Flash Fiction for the Aspiring Writer: Poem – Lauranelle – “The Best Wait Ever” #amwriting #poetry #flashfiction 


Thanks to Priceless Joy for hosting FFftAW.

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Credit: Dawn M. Miller

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Painfully stuck in airport for hours wait, 

Sitting here staring the clock ticks slowly. 

Here with you life’s perfect –it doesn’t grate. 

My arm falls asleep, your heavy head rolls, 

Further onto my chest; I need to get up. 

Legs start to tingle, I’ve sat too long so —

I gently moving your head; my ‘buttercup,’ 

You hate when I call you that but you make me smile. 

Happiness, tranquility; I’m drugged. 

Departure board reads, plane is still awhile. 

Walking for coffee, some lunch, magazines. 

You’re awake when I return, you beguile;

Your grin makes you quiver and I preen. 

Unaware we stare, our stare held timeless.

You appreciate me (and food); your eyes gleam. 

We’re both stuck here all night, it’s liveable, 

We both forge a tighter bond insurmountable. 

Painfully stuck in airport for hours wait. 

Here with you, life’s perfect — it doesn’t grate. 

—–

©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved. 

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Finish Off Fridays: The Summons #amwriting #flashfiction 


Thanks to Lorraine from MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting FOF. 

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Credit: Lorraine

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“I had never been summoned to Number 208 [by the park] before; I nervously adjusted my coat . . .” A person could book a pick-up online or by phoning into FedEx but you couldn’t summon a particular delivery person, could you? 

“April, it means what I said,” Becky from the warehouse told me on the phone, “I’m not being rude, the lady who lives there wanted you, specifically, at her home.” 

The door was open when I arrived. “I’m here,” a frail female voice rasped. 

Walking into the house I heard the respirations of a woman on a ventilator. She was all hollows and sallow skin. Her hair was whispy white and thinning. Eyes the color of blue-bells greeted me but they were bloodshot. 

The woman grasped a yellow envelope with a trembling hand. She shook the envelope and a key dropped out. 

Her shaking fingers held it out, “For me?” I asked. 

I took the key staring at it in confusion; it appeared ancient. As I examined it I heard the woman gasp something. I moved closer to her and held her hand attempting to hear her strained voice. She shook her head with a ragged sigh and breathed her last.

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©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved. 

#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. 

Flash Fiction for the Aspiring Writer: The Unshedlike Shed #flashfiction #amwriting #fall


Thank you to Priceless Joy for hosting FFftAW.

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Phylor

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Matt never talked about the shed in his yard. In the past he’d been rude about it, if I asked him. But I’d never seen the shed door half-open before.

He gazed at me steadily as he often did now. One day five-months ago I caught him staring at me and he blushed.

Now, he’s trying to tame the wisps of hair from my face, but neither of us had made a real move. 

 “Why is the shed half-open?” I asked.

 “The basket in the shed door, it’s for us. We’re going on a fall picnic,” Matt said proudly.

I blushed, “Where are we going to have the picnic Matt?” 

“In the shed, Aubrey.” 

“But we’re not allowed in there remember? Your Dad said never.” I reminded him.
“It was one of my Dad and my Mom’s favourite places when Mom was alive. I told my Dad I was taking you on a picnic and he told me to clean up the shed for you; Grandma helped with the decore.” 

I grinned.

The shed was rustic-sheek, painted in soft ocean-toned colours. There was a loft up top with a queen mattress, thick white cotton sheets, a navy duvet, and several accent pillows.

There was a huge white window with a navy cushion to read on. The shed even had a small kitchen with mini- appliances and a metal and wood island for two, along with a washroom with a matching tiled shower.

I gazed at the ash wood floor as the sun danced across it and back to Matt.”This is amazing! You did all this for me?” I asked overwhelmed, tears slipping down my cheeks.

That’s when Matt took my chin in his hand and kissed me. It was the first of a lifetime of kisses and memories in our unshedlike hideaway. 

——

My apologies. I think this piece is a bit long, but I can’t seem to cut more right now. 

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©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved. 

Maydays: Poem – Free Verse – “Delicate and Strong” #Maydays



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Thanks to K.L. Caley of net2writing for hosting #Maydays Prompts. Today’s prompt is girl power.

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http://www.nataliecass.com

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She flicks her hair back, examining her face. 

Makeup perfect, eyes smoked with cat flicks.

Blue eyes, peering back at her, clear and focused —

About to work-out in a gym full of men, 

She rolls her shoulders, bare but built.

Self-defence requires strong muscles, 

Carrying kids, moving furniture around;

Working out in a gym surrounded by men can be hard.

—–

Males eat her with their eyes, staring at her rounded curves.

Examining her from her blond ponytail, 

To her hands plane of nail polish, picking up weights.

Her makeup is smearing, 

Her tattoo visible on her upper back, 

A poppy for peace, and the names of her children.

——

They’re eyeing her up, like a piece of steak.

Rare and beautiful, she doesn’t return their gaze.

She’s got a man, and he values her love.

She gave him her heart, so she’s not going to —

Squander his love, on an ogling gym rat.

Making a meal of her, when she was fatter;

And now that she’s thinner, doesn’t matter her size —

Putting up with catcalling, men brushing too closely.

Sexually explicit conversations about her, 

Loud through her head phones playing:

Beyoncé, Carry Underwood, and Alicia Keys.
——–

Finishing working on her back and onto her arms, 

She stands up and walks, for cleaner to wipe the weights off.

A cavalier man gives her yoga pant wearing butt a slap,

Self-defence in motion, with an elbow to the nose, 

A knee to the crotch, shoving man to the floor.

Tears in her eyes, she’s been here to often. 

But she’s built up walls and she’s made herself strong, 

Wishing men wouldn’t value her for her tank top and yoga pants, 

Her body showing skin, doesn’t give men the right to objectify her.

——

But she has power behind her body; a strong mind and integrity, 

A God who builds her up, when she is stark afraid,

Staring at the man on the floor groaning, she offers her hand.

She’s sweating, fighting tears; as strong as she is delicate,

It’s hard for a woman to keep the balance of life, in her life, 

And if you really love a woman, you know her strength lies, 

In the moments of life, that haunt her the most.

In the strength she draws from experience, 

And in those she loves the most. 

——

Alicia Keys – ” Girl On Fire “

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©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.