For today’s prompt we are going to try our hand at fortune telling. Use whatever method we like. Make a prediction, make sure to address the audience for whom your predication is intended. The audience can be the whole world, it can be a friend, family member, yourself, or a specific group of individuals. We can also write about a specific historical prophet or fortune teller such as Nostradamus. Fictional stories work too!
Before waking, I knew I had to tell someone something My mind itched with the importance of it Yet I could find no words My mind, wrapped in sleep I remembered walking over Three playing cards yesterday Stuck on the wet pavement One of diamonds, the money card Two of spades, the double cross Plus the ace of hearts, love What message was I trying to tell myself? Remembering those wet cards…
These beautiful flowers arrived on Sunday, from Anita’s granddaughter and how she managed it what with lockdown and most shops being shut is amazing. So many of our garden favourites!
I have just spent two nerve wracking days trying to take care of someone who will never accept that she needs it. Then I spent yesterday afternoon supervising a family visit where we broke a few lockdown rules, and fretted the whole time about a certain person becoming over excited.
Anita did get tired, but seeing her family more than made up for that.
Every day she seems to get a little stronger, but we are desperate for the appointment for the heart MRI to arrive, so she can finally be mended!
I thought I would have to do the lions share of our workload this week, but this morning Anita strolled into the office and looked for something to do. The results are being posted today…
So today turned out much better than I thought it would!
Nothing had changed since the last time I was here.
The same chill in the autumn air, the smell of wood smoke from the campfires.
I made my way to my favourite camp site, nestling in the shelter of the mountain. I was far enough away from the crowds who always gathered at this time of year, all yearning to see the thousands of Monarch butterflies gather before starting their migration.
I alone knew the perfect place.
I followed the stream beside the old logging trail, with birdsong for company, each twist and turn increasing my anticipation.
Finally, I stood in the secret glade and looked around, thrilled to find they were already here. Every tree was covered in a blanket of living leaves, thousands of colourful butterflies at rest, barely moving in the slight breeze.
I held my breath. Had I chosen the right moment?
As if some signal had been given, the butterflies slowly took flight, soaring up into the sky, leaving me with mixed feelings of joy and sadness in my heart…
From the moment I laid eyes on her She tore the soul from my body Her tiny hands curled into fists Ready to take on the world Her hands will never be grazed By days that pass She is my soul, my life She is my daughter She made me more She made me her father…
A charming ne’er-do-well returns to his haunted Irish hometown to uncover the truth about his mother in this “supernaturally skilled debut” (Vanity Fair) and turns the town–and his life–upside down.
Having been abandoned at an orphanage as a baby, Mahony assumed all his life that his mother wanted nothing to do with him. That is, until one night in 1976 while drinking a pint at a Dublin pub, he receives an anonymous note implying that she may have been forced to give him up. Determined to find out what really happened, Mahony embarks on a pilgrimage back to his hometown, the rural village of Mulderrig. Neither he nor Mulderrig can possibly prepare for what’s in store…
From the moment he arrives, Mahony’s presence completely changes the village. Women fall all over themselves. The real and the fantastic are blurred. Chatty ghosts rise from their graves with secrets to tell, and local preacher Father Quinn will do anything to get rid of the slippery young man who is threatening the moral purity of his parish.
A spectacular new addition to the grand Irish storytelling tradition, Himself “is a darkly comic tale of murder, intrigue, haunting and illegitimacy…wickedly funny” (Daily Express).
From the first word of the powerfully written prologue, I couldn’t stop reading Himself.
I fell completely under the spell of this mysterious story, all about the living and the dead and the search for truth in a quaint Irish village.
The star of Himself is Mahony, a young Irishman searching for the truth about his birth, assisted by the colourful characters and ghosts in Mulderrig, a place with more secrets and mysteries than most.
I loved the way the people in this story speak, such wonderful vocabulary and fascinating insight into the minds of Irish people. What at first seems light-hearted banter, soon changes into dark, menacing humour and a terrifying journey as Mahony uncovers the truth he seeks…
Look into my green eyes I’m in disguise My true form hidden Guarded by evil witch Aurelia’s cold dark hand Holds my soul in black granite rock Merlin’s my name, whispered on the wind or love of Arthur, you can set me free…
(For visually challenged reader, the image shows a woodland scene, where blue butterflies are sitting on the forest floor among tiny mushrooms. Tall trees are visible in the background)
As a child, I never had an imaginary friend. If I did, I would want him to live in this blue wonderland so I could visit, stay a while. Where mushrooms grow in their own sunlight. Delicate blue butterflies whisper woodland magic. Secrets for me to keep Tall dark trees stand guard Keeping magic where it belongs In wonderland…