Wednesday's Words on a Friday

 

The original Words for Wednesday was begun by Delores and eventually taken over by a moveable feast of participants when Delores had computer troubles. Sadly, Delores has now closed her blog forever due to other problems.

The aim of the words is to encourage us to write. A story, a poem, whatever comes to mind.

If you are posting an entry on your own blog, please let us know so we can come along to read it and add a few encouraging words.

This month the words/prompts are supplied by Hilary Melton-Butcher and can be found here

This week's words/prompts are: 

1. archetype 2. clouds 3. rummage 4. weakly 5. shovel 

and/or: 

1. grace 2. blot 3. jackdaw 4. legume 5. poet

also included is Charlotte's colour of the month- turquoise blue

Here is my continuing story:

Grace rummaged in the old hope chest until she found her Grandpa’s floppy old gardening hat. Once a bright azure in colour it had faded over the years to a softer turquoise blue. Jamming it onto her head, she made her way to the eastern side of the hedgerow, then used the rusty old shovel to weakly scrape at the hard-packed dirt there, making a single short furrow. Into this she crumbled the rotting leaves and grasses she had kept damp by sacrificing half of her daily water allowance. From her pocket Grace drew a small package of dried legumes, using only half of them, dropping each one six inches apart in the furrow, then scraping the soil back over it before using a stone at each end to mark the place. 

The darkening clouds overhead promised rain and in spite of the continuing heat, Grace was hopeful. She would stay here in her old home for just one month more to see if the legumes sprouted, if they did she would saturate an old piece of hessian with the last of the water, dig up each bean and wrap the lot in the damp cloth, then make her way along the hedgerows to “The Village” Grandpa had spoken of before he died. The beginnings of a vegetable garden would be her contribution to living there. Grace used a corner of her apron to blot the perspiration from her face then turned to go back inside the hut. 

She was stopped by a surprising sound, a chirping, tweeting sing-song and she frantically searched for the source. Her gentle poet Grandpa had told her about birds and how the world would be saved if any ever came back, none had been seen for many years now. She finally spotted a mass of feathers behind the chimney and marveled as it took flight. She did not recognize it as a Jackdaw, but now she had more hopeful news to deliver to The Village when she arrived. If she arrived.

 Perhaps someone there would help her return to Grandpa’s hut to rescue the remainder of his old seeds, she didn’t want to carry too much in case she didn’t make it, for then they would surely be lost forever, but also she just couldn’t bear to stay here alone much longer. Grace was only fifteen and hoped there might be other young people in The Village. Before going inside she gazed at the big rock in the middle of the next field, Grandpa’s shallow grave was right beside it.