Lisa at dVerse Poetics: One True Sentence writes: “Your challenge today, should you choose to accept it, is to pick ONE of Hemingway’s quotes to be inspired by and write a poem. Do NOT use the quote in your poem, but please do include the quote on your post page somewhere, with Hemingway’s name as the source of inspiration. For bonus points, please say a few words about the experience of writing to an idea from the mind of Papa Hemingway.” Channeling Hemingway was a fun challenge for dVerse: his abbreviated diction, especially in dialogue, the unsaid reflected in the landscape as much as in the pools of silence surrounding a character. Click on Mr. Linky and join in!
‘It’s gone the way the mist is burned off the hollows in broken ground when the sun comes out,’ the Colonel said. ‘And you’re the sun.’ – Ernest Hemingway, Across the River and into the Trees (1950)
I am one of those who stands amazed at how good we Americans are at hating each other. (An article I read in Tablet Magazine sums it up pretty well.) We aren’t completely broken as a nation, but we’re getting there — and fast, thanks to the usual suspects who stand to profit from our wounds.
Doomed with seeds of death Larvae in the heart of the nation Infecting as we feed Tenacious in our sanctimony Pauciloquent in offering peace Grandiloquent in stirring discord Blind worms blindly devouring Hope, love, understanding, Inflicting pain in a fractured society Never as fervent for another’s dignity As for ourselves, trampling harmony Freedom to disagree without fear Never overcoming what we are Broken by prideful venom At the core of every human heart.
“Avoid going entirely tree-blind,” writes the author of the article above. “Make a friend and don’t talk politics with them. Do things that generate love and attention from three people you actually know instead of hundreds you don’t.”
My Christmas cheer will last the year Though Santa’s hat fall off my ear To be picked up and packed away Or left abandoned, chewed and frayed. What difference thus to outward fur When hat on head makes not the cur But hope in heart is what gives cheer To puppy barks of “Happy New Year!”
Aloft a brothel’s barge with two beside liquid lines processional, embowered golden scents, stood a painted courtesan as in a vision the monk saw.
His chanting fingers trembled, as if her subdued scarlet figure were of a bride, pink as dew, whom he had left to follow the path of his enlightenment.
Fearful he took a closer look: the vision turned, her gaze obsidian and chill his blood like the Yangtze ran his visage grayed like the Changjiang Plain where she for him in dishonor won his pellucid peace with her forsaken cries.
He made as to rise, prostrate to sink, reverent, but she her glance of saber-scorn withdrew and looking behind at her companion true whispered, “There sits a saintly hooded fool!”
For dVerse’s MTB, synesthesia is the name of the game and I thought I’d add a bit of ekphrasis to it to spin an operatic tale. Be sure the check out Mr. Linky for more offerings in this vein.
Lena rummaged through her backpack behind him. “Do we have to do this?”
Eli snorted impatiently at his best friend. “Don’t you want to know why kids from this school have gone missing? Mr. Drobkoni’s gotta be a vampire. I’ll stay here. You keep a lookout. Whistle when you see him coming.”
“Right-oh,” Lena said. “Here.”
Eli held the mirror so he could see over his shoulder.
Lena had already left.
She’s fast, he thought.
“What’s that?” asked Lena behind him.
He turned around quickly. “The dead travel fast,” he said, suddenly pale.
Canoop! the sound of your loop-tee-do Enough! the slough of your despondency Wooditch! the whinge of your panicky The meteor’s coming ‘ere election day!
Cannip the conniption fit, buddit the funk Swallow the glut of slubbish bilocracy Gnash, says the prophet Neal deGrasse Tyson, we’ll die in a blaze ‘ere election eve!
O Meteor of space! O Deliverer of grace! You’ll spare us, ‘ere you dare us, with crater Dustiferous, injurious, deleterious bringer Of sweltering doom ‘ere we galood election gloom!
Come the third of November, we’ll never remember Who’s Harris, Who’s Donald, What’s Joe Biden hidin’? We won’t know a thing when the meteor’s oncomin’ O’er helter-election-welter, combustin’ election eve!
“You can’t be serious, Maude!” “And just why can’t I, Fred? Twenty baby showers I’ve been to this August and I’m fed up!” “But it’s your own niece’s, Maude!” “Fred, we’ve spent a fortune on her already! Graduation from art school, and did you see the garbage that passed for modern art?! Then her birthday, bridal shower, now . . . .” “Okay, okay! But a baby chair somebody threw out with the garbage, that’s going too far!” (pause) “Is it garbage though? Or an art exhibit? Fred! Take a picture! Let’s take it all! Just the way it is!”
word count: 100
written for Rochelle's Friday Fictioneers
click on Rochelle Wisoff-Fields's hand-drawing of the frog for more
tales of a hundred words or less.
And join the fun!
Per-per-Mr. Percy Nicholas Snickety Snick-snick-snicker Old Snickety Finnicky tricks with splikity-spick jiminy So slick you snit-pick to flick out serendipity Tie your knickers to snotty-knotty per-sniffery And split-nick your persnickety way home.
Many thanks to Melanie whose challenging instructions were: Write a poem, story or anecdote, inspired by this word....Most importantly? HAVE FUN! (I did.)
She has her freedom: the wide canvas of the sky says so, the blazing fields and the cries of meadowlarks say so, and her precision android sensors register no more signs of human life where her raging fury had taken their toll.
She starts to divest herself of the multiplex visor and armor, ready to access her GPS for directional input, then freezes.
Her revenge is complete, so complete that now there is nowhere to go, because now there is no one left to go to.