Earth Anchor

             Earth was anchored.  For a time it had looked as if it was going to spin uncontrollably out to space – well, out of space, out of it’s space if you see what I mean.  Experts had talked of it spiralling with increasing velocity, becoming increasingly compressed until…you get the picture, but now, for the time being, it was anchored.

            It really did look like a proper anchor, a massive structure gouged into the depths of the Pacific Ocean.  The Pacific had been chosen as large enough to accommodate said anchor and likely to do least damage and cause minimal loss of life.  Of course, the tsunami had been the worst ever seen but this was about saving the world, everyone recognised that sacrifices had to be made.

            The strangest thing was that no one knew what the Earth was anchored to.  Negotiations had been hurried; the Earth had been in a bad shape for some time now.  For decades there had been weather extremes and it was no longer unusual for crops to fail and forests to burn year after year, that was just part of the norm, but when the darkness started coming things really got scary. 

It was only occasional at first, without warning the sky would suddenly turn black and in the darkness the ground would tremble, literally the whole world would shudder as the Earth moved off its axis ever so slightly.  As quickly as it came, it went, light returned, and everyone carried on again. 

At first scientists claimed it was a one-off phenomenon, something in the solar system that had caused a bit of a nudge, nothing to be worried about.  When it happened a second time they talked of aftershocks, planetary debris and claimed we might perhaps see a number of minor shudders over the following few months.  They weren’t minor though, the strength and frequency increased.  The scientist’s original theories disintegrated and the people’s anger grew, why had the scientists got their modelling wrong, why hadn’t they seen what was coming?  What were they going to do now, how did they intend to stop it?  But the scientists had no answers.

It was then that the foreigners came to the rescue, landing at Heathrow just like any ordinary flight.  They asked to be taken to Government, they talked, a world leaders’ summit was quickly arranged, the highest-level discussions took place.  It was decided that there was no choice, the Earth must be anchored if it was to avoid being torn from its axis and whilst we knew little of these strange foreigners, they had convinced our leaders that they had the technology and expertise to do it.

Of course, conspiracy theories abounded, how convenient that the foreigners happened to arrive just at the right point.  Wasn’t it obvious that they were the cause of the crisis as well as holding the key to our survival?  Would the cure be worse than the problem?  And what was the cost? Nobody really believed that the foreigners’ motives were truly altruistic, what did they really want?  But it was decided that anchorage was our only option and we trusted them and let them go ahead, and so, here we are, on a very fragile Earth hoping to survive and relying on the kindness of others to get us through.

Alison

Earth Anchor

Earth Anchor

I was on my way to meet a friend when I saw it so I put it in the mental ‘pending tray’ and carried on walking, meaning to sit down when I got home and write something about the phrase I’d seen on the bench. Of course, I forgot about it until someone reminded me. “Earth Anchor” it had said on the side of the bench and maybe it was the daffodils arlound its feet that made me think of it as an environmental expression.

What is it that anchors a person/community to the Earth?

We stand barefoot on sacred ground

where bluebells and wild garlic

and vivid green of Spring surrounds

us. So we feel connected.

And that is Beltane’s special treat

that lasts throughout the Summer ~

the chance to feel beneath our feet

the soft grasses and mosses.

When frost-crisped leaves at chill Mabon

offer a scratchy carpet,

we keep our cosy footwear on

but breathe the season in.

Filling our lungs with Autumn’s scents;

our eyes with luscious colours.

We’re tiny parts of an immense

and complex ecosystem.

But if we treat as sacred ground

each inch of it we walk on

and take the time to look around,

to listen, breathe and touch;

then we may feel Earth anchors hold

us safely & securely

to the planet we call home

and feel that we belong here.

Writing time: 45mins.

No Cliches Lucy Harrison

WFW 25/03/2020   No clichés by Lucy Harrison

‘Come in,’

Emily pushed the door open.  The late afternoon sun shone weakly through the window behind the plain office desk.  She could make out a grey middle aged woman with a large muslin cap.   A stiff white collar held her chin up – there was no resting in this uniform. 

‘Name?’ she asked, hardly looking up from the pile of papers in front of her.

‘Emily Carew, Ma’am’

‘Matron.  Age?’

‘Twenty, Matron,

Matron nodded, and added Emily’s name and age to a list.

‘Experience?’

‘Very little, Matron.  I lived in Russia in 05, during the uprising.  I helped Mamulya care for some of the injured people.  But I am willing to learn.’

‘You are Russian?’

‘No, Matron, English.  I was born in India and schooled in Paris, then when Papa died..’

‘I don’t need your life story.  I want to know that you are willing to work hard, and won’t faint at the sight of blood’

Emily paused.  Was that a question?  Was ‘yes’ or ‘no’ the right answer?’

‘You will report to Lark ward tomorrow morning at six.  Sister Bradshaw will meet you, give you your uniform and tell you your duties.  Goodbye, Nurse Crewe’

Carew, thought Emily.  Carew.  Will nobody get it right?

