Flash Fiction for the Aspiring Writer: Poem – “It’s a Fact of Life” #amwriting #poetry #flashfiction 


Thanks to Priceless Joy for hosting FFftAW September 5, 2017. 

Excuse the length. I saw the photograph and it fit my poem well. Since I’m still two weeks behind I don’t know that it matters 🙂 

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Credit: Artycaptures.wordpress.com

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When I visit here, 

It’s a fact of life. 

Blood drawn with tiny needles.

Some days they sting, 

Stringing out two seconds. 

Other days, the needle doesn’t register. 

It was a fact of life,

I had to visit here each week,

For the first six months. 

Then, every other week, 

Now each month the rest of my life. 

It’s a fact of life, 

So I don’t pay much attention. 

Facing away when the needle grazes, 

The same ‘good’ vein. 

Blueish-purple in my left arm, 

Silver-violet threads of blood vessels. 

Some months these needles bruise, 

Leave my skin raw and red; 

But If I’ve someone skilled,

There’s a slight indentation. 

Each month —

Babies crying concertos. 

An ominous feeling in the air. 

They’ve no choice —

But to know sharp pain. 

A poke stinging eternities of fire, 

For a wink in time. 

Wailing and —

The waiting room patients’ sigh. 

Then silence follows, 

The miniature massacre. 

Everyone checking, rechecking watches, 

Pulling out phones. 

Waiting for that sickening needle, 

Shuffling in seats,

Legs crossed and uncrossed. 

Glossy magazine pages turned, 

With frequent frustration. 

Toddlers running,

Mothers trying to calm them, 

Hushing their lively squeaks. 

I’m used to having blood drawn, 
Turning my head, 

Focusing on some object, 

Or a distant thought. 

There’s persistent pain as the needle pulls, 
My blood into the tube. 

Six to nine tubes today, 

Blood annexed for annual work. 

These tests burn —

Worse than the tattoo artist’s etching. 

Sketching out the black lines, 

Worse than her needle, 

Grazing repeatedly, 

Skin with vibrant colours. 

Back and forth movements, 
Calming and hushing,

Knowing what to expect and where. 

Conversation, music soothing, 

Then, the artist is done. 

Her needles leaving, 

A work of art behind. 

But the blood test needles ache worse. 

Similar to the last flu shot,

Some years not felt at all.

Other years a poke that —

Throbs all day. 

Despite praying the pharmacist,

Will slide the needle in,

Not deliver a death blow. 

Droplets of bright blood plop, 

To the stark white floor. 

She laughs, this never happens. 

Her mouth turns downward, 

Because you grimace, 

Squish your eyes shut counting the seconds;

Until the hurt dulls. 

She wonders why you wince, 

Why you’re so sensitive.

Says the swelling will fade, 

You’ll live, 

It’s a fact of life. 

It’s a matter of proper training, 

Slipping any needle in gently. 

Not jabbing and mincing, 

A persons veins or muscles. 

Yet still, a fact of life. 
But I remember being six and crying,

Fighting my mother, 

She was angry. 

Because I saw the needle, 

And refused. 

Today, the blood test needles are thinner. 

Adults can ignore them, right

Grit their teeth while the bloods, 

Ripped away, into a tube. 

It’s a fact of life. 

That some things are sharper and dig holes deeper, 

Than blood tests, flu shots, or tattoos. 

There is greater pain flowing from our insides,

If only the hurt could be drawn out as blood. 

If happiness, no worries, and no obligations —

Was all that remained behind. 

If only —

The tattoo artists colours, 

Garunteed you with fantastic health. 

And flu shots didn’t speak of fragility; 

Only the best humors in our blood. 

Gossamer strings supporting dreams. 

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©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved. 

 

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Sully Award Entry: One Step Too Far for Modern Art #amwriting #fiction 


I wrote this last year for FFftAW and it’s my piece of Flash Fiction with the most likes ever. It’s a strange story, maybe that’s why? Anyways, I’m entering it for a 200 Word or Less Writing Contest on Hey Look Writer Fellow’s Sully Award Competition. It’s open until March 28, 2017 and the rules are in the link above. Thanks to Michael for sharing the contest, visit Michael’s awesome blog Morpethroad HERE. 

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Credit: S Writings

“Look at those cows, incredible,” Dorothy said.

“This entire gallery is full of painted cows. Is this the artist’s ‘thing?’ Dorothy’s husband, Stanley, asked a gallery employee.

“Hi, I’m Theresa,” the woman said. ” How do you like The Moo Gallery? Isn’t Shaunda Rose talented? I’m not sure why she chose cows but I adore how every cow is a unique work of art, don’t you?”

“Shaunda is ridiculously talented. Painting plastic cows, she’s brilliant,” Dorothy declared.

“Cows? Really? Who wants a painted cow in their home or office?” Stanley asked.

