- 65,890 hits
- Walking Covehithe July 9, 2019
- How Far Does The Hand Reach? Botanical Signatures Textile Art Exhibition, Norwich, England, July 18-20 2019 July 8, 2019
- Little Maps of Trees is at The Other Art Fair London July 1, 2019
- Eco Print on Cotton with Silk Appliqués June 11, 2019
- Eight Years Blogging – Writing Chaos into order from the Forest of Souls: Part I May 19, 2019
- Aesthetics Allotmenteering Art Artist Books Artist Sketchbooks Art Journal Christian writing Collage & Assemblage Creativity Dialogue Drawing Eco/Natural Dyeing and Printing Ecology Encaustic Art Folklore & Mythology Inspiration Mixed Media Music Nature Journal Photography Printmaking Research Reviews Science Short Story Writing Singing spirituality Stitch Walking Writing
Category Archives: Short Story Writing
What can I do but follow? I’m an old dog now and they’re my home. Wherever they go, I go with them.
It’s been like this, since … Ceaselessly wandering, my humans. They have no choice, but that’s long forgotten, except for cellular memories, urging.
They call it many things, the restlessness. Career move. Downsizing. Looking for a better life. Continue reading
In between eco printing and writing flash fiction, I’ve also been scribbling away at a trine of short stories (with illustrations – mine), that I’m going to publish shortly as an ebook. I put the finishing touches to Leaves, Three Short Tales yesterday morning and gave myself a couple of hours off to catch up with dreadful, and dreaded domestic affairs. Continue reading
DS Squared Et Cetera
“Lovely approach to her tomb.”
“The pathways are dead ends.”
She looked. “Meaning?”
“Legend says the maze symbolised the unbridgeable divide between the living and the dead.”
“Why have you brought me here?” Continue reading
Every Friday writers worldwide gather round the virtual fireside of Rochelle Wisoff and share stories of 100 words, prompted by a common photograph, and exchange constructive criticism. You don’t have to write to read. Click on the blue frog at … Continue reading
The boat had grounded in the half-shadows of a willow. The wild flapping of the flag on the mast had drawn his attention.
“I thought it a trapped bird. Strange flag.”
“A tapestry,” she said.
“A madwoman’s creation, Elaine.”
“Mad? Look, here is the moon’s reflection, shattered by the water. Here, the sun, sharded. Here, the stars, broken, all reflected in her mirror.” Continue reading
His parents didn’t come to the wedding; their gift a garish orange dinner service – cheap fairground prize won long ago.
“Carnival glass is collectable these days,” Adi had said, generously, adding,“they’ll come round. Patience.” Continue reading
I’ve been itching for the week to pass so I could open up my second batch of eco print bundles.
The first picture shows half of a long narrow band of the jacket lining fabric (probably cotton) that I used for some of my first eco prints. This time the colour is more pronounced. Again, I bound the bundles with sari silk and the colour has transferred. I also sandwiched in some rusty staple gun staples. I found a whole boxful in the shed that have lain around for a long time and are no longer fit for purpose. The frieze – as I’m calling it – looks like some sort of music notation. Continue reading
Every Friday authors worldwide gather round the virtual fireside of Rochelle Wisoff and share stories of 100 words, prompted by a common photograph, and exchange constructive criticism. Readers’ comments are also welcome. This week’s photo has been provided by Kent Bonham. Thanks, Kent. Your photo inspired the following very late entry from me this week.
That was Tod. We were in a junk shop, hunting for stuff to ‘upcycle’.
“Plaque.” I showed him.
“‘Souvenir of Cornwall,’” he read out loud. It was printed beneath a postcard. To its right was a slot for a photo. Continue reading
Parked and Hitched
“Driver parked the truck and vanished.”
“Abducted by aliens.”
We roared with laughter. The waitress glared.
“My ancestor ran off to California – gold rush era. Just disappeared.” Continue reading
I went travelling. The Grand Tour, they called it. All the rich young men went and marvelled at ruins, as fashion dictated. Continue reading