Featured On the Reef ~ Sue Vincent @SCVincent

 

 

This is a special kind of feature not for a specific book but for a specific lady: Sue Vincent.

 

Featured

 

Sue Vincent

What to say…

A lot of people describe Sue in terms of her wonderful writing, her kind nature, and her larger-than-life online presence. These are all accurate. All true.

As a blogger, she is interesting, talented, prolific, and generous. A cornerstone of the blogosphere, you could say. I thought I’d only been following her blog a few years. Sounded about right. But time flies when you’re having fun.

I looked recently and realized I’d been participating in her #writephoto prompt since 2016. Written stories for her Ani’s Advent calendar each December since 2018. Had multiple guest posts on the Daily Echo. Not to mention the numerous posts, from both my sites, that she was nice enough to reblog. She has helped countless bloggers in this same way–promoting their work, sharing their posts, hosting opportunities to write.

I adore Sue’s #midnighthaiku (haiku combined with intriguing & gorgeous photographs–both her own). These are must-read, not-to-be-missed posts for me. They are my daily echoes of Sue. 💗

Beyond all that, though, I need to say this:

To me, Sue has always been a beautiful and wise old soul. I felt a connection to her straight away. A kindred spirit. She is an incredibly intuitive, compassionate, spiritual being. She is, basically, a Sue-shaped ball of light.

