Provider

Bow, Shooter, Arrow

Pixabay

The winter had been long and hard, and food supplies were dwindling.  Avorak had long been considered to be the clan’s greatest hunter, and it now fell upon him to feed his people.  This was a matter of pride for him, but now he felt as if he was failing them.

“Tell the people to meet me in the long hall,”  Avorak instructed his sickly little brother, Avin.

When all were gathered, the great hunter said, “I have called you all here to discuss our survival.  My father, Chief Avolar is ill.  I, therefore, will be in charge as we await his recovery.  Things are bleak.  The snows are heavy in the hills, that are our hunting grounds, and game is scarce.  Nevertheless, I will lead a hunting party into the hills, as we must have meat.  Till our return my mother, Ballora will mete out what remains of our food to each family.  Talver, Urick, Valinor, and Govina, you will join me.”

“Excuse me,” Avin interjected “I was thinking that I . . . .”

“There you go thinking again,” the great hunter interrupted, “No, Avin, you are not coming, and that’s final.  With that he grabbed his quiver and bow and departed.

A week later, a weary and empty-handed band of hunters returned to their settlement to the smell of rich meaty stew coming from the long hall.

“What has happened here?” Avorak questioned as he entered the hall.  “Have the gods intervened?”

“No, Avin has,” came a chorus of voices.

“But how? the mighty hunter asked in obvious confusion.

At that Avin approached a large wooden crate and pryed it open.  He lifted out a metallic cylinder and said, ” It’s called corned beef.  I went into Market-town and got some.”

 

Padre

 

Saturday Mix – Double Take: Our homophone sets this week are –

meat – animal flesh
meet – to connect
mete – a boundary (or to hand out)

and

pride – ego
pryed – opened

Simple Baked Potato

 

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It’s Foodie Friday, and day 11 of my lock-down. Keeping with the wisest course of action in the situation, I have been working my way through my “fresh” stores, before going on to my drieds and tins.  As I had several good sized potatoes at hand I have gone for a simple bake.  One eaten hot, and the others cooked for use in the next day or two (no need to run the oven for one potato).

Ingredients:

  • Potatoes  3-4 (Russet works well)
  • Olive Oil (I use garlic infused) splash
  • Sea Salt to taste

Method:

Preheat the oven to 375 F/ 190 C.  Wash the potatoes and pat dry.  Then make a cut with a sharp knife lengthwise on the top of each potato.  Place each potato in the centre of a square of foil large enough to wrap the entire potato.  Splash a small amount of oil onto each potato and gently work it onto the skin.  Wrap the potatoes thoroughly and place in the oven for 60 to 75 minutes.  Potatoes are done when a skewer or sharp knife can is able to pierce the potato meeting little or no resistance. Remove and let stand five minutes before serving with butter, or your favourite toppings.

Padre

 

 

 

Ne’er Be Mariner

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Most spoke of the low but omnipresent rumble of water, or its dulcet lap against a hull, but that was not how he missed the sea.  Chris Patterson was born and breed in Kansas.  He had made it as far as Indiana once, but no further.  That is how Chris missed the sea.

Padre

*I served with a Navy Corpsman from Kansas.  He said he had joined the Navy because he wanted to see the ocean.

First Line Friday: Most spoke of the low but omnipresent rumble of water, or its dulcet lap against a hull, but that was not how he missed the sea.

March 26th

 

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January MorgueFIle d11aad1a4ea61dc8f06495aa4a0b6a72

“It’s a family secret, and an obligation,” David’s father had said.  No more details were forthcoming.

With those words weighing upon his mind, he took the old key his father had given him and approached the disused basement door of his ancestral home.  It had fallen upon David, the eldest son of the eldest son to carry out the bi-decadal descent into the cellar.

There was no electricity in the tomb-like space beneath, so he lit the kerosene lamp at the top of the stairs.  He slowly made his way downwards, with no inkling of what to expect.

As he reached the bottom he could see a table ahead of him at the far end of the cobweb strewn enclosure.

He slowly approached the desk to find a leather-bound journal and two wine racks of fifty bottles each.

In the book it said, Take the fifty bottles on the left, upstairs.  Move the ones on the right to the left rack.  Sell the forty year old vintage at auction, and then fill the right hand rack with bottles from the approved French wineries on the next page.  Herein will be the secret of our wealth.  Thomas Crabtree, 26 March 1840

 

(197 words)

 

Padre

 

FLASH FICTION FOR THE PURPOSEFUL PRACTITIONER: 2020: WEEK #13

Building a Kingdom

Tablet, Living Room, Dog, Woman, Girl

Pixabay

Jesus said upon the mount,

“Blessed are the poor”

But have you ever bothered –

To read but a few words more?

 

“Blessed are the poor in spirit” –

Those without big egos –

Or “me first” undue pride

 

So in these uncertain times

Put others first instead

Think of what they need and keep yourself inside.

 

Padre

 

 

 

 

 

Flowery Words

Minne, Minstrel, Middle Ages, Costume

Image by Reinhard Thrainer from Pixabay

 

From poet’s lips flowery words seem to flow

But it’s but the bards’ illusion

The spells that seem in an instant cast

Are more than mere effusion

The word-play is by practice learned

In hours of verbal profusion

So simple then it does appear

Whether “ad hoc” or an allusion

But if by the flow you are won

Be sure to pay on its conclusion

 

Padre

 

Tuesday Writing Prompt Challenge: Poet’s lips

 

 

 

 

Cloudy Night

Moon, Sky, Clouds, Nature, Outdoor

image: Pixabay

 

This week Colleen’s syllabic challenge is to compose a poem on the theme of the night sky.  I have gone for the Etheree form of ten lines of ascending syllables (1-10).  I thought the form would draw our attention upwards to our night sky.

Still
Darkness
Clouds obstruct
The gibbous moon
And glittering stars
Heavenly bodies peek
From behind wind nudged nimbi
Expectant of the storm’s passing
Moist grass below awaits the rain’s end
When the bright sun of morning will arrive

Padre