Your prompt word this week is
CRAFTY
I do like this week’s word, especially in the sense of relating it to making things. I used to love creating things with my daughter when she was small. It’s amazing what you can do with sequins, leaves, cotton wool, empty washing up liquid bottles and toilet roll tubes. Of course, the word also means sly/dishonest. On the more positive side, we can take it to mean skilful. What does this week’s prompt word mean to you?
Fact or fiction, prose or poetry, I would love to read your thoughts on this week’s prompt, but there’s no obligation to share your writing. Here is the work you shared on the last prompt BRIDGE.
Mind the Gap
The bridge between us
is steep and narrow, yet our
hearts must find the way.
Heart Bridge
Build a bridge. Let’s cross the river
joining two sides to each other.
Words build hearts but some do wither:
heart bridge, wither, other, brother.
One of my dad’s favorite expressions was his modified version of the old expression “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” Here’s the way he’d say it – We’ll jump off that bridge when we get to it. I am not going to go into the other thing, other than to say it was not only a major disappointment, but also an eye-opening experience.
A bridge can be a safe passage place,
And they’re good for back tracking, just in case.
But haters are no fun,
So be prepared to burn one…
When those relationships you want to erase!
Changing the Glasses
My previous glasses started to make me look weird as I grew older, because the lens weren’t big enough for me and started to see small blurring from the distance. Also, the nosepiece, which consisted of two small nose pads below the bridge, began to feel uncomfortable.
So, I decided to get a new one after going to an eye examination clinic. I gave the eye exam results so that lenses in my new glasses would be adjusted. It showed me that the lens power for nearsighted vision increased a bit. I chose a design that suited me the most, and it looked great for me with big lenses and a bigger nosepiece below the bridge.
I’m still wearing it today, and it still felt comfortable. However, I had to tighten the two screws that were connected to both the left and the right hinges.
Lou By the Sea:
What I need is a
Bridge
To fill the chasm, the chaos that has come between
Us.
But I don’t need
a rope bridge,
a ladder bridge
stepping stones
or a zip wire.
I don’t need a moss covered
fallen
tree trunk to slip from
I have enough damage
Enough pain
What I need is a
Strong bridge
A brave and genuine bridge
One with words and
Apologies
One with real tears matching mine
With
Iron fastenings
Secure
Forever more.
They said a bridge too far but what do they know? A little determination and focus will get me to my destination. Of course, knowing how to swim would help crossing the Atlantic. Or maybe a boat. Swimming lessons are cheaper. Let’s do that.
Draw A Line
Let’s build a bridge between “feelings” and “facts”.
That’s one of the most “adult” of our acts.
If you don’t like it, that’s fine,
But know we must draw a line
Between most of us and those “melting down” quacks.
Traveling from Orange, TX to Groves, Tx required crossing the Rainbow (no not THAT one) Bridge. This bridge is 135 ft tall and feels like a ride at Six Flags. You wouldn’t want to try it on icy days or windy days and we are currently experiencing a tropical storm. Yesterday a camper was blown over on the bridge stopping traffic for hours!
I have a bridge in my mouth but it’s permanent, not one you can take out.
These pictures are of bridges on the River Avon travelling up to Stratford Upon Avon.
We did the trip several times when we were liveaboards (July 2014 to April 2017). The journey would take about an hour in the car, but by boat?
Four days.
You could do it in one stretch, but why give up the beauty and tranquility of the river where you can moor along the banks and enjoy a world where streetlamps, TVs and car radios don’t exist, and embrace birdsong, the ripple of the water against the hull, and swans showing up for breakfast.
In contrast and following Esther’s lead on different meanings, I’d written a post on Boats, Bridges, and Walls a few months after I started my blog 13 years ago. You can read that one HERE
Susan Batten:
Bridging The Gap
When someone says they’re going away for the bridge, I don’t turn a hair. In fact, I might say it myself and nobody will notice. This is because, over time, idioms in one language get absorbed into another language and no one is the wiser.
Take “curfew”, a curious word, but one which we all understand (though we might think it’s some kind of bird). “Curfew” started out as “couvre-feu” or put out fires to stop the camp or settlement being a visible target at night.
