Photo Challenge #21 “Cardboard Angel”

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Image: Sarolta Ban

False, flimsy, fragility

That’s what you are to me.

Promises undelivered

Hopes dashed, I am floundering.

That’s the cardboard aspect of you

A brittleness, of little substance

A pretentious mongrel

Who temporarily gives in only to fool

Then strikes again with power unreserved.

I hate what you have done

You taken from me all I hold precious

And with malicious contempt.

Your callousness astounds me

You have robbed not just me

But the love I held above all others.

I see you smirk in victory

Triumphant at my lose

But your victory is fleeting

As we will rise like a phoenix

Vanquishing you to your rightful abyss

For you are as your name suggests

A pain, an irritation,

We will not cower to.

 

Written for: http://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2014/08/12/photo-challenge-21-cardboard-angel/

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Wordle #21 – the crazed woman

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I have seen you this past week. I am sure you have been there for longer than that but usually I am in such a hurry I just make the platform as the train pulls in.

But this week I have been arriving early, its less cold now winter is heading north.

I see you at the far end of the station, surrounded by your possessions. I hear people remark about the crazed dirty woman at the end of the platform. You cover yourself in multiple layers less you disintegrate against the cold, around yourself you arrange the shrapnel of your life in worn and rotting bags containing I am sure the stories of your life.

I watch you concentrating as you scour through one bag after another either searching for some elusive memory or checking to make sure what is yours is still yours.

Satisfied you settle back and stare at the world that must pass you by with indifference. This morning I was early and so ventured a little closer to you. I could hear you singing, some tune from more hedonistic if not sybaritic days I am sure.

The Station Master came along carrying two coffees and then stopped and handed one to you which you took I noticed with delicate hands and nod of thanks for his kindness.

It’s pleasing that someone looks out for you. That you are not as despised nor hated, as I often fear you must be. Two commuters were chatting near me and I heard one say you were a University professor once but that you feel out of favour, with everyone it would seem. This one commuter remembered you, said you were always odd, your ideas challenged the best of your students it was your legacy to question but he was sad to see that you had stepped over the precipice and been reduced to this broken and crushed woman.

It was Thursday morning when I saw the police come by, they were very gentle with you, I heard that there had been a complaint about you lurking about on the train stations. I know that some of the stations are now days uninhabitable, not like in the old days when each one had a sheltered waiting room and accessible toilets. Now there are only a few that are open twenty-four seven and they don’t like smelly old crazed women taking up residence in their public areas.

What I saw though reaffirmed my desire to know you better.

It was clear to me that you had been through this process before, as you knew what their presence meant.

As they left the ritual of movement began. I was mesmerised by the deliberation and care that occurred. Every bag you own had a place on your person. Some on your back, some slung across shoulders to the left and right, some hung in front, I figured those bags contained the most precious possessions.

I wondered where it was you were going. You doused any speculation of resistance by looking resigned to moving as if this was all part of the process of life, the enforced nomadic existence that moved you from one Gehenna to another. I could see in you a determination, a path you knew so well.

With head bent low under the yoke of all you owned, you stepped over the discarded syringes from the night before and disappeared into the morning as we all stood to attention, a silent guard of honour to your human float, as you rolled on by and we recoiled momentarily then gathered ourselves in expectation of the comfort we knew was ours in the humdrum of our upcoming day.

 

Written for: http://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2014/08/11/wordle-21/

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Magpie Tales Sunday August 10 – The Red Splodge

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Image: Keith Haring.

 

Some artists I find can depict life in the simplest terms and others take a more convoluted approach. Then again some others don’t bother, rather they let you stand in front of their work and you are expected to sort it out yourself.

I had been invited to the gallery by my cousin a woman who considered herself an authority on most things, art being one of her foremost know-all subjects.

‘Its brilliant,’ she had said to me. ‘You have to come and see it in the flesh.’

Yes there was no doubting the magnitude of the work, the entire wall a mass of black and white.

To me it was clear there was a path being laid down in this piece. From sort of birth to death and all things in between.

I thought the artist was very clever in this work. By using simple figures to convey his message he had made the work accessible to so many I thought. But artistic merit I had long argued lay in the eye of the critic. Was this work worth millions as they said it was or was it an over inflation of this artists ego?

I stood there for some time taking the work in, looking at the multiple stories I could see within the images. After a while I did begin to see the merit in all the praise the work was generating.

As I stood there my cousin arrived and stood with me gazing on this imposing work. I said to her that is was a magnificent work and then launched into my version of its meaning.

