Write a story or poem of 5 Lines or Less using the word accidentally
I accidentally dropped it.
Grandma’s prize vase lay in a thousand pieces on the floor.
Then the questions.
Hadn’t I been told to not touch it, to stay away, it was precious, what will Grandma say?
So much vitriol is it any wonder accidents happen.
Written for: https://patriciasplace.me/2018/03/21/in-other-words-accidentally/
Photo: Oil Search New Guinea.
This week, weave a tale in which helping others is the subject.
There was a man down in the street.
An ordinary man I was sure.
He was struggling to get himself upright.
He was covered in dirt, from top to bottom.
I had this thought that someone had rolled him in the mud, for there were bits stuck to his shirt.
He was supporting himself by his right arm, his left arm looked a bit useless, and I suspected he may have broken it.
I heard a voice say he was on the kerb when a car knocked him and send him into the gutter and down among the debris that was lying there.
The lady beside me said he’d tumbled over and over and she feared he must be dead.
But he wasn’t, he was rising as if life was winning over what could have been.
People had gathered around, one man had an arm around his shoulders and was helping him to lie back down as in the distance an ambulance could be heard.
They lay him down and rolled him carefully into the recovery position.
When I got close, I could hear his breathing. It was heavy as if the wind had been knocked out of him.
He couldn’t speak, but rather gurgled some incoherent sounds as those closest to him began to fear the worst.
The man was surrounded by so many caring souls; each one hoping help, beyond their concern, would soon be on hand.
Around the far corner came the ambulance, sirens blaring, lights flashing, there was a sense of relief among those closely gathered.
The ambos, experienced folk that they are took in the situation, the man and his injuries. Expertly they examined him, all the time talking to him in the most calming of ways.
I felt the hand of reassurance settle on us all as we watched them go about their jobs.
They treated the man with such dignity, I felt proud to be there in witness.
Then the police arrived and asked for witnesses, gathered them around and determined whom they needed to talk to first.
Meanwhile, the ambos in the most gentle of ways loaded the man into their vehicle and headed off to the hospital.
The crowd I was part of milled around a while as witness statements were taken and words were exchanged over what had happened, and then we dispersed and went on our day’s journey leaving behind a few scuff marks in the gutter where once there had been a man, an ordinary man as it turned out.
Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2018/03/22/tale-weaver-164-helping-others-22nd-march-2018/
Image: MorgueFile 14228002011gx95
We had been told that any trip through Europe had to include a visit to the tiny village of Morgue nestled on the side of a hill overlooking the Sea.
It was, without doubt, a picturesque town and the walk along the waterfront was spectacular.
It was the locals who intrigued us the most. They were the friendliest bunch of people who had, it seemed to us, a very limited vocabulary.
To every request we made we received an, ”Oh eye.”
Ordering dinner was, “Oh eye.”
“Is the red wine local?”
“Oh, eye.”
And so it went on.
We booked ourselves a morning cruise on a gondola. As we approached the spot where the gondolier stood waiting, he produced a piece of paper from his pocket and looked at us.
“Mr and Mrs Smith,” I announced. He looked at his piece of paper and said, “Oh eye.”
He said nothing throughout the journey leaving the spoken word to a taped recording.
As we disembarked and thanked him, he answered, “Oh eye.”
We wondered if living in Morgue gave them an insight into the meaning of life that we hadn’t yet grasped.
The pond scum committee was called to order.
A change of image was required.
They were over the bad rap they received.
Something needed to be done.
Suddenly scum left and right leapt into action.
A leg, a fin, a strangely shaped head.
The scum was changing.
A vision of beauty was born.
Written for: https://katmyrman.com/2018/03/20/twittering-tale-76-20-march-2017/
Image: © Yinglan
The last thing we heard was his cry, “There’s something weird under here.”
The last thing we saw was his bum in the air, hockey stick in hand.
It wasn’t unusual for Josh to go exploring and carry his beloved hockey stick with him.
We were finishing off the lunch preparations when Joan looked up and said, “I can’t see your brother.”
