OLWG · writing

OLWG# 228- More Nondenominational Short Verse

Bits and Pieces, written for OLWG# 228



three six-packs
eighteen beers
put three back – express checkout

###

Milena let me take her to Montreux,
Firenze, and St. Tropez (where we followed in the footsteps of Bardot)
We climbed to the castle walls in Larochette
In Seville, I let her slip away.
She was a free spirit; I was never going to hold her for long.
I am thankful for the time we had together.

###

“See that large white house, across the water?”
“Uh-huh, I see it.”
“I want them all killed. I want the house burned down. Sift through the ashes and bring me what you find. I want the nails and picture hooks. I want their teeth, I want the gemstones, I want anything left after the fire.”




This week’s prompts were:

  1. burn it down – for the nails
  2. world traveller
  3. 15 or less

OLWG · writing

OLWG# 227- Song of Sánchez

Haibun, written for OLWG# 227



Sánchez downed the shot of Tequila in one and sucked the lime. Leaning to the side, he reached beneath the table to remove his boot and ended up tugging on the left one for what seemed an eternity. Finally, giving up and switching to the other one, which came off smooth-like. He smiled. His gold tooth shone in the desert sunlight, “Only have three toes on this foot,” he explained. He hooked his right hand around the boot heel, swung his arm back and launched the scuffed ‘Tony Llama’ at a pack of mangy curs that had been edging ever closer to us, looking, and hoping for a handout. The dogs scattered, but not too far. Single booted Sánchez waved to Maria, signalling for another bottle.

###

I smoothed my lapels
imagined Arizona
Someplace, not New York




This week’s prompts were:

  1. street dogs
  2. old shoes
  3. imaginary Arizona

OLWG · writing

OLWG# 213- New Knife

Written for OLWG# 213



“Where’s ya goin’ Bea?”
“I ain’t going nowhere, Boy, an’ even if I was; it ain’t none o’ yore business. I wouldna tell ya.”
“You goin’ to school, ain’tcha?”
“Get lost, Boy. I’ll tell yo momma.”
“You gotta be goin’ to school. On account, you ain’t got that big ole dawg o’ yourn witcha. Kin I play witcher dog whilst youse at school?”
“Stay ‘way from my dawg, Boy.”
“Aw, come on Bea. I jist wanna take ‘m fishin’.”
“I jist give that dawg a washin’ las nite. I ain’t gonna lechoo take him to no damn crick. He’ll get all mudded up. He’s all pretty ’n white rite now. I wan im to stay that way.”
Boy reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of stuff. He started poking through it.
“I’ll give ya this piece o’ lickrice, ya let me taker yer dawg fishin’.”
Bea stopped. She looked at what Boy held in his hand, “I don wan nuthin to do with that lickrice. ‘S got fuzz all over it.”
“Come on, Bea. Lemme take yer dawg fishin’. Wha’ choo wan’?”
“I’ll take yer pocketknife, an I gotta go to the crick with youse and Flour. Deal?”
“Deal!” Boy handed over the folded blade. He and Bea shook hands and turned away from the school. They went to fetch the dog. There was plenty of time to find and cut a slender branch for fishing, and Bea had a new knife.



This week’s prompts were:

  1. ain’t going nowhere
  2. easy gratification
  3. a dog named Flour

OLWG · writing

OLWG# 212- Mireille in Haibun

Written for OLWG# 212



When I met Mireille, she worked at the library in Colmar. An ancient, walled town in Alsace that lies to the South and West of Strasbourg. She was young, alluring, and exotic. She was blonde-haired, beautiful, and in some way, was related to Bartholdi, the sculptor. The result of her beauty, coupled with her famous lineage, was a strong sense of self-importance. I don’t mean that in an unaccepting way, she was young, bright and gorgeous. Mireille smelled of a cool breeze coming off the sea. She was an insatiable lover. I had the pleasure of her company that midweek from dusk till dawn. We never left my hotel room – eating bleu cheese and coleslaw from the room service menu – devouring one another until the sunrise.

She dried a bit stiff,
She was laundry on the line
But she smelled so fresh



This week’s prompts were:

  1. a ruby red right hand
  2. laundry on the line
  3. bleu cheese and coleslaw

OLWG · writing

OLWG#91- Code Name: Scheherazade

Written for OLWG#91



Marney and the Captain sat close to one another in the rear seat of the taxi as it cruised the neighborhoods between Main Street and North Broadmoor. Marney cradled a chrome plated .45 in her lap as they looked for Scheherazade. They’d been driving for almost an hour when Marney glimpsed a splash of colour moving in the park. She nudged the Captain and pointed. He, in turn, leaned forward and spoke to the driver, with a soft voice. The gypsy cab glided to the curb. Marney clasped the door handle. As she pulled the door open she looked back at the Captain and asked,

“Do we really have to kill her?”
“’fraid so, Marney; she knows too much.”


