I thought of this while I was out walking. Here in Inverness, it was frosty and foggy this morning, but as the sun got higher and the mist cleared, I heard the frost melt on a couple of tall trees I walked by (I took the path round them to avoid being rained on). I hope that you will enjoy this small piece.
Grey, grey the sky looks
November mist has descended upon us
Light grey, light grey you see
The sun is beginning to shine later
White, white your eyes see
Another nightly visit of Jack Frost
Bluer, bluer the sky clears
The sun prevails over the mist
Crush, crush of your feet
Where you step onto white
Slip, slip of your feet
Where you step onto non-white
Shine, shine of the sun
Shining up above you
Shine, shine of the sun
Shining off the road before you
Shine, shine of the sun
Shining into your eyes
Redder, redder the sky becomes
Approaching Shepherds' Delight of the day
Redder, redder the sky glows
Another ending of growing shorter days
Darker, darker the sky grows
Chance to see the stars watching from above
Pat, pat I hear while walking
Thus comes my inspiration I present here
Pat, pat your ears can hear
You look for the non-existent rain
Pat, pat you listen hard
Your eyes scan the clear blue above
Pat, pat you hear to see
You see the trees' drops follow Newton's laws
Pat, pat you smile at Nature's sight
You listen to the trees' Sunshine Rain
I hope that you've enjoyed this piece. Happy St. Andrews' Day on Wednesday.
Monday, 28 November 2016
Monday, 21 November 2016
20th Writing Blog - Jack London - An Unmentioned Author
This year, we've been talking about Shakespeare (who died four hundred years ago) and Roald Dahl (who was born a hundred years ago). But I'd like to bring forward an author who seems to have been forgotten; the American author Jack London.
Born in San Francisco, California, on the 12th of January 1876 (a hundred and forty years ago), London was born under the name of John Griffith Chaney, before he then took his stepfather's surname, London, to become Jack London. London lived life to the full. He grew up in Oakland where he worked hard for a living, when he was ten he sold newspapers on the city streets. At thirteen, he was working an eighteen hour day in a cannery. Coming from a poor working-class family seemed to encourage young London to succeed. despite little formal education, London learnt from books from the Oakland Public Library. He eventually studied at the University of California, but due to costs, had to drop out.
In 1897, at the age of 21, London travelled to Canada in the wake of the Klondike Gold Rush. Sadly, like many others on the Gold Rush, he didn't make much money. However, he returned to California with ideas that would form the basis of the two novels, The Call of the Wild (1903) and White Fang (1905). Jack London wrote over fifty other novels like The Sea-Wolf (1904) and The Iron Heel (1908). I have read that London's works have been translated into more than fifty languages across the world.
In the novels The Call of the Wild and White Fang, the story follows the trails of a cross-breed dog, Buck and White Fang respectively. Both dogs pass through a line of owners, some good and some bad. Buck works with the sled dogs, pulling the mail, after being stolen and sold from his owners in California, before his last owner is killed by the Native Americans ("Indians" as they're called in London's novels) and finds a place with a wild wolf pack. White Fang is almost the same, but in reverse. He was born in the wild and grows up learning the laws of the wild, before found by a Native American called Grey Beaver, who then sold White Fang to a man called "Beauty" Smith, who was anything but pretty and uses White Fang in the now illegal dog fighting rings till a Californian man called Weedon Scott rescues White Fang from a near-deadly fight and allows White Fang to travel with him back to California, where he earns the respect of Scott's family after alerting the family when Scott was injured and when an escaped murderer breaks into the family house and nearly dies from the resulting fight.
Jack London married twice. He married his first wife, Bess Maddern in 1900 and together they had two daughters, Joan and Bess, before they separated in 1903. London married his second wife, Charmian Kittredge, in 1905.
In 1904, Jack London travelled to Japan as a war correspondent to cover the Russo-Japanese War of 1904. While there and in Asia, London was arrested at least three times.
