Writers Block…
Writers block, like bow-peep’s lost flock words escape me
Lines and white spaces berate me, images flee
Caged imagination begging see me and free me
Oh! How I hate thee writers block.
Poems from writing retreat
Mum
Her home in two places can be
One her family, is she?
The other a mother.
Life can be smothered
I ritual suffered.
Her fresh bread dedication
A clean house meditation.
Church and then home
Regulated, lovingly grown.
I fail.
I fail the ‘I do’s.’
I fail to choose.
I’m wanting more
I’m taking it all.
She is not me.
By SB
Winner, Winner, Chicken Dinner
Winner, Winner, Chicken Dinner
Winner, Winner, chicken dinner! That was what we would call out when we guessed correctly which form the potatoes took every Sunday as a child.
Sunday dinner was a must in our family. It was the only time we were allowed in mum’s kitchen to cook with her. It was mom’s belief that if she taught us to cook a Sunday roast everything else in the world would fall into place. Nothing could be more difficult than a perfectly cooked wonderfully timed Sunday dinner. If you could complete this task then nothing in the world would ever seem too complicated.
Potatoes were a debate. Mom hated peeling potatoes so that was always the assistance task. As the assistant we could decide if we; boiled the ‘Spuds’, boiled then roasted or Mashed. We could roast them in their own tray or next to the roasting joint. We could add onions or other vegetables too. Options like weather to salt the boiling water or the potatoes before we roast them and should an assistant add milk and butter when mashing or just salt and pepper? All was part of the game.
Everyone in the living room would take a guess and as we grew older we would bet our pudding on the result. This continued for many years as we were seven children strong. But dad never had to assist, he always got to guess.
INGREDIENTS
4 1/2 pounds russet potatoes, rinsed, peeled if desired, and cut into 2-inch chunks
1 tablespoon white vinegar
Kosher salt
1/4 cup duck fat
Freshly ground black pepper
12 sprigs thyme
DIRECTIONS
1.
Adjust oven racks to lower and upper position and preheat oven to 500°F. Place potatoes in a large saucepan and cover with cold water by 1-inch. Add 2 tablespoons salt and vinegar. Bring to a boil over high heat, reduce to a simmer, and cook until exteriors are tender, about 5 minutes. Potatoes should show a slight resistance when poked with a paring knife or a cake tester. Drain potatoes and transfer to a large bowl.
2.
Add fat to bowl with potatoes. Season with pepper and more salt to taste then toss with a large metal spoon until exteriors are slightly bashed up and coated in a thin layer of potato/fat paste. Divide potatoes evenly between two heavy rimmed baking sheets. Spread thyme sprigs over potatoes.
3.
Transfer baking sheets to the oven and roast until the bottoms of the potatoes are crisp and golden brown, about 20 minutes total, swapping top the trays top for bottom and rotating them once half way through roasting. Using a thin metal spatula, flip the potatoes and roast until the second side is golden brown, another 15 to 20 minutes. Discard thyme sprigs, and serve.
It’s beginning to hurt.
James Lasdun, winner of this year’s inaugural national short story prize wrote ‘It’s Beginning to Hurt’ in just 500 words.
we were set the challenge of borrowing one of his character’s and write their story within the same, or near to. time frame.
so this is Beginning to Hurt from Derrick’s view in 460 words.
It’s beginning to hurt
“Good lunch Mr Bryar?” she asked
“Excellent lunch” I heard him lie to Beth our office secretary
“Sorley’s?” I asked out of habit as my senior partner in our firm took his place at his polished walnut desk and I at my budget replica.
“No, some… Chinese place” he mumbled not even bothering to look at me.
“Your wife rang” I’d thrown that comment out into the air thoughtlessly. Inwardly I was cursing myself. She hadn’t just rung because I’d just had lunch with her secretly.
Panic at my stupidity caught the breath in my lungs and I gaged.
Bryar he was now on the phone to her. My heart beat guilty like a judge’s baton against my chest. I didn’t know how long it took for the taxi to take Penelope home from Metcalfe Hotel where we had been together.
Guilt had robbed me of the taste of the signature black and blue grill but not of Penelope’s lips on mine. Heat flushed my flesh at the thought of Bryar’s wife kissing me.
Would she be able to fool him once more?
This was a dangerous match neither Penelope nor I could afford for Bryar to divorce her. I needed his job and she needed his money.
My desk clock ticked as I went over tonight’s murder plan in my mind once more this had to go perfectly like a metronome if we were going to get away with it.
Tick,
7pm; He takes his brandy in the library. Pea will open the kitchen window and leave Tom’s car keys out on the phone stand.
Tock.
8pm I will hide behind the shed until the security lights turn off in the yard.
Tick.
8.20 get into the kitchen and hide in the pantry.
Tock.
9pm Bryar sets the alarm and goes to bed. Wait until I hear Pea call ‘Goodnight’ to Crème Custard.
Tick
Oh dam! I forgot 8.10 – feed Crème Custard AMITRIPTYLINE laced dog treats. That bloody Poodle would bark the place into an up roar if I don’t give him the sleeping pills.
Oh god, I’m going to end up in prison.
He’s not at his desk on the phone. Where has Bryar gone?
“Where are you heading Mr Bryar?” I called after him
“My wife needs a Salmon, see you tomorrow Derrick” came his distant reply
“Night sir? Hope you have a good evening.” I gave my best toadying voice. Did that sound too forced? Was it too obvious? Golly it’s so warm in this bloody office.
Maybe I should write the plan out in built points, then I can memorise it easier.
Hell no, stupid, stupid me.
-Bang!-
Ahrr! Oh the door, yes of course it is. Where was I?
By SB
Oak Tree and Stars by BlueFalcon1983 