For the Love of It

Pixabay

Why do we do this?

Is it just for the pay?

Can’t we do it for love?

It’s the only true way.

 

“Amateur” – now an insult or taunt –

Meaning few skills you hold or possess,

They say talent must be rewarded for profit –

True masters get paid for what they profess

 

Padre

 

How sad is it in our society that everything is monetised?  Doing things for enjoyment, or just to pass time with friends is “wasteful.”  These unpaid activities must therefore be “second best.”  It is not too long ego that “professionals” were not allowed in the Olympics.  We the athletes of the 1970 or 80s “second rate?”   Who has not seen a memorable AmDram production, or fallen in love with a sketch that someone made just to capture a moment?   As in sport, drama, or art; so too with politics or social action – we are told to forget the amateurs, and  “leave it to the professionals.”

 

Weekend Writing Prompt #116 – Amateur

When We Were Very Young

Pixabay

 

A shilling was a treasure then

Our sweets cost just 2d

There were but three channels on the telly then

When we were very young

 

We played with wooden sticks then

The “joy” type was unknown

A red box on the village green

Was our only “mobile” phone

 

We wore blazers or pinnies

When we went to school

At break time we chased or bulldog played

When we were very young

 

Padre

 

Christine’s Daily Writing Prompt: When We Were Very Young

The Stroke

RAC

 His car suffered a severe stroke in the middle of the road, and refused to move forward.  This was unlike any illness or ailment “Pierre” had ever suffered before.  Oh, there had been the mishaps.  There was that punctured tyre near Brighton, but that was a mere sprained ankle.  Then a year later near Sudbury there was the first signs of circulatory disease when the fuel pump clogged.  But this was different.

It started simply.  A warning light for the battery came on.  It then went off and a few more miles were travelled.  Then it came on again, and as did the indicator that the Anti-skid Break system had a fault.  Not worrying he drove on, then the Power Steering light, followed almost immediately by the blacking out of the GPS screen, and radio.  Pierre sputtered, slowed, then lurched forward again and stopped.  The steering wheel would not turn, and the electronic break engaged and would not unlock, even when the Royal Auto Club repairmen arrived.   Even he struggled even to hook Pierre to the recovery vehicle.

“That’s wrong?” the driver asked.

“The computer system has totally failed,” the mechanic said.  “It’s really rare, but comes from too much dependence of a computer and not enough for mechanical systems.  It’s why I won’t ever drive a Citroën.”

Yes, Pierre had had a stroke.

 

Padre

Story based on true personal experience.

 

Welcome to the Saturday Mix – Unique Personality

Miscellaneous Prompted Micro Poems 11

photo by Neil Armstrong (via History in HD on Unsplash)

“One small step,” so he said, then left footprints many,
Mankind’s excesses are thus displayed,
We take, we use, discard, and waste; claiming we have plenty.

Three Line Tales, Week 181 18 July 19

 

Chills felt upon spines –

Trembling apprehension for

Shadows on the wall

Heeding Haiku With Chèvrefeuille, July 24th 2019, shadows on the wall

 

photo by Rikki Austin via Unsplash

The twilight time for the Elven folk of lore
Like the browning of summer’s fields – autumnal
So too the guardians of the secrets of yore

Three Line Tales, Week 182 25 July 19

 

Creative Commons Zero

A film upon a garden pond, tadpoles soon to bring
A film upon the silver screen, drawing all to its sheen
A film upon my eyes, aging, obscuring all I’ve seen

TLT Throwback – Year 3: Thirty: Film 25 July 19

Padre

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Joker: A Cousin’s Tale

 

Pixabay

The second day of travel was much as the first.  The long road eastwards took them through what seemed endless fields and small hamlets, and there was really no chance of a change of scenery until after they left the Farmington District.

 

Luke Weaver sat at the reins of the wagon taking in the sea of ploughed fields and wondered how anyone could spend their lives as farmers.  It was unthinkable to have to work outside in all weather conditions, and to do backbreaking work just for what? – grass.  As he saw it wheat and barley were grass, and didn’t grass just grow itself?

 

He shook himself from his musings and decided to liven up the journey a bit.  As Arun came alongside the wagon he called out in a loud conversational voice.  “A Dwarf walks into a tavern and orders a flagon of ale.  He guzzles it down, the liquor running down his long shaggy beard.  He wipes his beard with his shirt sleeve and orders a second.   He gulps this one down as well and lets out a satisfied sigh.  He then slaps a small silver coin down on the bar.  The barman picks up the coin and says. ‘I think you’re a little short’.”

 

After a moment’s consideration a small smile crossed Arun’s lips.  Uran who had overheard the tale, gave her brother a stern look, and his expression became more serious.  At the same time, Gwen looked disapprovingly at her boyfriend.

 

Rather than taking the hint, Luke began a second tale in a much louder voice – “A Green-landian, a Nord, and a Far-lander find a lamp which contains a Genie. . .”

