“Today, I’d like to challenge you to write your own dramatic monologue. It doesn’t have to be quite as serious as Browning or Shakespeare, of course, but try to create a sort of specific voice or character that can act as the “speaker. . .”
Kind of just used Browning’spoem for this, and ignored most of the monologue bit. “My Last Duchess,” by Robert Browning.
Browning’s last Duchess, a smile illuminates well,
Her cheerful words, her eyes glimmer bright, but —
Most would think, the duke at her offed; she fell —
From grace, honour tainted in death for but,
Smiling, cheeks roses sweet blooms praised.
Eyes lustrous, though shereviles his lust —
For an heir, for her each breath, so she gazed.
Drowning in the time others braved, didn’t steal.
Short death revealed a pale Duchess life-raised.
Who rolledeyes at Duke’s pleas; he gasped, blood congealed.
Poison breeds poison, a last Duchess seethed.
His fortune, grins meet; twolast Duchess‘ breathe.
“Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem about a dull thing that you own, and why (and how) you love it. Alternatively, what would it mean to you to give away or destroy a significant object?”
For OctPoWriMo Day 20 the prompt is time stands still. Also combining with Sarah from MindLoveMisery’s MenagerieSaturday Mix double-take Prompt. The word homophone sets this week are: groan– reaction to hearing a pun, and groan– has gotten larger, and guessed– past tense of guess, along with, guest– a visitor.
“Someone once told me that time was a predator that stalked us all our lives. But I rather believe that time is a companion who goes with us on the journey, and reminds us to cherish every moment because they’ll never come again. What we leave behind is not as important as how we lived.” ~Captain Picard, Star Trek: Generations
Thanks to Gospel Isosceles from #dVerse Poetics Pub, for hosting Poetics on a Loop. Today’s sad theme:
“This day, September 11, will always be a dizzying one for how it comes around on the calendar and slings us, willingly or not, back to that fateful day in world history. What better place to convene than at the concentric point of the dVerse Poets Pub and share our own histories?”
Dust rose thick in the air, and the August sun scorched. The foreman and his workmen dripped sweat, and Natasha Roberts supervised her redesign.
The home’s white-washed stucco matched an aqua-tiled and white kitchen with ice-blue tones carrying into the great room. Glints of multi-colored metal, and a 1920’s inspired bar created a unique entertaining space.
The master-bedroom’s giant windows combined with simplified Art-Decl luxury. In contrast, original barn-doors with glass panes to the balcony, matched the ones downstairs that opened to an outdoor living space.
Natasha admired her creation; she was excited to make the house stylish, and to skim extra profit unbeknown to her clients.
The foreman yelled to her and she scoffed. “I’m coming.” What a hick.
She turned in red stilettos, her ruby dress swirling with its bell-sleeves. She teetered, and her heel caught on the sand-stone patio. Natasha screeched and her body lunged; her ankle and heel snapped. She crushed into white-washed walls, raven hair fanning as she fell.
The foreman witnessed Natasha’s death. He swore as her blood gushed, and crossed himself when he perceived she had no pulse.
Years later, he dreamed of Natasha’s mouth in a daily spitting-rage towards his skilled-workers. He remembered her scream as her ankle twisted at the same awkward angle as her neck. Nightmares haunted him; he believed Natasha deserved her gory end.