“Stop all the clocks…” Ah yes, that’s right, I seem to remember that poem. But who wrote that?
“Stop all the clocks…” Such a good and pleasing poem, I do remember reading it out loud. And now it’s on the tip of my tongue.
“Stop all the clocks…” Aha, I’ve got it, although it’s often sad, it’s also known as ‘Funeral Blues’ and it’s by W.H. Auden.
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Image credit:Doruq Pasha @ Pexels
This image showsa wall clock hanging on a wall. There is a ray of light/ sunlight illuminating the clock partially. The clock hands are pointing at 8:16!
“We’d love to go with you,” said the two boys. “Okay, pop in,” grinned Uncle Bill. “My Land Rover is ancient but still fine,” as he lurched off onto the road.
“Where are we going,” asked one of the boys. “Aha,” said he, “you’re going to like this, it’s right by the Fens. I’m going to drop you off for a while.”
Then one of the boys said: “We’re getting pretty close to that wonderful windmill, is it this?” “It is,” as Uncle Bill pulled up. “You can poke around there, although it’s a shame you can’t go in. I’ll be about an hour,” and off he went.
The two of them had some fun, and even better, an old guy happened to be there, letting them in, and very interesting it was. Then Uncle Bill was back with some pies and ice creams, and not necessarily in that order!
“You mean clouds …again?” “Yes. Look out there.” “I’m looking outside, I’m driving, aren’t I. And all the way to New Mexico too.” “But I’m convinced that there is a UFO up there by the clouds… just there. Moving very oddly.” “I can’t look all around while I’m driving.” “We could take a break though?” “Let’s do that.” “Yep, there’s room there.”
“Grab some drinks. Let’s go up there.” “Quite a walk, but it’ll be worth it.”
“Okay, we’ll stop there… and look over there. On the right, and up a bit more.”
“That’s it!” “Gosh, I think you’re right…”
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Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers Genre: Sci-fi Word Count: 100
“I need to charge my phone,” said the red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse); “if for some reason that strange door would not open for our friends outside, I will be able to talk to them at least, unless you have yours,” as she looked up to the tall, thin man… “well, do you have yours, your phone?”
But the tall, thin man had not commented about that, he had other thoughts about things, like that four-foot bellhop.
So, la Raconteuse had decided to move a little further away, since she still found that very short person, or whatever he was, was rather hostile she felt.
La Raconteuse put her charger on, and then put both of them by one of the shelves, it was the one with the excellent many clocks and stuff; it was lucky, she thought to herself, that she hadn’t left the charger at home, since she often did.
She continued to look at that large steampunk clockwork machine, it was so interesting, but then she suddenly saw a rather tiny… what? a fairy perhaps? but certainly a little female person and it, sorry, she, was moving quite quickly as she was pirouetting along the clocks.
La Raconteuse peered at the little person, and then a moment later the pirouetting stopped, and the tiny person peered back at her, and said: “my name is Honeybun, and I am a sprite, by the way, and also I don’t like my name, I prefer to be called Moxie…so there.”
What a life he has, no worries, no consequences. He lives in an apartment, not large, but large enough, and right by the canal.
It seems idyllic, and kind of it is. However, he’s a poet, and today, he can’t find anything to say!
~~~
Image credit:Llia Bronskiy@Unsplash
This image showsa man lying beside a canal in Zurich, Switzerland. His head is cushioned by his bag/ backpack and his arm is covering his eyes. Behind him, a boat can be seen traveling in the canal.
What? It’s coming down? No, surely not. But it is.
Look, over there. See, that thing is not part of that cloud. What? It’s not just that cloud, it’s too dense. Dense? That sounds like you. What? Sorry, just making a joke… ish. More than feeble, but never mind about that. That cloud, is not a cloud; that is something much more interesting. So what?
Well, it’s moving more quickly… and lower now. Oh, but now we can’t see it, since the mountain is in the way. Damn! So what are you thinking? Aliens, and a ship. What? Defo, aliens.
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Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers Genre: Sci-fi Word Count: 100
The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) had looked up and stared, as the tall, thin man removed part of the pelmet and something behind there it as well, as he said to her, ‘please, don’t say anything at all… just wait… and look, it will take only a little while.’
La Raconteuse just managed to not talk for a bit, while some dust floated down as a small part of the strange Room 215 revealed something more than weird, she blinked several times, and then she asked, but very quietly, ‘what on earth is this?’
She had anticipated many things she thought, but not this; ‘my goodness,’ she muttered to herself, ‘I didn’t expect this.’
She had so many emotions, and most odd it seemed for her, she felt she was on a rollercoaster for a while – it was not anger… no that was wrong, but there was an element of fight or flight, but why… this very short man surely shouldn’t worry her, but clearly it did.
La Raconteuse glanced from the small mechanical machine to the tall, thin man; she moved from the table by the fireplace as she walked rather quickly to stand very close to him, while looking up, she said: ‘what are we going to do with this, this… this… person.’
However, something else caught her attention, and it seemed that someone was almost to the door outside, she started to smile since it would surely be another Proprietor or, at least, a good friend.
just a tiny bird but so beautiful, so cute bright yellow feathers are more than brilliant, just fab and she knows that doesn’t she.
“A bird does not sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song.”
hey there little one what can you see right up there? maybe there’s a mate is it? really? that is great but you’re off, ah well, see you!
— Maya Angelou
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Image credit:Mark Olsen@Unsplash
This image showsa Yellow Warbler singing from a sunlit branch during spring migration at Magee Marsh Wildlife Area on the southern shore of Lake Erie, Ohio.
‘What’s this?’ ‘Bizarre.’ The two boys had just stopped by one of the shops.
‘I don’t remember seeing this.’ ‘Me neither.’ ‘But what is in this window anyway?’
Then one of them looked up to see the sign. ‘It says that this is a barber’s shop, but it seems, well, odd.’
The shop door opened with a happy ding-dong bell, as a large jolly man waved some scissors at them. ‘Want to do you’re short back and sides then, young boys?’
The two of them grin, then one of them said. ‘It was only last week, so no thank you.’ Then the other one said. ‘Please can we see what’s in the window?’ ‘Do come in. You’ll like this!’
‘See, they should sing but not until the fourth one is back. Just a little crack to make him better. Then it’ll be a barbershop quartet, and that will be lovely.’
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