I was waxing lyrically I thought when she interrupted me to say the piece she wanted me to see was the next one along.

A small A4 size painting, a white background with a rough red splodge in the middle.

I looked at her somewhat perplexed as she stood back admiring it.

‘Brilliant isn’t it?’

 

Written for: http://magpietales.blogspot.co.uk/2014/08/mag-232.html

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Prompt #67 “A Fly on the Wall” – 2 A.M.

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It’s 2am. He’s rung.

Always it’s this time, with mistress asleep, children sleeping and the other servants tucked away in the beds in the outside quarters.

He wants me now. Its part of my job he tells me. I don’t have much choice it’s be at his beck and call or be out on the street. At this time of night he sounds different, he gasps as he speaks, there is a slur in his voice as he announces what he wants and how I am to dress.

I fear one night he will overstep the mark and it could be the end. I am realistic enough to know he can easily replace me. Though I doubt he could, as I am very good.

I have learned to look after myself. Though we both know that in life no one is indispensible.

Even Barons.

The Baron is a Jekyll and Hyde. By day he is a pillar of society, the perfect gentlemen, a benefactor to so many. But in the next few hours he will become a monster and he knows it. I often sense that the mistress is aware of his behaviours but is powerless to control him. Past servants have whispered about him, to beware of his late night calls, to protect yourself at all times, to make sure he never locks the door.

I have been lucky in that he likes me as much as he uses me. We are on speaking terms, he discusses with me his needs, I know he does not intend to hurt me but I also know his desires are much greater than any sense of my well-being.

By day I am his secretary. He starts early and so do I. As the Baron there is always much to be done in administering the vast estate, which he does with fairness and benevolence. The workers are well cared for, he pays good wages, he expects a good days work but never expects anyone to work if they are unwell or injured. He rewards us generously at Easter and Christmas, with bonus days off, extra food and an estate party to which all members of the estate attend.

To the outside world we live a very privileged life compared to so many who are mistreated and discarded at the whim of their employers. Ours is an ideal situation, we know we have it good.

At least most here do. Me? I am on call twenty-four seven. Now it is ten past and I have five minutes to be in his office. He will be waiting, I can see the look in his eyes, the way he leans against his desk when I enter as if I am to be surprised to see him in the way he will be. Drunk. In some state of undress, its what he will have in his hand that bothers me the most.

My master is into pain. He likes to inflict it as much as receive it. He loves whips, has many; it’s like a smorgasbord of choice when he decides to use them.

Tonight I fear he has something new as his voice had that air of excitement about it when he has discovered some new method of inflicting and receiving. It will be a matter of me receiving as he explains how it all will work then me returning the ‘favour’ to him.

I know its something new as he asked me to wear my initiation dress. As I leave the room I glance at myself and think I still look good in white. I doubt I will do so when I return. Pain you see is something I can do without. But for him it’s all pleasure.

I can bear the shrill excitement of his voice, the lustiness of his desires, even cope with the fumbled sex that concludes his explorations, but it’s the leering look, the attitude that he has something to impress me with that I abhor.

I could leave but where would I go. Apart from his humiliation my life is good and he does treat me fairly outside this time. But one night I know he will go too far and that will be his undoing.

I have it planned that when the time comes, if it comes, he will be found lying in the middle of his perversion.

I pray that day never comes but a girl does have to protect herself.

 

Written for: http://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2014/08/10/prompt-67-a-fly-on-the-wall/

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Fairytale Prompt #20 – The Green Stone

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“If you want your children to be intelligent, read them fairy tales. If you want them to be more intelligent, read them more fairy tales.”― Albert Einstein

Thea Dillon was a most unpleasant child. She was a demanding and opinionated young girl about whom her parents worried incessantly.

Sunday’s was church day and the family would dress in their finest and traipse off down the hill to the little church that served the faithful of their town.

Thea would argue with her parents each Sunday morning about what clothes she might wear. Nothing ever seemed to be right for her. If the blue was suggested she decided it had to be the green. Though the one colour that she favoured above all others was the red.

It was like a ritual the family went through to the point that both parents began to dread the Sunday morning petulance of their daughter.

Her father used to stand back at her bedroom door and tell her about the little girl on the other side of town who would have done anything for the clothes that Thea was so picky about.

‘Susie Noshoes,’ her father would say, ‘Has no shoes. She is very poor and has to go about bare footed as her parents cannot afford to buy her shoes.’

