Word of Inspiration: Havoc

Wow, it's been ages since I've done one of these ... far too many distractions running around lately *swats them*.
Still, hope you enjoy my newest offering!

“No, no don’t do that you stupid animal!”

But it was too late.  An outburst of furious barking split the idyllic morning air, and a long-eared hare sprinted into the thicket, closely followed by a yapping black blurr. Birds shot out of the trees, chirping their alarm calls and adding to the chaotic symphony of snapping branches, crunching leaves and panicked rustlings as the other woodland animals dived for cover. Somewhere in the distance, as stag let out a bellow of alarm and the rumble of thousands of hooves sent reverberations through the hard-packed earth.

Standing in the middle of the glade, a young woman threw her arms in the air and cursed. This wasn’t the first time this had happened, and she doubted it would be the last. All it took was a single rabbit or fox to stick its nose into the open and he would be off, yapping and running as fast as his stubby legs could carry him. He never caught anything – thank goodness! – but already there had been complaints from the park owners that the wildlife was being “tormented” by the events. Personally, she found it rather hard to belive a small black schnautzer could “torment” anything bigger than a tennis ball.

As the chaos continued to unfold in the bushes, the woman remembered a phrase from a play she had read back in her school days. She smiled.


"Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war ..."

Word of Inspiration: Alarm

Beepity beep! Beepity beep! Beepity beep!

“Gnaaaaaaaaah!”

A hand emerged from beneath the mound of duvet and swatted angrily at the clock, knocking it off the desk with a clatter before retreating back into the warm cushiony depths. The clock gave one last feeble beep and went silent, but its defeat was only marginal. It had completed its task, and its foe was not happy about it. Submerged under the poofy folds of the duvet, a voice gave an irritable groan and the covers began to shift. To anyone watching, it would seem as if a large pink and green mountain was convulsing as the earth wriggled into action.

A foot followed the hand out into the open air. Five stubby toes wiggled momentarily, gauging the outside temperature carefully. Then the rest of the leg emerged, soon to be followed reluctantly by a leg, midriff and torso. A tousled mane of brown hair slithered out last to join the tangle of limbs and pyjamas on the floor, a voice muttering irritably from somewhere behind the wild mass of knots and tangles. Slowly the lanky form lurched upright, limbs waving wildly in all direction until a long-limbed biped was left shivering in the middle of the orange-carpeted floor.

“God.” a voice muttered as it stalked across the room and shoved its feet into a pair of pink rabbit slippers. “I hate mornings.”

Word of Inspiration: Song

Here we go, sorry it took so long, inspiration passage number two!

The wind was mourning again. Over the moorland it came, sometimes as a wailing banshee and other times the soft groaning of one who has long since lost the will to cry. The sky echoed its grief, shrouding itself in folds of deepest grey, the sun hiding its face behind the looming countenances of the clouds. All colour seemed to have been sapped out of the land, right down to the tiniest sprig of young heather that struggled up out of the stony ground beneath the towering heights of its full grown neighbours. The heads of the plants were bowed, the leaves curled in on themselves like ancient hands, wizened and gnarled with age.

There was not a single living creature in sight. The birds had long since flown away, seeking shelter in warmer climates to the south, and even the hardy ponies that frequented the moors were gone. The wind continued its lament, its voice the only sound in the silent, bleak landscape, a wandering ghost consumed by grief and loneliness.

Then, softly, another sound joined with the song of the wind. It was quiet at first, like the gentle rustle of the heather, a strange crooning sound unlike any made by bird or beast. Slowly, the song grew louder, echoing the sounds of the wind with its ethereal ringing. The sounds of the moor seemed to merge and swirl around it, creating an eerie symphony that rose and fell to some unheard rhythm. Something in the air had changed, the bleak aimless atmosphere replaced with something more tangent. Every plant, rock and root in this land knew this song; it was as much a part of the earth as they were.

A song once heard cannot be forgotten. A legacy once left cannot be lost.

Word of Inspiration: "Pebble"

Here it is, the first of my word-inspired posts! Hope you enjoy!

She’d never really liked fish. She didn’t really know why, but there was just something about their cold slimy bodies, bulging fleshy mouths and goggle-eyed expressions that put her off. Or, she thought, perhaps it was the smell. There was no other smell like it; an overpowering stench that forced itself up her nostrils and wreaked havoc with her sense, usually resulting in a lot of eye-watering and hissing on her part.  Thankfully, there were no fish in the river today – they had long since swum upstream to breed in the warmer lagoons, doubtless falling prey to all the predators that lurked on the river’s shores.

She yawned widely and wiggled her toes, the five tiny digits gleaming ghostly white under the thin veil of water. She reached down with her left foot and picked up a pebble from the river bottom, purring delightedly as the soft sand tickled her feet. She passed the pebble up and held it in the palm of her hand, admiring the pale blue-grey surface and running her fingers over the tiny grooves carved out by generations of tiny scuttling creatures. It was cold to touch, but there was something soothing in the round perfection of the stone, a sort of earthy solidity that sent gentle pulses up her arms. She gave the stone a tentative lick, her tongue picking up the taste of salt and grit. River smells, she thought, as she passed the pebble back into the grip of her dextrous toes and lowering it back under the rippling surface of the river.

She sat there for a while longer, enjoying the gentle tug of the water against her feet and the soft whisperings of the breeze as it brushed feather-light against her body. Eventually she stretched and got to her feet, tiny rainbows gleaming on her legs as the water droplets on her skin caught the last light of the sunset. She gave a little sigh, took one last look at the river, turned and strode away, feet barely skimming the grass as she gradually faded from sight, leaving nothing behind but a small mark in the grass and the pebble lying on the riverbed.