For the rest of his life, Jack London supported many causes, like the women's suffrage and animal activism (the stories The Call of the Wild and White Fang are mostly from the dogs point-of-view). Sadly, London spent most of his money on his friends and drinking, and suffered many illnesses.
Jack London died on the 22nd of November 1916 in Glen Ellen in California, mostly likely from kidney disease. He was forty years old.
I hope that Jack London's books and stories will still capture our imagination as they first did upon their publication. I hope that you may find one of his stories, read and enjoy them for years to come.
Thank you again Jack London.
Born in San Francisco, California, on the 12th of January 1876 (a hundred and forty years ago), London was born under the name of John Griffith Chaney, before he then took his stepfather's surname, London, to become Jack London. London lived life to the full. He grew up in Oakland where he worked hard for a living, when he was ten he sold newspapers on the city streets. At thirteen, he was working an eighteen hour day in a cannery. Coming from a poor working-class family seemed to encourage young London to succeed. despite little formal education, London learnt from books from the Oakland Public Library. He eventually studied at the University of California, but due to costs, had to drop out.
In 1897, at the age of 21, London travelled to Canada in the wake of the Klondike Gold Rush. Sadly, like many others on the Gold Rush, he didn't make much money. However, he returned to California with ideas that would form the basis of the two novels, The Call of the Wild (1903) and White Fang (1905). Jack London wrote over fifty other novels like The Sea-Wolf (1904) and The Iron Heel (1908). I have read that London's works have been translated into more than fifty languages across the world.
In the novels The Call of the Wild and White Fang, the story follows the trails of a cross-breed dog, Buck and White Fang respectively. Both dogs pass through a line of owners, some good and some bad. Buck works with the sled dogs, pulling the mail, after being stolen and sold from his owners in California, before his last owner is killed by the Native Americans ("Indians" as they're called in London's novels) and finds a place with a wild wolf pack. White Fang is almost the same, but in reverse. He was born in the wild and grows up learning the laws of the wild, before found by a Native American called Grey Beaver, who then sold White Fang to a man called "Beauty" Smith, who was anything but pretty and uses White Fang in the now illegal dog fighting rings till a Californian man called Weedon Scott rescues White Fang from a near-deadly fight and allows White Fang to travel with him back to California, where he earns the respect of Scott's family after alerting the family when Scott was injured and when an escaped murderer breaks into the family house and nearly dies from the resulting fight.
Jack London married twice. He married his first wife, Bess Maddern in 1900 and together they had two daughters, Joan and Bess, before they separated in 1903. London married his second wife, Charmian Kittredge, in 1905.
In 1904, Jack London travelled to Japan as a war correspondent to cover the Russo-Japanese War of 1904. While there and in Asia, London was arrested at least three times.
For the rest of his life, Jack London supported many causes, like the women's suffrage and animal activism (the stories The Call of the Wild and White Fang are mostly from the dogs point-of-view). Sadly, London spent most of his money on his friends and drinking, and suffered many illnesses.
Jack London died on the 22nd of November 1916 in Glen Ellen in California, mostly likely from kidney disease. He was forty years old.
I hope that Jack London's books and stories will still capture our imagination as they first did upon their publication. I hope that you may find one of his stories, read and enjoy them for years to come.
Thank you again Jack London.
Wednesday, 16 November 2016
Wendy's Squeaking Follower
I came up with piece just this week. In this piece, a young lady walks through town, thinking that it'll be a normal day in town. That is, until she hears of familiar squeaking that hints that somebody it following her. I hope that you will enjoy this piece.
Wendy loved coming to tower on a Friday afternoon. It is here where she meets up with her friends after working hours and they go off to night clubs, where they love have a party.
Wendy hopped off the bus into town with delight. Just half an hour before she was due to meet up with friends at the G4 Club. As she rounded a corner that approached a retail building's front door, it was here that she first heard the sound.
