Magpie Tales #12...Flesh and Bone

screaming in silence,
skin flayed from bone
raw meat beneath,
but red-blooded
severed limbs die
with no blood supply
tips of digits turning
ivory and rubbery
vinegar-preserved hands
bleed inside glass
scratching at the orb
round and round
calling for lightning,
thunder,
to free them.
But they are captive
in a bubble of time
a single bubble
that caught them and a fish
in death as they rose,
hands open for freedom
wishing but captive,
hands and a fish.

Theme Thursday...Bicycle

wheels slowly spinning still
cycle lying desolate on the road
the greasy track of an oil spill
sirens fading in the distance
frantic CPR and anxious whispers
remnants of too-late assistance
The car has barely any scratches
a dent and a cracked headlight
paint scraped and flaking in patches
For the cyclist too little too late,
the car driver is left alive and intact
left to know he toyed with fate
and lost

Tales on Tuesday...My Favourite Martian

The easiest way to hide an alien would be to leave it in Times Square. So it's said.
So there I was. People saw me, but they walked on. Because when people see something strange, but those around them are not reacting, they do not react either. They deceive themselves into not seeing me.
Perhaps the most wondered alien question is 'what do aliens look like?' Well I ask, what do people look like?
People are strange creature, and not one alike, though some more than others. So it is with aliens. We have different races too; there is not just one other alien race besides humanity, like it is true that
there is not just one other skin colour besides 'whites.'
Aliens are portrayed as kindly or evil, but usually understandable. How is it that you can understand an alien but not a Asian? Ha! Because it is not true, they do not speak your language, nor do we. But just like perhaps if you listened to a conversation in Mandarin, you would get some picture of it, you can listen to aliens and get a picture of us.
Who said we even speak? We might be advanced farther than you in communication, no need for words. Aliens are always either ahead or way behind you, what if we are on the same page?
Perhaps those you call 'aliens' have really travelled in time from your own world many years in the future or past, so that you think they are foreign. Is it not true that sometimes advanced science could be considered 'magic' to observers? So that something almost incomprehensibly different could be considered 'alien?'
Think on this earthlings, as I stand among you. As you pass by me. And think...could this have happened before? Could it have changed the world? Could something not understood have resulted in a suspension of disbelief so vast that it changed history? Made a man into a god?
Think on this earthlings as you live your lives and pass me by. Just because you do not understand me does not mean I am not what I am. I am what I am. And you have no power over my essence, my core, my reason to exist. You can lie about it, make it up, but I will not be changed.
I stand among you today different, equal, unnoticed. But tomorrow I could be immortal. Think carefully earthlings before you immortalise me, before my story becomes a fable for generations after you. I will stand here and you will pass, but all it takes is one notice and I will become legend.
Do you want that earthlings? Keep walking as you have walked past all those of my kind who preceded me. Keep walking, but you will never escape. Don't look me in the eye, I am different, I am scary. Don't read my sign, don't drop a coin in my hat. It won't matter in the end. Not for you.


Note: Feel free to read more into this than is there, but please don't take offence. It's just my opinion, and it doesn't mean I share every sentiment in it either.

This is a Tales on Tuesday post.

Microfiction Monday #28

He hoped if he stood here long enough, they would notice his majestic presence and name him King of Puck Fair. Or his legs would give way.


More Microfiction Mondays: Stony River

Theme Thursday...Lunch

The sign on the door says out to lunch.

'I've been waiting for over an hour,' she finally tells the secretary. 'When will he return?'
'Who?' the woman asks, confused.
'Your boss, Mr Richard. Who else?'
'Mr Richard doesn't work here any more, I'm afraid.'
'So whose office is that?'
'Mr Richard's.'
'But he's gone...it just says "out to lunch"'
'He's out to lunch.'
'You just said he doesn't work here any more,' she cries in frustration.
'He doesn't,' the secretary says tiredly.
She almost screams. In tight voice she asks;
'Where is he?'
'Mother Mervin's Marvelous Institute for the Mentally Unstable.'
Her mouth drops open.
The secretary smiles in satisfaction as she leaves.
'You can come out now, Mr. Richard,' she calls. 'Your wife has gone.'


