Drowning in watery wails
I try to clutch the waning light
My eyes wander in a wild pursuit
Knowing not what they want.
What is this weird place?
Silver glistens in the sky
Lending its sparkle to waves
Not a soul in sight.
Continue reading at Emotional Shadows
Symbiotic rite
Life and death walk hand in hand
Nourishing beauty
Continuing the saga… click the links to read part one , part two and part three…
“webothagreed,mrStevens,nodogsallowed” Revlegs whips off the cover from Halfleg and GitOrrf!
Hold on mate, it’s freezing
“whaa?” Halfleg slurs “howdid’that’muttgetthere?”
“right,that’sit!”
Gitorrf! is in the air, being carried straight to the front door by Revlegs. A moment of déjà vu as he’s slung out on his toilet brush tail into the snowlick. “thisplaceisonylforthehomeless”
I’m with Halfleg so I’m homeless, too
“stayout” Revlegs slams the door in his snout.
Slam!
Wait – wait a mo GitOrrf! scratches at the door with his front paws how’s Halfleg gonna stay homeless without me?
“andstopyerbloodyyapping” Revleg’s muffled scritching from behind the door.
Charming, that is GitOrrf! squirts a long one at the door itself – the squirt steaming happy yellow.
Back out on the cold streets at night and he’s hungry. Only one thing for it: some ’round back of KFC bins noshing action. He trots off up the street with a purpose, scruffy-belly rubbing through the snowlick.
Gitorrf! expects the usual streetlegs crowd ’round back of KFC but finds only one other fourlegs, Mayumi.
Snifz yu, Mayumi
Snifz yu, Char-lee
They bump snoutz.
Wotz a nice girl lyk yu doing ’round bins lyk thems?
Ayaa, I’ve had it with hind-leegs
Gitorrf! won’t argue with that. He’s been having it with hindlegs all his life. Together they investigate the pickings under the three bins parked ’round back of KFC.
I’m hungry Char-lee but there’s nothing here
Don’t yu worry about that Mayumi, there’s a trick to noshing thems bins as GitOrrf! runs a wide circle to build up his launch speed, leaps, and drops towards the lid of the nearest bin. Maybe coz of the snowlick ’round back of KFC, GitOrrf! don’t land on top the bin like normal, but lands right inside it. Buried up to his neck in half-eaten chicken bits. And right on top of some scratch wot shouldn’t be there in the first place.
Miaooowwwww! the scratch hisses, berserker-crazy to get out, a nightmare of claws threshing in every direction to escape.
That’s right, squirtz off Gitorrf! barks at it. He rolls abouts on a bed of KFC. Mayumi completely forgotten in the ecstasy of the sniffy moment.
Okay, nothing for it but to nosh me way out he starts noshing everything within range. Half-eaten drumsticks, strips, breasts, thighs, niblets, wraps and fries in every which way, gooey with tomato sauce and coleslaw. Fourlegs heaven!
Char-lee?
A scrabbling noise and GitOrrf! flies out of the bin to land beside Mayumi, his mouth wrapped ’round the remains of an extra crunchy patty Zinger burger, spicy option.
Mayumi snatches it from him and gets stuck in.
Wot kind of muttwit leaves all this half eaten? she noshes, mouth chockers with ridiculously deliciously definitely non-vegan food; all greasy, meaty, orange-sniffy and proper tasty, too.
After a few moments of enjoying the very best of KFC, Gitorrf! comments did yu see that scratch?
Sniffed it
Why do all scratch look alyk?
Coz they all look alyk, Char-lee
Dumb as hindlegs, too
Dumber she noshes up the zinger burger, spicy option, and licks her chops.
His scruffy belly drum-tight full, GitOrrf! decides to go check out Henry and see wotz the latest on those missing chops. Nothing lyk a nice plump chop. And he surely can find space for one.
I’m off to see Henry
Hen-ree? That stud muf-feen!
and Mayumi is right behind him, up West Pid High Street, occasionally stopping for a squirt or two, sniffing at anything of noshing interest.
▪
Henry bounds up to the hedge, sticking his head over.
SUBMIT INTRUDERS!
Yor head’s got smaller GitOrrf! notices.
Snifz yu, Hen-ree Mayumi barks.
Snifz yu, Mayumi Henry stares down at her, instantly thinking of some sweet eightleggers action. His earflaps twitch in confusion as a barely understood notion makes him suspect that sweet eightleggers ain’t ever gonna be an option again ummm, so wot yuz lot want?
Yor head’s got smaller repeats GitOrrf!
Yeah, well, thanks to the scratchflap
Wot scratchflap Char-lee?
The flap wot the scratch uses Henry explains patiently ‘cept there ain’t no scratch no longer. Besides, why yu calling GitOrrf! Charly?