This week’s prompts were:

  1. a gypsy cab glided to the curb
  2. It’s a shame about your future
  3. she knows too much

OLWG · writing

OLWG#78- A High Forehead and an Unmarked Grave

A bit of fun written for OLWG#78



Henry was sittin’ in his livin’ room
When he heard a knock
BOOM, BOOM – BOOM, BOOM
Pounding on his old front door

Henry sat on his mother’s old Chesterfield in the front room, watching TV. He was interrupted by someone at the door. His caller, that afternoon, was Death himself. That Grim Reaper was wearing his black robes and standing on the wide wooden porch. His bony finger was pointing directly at Hank. He carried his scythe in the crook of his arm, the wicked blade resting over his shoulder.

“You’re early,” Henry said and he turned back toward the sofa, “But you might as well come in anyway. The game doesn’t start for at least another hour. Come on then… don’t let all the warm air out.” He chided the Angel of Death who had remained in the doorway but now followed Hank into the house.

“Did you bring beer?” Henry asked. “You were supposed to bring beer.”

Pale Death trailed behind. silent as the grave.


This week’s prompts were:

  1. an unmarked grave
  2. a high forehead
  3. “you’re early,” he said

OLWG · writing

OLWG#77- The Milky Way

A Haibun (of sorts) written for OLWG#77



Mandy got out of the car at the bottom of the off ramp and shut the door. She stepped forward and leaned into the front passenger side, “Thanks, Jim; thanks, Harriet I’ll make sure to look you up next time I’m in Topeka.”

Harriet clasped Mandy’s hand, “You do that, honey; and best of luck to you.”

Everyone smiled and waved. Jim and Harriet turned onto the two-lane and Mandy crossed it taking her position at the foot of the on ramp, still going west.

Looking around Mandy noted that she was in farm country. There were dark fields stretching in every direction. There were a few lights from a farm house down to the south. Other than that, there was nothing. No cars on the motorway, no cars on the two-lane. Above her were stars. A multitude of stars and she thought they looked like sea-glass spilled onto a dark surface.

 

Broken glass tossed and shining on a black velvet sky, lit from within


This week’s prompts were:

  1. at the bottom of the off ramp
  2. is that my pencil case?
  3. broken

 

 

 

Tuesday Scribes · writing

Tuesday Scribes – In Marlow

A Haibun for this week’s prompt at Tuesday Scribes.


“It’s a lovely little town, these days, but it wasn’t always so. They used to have a haunting problem. Every night, at about midnight, the High Street would fill with phantoms and spirits. They’d overrun the town till dawn, wreaking havoc, causing mayhem. Residents stayed inside, doors locked, sashes shut tight, curtains drawn. Few were brave enough to venture outdoors and those that did – usually didn’t return.

“The population dwindled till there was more spectres out at night than was good folk during the day. The village, like to’ve died. It’s coming back these days.”

There’s a churchyard that’s
by the bridge, o’er the river.
The gate’s kept locked now.


OLWG · writing

OLWG#54- Haibun

written for OLWG#54


The time was now. He had to go. He gathered up his few meager possessions paid his few debts and divided his land equally amongst his children. On the way, he stopped beneath the old tree to say a final goodbye to his wife, Lenore, gone these many years. He lingered to bid farewell to friends who remained and he paused to make peace with his adversaries.

With his affairs in order he turned his face to the sun and set off. In his heart he knew he would never come back.

Failure is not allowed,
they anticipate your return and,
your word is your bond.
It has been years since you were there,
it matters not; if they’ve gone.


 

Poetry · writing

Ephemera

Haibun



The gentle hum of bees fills the air. I sing to them as I slog along the fence guarding Farmer Morton’s trees. I listen, and watch them work. They are tireless. Blossoms perfume the air and each day is a little warmer, a little more fragrant than the day before. Singing is the secret. My mother never sang out here and although her honey was sweet; mine always seems sweeter. I sing with my daughter in anticipation. Where my voice is gruff and low, hers carries the timbre of a violinist; sul tasto: ephemeral, light, airy, delicate and fleeting. Her voice will blend in harmony with the sounds of the workers.

The hives are abuzz
it’s almost time to harvest.
Three frames from a hive
produces about ten pounds
that tastes, as sweet as it looks.


This piece was selected and published by Vita Brevis – Check out this on-line literary magazine for yourself here!