Going back to “going away for the bridge”, nobody is going off to dismantle a steel or stone structure. The Spanish, typically, use their own term “puente” (bridge) to refer to a long weekend. When a public holiday, usually a saint’s day, falls on a Tuesday or a Thursday, workers are quick to annex the middle day, the Monday or the Friday, and get themselves a long weekend: logically, a “bridge”, and they don’t understand why we don’t use the same, sensible term. And so, language melds and warps and changes – all the time.
I’m just thinking – did “puente” become “pontoon”?
When I saw the word BRIDGE, my mind immediately went to Simon & Garfunkel and Bridge Over Troubled Water.
Perhaps because a bridge has always felt like more than a structure to me.
A bridge connects.
Two sides that otherwise could not reach each other.
Two shores separated by water.
Two places divided by a ravine.
And sometimes, two people separated by pain.
Throughout life, we cross many bridges.
Some are strong and steady beneath our feet.
Others wobble so badly that we wonder why on earth we stepped onto them in the first place.
And then there are the bridges we burn.
Sometimes accidentally.
Sometimes deliberately.
And occasionally with a can of petrol and absolutely no intention of ever going back.
But the most important bridges aren’t made from stone, steel or wood.
They’re people.
The person who sits beside you when your world is falling apart.
The friend who listens without trying to fix everything.
The hand reaching toward you when you don’t think you can take another step.
Someone who simply says,
I’m here.
I’ve been fortunate enough to have people become bridges for me.
And throughout my life, I’ve tried to be that bridge for others too.
Not carrying them across.
Not telling them which shore they should choose.
Simply standing strong enough for a while so they can find their own way.
Because we all encounter troubled waters eventually.
And sometimes we discover that the greatest gift we can give another person isn’t an answer.
It’s a safe place to cross.
Perhaps that’s what love, friendship and kindness really are —
bridges we quietly build between one heart and another.
And you never know when someone might need yours.
Brief Cover
Benuel, the Amishman
Rode the long way home
In the buggy beside him, his
Dainty betrothed Sarah.
Guiding the reigns to slow the mare –
Entertained the thought of a quick kiss…
bridge through dark waters
a tiny boat carries hope
ripples fade behind
Aquino Bridge
you once you stood strong above the river,
a path that brought us close together.
but floods came rushing, fierce and wide,
and took a piece of you with the tide.
now silent you stand, broken apart,
yet memories remain in every heart.
may you rise again, strong and new
a bridge of hope for Tarlac too.
As time changes so do we. Being raised in the last century, many things I was doing then are no longer used in today’s society. Let’s take the phone for example. I would have never thought back in 69′ that I would be carrying one in my pocket. I used to answer every call on it when I was young, not worrying about scams and such. Now if it doesn’t have a name or number I recognize I don’t anwser.
Another one would be socializing. In my younger years we would go out and meet people face to face and as time went by we would have a friend who was a cully or played us as one. Now a days it seems everyone gets butthurt way to easy for that kind of fun.
And the third one? Well I guess that would be paying for things. I remember and miss the days of writing checks, carrying cash in your wallet instead of plastic cards and talking to customer support in person, not on the phone or laptop.
I wish there was a way to bridge the two time spans together beyond just the few things I still hold onto from back then like, manners, politeness, listening before opening your piehole to respond.
I think if we were to implement the basics of courtesy along with the high tech of today we could move into the future of the Jetsons instead of Terminator.
I’ve written several bridge stories, and repeated them a time or two so don’t want to do them here now again. Mostly they are about the bridges I’ve gone across (in a car) and how scary they are to me. I don’t like being on one at all. From one deep in the woods that we thought would fall down as we drove over it, to a very high one with 8 lanes of traffic zooming at breakneck speeds and no place to pull over if you needed to. Very scary. So what can I do different for this word? Just some random thoughts maybe?
- We learned how to play the card game called Bridge many years ago, and had fun playing the game with friends. Probably I don’t remember how now.
- I can think of some songs about bridges… of course I can. I can think (or find) a song about just about anything.
- There was a girl I went to school with that had the last name of Bridges
- I’ve made little fairy houses with small wooden bridges in the decorations
- I think my girls had a ‘bridging ceremony’ when they went from Girl Scout Brownies (the little kids) to the older regular Girl Scouts
- Then there is the Rainbow Bridge, where it is said that our dear pets go when they pass on, waiting for us to join them someday.