Theme Thursday, where interpretations run amok.

Magpie Tales #11...Thrush-in-Tree

Gnarled roots like fingers grip
an ebony cane with a silver tip
Leaves drape shadows over wood
Carved like stone where angels stood

Darkness like a veil encloses
empty soil where once bloomed roses
Under tree trunk thick and strong
a desolate thrush cries out in song

'Come back, come back my love,
thou art as pretty as the stars above.'
Alas for he, love is unrequited
But he knows not, so is truly delighted

He finds below his perch in tree
a silvered cane from she to he
he realises little and not enough
This gift 'tis not but useless fluff

He is not a thieving bird,
nor can she sing single word
they can look and pass a glance
but for anything else there is not a chance

So thrush sings on, sings on,
and magpie wings on, wings on,
never to meet, never to speak
totally dissimilar except for their similar beaks

And somewhere someone will hear with glee
The ballad of the thrush-in-tree
They'll pause not once from their quiet stroll
knowing their cane lies safe in sheltered knoll

Magpie Tales

Three Word Thursday

I forgot last week's Three Word Thursday, and am late for this week's, but here is a double dosage of last week's and this week's combined to make up for it :)

• gardyloo, interjection.  a call used in warning;  perhaps from French garde à l’eau! look out for the water!
• swoopstake, adv. in an indiscriminate manner
• wanion, n. unlucky
  
  

He looks down at his shoes again. Why? They are purple clogs with red dragons' eggs painted on. He would never choose these willingly!
He sits down heavily. Just where is he and WHY does he have these shoes?...

The wanion Acersecomic sighs. His scaevity is getting tiring! These shoes...how could he have come by them? He decides that it must have been the witch. Perhaps the shoes are a symbol of his victory over her and now he will be able to trim his hair. Then he remembers. He didn't win, he lost. And now he's stuck in some remote corner of the world - hell - maybe even the universe. Alone.

'Gardyloo!'

He jumps. Apparently not alone.

'Hello! I'm your guide to the lovely region of - of - ' the voice pauses. '- of Brephophagist.'

'Baby-eaters?'

'No, no, that must be wrong. Oh yes, that's for my next call. This is - Gardyloo. Did I already say that? No...that isn't the name of here, that's the - Run!'

Acersecomic runs. He has no idea who (or what) the voice is, in fact he never saw who it belonged to.

'Run faster you fool! They're catching up.'

'Who are you voice? Why am I here? And why didn't you warn me about the...them?'

'One question at a time jester! I'm down here.'

Acersecomic looks down. One of his purple clogs does a little jig. Acersecomic trips.

'Idiot! You are here because you are an idiot. Snilching the Wild Westerly Warrior no less. It's no wonder she had to take action.'

'But I never - ' He pants, still running.

'Beside the point. Now for your last question. I did warn you, coxcomb. You just weren't paying attention.'

'B-'

'Uh, uh, uh. Don't make me thropple you.'

'You're a clog.'

'I am a presence. Don't doubt magic when you use it everyday. Furthermore, what makes you think that clogs and presences are incompossible in the same thing?'

'Please just tell me how to leave this place.'

'It is a long and complicated riddle.'

'Tell me.'

'You asked. I'll tell. First you must gnathonize a sagittipotent female, of which there are many here. Then, you have to defedate the Stream of Life. Proceed in an assectation after the afore mentioned female, who you have successfully bound with rope in your drug-induced noctambule. Then your long and sometimes fissiparous hair can be trimmed by the pair of silver scissors in your wardrobe.'

'In English? It sounds a bit complicated. Are you sure it's worth it?'

