Photo: Ibrahim Rifath on Unsplash
I put down glue to ick their feet –
They collected twigs
To cover it.
I placed a swivel-headed owl –
They watched,
Then perched right on it.
I hung CDs on a dental-floss line –
The pigeons shrugged,
And pulled it.
My peristeronic battle is at impasse.
I call it truce.
I know I’m beat.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: peristeronic in 53 words
Photo: Brendan Church on Unsplash
Tim had a serious thing
For
Ice cream.
No matter the flavor
It was something
He’d favor.
His mama thought it
Extreme
To hold a lone food
Supreme,
So she came up with
A scheme
That worked wonders on
Tim:
Every new food she’d
Mix right into the
Ice cream.
So she fixed it with okra
And kale
And some beans,
And added an olive
And handfuls of
Greens,
And for his dessert
Even mashed in
Sardines.
And the boy ate the lot
Smiling full to the
Brim.
It was not until college
He caught on to the
Theme.
Her husband thought she loved to cook, which she did, but not exactly. He thought she liked the cleaning up after, which she did not, or not for the reasons he believed.
She didn’t correct him. It worked right fine for her that he would sigh contentedly after they had finished eating, and then transfer his happy belly to the den to read the paper or watch some TV.
Washing up gave her the perfect place.
Her neighbor, body glistening, exercising in the room he’d made into a gym, its window facing her sink.
She thought of it as dessert.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo: Na’ama Yehuda
“You see those?”
“I sure do.”
“Well, that’s where they’d come through.”
“Don’t think I believe you.”
“Well then, just wait and see.”
“Until when would that be?”
“Sometimes ‘tween two and three.”
“What? Are you kidding me!?”
“It’s the city, my friend
And this is not West End …
Alligators won’t poke their head
Till the green light’s delayed.
Sure, they value the park,
The reservoir in the dark,
And the nice scratchy spark
From a bit of tree bark …
But you’d agree it is best
To let most traffic rest
‘Fore you poke scaly breasts
Onto Central Park West.”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers – Thanks for picking my photo of my ‘hood’!
And for those who want more … about this snippet of lore about Alligators living in the tunnels underneath the city … click on the ‘gator below …
Photo: Izabelle Acheson on Unsplash
She will not elucidate.
She won’t expound.
She won’t make plain.
There is, in her view, absolutely
Nothing she needs to
Explain.
There is the plate.
There are the cookies.
There was her mouth to entertain.
So, what does any of that
Have to do with dinner
Or with waiting for dessert
Again?
Photo prompt: Todd Foltz
“Are you sure it will work?”
Tim’s chin bobbed up and down enthusiastically.
A bit too enthusiastically. It looked suspiciously like an I’m-clueless-but-want-to-pretend-I’m-not kind of nod.
Benny frowned. He had a bad feeling about the whole plan. “I still think we should have brought a proper pan.”
“Nah,” Tim waved his hand and pointed to the ball of molten orange glaring at them from the horizon. The light shimmered. “They said it was going to be hot enough to fry eggs.”
“In the carton? Don’t you need to crack them first?”
Tim shrugged. “We can always make hard boiled ones.”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo: Noah Austin on Unsplash
Gallivanting Gary liked to roam about
In town.
He refused to let a passing hardship weigh
Him down.
He took his time to get things done.
He rambled on and on.
But once the dinner bell at home was rang
He’d lift his feet
And run.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Gallivant in 46 words
“I kept some for you.”
She offered the crumpled paper reverently.
“Why, I thank thee!” he bowed.
He unfolded the checkered waxed napkin to reveal two potato chips, one small bite of pickle, a tiny sliver of bacon, a dot of olive, a slightly bigger dot of pepper, and a few crumbs of tuna. There was even some mayonnaise for condiment. A feast.
She squatted and rocked back on her heels in satisfaction as he devoured the food. Her greasy fingers left marks on her slacks. She was oblivious. Mesmerized.
The elf licked long skinny fingers. Burped. “No beer, eh?”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo: Sven Brandsma on Unsplash
He reports first thing in the morning.
He reports again every night.
There’s little that could dissuade him
From being absolutely forthright.
He records every scene with a flourish.
His voice reflects every sight,
As with journalist’s flair
He spells data in ample delight.
He would not be distracted from telling,
The minutia has got to be tight.
After all, he is in potty training
And to him no discharging is trite.
“There’s no line!” Margo pulled Adina’s hand with one of hers and pointed with the other. “Let’s hurry!”
Adina followed Margo’s finger, shielding her eyes from the sun. It’s been a long day already and they’d only gotten in a little over an hour ago. The drive. The stops. The lines for the tickets. The lines for the entrance. The lines for the bathroom. The lines to the lines …
Her eyes met the target.
What was that!?
A contraption rose ahead, metal-barred and plastic-sheathed, crisscrossed with steps and zigzagged horrors.
“Come on!” Margo danced on the balls of her feet, ecstatic.
Adina felt the hotdog that she didn’t even eat yet threaten a revisit.
No way she was going up that thing. Nope. Ain’t gonna happen.
“Must be a reason no one’s there,” she tried.
“Yeah! Because it is ‘by reservation.’ Aren’t you glad I called ahead and made one?”
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
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