“Oh no,” I uttered, “the silly buggers fallen in.”
We rushed down onto the bridge and looked everywhere.
The pool of water beneath us looked undisturbed.
“Josh!” I screamed, “Josh!”
There was nothing but silence. Joan ran for help, and I continued along the waters edge calling his name.
Then I heard him. He was under the bridge. I looked and found him clinging to the bridge support. With coaxing, I got him out, and we both sat on the bridge, soaked but glad to be together.
“Something took my hockey stick,” he said.
Written for: https://flashfictionforaspiringwriters.wordpress.com/2018/03/19/fffaw-challenge-week-of-march-20-2018/
Image: Vincent Bourilhon
Are you dreaming Mister?
“I’d like to be, under the sea.”
But I’m not am I.
“In an octopus’ garden in the shade,”
But I’m not am I!
No, I’m stuck here miles up in the air
A bunch of balloons holding me up
In a car that should be in the wreckers
And if not then in a museum.
Life’s a friggin’ joke some days
When I should be soaring with eagles
I’m running round with a bunch of turkeys.
I long for a moment or two when we can
Sail through the blue beyond
Watch the coral, the fishes, the fascination
Of an ocean world, we’ve dreamed about so long.
But instead, we are prone to the whims of the atmosphere
Buffered about in air pockets we have no control over.
You said it wouldn’t matter how rich or poor I am
You said it’s the man you were most attracted to
But this boy is air sick, longing for the feel of the earth
The car seats are hard, my bum hurts like crazy
But still, the flight goes on,
When will the balloons burst?
The plunge to earth will be exhilarating
Maybe then we’ll fall into the sea
I’ll be able to, “ ask my friends to come and see
An octopus’ garden with me.”
But that’s all wishful thinking, even though
“I’d like to be under the sea
In an octopus’ garden in the shade.”
The old Ford Anglia putts off into the distance
The octopus’ garden a figmentation of my imaginative.
At least the balloons are colourful,
The on board bar filled to overflowing
Enough to drown my sorrows
Create a few new dreams
Of girls, small dogs and poems on a wall.
“We would be warm below the storm
In our little hideaway beneath the waves.”
Dream on mister, it’s a good fantasy
You just never know.
Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2018/03/20/photo-challenge-206/
Write a haibun about what/who inspired you to write poetry.
I started writing ‘poetry’ when I was in my teenage years. I found it a means to express my feelings mainly about girls I thought I should know and fall in love with. This would have been around 1970 when I was in school. Then when I taught myself to play guitar, I found my poems with added music made them live a little more.
Later I wrote a few musicals, again poetry with an added riff or two.
When I started high school we had an English text, and the title was from this haiku:
For deliciousness
try fording this rivulet
sandals in one hand
by Buson
That was my introduction to Haiku.
Today I use it still as a way to express thoughts and ideas. Though I tend to find I’m more story based than esoteric.
Introduction made
Teacher as aware as me
Words and syllables
Written for: https://dversepoets.com/2018/03/19/haibun-monday-who-what-why/
This week’s words: Nullify Gnarl Octave Negligence Parasite Peal Leash Muscle Misrepresent Boketto (to gaze vacantly into the distance without thinking) Nightmare Graveyard
Joe Boketto was a third generation gravedigger, and the town’s graveyard was his pride and joy. Nowadays he enjoyed the use of a mechanical digger replacing the toil of a pick and shovel. The digger allowed him to spend time contemplating life’s mysteries. To the casual observer, it may have appeared that Joe was simply staring off into the distance, but his mind was a dynamo.
He cared very much for the graveyard and the negligence of family to the upkeep of family graves brought out the gnarly side to his character. He referred to them as the parasites of society who loved their family only for what they got from it and promptly forgot them in death.
He wasn’t gnarly by nature being a very quiet and well-mannered man. The graveyard was no place of nightmare for him but rather a place of memorial.
In fact, his sombre appearance did little to nullify the real man.
It was easy for some to misrepresent the Boketto’s for the occupation they were tied to.
