Room Six

Checking in proved to be… unusual.

Standing behind reception, the woman with shoulder-length hair and purple eyes stared silently as Sam stumbled in.

“Yes?” drawled the woman, pursing her lips at the wet leaves plastered to Sam’s clothes. Sam drew a hand through her own hair, suppressing a shudder as something slimy squelched between her fingers.

“Is Rook here?” she asked.

“Perhaps,” answered the woman. “Why?”

“I need to talk to him,” Sam scowled.

“Why?”

“Because.”

The woman’s gaze flicked over her appearance again before she reached behind the desk.

“Room six,” she said, handing over the key. “Be careful.”

100wcgu-7.jpg


I like messing around with old characters from partially completed novels. I found the start of a draft for Archer the other day, only the first few chapters were written but I’m thinking about coming back to it at some point. Darkened Daughter has to take priority for now though. I refuse to keep skipping from one idea to another. Something is going to get finished this year whether I like it or not!

The Novelist

antique-desk[PHOTO PROMPT -Copyright – Jan Wayne Fields]

Sir Edward had started fifty different novels seated at his grandfather’s desk and that was where they all remained. Each one tucked away at various stages of incomplete, to be returned to when he finally found the inspiration to do them justice.
His wife had laughed at him.
“Another one? Really my love, I’m starting to think that your desk may be cursed?”
He shrugged her off with a fresh page, tucking away her scorn with the rest of his words.
“It’s a poet’s desk,” warned his father. “You won’t write much but rhyme.”
“Perhaps,” said Sir Edward, “but there’s still plenty to write.”

fridayfictioneers.jpg[104 Words]

Fireworks

There is someone juggling fireworks.
Somewhere
beyond these fields.
There is someone juggling fireworks
while I was curled cool
and content
beneath the weight of blankets
with books to read.
There is someone juggling fireworks
now the rain has stopped.
There is someone juggling fireworks
now the wind has dropped.
There is someone juggling fireworks
in the calm after heat.
There is someone juggling fireworks
who’s pulled me back from sleep.

There is someone juggling fireworks.
Sporadic,
out of sync.
Who is juggling fireworks
upon a country-side at peace.


A quick free-write poem on a lovely cool Saturday night.

 

NaPoWriMo Day Five

Samson

I didn’t attend the funeral,
but I sent a nice letter saying I approved of it.
Samson always was a pen and paper sort of guy.

No one responded,
which seemed rather rude.
I would have liked a note,
“Thank you for the letter,
we placed it on the casket
along with the first
fist-full of dirt.”

I would have enjoyed that part,
heaving the clots of earth
onto what was left
of his clotted up heart.

I was told the wife wore black.
She’s the traditional sort,
avoided the mistress
at the graveside.
Wouldn’t have seemed proper,
for the pair’s tears to mix.

I paid my respects,
three days late
with Cubans and brandy.
Neither of which were to my taste,
but I suppose
we’re something of slaves
to the wishes of the Dead.

I am once again ignoring the offical NaPoWriMo prompt. Today’s piece was actually inspired by a tweet from the keyboard of prompts 101

I hope that you all enjoyed it.

Monkeys In Trees

“Keep to your tree,” warned the one monkey to the other. “This is my tree, that is your tree, we don’t need anything more.”

“But we do!” cried the other monkey, hands in the air. “Oh we do need more, I need more than my tree and you need more than yours!”

“Don’t be absurd,” said the first money to the second. “Why would I need more than this tree. Leaves keep me cool in summer, hollows to hide in come cold and fruit to be eaten all year!”

“But we do, we do!” cried the second. “Can you not see? We need others, other monkeys, not just our trees.”