the next show, “a must” that will leave you feeling warm the heart and leave you laughing for hours.”
She was tickled pink glowing with her first success of which she hoped there would be many.
Ever felt so knackered
Even thought was scattered
You had to ask if someone
Saw you climb in bed, anyone?
I must have run a marathon
For I surely feel exhausted
Not bright or chipper, just addlepated
Yes my get up and go, surely got up and went
That pillow fight that I lost, I seriously lament
I live in Cordoba, Spain, which is surrounded by hills, called Sierra Morena. Towards the north of the city, away from the historic Old Town and the busy modern town centre lies a residential area, where I often go for long sunny walks. These photos of some gates of the villas I walk past were […]
Jessie was 91 and joked she didn’t look a day over 90 and proud of it. What a ham, what a delight. She held court three days a week at Marisa’s boutique arriving at ten am and leaving precisely at three considering her day well spent.
Her stories were timeless, energetic, scandalous (for her day), impromptu, and vital told with pizzazz and joy. Perhaps that’s why she was so spry and her memories so clear. So much so that even the young would sit enraptured by her tales. Wistful longing upon their faces perhaps seeing themselves sailing along on one of her adventures. On occasion, Marisa was caught up in the story and felt cheated as she listened to her delightful whimsical memories wishing she too had lived a doing or dare existence. Today was no exception.Jessie was so vivacious, so infectious you wanted to be there, part of each story.
Perhaps one day she’d write them all down before it was too late and they were lost. Marisa was a bit of a story writer herself and hoped to corner her and suggest the possibility and what a privilege it would be to be her ghost-writer, re-telling each just as Jessie had related them.
Jessie wandered into her home pleased with herself. After removing her coat hat and gloves, she sat down in front of her table. Looking down, she smiled. All her stories were neatly handwritten in a beautifully bound book. She wrapped it carefully in brown paper, wrote Marisa’s name on it and tied it up with string.
That’s how they found her, as if she’d fallen asleep at her table. Marisa had sent a couple of local men to search for her as she hadn’t arrived for her daily story telling session. They brought the book with them and handed it across. Marisa dissolved into tears. She’d miss Jessie, as would all her patrons.
News spread fast, and they gathered at the boutique to pay their respects. Marisa opened the brown paper and saw the beautiful stories Jessie had written and shared, staring in disbelief. Her handwriting was exemplary, her tales immortalised forever.
The community paid to have the book redone, all proceeds to go to the Jessie scholarship fund for other eager young writers, many of whom were present daily. A delightful legacy indeed.
A blanket of snow covers the land
Twinkling, sparkling, gloves in hand
We rush to greet pure white pristine snow
Our faces awash with expectant glow
Spring now upon us, buds so lush
Such delight awaits a painters brush
How entrancing are blossoms in bloom
Amid an ever-changing fragrant costume
A blanket of azure blue skies overhead
Whispers and promises of warm days ahead
Picnics, climbing, swimming and more
Oh how these changing blankets I adore
As blankets of orange, red and gold
A tale of upcoming winter foretold
Each resplendent with beauty and grace
Bringing warm smiles to everyone’s face.
Anna welcomed everyone. She was a natural at placing guests and new arrivals at ease. Hiring her was the best move Frank ever made. Youthful, vibrant, seeker of life, that summed up a part of who she was. Loving and caring following closely behind.
Other’s held the position before her, showing xenophobic tendencies (stranger fearing) as he described them. Not so Anna, thankfully. Every visitor to his humble abode was welcomed with open arms. He found her a constant delight, refreshing, open.
Still, he hadn’t been able to make inroads into her heart. With him, she was standoffish, distant, on alert. He wondered why. A gentleman from start to finish, he took his cues from her, responding accordingly. Frank remained careful, holding her at arm’s length, never crossing boundaries or moving too fast.
He valued everything about her. With time, he hoped she’d see him in a different light but short of asking her outright and endangering the fragile gift of friendship they currently shared, he was at a loss. Dare he risk losing her by asking for more? Time, he’d give it a little more time and then he’d make his move. Perhaps time would provide the answers he sought.
Those without roots, always adrift
Never belonging life is makeshift
Wandering roaming, minute fragments
No solidarity with no attachments
Gathering no dust, not settled or part
Of what makes up life, right from the start
Roots give us essence as human beings
Evidence of generations never fleeting
For some it is everything knowing they belong
While for others it just a melody in a song