- We had a dog named Bridget years ago, a Basset Hound. I’ll bet she is across that bridge, too.
Mirlings’ Retreat
Mirlings that live in the garden pond look after the fish and frogs.
They keep a watch for neighbours’ cats, backed up by father’s dogs.
But now the pond’s in disaray; fishes and mirlings hide.
Father’s building something there along the water’s side.
They watch, huddled in reeds and underneath the waterfall,
while at the fish pond’s other end, the children watch it all,
handing Dad the screws, sometimes the right ones, sometimes not,
running in for plasters when Dad’s hammer missed the spot.
When Mum comes out with fish food all the fish swim up for flake.
It’s dinner time. Bold mirlings drift out to investigate.
Dad’s back out with a neighbour just as soon as dinner’s served.
Between them they are carrying a structure, long and curved.
More hammering and drilling now before the daylight goes.
Then bottles pop for celebrations on the patio.
When garden lights go out, fish drift, awaiting morning’s light.
At break of day, the mirlings gath– er, taking in the sight.
At the far end of their pond, spanning from side to side,
an ornamental bridge casts shade where mirlingfolk can hide.
A shady spot when days are hot, where frogs and fish can spawn,
and mirlings hide from human eyes that watch fish from the lawn.
Not big enough for human feet, but shortcut for a dog
who’s looking out for cats to chase – like next door’s pesky mog.
See Cathys’ book: Pond People: Amazon.co.uk: Cade, Cathy, Cade, Cathy: 9781916312722: Books
Friends
Old friends on a bridge,
Autumn and summer’s yearly meet.
Warmth, exchanges greetings.
Rall:
a bridge
to anywhere
so burn it anyway
she’d rather to stay put and see what
happens
From the bridge comes the reflection
Artificial lights and tall trees
Snow on the ground and on branches
The air cools and the crickets sing
Will he be there waiting for me?
From the bridge comes the reflection
Will he be glad to see me back?
Life’s strange but I know I’m back
I’ve been through a lot of journeys
Went through all the seasons of life
From the bridge comes the reflection
But I know I’m coming back home
The lights dance, too by the canal
Welcoming me in open arms
I’ve learned my lessons, hope’s not late
From the bridge comes the reflection
We have a very wonderful huge suspension bridge not very far away from us. I live in North Lincolnshire, England, and the bridge spans the big River Humber quite near the estuary into the North Sea. It is very wide at that point and people who wanted to go from North Lincolnshire to Hull on the opposite bank of the Humber had to go by ferry. However, it was decided to build the bridge to make travel easier between the two places.
It is an absolutely amazing bridge, being 1.4 miles long. When it was built it was the longest single span suspension bridge in the world. That was in 1981. At first it was very expensive to go across it, but in time it became much cheaper and in fact many people from my town travel each day over it to get to work in the city of Hull. It is exhilarating going across it either in a car or on foot. I have walked across it before and it feels quite weird to know that you are way out into the water. It actually feels like it is the sea because if you look in one direction it does look just like the sea, with it being the estuary. There are wonderful birds there, and you can hear them if you are walking across the bridge.
The one problem with the bridge is that it often has to be closed in windy weather. In fact, it only has to get slightly windy and it sways. You can often see men at the top of the towers from which the bridge is suspended and that makes me feel dizzy. What brave men they are. I couldn’t do that.
If you ever get the chance to go and see it and maybe travel across it, it is well worthwhile.
A Bridge Too Far
Gundhl the Troll wallowed in the shallow water underneath the little stone bridge, having just been humiliated after his tussle with Big Billy Goat’s Gruff.
He couldn’t believe he’d been so foolish. Before Big Billy Goat’s Gruff, he’d encountered two perfectly adequate goats named Little and Middle-Sized who would have made for a perfect meal. They’d somehow talked him into waiting. Waiting for a meal consisting of both a full dinner and dessert in Big Billy Goat’s Gruff. But little did he know Big Billy Goat’s Gruff would be more than a match for him and would send him tumbling into the water. If Trolls could blush, Gundhl’s cheeks would be illuminating so red they would have stopped traffic.
A man in a grey suit and burgundy tie approached, rousing Gundhl from his stupor. Initially, he was going to let the man pass. He wasn’t interested in inviting any more humiliation today, but to his astonishment, the man came over to the side of the river bank and sat next to him.
