She was afraid that her top would come undone, so she tested out her bathing suit under a torrent of water and to her surprise it held up. She was not sure if she should embrace or conceal her feminine traits. She loved the way her new bathing suit looked on her, but it was so revealing and she was basically a shy girl. She wore it because it was in style, and girls all across the country started wearing bikinis.
Continue reading at A Unique Title for Me
Exotic beauties
Dream of faraway places
Spring rains cloud the glass
Reblogged from Words From Anneli:
My dream to be a model
Took an unexpected turn,
Success would be reality,
I soon began to learn.
The mistress had a camisole
She was too fat to wear,
And yet she couldn’t throw it out,
No, that she couldn’t bear.
But now it served her purpose well,
“Come try this on,” she said,
And next thing that I knew
She had it pulled over my head.
Continue reading at Words from Anneli
Sue Vincent’s prompt this week fit perfectly with one of my poems from the poetry collection I contributed to, along with South African poet, Kim Blades. You can find Kim here: https://kimbladeswritingblog.wordpress.com
by Robbie Cheadle
A deluge of rain tumbles from the sky
like a bucket turned upside down
the beggars impervious to its ferocity
faces impassive, no fear or frown.
Continue reading at Roberta Writes
And then one day there will unfold
Before delighted gaze
A purple ring where thickest mud
Had tempered walks on winter days
⦿
Where sliding boots had struggled
To cross the sodden land
Our eyes now look with wonder
To gaze on colour’s gentle hand
⦿
Time and tide’s persistence
Their essence of ascent
From sodden bulb to flower’s joy
A hidden rite of innocence
⦿
Directed upwards, called to seek
The calling power’s face
As cheek by mote they flex and float
To form the softest carapace
⦿
Awake and break dark winter’s chains
Cast off the inner gloom
And breathe the air with lilac stare
Then give the light its living room
⦿
A clear beautiful stream
Hurried and pushed beyond the edge
Falls helplessly in a rusty torrent.
Reblogged from The Bag Lady
*
Said Keiron-the-Holy to the Ogham Stone of Fergus…
“A question, O Fergus Mc Roy, what was the cause of, ‘The Ulster Raid’.
Some say it was the curse of two friends deprived
of their friendship by the wiles of a kingdom?”
Said the Ogham Stone of Fergus Mc Roy…
“There is truth in that saying, it happened in this way…”
*
This is the story of two bulls:
one was black and the other was white,
and of the way it was with those two,
for they were not right bulls,
there was enchantment on them…
*
Continue reading at France & Vincent
For Sue Vincent’s Thursday challenge, a sort of prose poem with WIP in mind.
The millrace runs but there is no more a mill, and trees grow now where wagons once stood with their head-hanging horses, waiting to be loaded with their bolts of finished worsted.
The beck still babbles, its leaping waters clearer than they ever were in those days when wild nature served one purpose—to be harnessed to the fiery chariots of the fiercest of men.
Continue reading at Jane Dougherty Writes
As soon as I was considered old enough to wander alone… a ridiculously young age by today’s standards… I would knock on the doors of the various elderly relatives that lived within a stone’s throw of home or school. Their doors opened onto another era that to my young eyes qualified as the ‘olden days’. There would inevitably be a cup of tea; none of your new-fangled tea bags or ‘gnats water’, but the rich mahogany brew that seethed in perpetuity beside the flames of the range. If I was lucky and timed it right, there would be a slab of fruit cake topped with a slice of tangy cheese or perhaps a curd tart, or we might toast a teacake in front of the fire on the toasting fork and I would sit and listen, fascinated as the old ones spoke of their lives.
Between my great-grandparents and their siblings, I was lucky to have a window on a bygone world, yet it was a window with a heart and a voice… and it told stories. I heard tales of the long hours in Victorian mills where they had worked as ‘bairns nobbut as big as thee, lass.’ Of how their schooling had to fit around their working day and of the dreadful accidents and conditions in which children had worked within living memory… this memory, the one that paused to take a sip of their tea before leaning back to continue. I heard too of first dances and maypoles and Christmas stockings that were rich if they held an orange. Of traditions and forgotten legends… and of wars and national rejoicing and mourning. I learned history in a way no book or museum could teach.
Continue reading at The Silent Eye
Sue Vincent's Daily Echo 
Barb Taub on Little Red RH as thriller. PLUS #BookReview~ Madam Tulip and the Serpent’s Tree by @DaveAhernwriter #RBRT #humor #thriller
Reblogged from Barb Taub:
Continue reading at Barb Taub
Press a button or two to share... go on, make my day :)