 _________________________________________________________________________________

For those that don’t know, I’m writing, (somewhat intermittently) a story based on Emily Carew.  Emily is a side character in ‘A Little Princess’ by Frances Hodgson Burnett.  The ‘little princess’, Sara Crewe, is sent from India to school in London by her rich father.  Father dies, and the fortune is thought to be lost.  She becomes a servant in the school she was at.  Meanwhile, her father’s friend Carrisford, has recovered the fortune and is trying to find her. He sends his lawyer, Carmichael, (I wish Burnett had moved through the alphabet a little in her names) to search for the missing girl, but he doesn’t know her first name.  Carmichael tracks down an Emily Carew in a school in France, whose father has died.  He thinks that this may be a misspelling of Crewe.  However, when he gets to the school, he finds that she has been adopted by a Russian couple.  So he then tracks her down and finds she is the wrong person.    So I’ve been trying to piece together what her story would have been around the turn of the twentieth century.

Lucy Harrison

CLICHÉ

Clouds, with their silver linings

Lose track of time.

In your dreams,

Catching some ZZZ’s

Hope springs eternal as you await the elusive

Ésprit de l’escalier

Helen West

CLICHES

24-03-2020

Well, there’s one born every minute, isn’t there? It’s an old trick but it might just have worked. Only I am not as green as I am cabbage-looking. I don’t fall for that old chestnut that; because the oldest, surviving, written record we have of a word/phrase/idea comes from Jo Soap’s writing; Jo Soap must have invented it. There are writers who were publishing stuff at the time when censorship laws were relaxed in this country (sorry – this great nation of ours) Some of them recalled going through manuscripts filling in blanks with the actual ‘naughty’ words intended. It must have been quite a surreal experience for an erudite wordsmith to spend a morning writing nothing but cuss-words. BUT, they could have been given credit for inventing many of these expletives as there was, presumably, no previous written record. Mind you, J.K. Rowling’s facebook post was the first time I encountered the word “dumbassery” and I’m happy to let her have that, as well as “quidditch”

So:

It wasn’t a dark and stormy night. The short, pale, unassuming stranger walked into the saloon in the gold-orderly-queue town and the piano player carrried on playing; conversations and card-games went ahead uninterrupted. The stranger walked up to the bar and waited his turn to be served. He ordered a soft drink.

“Certainly sir. Guess you must be new in town?”

“Yup. I’m looking for the man who didn’t kill my pa.”

“Don’t narrer it down much.”

“Guess not.”

At that momet, the sheriff came into the bar and announced “the Pittsville Bank’s been robbed!” He was almost knocked down by the wave of apathy that swept past him.

“Oh, not again.” Miss Kitty, the bar-room floosy- I mean, assistant manager yawned. “Did they have any money left to steal?”

“Sure did, Miss Kitty; just took delivery of the Pitt Company payroll money.” Someone started to say that, since the Pitt Company were not exactly generous employers, that would hardly be worth stealing, and someone else was about to accuse the sheriff of a cliché, when the officer of the law noticed the new-comer.

“Say, fellah, I don’t think I know you from anywhere. Your face is not at all familiar. We like strangers around here. I hope you’ll enjoy your stay”

“He’s looking” the bartender offered “for the man who didn’t kill his father.”

“Do ya have a name?”

“Of course, sheriff; I’m Joseph Lux.”

“No. The suspect; do you have a name for the suspect?” There was a brief hush and a collective intake of breath until Miss Kitty opined that “A corny joke doesn’t count as a cliché.”

“Matter of fact,” the stranger responded “I do. Jonathan Hart.”

Nobody flinched at the mention of the name.

“Jonathan Hart, the famous philanthropist?”

“Oh, I don’t know if he collects…” the stranger was interrupted by Miss Kitty

“I’m prepared to allow one corny joke but…”

“Sorry, ma’am” he tipped his hat. “Yeah. Him.”

“Tell us how it happened” Somebody had to say.

“Well, my pa was a mean, ornery rat. That is, he was an average, ordinary guy who was a member of the Water Rats. He was waitin’ to hold up the Smithsburg train (you know, one of them there whistle-stops where the driver don’t stop less’n some wayfaring stranger signals for him to) Anyroad, Hart was ridin’ up front with the driver.”

“Why was the owner of the railroad ridin’ up front with the driver?” Somebody had to ask

“ Cause he cou… well, heck, Miss Kitty, who doesn’t want to ride up…”

“Oh, get on with it.”

“Well, my pa trips over his boot-lace and falls right on to the tracks. Hart seen him but the driver never did. He stopped that train and didn’t kill my pa.”

“And you wanna thank Mr Hart?” The sheriff guessed. “Maybe that was your daddy’s dying request? Or maybe Mr Hart knows something? Something that’ll lead you to some treasure or…” Miss Kitty coughed.

“I know” the stranger looked straight down the barrel of the camera “that you’re expecting a punch-line. But isn’t a punch-line something of a cliché?”

1hr 4mins writing time

This is a test:

We are the ancient sisterhood.

We were here before

the iron horse, the brazen sword,

the long-gone dinosaur.

Below the water-line in black

armour we’ve dwelt

until the morn that called us forth

to come & break the spell;

to break the surface, break the bonds

now that we are ready

to scintillate and sparkle in

the sweet-scented, heady

glamour of the Summer’s morn.

who or what are we?