“Hello there,” the man said, waving a hand.
Gundhl noticed he was holding paperwork of some kind.
“My name is Charleston White-Bonnigton,” the man said, “I’m a lawyer, and I’ve come to talk to you about this bridge.”
Gundhl scratched his head. He didn’t know how to respond to the human, but it didn’t seem to matter as the man continued talking.
“I don’t know if you know this, sir, but this bridge is owned by Mr. Clyde Papsworth, and he recently contacted me to advise that you’d been living beneath it.”
Gundhl nodded. He understood the local human language, even if he didn’t speak it.
“Well, Mr. Papsworth is concerned that you’re scaring off the wildlife and that you have no legal authority to be living here under his bridge. You’re essentially squatting, and Squatter’s Rights don’t apply to trolls, I’m afraid.” the man continued.
Another nod from Gundhl. It was the best he could offer.
“And besides,” the man said, “I just saw what happened. I imagine you’re feeling jolly embarrassed at the moment. But that’s ok. With these instructions from Mr. Papsworth arriving today and that… ahem… incident with the statuesque goat, this is the perfect time to move on. Go and find another bridge and start afresh! No harm, no foul, and we can put all this messy business behind us.”
Gundhl considered this. Perhaps a change of scenery was what he needed. He’d been jumping out from under that same bridge and frightening the crossers for years and finally he had had his comeuppance. Maybe it was time to find a new bridge. Find new people and animals to scare out of their wits. Could be fun.
He turned to the man and nodded again before pointing in the direction in which he would head to find a new life. He was going to do it! He was actually going to do it! It was all very exciting!
He couldn’t see any bridges though. It might be a long journey.
Best have a snack before leaving…
The Fire
The dreams came the first night and did not leave.
He dreamed of a man in a dark coat.
The man stood on a porch. He held a hammer. The head of it was dark and the handle was hickory, blackened with age and oil, and the man stood over something that lay on the porch boards and the hammer rose and fell and the sound of it was small and wet and final.
He could not see the man’s face.
The dream gave him everything else. The coat. The boots. The hands on the hammer. The way the man stood with his weight forward and his shoulders set and the particular angle of the blows. But not the face. The face was turned away or covered by shadow or simply absent, the way a thing is absent from a dream when the dream does not want you to have it yet.
He woke with copper on his tongue.
He stood at the sink and ran water and drank and the copper sat beneath the water and did not move. He looked at the drawer beside the stove. The drawer was closed. The figure was inside. He could feel the warmth of it from across the kitchen.
The dog lay on the floor. Its eyes were on the drawer.
He went to work. He came home. He ate standing at the counter and did not taste the food. Beneath the food was copper and beneath the copper was something else, something hot and mineral that sat at the back of the throat and did not leave.
The second night the dream let him closer.
He stood behind the man in the coat. Close enough to see the hands. The knuckles were white on the handle. The tendons in the forearm stood rigid. The hammer came down and the sound was the sound of iron meeting bone and the sound was smaller than it should have been, swallowed by the night and the creek noise and the thick air.
He saw the body beneath the hammer. The face was destroyed. The jaw hung wrong and the mandible had separated at the symphysis and the eye sockets were dark and the skull showed white through the ruin of the scalp. He saw all of this the way you see a thing in a dream, without shock, without the body’s refusal, just the seeing of it, clear and clinical and precise.
He counted the blows. Ten.
He saw the man in the coat stop. He saw him stand with the hammer at his side and the arm loose and the breathing gone deep and slow. He saw him reach inside the coat and take out the figure and kneel and place it beside the destroyed head and leave it there.
He saw the man in the coat walk to the dog.
He saw the chain. He saw the man’s hands work the clasp. He saw the rust and the resistance and the blood that came when the edge cut the thumb. He saw the chain fall away.
He saw the man in the coat walk to his truck and drive away and the dog did not follow. The dog went down to the creek.
He awoke.
The copper was thick in his mouth. His pulse was elevated. He could feel it in his throat and in the vessels at his temples and behind his knees. The pupils had widened. He looked in the bathroom mirror and the irises had thinned to a rim and the black had swallowed the color and he looked at himself the way you look at a thing you have found in a place it should not be.
To read more, click here
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Image credit: Canva
Esther Chilton 
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