He and Mrs Boketto, his wife of many years, led a stimulating and interesting life. Sarah Boketto was a member of the Church choir with a voice that travelled several octaves of the keyboard with very little effort.
When not singing, the Boketto’s were into muscle building, and this unleashed in them a sense of community and involvement. They frequented many muscle-building competitions far and wide and many people when they discovered their occupation were surprised by it.
Sarah Boketto was also the town’s undertaker, and so she diligently prepared the deceased for burial. She was also the one on the day of a funeral to peal the church bell calling all who cared to attend the funeral of whomever it was they were to bury that day.
Afterwards, true to their name they would sit on their back veranda and contemplate the horizon thinking nothing usually but occasionally sharing a word of praise for a job well done.
Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2018/03/19/wordle-188/
The Order of The Secret Flower met each week in an old house at the end of the street.
It was a very secret organisation, as most of the members didn’t know which flower they were being secretive about.
Not that they were bothered by that, a trivial matter to the mind of most of the members, of which there were four.
And four chaps whom one would never think of as the sharpest tacks in the box.
But they loved the idea of being a secret organisation. No one outside of themselves knew about them, and they liked that.
They were neighbours and so one afternoon while sharing a chat over one of the members front fence they decided to formalise their meetings and meet in the old house at the end of the street for no other reason that it looked the ideal place for a secret organisation, and it belonged to one of the member’s Great Aunt who was away on a permanent holiday aboard a cruise ship frozen somewhere in the Antarctic Ocean a little south of where they actually should have been.
Not wishing to jinx their meetings they each adopted a name they were sure no one would know nor understand.
One of them had read the Crucible by Arthur Miller and thought it would be good if they were all to use the word Goodie in front of their names. The three other members who hadn’t read the Crucible thought it was a stupid idea.
Debate on their names raged throughout the first meeting night.
By the end of the meeting they had decided that they would be known as Sillyplus, Sillyminor, Sillysub and Sillydiv all names chosen, as they seriously thought no one would consider them real names.
At their second meeting, they enthusiastically embraced the notion of a greeting, so secret only each member would recognise it. If they greeted each other in the street and one heard the call: Silly silly ding-dong, they’d know they were close up with a fellow member.
They did everything they could think of that secret organisation should have. They tried several secret handshakes, the palm tickle ending up the most preferred.
They even invented reasons for their attendance at the meeting so their wives would never guess what they were up to. Putting out the cat, buying a late night coffee, emptying the garbage compactor and having to go back to work to attend an emergency.
Everything worked perfectly. The meetings were orderly once they had agreed on their name, greeting and secret names. They took it in turns to run the meetings and vowed never to reveal to a single soul their very existence.
At one meeting they asked each other what they wanted to do as a secret organisation and they all came to the consensus that being a secret organisation was a full-time job in itself.
So they did just that. Membership was closed, and they contented themselves believing it was a noble cause being a secret organisation.
Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2018/03/18/sunday-writing-prompt-secret-organizations/
I’ve heard them say patience is a virtue. It’s not something that comes readily to mind especially when there is a sense of urgency needed or a crisis is at hand.
Some people practice it with ease; some find it a real nuisance, as they have no time for the dilly-dallying of other people.
When there’s a job at hand, it’s about getting down to it not discussing the ins and outs of appears a straightforward task.
Though I have been guilty of not adhering to this virtue as when I said I’d make the kids a window box. It was to be both a seat and toy box.
Having the required tools but none of the skill needed to complete the job I set to work thinking I had everything in hand.
Working hard, thinking ahead, never behind, I sawed, nailed and painted. Proud of my efforts I’d discovered one important step I had overlooked.
The box, by days end, was looking good and I proudly carried up to the place it was to fit. To my dismay, the box was six inches too long.
Frustrated by my lack of patience in the preparation I dragged the box outside and sawed-off six inches, made a new end and dragged it back in again.
It sat where it did for some years as a constant reminder of not just my lack of patience but also my greater lack of skill. I still cringe thinking about it.
Written for: https://sammiscribbles.wordpress.com/2018/03/17/weekend-writing-prompt-46-patience/
Morpethroad 