 

~~~

 

Sue is now dealing with lung cancer and, I daresay, she wouldn’t mind some love and support from the blogosphere she has given so much to.

You can read her latest post here.
(Please check this out. It may be her final post and it is gorgeous—full of gratitude and love.) 💗

 

Quick March update:
Sue has just published a collection of her Midnight Haiku! You can buy it here: Amazon US | Amazon UK 

You can read about Sue here and about her books here.

You can purchase her books here: 🙂

Amazon US | Amazon UK

Sue’s Links:

 

Websites: 

Daily Echo

France & Vincent

The Silent Eye

Author Page:

Amazon

Social Media:

Twitter

Facebook

On the Reef: The Shark’s Friday Feature (which is, obviously, not on Friday this time around)

Hidden Obstacle #WritePhoto

 

 

There was something behind the rock.

She hitched her bag back over her shoulder and stepped off the path. Hidden in the ferns, she had time to think. Was there another way to get to the hill? Could she wait it out? Should she confront it?

A million more questions plagued her, comforted her, kept her still in body, if not mind.

She was stuck in the safety of not moving on.

The rock was fairly small for a boulder in these parts, wasn’t it? Or was it large? She didn’t dare peek, relying on the accuracy of memory.

Fear danced with reality and the rock became a boulder, then three, then a wall. Late morning shadows stretched before her, creating shapes of all that the obstacle could be.

Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, another, another… On opening them, she saw the dark shape of the ferns. Felt the fear of the woman waiting in them. She stepped out from behind the stone, reached out her hand, and walked with her to the hill.

 

 

Here is my attempt at #writephoto, a weekly writing prompt for poetry/flash/short stories hosted by Sue Vincent. (So pleased Sue was feeling able to bring #writephoto back. Please do visit and write a little something.) 

 

I’ve Known This Season #WritePhoto

 

 

I’ve known this season.

Danced with dying dreams.

Watched bits of myself float away.

Sometimes I tried to hold on. Other times I watched those pieces fly from me in the autumn breeze.

Both were painful.

Both left me bare and vulnerable.

Yet I’ve survived. Grown stronger.

 

I don’t always change in my own time.

It could be another’s clock that ticks and clicks at me.

In crisp air, I show my true colors. 

What are they? What will the world think of them?

I wait, worry, wonder…

 

But the oak, anticipating winter, knows she will become more beautiful as she lets go. 

 

Here is my attempt at #writephoto, a weekly writing prompt for poetry/flash/short stories hosted by Sue Vincent

 

 

Enlightened #WritePhoto

 

 

I was alone.

My boots clicked on the stones. Ahead of me, a shape blurred and shifted. Behind me, another. But I didn’t look at either now. It wouldn’t change anything. They would still be there and I would still be alone.

The arch at the end of the walkway glowed with the promise of knowledge.

I wanted to run to it. I wanted to run from it.

With each step, I grew more uncertain. My thoughts a whirlpool.

Curious. Apathetic. Eager. Detached. Anxious. Calm.

Petrified.

I stopped. My body fought to escape its skin, pushing, pulling, stretching. Trapped, it grabbed my mind, twirling it like cotton candy, and tucked the feathered bits into a crevice I couldn’t access.

I straightened. Continued walking. Reached the arch directly after my first shadow and slightly before my second shadow.

We were alone.

And we were ready to step into the light.

 

 

 

My attempt at #writephoto, a weekly writing prompt for poetry/flash/short stories hosted by Sue Vincent

 

 

Turning comments off as I won’t be available to approve or reply. Just wanted to write a little something for Sue’s wonderful writephoto prompt. It’s been too long. 💕 Be well, my friends. 

 

Choosing #WritePhoto

 

 

There was a prophecy.

I didn’t believe it.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to or that it was, necessarily, bad, I just didn’t hold with such nonsense. Someone foretold something about someone at some time. Vague, much?

Also, these things always seem to be in riddles. They can never come right out and tell a person that he will die next Thursday or he will inherit ten goats from a long-lost uncle, named Fred, in three years.

Anyway, I heard the prophecy, as one often does, from a seer over a cup of tea that tasted like a mixture of cinnamon, dirt, and confusion.

I was a chosen one.

I scoffed.

Or someone near me. (Near me in bloodline or proximity?) One who would do great and terrible things. (Well, shit, were they great or terrible?) And I, or the person of undisclosed closeness to me, would know the prophecy was to come about on the eve of the day of his birth (now she’s precise) 15 years after the death of a loved one.

Well.

Fascinating stuff, eh?

I had questions. She refused to answer them. Said she wouldn’t even if she could. Which led to more questions (which she wouldn’t or couldn’t answer). Ah, such fun we had that day.

As I recall, I left before the tea got cold but not before she grabbed my wrist, imploring me to take this seriously, and telling me to watch for the day the world turned blue.

Delightful tea notwithstanding, I left in a hurry.

And, of course, I saw the blue of twilight (not altogether unusual) as I wrapped my son’s birthday gift. He would be turning 15. Still, I dismissed the old seer’s words as coincidence until he peeked his head in the room and gazed out the window. “Whatever you’re wrapping, I don’t want it. I want this,” he tossed a photo of my late wife in my lap. “It’s been 15 years. Time we bring Mum back, eh, Dad?”

 

 

Happy New Year!

 

My attempt at #writephoto, a weekly writing prompt for poetry/flash/short stories hosted by Sue Vincent

 

 

Direction #WritePhoto

 

 

“No, no. That’s east. I’m sure of it.” Angela looked back at the three strangers she’d managed to pick up along her travels.

The tall, ginger-haired boy tilted his head. “I think that’s west.”

“North,” the little girl toddled up next to him. “South!”

