Thursday photo prompt – Child – #writephoto


Use the image below to create a post on your own blog… poetry, prose, humour… light or dark, whatever you choose, by noon (GMT)  Wednesday 3rd May and link back to this post with a pingback. Please make sure that the pingback works and if not, copy and paste your link into the comments section of this post.

Don’t forget to use the #writephoto hashtag in your title so your posts can be found.

You can find all last week’s entries in the round-up. Please visit and read the stories and poems and explore the sites of their writers.

I will feature as many entries as I can on the blog during the week, but given the volume of contributions we are getting every week, that will not be all of them! All posts will be included in a round up on Thursday 4th May.

Feel free to use #writephoto logo or include the prompt photo in your post if you wish or you can replace it with one of your own to illustrate your work.

Have fun!

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Photo prompt round up – Shore #writephoto

My apologies for the lack of reblogs this week. I was away in the north for the Silent Eye workshop, then spending time with some of our friends from overseas…and sharing the landscape I love with my son too. Then I got the cold from hell… which is very much still with me… and a nose red enough to give Rudolph a run for his money! The weather hasn’t helped with that; yesterday alone we were caught in snowstorms and sweltering in glorious spring sunshine… but that’s a tale for another time…

So, I haven’t been near a computer and am just beginning the process of catching up….though much of today will be spent at a distant hospital having tests. The irony is that I don’t feel well enough for hospital…

The photo for this week’s prompt was taken on the west coast of England.

More wonderful entries this week. I’d like to welcome the new contributors and thank  everyone who took part. Please click on the links below to visit all the posts and leave a comment for the author! A new prompt will be published later today and I will reblog as many as I can through the week as they come in… but given the volume of entries we are getting now, that will not be all of them. All contributions will be featured in the round-up on Thursday.

The vagaries of WordPress mean that occasionally a pingback won’t get through. If you have written a piece for this week’s challenge and it does not appear below, please leave a link in the comments and I will add it to the list.

Come and join in!



Tiny grains of sand

Shaped by eternal motion

And worn by the waves

Together they form the cup

That holds the life of oceans.


Many thanks to this weeks contributors:

Reinventions by Reena

Loraine at My Frilly Freudian Slip

Kitty’s Verses

Willow at willowdot21

Trent P. McDonald

Pamela Morse at mermaidcamp

Steps Times Two

Ritu Bhathal at But I Smile Anyway

Stuart France

Joelle LeGendre at Two on a Rant

Jane Dougherty Writes

Helen Jones from Journey to Ambeth

Lady Lee Manila

Sisyphus at Of Glass and Paper

Luccia Gray from Rereading Jane Eyre

Neel Anil Panicker

Robbie Cheadle

Kerfe at methodtwomadness

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The Jewel in the Claw – Spring 2018

The Silent Eye

Jewel in Claw Master image 28JanV317AA

Intrigue ⦿ Magic ⦿ Religion ⦿ Science

Four faces of a Elizabethan jewel that will become Britain… and one deadly enemy – hidden deep in the inner workings of an age.

1586, and our story begins… The reign of Elizabeth I, the ‘Virgin Queen’ of the house of Tudor.

A time when England stood virtually alone amongst its neighbours, surrounded by hostile political and religious forces set in motion by the reign of Elizabeth’s father Henry VIII, a plot has just been discovered to assassinate the now-established Queen of England and Ireland. The man who uncovered it is Francis Walsingham, her celebrated and loyal spymaster, intent on establishing a network of agents outside and inside England to protect her.

By the 1580s, this small island, with its ‘virgin’ Queen, had become a hotbed of intellectual and magical insight, with leading thinkers, such as the Queen’s astrologer, John Dee, driving forward the knowledge of the…

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Carrot and Coals… Stuart France


…Wen seems intent on punishing herself again.

I know. I know she probably has little choice but personally speaking I would be more than happy if we never went back to Bar-Brook-One… Ever! That  is not going to happen but given the inevitability of this eventuality, I have come to see it as something of a duty to prevaricate Bar-Brook-One at any and every opportunity I get.

These days I get plenty of opportunity.

Given that we drive past Rowan Cranny Falls at least twice a month on our way to and from Lodge Meetings it could only have been a matter of time and time, as we now know, does not actually exist.

“I nearly got up at four this morning and headed out there alone,” says Wen pensively over breakfast.

I glance out of the window at the howling wind and lashing rain, “You couldn’t have picked a finer or more appropriate day.”…


…Thankfully the course of the stream, or, more accurately perhaps, the brook, does afford us some protection from the elements.

In fact, it is quite pleasant down here.

Continue reading here

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Fallen #midnighthaiku

Sweetness can be found

Within a petalled chalice

Or a fallen bloom

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The Giant’s Tale

Throughout the books written with Stuart France many stories are woven. This is another of those tales that is woven through the Doomsday series… and one of those upon which we drew for the Feathered Seer workshop. It is a retelling of a folk tale, related to one of the sites we used for the workshop…

The piper of Shacklow

The fiddler of Fin

The old woman of Demon’s Dale

Calls them all in.