'Defile the Stream of Life by spitting in it, which will kill many thousands of undecided organisms, from fleas to whales. Then capture a female, tie her up while sleepwalking in sleep induced by eating poisonous fruit, then follow the girl, and you will be able to cut your hair. However, need I mention only the scissors in your wardrobe can cut your hair, and they are far far away? And also, in order to leave this place, you must do all of that anyway. Think on it.'

'Hmmm. What are the disadvantages to staying here?'

'In fact none for the next three hours. After that, the entire land floods and you are sure to drown unless you have completed the tasks.'

'Well then I have no choice. This land is horrible,' Acersecomic says, swoopstake waving a hand  across the horizon.

'You always have a choice. Your amarulence is tiring. Grab your cromack and let's be off.'

The wizard debates for a moment, then kicks off the clogs. He runs toward the most likely place to find a sagittipotent female; the forest.

He has forgotten the mysterious predators behind him.



scaevity: unluckiness, left-handedness;
brephophagist: baby eater
thropple: strangle
incompossible: Not capable of joint existence; incompatible; inconsistent
snilch, v. — to eye someone or something
gnathonize: to flatter; roblet: to lead astray
fissiparous, adj. tending to break up into parts
sagittipotent: skilled at archery
noctambule, v. sleepwalk;
coxcomb, n. a conceited, foolish dandy; pretentious
assectation , v. — act of following after something else;
defedate, v, — to defile, to pollute
cromack, n. a staff, stave or walking stick;
amarulence, n. — bitterness, spite;



Check out Quilly's blog for more (and an explanation) :D

Theme Thursday: Draft

The email was ready, just one final touch. She had decided to send it just to her, not to him - yet.
She knew about them, she had known for years, but it wasn't until last night...
He hadn't been home at all! She hadn't minded all the other times, told him it was okay when he apologised for working late. But last night had been their anniversary. He had never missed it, even if he had missed every other day in the week. Never their anniversary.
She had waited up for three hours, getting more and more despondent as time went on.
First she was hopeful, once he had been late as a surprise to pretend he had forgotten and then had taken her out to dinner.
Then she was hurt. Surely he had suspected she knew and that was why he had always remembered their anniversary; to say thank you for being hush hush.
The she had been angry. Hence the email. Telling him she was leaving. He could follow her and she might reconsider. Then she deleted it and wrote one about all the times she had been alone and they had been...together.
But she wouldn't send it to him, just to her. Maybe she would break it off, and he could work on their marriage.
She didn't see the 'one new message' flash until it was too late.
I can't believe he's dead. I'm sorry. I slept with him, and I am so sorry. He was with me, and he was coming home to you when it happened. I just wanted to say I'm sorry.
It was from her best friend. She had hung up the phone when the police called, before the words were out of their mouth. She had known that something was wrong.
After the email, she wouldn't even have a best friend. She decided not to send it.
But her drafts folder was empty.

Magpie Tales #10...Around the World in 60 Seconds

Stop. Go.
The horses are off with a leap
He cheers with the rest
one eye on the timepiece
Around the world in sixty seconds
the horses pant
sweat rains off their backs
They round the pole
no time to slow
'Faster, faster!' he murmurs
They pick up speed
the home stretch now
In a thundering drum roll
they cascade to the finish
he breathes a sigh
59 seconds
He pats the horses gently
they foam at the mouth
Sunshine and Starlight led them
Tidal followed Moonshine
They dragged the carriage of the heavens
once around the world
circumnavigated Earth in 60 seconds
and he is proud of them.

Tales on Tuesday...All in the Family

I missed last week's Tales on Tuesday, but it's now posted below this post, so have a look at it if you will ;)


Mum was a petty thief, and Johnny was a burglar.
Daddy was a pick-pocket and Susy was a hustler.
Billy was an arsonist and Sonny was a mugger.
Lucy committed insurance fraud and Rose-Beth stole credit card details.
Me? I was law-abiding.
But now I'm an orphan. They're all dead and I'm silent.
But if you lean closer, I'll tell you where I buried them.
Shh.



