There
was a fashionista who lived among shoes.
She
bought so many heels, then credit cards came due.
She'd
gladly chew fine leather if she couldn't afford bread
just
to have sandals, flats, and booties in black and in red.
Showing posts with label Prompt 1. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Prompt 1. Show all posts
Monday, 17 June 2019
Sunday, 16 June 2019
Write-in 2019: 'Incy Wincy Spider' by Sue Massey
Incy Wincy was famished. She had woven a most intriciate, delicate gossamer web. It hung between two spikey cacti in a corner of the ramshackle lean-to. Incy Wincy waited patiently for any unsuspecting insect to become entrapped on the sticky strands of her fly catcher. Lucy noticed Incy Wincy dangling and darting about. The way she weaved her web was captivating. Lucy didn’t care about the thick cobwebs full of the skeletons of dead flies draped in every corner of the lean-to.
Lucy pottered in the lean-to, tending her plants. When she misted her magnificent cacti, water droplets landed on Incy Wincy’s web. Incy Wincy was out in a flash, thinking a winged creature had landed for lunch. This amused Lucy. She teased the spider. It was a friendly game.
A bumble bee, wearing a yellow and black striped woolly jumper coated in yellow powder, buzzed into the lean-to. Disorientated, it flew straight into Incy Wincy’s web. Incy Wincy darted out for the kill. The bumble bee struggled frantically. It was too strong to stay captured and deftly extricated itself from the sticky web, and buzzed out back into the garden.
Incy Wincy was famished.
Lucy pricked out seedlings. She stood back to admire her military rows of wallflowers. She would plant them out in the garden in autumn. Hard to believe they would become glorious perfumed beauties next spring.
Lucy left the lean-to and went to make a cup of tea.
Incy Wincy hung around, watching and waiting.
A house fly zoomed into the lean-to, landed smack bang in the middle of the web. Incy Wincy was having this one for supper. She attacked the fly, rolled into a parcel of fine web and retreated, leaving it to die.
Incy Wincy’s hunger would soon be sated.
Lucy pottered in the lean-to, tending her plants. When she misted her magnificent cacti, water droplets landed on Incy Wincy’s web. Incy Wincy was out in a flash, thinking a winged creature had landed for lunch. This amused Lucy. She teased the spider. It was a friendly game.
A bumble bee, wearing a yellow and black striped woolly jumper coated in yellow powder, buzzed into the lean-to. Disorientated, it flew straight into Incy Wincy’s web. Incy Wincy darted out for the kill. The bumble bee struggled frantically. It was too strong to stay captured and deftly extricated itself from the sticky web, and buzzed out back into the garden.
Incy Wincy was famished.
Lucy pricked out seedlings. She stood back to admire her military rows of wallflowers. She would plant them out in the garden in autumn. Hard to believe they would become glorious perfumed beauties next spring.
Lucy left the lean-to and went to make a cup of tea.
Incy Wincy hung around, watching and waiting.
A house fly zoomed into the lean-to, landed smack bang in the middle of the web. Incy Wincy was having this one for supper. She attacked the fly, rolled into a parcel of fine web and retreated, leaving it to die.
Incy Wincy’s hunger would soon be sated.
Write-In 2019: 'Nursery School' by Judy Tweddle
Little Jack Horner sat in the corner. On the naughty chair. Again. This time he was to think about what it would feel like to have someone put their finger in YOUR food.
Write-In 2019: 'There was a crooked man' by Jo Withers
There was a crooked man who walked a crooked line,
set up a crooked studio beneath a famous sign,
auditioned in his office where he set the crooked scene, pressed against their nubile bodies with his nasty crooked lean,
snapped his crooked fingers thinking he could make them dance, snapped his crooked temper when they refused to prance,
reaped awards and ceremonies in their little crooked town, seeped blackmail and alimonies when they finally brought him down.
set up a crooked studio beneath a famous sign,
auditioned in his office where he set the crooked scene, pressed against their nubile bodies with his nasty crooked lean,
snapped his crooked fingers thinking he could make them dance, snapped his crooked temper when they refused to prance,
reaped awards and ceremonies in their little crooked town, seeped blackmail and alimonies when they finally brought him down.
Write-In 2019: 'Mere's Lamb' by Annette Edwards-Hill
The hawks were the first to find the ewe. They circled the body, the flies a black buzzing cloud. Mere found the lamb half wedged under the fence. Mere’s father picked it up by its hind legs, ready to throw it on the trailer. The lamb made a noise like a crying cat.
‘Better take it home then,’ said Mere’s father.
At home, Mere’s mother was pulling burnt pieces of Vogels from the toaster. A cake sat on the table.
