This morning, just like any morning, she looked out of the window as soon as she rose from bed. Just like any morning she could see the sea. Some days she could see for miles — almost to the mainland, she was sure – across the bright blue waters. Other times the ocean was grey, reflecting the storm clouds overhead, when the waves were like the team of off-white steeds she remembered leading her father’s racing chariot. But today she could barely see anything, so heavy was the sea-fret billowing towards the land. Nothing would be coming to harbour until the mist lifted, she was sure.
Not long ago – it may be yesterday – there were two children called Alice and Bran. Now Alice and Bran lived in the last house at the end of the estate on the outskirts of a large town. You won’t have heard of this town, so it probably doesn’t matter what it’s called. Every day, Alice and Bran’s parents drove to work in the town and Alice and Bran caught to bus to school. At the end of the day they all came back home, did what they had to do and then went to bed.
On the other side of their house was a wood. Alice and Bran were told never to go into the wood because it was dangerous and you could lose yourself, so they never did. Instead, if ever they went for a walk they took their dog Cerberus around the estate and then came straight back home. And so it went on for some time.
One day, Alice said to her mam and dad, “It’s a small wood, you could never get lost in there, and it doesn’t look dangerous. Why can’t we go in there?” But her parents said, “No, Alice! You must never go there, nothing good will come of it!” Though she asked more than once they would never give her any reason why they couldn’t go into the wood.
There came a day when it was the school holidays and her parents drove to work as usual and Alice and Bran were at home all on their own. “Shall we go for a walk round the estate with Cerberus?” suggested Bran, but Alice said, “Maybe later.” Well, later came, and Bran called to Alice and said, “Shall we go for that walk with Cerberus now?” But there was no answer. Bran knew then that Alice had gone into the wood.
A piece of doggerel prose in rhyming couplets for St George’s Day.
Durer’s St George and the Dragon. The crowned princess is lurking behind a rock. With a pig.
St George fought the dragon and killed it — or did he? Such doubt could make patriots go weak and quite giddy. Did he rescue a maiden and liberate a city like Perseus, it’s said, in ancient antiquity? Or is it a myth, a tale for the gullible from powerful leaders who claim they’re infallible?
The truth is that George has a past that is murky: perhaps Cappadocia (that’s now part of Turkey) or Palestine claims him. Yes, Christian martyr — but slayer of dragons? Well, that‘s a non-starter.
He’s patron of England, the Knights of the Garter, Teutonic Knights, Reichenau, Gozo and Malta. He’s chief saint of Portugal and also of Genoa, of Moscow and Beirut and, yes, Catalonia. God help us if they all decide to go fight, for how will George know who is wrong and who’s right?
Yet it’s the far right who often invoke him…
View original post 48 more words
The quality of spam is much declin’d.
It droppeth as the state of public discourse
Upon our eyes and ears is daily ‘smirched.
It blasteth him that gives and him that takes:
‘Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it ill becomes
The thronèd tweeter in his office,
Whose textspeak shows the force of ignorant power
(No attribute to awe and majesty)
Wherein doth sit his wanton spiteful thoughts.
But spamming sits below this septic sway;
It is embedded in the hearts of those
Who think to embody the soul of wit itself;
Their online power resembleth trolls’
Whose cruelty seasons hate.
If ever forced to try out swordplay
I’d fail to be a Cyrano.
And as for impro wordplay,
expecting puns? Oh, sirrah, no!
Clash of steel best fitting crossed swords
(whether epées, foils or rapiers),
flash of real wit suiting crosswords
(often met in broadsheet papers):
all would go from bad to worse
(same as when I’m writing verse).
I’m as like to win a duel as
write a gem fit for a jeweller’s.
Tumour fame, Al!
Abe, Ian, shut a door.
Keller ate eel? Eel? Ace sank her.
Sand ferry Ann. Ah, Bea — and tow!
________ Continue reading
Things come in threes: he’s about to drop her off at the shops when he realises he’s left his phone at home, so can’t liaise about where and when to meet up.
Next, after he’s filled up the car with petrol, he discovers his wallet is in his other man-bag. At home.
After some frantic running around the money problem is solved when he spots her coming out of a shop. But later, returning from a visit to the local library, he finds his everyday glasses are no longer on his nose — and the library isn’t open for another two days.
“Is it nearly time for the pillow over the head?’ she murmurs, sultrily. And so it begins.
She drew the diary from her shoulder bag, and its weight seemed portentous.
Feeling a sudden chill she picked up the poker with her other hand and stirred the glowing coals, breathing new life into the fire.
As if on impulse, she deftly threw the book into the flames.
Take that, 2016! she thought, fiercely.
Flash Fiction Fifty Five, a story made up of 55 words including the title
Original spam (provided by Lizzie Ross)
Asking questions are in fact fastidious thing if you are not understanding something completely, however this piece of writing gives good understanding even.
Spam transformed from Nonsense to Sense?
Asking questions are in! Fact!
Fastidious thing, if you are not understanding something completely!
However, this piece of writing gives good, understanding even!
• Thanks to Lizzie Ross for another entry in my first and only Spam Poetry Competition
Please note, the closing date for entries is the last day before eternity
Maps for transforming nonsense spam
Genuinely when someone doesn’t be aware of afterward its up to other users that they will assist,
so here it takes place.
Nonsense → Sense
Genuinely, when someone doesn’t?
Be aware of afterward!
It’s up to other users that they will assist so.
Here it takes place.
Acknowledgement: Lizzie Ross for competition submission