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.” 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!
[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.” [104 Words]
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.
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.
“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.”
Photo Source “She’s going to be late.” Geoffrey warned, feet shoulder width apart as we stood on the airfield and watched Mary scream her way down the landing strip. Shoes up on the handlebars we could see her grin even from where we were, stretched across her cheeks as her voice carried past us. “Leave her be.” I said. “Remember how nervous you were for your test.” “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Geoffrey said, eyes fixed on Mary. “I was calm and collected, going over the last of my preparations.” “You were practically in the foetal position.” I snorted. “Bernie had to almost carry you out to the plane.” “You’re mistaken. I’m certain nothing of the sort took place.” Mary skidded to a halt and turned the bike around. “You were a mess.” I grinned. “Anyway, we both know what Mary’s like. That girl was born to fly.”
It took us a while to get use to the bears. I mean really, one can hardly expect for such a creature to approach you in the street and start commenting on how dreary the weather is for this time of year. Except that was exactly what happened and it almost cost me my bus as I stood there spluttering for a response. Sunshine in November, dreary my foot! I was lost for words if you’ll believe it. Well I don’t suppose it matters if you do or you don’t, talking bears or loss of words. However I assure you that this is the god’s honest truth, or at least my honest truth since I don’t even know if you believe in a god or not. I suppose you’ll have some sort of preference. I rather like Minerva, never mind if I believe in the Roman deity. But she does have a certain feminist pull, and I never can resist a strong woman in myth or history. They always demand attention and perhaps a little …
Words trickle too fast, floods of imagination; leaves only ink blots.
Somewhere else you said, as if we could drop it all and not miss the shards.
We walked among roses and he spoke of Paris, of Florence and Venice, of worlds we would travel. We walked among roses until thorns turned to claws and flowers were beautiful no more.