Short but (not) sweet. I found this week's prompt rather difficult I must admit.

This is a Tales on Tuesday post.

Tales on Tuesday...Invisible Man

Walking behind her yesterday, watching and listening as she insulted them.
Tomorrow she confessed to embezzlement.
Maybe it wasn't her fault, it doesn't matter, no one will know.
It wasn't her fault she says again next week, it was them.
Always them, she says with venom on Saturday.
And she buys a new dress on Sunday, comes to work in a new car Monday.
On Tuesday she is fired.
Why? she asks them (it wasn't her fault after all).
They say goodbye.
Wednesday she is in bed with a hangover (not her fault)
Thursday she complains all day.
Friday he leaves with a note.
My darling wife, you had time for everything. For work, for buying clothes, for parties and pubs. But you never had time for me. I walked behind you all the time. 
You gave me a job as your assistant. I earned a third as much as you and you rubbed it in and refused to pay for for "husband" things like the electricity. You complained about your bosses, you stole money, and you gave the dirty work to me. When my anniversary gift for you wasn't as elaborate as yours for me (but surely was more heartfelt) you sulked. 
All this I dealt with. But your final insult? You didn't give me any of the money you stole.
I sole that money. You thought up a great idea, but who actually went about it? That was me darling. So I told your bosses, said I would retire willingly (so you would get the blame).
Now I'm leaving (where you can't find me) so don't cry any crocodile tears for me as you look at your bank account (empty) and the garage (empty) and the silver press (also empty). And if you are surprised by the Townshends, don't be, they've bought the house. 
So, I guess you wish maybe you had made time for me. Maybe you wish you could go back. Don't be sorry darling, it was a pleasure. 
I was your shadow, your invisible man. No regrets, isn't that what you said? Truthfully, I have none.
But I bet you do.

This is a Tales on Tuesday post. 

Microfiction Monday #27

The sirens waited in vain for ships, playing sea songs and singing.
They sunk no ships, but made a model boat run aground. No sailors died.

More Microfiction Mondays: Stony River

NaPoWriMo...Day Six

Pick an image from a personal collection or Google any word and look at the image results...

Like a grizzly bear
emerging form hibernation*
he comes from sleep
Hair mussed and eyes dead
scratchy stubble and
the same t-shirt
of yesterday
Until coffee, like a drug
wakens him, alert now

A grizzly could not
compete with caffeine.

*One animal that some famously consider a hibernator is the bear, although bears do not go into "true hibernation". During a bear's winter sleep state, the degree of metabolic depression is much less than that observed in smaller mammals. Many prefer to use the term "denning". The bear's body temperature remains relatively stable and it can be easily aroused.

Microfiction Monday #26

He could never have imagined so complete a transformation.
He was an ugly duckling, now a swan. He realised he had not changed so much.