Squeak, squeak, squeak.
There was something odd about the squeaks. There was a gap big enough for a step to happen. It was as if the walker had a new pair of shoes, but one of them was still squeaking. Thinking that it was somebody in passing, Wendy took no notice as she stopped and peeked into a shop window.
But then, the squeaking returned and passed on. Wendy thought maybe the walker remembered something he forgot and was going to back for it.
Wendy then proceed to enter the retail building and walked to the coffee shop for a cup of coffee. As she exited the coffee, feeling refreshed, and started walking past the other shop windows, she heard it again.
Squeak, squeak, squeak.
Is somebody following me? Wendy asked herself, the first hint of nerves starting to sink in.
Hoping that she wasn't showing her fear, she stopped and pretended to look at something nice in a shop window beside her, but started to focus on the reflections on the glass. The whole hall was full of people, but one had his eyes on her.
He was about thirty years of age, strong build, hands deep in his coat pockets and every time he stepped forward, his left leg limped and his ankle gave the faint squeak. His dark eyes was hidden in shadow. And beside his leg, was a large dog, that was more like a wolf than anything else.
Wendy pretended to stop looking at the object in the window and walked into the shop, aware of the squeaking that announce that the man had entered the shop a few feet behind. She could feel his eyes upon her. Knowing the shop's layout, Wendy quickly double backed and out of the shop and up a flight of stairs and into another shop. She reached the middle of the shop, she sighed in relief.
Squeak, squeak, squeak.
He's still following? Wendy asked herself, He can't walk that fast. She hid round a tall shelf.
Her heart was racing now as she waited for the man to pass. But the squeaking stopped.
At least a minute past, but nothing.
Softly, she looked around the shelf. The man was standing in the doorway, his shadow casted eyes fixed on her as she quickly dodged back round the shelf.
She knew that this shop had no other door than the one being guarded by the man and his dog.
Squeak, squeak, squeak.
She turned her head and saw the man looming over her. Her heart's rate rocketed as fear drowned her heart.
"Wendy?" The man asked.
She nodded. He produced a purse from his coat pocket.
"You dropped your purse on the bus."
She felt her pockets and found her purse gone. She took the purse from his hand and saw that it was her purse. Relief washed over her.
"I was trying to return it, but my blasted left leg made me slower than I used to be. Are you Jess Ennis-Hill's long-lost cousin?"
"Thank you so much." She laughed with a smile.
"You're very welcome." Said the man, with a nod of his head, his eyes flashing brightly. "Sorry if I scared you. Have a nice day." And with that, the man and his dog walked out of the shop.
"And you don't know his name?" Julia asked Wendy over the noise of the club's music. The "party" was in full flow.
"He left before I could ask." Wendy shook her head.
"Was he handsome?" Mary asked.
"Dashingly yes."
"Shame you don't have his number." Julia said.
"I'll get more drinks." Wendy spoke up and went to the bar, hoping to delay anymore questions for later.
As she waited for the refreshments, she heard a familiar sound. Squeak, squeak, squeak.
Wendy smiled.
I hope that you've enjoyed this small piece.
Wendy loved coming to tower on a Friday afternoon. It is here where she meets up with her friends after working hours and they go off to night clubs, where they love have a party.
Wendy hopped off the bus into town with delight. Just half an hour before she was due to meet up with friends at the G4 Club. As she rounded a corner that approached a retail building's front door, it was here that she first heard the sound.
Squeak, squeak, squeak.
There was something odd about the squeaks. There was a gap big enough for a step to happen. It was as if the walker had a new pair of shoes, but one of them was still squeaking. Thinking that it was somebody in passing, Wendy took no notice as she stopped and peeked into a shop window.
But then, the squeaking returned and passed on. Wendy thought maybe the walker remembered something he forgot and was going to back for it.
Wendy then proceed to enter the retail building and walked to the coffee shop for a cup of coffee. As she exited the coffee, feeling refreshed, and started walking past the other shop windows, she heard it again.