‘We’ll feed the lamb and then you can take the cake to the Tangi,’ she said.
‘Can’t you do it?’ Mere asked her mother thinking of the old man lying in the open coffin inside the meeting house. Jack had told her he’d been in with his mother and the old man’s face was covered in hairy moles and his skin was like candlewax.
The lamb was asleep on the warm floor by the oven when Mere left the house. Mere wore her parka. It smelt like wet wool and sheep poo. She reached the boundary between the farm and the Marae. Cars lined the sides of the road, she could hear a baby crying.
‘Hey,’ one of the children stood on the fence watching her ‘that your lamb?’
Mere looked over her shoulder. The lamb was behind her, tail wagging. She mouthed at it, go home. It trotted through the open gate, past the carved poles and the rows of shoes lined up outside the meeting house. Mere pulled off her gumboots and followed it inside.
One hundred faces turned and looked at her. The lamb stood by the coffin, she could see the tip of the man’s nose.
An elderly lady smiled at her, the lines of her moko deep in her chin. ‘Come to say goodbye?’
‘Better take it home then,’ said Mere’s father.
At home, Mere’s mother was pulling burnt pieces of Vogels from the toaster. A cake sat on the table.
‘We’ll feed the lamb and then you can take the cake to the Tangi,’ she said.
‘Can’t you do it?’ Mere asked her mother thinking of the old man lying in the open coffin inside the meeting house. Jack had told her he’d been in with his mother and the old man’s face was covered in hairy moles and his skin was like candlewax.
The lamb was asleep on the warm floor by the oven when Mere left the house. Mere wore her parka. It smelt like wet wool and sheep poo. She reached the boundary between the farm and the Marae. Cars lined the sides of the road, she could hear a baby crying.
‘Hey,’ one of the children stood on the fence watching her ‘that your lamb?’
Mere looked over her shoulder. The lamb was behind her, tail wagging. She mouthed at it, go home. It trotted through the open gate, past the carved poles and the rows of shoes lined up outside the meeting house. Mere pulled off her gumboots and followed it inside.
One hundred faces turned and looked at her. The lamb stood by the coffin, she could see the tip of the man’s nose.
An elderly lady smiled at her, the lines of her moko deep in her chin. ‘Come to say goodbye?’
Write-In 2019: 'The wolf in sheep's clothing' by Mary Sheehan
‘Mary has a little lamb.’ My older brothers taunted. There was nothing I could throw back at them, it was true. I did. His name was Bonzo.
I was at that tender age when there was still a possibility of fairy tales actually coming true. Each night I went to sleep dreaming of galloping over the meadows on a white unicorn and each morning I dreaded that Bonzo would actually follow me to school.
Pet lambs in stories are gentle, loving, fluffy white things, but actual lambs have greyish wool and do not play with children. An orphan lamb is a different creature altogether. Bonzo was confident, sturdy and black-faced. I bottle fed him after his mother died and he quickly became used to humans. Whenever he saw me, he would rush over looking for food, even if he was already fed. His method of inquiry was to butt me with his head, gently at first and not so gently if really hungry. Now a sheep’s forehead is remarkably robust. It’s the instrument of attack that rams use while fighting for mating rights and a full on head butt sounds like a shot from a gun.
Bonzo spent his days hanging around outside the house with our species tolerant dogs. It can only be supposed that Bonzo began to think that he too was one of the pack. Our dogs got great delight in greeting any visitor with a volley of barking. They did this while wagging their tails… as was only polite. This delicacy was lost on Bonzo, who greeted his first visitor in the only way he knew how… head on. After the surprised party picked himself up off the ground and retreated behind the gate, we thought it better to put up a sign.
Beware the lamb.
I was at that tender age when there was still a possibility of fairy tales actually coming true. Each night I went to sleep dreaming of galloping over the meadows on a white unicorn and each morning I dreaded that Bonzo would actually follow me to school.
Pet lambs in stories are gentle, loving, fluffy white things, but actual lambs have greyish wool and do not play with children. An orphan lamb is a different creature altogether. Bonzo was confident, sturdy and black-faced. I bottle fed him after his mother died and he quickly became used to humans. Whenever he saw me, he would rush over looking for food, even if he was already fed. His method of inquiry was to butt me with his head, gently at first and not so gently if really hungry. Now a sheep’s forehead is remarkably robust. It’s the instrument of attack that rams use while fighting for mating rights and a full on head butt sounds like a shot from a gun.
Bonzo spent his days hanging around outside the house with our species tolerant dogs. It can only be supposed that Bonzo began to think that he too was one of the pack. Our dogs got great delight in greeting any visitor with a volley of barking. They did this while wagging their tails… as was only polite. This delicacy was lost on Bonzo, who greeted his first visitor in the only way he knew how… head on. After the surprised party picked himself up off the ground and retreated behind the gate, we thought it better to put up a sign.