The same as why yu call Char-lee Git-Orrf!, Hen-ree? Mayumi answers back.
Actually adds GitOrrf! wot is a scratchflap? and, for good measure any update on those chops?
The three fourlegs all stand ’round abouts, scratching, sniffing, eyeballing one another and wondering where the next noshing is gonna come from.
Better yet Henry pants Franks promises me something at the vets tomorra…the vet sez, I need something more….coz of the chop
The air can be cut with a fourlegs tooth, the tension is so thick.
More chops! GitOrrf! gasps maybe sausages?
Not vegan sausages, I hope Mayumi squeals
Better than chops, sausages or vegans Henry pauses for added drama Franks sez, something spe – ee – shal spelling it out.
As it happens, the town of Westley Piddle is so local that wotever fourlegs do, or don’t do, there’s always another fourlegs to snifz it out and tell all thems other muttwits about it. Unfortunately, this is exactly wot happens the day Henry goes to the Veterinarians for Livestock & pets to get his something spe-ee-shal.
And that’s all thanks to Tuffy.
Snifz yu Hens, wot yu up to? barks Tuffy from way over the other side of the street.
Henry bobs his big head up and down, weighing up if Tuffy needs some submitting or not, even that long way over there. Nah, he needs to be within crushing distance first.
Snifz yu, Tuffy. Gonna get something spe – ee – shal from the vets
Obviously, something spe-ee-shal means nosh and Tuffy edges his way off the pavement and towards the English Mastiff. Hungry thoughts of noshing shunting aside simple common sensicals.
Aww, givvus some, matey?
Submit?
Consider it done, matey the two fourlegs bump snoutz and pony a little sniff’n’lick dance ’round the back ends.
Yu been noshing that Istanbool kebab again? Henry’s snout holes twitch.
Tuffy can’t answer. He’s lost for words. Sniffing at essentials of a right wrencher three times his size is one thing – even tho Tuffy is a stocky muttwit – but sniffing at essentials when there suddenly ain’t none; essentials that is. Well, that’s cause for a bit of gob-smacking shock.
“comeonslobberchops” Franks heaves Henry through the doorway of the Vets before Tuffy can recollect his wits to bark up and ask the obvious.
Where’s thems plum bobs got to, Henry?
▪
“itdidn’twork!” Franks is scritching in the room full of sniffy gleaming tables and sharp objects.
“nonsense,nonsense,diapers” the vet barks back.
“he’snotgonnalikethat!” Franks scritches even more, shaking his head furs and earflaps, earflaps so small they hardly flap at all.
Not gonna lyk wot? Sausages? I really lyk sau–
“nonsense” the vet scritches back, pulling some big pink plastic thingumajig from a cupboard and slapping it down on the table.
“yougottaanothercolour,Miss?” Franks scritches, sniffing very purply red nervous. Henry braces for some submitting action.
“sure,anycolouryouwant,solongasit’spink”
The two hindlegs regard Henry and something odd about their snifz gives him a troublesome feeling.
▪
In the time it takes most fourlegs to hose a right long squirt, Henry is mincing his way out of the vets and into the street. The snowlick has stopped falling but Henry don’t care about that. Wot he does care about is the little pack of fours hanging ’round abouts outside and waiting for the something spe-ee-shals – sausages, most probably. GitOrrf!, Mayumi, Drizzle and Tuffy, corss.
Henry barks GitOrrf! wot about those sausa – Woaa!
Wot the – stammers Drizzle.
Ayaa, Is that wot I think it is Hen-ree?
BIG KNICKERS! gasps Tuffy, trotting back a step.
Henry stands tall, colossal, proud in the padded pink plastic diaper nows worn ’round his essentials department. He hard eyeballs all the fours, daring one more bark from any of thems. Fourlegs’ eyeballs are not very good with colours, the world ’round and abouts being mostly blues and greys. But they can dog-damn well see bright pink.
Before he can mince one step forward and open his chops to demand a bit of respectful submitting, Tuffy and Drizzle are already trotting off in opposite directions. Soon the whole of Westley Piddle will get the latest snifz about the new boy in town: Big Knickers!
GitOrrf! eyeballs the diaper strapped all the way ’round Henry’s back end.
Yu got something spe – ee – shal inside there, Henry, or izit sausages?
▪
Down at The Greyhound, second best pub in Westley Piddle, Franks is emptying away a few pints of the black stuff. Henry knows the snifz of Guinness. That’s coz Franks wobbles down with Cheryl every night and bangs home a few, scritching Guinness this and Guinness that. Until Franks is so tanked up with Guinness he can’t eyeball straight, confusing Henry with Cheryl.
“Sh…shhherol….yousalrightdownthere,luv?”
That’s it. Time to escape his companions with thems none the wiser.