Thea was never interested in these stories as she was focused on getting her own way all the time. She thought they were guilt stories, little more than fairy tales told to entertain her and she had no time for such triteness.

It was after a particularly tiresome Sunday morning where Thea had kicked and screamed and refused to wear what her mother had put out for her that her parents headed for church locking the house and leaving Thea at home. They had done all they could and their difficult daughter could stay in her room until they returned as they had had enough of her petulance and bad behaviour.

Thea lay on her bed and contemplated her morning. She was never left at home alone. Her parents usually gave into her and let her wear what she wanted, but today they had stood up to her and left her at home, locked in the house.

There was a knock on the front door. Then another.

Thea thought at last here was something to do even if it was to answer the door and shoo away the pesky callers who often wanted something or other.

She opened the door to find a small girl standing there. The girl was very bedraggled in appearance; she had on no shoes and had the biggest blue eyes Thea had ever seen.

The girl looked at Thea and asked if she had any food to spare.

Thea had heard her parents on occasion answer the door and then give what they could to the increasing number of beggars who seemed to be knocking more frequently than ever.

Thea wasn’t having a bar of beggars on a Sunday morning. She slammed the door. That should teach her she thought to be coming round here to beg.

Now thought Thea those chocolate biscuits her mother had bought yesterday were suddenly more tempting than ever before.

As she made her way to the pantry she heard the knock on the door again.

This time Thea peered through the side window and saw the same small raggedy girl standing there.

Sensing this girl was in need of a right royal Thea telling off she opened the door and launched into a tirade of abuse only to find the girl was no longer there.

Thea was taken aback, she was there a second ago. How could she have vanished so quickly?

She closed the door, her mind going back to the chocolate biscuits.

She turned round to find the girl standing in the middle of her lounge room.

 

‘Who are you, what do you want?’ Demanded Thea.

‘Normally you are not home,’ the girl explained. ‘I watch you go to church and then I come in.’

‘Why? How?’ Thea was feeling very furious at this stage.

‘The key in the laundry is always there for me to use.’

‘Who told you about the key? It’s there for emergencies only.’

‘Your dad told me. But he always said to knock first in case someone was home. So today like every Sunday I knocked. I was surprise to find you here, but I expected one day you would be.’

‘What do you do in my house?’ Thea shrilled.

‘I eat mostly; sometimes I look at your clothes. You have a lot of beautiful clothes. I once tried on your red dress, I think that’s my favourite.’

Thea quickly tried to think of any occasion where she had thought someone had been in her room or when she’d heard her parents say there was any food missing or crumbs or anything that suggested this girl had been in their house. But nothing came to mind.

Thea turned to the girl; her anger was now at a high she had never experienced before. ‘You are never to come into this house again, nor are you to ever speak to me or pretend to anyone that you know this house. My parents I now understand are as crazy as I always thought they were. How would they allow an urchin such as you into our house? You are dirty, your clothes are filthy, you are disgusting.’

The girl turned to go, taking a biscuit from a pocket in the side of her dress. As she bit into the sweet biscuit Thea saw a twinkle in the girls eye. The girl stepped towards Thea and opened her hand to reveal a small green stone.

‘This is my most prized possession. I’d be happy if you had it. I know you have so much and I have little. I live in a place where my parents struggle day in and day out to provide for us, but we know about sharing and we know about gratitude.

I have been coming to your house for a long time. I have never taken anything that was not mine. All I take is some food from the cupboard that your father knows I take. But I see your indignation, I sense your anger, I know you will never be a friend to me. I always planned to offer something when it was discovered I had been here. All I have is this stone, if you look into it you see kindness, you see love, if you look long enough you begin to understand gratitude.’

The girl then pressed the stone into Thea’s hand and left the house.

Thea stood there a moment speechless. She looked at the stone and wondered who this strange girl had been.

She heard the front door open and her parents came in chatting about one thing and another.

Thea was standing there still in her pyjamas. She looked at her parents who were surprised to see daughter there speechless and looking somewhat perplexed.

In the next ten minutes she blurted out the tale of her morning, of the strange girl and finally the green stone.

When she had finished her father smiled at her, came to his daughter and embraced her. In doing so he said, ‘So I see you met Susie Noshoes.’

At the sound of her name Thea felt the stone warm in the palm of her hand.

 

Written for: http://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2014/08/08/fairytale-prompt-20/

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MeetingTheBar: It’s a small, small world — so let’s LIMBO like there is no tomorrow

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I looked, inside and out

Yet I was told

You were here.