Magpie Tales #9...A Little Piece of Hope

I picked up the lipstick. It was unused and the marbled exterior looked like a lighter. She'd smoked, but it wasn't that had got her in the end.
Brown wasn't her colour, she was a red kind of girl. Statements and standing out, that was her mantra. Feathers and red, and white white skin, like ivory but not as cold and morbid. Furs too, she was a furs person. Real fur, ermine and fox, bushy and expensive.
And convertibles. She loved them. She had a little car - a Volkswagen? It was blue anyways, sky blue. The seats were torn but she had flower covers for them.
She would cruise down the road, roof down and cigarette loose in her hand, red lips pursed and pale skin gleaming. She stopped at a petrol station just to look at herself in the mirror in the toilet, cause the car didn't have one. It wasn't really a vain thing, more making sure she still existed.
I opened the lipstick. It smelled funny, a bit like leather and cigarettes. It smelled musty too, and dry. Wow, it really was brown.
She never was a brown person, but now that I looked at it, I could sort of see why she kept it. It looked like leather, the interior of the car that fit the life she dreamed of. A little piece of hope in a small package, to look at whenever she felt down.
She killed herself.
No easy way to say it, I don't think she would have wanted a big fuss. She just drove her little blue car off the edge of a cliff. They said it was an accident, that her brakes might have failed. After all, the car was old. They didn't fail, she just didn't use them.
She told me she had been saving to leave her job and husband, both dead-end. She even told me where the money was. I couldn't follow her, I was working.
Then I went and collected the money, and, just as she wanted, didn't spend a cent of it on her funeral.
I bought a car, new and shiny and leather. And I got feathers and wrapped them around the mirror, so she could she herself real nice. And a real fur seat cover for the passenger seat, cause that's where she sits. And a white napkin, with a kiss on it, red lipstick, just like she used to wear.
I drove the car to the edge of the cliff where she died. I released the brake and let it roll forward.
And then I braked. I spun around and sped out of there. Up the coast to a new life, with her little piece of hope in my pocket, her brown lipstick.

Theme Thursday...Box

I carry the box to the mime and place it over his head. Immediately it disappears, and he finds it with his hands and lifts it.
He walks out on stage and bows within the confines of his box. The audience applauds, thinking they know what's to come.
He feels around and makes a show of being trapped. Only he and I know he really is.
He curls his arm awkwardly behind him to get at his pocket. He lifts out the knife just as we planned. He hacks at the box.
The box won't cut. He tries harder, I can see the strain on his face. He looks back at me, but I duck behind the curtain.
He smiles at the audience, but it is obvious he is panicking. He beckons at the audience and shouts something. The box is soundproof of course. A man in the front row whistles.
I smirk and wait. The mime throws down the knife and tries to inch the box toward the edge of the stage. It's too heavy of course.
He starts panting in fear. Of course, the box is airtight.
He looks back again. This time I give a small wave and an innocent smile. He gestures wildly, somewhat constricted by the box.
'Get on with it,' someone calls. The audience is getting bored.
He tries to sit down, but the box is too narrow. A young girl in the audience starts screaming in complaint.
I laugh out loud and look at one of the stagehands. 'Great show, isn't it?'
He shrugs and mutters into his mic.
I continue. 'The smart box makes all the difference doesn't it? Technology has advanced beyond what we ever imagined, don't you think? See look how his performance is improved by having a real box that the audience can't see.'
He listens urgently to his earpiece, then hurries onstage with a dismissing wave. I smile as the audience start to panic.
'He's not moving!'
'Mommy, what's wrong with the man?'
'Oh God...who has the box remote?'
'The stage manager, she's right over - '
I'm not there. I've fled the scene, taking the remote with me.
'Call an ambulance...and a tow truck. We can't move the box.'
I drop the remote in the gutter outside the airport. I glance at the television as I walk inside the terminal.
Woman drowned in river...body recovered today...two deaths in three days in downtown area...victims said to be related...family devastated by loss of three sisters
I'm free. And I've got no burdensome siblings - anymore.

 Theme Thursday, where interpretations run amok.

Three Word Thursday

acersecomic, n. — someone whose hair has never been cut
uberate, v. — make plentiful or nourish
snilch, v. — to eye someone or something

Here's a refresher from last week (I'm continuing the story..it had potential)

The witch hisses in a breath as she whirls around. She flings a gem at him and watces it ark toward him. She vocitates a malison under her breath, and smiles satisfactorily at the puff of smoke he makes as he absquatulates...

