Skeleton Architecture

I have tried to do yoga in recent years. I have had babies and required physiotherapy, and got older and stayed fat, and had years of not getting enough sleep. I wanted to regain the feeling that my body was strong, that I was flexible. I also wanted to focus on the breath. I went to my local yoga class where the teacher was lovely, but I don't think she was experienced in dealing with fat bodies, perhaps she just wasn't experienced in dealing with mine. She gave me blocks and things to help me get the positions rightish, but I simply couldn't breathe in some positions, and I was acutely aware of what I looked like. That said, I know that no-one was looking at me, but I couldn't relax for imagining my oxygen starved frame toppling over like an elephant on stilts , domino-ing into my neighbour and causing havoc. When it came to the relaxation I was able to breathe. In the quiet of the room I told the tears running down my face to stop, but they didn't. I wipe...

Hello all! I'm taking part in Chuck Wendig's flash fiction challenge today, sharing this ever so short story about, well, it's about a woman who broke gods. Iconoclastically. I'm getting more into short fiction lately, so let's see how I get on! She Broke Gods She did it methodically, working her way around the incensed alcoves while the men in their robes worked out what to do. Some sank to their knees, praying to the gods even as she smashed them, taking her time to hit them repeatedly against the wall, the floor, anything which might help reduce the beautiful statues to ground powder. Hands raised in blessing flew across the floor as she hauled each god down from its plinth, and if any of the be-robed men challenged her actions, and they did, tears tracking down dust grimed faces as she performed her iconoclasm, taking her time to get it right, she seemed to pay them no heed. Yet, as she swung the statues down, golden crowns tinkling to the floor...

Did I mention that I'm a massive fan of George RR Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire and of Game of Thrones? I spend far too long listening to long podcasts about the History of Westeros (honestly, it's fascinating). Anyhow, the lovely Sara at Mum Turned Mom's writing prompt for this week was SNOW , so there was only one thing on my mind. I am very much aware that as well as writing this about Jon Snow, I've written the Edge of Doom inspired by a photo of Kit Harrington who plays Jon in Game of Thrones, so I'd like to take a moment to stress that I am not interested in Jon that way . He's so very young, and so very näive. If anything I'd just want to look after the boy and maybe make him a nice warm bowl of soup. If I was shipping myself with anyone in Game of Thrones then I think that despite his myriad flaws I might be looking at Petyr Baelish, because you'd want to be on his good side! Mind you, I'm probably best off out of it.  You kno...

One of the things I love about writing poetry is that you can put in secret messages. Some of them are so secret they might never be decoded, others can be pretty obvious, but still offer an opportunity to plead innocence. Weather is a good way to talk about things, we are all used to weather being used to tell us things in programmes and in books, so it works easily in poems too. I've written a poem about books which was actually about a person I know, although that one's not currently available. This poem is about plants. Honest. Worthy of the sun This seed is just as worthy of the sun but staked and tethered has no room to thrive instead, the same trees race to feel gold rays, taking the place of others pushed aside. Many, it seems, must naturally fail, yet flowers are diverse here down below and if we could find more space in the sun who knows what wonders we who tend might grow? For those who fear the plant may 'come a weed, shading the leaves that ...

Hello! I'm down in the dumps at the moment. It's February and the rain is falling. Everything is cold and dull and wet, and staying in has ceased to be all hygge and lovely and become incredibly tedious. Not that we're staying in all the time, but I long for days of warm sun and lunch outside, of not constantly cleaning up muddy kitten prints (although they're doing great outside and having fun, which is good). My Mum is moving house today, which is brilliant for her, as her old house was too big and needed too much work. It's fine for me as well, but I'm rolling about in memories today, of all the things that happened in that house, all my memories, all the memories shared with others who aren't in my life now. It's weird to think that I won't ring that pull-bell again. It's weird to think that I won't need the memory of which steps creak. I'm busy doing lots of writing at the moment. Bitty stuff of poems to go with a photograph...

Hello there This winter has been pretty uneventful on the storm front. I thought that was what the weather was now, storm after storm after storm, but instead it's been pretty much OK, and not even that cold. It's been grey and wet and windyish the last few days, but nothing exciting. No power lines have been torn down, I have not struggled to close car doors, no crazy snow storms, it's even been pretty calm on the wind front, so I've actually been using an umbrella, which is pretty rare around here! But I'm feeling down in the dumps (lots of rejections, lots of rain, this will pass), and the news just keeps on happening, and who the hell is running the world and why did we let them? Ugh.  So, my writing prompt today was to write up a storm, and I looked out of my window and wrote what I saw, then thought about it and rewrote it to reflect how I'm feeling and how the world looks through my eyes. And here it is: What the wind wreaks Mostly you can...