only, maybe, every
I think of how
u s e d t o p l a y t h e p i a n o
as the sun
only, maybe, every
I think of how
u s e d t o p l a y t h e p i a n o
as the sun
in raindrops of time
A flower of a smile reaching deep
A memory of fish and chips trees wrapped in newspaper leaves
The curves in the sand dunes
the waves when you bathe
And your coffee on my lips, when you walk away again
For beauty is the sky, the goodbye, the flame in a story we let melt.
He observed the frontier; his frontier, with scanning eyes, tired gloves holding the reins, but a heart still burning a fire of pride. With his back arched straight, muscles taut, he turned his horse gently. Just then he thought he heard a sound, and hand on saddle, twisted and glanced across into the mist. Not a troublesome sound. Not a clearly definable sound, more of a ‘twang!’ and a slight ‘woosh!’ And only once, no more. He relaxed. The arrow sped across the prairie, grass blades neatly carved in split seconds by glinting tip, before thudding, hard, into his chest.
This story is 99W exactly.
Thanks to Rochelle! Picture this week by Erin Leary
in a charming old bistrot
in the time it took to taste my tea
whirl the leaves
a newspaper in front of me
and find out
Ghandi’s son raped his eight
year old girl
its fashionable to not talk about such things
at a restaurant with such fine trimmings
such richness of discussion
coy eye blinks, a-flutter above tilted cup
but I saw his letter to his son
where he talked about what horror had been done
and the pain of an eight year old daughter
so in the time it took
to put down my tea
my faith in the world dissolved around me
and my sympathy for various vagrancies
I became a murderer in my heart
and passed you the milk
I ordered you a cupcake
and pondered on fate
for if Ghandi’s son can commit such a murder
then anyone can do asunder to another
and most likely will
like a flapjack bought at a highway store
undressed from plastic on a flat top
and ejected at a reststop
I found freedom to cruise
crushed by second hand truckers on table tops
numbed by the candy I had to suck
leftover from someone’s pockets
I had to choose
barefoot on route 66
if I make it to the west coast
before 5 o’clock
you can have my ass
San Fransisco’s Golden Gate
on the back of a Harley Davidson
or maybe it was all a dream
flushed down a toilet at the rest stop
another coffee at the counter
another evening wasted almost masturbated
in this small town that’s just a dot
on a map at an old egg yoke pitstop
three cherry blossoms
barely cover your modesty
ah! what joy in spring!
A cloud of poison
Didn’t hide the sun
Invisible to us
But not our organs
Twenty eight years ago today
The cloud came our way
They called it a nuclear disaster
When an explosion rocked the reactor
And these days the lichen is still poisoned
And years of babies stillborn
Figures hard to fathom
Cause governments still hide them
The Finnish government changed criteria for deformations
The Belorussian one reminds us of 3 million starved under Stalin
The Russian government is just Putin
But people are still dying
Thousands of children sick for all their lives
Living in institutions
As a result of that explosion
In reactor four in Ukraine
The largest amount of radioactivity ever released
But still thousands of times less
Than the bomb tests
In the Pacific Ocean….
The Chernobyl nuclear power disaster that contributed to the end of the Soviet Union is twenty seven million tears old today….
Ye gods, what a difficult prompt, that others will as usual take in their stride! I saw some beautiful haiku in yesterday’s prompt, here (Maniparna), here (Gillena) and here (Celestine). But also here (Ese) and many more…
‘Photographing’ seems tough. What clever imagery could we evoke? Striking the right balance in a haiku is difficult, and I think I’m going to find a vintage Japanese photograph to sprinkle with words.
her dream makes me
they let the balloons go
on jagged branches
in the tumbling snow
on the jagged edges
of jagged stone
were let loose
from the palms of our hands
from the psalms
of our defunct books
so much was left unsaid
by too much innocence
too numbed by cold
nothing to say
before we passed
the real tests
moved to our caves
let our balloons take our stories
far from us
in sunset skies
and jagged branches
where even the snow had dried
and we wonder
if we ever really tried?
I can give up all
but not my bellydancer’s holy dance
In order to justify them killing you, you invent the crime. “I deserve to die,” you say to yourself. It doesn’t pay to get too religious on these occasions — the next thing you’ll be doing is repenting.
In our cells waiting to be shot we are a club with the same aim: to get out alive. Personally, I think of childhood. Maybe I should have played with dolls. Instead bullets will be my last medals.
If anyone finds this note; “I died a man.” That is, I fought till the end, and ran, blindfolded, hands tied behind my back, in my last faltering steps of freedom.
friday fictioneers 100 Word stories ¤ run so well by ms rochelle wisoff-fields
“D-d-d don’t look like much to me,” had started ol’ Dawkins, but his job was to tether the mules.
“I’ll take a picture of the markings from above, and get a better idea,” said KZ, her white scarf fluttering across her face, disarming my thoughts.
“Tough flying through those mountains,” I replied.
“I do tough,” she said.
Her white scarf had flowed in the air stream as she flew over the high plateau in her prop plane.
She landed smoothly in the sand below us.
“So what are they?” I shouted down.
She motioned with her gloved hands.
“I think she’s sayin’ p-p-p-penis,” Dawkins stuttured.
