My writing mojo is cyclic, so I’m used to having days when new writing just doesn’t happen, I try to relax into it. I edit if I have something written. Otherwise, I go and potter in the garden or t…

Water, air, and light—these are life

On the side of the river bank, Margaret placed her hand on the tree trunk and breathed in deeply, as the forest bathing self-help book suggested. She could smell the woody sap with undertones of vanilla. The birch bark was sticky and she reckoned there were a few squirming insects inhibited from their daily routine by the pressure of her hand. She glanced up into the canopy and a small leaf fell onto her glasses and the moment was lost. Many of the trees around them were spindly but others were old and gnarled like the remains of an ancient forest. The deep water of the river swirled past the bank, but insects skated over the calm between the reeds and the rubbish. After she’d removed the leaf and cleaned her glasses, Margaret noted the litter and the run-down appearance of the trees. Margaret poured tea from her flask. The aroma of Earl Grey punched into the green algal smell and the cadaver scent of the mayflowers. Julie was drinking a coffee latte with all sorts of appendages to its description involving cardamom, orange and skinny milk. Margaret hated the taste of coffee, and perhaps so did Julie. The bank of the meandering river was downtrodden and damaged, filled with empty bottles and crisp packets. The mud smelled sour with spilled beer and algae. Ducks moved forlorn amidst soggy pieces of white bread and half submerged plastic bags. As wash from small boats reached them it threw up a musty, fishy smell as the ducks bobbed. Next week Margaret and Julie collected their litter picker sticks and waste bags. They would forest bathe and clean up the river bank, all at the same time. Perhaps it would smell better after they’d finished. 

Bring your intuition, your zen-like demeanour, your pragmatism, your keen need for justice, your quick sense of humour. We’ll examine this problem from all angles. Most of all, bring your love.

It’s there, protruding from the sappy sludge, a pink tip, almost rude in its eager bright colour. He bends, folds closer to examine his find. He pulls and the mud releases the object with a gaseous burp.  Like he expected, it’s similar to the others he’s found. Hard cases, cylinders or oblongs, all about double the length of his thumb and mostly in vivid primary colours. Some are shiny and metallic, which he assumes must mean they’re the most precious. He’s only found one that was black but popping colours are easier to spot. He would have missed it if it hadn’t been washed up by the river tide to lie amongst some twists of yellow netting.  The objects all seem to have a tip that might be a mouth piece. He wonders if they belong together, if they might have been part of some children’s toy. Or possibly they’re musical instruments, if the mouth piece means they’re meant to be blown. Perhaps the different colours represent different musical sounds. The shiny ones could be celestial and tinkly, the pink could be soft but sometimes synthetically strident, the rare black would be in a minor key, sonorous and sad. He hums to himself as he walks on, head bowed, shoulders hunched over, eyes scanning the mud and stones. He hums, composing a tune that might have come from the past. A happy, cheerful ditty to match the naive and siren bright colours. Like a nursery rhyme or a catchy round. 

The notice is pasted alongside sample tasting menus at the restaurant booked 9 months ahead.

It’s history class, with postcards already laid out, of old-world flowers, waters, skies. Holding up a seed, I explain it grew like them. Germination. Seedling. Adult plant. Students can’t understand the pictures, that they’re photos not fiction. Water cycles. Seasons. Trees growing wild. We talk about why today we’re wearing green in remembrance. Without any idea what’s been lost they feel no loss. Now these cards will just be used for games. Sometimes ‘lotto’. Other times ‘memory match’. I’ll make my own rules playing ‘solitaire’, also called ‘patience’, depending how much hope you can bear, and if waiting to remember or forget.

It’s history class, with postcards already laid out, of old-world flowers, waters, skies. Holding up a seed, I explain it grew like them. Germination. Seedling. Adult plant. Students can’t understand the pictures, that they’re photos not fiction. Water cycles. Seasons. Trees growing wild. We talk about why today we’re wearing green in remembrance. Without any idea what’s been lost they feel no loss. Now these cards will just be used for games. Sometimes ‘lotto’. Other times ‘memory match’. I’ll make my own rules playing ‘solitaire’, also called ‘patience’, depending how much hope you can bear, and if waiting to remember or forget.

