OLWG · writing

OLWG# 247- El Ligue de Una Noche

Written for OLWG# 247



On days like today, I think of Zyanya
A young girl I once knew in Chiapas.
Dark hair, dark eyes.

We fell in love
that afternoon in the plaza de la ciudad.
On the steps of a
whitewashed Catedral.

We spent the night at an old hotel
in Ocosingo. Made a lot of noise.
In the morning she kissed me,
pulled her dress back on, over her head, smoothed the soft cotton.
Then turned her face to the sun,
and wandered away
disappearing into the east.


This week’s prompts were:

  1. loquat
  2. turn your face to the sun
  3. a light behind the stone

OLWG · writing

OLWG# 246- Song

Written for OLWG# 246



Let your hair down
Let your inhibitions flee
Dance, Dance, Dance

Write, Write, Write
Pick up your pen
Pick up your pencil,
Start writing again

Change the words to this song
Nothing is written in stone
Figure out your interpretation
Sing, Sing, Sing
Make it your own


This week’s prompts were:

  1. start writing again
  2. change the words
  3. persnickety

OLWG · writing

Zozo Writers- Evelyn

Written in 20 minutes, with the Carrizozo Writers



 
She was not bad looking
Curly red hair
Long legs
Dressed to the nines
Perky breasts, with the tops peeking out above the top of her blouse

She perched on the stool that was usually mine
at the end of the bar
body language warning anyone and everyone to “Stay Away”
Even Rosy, the barmaid, was maintaining a safe distance
But…
That was my stool –

“Excuse me, Miss…”
She glared at me took a long drag from the long cigarette she had just lit
“That’s my seat”
“Fuck off, I don’t see your name on it.”
The ashtray was full, mounded with butts
Her fingers were yellow, she wore a halo of grey smoke

“You don’t know that,” I stood taller, straighter, more assertively
“You don’t even know my name”
“I don’t want to know your name, cowboy”
“But, I want to know yours.”

She squinted her eyes against the smoke
She looked at the glass of brown liquor sitting in front of her
“Evelyn,” she whispered
“What?”
“Evelyn, Evelyn, My name is EVELYN, Goddamnit”

I glanced around
Rosy was shaking her head
“Bullshit”
She flipped me off
“You’re no more an Evelyn than I am a cowboy”


I used the prompts- ‘yellow fingered’ and ‘that’s not her real name’

OLWG · writing

Zozo Writers- Coopon

Written with Carrizozo Writers



When Martha unleashed her temper
it was a whirlwind
tearing through the house
up the stairs
down again
searching relentlessly; until it found him
 
Once located; he was macerated
chewed up, bloodied, spit out on the sidewalk and stomped on
 
“I’m sorry, Martha, it slipped out,” he cowered,
“I know I should have said coo-pon
“I wasn’t thinking
“it won’t happen again.”
 
“Come here.” She reached for him
cupped his chin
looked him in the eye
“Let me take care of you
“I have a salve that’ll help”

 


Playing with pronouncing differences between ‘coupon’ and ‘coupon’

OLWG · writing

OLWG# 214- Rosalee Acuff

Written for OLWG# 214



The night I married Rosalee Acuff,
the moon shone a bloodshot red, so
the gipsy woman told us to go
or give it all up.

We had a short window.
We were young
We were impulsive
We were useless

The night I married Rosalee Acuff,
we were up till almost midnight fuckin’ around and drinking.
We wrote a list consisting
exclusively of pros and cons.

We had a short window.
We were young
We were impulsive
We were useless

The night I married Rosalee Acuff,
I convinced her that we should find
an Elvis impersonator to bind
us together – till death do us part.

We had a short window.
We were young
We were impulsive
We were useless

The night I married Rosalee Acuff,
We had a short window
We were young
We were impulsive



This week’s prompts were:

  1. bloodshot moon
  2. I should go
  3. chip away

Poetry · writing

Triangle- A Poetic Text

Write the Story


Alex was a pickpocket,

a thief. He was a keeper of time,

husband to Mathilde

(who was kind, green-eyed, and fair).

Alex and Kirsten met at a neighbourhood barbeque

in the suburbs north and east of Odessa.

Kirsten was a coquette who quickly became his paramour.

 

They would sneak away for time together

She always carried a phone

to stay in touch with her mother.

He always kept a watch, a stolen timepiece that controlled time

ensuring that it ran linearly.

Until it no longer did.

                  

One summer afternoon, Alex and Kirsten arranged a tryst

in a citrus grove near the river’s edge. In his haste,

he dropped his pocket watch. It fell from his waistcoat, landed on the river bank.

The clock disappeared, quickly covered in white sand

due to the lovers frantic coupling.

 

No one noticed for a time. Till the movement on Alex’ watch slowed and stopped,

 time went awry; time ran backwards, time ran in loops, time ran in circles.

Caught herself; in a vicious, repetitious loop Mathilde, eventually spied her

husband and his consort passionately engaged.

 

Kind, unassuming Mathilde – killed them both, shoved them into the current.

She tossed the phone after them and picked the watch up from the sand.

She fastened it around her neck. Like a locket.  

 

When she wound the mainspring, time eventually settled back down.

To again become linear, smooth, predictable, unavoidable.

 

Mathilde was a widow. She was the keeper of time.



Write the Story! March 2021 Prompt
OLWG · writing

OLWG#174- Pentastich

This piece was written for OLWG# 174



It’s chill up here, but you take warmth from the blanket of stars

It’s dark up here, but you’ll see with the sunrise

It’s bright up here, but you cannot touch the sun

It’s clear up here, but you can smell smoke from the fires

It’s quiet up here, but you can hear the world breathing



The prompts were:

  1. the world breathing
  2. it ain’t gonna be pretty
  3. lust or love

Carrot Ranch · writing

Planning a Poem

I wrote this for the May 16th Flash Fiction Challenge



The hour is early – predawn.

The clouds – vanished,

the storm – over,

the moon – full.

I shiver by the back window, listening to some nameless chanteuse croon and confess from the confines of the FM dial.

Warming my hands on a cup of tea, I watch the last two leafs in the tree.

They dance in the moonlight. Embracing, spinning, reaching – enjoying one another.

Caressing like lovers until one falls away; surrendering to the pressure of the wind and the weight of the clinging raindrops.

The fallen leaf touches down. I pore over archaic words and phrases, planning a poem.


The prompt:  In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that goes in search of trees. It can be one particular tree, a grove, woods, or forest. What makes the tree worth seeking? Go where the prompt leads!