The Dorset Giant

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The Dorset Giant

He hides in full sight, his noble profile surveying the vast ocean. He has seen blood on this beach, the bludgeon and greed of the smugglers’ grim craft; ship wrecks and battles of sea and sky.

Today he yawns a dripping cave and winks a grass-fringed sleepy eye to the toddler who plays on the sand below. The seabirds bring him news of his cousins the clouds, his brethren the rivers and valleys, but for now he slumbers. For he knows, all this will pass and one day he will rise again and reclaim the land that is rightly his.

M J Lewis ©2015

Dorset is truly heaven on Earth, so thank you Sandra for your photo for this week’s Friday Fiction, and thanks to Rochelle for educating us, entertaining us and uniting us all as ever.

If you’re ever down Dorset way check out the Moonfleet Manor Hotel, not that I can afford those prices. The novel of the same name (Moonfleet by John Meade Falkner) is the classic smugglers tale, but I prefer the gothic brilliance of Daphne Du Maurier’s Jamaica Inn. (NOT the awful Hitchcock film!)

One day I will return to Dorset as a seagull and live on chips and cream teas. Click here for more fiction from around the globe.

 

 

And the clouds wept to see it all

leaf

And the clouds wept to see it all

There was once a robin who fell in love with an oak tree. Through spring showers and balmy summer days, he trilled forth in his fine livery to attract the sun and warm his love’s leaves. In autumn, he admired the turning of emerald to gold.

How quickly my love ages, but how beautifully.

In winter he stayed too long and tumbled unnoticed, to die amongst the moulding leaves.

At least we die together, he sighed.

Waking to her hundredth spring, the oak tree raised her budding limbs to her lover, the sun, as she prepared for the year ahead.

M J Lewis ©2015

This week I’ve come over all allegorical in time for Friday Fiction, hosted by the lovely Rochelle, with contributions from scribblers from around the world at this LINK.

oaktree

Returning

The days are growing lighter and I’m spending too much time staring out of my window. Think I’ll pack a knapsack and head south to meet the spring. (Sure they’ll understand at work.) I can’t shoe a horse or sweep a chimney, so I’ll just knock on this cottage door here and offer to tell a tale – a whole life in one hundred words – for my supper.

erin-leary

Returning

Born under the shed, behind the compost bin, the little vixen’s first smells were the fecund scents of placental blood, mother’s milk, mushrooms and leaf litter.

When her mother was hit by a lorry reversing in the lane, she escaped to the park and shared the dawn with a locked-out drunk and two teenage lovers. Many times she raised cubs herself; one long summer of plenty with an old dog fox who stayed.

Skin and bone now, today she hobbled back onto my lawn, raised her dark snout to a sudden swathe of blue sky and sniffed the spring air.

M J Lewis ©2015

Please click on the LINK for a whole glorious dawn chorus of stories from around the globe. Thanks as ever to Rochelle, our very own conductor of the Friday Fictioneers. Photo prompt by Erin Leary.

Oh I do love to be beside the seaside

Thanks once more to Rochelle for harvesting the Friday Fictioneers 100-word stories. You’ll find the whole hoard in the store-cupboard at this little LINK. My story is set in September 2015, in the English seaside town of Lyme Regis (sandcastles, cream teas, fossils and Jane Austen).

Thanks also to Marie Gail Stratford for the photo prompt.

crystals

Oh I do love to be beside the seaside

Your beloved cove – it’ll be as good as new.

That’s my son, the oil company PR guru. But he didn’t expect me to go and see for myself.

We honeymooned there, my late husband and I; slept deep to the sound of waves, woke to the call of seagulls.

Last night I lay awake as the huge machines washed the sand and filtered the seawater.  After my morning coffee I rang a few newspapers, packed a bag and fetched my walking stick.

Eighty-five-year-old woman joins environmental camp.

My beloved son – doesn’t he realise who gave him those PR skills?

M J Lewis ©2015