Not that great

Sometimes I try to write but I'm not all that great my poems aren't good either, I can't just whip one up on the spur of the moment they happen sure but try to sit down and write one nope that doesn't happen, poems appear for me I can't make them appear they just happen

Writing is the same even though a "short" is something I can make happen they unlike poems don't just appear I make notes, I think over them..no I don't drool over them that's silly.
See I'm a popper when it comes to a "short" mostly if I think too much nothing comes out at all, if I'm interrupted which is most times the thought process stops completely that's why most of my stories are short which is amazing as I have trouble with ends ... don't know when to shut up ;)

So for me to be in a group like this one is like being in the "fast tracked" class at school, its difficult for me I'm a bit slow compared to the rest but at least I try
This week was Season of Change it had colours one of which I had to get out the dictionary to find out what it meant and it had to be melancholy or sad something I don't normally do either, most of my stories have a happy or surprise ending.
So here's me looking up the words thinking oh boy I can't make a poem appear and the seasons here are different so I'll have to do something 'left of center'
Anyway this was my thought process
Colours, multicoloured, reds browns blues = opals
Hard shell, reddish brown = the earth
Opals are mined where the ground is white, soooo that's no good **was slapping head at this point**
Gold is mined from dark earth and is found with quartz < -- YaY ... see easy (yeah right only took me 2 days to get to that *doh*)

This is my short..my short that took days

Mosaic of the fall

“I told you to shore that up didn’t I” the older miner said, the red dust mixing with his sweat making his face the same colour as the surrounding earth, he was now a tawny reddish brown from head to foot the only colour visible was his eyes the colour of a blue topaz

“You trying to kill us both?” he yelled at the younger man, he had only taken him on because he was getting older now the mine almost getting too much for him to work on his own, the younger man a son of a friend as he had no son’s of his own.
No wife would accept a miner as a husband clothes sepia like the landscape, his shell his miners shell as hard to break through as the land itself

They used explosives down in the cold hard earth, partly deaf now and going blind his eyes accustomed to the dark the older miner never really saw the seasons he saw rock, he saw gold he saw profit.

His life as it was, was coming to an end and the younger man would be his legacy. The younger man who picked up a rock saw the beauty that the older now did not see; he saw the colours he saw the seasons of eons in the rock. He saw the dust falling from the ceiling of the mine, like tiny pieces of the older man falling away his life his work slowing drifting down, he saw but his shout was too late another slide another fall, fell between him and the older man.
As he emerged dusty, covered in head to toe an almost invisible object on the pock covered landscape a tear rolled down his face turning brown as it rolled across his face he wiped it away with the back of his hand leaving a smear on his face

He muttered sadly “He never saw the colours… he never saw them”