Theresa smile was unnatural, “You’re right,” she said nodding at Dorothy. “Cows are Shaunda’s specialty. In fact, these cows were once alive. She has the cows sent to a taxidermist and then has them resurfaced so she can paint them. It’s why they’re so authentic, a fabulous example of Modern Art. Each cow sells for hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

Dorothy’s enthusiasm for the painted cows evaporated and she gazed at Stanley alarmed. He simply shook his head at her and smiled because he’d known all along Shaunda Rose was crazy. Theresa attempted a sales pitch again but he held up his hand to stop her.

“ Shaunda Rose is a nut. Tell her Stanley Manet said so. Manet was an authentic artist, he was also my Great-Great-Great Grandfather.”


©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved.

Poem: Lauranelle – ” The Vivid Seductress” #amwriting #poetry


Credit: http://www.myartmagazine.com by Patricia Murciano
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Her smile is in her entrancing blue eyes, 

Sky of ink blue enhanced, purple, red, and pink. 

Wild child bites her ruby red lips, desires —
You, captivates you, takes you to the brink. 

Rainbow nails, smooth hair of brilliant hues too. 

Locks deep teal, sky blue, purple fuchsia inked

She’s a work of art, life sparkling through, 

Claret brows rise, she’ll admonish you; 

Leave her to pout; childlike tears will ensue. 

Life of party; her disdain ends soon,  — 

She’ll glide back, scarlet heels, winged shoes, 

Her petal skin glows in silver moon, 

No shred of innocence, pride taken, she woos. 

Lush sweet lips overcome your instinct to fight, 

She’ll take all you have and more, but to prove

She can have all she wants; life in black and white — 

Misses the intensity of multicoloured hues. 

Her life shines with saturation so bright, 

Chromacity, most vivid colours known, 

They overwhelm her form, rainbow explodes. 

Her smile is in her entrancing blue eyes, 

Wild child bites her ruby red lips, desire. 

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©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved.

Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner: Poem – Rondeau – “Playing The Part” #amwriting #poetry #flashfiction #fiction


Thanks to Roger Shipp for hosting FFftPP.

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Credit: http://www.unsplash.com

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You may not notice, I’m a work of art

My body my canvas, I define my part;

My vision for my world; Mad Max who darts,

From posers surrounding; their judgment.

Skull rings which frighten, mean I’m them nudging, 

To think outside what they perceive; cold remarks. 

They’ll swear vindictively, “That punk, upstart;

Who’s he think he is? His ink such a lark.”

I’ve tuned them all out, their words toxic sludge,

I’m reckless, I’m fine; I’m a work of art. 

I’m older now, I’ve forgotten their darts

Aimed to hit my stillrock hard diamond heart.

Dress shirts, ties, hide tattoos; I’ll not begrudge,  

Rough nights aided, their beauty never smudged. 

I know too well, what it’s like, to play a part.  

I’m reckless, I’m fine; I’m a work of art. 

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©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved. 
 

November Notes: Poem – Day 11 – LaJemme – “No More Demons” #amwriting #poetry #novembernotes #music


Today’s prompt song is “Paradise Circus” by Massive Attack. 

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Paradise Circus” – Massive Attack 
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http://www.designsnext.com

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You feel the stone beneath your back, it’s hard. 

Fall apart, lie ontop of it, and groan

Felt in your deep bones, the cold wind it mares

The tension starts drifting in and out, moans

Unfortunate we’re far apart

Our minds impart, shattered haste.

Playing games wait, we sin for heart

Love in us cannot sate

While time flies by, you wonder berate

Have some patience, rumours arise

Do not despise, our love it waits

Us to but lose; we’ll surprise

Lazily we move, we’ll time again prove

Block demon’s soft soothe, a lie of our groove

 No demon guards love; God, love, he approves. 

The kind that’s grown, realized with heart.  

Love that is smart, patient, kind, never departs.

Where your whole heart is honest, though hard. 

Dreams alight us both; we’re a work of art

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The LaJemme is a 5 stanza form created by poets Laura Lamarca and Jem Farmer. Meter: consistently iambic

1. Stanza 1, 10 syllables per line, Rhyme scheme abab, 4th syllable of each line is to rhyme with the end rhyme of the preceding line.

2. Stanza 2, syllable count: 8/8/8/6, Rhyme scheme cdef, with cross rhymes in each couplet on 4th syllable

3. Stanza 3, syllable count 8/8/8/6, Rhyme scheme gfdf, 4th syllable of each line follows the same rule as stanza 1.

4. Stanza 4, 10 syllables per line, Rhyme scheme hihi, 4th syllable of each line is to rhyme with the end rhyme of the preceding line.
5. Stanza 5, 10 syllables per line, Rhyme scheme abab, 4th syllable of each line is to rhyme with the end rhyme of the preceding line.
Please see Shadow Poetry for more information. 

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©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.