Magpie Tales #19...Knife's Story

He notices the blade is nicked as he runs his finger along it. Softly, slowly, so he doesn't get cut. It surprises him. This knife is his now, but before him it belonged to others, who were careful and would not have nicked it so carelessly.
He doesn't know its story, but the knife screams it to him. He cannot hear it.

Beechwood tells of green leaves blocking the sun. Dappled shadows across roots. Of axes and grunts, teetering, falling, thumping with a bounce. A fishtail, large calloused hands moved with care along it, smoothing it. Burning, leaving a rust coloured scar.
Steel tells of dark caves and chisels, booming explosions. Of melting pots and dripping like molasses. Being held against a stone while sparks flew. Fitting carefully to the beech.
Knife calls to beechmast, opened for bitter flavour, still food. It calls to oak and maple, and sycamore, carved and left on the mantle. It calls to the land of fir trees where it was born.
It longs for John the Baptist's fingers, slender and strong. It screams to stone and blood, where coffins rest forever. It shouts of death and pain, and graves. Where a woman died and a man sat with her. It screams of granite and scratches, and iron. Iron that dripped from it down the gravestone, and rusted when it was dry.
Knife reaches for missing piece. Evergreens have grown up around it where graves are unmarked and forgotten. It calls iron from arteries, bubbling up to the surface. Its pores soak up rust-coloured liquid.

He winces as the nick in the knife snags on his flesh. Blood dribbles down the blade, following the track of the past. He doesn't notice.

Status and Haiku

I'm very happy to say that I'm almost recovered from being ill, MM has gotten worse but is also on the mend, and DD seems to be showing the first signs of illness.
I spent yesterday at a workshop. MM and I got up early and spent the better part of three hours driving to it. Luckily we listened to a very singalongable CD by the Wolfe Tones, so got through it okay.
We saw two very beautiful fields covered in golden flowers and a tiny train carrying peat with a manually operated barrier gate (complete with an operator no less).
The workshop was pretty cool. There were twenty there. It had already started when I arrived, so I snuck in the door and crept to the last available seat right at the front.
My favourite part was the group story. Each person said a line to as she pointed to them, not at all in order, so you never knew who was going to get chosen next. No one seemed to get that stuck for a sentence either.

This is one of the things I wrote while at the workshop:

across the highway
animal migration failed
red, raw, flat bodies

Evil Illness Monster (Yay, Being Creative While Being Sick!)