Beware the lamb.
Write-In 2019: 'Country Lovers' by Vicky Newham
The birds have written their notes on bare branches and left them to dry. Dawn folds back the covers of slumber.
Parched, the man rolls onto his side and reaches for the jug and glass beside the candle.
If you should die, dilly dilly, as it may hap.
Oblivious of the lies which have burst open, of the woman who shrank at his touch, he stares blindly into the milky pool. Oblivious of the dizzy swirl which weaves spells of magic.
You shall be buried, dilly dilly, under the tap.
He raises the ruddy glass to unquenched lips. Silently, time inhales the bitter years of betrayal.
That you might drink, dilly dilly, when you are dry.
The unsung songs guard their secrets. His last gasp seals the winds of change. The sigh of leaving, dilly dilly, when love’s rhymes collide.
Parched, the man rolls onto his side and reaches for the jug and glass beside the candle.
If you should die, dilly dilly, as it may hap.
Oblivious of the lies which have burst open, of the woman who shrank at his touch, he stares blindly into the milky pool. Oblivious of the dizzy swirl which weaves spells of magic.
You shall be buried, dilly dilly, under the tap.
He raises the ruddy glass to unquenched lips. Silently, time inhales the bitter years of betrayal.
That you might drink, dilly dilly, when you are dry.
The unsung songs guard their secrets. His last gasp seals the winds of change. The sigh of leaving, dilly dilly, when love’s rhymes collide.
Write-In 2019: 'Sundays Well Spent' by Mileva Anastasiadou
I once was human, but I no longer remember much of that season. I am now a machine. The usual kind, with gears, accessories and all.
“Dad, there are children on the TV who are working. Should I be working too?” I’d asked dad long ago. My father tried to shun a direct answer. He only sang along with me one of my favorite tunes at the time:
“Today is Sunday, Sunday ice cream.
All you hungry children, come and eat it up.”
I am not sure when the mutation happened to me. It manifested slowly, without me noticing the gradual changes. I think that my life transformed into survival, and finally into plain machine maintenance, as soon as I started working on Sundays. I then mumbled some objections, yet they convinced me that the new working conditions would better serve the needs of humankind.
On this sunny Sunday, I stand still at the side of the street, watching some other machines work, and humans walking by watching the machines work. A passerby throws some coins in my hand, which will soon charge my batteries for a little longer. He stares at me for a while, then quickly turns his gaze the other way.
“Look dad! He is broken. Can you fix him?” asks the kid standing beside him.
“He is not broken, son. He is unlucky,” answers the father. The old tune comes to my mind and I start singing:
“Today is Sunday, Sunday ice cream.
All you hungry children, come and eat it up.”
The boy jumped with joy, but his father quickly pulled him away. I am not certain as to whether he was surprised at the machines having a voice, or if he got worried that the mutation might prove a contagious disease after all.
---
A longer version of this story has appeared in The Molotov Cocktail.
Write-In 2019: 'Memo - Call Out Procedure - NHS/COP/003' by Sarah Mosedale
Correct procedure must be followed by
all staff. Following recent events, of which you will be aware, given
the high level of negative publicity engendered, staff are reminded
of the core principles below.
Dr Foster Went to Gloucester
Every member of staff is assigned to a
specific geographical district. Under no circumstances may staff
respond to requests for home visits, hospital cover or any other call
out beyond their assigned district, no matter how fruitful the
opportunity for rhyme. Drs Fanchester and Crystal take note please.
In a Shower Of Rain
Particular care must be taken when
operating under conditions of inclement weather. See NHS/WEA/001 for
full details. In this context note a) umbrellas are available for
loan to any member of staff and b) for journeys over 1.82 miles a
taxi may be an option - see NHS/TAX/001 for full terms and
conditions.
He Stepped In a Puddle Right Up to
His Middle
Staff are reminded of the need to pay
close attention to their surroundings, particularly,though not
exclusively, in unfamiliar surroundings. It is not acceptable to be
lost in thought, no matter how senior one’s position. Under no
circumstances should staff read while walking. Such contributory
negligence is likely to render your professional accident insurance
invalid.
And Never Was Seen Again
Careless talk of this nature undermines
staff confidence and morale and is strictly prohibited. Do not
indulge in speculation about events of which you have little
knowledge. Any enquiries from non-NHS persons must be referred to the
Press Office. For the avoidance of doubt, Dr Foster is well and
recuperating and wishes her privacy to be respected at this difficult
time.
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