Chatter bubbles and rumbles, like water. A trickle rising to a gush and then subsiding. I imagine dabbling my toes in the rivulets of voices, Feeling the laughs tickle my feet, The occasional sharp shout splashing up my leg, Unexpectedly, making me gasp. I would like to sit and listen, My seat on the bank, Hearing the conversations, the jokes, the gossip At this mini jamboree, And after a while someone would wave to me, Beckon me over, pour me a drink, And call me friend.
There is something about hearing the chatter of parties in gardens …Linking this to Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt to write a poem or prose of exactly 86 words which includes the word ‘jamboree’.
Cardboard scabs, a sea of silk, Or some such imagery of that ilk. The box implies a fruity touch Transforms it from this tasteless mulch. A muffled hammer in my head Reminds me of a fitful bed. The mirror says, ‘go get some rest,’ ‘cos I’m not looking picturesque.
Enough of this fusty, dusty in my stripey overalls, lugging this basket all over town. Done with duty to the queen bee. Gonna shower myself in morning glory, evening primrose. Wallow in the yellow zestiness of my labours. Just watch me.
Is it a long way down? Fathoms, leagues, miles, whatever applies. Squint your eye at the scope. Night vision? May be useful, although that requires a heat source. Requires signs of life. You could lower a child down, their sight is better, uncorrupted. Further in, away from the outcry that led to this search, the noise will abate and you may hear your conscience calling.
Linking this to Sammi’s Weekend Prompts, which this week asks us to write prose or poetry which includes the word ‘outcry’ and uses exactly 65 words.
Well, now we’re awake. We waited until the thunder had died down, the crashing of crockery, the snorting. Don’t imagine that we’re clearing up that mess. Our bodies do not come with a broom as a permanent appendage, or a kettle and teapot. This isn’t haberdasher’s glitter on these gowns, they are spun from a fabric far from here. Don’t waste your precious hours trying to tear at our skirts, they are unrippable. And don’t fool yourself, you are not the centre of the universe, the omphalos.
A chance to scream with abandon And not cause a stir, When scary was just a word we hurled At each other As we giggled And fell, Out of the car, Onto the flattened grass. When life was unplanned, But impromptu was a foreign word. Ghosts of youth.
I am linking this to Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt, to write a piece using 48 words exactly and using the word ‘Impromptu’.
I am also linking this to The Sunday Muse Blogspot, where Carrie has provided some more great images:
I thought you looked sexy, lying there, vulnerable, the sheet rising, almost imperceptibly, the monitor, dancing its red pulse across the screen, bleeping in time with your heart, whilst mine was racing. But then, without warning, your eyes snapped open. You looked at me, then at the tube attached to your arm, and with an angry cry ripped out the iv line.
They lie upon delicate white sheets, seemingly harmless, orderly, quiet, until undressed, cleverly catching your eye with a little extra darkening, like mascara on come-hither lashes, and you are lost.
Your fingers feel the fragile silkiness. Impelled to search further, your eyes widen in wonder at the hitherto unknown, or long-since forgotten, imagination playing with each discovery.
You have opened a treasure trove of beauty and power. But what will you do with it? In the wrong hands It could turn into a lethal lexicon.