My Letters are Crap

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that’s what I picked up in a game of scrabble.

what could you do with a rack like that?

throw it away, pick up new letters.

no, too easy.

I thought of a better way though I’m not up to it.

I thought I’d throw it open to you to see what you could do with it.

write a short story, a piece of flash fiction: horror, comedy,; a poem , a snippet.

go ahead, use this as a photo prompt, see what you come up with.

post it here.

I hope you all come out to play

The Page is Not the Pampas

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“I’m not happy with you”, I say to my poems.

They look at me warily.

“What have we done wrong?” they say.

“You’re too well behaved. Too orderly, genteel. Way too English”

“Too English?”, they say.  “From the country that brought you Joe Cocker, the Rolling Stones, the Sex Pistols”

“Okay. Okay. Scrub ‘too English’.”

“So what else are we doing wrong?”

“You mince your way upon the page”

“Mince?”

“Yes. Like dainty school girls. Can’t you, like, stampede upon the page?”

“Stampede? We’re not fucking gauchos! The page is not the pampas.” they say.

“Can’t you buck, twist and beat a bit, Get a rhythm going? Get a bit of dirt on your hands?”

“You’ll have to let us out more,” they say. “You can’t keep us locked in with you at nights”.

“Hey! Where are you going?”

“Out,” they say , as they head out the door, ” to paint the the town red.”

‘Paint the town red?’ Does anyone still say that? These poems really do need to get out more.

“Okay, but make sure you’re home by twelve. Drive carefully.”

The Floodgates

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This is how it starts.

You bring up that phone call

At the Jewellers.

It could have waited, you say.

It was important, I snap. You have no sympathy.

Tit for tat.

You go on about my clothes on the back-seat

Of the car.

I go on about your obsession with tidiness.

Stop, can you hear it? You say.

Hear what?

That creaking.

We both listen.

Ahhh, the floodgates, I say.

Let’s not go on with this, you say.

We give each other the peace sign.

Hug.

 

Humble Pie

 

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After bickering over breakfast,

and stewing over it all day

she finally found what she wanted —

the clinching morsel.

Now she would serve him his just desserts.

What’s for dinner? he said.

Humble Pie, she answered

as she handed him the perfumed panties

she found in his drawers.

\

 

* have you ever had the ‘pleasure’ of having to eat humble pie?

* photo from pexels.com

No!

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Still they come, she said, the bibles, prayer shawls, letters.

People are very supportive, he said.

But the attic is full of them.

Their grief and incomprehension are still strong. Who can explain such a thing?

And the candy?  Those bags of caramels. It wouldn’t hurt ….

What are you doing? He said, reaching out.

Surely it wouldn’t hurt to have a few? After all, they were meant for us.

No, said Peter Lanza, the father of the Sandy Hook killer, knocking them from her hand. They may be poisoned.

 

 

Still Waters

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Still waters run deep, his mum said

What did she know?. He took the plunge anyway

Swept up in its flow.

Emerged twenty years later,

Three kids, a mortgage, wife in tow.

Was it worth it?

Hell, yeh. Wished he could have let her know.

 

* photo from pexels.com by Gabor Coyamo

 

Sometimes I Forget Where I Am

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You okay, mate? You look forlorn.

Like the knight in ‘La Belle Dame’? I say.

Pardon.

‘Alone and palely loitering.’

Sorry.

‘On the cold hill side’. Keats, I say. “La belle Dame Sans Merci’

Who?

John Keats. Romantic poet. You must have done him at school.

This is a butcher’s shop, mate. Not an English classroom. What can I get you?