The wizard Acersecomic stands up. He curses under his breath as his long hair is yanked by a gnarled branch. As a child, he had been cursed to bear the characteristics of his name; not being able to cut his hair until an enchanted silver pair of scissors was recvered from a witch thrice as powerful as he.
For understandable reasons, he had not pursued any such witch. Until yesterday that is. Or was it yesterday? She had zapped him with a 'disappear-to-God-knows-where' spell. Since he wasn't God, he had no idea where he was. And why he had such horrible shoes on.
For years he had resignedly uberated his locks of gray hair (for some reason it had always been gray), thinking it was hopeless. Then yesterday, that unfortunately fateful day, eveything had changed.
'You snilched me!' she shouted.
He didn't even know what that meant, and was pondering it when she poked a massive ringed finger in his face and said:
'Get up! Don't you ignore me!'
He got up.
She zapped him with a 'stand-still-without-moving' spell, one he later learned was her specialty.
He shook it off with a 'I'm rubber-you're-glue' spell and ran. Too bad she had gems with her. They amplified a spell twenty times, increasing it's radius and accuracy. And she had got him.
He looks down at his shoes again. Why? They are purple clogs with red dragons' eggs painted on. He would never choose these willingly!
He sits down heavily. Just where is he and WHY does he have these shoes?


Check out Quilly's blog for more (and an explanation) :D

NaPoWriMo...Day Five

Make poetry really personal. Give poetry, as you write it, a name. Possibly a gender. And a personality. Give poetry — how you view poetry, what poetry means to you, your poetry — a name. Now write a poem suits your view or vision.

Agana flows from the heart, unbidden

You can call for her, but not force her

Forced, she is cold and stiff as rock

Unbidden, she arrives in a spurt

of lifeblood, your essence bared

Agana is not a choice.

You have her or you don't,

and if you do, you must let her flow

even if it kills you

NaPoWriMo...Day Four

Write a poem today that illustrates your idea of what is inside-out.

I had the sense to stop at the sight of your shadow

It wasn't a shadow, no more than you are

It was storm clouds and rain-soaked waters

It walked upright, shade-fingers nimble and alive

You slid along the ground like a shadow

But not like a shadow because your shadow walked upright

You were dragged behind it, a Hector behind Achilles

It led you to dark places, where shadows live

You followed willingly, unwillingly

I stopped at the sight of your doppelgänger

I turned and left you on the ground,

your shadow upright, shade-fingers nimble and alive

I left the upside-down world where

You were on the ground, your shadow upright

And it dragged you to dark places where shadows live

Tales on Tuesday...Golden Girls

We look down at the ground.
'Angels,' she whispers and it sounds like the wind.
The city is golden around us, lights sparkling like a Christmas tree.
'Angels,' I echo, glancing at the sky. It's a cloudy midnight, but the city's light pollution makes it dusk-like. 'In the country it would be pitch black tonight,' I say.
'Mmm.'
I follow her line of sight. We are nineteen stories up, would be higher but they aren't built yet. I am tired from scaling the aluminium ladders at opposite ends of the scaffolding, and my hands are cold from the frigid metal.
Below us, maybe there are people. I can't see any, even when I look where she is looking.
'What do you see?' I ask quietly.
She doesn't answer right away. 'We're like angels, Jenny. Looking down on everyone from Heaven.'
I glance at her, unable to read her thoughts.
She looks up. 'Angels in the clouds, just waiting to come down to earth.'
'Marsha?'
'Yes?'
'We aren't angels.'
She turns away abruptly. ' Just waiting.'
'We aren't angels Marsha.'
'Down to earth...'
'Marsha!'
She has stepped off the edge of the building.
'Marsha?' I shriek.
'Jenny?'
'Marsha, where are you?' I run to the edge and look down.
'I changed my mind,' she mumbles.
Her hand is turning white from clutching the building.
'Here Marsha, grab my hand.' I reach out to her.
'I don't want to die, Jenny! I changed my mind.'
'I know, I know. Here take my hand.' I pull her back onto the metal framework.
I put my arm around her shoulder.
'Angels,' she whispers again. 'We were angels.'
'That's right,' I say. 'Genuine golden girls.'


This is a Tales on Tuesday post.

