Homeless children playing football with cans.”
50 Word Stories – The Clams
Everyone had an opinion without knowing what they gave an opinion on. A cacophony of the uneducated, those with the loudest voices fought to be heard above others of their kind, the quieter majority engulfed. I thought them clam-like, mouths opening and closing under the sea, though clams seemed smarter.
The world is blue.
Although life can be defined by the colours in which we parade, the earth itself lies resplendent under an emerald green jacket. For most people, a copse of trees or lush meadow define the idyllic. But not all.
For some, those identifiable dreamers, blue is the colour they aspire to be it ultramarine sea or cerulean sky.
Blue will fold around us when the green dies away.
Blue will be there when needed until our dying day.
A rippling reassurance when troubled. A turbulent chastisement when persuasion fails. Our droplet of universe.
The world is blue.
The world rocks, I rock with it. A disproportionate wind shivers these bones and rattles these teeth, though the world beyond my seclusion appears calm. Life in a hammock I call it, suspended between birth and death, a precarious situation. Yet despite my reservations, I’ve no desire to climb off.
Something about a winter sunrise stirred my soul, coated it in liquid gold, a protective cocoon that only angels enjoyed. Everyone got the summer dawns but not the winter. Timing was everything. Solitude essential. One had to just get up and relish them. And I have. And I will again.
Autumn has swept in without my knowing. An early gloom has stolen my evening reading and ushered in the need for unnatural, electric light; it buzzes like a swarm of flies. Northern kisses settle on chapped lips, the promise of snowflake tomorrows. There’s a change. Are you ready? I am.
Daily: children playing football with bricks.
Alternate Title: Richard! What Are You Doing?
As many of you know, I'm a simple guy. I take great delight in often very basic things and express little joy over such monumental purchases as cars, houses and their ilk. In true Yorkshire fashion, 'I like what I like'. So, you can imagine my delight at buying a toothpaste consisting of three coloured stripes: blue; white; green. I'd never had that combination before.
I started using said toothpaste a week ago. Blue and white were the colours that squeezed from that tempting tube; green failed to emerge. I put it down to how it was filled, and though bitterly disappointed realised I would someday soon achieve my three-striped dream. It did not come. I was less than pleased.
This morning I could take no more!
Now, before my rant unfolds, I should also tell you this. I am quite robotic. I do things in certain ways and enjoy the repetition. Towels will always be folded the same way, food packed in cupboards in a set fashion; my timing of getting up, going for a run and other similar events are always the same; if I bash myself, I'll do exactly the same thing again within minutes, and the list goes on. It's just the way I am. If let's say, my wife, should move something even a yard from where it should be, I'm lost in an ocean of confusion. This happens regularly. I just can't help it.
Back to my rant.
I squeezed in anticipation, my tongue in cheek. That green stripe had to be there. It had to! It wasn't. Oh dear, oh dear!
I was on about my tenth curse when my wife risked walking in. She'd heard me and wished to help. Instead of trying to explain, she took my toothbrush and turned it upside down: the toothpaste fell off with a resonating, cataclysmic boom. It did, you know.
And there was my green stripe. I'd squeezed the toothpaste onto my toothbrush exactly the same way each day with exactly the same result; I'd hidden the green stripe. Oops!
Don't leap into assumptions that you cannot prove. Don't rant and rave over the trivial. Just remember this. Toothpastes only last a few weeks. Don't sully those special times together with anger.
A Richard's Life Production
For an on behalf of Lunatic Studios.
Coming to a supermarket near you.
It is that last cool breath before the summer’s warmth. Field upon field of heaped greens sway in a ripening wind waiting for the sun to impart its own gold colouring upon them. Not quite foodstuffs, nor still seedlings dreaming of life, they prepare to change. As do we all.
When we are young, the transition from a crawling baby to a scampering child does not come without disaster. There is a certain inevitability about the fact we shall and do fall many times. And, that after it being witnessed by our parents once or twice, it will no longer hold the same fear. There is even less fear for the child. A baby sets its sights on something, clambers up onto its own two feet and lurches for that objective with a single-mindedness that any adult can admire. Yes, they will fall, but that child will just get right on up and try again.
As adults, we do not remember our own trials to a bipedal existence. For all those times we fell, the memories are obliterated. So I ask: when as an adult we fall even once, why is the struggle to stand again so difficult? Where is that childhood desire to regain our feet? Why are we inclined to give up? Is it to learn to keep going and never give up?
I can’t answer these questions with assuredness, but I will try like hell to act like I’m two until someone tells me to stop.