Category Archives: Weekly Trail

Join Us On Twitter for The #BlogBashChat Tonight!

Suzie Speaks

Every Sunday evening between 7 pm and 8 pm (GMT) bloggers from across the globe unite and take part in the Bloggers Bash Blog Bash Chat using the hashtag #BlogBashChat on Twitter.

It’s an hour of introductions, learning, connecting with fellow bloggers, and fun. The Bash Chat following is growing every week and the engagement is incredible. One of our dedicated bloggers is Australian and gets up at 5 am just to take part!

We don’t want you to miss out on this fun interaction. It’s just an hour out of your Sunday (which goes very fast!), but the possibility of finding answers to your blogging questions, making new friends, and discovering alternative blogs to follow is worth your time.

View original post 179 more words

Advertisements

Yippy, Yule! Yay!

a mindful journey

I wanted to share this wonderful recipe that I found in the November 2017 Better Homes & Gardens magazine. My husband loves apple pie, and I knew when I stumbled across this dessert he would love it. It was a smash hit for Thanksgiving.

I will make this again for him to celebrate the Yule on December 21, 2017. Happy Winter Solstice comfort food. Yummy!

Yule

Image Credit: Pinterest

This recipe is called, “Cinnamon Roll Apple Cobbler.” It was a snap to make, and the apples didn’t get soggy at the bottom like they usually do in a pie recipe. This recipe made a healthy batch that lasted for a week in the refrigerator.

CINNAMON ROLL APPLE COBBLER

Hands-on Time: 30 minutes

Total Time 2 hours, 15 minutes

Ingredients:

½ cup sugar

2 TBSP all-purpose flour

1 tsp ground ginger (I used the jar variety)

7 cups peeled, cored, and sliced…

View original post 294 more words

A students guide to surviving English classes

https://gusreadinglife.wordpress.com/2017/11/04/a-students-guide-to-surviving-english-classes/

Thriving Thursdays: What if I Fall – 2

Teagan's Books

To read “What if I Fall -1” just click here.

Welcome back.  I’m playing catch-up again, re-posting some of the Thriving Thursdays mini-posts that The Story Reading Apehas so generously allowed me to do from his tree-house.

Thriving Thursdays: What if I Fall – 2

What if I fall?  What if someone laughs?  What if it’s expensive?  What if it’s a no return ramp exit?  What if—?

Are you afraid you’ll fall?  Yet you don’t want that nagging fear to hold you back, right?  Well, sometimes we just have to redefine our perception of things.  Would you really be falling?

“Did you just fall?”charlie-chaplin-fell-down

“No.  I attacked the floor.”

Go ahead and attack the floor.  If you even got up and tried — the truth is, that’s more than most people do.  That alone means you didn’t really fall.  Did you learn something from that failed attempt?  About…

View original post 107 more words

The Triumphant Return! Update on blog and plans.

adamdixonfiction

Hello, everyone! So, since my last post approximately ten years ago I’ve been busying myself with projects which have nothing to do with this blog, the main culprit being NaNoWriMo. During November, I found that I was only able to do the challenge justice at the expense of everything else. Long story short, I completed the challenge and now I can get my head in the right space for blogging once again!

Excuses aside, I’ve been thinking a lot about this blog and what I can do to get motivated to post more regularly. As some of you may know, I previously ran a feature called ‘Fiction Fursday’, in which I wrote short stories each week using prompts provided by my friends in the blogosphere. I intend to start up a similar feature in the New Year, but this time I will give myself a fortnight rather than one week…

View original post 225 more words

Kennings At Monday Coffee

Have you ever heard of a Kennings poem? Continue reading

Saturday Night Confessions

Hi there!

I haven’t written in this section in a while and I’ve just finished my studying for the night, so I thought I’d treat myself to a quick blog post. Yes, that’s the ultimate excitement for me on a Saturday night! Continue reading

In Flanders Fields

TanGental

Three years ago a display of ceramic poppies filled the moat at the Tower of London. I took some pictures and then the Archaeologist recited possibly the most powerful WW1 poem and sent me the link. It’s attached below in the post I did at the time if you are interested.

Last night I was at Wembley to watch a game of football between England and Germany. Before the match, both teams laid poppy wreaths and stood for a minute’s silence to remember all people killed in conflicts around the world as a symbol to ask for peace together. The Last Post played and  choked up as  I always do

As I stood I reflected on the fact that it took so many years for this little symbol to happen.  If there’s one remaining situation where public displays of jingoism are permitted, nay expected it is international football matches. Yet…

View original post 62 more words

An Extra Halloween Treat

Source: An Extra Halloween Treat

Halloween Special

Dearest Reader,

‘Tis with great regret I write to tell you that I have been attacked this night; from the darkness came the spirits of writers past, claiming back the awful stories kept hostage in my grey loft. Surrendering to their threats, I write this message from within the crypt where my dearest memories reside.

