It’s Nothing (Trimeric)

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the teapot boiled
the cat began to whistle
the man bolted out
the world began to tremble

the cat began to whistle
the pot was just a thought
it was never really there

the man bolted out
he was missing his body
he left his coat and hat

the world began to tremble
we turned the music up
nothing was hard to hear


I thought I’d try my hand at some absurdist poetry of the type popularized in the middle of the twentieth century as Grace at dVerse challenges us with a new poetry form: “Today’s poetry form is Trimeric (Trimeric \tri-(meh)-rik), which was invented by Charles A. Stone.

1. Trimeric has 4 stanzas
2. The first stanza has 4 lines
3. The other three stanzas have 3 lines each
4. The first line of each stanza is a refrain of the corresponding line in the first stanza (so 2nd stanza starts with the second line, third stanza starts with the third line, etc.).
5. The sequence of lines, then, is abcd, b – -, c – -, d – -.
Note: No other rules on line length, meter, or rhyme.
Click on Mr. Linky & join in!

Buggy Annals

image source – lovethispic.com

Nothing in you, nothing in me,
Nothing as far as eye can see
Nothing to say who made me,
Nothing makes itself plain to me
Nothing will be my guide and creed
No absolutes but what my thoughts decree
Ruler of my own destiny
Master of sky, land and sea
No limit to whatever desires mingle, set free
It’s all about me, from A to Z
I’m free to decide what’s best for me
What’s wrong for you may be right for me
Ask Mother Nature, what’s cruelty?
Evolution’s progress, look at me!
[SPLAT!]
– Last sounds of Nobigbug Butméé

PHOTO PROMPT © Miles Rost

Genre: Poetry
Word Count: 100

I’ve been rather under the weather lately but roused myself to participate in Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers and Eugi’s Weekly Prompt. I’ve read many of the entries already and am inspired. Eugi asks us to use any variation on the top photo or the word prompt (“mingle”). Rochelle asks that we use the photo prompt (above) and limit our words to 100 or less. Check them out!

Hot Pursuit


Somewhere on this busy street the culprit Janus was hiding. The time of the assignation was near. If he didn’t show up with Janus in tow, he knew he was finished.

Suddenly a flash of orange streaked past the fish vendor. Diving through torsos and between legs, arms outstretched, crawling painfully on his knees, he caught the miscreant. The job was done.

****

He knocked on her door. When it opened, Janus leapt into her arms.

“Oh you darling!” She buried her face in the tabby’s fur. “He wasn’t any trouble, was he?”

Oh no!” he said, handing her the roses.

genre: fiction; word count: 100; Rochelle Wisoff-Fields kindly invites us to join the Friday Fictioneers in their weekly creative quests of a hundred words or less. Photo prompt © Roger Bultot. Click on the frog and join in!

Jeeves Clairovoyant

Even before these events transpired, my barrista, the summum bonum of my life, divined them in the grinds.

She summoned me (“Bertie”), supplied my ususal combustible concoction, and intoned, “Enjoy.”

It wasn’t what she said but the way she said it.

“Rad, Jeeves, what ho!” said I.

As I blew out the door, winds exceeding 90 mph blew through the Savannah café. I landed down the road on Aunt Agatha’s bulldog, Horatio, who was as pleased to see me as a vulture on resurrection day.

My espresso, as predicted, survived. Extricating myself from Horatio, I took a sip. I enjoyed.


genre: fan fiction; word count: 100; Rochelle Wisoff-Fields kindly invites us to join the Friday Fictioneers in their weekly creative quests of a hundred words or less. Photo prompt © Dale Rogerson Click on the frog and join in!

With Utmost Gravity

A word prompt to get your creativity flowing this weekend. How you use the prompt is up to you. Write a piece of flash fiction, a poem, a chapter for your novel…anything you like. Or take the challenge below – there are no prizes – it’s not a competition but rather a fun writing exercise. If you want to share what you come up with, please leave a link to it in the comments at Sammi’s #WWP.

With Utmost Gravity

It’s a conundrum

A knotty problem

I wrinkle my brow

Wink at the crow

Say a “Hail Mary”

And still it’s with me

The confounding notion

That this earth in motion

Might become idle

Like a spent dreidel

Then weightless I’ll wander

Out . . . yonder.

The DaDa Vinci Code

Rochelle Wisoff-Fields invites us weekly to join the Friday Fictioneers in their creative quests of a hundred words or less, prompted by a photo. Click on the frog to join in!
PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz

It was the first meeting of the Dadaist Society of New York’s Upper Downside. Mistrel McGarte chewed her lower lip mechanically. Rrrose IV had yet to show with the coveted clue to the Mona Lisa’s jilted lover’s true descendant: none other than Danette Brown, capitalist author of the DaDa Vinci Code. Mistrel sighed. There was a time for absurdity but not now. The capitalist clock was ticking alongside the urinal in the art gallery. A postman handed her an envelope. Mistrel tore it open. Fine particles of detritus, paint, bone floated free. A note inside read, “DNA here final clue.”

Poetic Justice

 

Fiction; word count: 100
For Rochelle Wisoff-Fields' Friday Fictioneers
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POETIC JUSTICE

“Hold on,” said Ben who had just gotten dumped by the barmaid, “I feel a limerick coming on.”
“Is it painful?” asked cheeky Dotty McDonald.
“Just five lines in anapestic.”
“Painful, then. Let’s have it.”

There once was a barmaid who never
Spared a kind word for this feller
While she binged on the prunes
He bought her from Koon’s
He absconded with her toilet paper.

“A revenge poem. I like that,” Dotty hooted. “Is it true?”
“Clever devil. It took some planning,” his buddy John remarked.
“There’s no going back after that,” Ben admitted. “Another romance down the toilet.”

Continue reading “Poetic Justice”

Miraculum ad Fontes

PHOTO PROMPT © Marie Gail Stratford

Pastor Peter was all a’flutter.
There was the baby. There were the parents. There was the baptismal font.
And there was Mick Mooney, to whom he had given bottled water for the font, boasting a malicious grin.
The unopened bottle stood, tragically, on the chancel rail.
Peter prayed, opened the font.
It was filled to the brim.
Afterwards, he confessed his surprise to the happy couple.
“Oh, that was me,” the new mother said. “I just wanted to say a prayer over the font before the service began when I saw it was empty. I didn’t do wrong, did I?”

100 words; fiction
For Rochelle Wisooff-Fields' Friday Fictioneers
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