On the side of the river bank, Margaret placed her hand on the tree trunk and breathed in deeply, as the forest bathing self-help book suggested. She could smell the woody sap with undertones of vanilla. The birch bark was sticky and she reckoned there were a few squirming insects inhibited from their daily routine by the pressure of her hand. She glanced up into the canopy and a small leaf fell onto her glasses and the moment was lost. Many of the trees around them were spindly but others were old and gnarled like the remains of an ancient forest. The deep water of the river swirled past the bank, but insects skated over the calm between the reeds and the rubbish. After she’d removed the leaf and cleaned her glasses, Margaret noted the litter and the run-down appearance of the trees. Margaret poured tea from her flask. The aroma of Earl Grey punched into the green algal smell and the cadaver scent of the mayflowers. Julie was drinking a coffee latte with all sorts of appendages to its description involving cardamom, orange and skinny milk. Margaret hated the taste of coffee, and perhaps so did Julie. The bank of the meandering river was downtrodden and damaged, filled with empty bottles and crisp packets. The mud smelled sour with spilled beer and algae. Ducks moved forlorn amidst soggy pieces of white bread and half submerged plastic bags. As wash from small boats reached them it threw up a musty, fishy smell as the ducks bobbed. Next week Margaret and Julie collected their litter picker sticks and waste bags. They would forest bathe and clean up the river bank, all at the same time. Perhaps it would smell better after they’d finished. 

It was in the morning, in class, when a minor thought drifted into my head, blossoming like a cherry tree bud. Petals shared and answers given; I knew it was you, and I returned lilies, white and majestic, I adored them. Practice was amusing and we played jokes on everyone, always a twosome, not conjoined in body, but in mind. In school, we studied similar subjects, shared friends, finished each other’s sentences but we’d parted to different cities. Then I couldn’t find you within me, there were no flowers, only a wall of barbed thistles. You’d barricaded your mind, to hide from me; chided I wept, bereft of your soft petals. At home you’d changed, every shared flower had sharp thorns with pollen that stained scarlet. A wall of ivy separated us and I was alone for the first time. When you married, I was your bridesmaid, and carried lilies in my hands. They were stripped of pollen, as you had stripped yourself of me. 

I am a glacial erratic, but my friends call me Chuck, and I live in this river, not quite in the middle. My top is smooth and I am well embedded within the riverbed, I extend down far more than people think. But my fellow stones do not induce a lot of confidence to cross the river. They can be a little shaky, in more ways than one. The bipeds built a bridge next to me, an honour to me for my devoted service as a stepping stone. Bridge often complains about the weight it is expected to deal with. But the builders were excellent; those bipeds know a thing or two about physics. I settled down to a retirement, to enjoy the fish gliding past and the water boatmen paddling beside me. But now the bipeds think it is a thrill to cross the river on foot. “Dare you!” they scream to each other. The depth of the river between me and the next rock, Sal, is more than they expect. Sal is not reliable and often wriggles. Further dips into the water by their bodies disrupts the pebbles of the river bed and makes the channel deeper. It will all be fixed when we go into storm waters, but for now I worry about them getting hurt. Bridge is getting old and we don’t see so much traffic these days. Children play Pooh sticks, and I do love it when I can get involved in catching the odd one. I hope Bridge will be here as long as I am, but I fear I may lose my friend as I am eternal. I’m like an iceberg, I show only the top of me, my best stepping side.

It was in the morning, in class, when a minor thought drifted into my head, blossoming like a cherry tree bud. Petals shared and answers given; I knew it was you, and I returned lilies, white and majestic, I adored them. Practice was amusing and we played jokes on everyone, always a twosome, not conjoined in body, but in mind. In school, we studied similar subjects, shared friends, finished each other’s sentences but we’d parted to different cities. Then I couldn’t find you within me, there were no flowers, only a wall of barbed thistles. You’d barricaded your mind, to hide from me; chided I wept, bereft of your soft petals. At home you’d changed, every shared flower had sharp thorns with pollen that stained scarlet. A wall of ivy separated us and I was alone for the first time. When you married, I was your bridesmaid, and carried lilies in my hands. They were stripped of pollen, as you had stripped yourself of me. 

Shortlist – 2026 Gooseberry Pie Annual Writing Competition by Joyce Bingham The day one of my organs went missing, I was at my book club drinking wine, unaware my heart had fallen into my rucksack; my...

Shortlist – 2026 Gooseberry Pie Annual Writing Competition by Joyce Bingham The day one of my organs went missing, I was at my book club drinking wine, unaware my heart had fallen into my rucksack; my...