Squeak, squeak, squeak.
Is somebody following me? Wendy asked herself, the first hint of nerves starting to sink in.
Hoping that she wasn't showing her fear, she stopped and pretended to look at something nice in a shop window beside her, but started to focus on the reflections on the glass. The whole hall was full of people, but one had his eyes on her.
He was about thirty years of age, strong build, hands deep in his coat pockets and every time he stepped forward, his left leg limped and his ankle gave the faint squeak. His dark eyes was hidden in shadow. And beside his leg, was a large dog, that was more like a wolf than anything else.
Wendy pretended to stop looking at the object in the window and walked into the shop, aware of the squeaking that announce that the man had entered the shop a few feet behind. She could feel his eyes upon her. Knowing the shop's layout, Wendy quickly double backed and out of the shop and up a flight of stairs and into another shop. She reached the middle of the shop, she sighed in relief.
Squeak, squeak, squeak.
He's still following? Wendy asked herself, He can't walk that fast. She hid round a tall shelf.
Her heart was racing now as she waited for the man to pass. But the squeaking stopped.
At least a minute past, but nothing.
Softly, she looked around the shelf. The man was standing in the doorway, his shadow casted eyes fixed on her as she quickly dodged back round the shelf.
She knew that this shop had no other door than the one being guarded by the man and his dog.
Squeak, squeak, squeak.
She turned her head and saw the man looming over her. Her heart's rate rocketed as fear drowned her heart.
"Wendy?" The man asked.
She nodded. He produced a purse from his coat pocket.
"You dropped your purse on the bus."
She felt her pockets and found her purse gone. She took the purse from his hand and saw that it was her purse. Relief washed over her.
"I was trying to return it, but my blasted left leg made me slower than I used to be. Are you Jess Ennis-Hill's long-lost cousin?"
"Thank you so much." She laughed with a smile.
"You're very welcome." Said the man, with a nod of his head, his eyes flashing brightly. "Sorry if I scared you. Have a nice day." And with that, the man and his dog walked out of the shop.
"And you don't know his name?" Julia asked Wendy over the noise of the club's music. The "party" was in full flow.
"He left before I could ask." Wendy shook her head.
"Was he handsome?" Mary asked.
"Dashingly yes."
"Shame you don't have his number." Julia said.
"I'll get more drinks." Wendy spoke up and went to the bar, hoping to delay anymore questions for later.
As she waited for the refreshments, she heard a familiar sound. Squeak, squeak, squeak.
Wendy smiled.
I hope that you've enjoyed this small piece.
Tuesday, 1 November 2016
The Time from the Train Drivers' Watches and the Station Clock
While I creating the previous post, I discovered another short piece I wrote not long before it. I thought you might enjoy this piece.
In this piece, two train drivers, Chris and Danny, are asked by a small boy what the time is.
"What's the time?" Chris asked Danny, his pocket watch in his hand.
Danny stepped into the cab doorway of Neil the steam engine, taking out his pocket watch, and looked at it.
"Quarter to twelve."
"That's what my watch says too."
"Why ask?" Danny asked.
"This laddie here has pointed out that the station clock says ten to twelve."
"That means that your watches are slow." The boy said in a cheeky manner.
"Pardon?" Chris asked, looking scorn now.
"I said, 'That means that your watches are slow.'"
Chris and Danny looked at each other then at the boy.
"We beg your pardon my young man," Danny nodded his head, "but our watches are correct."
"No they're not."
"Yes they are."
"No they're not."
"Yes they are so." Chris mimicked the boy's voice, but failed on the accent level.
"What's going on here?" A man, in a posh suit and coat, appeared through a gathering crowd.
"Nothing sir." Chris replied, "Just this young man says our watches are slow compared to the clock."
"Their watches are slow Father," the boy shouted, "their watches say quarter to, the clock says ten to."