NaPoWriMo...Day Three

Write about something that scares you. It could be tarantulas or your significant other cheating on you or an existential fear of the unknown so long as it unsettles you. Describe it in the most vivid language possible!


I like the dark, really I do
It's not the dark I'm afraid of...
It's you!

You creepies, you crawlies,
you 'sneak-down-the-wall'-ies

You murderers, you snitch-ers
you 'turn-off-the-light-switch'-ers

You 'hide-in-the-dark'-ies
You "I hid bodies in the park"-ies

You demonic, devilish sirens-or-such
Lurking around, seeing by touch

No I am not afraid of the twilight
It's the little night critters who give me a fright

Creeping and crawling, oozing and goozing
Sneaking about while I'm quietly snoozing

I am not afraid; I won't scream or shout
but the little night critters better watch out!

Microfiction Monday #25

They bounced along on toadstools laughing at her astride the hare.
She beat them to the pond and dove in alone.
Now they all saddle hares.

NaPoWriMo...Day Two

Today’s writing prompt is to type the letters RWP into the abbreviation search field at Acronym Attic and write a poem inspired in any way by one or more of the resulting phrases. You don’t have to use the words from the phrase in your poem, but you can if they fit. GLWI (Good Luck With It)!

"A Roman web place
Has no regular white paper!"
"So go to Roger Williams Park...
it's a reduced workload program
and you need it too
all you do
is think of pointless
stupid
hopeless
acronyms
to confuse me with!"
"Oh go watch RWP #24"
"What?"
"idk Rainwater Pipe."
"What did you call me?"
"Rolling Wire Probe"
"Did you just call me a fat...?"
"Nope, you're just a...
Random
Weird
Person
RWP"

I'd Be

If I were a month I’d be April
If I were a day I’d be Tuesday
If I were a time of day I’d be Sunrise
If I were a planet I’d be Pluto
If I were a sea animal I’d be an anemone
If I were a direction I’d be west
If I were a piece of furniture I’d be a chair
If I were a liquid I’d be spring water

If I were a gem stone I’d be an amethyst
If I were a tree I’d be a chestnut
If I were a tool I’d be a plane
If I were a flower I’d be a tulip
If I were an element of weather I’d be a thunder storm
If I were a musical instrument I’d be a flute
If I were a colour I'd be blue
If I were an emotion I’d be content
If I were a fruit I’d be a starfruit
If I were a sound I’d be a waterfall
If I were an element I'd be fire
If I were a car I’d be a convertible
If I were a food I’d be chocolate
If I were a place I’d be Thailand

If I were a material I'd be burlap
If I were a taste I’d be sour
If I were a scent I’d be fushia (flower not colour)
If I were a body part I’d be fingers
If I were a song I’d be a classical composition
If I were a bird I'd be an eagle
If I were a gift I'd be music
If I were a city I'd be New York (but God knows why)
If I were a door I'd have a window
If I were a pair of shoes I’d be stilettos

If I were a poem I would be a sonnet

And what would you be?

Flash Fiction Friday in 55

He sheds all his clothes in the patio to surprise her.

She ducks behind the sofa with the rest of the guests waiting to shout "Surprise! Happy Anniversary!"

He sneaks into the hallway.

They take a collective breath.

He strides into the sitting room as they jump up.

He remembers why he hates surprise parties.

