Ruby sat by the fire gazing into the flames. Her fingers absently stroked a photograph; a face smiled out from the faded image. A log shifted in the fire sending out a crackle of sparks. Ruby, roused from her day dream, saw that it had begun to snow outside. A smile played at the edges of her mouth. They had always loved the snow.
PiNP22 Day 1
Tugging at my coat/the wind called/”Don’t forget, today/Don’t Forget./The sun smiled/And my heart cried.
You have no new messages
“You have no new messages.”
Three days. For three days this is all it has said. Not even a basic “Good
morning” check-in. Of course the technology can fail, servers go down, internets break. But three
days from Joe? Reluctantly, knowing they’ll all hate the intrusion, she types a group message. “Hi, guys, sorry. I’m a bit worried about Joe. Anyone heard from him at all?”. It’ll take them a while to reply.
She waits.
No mail
Sunday – You have no mail here.
Monday – You have no mail here.
Tuesday – You have no mail here.
Wednesday will bring news.
I worry.
But try not to let it show.
Send a cheery “hello, how are you?”
Try not to let the worry show.
“Hello. How are you today?”
Try not to let it show.
“Hello? Hope all is ok.”
Try not to let it show.
“Hello. Hello. Hello?”
You have no mail here.
No mail.
Here.
No.
Time
Things to think about this week
And not much time for the thinking
Lots to do
And less time for the doing.
Balls may be dropped.
Nerves will be frayed.
Life will go on.
Remember…?
Why is it that
as soon as
someone says
“write down anything
that springs to mind…”
My mind goes blank.
I have a million memories, more than 64,
but still, 4 days later
my pen has written
none.
Sept 13th, 2011
Letters spatter,
puddling into words,
sentences stream away,
gurgling into silence.
Traffic Island Writer
Marooned
On the island,
As traffic surged by,
Lost in a world of words,
He wrote.
Insomnia
What is different at 6.09
That makes the eyelids droop?
What elixir, eluded at every other 09,
Draws forth with the first hint of light
Bringing sleep, finally, at the dawn of the day?
Air from Other Planets
Souvenirs: She manoeuvred
the cart carefully, mindful
of its precious cargo and
the threat to it posed by a
slippery, cobbled, market
square. She had only twenty
of the tiny, precious
amphora left. With travel
restricted, people would
pay a high price for such a
fleeting, breathful
reminder of home. These
were the last of their
haul, unless the professor
could find a way to
replicate more, they’d soon
be living on air for real.
Air From Other Planets
Body Nostalgia
Kirsten Luckins has been experimenting with weird prompts and invited people to join in…so I did…
Prompt 3 of 30, and I’m offering an alliterative brain-blurt, which was the best I could manage. In fact, I also very nearly managed to finish a short story for this prompt, but as prose is not my metier I ended up bogged down and paralysed. So – bouncing out with a bit of babble was my way to get back on track.
And the ever-game Lisette Auton sent me one for number three as well – I can relate…
I mourn the lost body. I berate the folds and jiggles. Yet when I see a photo from before I think I looked beautiful then. Why can’t I think I look beautiful now?
Big thanks to Bernie McAloon for this snippet.
She considers this from another angle
until thoughts that escape from dresses
are suspended in stockings hanging
from the breast of a mantel.
Plus get a load…
View original post 55 more words
Signs of Life
Signs of Life. He bumbled and grumped through his morning routine. Bedroom drawers rumbled open with no clack of closure. Water spattered from taps. Downstairs, doors clumped shut, cutlery crackled against crockery. The kettle clicked into rumbling action. She waited, quiet, listening. How loud it all was. These noises intruded, silencing her thoughts, quashing her dreams, tethering her to this life. Their life, his life, only partly hers. Later, she would make noises of her own.
I found this in an email from way back in 2014. It was a submission to Paragraph Planet. I can’t remember if it was accepted.
Grief
Grief hits at the most random moment. A song, a smell, a phrase overheard in conversation, each
reduce her to a mess of tears and sobbing and snot. She hears his voice, calm, in her head, “It is what it is. Enough now. No more tears.” But the tears will not stop, not yet. She feels the pain of his absence, as real as any wound, raw and red. The tears are her only salve.
#paragraphplanet 31.3.19
In memory of my friend Alan.
Haiku
Hastily tidied, desk
gains semblance of order –
the weekend beckons.
Stumbled on a haiku from 8 yrs back. Quite apposite.
Ripples
The words had been carefully placed. Dropped like pebbles into water they rippled outwards in infinite circles. The repercussions would drag them all down. The chaos he had held in check for so long was breaking loose, and he knew without a doubt attempting to stop it now would simply churn the waters more. It was unfair, but once uttered, those words could not be taken back. Helpless, he watched as life collapsed around him.
Paragraph Planet 10.1.2019
paper
Peter folded the paper, carefully aligning the edges, and slowly scored the crease with his thumb nail. His gaze focused somewhere off in the distance as he absently tapped the paper with his forefinger. Tap. Tap. Tap. The movement and sound seemed to pull him back to the present. He looked at the paper, tapped it again – tap, tap, tap – then tucked it carefully into his pocket. Time later to deal with that, he thought.
Paragraph Planet 17.10.2018
Presence
Heating on
Duvet up to my chin.
Cat curled sleeping
Peaceful, beside me.
Sudden coldness
Lifts hairs.
A step on my grave.
A ghost passing by.
#micropoetry #napowrimo18
Fairweather Friends
Fairweather friend. I am not your fairweather friend. I am your foul weather friend. I am your friend for the dark days, the stormy days; the days when you roar and stamp and everyone else runs for cover. Not for me the days of sunshine and sweet talk. On those days I am sidelined, shunned. On those days my presence is too painful. I disturb the peace of your sushine days with my stormy memories.
Paragraph Planet, Nov 9th 2017
Tweaked it slightly.
Taste
Disappointment rises,
burning like bile
in her throat,
curdling hope.
She chokes it down
and turns
and smiles.
#microprompt #taste
Water
Water was everywhere. Running from over flowing gutters, streaming slick-like down brick walls and fences. The drains had given up long since, throwing back the water in fountains of protest. It pooled into puddles on saturated lawns. A gust of air sent a drum roll of droplets across the polytunnel. Be careful what you wish for, Granny used to say, you might just get it. Who had wished for rain for the garden, she wondered?
Submitted PP July ’17
Clown
I begged you not to clown around.
You said it was impossible. “Clowning around is just who I am”, you said.
I laughed, and took the proffered balloons. How could I not?
Fire and Water
Wailing, roaring, burning and hissing, leaping shadows, reckless in his rage, he hurtled down.
Head Count
https://unsplash.com/photos/7Z03R1wOdmI
Nothing more than a number.
Our individuality ignored, denied.
We are nothing to them.
Mug
It’s tattooed across my forehead. You can’t see it. It’s in some special ink but it glows whenever he is around like the trails left by bees and ants near a tasty snack or a particularly fertile wildflower meadow. Invisible to the human eye, it sends out a clear message to him. “Come on here, she’s ripe to swallow your honeyed crap today; drop your best line and wait.” I fall for it every time.
Word Dabbling 