Blue Jean’s Babies – Dead Deer

Blue Jean’s Babies

She wasn’t a Tory. She had a fairly run of the mill shade of skin. She wasn’t a Toffee, or a Citizen, she didn’t even have blue eyes. But for some reason, lost in the midst of time Jean was always known as ‘Blue’ Jean.

It was owing to the nickname, rather than the other way around, that she painted her house a vibrant blue. Jean had a heart the size of Everest and an ocean of kindness to give. Jean brought joy and a pleasant word to everyone’s day. She enriched every life she touched. And this became a vast number of lives. Out of great sadness Jean could wring great happiness.

Her own inability to have children was a sadness she buried deep deep inside but one that never truly left her. She took this pain and used it to fearlessly and determinedly take on every young life she could. Whether abandoned or orphaned, whether the mother was too young or scared or bewildered to cope Jean would step in. That beautiful big house was full for decades with the sounds of young lives, starting out. Crying, laughing, playing. She had time for them all and she never forgot one; and not a single one of Blue Jean’s Babies forgot Jean or her blue house for their entire lives.

Today I wrote from 23:34 to 23:44. I was prompted by an idea here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here

Jan 30th – A simple reason was all she needed

January 30th – A simple reason was all she needed.

23.12-23.22

A sonnet

A simple reason was all she needed;

nothing too complex or disconcerting,

words to take on board, words to be heeded,

words to make her feel less undeserving.

Was it too much to ask for clarity,

when all she’d had from him was shades of mud?

it wasn’t like she wanted charity,

or massive gestures scrawled out in his blood.

All she wanted was to know his thinking,

what was happening there inside his head,

and why was he only honest when drinking,

Couldn’t he please drink something soft instead?

And then she might begin to understand

Why he had asked her father for her hand.

 

 

Inspired by a prompt from here

Jan 29th – Slipping between the seams, there was no turning back

January 29thSlipping between the seams, there was no turning back

22.56-23.06

She had drawn their life
on an old piece of sailcloth;
a map, of sorts, of them.

On it, she had charted
the turns they made, moves
from one side of there to
the other. At first, it was seamless,
literally: one piece of cloth
was enough for all that they were.

Then the wind changed;
and they turned left, then
right, following the sun, or the stars,
or something. Anything. Sometimes
they led, and the something anything
followed, catching up, scrawling
its lines across the canvas map
of them.

After years, one piece was not
enough, so she stitched another strip
across the side, another
on the lower edge, joined by threads,
pulled through by a curved needle.

She could follow their journey
across years, marking time
in stitches. But time marked itself
in stitches, and tempers frayed
the edges. They hemmed themselves
in, as best they could. Edging

closer to the edge of the map
of themselves. And then one
dewbright morning, she ran her finger
across five years ago, and found
the joins giving way. Slipping
her finger between the seams
of then and before then,
she was caught in nowhere,
between time, and the thread that
held time together was wrapped
wire tight around her finger.
To pull it out was to break
the thread. There was no turning back.

 

 

Inspired by a prompt from here