Photo (Collage) Prompt: Adventures in Wonderland Continued #amwriting #fiction 


Thanks to MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting this week’s collage photo prompt.


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MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie

“Think left and think right and think low and think high. Oh, the thinks/things you can think up if only you try!”

― Dr. Seuss


Alice was growing older and she hadn’t been to Wonderland in years. Yet, she had not forgotten the lessons she learned there. 

She was an imaginative girl, so much so her mother could not figure out where Alice came up with her fanciful ideas. 

But Alice’s mother adored her daughter so she let her creativity run free, including playing outside and having tea with her imaginary friends.

While having tea, Alice talked to the Mad Hatter, the White Rabbit, the Door Mouse, and March Hair. Often, she talked to a smoking Catipillar, whom her mother naturally disapproved of. But Alice only laughed at her mother saying: 

” Why the Caterpillar needs the medicine he smokes. He’s in a great deal of pain becoming a butterfly.” 

 Alice’s mother had been making ice tea in a pitcher as it was summer. Alice didn’t know what to do at first, her friends enjoyed hot tea. But she determined after a while, they would have to make do with ice tea. She poured the cold tea into her prized teapot. 

She brought the tea to the marigolds and dandilions in the field by her house and poured the cold tea at the base of all her flower friends. She even brought them a few cookies, which she crumbled around their stems.

Sometimes Alice liked to sit out in the field and read. She brought out a fancy white cushioned chair from the parlour to a field of grass and flowers. She sat there considering life and paging through a novel. She was wearing a hat her grandma had given her to keep the sun from her face. 

Alice fell asleep outside in the chair and dreamed she was in Wonderland. She dreamt she had eaten bread to make her big and tall. 

She found herself next to a curious house with the appearance of a giant 🍐 pear ; it had a small red door with steps going down to the grass below. 

There was a handsome Raven sitting on the house, opposite of where Alice stood. She placed her ear against the house, trying to hear if anyone was inside. 

“You won’t find anyone in there,” the Raven told Alice.

“But why wouldn’t they be at home?” Alice asked. “Its Wonderland, creatures here don’t go to work even if they’re adults. Besides, wouldn’t a mother or wife be at home?” 

“I wouldn’t quite call them adults and it’s presumptuous to think all women should stay at home.” 

“If they’re not adults, how come they have a house?” Alice wondered. She looked back to the Raven, “I only thought the wife or mother  might be home because she could be like my mother who stays home.” 

Alice sat down, reaching towards the small red doorway of the pear 🍐 house; it was locked up tight. “Why is the door locked? Who would break into their home here? My father never locks our door.” 

The Raven chuckled in the weird way birds do, “I think they are avoiding unwanted guests of giant proportions.” 

“Also, I think you’re forgetting everyone needs something to do in the day, work or otherwise. We all have tasks, seasons of life to experience, even in Wonderland.”

“Seasons of life?” Alice asked confused. “Well, what season am I in? I don’t feel young, but I’m certainly not old. I’m only nine. But since coming to Wonderland years ago, I think of things adults don’t even consider.”

The Raven squawked, continuing to chuckle. 

“Hmmm,” Alice said, “It only occurred to me, no one ever told me why a Raven is like a writing desk?” 

The Raven ignored Alice but began to whistle a discordant tune.

“That’s awful,” Alice said but he continued his song. 

When he stopped he peered with little black eyes at Alice, “See everyone has a song to sing. Not everyone thinks their neighbour’s song is pretty, but it’s their song and so they must sing it.”

“It is the same with the creatures in this pear 🍐 house. They are off singing their life song, doing what they feel they are meant to do in life, in this season.” 

“Each part of life has a song,” the Raven said. “I hear you singing your song when you’re out in the fields having tea with your Wonderland friends, using your imagination. You’re in the spring of life and your song is lovely and new.”

“But,” continued the Raven, “I am in the Winter of my life. I’ve had many children and I am old, but I sing my song anyways. Even when we are old, we have a purpose and must sing our own song.” 

Alice thought a long while about the seasons, singing, and what the Raven told her. Then she smiled, ” I understand what you mean now. But do you think you and the owners of this pear 🍐 house would mind joining my other Wonderland friends and myself for tea?” 

The Raven cawed laughing at Alice. He nodded his little black head and flew away. 