Want More? http://g-man-mrknowitall.blogspot.com/

Magpie Tales #8...Phoenix

The essence of a phoenix
if it could be captured
would be captured in an egg

A delicate shell on the outer
a beating heart within
A hooked beak to emerge
milky translucent skin

From the ashes of a life comes a life
From the kin of kin comes kin
An animal dies and decays
The phoenix comes from within

Here rise the phoenix! Rise til the end of days!
Death brings you, life takes you,
He works in mysterious ways

A house burns down,
stone scorches, people might die
from the ashes emerges a phoenix
who will navigate the sky

No use! No use man! To catch it is to err!
The phoenix lives! It dies!
It is an answered prayer

It carries the soul of the dead one
to the heavenly clouds above
A fleeting glance, a second's worth
And you have missed its flight of love

Like the Saviour on the cross,
the phoenix brings hope, (and, through strife,)
the forgiveness of sins
by rising from death to new life

This poem was inspired by the picture on the egg, and by the idea of the egg itself (and because it's Easter, the story of the Resurrection)

Three Word Thursday

absquatulate, v. to depart in a hurry; to die
vocitate, v. to name or call
malison, n. a curse

The witch hisses in a breath as she whirls around. She flings a gem at him and watces it ark toward him. She vocitates a malison under her breath, and smiles satisfactorily at the puff of smoke he makes as he absquatulates.


Okaaaay that was not supposed to be so short, but hey those were pretty hard words and shorter is harder (not always, but I'm saying YES it is).

Check out Quilly's blog for more (and an explanation) :D

Reflections on Sheep in Cars

Short sheep driving! beep beep
look out! look out! the road is steep

They do not drive,
they cannot turn
They waste the gas
they'll never learn

The window is dirty
they don't even know
their little heads
are down below

Short sheep driving! beep beep
look out! look out! the road is steep

They don't stop for toilets
they just let loose!
In the back of the car
there's a duck and a goose

Sheep at the corner,
sheep at the store!
How did they get there?
There's more and more!

Short sheep driving! beep beep
look out! look out! the road is steep

Giving rides to everyone
Sheep cars on the road!
this car is full,
it's gonna explode!

Drug their food now!
Quicker than quick
Smile everyone
so they won't suspect a trick

Short sheep driving! beep....beep...
head on the horn; they're asleep!

Confiscate their keys
don't ever give them back
or we'll have another
short sheep attack!

This poem is not as random as it appears...next door there is a sheep in the car! Maybe to keep it warm, who knows? The car is out of use, parked in the yard, but still...confiscate their keys please!

NaPoWriMo...Day One

1. Put your iPod or iTunes (or other mp3 player) on shuffle. (If you don’t have a music player that shuffles, you can choose CD or album titles at random from your collection by writing several titles down on little slips of paper … works the same way.)
2. Write down the first five titles that come up. No cheating allowed!
3. Use all five titles to draft a new poem. They have to be used intact — you can interrupt them with punctuation, but you may not remove or change words.

We walked by the bridge
me and she, beautiful lover of mine

We watched the water flow
ramble on beneath the pines

We ate the lunch she made
and talked of love, that sweet emotion

We sailed our ship to China
crossed that deep deep ocean

She left while I lay napping
woken by the buzzing of the fly

I called her to ask where she was
She said it was fun, but goodbye

I said how about tomorrow?
'No. Accept it, life just isn't fair'

But she came anyways to the bridge and the river
We watched the clouds, the sunlight in her hair

She left again, but I knew she would return
Every day, to the river and the bridge

Tomorrow we would swim,
the next day climb the ridge

Free as birds, no commitments
Except to always call

Asking 'Where are you?'
nothing comes easy after all


My five titles:
Lover of Mine
The Fly
Nothing Comes Easy
Ramble On
Sweet Emotion

Theme Thursday

Bright cheery kitchen
with seventies decor
neon diner clock,
chequered linoleum floor.

'Sunny side up?'
'Yes please.'
(it's a chipped melamine plate
but the toast has melted cheese)

Sizzling skillet frying a full Irish*
City people thinking 'I wish...'

Past the skyscrapers they imagine...
They can see the country loam
smell the fields in their food
close their eyes and think of home

*A full Irish breakfast: eggs, rashers, sausages, black and white pudding, brown bread, porridge, toast, orange juice, a tomato, and more of the above


Theme Thursday, where interpretations run amok

{painting: yellow and gold by Mark Rothko}