Spooky things happen
in the darkness of the night
if you admit them
Spooky things happen
in the darkness of the night
if you admit them
The combine drives its lonely round
and leaves no speck upon the ground
agri-farmer’s pockets lined with plenty
whilst crop and gizzard remain empty
no butterfly, aphid nor yet a bee
to feed my growing family
no swarm of insects overhead
between the stalks the soil is dead
not long ago the farmers horse
leading on his steady course
would pull the plough, the hoe, the rake
leaving in his stately wake
mounds of dung which left to lie
would feed the beetle or the fly
each juicy grub a feast for me
and other dwellers on the leas
across the field at stately pace
to beat the weather was their race
in numbers ever exponential
no thought of problems consequential
now I fear those halcyon days
are lost forever in the haze
of time and deepest memory
set down in our planet’s story
It was Spring, the time for renewal. In a show of respect to the Old ones, the gathering was beginning.Our tribe was gathered at the water’s edge for today the seas were withdrawn as the lowest ebb tide of the year allowed a glimpse of the old beliefs. We were assembled to pay homage to Ogopogo, an ancient, terrifying sea serpent who lives here off the coast of British Columbia. His hunger can only be satisfied by offerings from the resident North American Indians. At unusually low tides such as experienced here our Elders will go and seek the cavern where he dwells. Of all the caves, usually hidden by the cold waters, they will look for the bones of the unfortunate departed, our ancestors and forebears, arrayed in mystical patterns at the entrance to his lair. Then by centuries old invocation and ritual dance they will hopefully persuade the monster to stay away from the coastal villages, on it’s periodic but regular forays on the land, slaying and devouring the inhabitants in their homes, in their beds. Our prayers and rituals will compel this dread, ancient curse of our people to remain in his watery realm and plunder the denizens of the deep to slake his immense, ravenous, unnatural, unrelenting hunger. Protection has been sustained over the generations and will continue until such time as the monster is either slain or proven to be a superstitious myth as some of our sons and daughters believe.
“Hey you, what do you think you’re looking at, these are my bitches, oh, sorry I suppose I shouldn’t really call them that, I mean with the dogs being so, how shall I say, uppity, about people talking about their ladies in derogatory terms. Anyway they’re mine, you know what I mean?”
Senryu, I think
it seems so eerie
someone in a clown costume
makes me so nervous
one wrong decision
the touchpaper of war lit
This looks a great challenge especially for those, like myself who are totally within the #Twitosphere, a realm that lies somewhere between fantasy and reality
By C. Jai Ferry
We’ve Passed the Halfway Mark!
We’ve made it to Challenge #5, and we’re still alive and writing, so for this challenge, let’s see how you do with some rather unnatural constraints.
Carrot Ranch writers are used to the challenges inherent in writing a 99-word story. Flash fiction requires a delicate balance between brevity of words and richness of story. Becky Tuch at The Review Review offers the following perspective on flash fiction:
Part poetry, part narrative, flash fiction—also known as sudden fiction, micro fiction, short short stories, and quick fiction—is a genre that is deceptively complex. […] Distilling experience into a few pages or, in some cases a few paragraphs, forces writers to pay close attention to every loaded conversation, every cruel action, every tender gesture, and every last syllable in every single word.
[The link above also offers some great insights from experts…
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calmly she swims in
the lake of oblivion
salt laden tears fall
I personally live in a sort of mobile home having moved away from a canalside residence but envy those on the waterways. It must be a lovely setting for a writing mind, after all what else could spawn a literary masterpiece of the likes of, “Rosie and Jim”.
The Cardinal Wolsey at peace with the world
For three months I have been exploring the Llangollen canal (“The Welsh”) on my narrowboat, Cardinal Wolsey. Calling this waterway “The Welsh” is perhaps a tad misleading, since of its forty-five mile length no more than about the last five miles are actually in Wales. It is an out and back again canal, it doesn’t link up with any other navigable waterway, so I have slowly, slowly, slowly mooched my way along, explored thoroughly, then explored it all again in reverse. Well, not actually in reverse; I turned the boat around in the winding hole just after crossing the World Heritage Site Pontcysyllte Aqueduct, so we were going forwards again, just back the way we’d come from. Boat life can be terribly complicated at times, stuffed full of forward and reverse and bows and sterns and tillers and concentric crank thrumbles on…
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Untold centuries have passed since first I stood sentinel on this lonely mound. My cold, brick skirts pressed modestly round my granite ankles. But as if in recognition of my awesome power no human blood was ever spilt within. Only life’s juices draining from the ox, the sheep and fowl in preparation for the daily feasts once held within my smoky halls. When minstrels played and goblets raised in song and celebration of deeds of valour if only from the minds of fawning scribes enthralled and eager to placate their Lord and raise him high above his peers. Tables heavy laden with the weight of wood and pewter platters, their contents overflowing. Fruit and bread and choicest meat supplied and oft replenished by ragged boys and comely maidens whose faces set in lying smiles promising hopes of delights to follow but at a price, far above the reach of those who could only listen from without the heavy oaken doors.
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