 

He was cut short by a punch from Gwen, and only then did he see the hostile expressions on Wai Yen and Omar’s faces as they looked back at him.

 

“Doesn’t anyone around her have a sense of humour?” Luke challenged.  He then gave a huff and shook the reins to speed up the team.  “You lot are unbelievable,” he said under his breath. “I can’t see why everybody is so touchy.”

 

I think it’s  you that’s a bit touched, Andrea mused.

 

Padre

FOWC with Fandango — Touch

Nightfall: A Simple Cinquain

 

Pixabay

Dusk

Sun Setting

Air Slowly Cooling

Birds Return To Roost

Night

 

Padre

The Garden: A Dunes War Tale

Pixabay

Foreign Minister Blackridge found the temperatures in the Sea-Landian capital of Xi oppressive.  The architecture of the ancient city was impressive, and the bright red tiled roofs alien to him, he having been raised surrounded by thatch or grey slate.  The official Xi military escort brought him to a blue tiled building from which flew the Purple Rose banner of his own kingdom.

 

After a few moments of pleasantries with the Xi official who had met him at the port, he exited the sedan chair and approached the Embassy.  As he mounted the steps, two uniformed Lancers snapped to attention, and the ambassador, Sir Cuthbert came to greet him.

 

They made their way to the ambassador’s office, where cold drinks were already waiting, and a servant operated a fan by means of a pulley system.

 

“Sir, Cuthbert,” the minister began. “I have travelled all this way because the king wants your honest appraisal of the Far-landian claims of neutrality.”

 

Cuthbert being sure to have his back turned to the pig-tailed fan operator held a finger to his lips and said, “The Xi are a truly amazing and upright people.  Their word is as good as gold, My Lord.”

 

With that he picked up his glass and dropped two pieces of ice into it.  “You look tired and well – over-heated, My Lord.  Perhaps we should sit in the cool breeze of the garden?”

 

Blackridge was in no mood to get up and move about again, but he noticed the slight wink the ambassador gave him as he handed him a drink.

 

“Very well,” the senior official said, and he followed Cuthbert through an arched doorway into a well- tended garden.

 

They passed several well shaded benches, much to the Foreign Minister’s annoyance, and came to a large pool into which plunged a waterfall which tumbled over an artificial cliff.  Sir Cuthbert, sat on a ledge at the edge of the pool and motioned to a large rock which was next to him.  Irritably, the minister sat.

 

“What is the meaning of all this?” he demanded.

 

Leaning in towards the minister, Sir Cuthbert said in a voice barely audible over the waterfall, “Sorry My Lord, but the Xi have the embassy building riddled with passageways and peep-holes.  The servants, though vetted by us, are nonetheless Far-landians, and I was honest in the appraisal that their word is as good as gold, until someone offers them platinum.”

 

“Ah, I see,” Lord Blackridge said.

 

“We have found that the only place we can securely speak candidly is here next to the falls.  There are no tunnels, and the waters, as you can see, stop our words from carrying.  It is what we like to call, ‘The Secrets Garden.”

 

Padre

 

(454 Words, 26 minutes)

Christine’s Daily Writing Prompt: The Secret Garden

The Beach Party

 

Image by Bikurgurl

The couple were sure they had found the perfect isolated spot for their picnic.  So, they were surprised when they came ashore from fishing to find it a party site.  The shoreline was littered with the empty drinks containers, and other indicators of the day’s excesses.

“It really must have been some shindig,” Emily said scanning the bank from their boat.

“I can’t believe they emptied so many cans and wine bottles,” Roger said in agreement.

But nothing struck them more than the sight of the six partiers passed out on the grass.

“Those Cancers sure can party!” Emily said.

(100 words)

Padre

 

BIKURGURL, WRITING CHALLENGE 100 Word Wednesday: Week 130

The Power to Control Worlds

Pixabay

The aged master sat before his three most adept pupils.

“It is time for me to pass on to you the most powerful of all skills,” he croaked.

The trio sat with their faces fixed upon the sage.  Their eyes were filled with both wonder and apprehension.

He held up a slender wooden rod, and nodding towards it said, “With this you will be able to weave magic, control people’s destinies, and even create worlds.”

The three adepts now stared wide-eyed at the short implement.  Who would have thought that such an innocuous looking cylinder would harness such power?

“Now,” the master said, “let us begin.  Pick up your wands and hold them like this.”

The three kindergartners reached down and took up their pencils just like Mr. Baker had shown them.

“We will start with ‘A’,” he said.

Padre

The Flood

 

Image by janrye from Pixabay

Carlton Fogg the mist-maker sat forlornly upon the bench.  His long-time relationship with Dew was over.  How could she cheat on him? he mused. And with Breezy Zephyr of all people.

His heart broken, Carlton sat, his tiny droplets of moisture coalescing around him, not as mist but a torrent.

(50 words)

Padre

50 Word Thursday #30