Stars dare not cross this sky. Light flails and gasps as the shadows suffocate said emerging spectrum, swallowing its presence with their hollowed souls. Soft gossamer drifts from the ceilings, reminding me of a tale once told many years ago. There was a girl, probably thirteen years or more, who was driven from her home by the vulgar associates her mother entertained. Left to fend for herself, she soon stumbled into an avenue only fit for those who enjoy the benefits of dark nights and full moons. Unbeknownst to this girl, her tantalizing scent and throbbing pulse was all she needed to reside with these pale strangers. Summer came and went and soon autumn set in. She was the subservient messenger for her new found family. Their delicate frames and sharp canines were enough to keep her in check and if she felt an inkling to leave the fine establishment she now called home, the claws of the young, hairy cousins were enough to change her mind.

Halloween approached with the swiftness of death, calling out to all who supported the shadows and skulked in the basements of the decrepit surrounding buildings. At the request of the almost porcelain elders, who sat at the high table all day and all night in the attic, she sifted through the cupboards and larders, searching for something festive. Soon she found a linen closet well equipped for the romantics. Soft gossamer in gold and silver swished through her fingers, drifting on invisible air towards the uneven floorboards under her naked feet. Excited, she ran through the house, hammer and nails in hand and soon the rooms felt like Bedouin tents awaiting pale concubines to perform the sensuous dance of the seven veils for their blue tainted captors. All the residents were pleased with her efforts and promised her light for the first time in that year. Candles were carefully lit and placed around the property, highlighting the gaunt ceilings now chipped and flaking; the gnarled door handles barely capturing the soft light emanating from the waxy tall spires of light. Sadly, that was the last thing the quiet residents saw as the gossamer caught aflame, sucking up the heat with great fervour. Before anyone could escape, the crumbling residence was engulfed, the screams of the girl the last thing passers by heard.

To this day, if you listen carefully, gossamer cries through your fingers as it slinks away, flittering like candle flames from your fingers.

Alas, dear readers, my gaolers have returned to torment me further. They say my stories lack a certain scary quality befitting the day. Apparently, pulling my fingers back and tearing my toe nails is deemed appropriate torture for such a crime. My only solace is knowing that my ears have not been touched, unlike the little boy from No. 16. When he was three, his mother decided to teach him a lesson about listening to her. She decided to scare some sense into him and chose the Halloween night when all the other good children were happily celebrating the existence of witches and ghouls, and gorging on sweets. This tall witch herself, decided to take her dear littling out trick or treating, but with evil intentions, wandered closer and closer to the forest just behind the houses.

Once out of view from the other parents, the nasty woman persuaded her son to follow her into the forest, whereupon she left him for the foxes and wild pigs to devour. The poor child tried to listen out for the direction of her footsteps to find his way out of the labyrinth of statuesque trees looming above him. She laughed and darted to and fro, in and out of sight, calling to him to listen better. What horrible torture for a child so young. Now, deep inside, we all call for the woman to fall to her just desserts, but it is with sadness I tell you what happened next. The wild pigs were not interested in the morsel crying out in front of them. They saw fit to chase and eat the harpy screaming to her young one to follow and listen. The young boy watched his witch of a mother serve a greater purpose in life. Horrified at the sight of her being chewed to nothing, the boy collapsed. The pigs, sensing the youngling’s need for guidance, revived him and led him deeper into the forest where the animals congregated on special occasions. It was decided that they would watch over the child until he was old enough to leave the forest and join the evil mankind who tortured their young. This was never to be. The child stayed young, forever reliving the halloween night.

To this day, if you leave your window open at night, you will hear the cries of the child as he cries for his mother who tried to teach him to listen. Some say it is the cry of the tawny owls, but now you know better.

 Thinking of the youngling never growing old, never leaving that forest, brings to mind certain spirits we were told about by our grandparents when we did not behave: the tokoloshi. To some Afrikaans people, it means, little spirit. To me, it meant little demon! Whenever my grandmother found me doing something naughty (which was often) she would tell me that the tokoloshi would come and teach me a lesson. It terrified me to think that something tiny could reach me and torture me, but to be honest, these spirits holding me down now have similar qualities. I guess our fears never leave us, no matter how old we are and the myths surrounding our childhoods follow us into our old age.

In this welcome, I will bid you farewell. Listen out for the gossamer and the cries of the babe in the woods and think kindly of me, dear reader, for warning you before they come to get you and your half stories awaiting to be told.