I am very inclined to believe an evil illness monster lives in my carpet. Every time I go near it on my hands and knees I wake up the next day really sick.
Case one; last month, when I had to clean my room, so that the professional carpet cleaner could come in (don't you hate cleaning for the cleaners...). I got a sore throat, filled an entire large grocery bag with used tissues (yeah, you might not have needed to know that), was home from school for a whole week (did I mention I really like school), and was utterly miserable... Not to mention that I proceeded to pass it both both MM and DD.
Case two; two nights ago, when I dropped a needle (sewing paper is fun) on the floor and had to search for it. I got a really sore throat, and my whole head was fuzzy and heavy. My ears hurt, and my throat hurt, my eyes hurt, my scalp hurt (I tried to brush my hair and it felt like I was using sandpaper instead of a hairbrush). In fact, they STILL hurt. My ears are uber sensitive, I can't listen to myself typing without wincing. I can't swallow, let alone talk. Swallowing the paracetamol pills every four hours is torture, and I can't be comfortable with blankets or with a tee-shirt and shorts, because my hands are inevitably the total opposite of my feet in temperature.
I don't mind getting sick every so often. It makes up for feeling really great the rest of the time. I am just tired of being sick, seeing as how I was just sick not that long ago, and why is it so nice out? It's summer, and I want to be outside, not miserable.
Granted, my bedroom is really not a healthy place to sleep. Firstly, it is an exterior wall with little to no insulation. Secondly, it borders the bathroom, which leaks. My bedroom harbours mildew, mould, and spiders. The house loves to keep in moisture, and opening the window makes my bedroom cold and it gets very little sun exposure not to mention the trees outside.
Possibly being sick will strengthen my immune system enough to totally defend against any further evil illness carpet monster onslaughts. That is quite probably the very thing I said last time. Well look at me now. If my immune system was doubly strengthened, then the evil illness monster's attack was quadrupled. Backfire!
I wanted to post this for three reasons. One, to vent my frustration at being sick (again) and also living in such a crap house (and bedroom), which we can't move out of. Since we rent the house, there is no option of wood floors (the linoleum in the kitchen is placed right on the concrete...talk about great  installation). Wood floors are better than carpets for so many reasons; firstly, they don't have (as many) hiding places for bugs, bacteria, and other unhealthy/microscopic things. Secondly, they are easier to clean. Thirdly they look nice. Fourthly, the carpets are probably as old as the house (1950s-1970s anyone?), and wood floors would be new. I have allergies (cat and dog hair/dander and grass...I know, right? I love cats and dogs, and grass...who doesn't?) and asthma (thank you asbestos in senior infants building), so carpets are really really really a bad idea.
Okay...second reason I wanted to post this. Being sick is one of those things that's hard to imagine, unless you are sick at that moment. Just in case I need a record of how it feels to be sick for some short story/poem/passage in novel. And also in case I am finding it hard to be sympathetic with someone else who is sick.
Last reason; self pity. Maybe if I moan about it and wallow in misery, I might feel better when I'm done. Yeah right.
Oh and also, maybe telling other people about the evil illness monster will prove it to be a fake, and it will release its hold on the carpet and go live in a swamp somewhere.

Theme Thursday: Camera

So, if you haven't visited Ireland yet, here are some reasons to get on a plane.

These were all taken in Ireland by me or a member of my family, so if you want to know any specifics about any of them, just ask.

BUGGED...Eavesdrop to Get Published*

BUGGED is a brilliant new writing project for the UK in Summer 2010. This is how it works, so if you live in the UK, like to write, and can listen...

On July 1st 2010, go forth and…eavesdrop! Listen in to conversations and fragments of speech around you. Be discreet.

Write a new piece of work based on what you hear. Poems of up to 60 lines, stories up to 1000 words, flash fiction up to 150 words, scripts up to 5 minutes long.

Submit it to BUGGED by email after July 1st, and before August 15th {see here for more details}.

The best incoming work will be posted on the BUGGED blog. The earlier it arrives, the better chance you have of beating the crowd.

The very best of the work submitted will be published in a printed anthology.

*Obviously more steps are involved, and include writing a story/poem/script worthy of publication...Yes, the title was just to draaaaaaw you in.

Paths

If you choose your path, how do you choose it?

Is it just that all the signs seem to point that way?
Or are you setting off into unexplored territory?
Is it a game of 'eeny meeny miniy mo'?
Or because somehow the path you were on led you to it?
Is it that you felt pressured to take it?
Or was it just a happy detour from a less favourable path?
Just because it would be fun?
Because your friends took it first?
Did you know you were on it before it was too late to turn back?


Just contemplating the different reasons for doing things...such as reasons for becoming a Goth {and no, I'm not talking about myself}.

Magpie Tales #18...King George VI, 12 May 1937

George the VI would have curled his lips
disgusted at the petty toys made for the 12 of May
logos and dates, and maybe his name, but that's all
cheap things that crack and chip the next day

But for one, made on the last turn of the wheel
faulted slightly, too slightly to tell. It made it stronger
the man who bought it needed a jug, that's all
because he needed it, he kept it safe longer

Cracked by age, no soft hand, weathered by time
spiderweb cracks along  the crown almost invisible,
gossamer threads of age. George could not have asked
for a better reminder of his reign to be visible
seventy-three years after he took the stage.