He knew people were watching. They had been gathering since he started the fire. Some on beach towels, some merely sprawled out on the sand. He needed to give them a bit more time. The smoke was a signal but he had to give them the opportunity to assemble before he began.
He was nervous; this was his time so he didn’t watch them come, not directly anyway. He took an occasional peek and thought about how everyone he knew and respected had chosen their material and done this. In this place, it was historic, it was ritual. Now it was his turn.
Mom had said, “Never let them see you sweat.” He intended to take that lesson to heart.
He listened to his friends settling off to the side, and nodded tersely when Mikey hissed his question across the sand
“Dude, Dude? C, right? You want this in C?”
Mikey knew it was C, what a dork! Those guys were doing this on purpose.
Finally, he sensed the time was right and he looked over at his friends, the band, and nodded his head. It was now or never. The band struck up the intro and he realized that he had forgotten the first verse. He jumped straight to the chorus, spun around and spread his arms wide. He burst into song and started doing the little dance his grandma had helped him work up as he marched up and down the sand…
On the good ship
its a sweet trip
to the candy shop
where bon-bon’s play,
on the sunny beach
of peppermint bay
fill the air,
and there you are,
happy landings on a chocolate bar.
Reverend Smittykins was the first to leave. He stood up with a snort and headed off down the beach. Mr. Dunlop was next, followed by the triplets, twittering to one another behind their hands. Damn, he hadn’t even know the triplets were there.
Pretty soon, only his mother and grandmother were left on the beach. The band wound down. Mom shook her head slowly, and looked down at the sand. Grandma was beaming and smiling, clapping her hands and yelling “Bravo, Bravo.”
He exhaled, long and slow, ran his fingers through his hair and thanked Mikey and the guys before he walked over to his mom and grandma.
“I think that went pretty well,” he said.
The spiders all gathered that day in the barn
In the corner of the window, where it was warm
You all know Ms Farrell will be coming this way
But did you also know that today’s her birthday?
Finally a spokesman admitted that they didn’t know
“We should do something special to make her big day ‘just so’!”
Most worked to position the boards and the pots
Compose something artful where before there was not
The most skilled weavers were assigned to the web
They were just finishing up when they saw Tish’s head
She came over the rise and she crested the hill
With her camera in hand, then she stopped and was still
She glanced to the left and she looked to the right
And peeked over her shoulder, checking the light
She moved to the window, peered through to the room
Opened her aperture, adjusted her zoom.
She snapped a few shots then went on her way
The spiders returned to the sill and wished her a fine day!
A couple of days ago, Tish Farrell of Writer on the Edge posted the photo you see above on her blog. Along with the photo she provided background information and an invitation.
So if it inspires any of you to create a piece of poetry or prose, please feel free to link back here so I can read what you’ve come up with.
This little piece of fluff is what I came up with. As a disclaimer please note that I have no idea when Ms Farrell’s birthday is; but I hope that she has a wonderful day, when it rolls around.
Jimmy got to class and slid into his seat just as the bell rang. He wasn’t looking forward to this one but it was a requirement for his degree. A thick, heavy, yellow book sat on each desk. There were only two other students in room. One sat up front, near the teacher’s desk. She looked like a suck up, and Jimmy hated her already. The other sat by the back door. He was wearing a white tee shirt with a pack of camels rolled in the sleeve and black jeans. Sunglasses concealed his eyes. He might have been asleep.
As the instructor had not yet arrived Jimmy picked up the tome on his desk, Common DNA Markers Found in Rodent Urine and How to Recognize an Anomaly. He grimaced.
“Hey,” Jimmy called to the suck up at the front of the room, “I’ve lost my Sharpie. Do you have one I can borrow for a minute? I’ll give it right back.”
She glared at him but unzipped her pencil case and removed a black permanent marker. “Black OK?” she asked. “I only have black or pink.”
“Black’s cool.” He said and she extended her arm with the Sharpie clutched tightly in her fist.
Jimmy stood and walked up to the front of the room and over to her desk. After prying the Sharpie from her fingers he went back to his desk.
He uncapped the marker and in large block letters wrote along the top of his book cover:
He penned his name below that and recapped the Sharpie.
“Hey,” he called again, there was no response from the suck up so he threw it, cartwheeling, back in her direction. It struck her, end on, right behind her ear.