“Probably ones that bite, knowing KZ!” I grinned aloud.
Thanks very much to Rochelle! Pic this week by Danny Bowman. For Friday Fictioneers 100 word stories.
”That’s a nice view you’ve got over the village, Count.”
”Indeed, Inspector. So what was the visit about again?” The Count arched an eyebrow of inquisition as he loomed forward behind him to better hear.
”The missing young village women,” the Inspector said turning sharply at the window to the sudden shadow.
”Ah yes, rather unfortunate affair, has somewhat punctured the village’s image as a location of private repose,” the Count said humbly, as he proffered a plate of dark cakes; ”biscuit?” he added.
”Why thank you, Count,” the Inspector said, ”chocolate?”
”Dried blood, actually,” replied the Count, absentmindedly.
99 words, pic this week by Sandra Cook ¤ un grand merci pour Rochelle!
Kept well to the
I wonder what the difference is between pilgrim and refugee. Both seek shelter from the world. It is true that they both might pass each other on the road, dressed in similar clothes, with the similar, hunted look in the eyes, or upon the face. Of course, the pilgrim wants to come back, and the refugee does not. And the pilgrim is rushing to his god, while the refugee is running away from someone else’s god. But aside from these differences, they are both somewhat similar in nature, more or less.
shooting star at night
or floating ember from fire
grasshopper guesses wrong
What percentage of bloggers, on say, WordPress (or Tumblr or Blogger) are serial killers?
Have you unknowingly ‘liked’ a serial killer’s post, or even told him you ‘loved’ what he wrote?
The USA has 7% of the world’s population, and 76% of its known serial killers. American bloggers on WordPress represent 70% of bloggers (Figures for Tumblr and Blogger are probably comparable.).
There are 6.2 million regular bloggers across the board.
Women make up the majority of bloggers.
At any one day in the United States the FBI estimate that between 35 and 50 serial killers are active and on the loose.
I would say that it is quite likely that you have been having a giggle with a serial killer or two, wouldn’t you?
He may have already killed a few bloggers, and we would never know.
Unpleasant thought, isn’t it.
I worked as a safety officer for many years. Let me define the serial killer as we profiled them, when our remit included suburban housing estates and schools, and adapt it to the blogosphere.
The serial killer on WordPress, or Tumblr, or Blogger, will be:
As we say in safety, it only takes one mistake. Striking up a friendship with a blogger represents an ideal opportunity for a serial killer, and murder travels.
Some known serial killers – and unknown. Source Wikipedia.
This is a list of unidentified serial killers. It includes circumstances where a suspect has been charged, but not convicted.
Mr Pipduttleding and Ms Cutieyana shared somewhat cordial relations for three season of the year. This year, however, M Cutieyana had had enough.
“WHAT are you doing NOW?” she shouted up to Pipduttleding.
“Vot you think I doing, I gleaning my yard, that’s vot!” said Pipduttleding, of Hungarian extraction-
“Gottverdamung!” shouted Ms Cutieyana, an Australian native, “if you cause one more avalanche on me you will pay!”
“Ha!” shouted Pipcuttleding, downwards.
Next morning the snowmachine that woke him hurtled snow against his door so efficiently he was unable to open it. Ms Cutieyana kept it on five days, as well she might, plugged in, as it was, to Pipduttleding’s kitchen plug
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields runs these FF 100 word challenges so well. Photo this week by my esteemed colleague from across the Archipelago sea, Björn Rudberg
patchwork of greens
sudden explosions and napalm
craters of brown
The United States unleashed a secret carpet bombing campaign on this country for nearly a decade, dropping 260 million cluster bombs – the most heavily bombed country in history, with more than 2.5 million tons of munitions during 580,000 bombing missions – equal to a planeload of bombs every 8 minutes, 24 hours a day, for 9 years – more than all bombing by all belligerents in World War II, or 210 million more bombs than were dropped on Iraq in 1991, 1998 and 2006 combined.
Of 75 million bombs that failed to detonate, less than 1 percent have been cleared, and 25,000 people have been killed or injured by these bombs in the 35 years following the end of the bombing campaign. Today, an average of 300 people are injured or killed every year by these weapons, about half of them children, and most of the rest working men.
The economy is almost entirely agricultural (rice, in particular) yet one-third of the land remains littered with unexploded bombs.
Between 1996 and 2012, the U.S. contributed on average $2.6M per year to a general United Nations unexploded bomb clean-up program; the U.S. spent $17M per day for nine years bombing the country.
The U.S. spent as much in three days bombing of the country ($51M) as it spent for clean up over 16 years ($51M).
The country is Laos.
when I turned around
she’d left town
Forgetting to collect her last words
from my mind
her polish still in the bathroom
where she did her toes
and her watch on the chair
still yelling me the time
and open doors of rooms
permanently closed to emotion
no dishes in the kitchen sink
phones that make no calls
a shower permanently dry
trees sweeping their own leaves outside
pavements bare, sterile and cold
streets that go nowhere under rain that won’t fall
and the drip on the faucet that demands to be fixed
as if I have the time now I’m alone
and anyway it’s not my fault
she should have turned it tight before she left home