The next moment, Alice awoke and found herself sleeping in her mother’s plush parlour chair out in the grassy field. Her mother looked down on her gently and smoothed Alice’s hair: 

“Alice there you are. Oh, my good chair. It’s white and you’ve got dirt and grass all over it,” mother said sternly. 

Alice sleepily smiled and said,” I was in Wonderland and talking to a Raven about the songs we each sing in life in different seasons. I’m sorry about the chair Mama.”

Her mother shook her head sighing and ruffled Alice’s hair, “Oh you and Wonderland. Will you ever grow out if it? Little girls will be attending school again in Fall.”

Alice sighed and helped her mother bring the chair back into the house to be cleaned. She decided to visit the roses in the backyard later.

Aluce had told her mother many strange stories about red roses. So much so, Alice’s mother gave her the job of watering and caring for the roses in the garden; she babied her roses. She didn’t want anyone to think she’d been painting her roses and that they weren’t truly red — that always led to problems. 

She wondered about what season of life the roses and all the flowers in the field were in? What was their purpose except to be beautiful? Alice began to hum the particular song of the flowers, watering her roses and caring for them. 

Suddenly, she remembered it was her birthday in a week. She would be ten-years-old; how could she forget? She must go inside the house and remind her mother she needed more bowls to match her tea set. 

For a moment Alice sighed thinking about school beginning soon. Children at school didn’t understand her much. Often, they knew less about things than many adults. Girls at school sang their own songs and Alice as usual, sang a unique tune. 


©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved

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#OctPoWriMo – Day 5 – Blitz Poem – “Sharp Is the Knife” #poetry #amwriting


Day 5 Prompt: Sharp

“When I first think of something sharp, pain comes to mind but then I think of an A sharp or a B sharp. Of course there are sharp turns, sharp angles and “He’s looking sharp.” and let’s not forget, sharp as a tack and look sharp.” 

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http://www.emptyseats.wordpress.com

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Not the sharpest knife in the drawer.
Not the brightest crayon in the box. 

Boxes need opening with sharp knives.

Boxes, trapped in our boxes, locked.

Lock it up tight. 

Lock it or else 

Else in the morning you’re to blame

Else, you’ll lose your job, what then

Then you don’t know

Then you can’t tell

Tell nothing because

Tell nothing they say

Say you’re not bright

Say you’re a bit dim

Dim as shadow

Dim as a dark room

Rooms, you’ve not one your own

Rooms are nothing, you’re vagrant 

Vagrant wandering needs people 

Vagrant wandering seeking close

Close enough, no one will steal

Close enough, no one will think

Think you’re more than homeless

Think you’re more than a mistake

Mistaken once, but you’re capable

Mistaken once, but you’re smart

Smart, can you appear that way

Smart, most people aren’t

Aren’t life smart

Aren’t more than book smart

Smart, who cares when you’ve no food

Smart, who cares when you’re so cold

Cold eyes of people staring

Cold hearts of people cracking

Cracking your bubble 

Cracking your safety zone

Zone of space around you

Zone of personal space

Space is all around you

Space, there is too much of it

It, means a place you can stay 

It is a place called home

Home, needs a job to pay for 

Home, lost because you weren’t sharp

Sharp is the knife that cuts in life.

Sharp is the knife that cuts in life.

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The Blitz Poem
“The Blitz Poem, a poetry form created by Robert Keim.
This form of poetry is a stream of short phrases and images with repetition and rapid flow. 
Begin with one short phrase, it can be a cliché. Begin the next line with another phrase that begins with the same first word as line 1. The first 48 lines should be short, but at least two words.

The third and fourth lines are phrases that begin with the last word of the 2nd phrase, the 5th and 6th lines begin with the last word of the 4th line, and so on, continuing, with each subsequent pair beginning with the last word of the line above them, which establishes a pattern of repetition. 

Continue for 48 total lines with this pattern, And then the last two lines repeat the last word of line 48, then the last word of line 47.
The title must be only three words, with some sort of preposition or conjunction joining the first word from the third line to the first word from the 47th line, in that order.
There should be no punctuation. When reading a BLITZ, it is read very quickly, pausing only to breathe.” 
Please see Shadow Poetry for further information. 

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Apologies, the whole bolded text above should be indented but my WordPress App is misbehaving. 

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©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Deserved.