Day Twenty Eight – with picture prompt

Today is Sunday… A slow news day so I thought I would offer up a serving of inspiration. I was delighted to find this picture of a rather cute painted caravan I took a few years back, and I thought I would share it with you to see if it would inspire a poem or short story (max 300 words pls). Please add your piece in the comments box or link back to your blog. I will add my own poem later on today.Enjoy!



24 responses to “Day Twenty Eight – with picture prompt

  1. a wanderer lives in a house on wheels
    for constant change is very real
    one cannot take the threads that bind
    so they must roll on and leave all behind
    they sow their seeds, to the wind they scatter
    leaving the ones behind to nuture and gather
    their spirit is flying light and free
    as the move along they become more of what they are here to be
    what a great picture !
    Thanks for sharing…

  2. My track record of second hand vehicles is imprinted on my memory disastrously, like the long line of banquo’s ghosts horrible in aspect,although, the demise of each sticks like a splintered landmark, only forever embedded with the ultimate and final write off, ( I guess I always was bound for some sort of collision course, )the eventuality remains that possibly the most ludicrous pick up, or hook up ,frankly hugest cock up loiters mysteriously in the clutter ,camoflaged indelibly ,was the abandoned caravan, I towed home, for a time.
    The white elephant that was etched like another age, a timeless continent, laughably ,and languidly my own memory,( of course, until now!) because my family, now teenage children took no notice whatsoever in this latest in the line of motor contraptions.Of course ,the addition didn’t last for long, parked up on the estate with twitching curtains, and eventually , I had the asset, removed, and towed away for £50.00.
    However, though out of pocket, it was the bizarre find amongst the horrid dirt and rubbish inside, of a holy bible,in the wardrobe, a love letter leafed inside, and a knife now untipped and blunted, which reminded me if the romantic myth of Tristan, and iseult, and though like an old wall paper this memory is faded and seemingly starkly obscure with it’s utterly wasted aspect , I,may not yet live to tow my trailer, bowed bound with the weight of being laden for years with punt’ (another addition slipping into the white elephant category.), I will never again tow a caravan.

    AS i enjoy my bench, in the speckled shadowy sunlight flicker which i always loved, i can only apologise for the excess of spelling errors (
    carelessly unattended to)

  3. He used the carnival trailer to hide his trophies
    that belied the menacing images racing through his thoughts
    Other days he could cope and watch the pretty pictures in the clouds
    today he was simply too hungry to manage
    so he painted on the face of habit
    hidden behind the visage of a an earthy devil
    he pulled into the parking lot
    and quickly crossed the line

  4. Okay, this is my little effort.. Decided not to do a poem, but a little story instead.


    Looking from her bedroom window she could see the old caravan out in the yard. Never once moved her bare feet toward it though, she didn’t need to. She knew what was in there. She knew what she had done, the day everything unravelled all those years ago. The voices would call to her often, especially on spring days, when the breeze was light and the sun had chilly edges to it. The voices would carry through the air and drift in through her window. Sometimes they were the voices of her child, sometimes her adult but the sentiment was the same. Many times the voices held fire and anger, and they would make her skin prickle with their echo. Lately they had become too much, they were taking over, distracting her to the point that she could barely finish a thought in her head. As she surveyed the old shack with its garish decor and childlike embellishment she knew the time had come to silence the voices once and for all. She tip toed down the stairs and out to the wood shed, splinters stabbing at the soles of her feet but she couldn’t feel them, she couldn’t feel anything. Picking up the axe next to the log pile, she walked solemnly toward the caravan, and with a heavy strike she split open the door watching as her demons were released into the afternoon like a swarm of bees and butterflies. After that came relief of course, but also a heavy emptiness. Now that the voices were gone and the caravan destroyed, where would she go to remember?

  5. turn and I’ll be there
    beneath the shadow
    of your smile –
    dare me not to leave
    I can’t get there –
    the space of us
    too small for trust –
    no place where we can hide
    I’ve waited this –
    this life –
    as we decide
    to give it back
    or give it up –
    just two wheels
    and roads unknown –
    might we dream in places
    that we sleep –
    and wake in arms
    of home

    • Yay! So excited you came over and wrote something for me, and am unsurprisingly delighted at what you did with it. So beautiful, just perfect and romantic. Very honoured to have you join in and so grateful for your support. Thank you x

  6. Kerry stares at the caravan, the one that sits on her mum’s backyard. She’s 23 now, but when she was seven or eight, fairies used to live in there. Sometimes, she lived with them. 

    She reaches for the door handle and remembers Lucas with a jolt; his skin as dark as night, eyes bright and wild, his enthusiasm infectious. He was her favourite of all, but she’d forgotten him along with all the others. 

    The door opens with a creak. Inside is quiet and disappointing. There’s a faint layer of dust coating everything and Kerry sits on the sofa, squinting at the slit of light that has fought its way through the partly-open curtains. 

    Kerry lets her head drop back and closes her eyes. She doesn’t want to think about what lies beyond this tiny space; the dark suits and sombre voices in the house are too much for her to bear. They’ll come looking for her eventually, tell her they’re sorry, she’s no child but still too young to lose her mum, and she’ll fight not to cry and be ushered around quietly, quietly…

    She’s not sure when she falls asleep, but she awakes to see a shadow in the corner of the caravan, a figure she can almost recognise. 

    “You didn’t need us any more,” the voice says, wonderfully, ridiculously familiar. 


    He steps forward, his gait as easy as ever, his smile still infectious. “Hey Kerry,” he says and she stares at his translucent wings. “Do you want to come for an adventure?” He holds out his hand. 

    Kerry thinks of the house, of the suits and the whispers and her dead mother lying in an open casket. 

    She stands up and takes Lucas’ hand. 

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