My latest poem after yet another star was accused of inappropriate behaviour, and is now condemned before trial
But if she said, then what he said is moot.
Kill the Artist, Burn the Art.
Fat Albert rode six white boomers
across Parramatta Park while
two little boys played with their two little toys and looked on.
Don’t graduate The Graduate.
Let’s beat up Rocky, knock down the House of Cards
And not listen to music ever again.
It’s a thriller that I’m Bad
He never existed, never was.
What happens to her if we scrub him from existence.
Nothing really happened.
Guilty! Rot in Gaol
Innocent, live in the gaol of your already condemned life.
Never the same again.
Hush! Don’t mention it.
A boy wanted to keep company, father said.
“He’s a good lad, son of the baker, Tom Woods”
Father organised a meeting for us. James was to call after church on Sunday and wander with me in the garden.
“I brought you this” said young James. He handed over a loaf of bread, freshly baked.
“I baked it myself, my papa showed me how”.
Such a humble gift, but I received it graciously.
“Mary, We shall have tea and bread in the garden”.
The bread was presented with the tea, I saw it at once. My heart was won.
word count 99
Done for Friday Fictioneers
This week’s photo prompt is provided by Louise with the The Storyteller’s Abode. Thank you Louise!
So where do you think you lost it?
I don’t know, if I knew that, I would go back and get it.
Think someone nicked it?
I don’t see how, it’s been in my bag all day.
What are we gonna tell the kids?
Let’s not tell them. The room is paid for; we have got enough in your wallet for food, and the beach is free. Let just enjoy our week away and worry about it when we get home.
Do you have to tell the banks and card companies?
No, I left all the cards at home so we couldn’t overspend, except…
Except the card which grandpa gave me to spend while we are away.
They both laughed. Poor grandpa had not been with it lately. He gave them his old blockbuster card by mistake.
These are two more stories written on the same prompt… or perhaps it’s the same story written from different perspectives.
I should never have come. It’s not my place. We are internet lovers. But this is real life.
He told me not to come, but I really wanted to be the first face he sees in this new city.
I wanted to make sure that he was going to be OK; to make sure his room was clean. I didn’t want him to be ripped off, swindled, as I was when I came from the country all those years ago.
He left home and came to the city to study; deciding that life on a farm was not for him, but life in a kitchen was.
“I just want to cook!” he screamed at his father.
Now he has come, but he is not alone.
“Brian, meet me boyfriend Dale”.
Word Count 130
“All this will be yours to look after, when I retire son’.
“Dad, it’s not that I am not grateful, but school has taught me that there is life beyond the barbed wire fences and the shearing shed. The wool you produce goes somewhere. The lambs that we raise are eaten by somebody. The wheat that we grow goes into food all over the world. Dad, life is doesn’t stop at the gate.”
I step from the train, into a world of strangers and strangeness. It’s scary for a small-town boy. But I will fight the demons within me and without. This is where my life begins.
Word Count 107
The morning paper tells the world what happened overnight.
But they are words hurriedly put on a page. Words that sell papers. The truth is not what is wanted. “Never in Arlington,” they say, “not there”.
But indeed, yes, in Arlington. Nowhere is immune to the inhumaneness of humans.
The papers don’t know the full story. They don’t want to know. I wrap the pistol in the paper, and toss it in the trash. I pull my coat tighter, so the blood-stained shirt I wear is not visible and board the 902 to Boston.
(Reading a newspaper on the morning train has become a thing of the past. Now people look at the tiny screens of their phones, laptops, kindles and tablets. Its a dilemma. How does a murderer dispose of a gun these days?)
Word Count 94
I’m a big girl now
I can tie my own shoes
I can pick out my own dress and put it on
I can clean teeth by myself
But I can’t pour the milk for my cereal yet.
I can even write my name see… Annie
I can make my bed
I can put all my toys away
And I can use a knife to cut my food, but not any other time
I can walk to kindy all by myself, I know the way now
And I can jump puddles
…but who would wanna do that.
Second entry on this prompt. Hope that’s OK.
Prompted by the colour of the backpack, I wrote the following story.
Red, the colour of the scarf that covers the scars on her neck. The scars of a relationship that soured. The scars on her heart take longer to heal.
Red, the colour of the blanket draped around her shoulders, and the soup given to her by the Sallies.
Red is the colour of her father’s eyes, his nose when he drank too much. The colour of his skin when he heard how James had treated her.
Red, the colour of the luscious strawberries that she bought for $1 per kilo in Cairns. She shared them with Bridget and Julian as they sang under the stars and Peter strummed his guitar and drank red wine.
Red, the colour of the shoes that they gave her to wear when she first graced the stage.
Red, the colour of the dress she wore when she accepted the Logie for Best Actress in a Musical.
And red is the colour of the satin sheets she sleeps on tonight, remembering yesterday and dreaming of tomorrow.
171 words. It still fits within the 150 +25… just.