The universe was displeased.
It burped, spitting out some time.
A year to prove the earth was worth something.
There was conflict, rubbish said some, hurry said others before its too late.
The universe watched and rumbled once more.
Sucked in a breath, said you’ve 364 days left. (274 characters)
Written for: https://katmyrman.com/2018/06/04/twittering-tales-87-5-june-2018/
Image: Brooke Shaden
There was great expectation as the crowd gathered outside the gallery for the opening of a new exhibition.
The artist August Calledoni had generated much interest in recent years with his unusual subjects and manner of presentation.
This year the crowd were in anticipation of his major work “Chocolate Girl with Cat’.
The critics had acclaimed the work as ground-breaking, a masterpiece in visual representation. There would only be one opportunity to view the piece before it went to sale, most likely to some private art buyer and so would not be seen again.
The sceptics saw it as another pretentious piece from a very over rated artist. They questioned the point of the work, was the artist merely producing a work of sensationalism with no meaning at all. They called Calledoni a fraud, the work of little artistic relevance apart from the curiosity of it all.
After all said one, ‘the cat looks as disinterested in the girl as we are.’
The exhibition though was a success as thousands walked past the work and each person had an opinion as to its worth or not. If it did one thing, it was to generate conversation, and the gallery owner could not have been thrilled by the public’s response.
For the artist Calledoni, he felt empowered to produce more art that would achieve the success of this work.
He set his mind to another work, this time involving a boy, and a dog with a lollipop.
Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2018/06/05/photo-challenge-217/
I came out to a breakfast already made and on the table. I was very prone to a big breakfast, and this looked beyond delicious.
I was surprised as the night before we had argued over going to visit my parents on the weekend. Jane was adamant she didn’t want to go; she said my parents were stuffy and she never felt welcomed and would prefer to stay home.
She cited several times when we had visited, and she was ignored when conversation happened around the dining room table. When she did make a contribution, her ideas and opinions were dismissed as uninformed and or irrelevant.
It was true I had to admit that my parents were a stuck up couple. They were both educated, had worked in the university in research and held views on most topics that weren’t always the ones I agreed with.
In the end, we couldn’t reach a compromise, and she had gone off to bed in a huff telling me she needed to be alone. I had slept in the spare room wishing my parents were not as they are and at least would give her a chance and get to know the beautiful woman I had married.
She appeared next to me at the table and apologised for being so selfish in her opinions and that it wasn’t my fault my parents were as they were.
I said it was true that you could pick your friends and not your relatives and that I’d speak to my mum and dad before the weekend. It was about time they saw her as an asset to the family and me.
She put her arms around me, nuzzled into my neck and said she’d missed having me in bed and would I consider going there with her now?
Written for: https://athling2001.wordpress.com/2018/06/04/jsw-prompt-6-4-2018/
We parted the bush to discover much to our amazement a small tribe of naked indigenous people playing what appeared at first hand to be poker.
They scarcely noticed us as we came towards them. Their language was a series of guttural sounds as if a lot of clearing of the throat was necessary when explaining a point of order during their game.
We stood and watched as around them women dragged in a beast and began prepared it for the evening meal.
They like the men chatted in the same guttural language, and some turned and looked at us as if we were the odd ones out.
There was a great cheer from the assembled men as one player clearly made a successful move. Suddenly though the man who appeared to be the winner was attacked by the other men, knives drawn and there was little hope for the attacked one. Within seconds he was gutted head to toe, his carcass thrown on the fire.
It was clear from that moment the game they were playing was more life and death than poker.
They invited us for dinner which we did all the while worrying that they might initiate another game and have us participate.
The primitive men and women sang and danced into the night, urged us to join in whereupon the loss of inhibition from several of our group did lead to a few confrontations later when two of our party wanted to pay for the women they had befriended.
There was a standoff, and we all breathed a sigh of relief when we were told to gather our belongings and leave the tribe.
We travelled late into the night, always looking back in case the tribesmen came after us and treated us to our own version of primitive justice.
Written for: https://fivedotoh.com/2018/06/04/fowc-with-fandango-primitive/
This week’s words: Vase Wrought Hill Rust Peer Monet Tart Oblivescence (n)) the art of forgetting) Overslept Epigrammatic (adj))
Cyril Rum, Angel of Heaven and on sabbatical, never realized the beauty that lay in earthly art. He developed a great liking for the works of Claude Monet. His neighbour and human guide, Mildred Thrupp had recently taken him the art gallery where an exhibition of Monet’s works was on display. Excited at the prospect of experiencing another earthly delight he was careful not to oversleep so set an early alarm.
