100 words on the nose. That’s all you have to produce a stand alone story with a beginning, middle and end. Some of us altarnatively chose to unleash the poetic form.
We had a loose theme of ‘new beginnings’ to set us off on our way, being January and all. See how we did.
Amanda – New Beginnings. ( 100 words )
I opened the Christmas tangerine to savour it’s festive flavour, folding back the skin and the white tendrils of pith.
Deep inside was a firm nub, a tiny fruit foetus.
I prised it out, wondering how it would taste. Immediately, it split and out fell a minute caterpillar in a cocoon of pith from which it unravelled itself, stretched and opened perfect silky wings. The wings grew till a huge orange butterfly emerged from the peel soared and flew.
Nature dictates It will lay orange eggs which will grow into sweet new tangerines.
—
Amanda – New Beginnings
I could call myself Countess, and no-one will know
If it’s true or a joke or somehow for show
If I married a Lord and so changed my name
Would I start a new life? Would the I still remain ?
I could call myself something bizarre or erotic
But would I become more fulfilled or exotic?
Perhaps Nefertiti, Letitia, Marina,
Or Hepzibah, Primrose, Mumtaz or Dorina
And strange family names, I could try double barrel
And dress up my names in some verbal apparel
And pronunciation, and what fun My Dear
I can have an identity crisis each year.
—
Katy – New Year, New Start?
A “start”…
… brings a lump to my throat.
A bump to my mind.
A caught breath.
A fearful heart.
A pause…
… brings air to the game.
Salve to my mind.
A strength can grow into
A focussed cause.
A list…! …
… brings structured calm,
Light and clarity,
Ordered time.
Nothing missed.
A step…
… picks one of these,
A nudge to the new.
A fresh perspective.
A promise kept.
And then…
There it is…
No longer a start.
No longer a lump.
But a life being lived.
The next dot of the pen.
—
Mike – New Beginnings
I’m new here, but I’m putting down roots. The area seems nice. There’s oodles of fresh air and a huge expanse of sky. I watch cows and sheep graze, and horse riders and walkers often saunter past, when it’s not tipping down. My neighbours are friendly. They’ve lived here a long time and all say they have seen Queen Elizabeth drive past. There’s even a very aged fellow up the slope who claims, and I know this seems unbelievable, to have waved at King George I. But then, in Windsor Great Park, we oak trees live an exceedingly long time.
Vivien – Public Abuse
Raj backed away. He knew how this would feel as it was the third time they’d interacted this week. The first transformed his buttocks into bloody welts. The second crosshatched his hairless bare legs. Now, the boy who politely declined to eat sacred cow for luncheon had earned six more strokes.
“Hands out,” the tyrannical teacher demanded. It was immediately after the swoosh, before the pain and searing heat set in, that Raj’s fingers firmly closed around the cane, making it his. Three years of abuse screamed from his lungs as he smashed Mr Dick in the face. Raj ran.
Windsor Writers' Group 