In the deep river valley, where the Wye falls and tumbles across the stones or spreads its silken surface wide, the tall mound of Fin Cop is silhouetted against the sky. Many are the mysteries held in the heart of that hill; ancient secrets and stories that tell of love and loss. One such is the tale of a giant named Hulac Warren, the fiddler of Fin.

Hulac lived in a cave where the limestone turrets of Hobs Hurst stand like a castle against the slope of the hill. It is said that the giant was never seen, save by starlight when his hulking shape blocked the moon, when, for a bowl of cream, he would thresh the corn, doing the work of ten men in a night.

Yet though he was not seen, he himself watched from his lonely castle and when the sunset gilded the hills the sound of his music could be heard on the breeze.

In the valley lived fair Hedessa. As gentle as a fawn was she, lovely as the morning, soft as the pellucid waters of the stream that laughs at the mountain’s feet. Yet her voice was sweeter and she sang as she tended her father’s sheep, watching over them tenderly as they strayed amongst the wildflowers. She sang of the luminous dawn and the white of snowflakes, she sang of the velvet, jewelled night and she sang of love, for her heart was given to the scarred hunter who lived alone in the forested hills.

Hulac watched from the shadows as Hedessa danced amid the trees and listened to the music of her voice and his heart was filled with love for her. One evening as the summer drew to a close he waited for her behind the wide trunk of an oak tree and when Hedessa came, leading the sheep to the stream he spoke softly. His voice was no more than a whisper on the wind and Hedessa, looking all around, so no-one.

“Could you love one whose face is unlike that of other men?”

“Yes,” she whispered. Her love carried the mark of the boar on his cheek.

“Could you love one who loves silence and solitude?”

“Yes,” she replied, smiling at the thought of the clearing in the trees far from the village.

“Could you love one who would take you away from the world?”

“Oh yes,” she sighed softly, the music of the heart was in his voice and the magic of the moment caught her dreams and wove them bright.

Hulac would have spoken then, but the women from the village came laughing to the stream and he slipped away into the shadows, afraid of so many eyes. Hedessa danced on the green lawn and wove the wildflowers into garlands for her hair. The women smiled, for she was beloved of all and they knew the song of a maid in love.

Early next morning the shepherdess led her flock into the high pastures. Her dreams had been those of a maid who stands on the verge of womanhood and her thoughts drew her eyes inward to her heart. She climbed higher than she intended, through the deep moss and flowers, her tiny feet wet with dew and stained with the green of the grass. Her heart was light, surely he would come again… surely he would come for her tonight?

At noon the sun shone bright and Hedessa sought the shade of the rocks of the ancient place where few now came. Melancholy tales were told of this place, but no sadness could cast its shadow on the heart of a maid in love. She had walked far in her daydreams and rested, looking down on the turrets of the giant’s castle far below. None ventured there. They accepted his service in the night but shunned the twisted creature. They said he was a demon. Hedessa looked down on his cavernous home and shivered. Then she closed her eyes and smiled; her hunter would protect her from demons…

As if she had conjured him with her daydreams she heard his voice calling softly,


Then closer he called… and closer still.

A shadow stole the warmth of the sun and Hedessa opened eyes filled with love. Yet it was not her hunter who loomed over her, but the twisted figure of the giant, Hulac Warren.

Love turned to fear. Hedessa screamed and the sound echoed across the hills. Those in the valley looked up and saw the two silhouetted against the sky. Neither those who watched from below nor the shepherdess herself saw the hope in the giant’s eyes turn to pain. They did not see his tears as he reached out his hand, helpless to speak before the revulsion in her gaze.

Could she not love him? No. She could not, would not.

The man she loved was tall and straight, not gnarled as old stone, bent as the willow. Yet he wept and reached out to her. Hedessa turned to run and tripped on a fallen stone. Hulac pounced to save her from the fall but in her fear she struggled and anger took him. Not at her, but at himself and at a world that reviled those whose form reflected another realm.

And so it was that as she struggled, crying the name of her love, Hedessa tore free of Hulac’s grasp and fell to her death, dashed upon the rocks below. The cry of the grieving giant rent the air and the rocks split asunder.

They found her broken, breathing her last. She spoke of stone.

They did not understand.

Around the place where she lay they built a circle and covered her with earth and flowers; a pale shadow of her living beauty.  From the ground came water, warm as a maiden’s tears and to this day the spring is known by her name.

Giant Hulac watched, cursing the gods, cursing hope and cursing himself. That night he crept down to the spring to lay flowers by Hedessa’s grave and his tears mingled with the waters. When the huntsman came he did not run. The spear pierced his flesh, but he did not die. He cried out then to the gods to take him, in anger or anguish at the ruin of beauty; to let him lie beside her at least in death.

He did not die when they stoned him. But the rocks drove him into the stream and there the gods took pity on Hulac Warren, turning his hunched form into an island of stone. He rests there still, close to his love, separated from Hedessa only by the ever-running tears of the hills.

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State of Persons… Stuart France


If a person

Fails to stand

In right relation

To story…


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