Ginger-hair sidestepped the girl, giving Angela a look. “Why did we bring her?”

Skinny girl punched his arm, “Shit, she’s a baby. We couldn’t leave her. What’s wrong with you?”

Ginger-hair rubbed his arm then shrugged, “Kids are sticky and loud.”

“Okay,” Angela took a breath, blowing it out loudly. “Enough. We go that way. With the little girl.”

“Which way?” Skinny girl asked. “You’re flailing your arms around and expecting us to know what you mean. Also, let’s not forget we don’t know where the hell we’re going and no one agrees on…anything, actually. And can we give the girl a name at least?”

“Toward the sunrise,” Angela said.

“Sunset,” Ginger-hair corrected.

“Dammit!” Skinny girl flung her hand at the nearby house, “I’ll say it again. It’s right there. A house. Signs of life. Possible help. No-brainer. And, fine, I’ll give her a name. She’s…Pam.”

Now-Pam yelled, “Pam!” Skinny girl smirked. Ginger-hair did not. Angela opened her mouth to argue and Now-Pam lowered her voice, “no house.”

“It’s right there, squirt,” Skinny girl pointed. “See?”

“See?” Now-Pam poked her stubby finger to the branches seemingly growing out of the roof.

“Huh,” Ginger-hair said. “I don’t remember that tree being there.”

Angela backed away, “It wasn’t.”

“No tree,” Now-Pam said. “Bad house. Run.”

 

 

 

My attempt at #writephoto, a weekly writing prompt for poetry/flash/short stories hosted by Sue Vincent

 

 

Rubbing Salt in the Wound #WritePhoto

 

 

“There used to be water here,” he pointed to the cliff. “Up to the standing stones.”

She nudged some loose debris with her foot. “This is cool, isn’t it? And, no, there wasn’t. Water, I mean.”

“How do you know?” He asked.

“I don’t,” she shrugged. “I just figured if it was you saying it, it must not be true.”

“Well, there was water here,” he insisted. “And it had salt in it.”

She laughed, “Salt? Okay, yeah, whatever.”

“Stop kicking that stuff. It was part of the water. Still is.”

“What’s wrong with you that you’ve got to make stuff up all the time?” She glared at him. “Water that had salt inside of it? You’re crazy, you know that?”

“I don’t know why I bother. Let’s go.”

She crouched and studied the debris. “I want to stay here and check this out.”

He grabbed her arm. “Don’t. Touch. That.”

“Why? Will the little, dried-up, old dirt eat me for lunch?” She yanked her arm from his grip and reached out.

“With salt,” he mumbled. The seaweed shot up and snaked around her body, thin tentacles covering her mouth and dragging her under the ground.

 

 

Happy Halloween and Blessed Samhain, my friends. 🎃💀

 

My attempt at #writephoto, a weekly writing prompt for poetry/flash/short stories hosted by Sue Vincent

 

 

Magic, Fey, a Year and a Day #WritePhoto

 

 

“No peeking!”

I sighed. “I know, Mirra, I wasn’t going to peek.” Although, that’s exactly what I had been trying to do.

She smirked, took a swig of her mead, and skipped away.

I watched them all, gathered to dance, drink, and watch me stick my hand through a hole in the standing stone. It made me absurdly happy and I wondered what the boy on the other side was feeling.

I would know soon enough, when the druids decided it was time for me to look through the Holed Stone.

They wouldn’t ask what I saw and I wasn’t sure if that was because they considered it private or because they already knew. I took a sip of my drink and relaxed at the sweet, honeyed flavor.

I didn’t notice Mirra was by my side until I felt her breath on my neck. She whispered, “It’s time.” The silence around me now was thick. I knew they were waiting, watching. My life was about to change.

Placing my forehead on the rough sandstone, I gazed through the hole.

“Well?” Mirra tucked a lock of hair behind my ear.

“Water,” I smiled. I had seen rain on this sunny, summer’s day. She nodded and kissed me on the cheek. “He did, as well.”

I slipped my hand through the hole and felt warm, calloused fingers find mine and grasp them.

 

 

My #writephoto, a weekly writing prompt for poetry/flash/short stories hosted by Sue Vincent

 

 

Breakthrough #WritePhoto

 

 

“Check this out,” he crouched over some green stuff poking through the pavement.

“Okay,” I squinted. “I give up. What is it?”

“No clue.”

“Let’s go. I don’t like this. It’s not right.”

“Wait,” he reached out.

I grabbed his arm, “Don’t touch it! What the hell?”

“I’m just wondering…” He withdrew his hand but didn’t move.

“My mum says curiosity killed the cat.”

He looked up. “What’s a cat?”

“No idea,” I admitted. “Point is, you’re too curious. Could get you killed.”

“It won’t.”

“It could.”

“Hey! There’s something else with this green stuff. It’s like a…” He snapped his gloved fingers. “Damn. What are those things we learned about in The World Before class?”

I rolled my eyes. “Jerical…this stuff. It’s wrong. I’m serious. It’ll do something to you.”

He grinned. “You’re right. It will.” He lifted his mask.

 

 

 

 

My attempt at #writephoto, a weekly writing prompt for poetry/flash/short stories hosted by Sue Vincent

 

 

Family Tree #WritePhoto

 

 

He built it, brick by brick.

Carved from boulders in the valley or stones found weathered by time… He stacked them. Each one a testament to his regrets.

He spent his life there, in those mountains, building walls to shut out the world he regretted not being a part of. The one he left when his wife was murdered.

He taught his son the art of isolation, sorrow, and disappointment. And, together, they worked on those walls.

When he died, his son continued the tradition, creating something so spectacular, it rivaled nearby castles.

He held fast to what he had been taught.

But, unlike his father, he planted a seed of hope which grew into a fine tree. Sturdy and beautiful. Clinging to sorrow, growing out of the pile of regrets. It survived where it should not have. Some say it was magic. Others, that it was simply hope.

 

“Do you want to know what I think?”

“What do you think, grandpa?”

“I think that this magic and hope people talk about when they see my tree…I think they are the same thing.”

 

 

 

 

My attempt at #writephoto, a weekly writing prompt for poetry/flash/short stories hosted by Sue Vincent