Cyril had spent hours peering into the works in some cases trying to make heads and tails of them as Mildred explained to him the impressionist nature of the works.
It was over a caramel tart that Mildred was able to complete her explanation and convince Cyril that it would be a good idea if he liked the Monet so much to buy a copy to take home. There were so many, but in the end, he chose the “Sunflowers” because he liked the colour and the vase the flowers stood in. To Cyril, there was something very epigrammatic with each painting, and he admired Monet’s skill.
In heaven, oblivescence was practised as a means to focus each soul on the eternity they now found themselves in. Art played no place in things eternal though he did note the downstairs department of eternity did allow such frivolity. Through this experience, he did lament the lack of art in his upstairs department.
As they walked home with Cyril clutching his Monet print under his art, he had cause to ask Mildred if she knew a good method for cleaning the rust of his wrought iron railings outside his back door. Rust was a phenomenon he had not encountered and would never be tolerated in Heaven.
As they walked the last little bit home and came down the hill towards their houses Mildred announced she had just the stuff to use to get rid of the rust and not to get himself in too much of a tangle over it.
She was over soon after and sprayed the railings to prevent them rusting any further. Ever grateful Cyril invited Mildred to stay for afternoon tea as he had brought home a couple of extra caramel tarts. Mildred Thrupp was never one to say no.
Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2018/06/04/wordle-199/
Image: Envy © by Iza-nagi
Mary enjoyed being married. Her mother had told her about the expectations a young bride should bring to a marriage.
Always have the housework completed before your husband comes home and always look your best for him. Have dinner ready and be accommodating. Mary wasn’t sure what accommodating meant but she learned quickly.
She made it her goal to have everything ready, she’d change her day clothes into something clean and tidy and make sure her hair was brushed and tied up.
The sound of his work truck pulling into the drive always set her heart a flutter. Even though Ray might be covered in mud from digging drains she loved the sound of his boots on the veranda and the sound of him dragging them off and dumping them on the floorboards.
She always greeted him with a smile and cheery hello, as her mother had said making your man feel welcomed home was important in letting him know you were happy to see him.
In the first few weeks of their marriage Ray was more than happy to be home.
They would embrace and kiss as young lovers with Ray running his hands over her body, lifting her skirt and all the while Mary could feel his excitement. Ray would lift Mary onto the kitchen table pull off her underwear and have his way with her.
For Mary his aggression and desire was the most stimulating experience she could imagine. She wasn’t all that satisfied by the sex more so Ray’s desire and manner. He was rough, uncompromising and she loved every minute of it, as she believed it showed how much he desired her.
Once finished he would go off to the bathroom, shower and reappear in his pyjamas, Ray she discovered loved to dress in is night attire before dinner.
Mary would straighten her clothes never sure what she was supposed to do or say as Ray disappeared into the bathroom.
For Mary the sex wasn’t what she expected it to be. She knew very little about the workings of her own body, her knowledge of sex was, that it was something men and women did. Ray seemed to enjoy it but it left her wondering if what they did was all there was to it.
With Ray now showering, Mary retired to the kitchen to finalise her preparation for their dinner.
If you wish to read the earlier parts of this story, look on my blog page, there is a page heading ENVY and all the previous parts can be found there.
“Raise your words, not your voice. It is the rain that grows flowers, not thunder.” Rumi
After a lifetime of hard work, jobs wherever he could find them, long hours of manual labour had left him in old age a grizzled man, face betraying the years spent outside in the elements.
From factory to merchant navy he’d done and seen it all. A hard man, short of temper, quick to react for that’s as it was in his working life, your strength was often your saving grace.
Now a man who frequents the parks, the shopping malls, scrounging in bins carrying on him most of his life’s possessions. It is here he mixes with people, who might not acknowledge him but he knows them, as he recalls being just like them.
Time is catching up with him, his infirmities are growing, something new each week seems to be afflicting him, he limps as one leg pains him, his brow is furrowed from not only age but the physical niggles that wrack his body as he struggles on.
In one corner of the park, he takes refuge. He feels safe here, even though he cuts a formidable figure still, he suffers insecurities like anyone else.
Children play nearby kicking a ball, and he wishes he was young again to play as they do.
The ball is kicked and lands among his few possessions. Once he would have responded with hostility, but today he smiles and invites the boys into his space.
They are wary, and he understands that, so much talk these days about predators, but they sense despite his size he is harmless.
