A to Z Challenge | S

This week I’m writing a continuous story, check out my previous posts to enjoy the whole tale! (or scroll to the very bottom of this post)

The Words

“Scaramouch: In the classical Italian theatre of Commedia dell’arte, Scaramouch was a boastful (often Spanish for some reason) and cowardly buffoon. In English in the seventeenth century the word scaramouch became a byword for a gutless and weak rascal. Today it is probably only familiar to people from the lines of the rock song ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ by Queen. Courtly romances were very popular in France in the seventeenth century with their stock characters of the swashbuckling hero, the downtrodden heroine and the scheming scaramouch.”

“Sagacious: Sagacious initially had the meaning of having keen senses of perception, particularly a sense of smell but also of sight and sound. However, the modern meaning is of somebody of clever judgement, discerning in the choices that they make. He was a sagacious judge of character and chose his companions carefully.”

“Sough: An unusual word used to describe a low, soft murmuring sound, rather like a sigh but produced by natural causes such as a gentle breeze rustling leaves on a tree. As she hugged the tree, the great old oak emitted a sorrowful sough.

(from “1000 Words to Expand Your Vocabulary” by Joseph Piercy)

My Summertime Goddess | Part 4

So I manoeuvred my way through the group of labyrinthine friends. Making pleasantries, laughing at the right jokes and knowing the right things to say, I was as slimy as a scaramouch. But it got me to the centre of the maze, the queen bee of our honeycomb heaven. Now what? I had to make sagacious choices if I wanted a chance. The delicate daisies in her hair soughed at my approach, they whispered to her, beckoning her around to gaze upon she who would disturb her grace. I wondered if she had ever before been approached by a woman of romantic intentions. It was not common in our time of youth, but not unheard of. Maybe I could be her first.

The Story So Far

Petit flowers, nimble in nature, swam through the waves of her light gold hair. She was the epitome of beauty and many wrote her paeans, hoping to win her favour. I was one of these fools, who approached her at an early summer festival. The day was covered in bright blue hope, and I had no knowledge of how my heart would be lost to perdition. I usually found contentment lurking in the penumbra of her entourage, the very outer circle, not close enough to learn her flaws, but the perfect proximity for falling recklessly in love. But today was the day I would break my own rules.

My daydreams that I were soon to act upon were, to be frank, quixotic. She was the quintessence of summer; warm, lovely, encouraging. Her skin was golden even in winter and her voice bathed us in fresh garden streams. I, on the other hand, had quiddities of a different nature. I was known as short and quiet but all round jovial. I did not belong in her collection of groupies, even in this outer orbit, and yet somehow I persisted. I knew that I would never have a chance with my summertime goddess, and yet every moon brought poetic dreams of her, and everyday excuses to socialise where I didn’t fit. It was as if a spell had been cast upon me…

And in a way it had, as it had on all the men that fell down her well of love. Even now the scent of summer flowers is redolent of her floral locks, somehow her spirit is redivivus in petals. But looking back I can also tell you of her rapacious desire for people, and the power they gave her. She was a socialite made of sherbet and fairy dust. Until you dared step beyond the boundary she gave you. Until you couldn’t contain your own desires. Once you made a move on the golden girl, you no longer came around, no longer welcome in any ring of her circle. We all assumed it was by choice, who would want to hang around rejected? But I would find out otherwise, as I was to be her next victim.

March Writing Challenge | Day 13

Find full details of the challenge here.

Have you seen the glassy petals,
of the new flower in my garden?

In your garden?
In my garden.
I think I’ll call them...

Not just in your gardens ladies,
the old hag interrupted,
look outside,
the bigger picture,
you always fail to see.

Sprouting from the grass,
of course,
but also from the sides of trees.

Jumping out of brickwork,
blooming from the street light,
capturing our town,
from nowhere all in one night.

This has to be magic,
fairytale or tragic.
We need to know their purpose,
are they here for better or worse?

Why always so pessimistic?
the other ladies cried.
Their colours are extraordinary,
their vision blinds our eyes.

Then this was for evil,
the ancient hag now saw.
But what can you do with flowers?
She really wasn’t sure...

Then the sky came over,
blacker than her cat.
The biggest of the flowers,
flew above them like a bat.

Way up in the flower,
two space bees flew their hive,
turns out it wasn’t arcane,
but instead... sci-fi.

Change each planet to a flower,
one world at a time,
the universe would be theirs,
infinite places for them to dine.

March Writing Challenge | Day 7

Today I saw a new (to me) form of poetry on two blogs: Skeptics Kaddish and K. so I had to try it out for Day 7’s prompt! It’s called an octo. I wrote two as I wanted to practice but I think I like the first one best. What about you?

Find full details of the challenge here.

Spring Waits For Me

Fresh dewy morning waits for me
Bird song louder than yesterday
Cherry blossom sweet as honey
I venture to my balcony
Bluebells, tulips, puschkinia
Cherry blossom sweet as honey
Bird song louder than yesterday
Fresh dewy morning waits for me

Fairy Lullabies

Wind whistling gently through trees
Birds singing fairy lullabies
Bees buzzing enjoying the scene
Rustling grass, whispering flowers
Sweet pollen, sweet nectar, sweet scents
Bees buzzing enjoying the scene
Birds singing fairy lullabies
Wind whistling gently through trees

March Writing Challenge | Day 1

So today was the first day of my March writing challenge. It’s the 1st of March (duh) getting closer to spring! Me and my husband had last week off which was a blessing of a coincidence as the weather was fantastic. It was a beautiful week of sunshine and warmth, pretending it’s summer, picnics and walks. Summer meadows, along with the prompt, were my main inspirations for this writing. Find full details of the challenge here.

Blush blades of lengthy green. I float in the fluffy grass. Splattered paint of pink and blue and orange flowers transform the field into artwork.

Rivers of turquoise flow overhead, the clearest skies. I put down my book and gaze into the meadow. Bumbles and blustering, a low hum of dancing bees. I watch, immersed in their world, where the strands of grass are skyscrapers and the flowers organic supermarkets. They go shopping, a one item list of nectar, an impulse buy of pollen. Our ecosystem in their sticky hands.

I pick up my rose lemonade, my nectar. And without intent I disturb theirs. No malice in my actions and no malice in theirs as they swarm to protect the gatherer I threatened. I fumble to move away and fall back onto my elbow. My elbow onto a bee. Its last action is to protect its family, it stings me, warding me off, warning me.

Deep pangs swell my skin, my first ever bee sting. It leaves a scar that I can only see in a mirror. No matter which way I twist or turn my scarred elbow eludes me. Another scar I can only feel forms in my heart, a memory of this summer day, the peace and community and spirit of the bees.

How beautiful it would be to belong like a bee.