Puzzle.

You looked amused

You said

Faith,

That’s all you need.

 

Today’s poem I have to admit was influenced by a meditation I received this morning: They say that God is everywhere, and yet we always think of Him as somewhat of a recluse – Emily Dickenson

Written for: http://dversepoets.com/2014/08/07/meetingthebar-its-a-small-small-world-so-lets-limbo-like-there-is-no-tomorrow/

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Tale Weaver’s Prompt #20 – Animal – Lion

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Stealth, power, precision, some of the words my parents instilled in me are among my earliest memories.

If you are going to belong in the big cat family they said you have to possess those abilities.

And they are as much instinctual as they are features I have developed that mark me as a cat to be reckoned with.

Not that I am a killer any more so than the other cats, but rather I have style. Panache was what dad had, he made the others sit up and take notice, he made mum purr for him at every opportunity.

You see, part of my charm,  is my ability to look the part. It’s the presence that wins out every time. It’s that look that says here is a cat, a big cat at that, one to be recognised as a cat with balls, who’ll take no crap from anyone.

I remember once when I was not long among the pride I heard the lionesses say there’s goes one brother I’d like to get to know a little closer.

To prove myself I have killed, I have killed with ruthless ferocity but as we kill for each other we always share the spoils of our labours.

Next season I am to select a mate. I am readying for that day when I challenge the other males in the pride to the right choose first, the female of my liking.

Already I have my eye on Clodessa the pretty female I see always surrounded by the other males, all doing their bit to stake a claim to her tantalising hide.

In secret I have been training, honing my skills, perfecting the moves I will need to make in order to defeat the others and then claim her for my own.

I am aware that always there is a danger when it comes to mating season. I remember my father would often be bloodied from the challenges he faced but always he was a winner. It was old age that did him in eventually and he knew his day was spent. When challenged the last time he looked at his challenger and acquiesced in his favour, came to me and said he was finished, his days were over and he was going off to die at the edge of the prides territory.

He had taught me well and now I am going to step into his footprints and mark the pride as my own.

I know the other males do not see me as a threat as I keep to myself most of the time. But soon they will see me, they’ll see the fierce determination, the example set by my father as I set about stamping my authority.

It is just a matter of time.  So while they preen themselves in expectation of Clodessa’s affections I will continue to train, continue to plan ready for when my day comes.

With luck they wont know what hit them.

 

Written for: http://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2014/08/07/tale-weavers-prompt-20-animal/

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Six on the Sixth Prompt – August

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The fun and creativity of writing six word stories.

Sink

He decided to sink albeit unceremoniously.

Chair

Being belted in was his undoing.

Automobile

Trouble brewed his rear vision blocked.

Anger

Fuming his attention was quickly diverted.

Duck

He didn’t see the feathers fly

Black

Darkness enshrouded him as he disappeared.

Written for: http://adamickes.com/2014/08/05/six-on-the-sixth-prompt-august/

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Poetics– telling a story & why not go a bit fairy tale or fantasy… – Wheelbarrow

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Wheelbarrow

I’m old, I’m rusty,

Most of my arse has fallen out

But my frame is solid

I have been a faithful servant

Hard working

Never have I let my owners down

Even now a barrow of bits and pieces

I’m still functional

Albeit a bit scrappy looking.

I once worked on the new town square

Carried concrete one day

Bricks another

Never missed a beat

It’s a sight now thanks to me.

My handles may have been replaced

A more chic soft feel

For my present owners

Soft teachers hands.

My days are in retirement now

I am stored away from the wind and rain

I still function, though limited

I can do the job as well as any younger barrow

Even when the bum is out of my seat.

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Written for: http://dversepoets.com/2014/08/05/poetics-telling-a-story-why-not-go-a-bit-fairy-tale-or-fantasy/

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100 Word Challenge for Grown Ups – Week#143 – My Garden

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…the parched ground crumbled…

 

My garden looked forlorn, it hadn’t rained in months and water restrictions meant none could be spared.

It had never been this dry.

My once fertile patch was now barren with gaping cracks like thirsty mouths pleading to be sated.

Even my ever-enthusiastic weeds had wilted and died. Though the first drop of rain would bring them back flourishing bigger and better than ever.

We depended on the garden for our summer vegetables but this year it would be Mum’s preserves and the cans of peas, beans and potatoes she’d stowed away to get us through the hot summer.

 

Written for: http://jfb57.wordpress.com/2014/08/05/100-word-challenge-for-grown-ups-week143/

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