Thursday, December 2, 2010

Writing Prompts - last 2 weeks of November


A fluid and clear
pool of reflection beckons -
Dive deep and reveal.


Wet or solid form,
It quenches a thirst of sorts
and it refreshes.

The Detective

Mia brought her pointer finger to her mouth, flicked a fierce look and drew a burrowed frown on her face. Mia had agreed to bring her best friend along to ‘the lookout’ as long as she promised to stay quiet. As it turned out, the lookout was a relatively elevated piece of land that was well hidden in a cluster of trees. Mia had stumbled upon it by chance when she had been running after her dog one day. It proved to be the perfect spot for some good detective work.

The girls watched as the man shovelled deep in his garden, the force of digging his spade in the earth was tensing up his neck and shoulders. Dirt flew up in the air and the girls peered through the leaves and branches to see what he would throw into the ground.

“Are you sure he’s got a dead body down there?” whispered Mia’s friend rather loudly.

“Yes! I saw it with my own eyes! I’m sure he’s trying to bury the evidence now.”

When the digging was all over, the girls held their breath, waiting.

“Come on, you can bring it out now,” shouted the man to someone inside.

A little boy, with eyes red from crying, emerged from the house carrying a small round tennis ball. Mia gasped. It was Edgar, the new boy at school. Edgar dragged his feet reluctantly towards the hole in the ground, knelt down and placed the ball inside.

“There, feel better now? I’m sure Ronald will be much happier with his tennis ball,” said the man kindly.

Mia’s friend looked at her suspiciously realising that there was no dead body – just a dead pet rabbit buried in the ground.

“So much for the detective club!” said Mia’s friend as she walked off in a huff.

An icy wind pierces my ears beneath a woollen hat and my nose has turned into a deep shade of pink. I snuggle deeper into my coat and bring my scarf up over my mouth and nose before tucking my fingers back into my pockets. Eyes shut tight; I wait on a bench at the platform with my luggage, trying to imagine the warm climes, sunshine and soft sandy beaches that would soon welcome me. A strong gust of wind brushes past as the train pulls in, forcing my eyes to fling open and signifying the beginning of my migration from this winter.

Waking up to the rhythm of a vision,
holding and calling, for a degree of recognition.
Yet what it is gives is nothing -
more than an idea, cleverly wrapped in a contrary caption.

Science fiction
“Mum, where are we going?”

“We’re going to see the doctor, sweetie.”

“But, mum I don’t want to see him…”

“Now, now, all he’s going to do is have a quick look at your DNA.”

“Yeah that’s what you said last time! And I ended up having to sleep in that cubicle all alone for two whole days! And besides, that doctor stinks, I have to hold my breath every time he’s around.”

“Now you know this is for your own good. It was just a little operation to make you better and the doctor just wants to have a look to see if the medicine worked. Remember what dad said?”

“Uh-huh… that fixing my DNA will make me teleport just like all the other boys.”

“There you go and you’ll be able to see dad up in the next galaxy in no time. Don’t you want to see dad?”

“Uh-huh.. Why can’t he come and visit us?!”

“Because, sweetie, he’s busy fixing that tunnel between the two galaxies.”

Pitter pattering -
Bare feet on marble floors and
rain in showers fall.


It carries with it
across the times, memories -
strum another tune.

Random song prompt From Sting’s "Fields of Gold" - I took the first line of the song:
You’ll remember me when the west wind moves.
You’ll remember me when it stirs,
and you see traces of the leaves of once upon a time,
coming back with colour.
Spare a moment and pray,
when the west wind brushes against your face,
caressing your skin,
refreshing your mind free,
you’ll remember me.
I’ll be long gone by then,
when the west wind moves but you’ll remember me.

The Author
A wandering mind fully entwined with thoughts
and a distracting notion, only but a contraption
for words, to paint many a feeling and plots
in his mind’s eye, nothing is certain.

The Fair
Lily stood watching the children in the merry-go-round whirl around like the thoughts in her head. Her nephew, Little-T as she liked to call him, was sitting on one of the colourful red horses, making giddy-up and trotting noises. He was in full character, his wispy hair flying in the wind. Not in a care in the world. Not a concern for anything to do with the future. She wondered how he would react when he eventually did find out. Things at his home would never be the same again. He would be going to boarding school next year. Lily wanted to spend as much as time as she could with him before then. Little-T hopped off his horse and ran towards her with a gregarious laugh. She scooped him up and gave him a big hug before dropping him to the ground again. Hand in hand, they spent the rest of the day walking through the crowd, eating cotton candy, painting their faces and making memories. 

Night Shift
Night shifts in splendour,
from one depth to the next,
stars shine with wonder,
night never seeks to rest,
always giving out its best,
more so with company –
found in its midst.

Night shifts bolder,
as it takes its last breath.
Dark falls darker,
and makes a stand before its death.
Dawn breaks and light, spreads
erasing, layer upon layer
Of a semi-perpetuating,
repeated night shift.

Soft sand melts away,
There beneath a scorching sun –
Tracks lie for the lost.


Etchings in the snow –
Remain deep in the terrain,
Footprints large and small.

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