“Ow!” she exclaimed and she rubbed her head where she had been struck. She turned and shot daggers at Jimmy, from her eyes.
“Thanks,” he said and grinned.
The dimly lit warehouse was filled with the smoke of a thick silence
All eyes on the stage – waiting, eagerly anticipating
She could hear only her heart beat, setting the tempo
For what was to come.
Her drum sticks lifted above her head in synch with the rising intensity of the blue-white spotlight
When the light level was right she paused before bringing them down hard on her snare
Then straight into the roll as Mickey got the bass locked in and
Pete’s Strat began to cry.
The audience came to life
They replaced the oppressive quiet, that had been, with
Raucous cheering, clapping, and dancing – a
And hallucinogenic abetted good time for all.
A Tuesday morning response to another Monday Writing Prompt generously provided by The Secret Keeper.
Enrique looked up when the office door opened. Displeasure marked his face when he saw Celeste, her long raincoat wrapped tightly around her, water dripping on the floor.
“You can’t be here, Celeste. My wife is coming – bringing lunch. She could be here at any moment.”
Celeste used her fingertips to push the door shut behind her then turned and engaged the latch. She reached up and removed the comb from her hair and dropped it on the floor, shaking her long dark locks down and staring provocatively at Enrique.
She didn’t speak, but began walking slowly past the drawing table towards Enrique sitting stiffly at his desk. With each step she unbuttoned a single button on her raincoat and it soon became obvious that she was wearing nothing except the raincoat and high heeled boots.
Enrique groaned as Celeste circled behind him and dropped her coat to the floor. “No, no, you must leave. You can’t be here.” She nibbled his ear and blew softly on his neck.
There was a rattle at the door and Enrique stood, glancing around in panic. There was a knock, “Enrique? Why’s the door locked? Enrique?” It was clearly Marie trying to get in, and they heard the jangle of her keys.
Enrique spun and pulled the window open. With one leg out the window he looked wistfully at the naked Celeste standing by his desk, “Good Luck,” he whispered and dropped to the ground below, ducking just as the door began to swing open.
“What’s going on here?” he heard Marie exclaim as he sprinted towards the side of the building, “Where’s Enrique? Who are you? Where are your clothes?” Her shrill voice was fading as he put distance between himself and the open window. He would circle around to the front of the building and come back in. With any luck Celeste would have fled by then and he might have a reasonable pretense of deniability.
He crossed his fingers and continued to run.
He picked himself up
Slowly, dusted off again
He should remember
Good Queen Gorf, with
Gherkin (ish) skin,
Protector of ponds where tadpoles swim.
Gary stood in the theatre lobby with Cinnamon, or Scarlett, or whatever her name was clinging onto his arm. She was eye candy, nothing more, hired by his publicist to attend the opening because he couldn’t come out in public with Matt. This close to the glass front of the building his attention was focused, riveted, on his reflection. He noticed the girl, she was pretty enough but nowhere near as beautiful as he was. Anyone could see that.
The reflection showed a confident man with jet black hair slicked back close to his scalp. His pencil mustache lent a “devil-may-care” look to his visage, and his teeth were perfect. The white suit was cut ‘just so’ and he accessorized with a six inch long cigarette holder and a perpetually burning Lucky Strike clamped between his teeth.
The girl had obviously been hired because of her looks. She was petite with short, curly blonde hair and a peacock feather framing her face. Maybe her hair was red, or brown. It was tough for him to tell in the reflection. She wore a short white silk dress that showcased her lithe form. He thought she might have been a dancer in real life.
Murray clamped a hand on his shoulder, “Time to go in now, Gary. They’re gonna roll the picture soon.”
Still watching his reflection Gary leaned down to the girl, “Cinnamon,” he whispered, “stick with me. I don’t want to lose you in this crowd.”
“Margaret.” She whispered back.
“Margaret, my name’s Margaret.”
“Oh right.” He twisted the lit cigarette from the holder and handed it to her. “Here, take care of this, will you?”
Keeping her hand on his arm, she looked around and finally tossed it in the direction of a waste bin by the popcorn counter. She missed but one of Murray’s people took care of it.
“I just know you’re going to like the picture, Scarlett,” he said. “I think it’s some of my finest work and I just love musicals, don’t you? I do an absolutely spectacular job with those new Gershwin tunes.”
Some Pictures Must Be Taken. Some Quotes Must Be Quoted.
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