Tag Archives: #prose

I Tried to Write a Tanka

I Tried to Write a Tanka ©️GraemeSandford

Today is the day when my Tanka’s to be done – I tried to write one; but, sad to say, I couldn’t, so wrote a prose piece instead.

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A Tiny Vignette

Do You Read These If They Don’t Have A Picture?

‘Plinketty-Plonketty’ Peter Penquite (the second ‘e’ of which is pronounced thus giving it the full three-syllables of silliness – ‘Pen-Kwit-e’) was, shall we say – yes, let’s – quite pernickety.

Why?

Well, that’s a story for a post far longer than this one.

G:)

A Drabble – 100 Words with no repetition!

A Drabble!

One hundred words.

Without repetition!

How on Earth am I going to do that?

It’s impossible.

Can’t be done.

Nobody in their right mind would even try such an enterprise.

Mankind, myself included, is not ready for such strange writing formats.

What about crafting my words alphabetically using every letter of the alphabet four times? Missing zeds, obviously.

No, wouldn’t work – far too silly.

Perhaps, by seeking inspiration through prosaic research articles, productivity has potential.

Sadly, someone’s library ticket has recently expired.

Subsequent foraging readily confirms text books tell tall tales – destiny recommends: try again tomorrow.

Weather permitting.

A Short Story

Once upon a time…

… there was a short story.

It wasn’t long at all;

and it wasn’t at all tall.

So short it was,

and set out so,

that it thought it was a poem;

but, it wasn’t.

It didn’t have much to say;

but, one day,

under the bluest of skies,

It left it’s home

and went off to seek fame and fortune.

Finding neither,

the short story settled down

with an extract from Coleridge’s Mariner,

and they lived happily ever after.

Linda G Hill’s SoCS Challenge ‘Contrast’

Linda G Hill’s SoCS Challenge ‘ Contrast’

Details Here

Contrast this

To my usual stuff.

I have set the timer for 10-minutes

And I don’t know what

I am going to write about.

I’m even writing it

In poetry form

Even though

It is prose.

Now, that may seem strange

To you

(Unless you know me)

But, I assure you

That I like to contrast

My work at times

Mix up the rhymes

With wit, humour, levity-

Which are all basically the same –

And give you fresh new view

Points

From which to look

At my work

I do not shirk

From switching between

Poetry and prose

I’m not one of those people

That is stuck

In a rut.

However, I must just be serious for a moment…

… right, I’m back to the silly stuff.

Picture me

With a ruff

Doing my stuff

In sixteen hundred

Or just before

(Not four o’clock

In the afternoon, no)

Elizabethan, just about to become Jacobean

Through no fault of mine own

My quill at the ready

And words to write

Well, picture me now

With my mobile phone

Tapping in ideas

Cutting and pasting,

Deleting,

Looking up a spelling on an online thesaurus

And what a contrast

There is.

Would I rather have my life

Or his?

To be honest.

I would give quite a lot

To spend a little

Time

In the land of Shakespearean rhyme.

And, having been there,

I could certainly put the Shakespearean theory

Of authorship to bed

(Or second best bed)

For once and for all

And all for once

(Sorry, that was Dumas – and I was being a Dumass).

Contrasting opinions held

Would be exploded

The myth would live

Or die

Or carry on up the creek

With out a paddle.*

*timer sounded here.

Start of a Novel – The Man in the Gabardine Mac.

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Start Sentence – man in the gabardine mac

The man in the gabardine mac rose to leave seconds after I had exited the room; pushing his way through the crowded après-theatre luvvies and onto London’s glistening streets – freshly cleansed with rain a la mode – to find that I had spirited myself into thin air; causing him to stop two paces beyond the entryway, where he glanced right, left, and right again.
“All safe to cross.” I softly spoke – my gun poised the obligatory five feet away from his back to avoid a spinning kick. The safety was off and I had no need to ask any questions.
“Move forward and let’s head for that black van.”
He moved forwards and, ducking down, spun.
Quieter than even he could hear, I had gone.
He cursed; but, I wasn’t there to hear it.

Dream Sequences – Part 2 (a story in creation)

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NB please read Part 1 first at: 

Dream Sequences (a story in creation) http://wp.me/p1MjHq-1jS via

thank you

G:)

Part 2

Henry’s mind considered these things during the waking hours; to the detriment of his paying attention to his work and his driving skills – which were relatively called into question ‘twice’ on the way into the office; ‘many’ times ‘in’ his office; and ‘three’ times on the way back – once with almost disastrous consequences for an intrepid motorcyclist on a courier ‘Mission from G.O. Deliveries’ where he, the dispatch rider, had almost met his Almighty Employer.

Henry parked his dilapidated Ford Belligerent in an unusually empty space only a hundred and fifty yards from his flat, and ventured away from sanctuary and towards the quietude of the public library.

Henry was pleased to see it still there; he always assumed it would become a cut-price something-or-other overnight and his refuge from society’s babble would disappear like a traffic warden’s cologne after he’d photographed your car V.I.N. number not three seconds since you’d parked and popped into the newsagents for some Aspirin.

Henry found a table with seat near the Motoring section and dumped twelve back-issues of Exchange and Mart upon grubby surface.

It took him the effort of retracing eight issues before he found what he was looking for.

1926 Bentley, 3.0 Litre, British Racing Green, yada yada yada… up for auction at Rialto (Automobiles) Auction Rooms, Tuesday 7th, lot 458, estimate of £300K-£320K.

Henry whistled – and received a look of disapproval / approbation from a nearby librarian who was replacing ‘Humbly’s Diesel Engines of the 1950s’ or some-such tome.

‘Well, that detail was right.’ he thought. ‘A 1926 Bentley in reality looks just like the one in my dream – apart from the colour.’

Henry could have Googled this information in seconds; but, being of the sort of disposition that feels a book to be paper and words first – any other format (if you must) is a poor second.

However, finding A.R.P. might require a little of today’s modern-magic. He knew that needles in haystacks were a mouse-click away when the Interweb was put to use – Henry replaced the E&Ms correctly (in chronological order) and decided ‘now’ would be the time to seek out ‘Warden’ for any truths in ‘her’ story.

Henry had not had any dreams continuing his encounter with this enigma of a pretty, young lady who ‘they’ called ‘The mechanic’ or had that been a joke? He tried to visualise her face; arrange her features in proper order; remember her hair colour, style, length, but he was hopelessly hopeless at that sort of thing unless taking detailed notes at the time – which he hadn’t.

Not having had any more chances to gaze upon her smiling face, Henry had just taken to noting down the words spoken and the detail of the… the what? Hardly a date. She had been a knight in shining armour to his broken down damsel in distress – then she had galloped into the sunset without as much as a: ‘See you Tuesday; Rialto? Seven?’

Today was Tuesday. The 7th. Rialto! Where were the Rialto (Automobile) Auction Rooms?

—-

NB how do you think it’s going? No dreams in this bit; but, that is fine IMO. G:)