OK so my stream of consciousness Saturday became a stream of consciousness Sunday but I think it still works 😀
If you want to check out the rules or read some other great blogs turn please check the link to see Linda G Hill
‘My precious, my precious.’
His bony fingers turned the gold band over and over as he rocked back and forth happy in the knowledge that his true love was back in his hands once again.
I always felt that Smeagol or Gollum whichever face you choose to bestow upon him received a bad rap for his outwardly creepy exterior. Perhaps if he were the handsome hero and the ring had been his female counterpart then being so blindly obsessed would have been considered sweet or endearing for his persistence. If he were the guy who fought for his true love and never gave up, the one in the film that had been deserted, rebuffed yet got himself back together to fight for the girl. If he had been the knight in shining armour, fighting through wild forests and battling the dragon to get that princess back in his arms again then they would have all loved him unconditionally.
Yet because the source of affection is just a placid lump of metal the whole passions of the creature becomes trivial and humorous. So funny in fact that in a cinema when the scene between Smeagol and Gollum came on and he had an argument with himself over his precious, a huge wave of laughter began and made everyone turn and stare.
Except myself who was too busy shrinking down in my seat trying to pretend I wasn’t with that date!
Timing is so precious!
Which witch was it that stole my sandwich?
I bet it was that one form Norwich,
she’s always eyeing my tasty pies and snacks,
what a hack – I’ll put her in a sack!
And tie her to the post in town
where all the kids can see her frown
and throw pumpkins, and other things
at her face and scowl, until she sings
Until she owns up to being a thief
and causing me to stand and seethe
Just you wait you silly witch
How dare you mess with my sandwich!
Ok so this was a fun prompt! Go join in the fun with Linda G Hill – SOC Prompt
Is it a bit too early in the day for this? Ah what the heck! *grins*
She heard the screams before she realised: it was her own throat producing them. Instead her mind was firmly fixed on the heat, and the rope, and the searing pain behind her eyeballs as her flesh melted into the hemp. Closing her eyes tightly to block out the acrid smoke, she tried to gather her last bit of energy in a struggle to get free. The flames licking at her heels were no longer the biggest threat, if she couldn’t get her wrists free from the knots, she knew it was game over. She had always been a fighter but failure seemed inevitable.
He knew this as he threw the lighter into the carefully prepared bonfire, she had set his heart aflame and then torn away any hope he had for the future. He said he would return the favour as he said his goodbyes.
To begin again is always the hardest thing.
Facing that blank page is daunting; it screams out in its purity, gives rise to palpitations and forces us to consider our options for the first time in a long time. It’s easier to carry on the story, pick up where you left off last time. The knowledge that you can recap and maybe gain an idea that you were heading towards, so that you can carry on with this in mind. It’s easier and comforting, when you have your base characters and plot worked out you can somehow spring from this much smoother than beginning afresh. Whether this is because the carrying on from old stock just means you are merely filling or that it just makes you more secure: I’m unsure. Perhaps it’s the opposite and it’s the new beginning that is just too daunting. There is too much potential to fail, too much that could go wrong, and so, under the pressure of all ‘the could be’, we simply freeze.
IT’s just that initial burst, that first nudge, the one little but huge step to get us across the starting line, once this happens then we can easily adapt to the new scenario – yet sometimes it seems too hard to start.
Quite possibly the largest number of singletons or loners found within one group at any one time. This quaint little coffee shop, a hive of activity for writers and readers alike. They swarm from trains and buses, tumble in from the street to find themselves a lone corner or quiet table from which to write their lives on the pages. Words conjoining to find meaning within inked lines, a master watching the beauty, as they swirl into being, taking form in their growth. Gnashing and gnarling, devouring everything in proximity before their inevitable death; then a refill of espresso to help the writer’s block.
Ever get those days when you feel on the very edge of change and you fear somewhere deep inside that something unknown is about to snap and leave you blowing about in the wind. You get that little unsettling feeling in your stomach as it lurches towards the what ifs and the who knows, and the knowledge that you are not in the safe and secure place that you imagined yourself to be in.