They sit around and listen to his stories. He is interested in the boys, what they think even when he doesn’t understand a lot of what they say, he feels so much has changed, but still, he thinks people need people.
His stories enthral the boys; they promise to return another day and thank him for his time and tales.
He watches them run off in their respective futures kicking and laughing and wonders if they will return.
Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2018/06/03/sunday-writing-prompt-collage-prompt-41/
It was like a hand from the grave would reach out and grab me, and it took all my will power to free myself once again.
This was how it felt during the first weeks of separation from my marriage.
Every trick in the book was used to lure me back into a marriage that had long failed.
There were two sets of forces, my ex and my younger children. The younger children were at an age where they wanted a family like everyone else’s. My younger daughter made that plain to me at the time.
My older children knew the situation well, they had watched me suffer psychological and physical torment and knew I had to get out of that environment.
For my ex it was the shame of publicly acknowledging the failure of the marriage. She wanted respectability; she wanted our community to know it was my entire fault as a husband and a provider.
So she did all she could discredit me in every way and all the while manipulating every situation to her benefit.
Just when I’d think one hurdle had been surmounted another would rise in front of me.
She refused the notion of divorce but a year or so later fought tooth and nail to have our marriage annulled.
Many years have passed since those tumultuous days, but every so often her hand appears to create havoc, more for my children than me.
I have ‘charted my own path’ my life is my own and no matter what, having children together will never allow us to disappear from each other’s life. It’s about learning to cope, be polite, and not show a heart that wishes she treated our children with love, respect and acceptance.
Written for: https://reinventionsreena.wordpress.com/2018/05/31/reenas-exploration-challenge-week-39/
The circle of fathers prayed for the salvation of man.
Written for: https://sammiscribbles.wordpress.com/2018/06/02/weekend-writing-prompt-57-symmetry/
“Can you come here a second?” she asked sipping her morning coffee and looking down the back yard.
“Hmm, what is it?” I asked looking out the big window and out over the farms beyond our back fence.
“Can you see a pool of blood under the clothes line?” she asked as if asking me about the weather.
“Goodness yes,” I answered, “what’s happened down there?’
I put down my porridge and went to investigate. It certainly looked like a pool of blood, and there were footsteps, size nine and a half gym shoes walking towards the back fence. The grass though was very thick with dew, and so the footprints quickly vanished.
I rang 000 and very soon three police officers arrived.
One was a young man I assumed to be just out of the academy, the next was a middle-aged woman who looked like she had just gotten out of bed and the third was an older man, craggy-faced and with an expression of this better not keep me from my dinner.
Oh my goodness, I thought, the good, the bad and the ugly, and in that order.
The young police officer had a role of police tap and was quickly tapping off the crime scene, the lady officer looked about and studied the blood, the older officer made an announcement: “Everyone is to stay put, we have a potential crime here, and so we want all of you to remember precisely where you all were last night and this morning. A crime may have been committed here, and everyone is a suspect.”
By suspect, I assumed he meant my partner and me, as there was no one else to point his finger at.
So we stood back and watched the police go about their business or at least make it look as though they knew what they were doing.
Pretty soon a man turned up carrying a brief case and wearing a coat that said ‘forensic’.
At last, I thought someone who might be able to provide some information. Neither of us had heard anything during the night, so we were as much at a loss as were the police.
The craggy police officer approached the forensic guy and asked if he knew anything.
“Its blood,” said the forensic guy scooping some into a small vial. “I’ll go back to the lab and see what sort it might be.”
“Human?” asked craggy policeman.
“Could be, best check to make sure,” answered forensic man packing up his brief case and heading off to his lab.
By now our coffees were cold, and my partner looked disappointedly at me, and I went to move off to make fresh cups when craggy policeman pulled me up.
“And where do you think you are going?” he asked
“Make up some fresh coffee, would you like one?” I asked.
“Thanks, white two sugars, best get one for these two as well,” he said pointing to his colleagues. The young policeman was looking decidedly lost in that he didn’t seem to know what he was supposed to be doing and the lady police person was looking more and more irritated by the minute.
“There’s a lot of waiting at crime scenes,” the craggy officer stated, “waiting for God knows what, when or how. If you have a biscuit that would be nice too,” he added as I moved off.
In the meantime the blood was congealing, as it should, the three police persons stood around and time moved on.
Somewhere there was a body with little to no blood and a potential killer believing he’d gotten away with murder.
Next, to me the kettle boiled.
Written for: https://rachelpoli.com/2018/06/01/time-to-write-sentence-starter-35-creative-writing-prompt/
Morpethroad 