writing

A Taut/Caustic Little Fable



Broderick Emerson Keswick III stood 3.7mm tall and weighed a mere 7 milligrams. He was a worker. He was middle-aged, maybe a bit older than that. He had already seen a complete cycle of the moon.

One memorable day he had been cutting artichoke leaves in Mr Cheswick’s garden. As he began carrying away a piece, that weighed about 15 times more than he did, he spied a toad approaching who looked ravenous. Broderick sounded the alarm. His mates began to scatter. Sharp-eyed Mr Keswick, however, noticed that several of his co-workers were missing. They had been there one moment and were gone the next. As horrible as it was; the toad had been feasting on Broderick’s friends, neighbours, and workmates.

Thinking quickly, our hero dropped the bit of artichoke he was carrying and climbed back up the stalk of the plant he had been working. He scurried back up onto the globe of the flower and positioned himself on an outer bract. The sun hung low behind him; his shadow was large. His shadow fell across the marauding toad, distracting him from the carnage. Realizing that the shadow was an ant, and seeing the size of it, the murderous amphibian was frightened and fled the scene – cutting short his glutinous rampage.

The rest of the colony recognized the bravery and fearlessness exhibited by one of their own and commissioned the renowned Ms Farrell to immortalize him in a photograph. The name Broderick Emerson Keswick III will live forever in the tunnels of his old anthill.

Be strong, be brave, and cast a big shadow.


 


OLWG · writing

Eerie Micro Poetry in Seventeen Syllables

This piece was written for The Word of the Day Challenge



#1
Entering the silent room, all eyes turned and it was eerie, and chill..

#2
An eerie yellow glow fell to the floor from the guttering candles.

#3
The unsaid lingers, and reddens her angry words with an eerie hue.

#4
The virus fell like an eerie stillness across the Italian countryside

Or because the Italian language is so musical, I could ignore the syllable count and sing:

Il virus cadde come un silenzio inquietante sulla campagna italiana.


I can’t help thinking of the Valle d’Aosta in these times.


Random Scribbles · writing

One-Line Challenge: Communal Poem



The talented, Jennifer Knoblock has graciously invited me to play along in a one-line Community Poem Challenge. I’ve done my best and contributed my line. The baton is now passed to Joe2Poetry where you are always guaranteed quality craftsmanship and first class entertainment! Sorry about the lack of notice, sir – are you up for this?

There are rules:

  1. Thank the blogger who nominated you and link back.
  2.  Link back to Waffles.
  3. Write one line in the poem. (If 4 lines have been reached before you then start a new stanza.)
  4. If you are the 16th line no need to nominate just send it back to Waffles with a title for the next one.
Autumn

Autumnal hues herald dawn’s amber glow.
Nature paints in colorful flow.
Everything’s pumpkin from pop tarts to chips.
There’s even a seasonal orange pumpkin dip.
~
Now a crestfallen suns rich corpse spawns a great feast.
The aroma from scented candles tantalize the palette.
Eerie glows emanate from window sills,
And robin’s song defies the winter beast.
~
Before we damp down, light one more wind-whirled blaze
Toss it high, in the sky a sanguine moon to make

Random Scribbles · writing

Rattle Snakes or Whiskey – You Decide

 


Diamond Jack had his hideout next to the Rattle Snake River. It kept the posses away.

Law enforcement personnel, round these parts, were not known for mental acuity so there were a couple of advantages. First, the name – no deputy wants to encounter a river full of rattlers. Second, was that the Rattle Snake River wound through Huisache County. The sheriff wasn’t much of a writer. His spelling was atrocious, and he damn sure couldn’t spell Huisache. Which he would be required to do when filling out the arrest report.

No… when the posse was chasing Jack they would get to the fork in the trail and then head north to the Whiskey River, in Lee County. It was more fun there and it would make the paperwork easier if they ever caught him.

Jack was no fool though; he stayed away from Lee County.


 I found some folks whose writing I admire posting here. I hope it’s OK for me to crash the party.

Photo by Barbara W. Beacham

Random Scribbles · writing

Regional Leaders of Sales

2nd Place – Yay

He was making his way across the den in the dark when he brought the heel of his right foot down on it. Cursing under his breath he hopped and hobbled to the light switch next to the door so he could see what he had stepped on. It was the little sculpture that his boy, Jacob, had made that day from his Lego’s, or whatever the building block craze du jour was this afternoon. This one hurt, lots of sharp edges. He moved closer to examine it. Picking it up, he held it to the light.

It was interesting. It looked like a prehistoric creature, perhaps a pterodactyl or some other dinosaur whose name he did not know and would never be able to spell or pronounce. The creature appeared to be impersonating a waiter. His wingless left arm was held low in front of him, bent at the elbow. It needed only a towel or cloth napkin; crisp, creased, and draped carefully below his elbow to make the picture complete. His right arm was placed behind his back. The pose was formal, that of a professional and attentive server explaining the daily specials, or the wine list to a party of conventioneers. Conventioneers, who happened to be in town for three days. Three days where no one really expected them to work before returning to Omaha or Toledo or wherever it was that they came from. Good strong Midwestern stock. They would return to their frumpy wives and spoiled children; back to their Ford sedans and humdrum jobs; their erotic fantasies, their dreams about their own particular Cecilia. They all had a Cecilia who went by one name or another.

Cecilia, who worked in Marketing; Cecilia, with the long dark hair and voluptuous figure, Cecilia with the slight song in her speech that made her sound as though she might be Latin. Cecilia who wore short skirts and low cut blouses, whose dark eyes would flash with heat, conveying desire or disdain. Cecelia whose full lips, full breasts, and long legs those conventioneers would only ever dream of. Cecilia whom they would never approach, the risk was too great. They were, after all, regional sales leaders, with too much to lose. They had houses in the suburbs. They had families. They voted Republican and they attended church on Sundays – way too much to lose.

Placing the reptilian head waiter on the arm of the sofa he continued to the kitchen. Mandy had prepared the coffee pot the night before so that it would be ready for him this morning. He pushed the button to start it and wondered if Mandy knew he was thinking of Cecilia when he was lying with her. Wondering who Mandy thought of when she lay with him, he lit a cigarette and went outside to retrieve the paper.