Got some business to attend to Franks he slobbers all over Franks’ knees, mincing out the door of The Greyhound.
Royt then he rambles off, leaving behind heavy paw prints in the snowlick.
And all the fours ’round abouts West Pid don’t take long to snifz it out –
Watch out, Big Knickers is about
Freaky muttwit!
Dog-damn scandal
Yeah, West Pids going to the dogs, I’m telling yuz
Owf, snifz thems big knickers!
Henry listens, shaking earflaps and recognising barks.
There’s gonna be a reckoning, I reckon he mutters to himself, trotting on with haste, which ain’t really a lot hastier for a fourlegs Henry’s size. He makes straight towards everybody’s favorite number one nighttime marker spot.
’round back of Tesco Extra there’s no less than five green council bins. Neatly lined up in all-yuz-can-eat buffet style, ready for visiting fours to nosh their way happily through til morning when the hot ball gets thrown up into the sky. Fourlegs comprehend nighttime by the number of squirts on marker posts they make. But five Tesco Extra bins means at least five squirts worth of noshing. Holding sentinel are a few scratch, watching from on high, where the fours can’t snap at ’ems.
All the regular streetlegs are on scene, GitOrrf!, Tuffy, Drizzle, Sausage the Dachshund – who’s misplaced his hindlegs companions again, and Mayumi.
Henry’s shadow proceeds him, a black shape under the yellow sodium lights of the marker posts.
Hey ho, snifz yu, big knickers hails Tuffy, chops stretched ’round a polystyrene packet of button mushrooms. They don’t taste so good stuffed in plastic but nosh is nosh, init!
Drizzle’s front paws are up on the bin pulling out a bag of cheese and pepperoni mini pizzas howdy doody, big knickers he hollers in a comradely way.
Royt, that’s it Henry trots right up to Tuffy.
Tuffy drops the button mushrooms, sensing the snifz off Henry suddenly ain’t so positive.
Snifz yu, Henry, and I subm –
SUBMIT THIS Henry’s massive paws land on Tuffy’s earflaps, knocking button mushrooms every which way, slobbery mouth yawing open and taking an XL bite-sized chunk out of Tuffy’s right earflap.
Ouch! Wot th –
Next up, Drizzle. A powerful Rhodesian Ridgeback that’s fallen on hard times and lives in the woods ’round back of Herdwick pooping park.
Big Knick – erh Henry – I submit, mate
We’re beyond that Henry turns on him, Tuffy’s flap still in chops, and head butts Drizzle’s snout well hard, squishing it into his pepperoni and cheese.
Wot the – ? Drizzle rolls away and is back up onto his paws. Hackles raised, teeth bared and ready to give some submitting right back.
Henry stands, four squared-on, waiting.
Freaky muttwit was it? he growls in his slow and menacingly jovial way, stepping forward. Drizzle thinks better of it and slinks back.
And who else wants to slag me off ‘big knickers’?
All the fours stare aghast at Henry, wearing his pink knickers, and more than capable of kicking the collective poop out the lot of ’ems.
Anybody else?
A moment of horrendous dread and then, as one, Drizzle, GitOrrf! and Mayumi all point toes at Tuffy.
SUBMIT! Henry roars, stamping right up into Tuffy’s face, snout to snout.
There’s gonna be a bit more slapping. And they all know – especially one-eared Tuffy – who’s gonna get slapped the hardest.
*
Same time tomorrow for Part Five of Henry’s story…
Meanwhile, you can follow Zozo, Jools and the Muttwits crew at their blog, Usual Muttwits or find them on Instagram: @usualmuttwits and Facebook: Usual Muttwits
Sitting by the shore,
I think of my dreams.
Staring at the sky,
Everything looks fascinating from this eye,
As if a Dream has come true.
Existence is difficult play,
As the sagacious say…
the world is an action park.
Continue reading at Positive Side Of The Coin
Our hotel the previous night had been just off the main highway across Bodmin Moor… a perfectly good modern road that would take us where we wanted to be by a fast and direct route. We were never going to take it… not when we might explore obscure hamlets, narrow country lanes and a plethora of places by which we could get sidetracked. The first of these we had noticed while checking the start of our route; a tiny village with an intriguing name. We felt obliged to explore…
Even by our standards the road we took was a little primitive and we were obliged to stop on several occasions while a ewe convinced her lambs that roads are not always the best places to play and sunbathe.
It was not far to Temple, a tiny village off the beaten track and seeming quite remote from the world. The village takes its name from the hospice founded here nine hundred years ago by the Knights Templar, to offer accommodation and protection to pilgrims travelling across bleak Bodmin Moor en route to the Holy Land. In 1314 the hospice and lands passed into the hands of the Knights Hospitaller after the Templar Order had been accused of heresy, tortured and slaughtered at the instigation of Phillipe le Bel, King of France, who owed the Templars a considerable amount of money.
