Writings, photos, politics and rants... *Original content - may not be reproduced without my consent.*

Monday, 27 June 2011

Heart

You are all asleep.  The streets are quiet.  Streetlights cast a yellow haze across the ghost city.  This is when I come out.

You have never met me, and you don’t know to thank me.  Because to you, I don’t exist.  I know you.  You don’t know me.

From my home, I watch you in the mornings, open your curtains and then later, emerge from your home and follow you to the station.  I note every piece of clothing, everything you hold, from newspapers to fruit to bags.  I know what you ate last night, because I have been in your garbage.

I wait for your return by train and follow you back.  Sometimes I know you feel like you are being watched.  You are.  By a friend.

They will never bother you.  No-one will violate your home.  You are safe.  I keep you safe.  You stole my heart with the chicken carcass at Christmas.

Your bedroom light shuts off.  I sit on your wall and preen my red brush and growl at anything that moves near to your door.  Your protective renard.



(todays virtual writers title was "Heart")

Sunday, 26 June 2011

remember this..?

http://plotsplot.blogspot.com/2011/05/rawa-fundraiser.html

Well - we raised $500 USD - or over £300.  Not bad.  All of this goes to RAWA.org and will be sent at the middle of August after the Yard Sale is finished (hopefully raise another £100) :)

Summer Holiday

“One needs to enter sobriety gradually…” he explained in clipped tones.  “Entering a state of reality too suddenly can create problems.” 

I could see by his shopping basket, he meant this.  One large bar of chocolate, a large bag of crisps and a bottle of supermarket own brand malt.

“I’ve been on holiday for a month in Toronto and drank nothing but Crown Royal XR,”  he guffawed,   “A good attempt by the colonies at a whisky.”

He must have been in his seventies, dressed in jacket and cravat; one eye bloodshot.
“I bet the weather was better than here”, I mumbled back, looking out of the large supermarket window to the dreich summer Glasgow street.

“Oh, it was something the same.  We are on the same latitude, you know.” 

He unpacked his basket and smiled sadly, “Not that I saw much of the weather.  I looked after the grandchildren and sat on the veranda at night, talking to my daughters and their family.”

“I always think it is nice to come home from a trip, even though it might have been great!” I said as I unpacked my trolly.

He laughed and paid the man behind the till.

“No, dear boy.  It is damn sad.”  He lifted his plastic bag and walked out into his lonely evening entertainment.