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 Wisewebwoman and can be found here

This week's words/prompts are: 

1. rusk 2. spindrift 3. ballistic 4. troubador 5. killick 

and/or: 

1. mantra 2. tuckamore 3. whirlpool 4. calliope 5. catamaran

also included is Charlotte's colour of the month: fawn brown 

Here is my story:

I awoke drenched in sweat, the midnight thunderstorm directly above my tiny shack had become part of my dreams, reminding me of the ballistic missiles destroying the villages of my homeland. I muttered my mantra over and over as I took a quick shower, “it’s over and you’re still alive.” The war had been decades ago and I was now old and grey, unlike so many who had not survived.

I shuffled outside to greet the morning sun, hearing the sounds of the carnival setting up in the next field. Tonight I would hear the sweet songs of the Calliope, perhaps a troubador would wander through the crowds, charming young ladies with his music. Did they even have troubadors these days? My field abutted the beach, with the ocean not too far away and as I watched the circling seagulls a catamaran came into view. Don and Ben would be fishing for their supper, their usual small fishing boat was in dry dock for repairs and repainting.

Into my bag I packed a few rusks, toasted to a nice fawn brown, and walked across the field to where the tuckamores stood at the edge of the sand, they were bent and gnarly from decades of ocean breezes.  I untied the rope holding my tiny dinghy,  and pushed it into the water. I rowed out close to where the whirlpools eddied and dropped my killick over the side.

I rejoiced in the cooling feel of spindrift on my face, wondering how many more summers I would have to feel this joy. I ate my rusks, then reached to the buoy next to the boat. Hauling on the ropes attached I could feel the weight in my arms and shoulders. A good catch I thought, hauling up the net filled with blue swimmer crabs, enough for at least three days dinners after I bartered a few with Ginnie for some of her potatoes and greens.