“Mean, Meaner, Meanest!” #SoCS #LindaGHill
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“Well, I mean- how demeaning is that? Perhaps it’s just a means to an end? I wonder if he really meant it? The number of times he’s said similar… well, if I take his meaning as being what he is actually saying… he’s meantal! Ha! I still have my sense of hummus. He can’t take that away from me. He’s gone off now and I can get a bit of quiet. He’s usually a couple of hours; so, in the meantime, I can have some me time. I mean, what’s a girl got to do to get what is rightfully hers? No, don’t answer that. We are still in an age where the mean man is in command. He started off ever so nice, tall and lean, now he’s all and mean! Such a change. Such a dick! He makes me sick. He is actually making me sick. My mental health as well as my physical health . Both suffering. ‘He’s mean to me, mean to me and making me mad!’ What that a song? I’ll sing it anyway. A sign of my defiance. Me and you. You and me. That’s how it used to be now it’s you and you being me me me mean!
I need a means to escape. Escape the meanness of this man’s madness.
What do they do in my thriller books, my ‘dumb’ crime novels? The woman pops off the man in order to gain wealth and freedom – okay, I shall poison the batard – is that a word? I’ve always hated swearing – and he swears a lot. Says nasty, meaningless things – that hurt me even the more because there is no truth like the truth of a woman scorned. I shall cook him up a lovely Mushroom Stroganoff for tea – *a meal to die for.
*the 10-minutes (I have to limit my waffling somehow) timer went off here.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #FF, #SoCS, #vss
Syd and Harry.
“Let’s play Sardines!” said Syd.
“Don’t be a Pilchard, Syd!” said Harry. “You know the trouble we had the last time we played it.”
Syd looked glum. “I know; but, can’t we put it to a vote, Harry?” he asked.
“Sure!” said Harry. “Okay, Everybody! Hands up who wants to play ‘Sardines’!“
Not a hand went up.
“See, Syd?” Said Harry. “Nobody wants to play Sardines.”
Syd looked even glummer.
They all carried on with their game of kiss-chase.
Sometime later, Syd caught up with Harry, and with a quizzical look, he said: “Harry? Fish don’t have hands!”
Harry smiled. “True, Syd; but, I ask you this, where do fish fingers come from?”
Harry swam off to the other end of the aquarium, bubbling with laughter.
Syd huddled in his corner, slowly mulling over one of life’s big questions.
Prompt ‘In Anticipation’
100 Words (no words starting with N-Z lettersi in the first half, no words beginning with A-M letters in the second half, and no repeated words).
In anticipation, I had already ‘liked’ her music; and, as its lyrical content melted my heart, a heroine became evident.
Always attuned, Emilia Alimone, humming melodically; heartbeat keeping the beat, approached .
“Hello, handsome!” laughingly, lacking mockery.
“Hi!” managed by keeping calm, even allowing for energy levels accelerating above average. Awesome!
“What’s that?” she questioned. “You really shouldn’t whisper.”
“Sorry.” Oops! “Nothing worth repeating.”
“Okay.” Quizzically, then playfully, smiling secretively. “Some words Never see the surface.”
“Papa Pierre -Paris’s principal popcorn retailer.” Twinkling overtones reached right through this toughened tank of sobriety.
Somewhat sillily, someone somewhere replied: “Seriously?”
Herbert the Turbot
Herbert the Turbot
was very, very sad;
because he had never ever
been a character in a poem
or a story
until, one day…
Biggles gets the giggles.
One day, Biggles got the giggles and couldn’t fly straight; then he steamed up his goggles – he was in quite a state.
Algy and Ginger could only look on
as the pilot James Bigglesworth looped the loop – then he was gone.
Fu and Fa.
Between Fu and Fa there was a growing silence. Not that a silence can grow – what would it grow into without it becoming something other than a silence.
Anyway, I digress, as I do. And always have done. Even from an early age. When I was younger. Obviously.
However… on with the story.
Fu and Fa stood looking at each other.
Eyeball to eyeball. Mano a Mano . Face to face. Toe to toe. Who would be the first to blink?
So, silently, and motionlessly, the two statues continued their sparring.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #prose, #vss, story
The Realm of the WoodWitch
I was following a narrow pathway that I had found in the forest – i was of a mind that it may have found me. I had no idea where it was leading to…
… it seemed to be taking me deeper and deeper towards the hinterland, where the WoodWitch was said to preside over her mystical realm. Glancing back, It seemed that the pathway had been swept aside as I travelled it – I could not return by that route.
Scant were the stories known about the WoodWitch or her deeds, as few who ever came within her spell ever returned – of those that did, it was said that a madness was in their minds and a fear was upon their hearts. But rumours grew and tales of unknown veracity were quietly whispered in the dead of the night between the children of the village, especially when the Moon was at its fullest.
I remembered the words of my mother from that very morning:
‘Don’t wander in the forest; straight to the mill for flour and straightaways back!’
She was right to have warned me, I was wrong to have ignored her words – but, that was what children did.
Inevitably the village population was reduced by a few young ‘uns every now and then. Of those that were left it was only a matter of time before the woods called out to them.
The parents of the missing children mourned for a while; the villagers supported them through the process; then the village shrugged its shoulders and carried on. There was a constant understated sadness as the days, weeks and years passed by and the missing children didn’t return.
When a child did reappear – sometimes an adult by then – the loss was tempered by the changes effected upon them – the sadness became one of a different nature.