The village remained in the hands of the Hospitallers, the natural heirs of the Templars, until King Henry VIII broke with the Church of Rome and suppressed the religious houses five hundred years ago.
Today the village is part of the parish of Blisland, the origin of whose name baffles scholars but which to me suggests simply that it might echo an ancient tradition that this was a blessèd land and, in the care of the Templars, an outpost of the Holy Land.
The Templar’s own chapel is no more, having fallen into ruins after their suppression. The current church, dedicated to St Catherine of Alexandria, was built upon the site of the old eleventh century chapel. Although the fabric of the church owes much to its predecessor, what remains above ground is almost entirely Victorian, though there are many traces of the more ancient building to be found and many references to its Templar history.
For many years St Catherine’s was famous as a place where runaways could marry without banns or license. In 1584, writer John Norden called it “a lawless church where many bad marriages are consummated and where are wonte to be buried such as wrought violent death upon themselves”. Until fairly recently, those who took their own lives were condemned to be buried in unconsecrated ground. The ‘lawlessness’ continued until 1744, when the church finally came under the wing of a bishop.
For a hundred years, no services were held in the little church and it fell once more into disrepair. An ash tree, growing up through the floor was the only worshipper to raise its face to the light. In 1883, Cornish architect Silvanus Trevail restored the little church, incorporating what he could salvage of its earlier history into the stonework. An outbuilding beside the porch reuses the carved symbols of the Knights Hospitaller, a wheel-head cross and other relics of the Templar building.
In AD 451 the Archbishop of Jerusalem was made a Patriarch and granted the use of the Patriarchal Cross, one of which can been seen incised into one stone of the outbuilding. The Knights Templar were later granted permission to use this cross and Godefroy de Bouillon, Duke of Lorraine, used the Patriarchal Cross on his standard during the First Crusade, capturing Jerusalem and being granted its crown. It is from him that it derives its other name, the Cross of Lorraine.
Continue reading at France & Vincent
A silver light in the distance sparked her curiosity. She heads towards it without hesitation. She arrives at a small lake with a silver reflection from the light of the moon. She gazes into the rippling waters wondering how it’s moving with nary a breeze.
Continue reading at Unfocused
Shimmering silver on the sand, the last chance to grasp it.
Too late, it recedes and is gone, disappearing into the distance.
Once it had been gold. Then, oil. Now it was water. The most valuable commodity in the world.
Now he was left with just the sand. Worthless sand that covered the earth in abundance.
It wouldn’t keep him alive.
Continue reading at Iain Kelly
I woke from little sleep to glorious sunshine and crawled blearily from my bed, which seemed the most comfortable place in the world at that moment, even though it might as well have been a bed of nails the night before. Odd, isn’t it, how the same thing can look so very different depending on how you feel at the time? Take the sunshine… if I was going out to play, instead of heading to work, it would be a gorgeous day! If I were taking the camera out, not that I go anywhere without it, but you know what I mean, I would be delighted to have the backdrop of clear blue as a foil, for instance, to the mellow gold of old stone.
There is something about the stark contrast of the shadows thrown in sunlight, silhouettes dark against warm… that chiaroscuro created by the interplay of bright and sombre. It gives a scene life and texture… even when it is simply crumbling stone. Vistas of long empty spaces, punctuated by doors full of unknown and exciting possibilities yet painted on the canvas of memory, lead the eye and mind into adventure.
Imagination takes flight and spaces are populated with images and stories, flights of fancy or the quest for a deeper understanding of the vision before us. Thought meanders off at a tangent, exploring darkened doorways or gazing from the shadows to the clear sky framed above. Memories are created, images that take up residence in the mind, linking themselves inextricably with emotions and sensations, and the imprint of place remains long after the event has receded in time.
The darker the shadows, the greater the contrast, the brighter the light appears… which is something we all know, though even that, too, depends on how we feel at the time. We may only notice the shadows, diving or tiptoeing from one dark and unknown doorway to the next through a landscape painted by fear… wondering what monster may lurk around the corner, seeing only a tenebrous labyrinth. The bright patches on the ground then leave us feeling exposed and vulnerable and offer no respite, serving only to mark yet another threshold into the shadow that awaits.
Continue reading at The Silent Eye
The silvery pool glittered here and there where the sun poked through the clouds. The sand surrounding the pool held the heat from the day, and Suzanne dug her bare toes deep into the sand while sitting on a towel and watching her niece play in the water surrounded by the dunes.
Continue reading at Tessa Dean
Strawberries and cream
Childhood’s summer remembered
Inner child indulged
Sue Vincent's Daily Echo 