"Father?" Chris and Danny asked, surprised, as the man looked at the clock, then his watch, the clock again and corrected his watch.
"Good eyes my son." The man patted his son's head. "I'll get you a watch. I've got a friend who owns a watch factory."
"We've got a friend in a watch factory." Chris spoke.
"Really?" Asked the man, "What does he do?"
"He sits about and makes faces."
Everyone about who heard laughed at the joke, apart from the man and his son, their faces red.
"What's going on here?" Asked the Station Master as he appeared at the front of the train, fighting his laughs.
The man pointed at Chris and Danny. "These two men say that their watches are correct and my son is wrong and spits out bad jokes to my social standing."
"How are their watches wrong?" The Station Master asked.
"How are our watches wrong?" Chris and Danny asked together.
"Their watches are five minutes slow behind you stations clock." The boy's father folded his arms with price, so did his son, both smirking.
"Oh that old clock." The Station Master smiled. "That old clock hasn't worked in twenty years."
"Son, get on the train, NOW!"
"I think somebody just lost their chance for a watch." Chris whispered to Danny, both grinning, watching the boy walk slowly embossed with a fuming father following behind in front of a laughing crowd, reconnecting his watch. The two train drivers looked at their watches, twenty four seconds past ten to twelve.
I hope that you've enjoyed this piece and I hope to expand this piece later in the future. I have already be working on Chris and Danny the steam train drivers.
In this piece, two train drivers, Chris and Danny, are asked by a small boy what the time is.
"What's the time?" Chris asked Danny, his pocket watch in his hand.
Danny stepped into the cab doorway of Neil the steam engine, taking out his pocket watch, and looked at it.
"Quarter to twelve."
"That's what my watch says too."
"Why ask?" Danny asked.
"This laddie here has pointed out that the station clock says ten to twelve."
"That means that your watches are slow." The boy said in a cheeky manner.
"Pardon?" Chris asked, looking scorn now.
"I said, 'That means that your watches are slow.'"
Chris and Danny looked at each other then at the boy.
"We beg your pardon my young man," Danny nodded his head, "but our watches are correct."
"No they're not."
"Yes they are."
"No they're not."
"Yes they are so." Chris mimicked the boy's voice, but failed on the accent level.
"What's going on here?" A man, in a posh suit and coat, appeared through a gathering crowd.
"Nothing sir." Chris replied, "Just this young man says our watches are slow compared to the clock."
"Their watches are slow Father," the boy shouted, "their watches say quarter to, the clock says ten to."
"Father?" Chris and Danny asked, surprised, as the man looked at the clock, then his watch, the clock again and corrected his watch.
"Good eyes my son." The man patted his son's head. "I'll get you a watch. I've got a friend who owns a watch factory."
"We've got a friend in a watch factory." Chris spoke.
"Really?" Asked the man, "What does he do?"
"He sits about and makes faces."
Everyone about who heard laughed at the joke, apart from the man and his son, their faces red.
"What's going on here?" Asked the Station Master as he appeared at the front of the train, fighting his laughs.
The man pointed at Chris and Danny. "These two men say that their watches are correct and my son is wrong and spits out bad jokes to my social standing."
"How are their watches wrong?" The Station Master asked.
"How are our watches wrong?" Chris and Danny asked together.
"Their watches are five minutes slow behind you stations clock." The boy's father folded his arms with price, so did his son, both smirking.
"Oh that old clock." The Station Master smiled. "That old clock hasn't worked in twenty years."
"Son, get on the train, NOW!"
"I think somebody just lost their chance for a watch." Chris whispered to Danny, both grinning, watching the boy walk slowly embossed with a fuming father following behind in front of a laughing crowd, reconnecting his watch. The two train drivers looked at their watches, twenty four seconds past ten to twelve.
I hope that you've enjoyed this piece and I hope to expand this piece later in the future. I have already be working on Chris and Danny the steam train drivers.
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