How many more times must I tell you? I’m a reincarnation of Michelangelo, so stop pumping Risperdal into me and interrupting a genius at work. I intend to hatch a nautilus out of my living stone display. Yes, I said “living”. Of course, stones are alive. What are you blathering on about? They’re not inanimate, you idiot. Just give me space to communicate with them, otherwise they’ll keep giving birth to snail shells instead of a creature of divine proportions. What? You say I’m mistaken about the nautilus: the golden ratio is formed from a rectangle? Now who’s gone bonkers?
I guess there’s a certain artistic quality about old rubble, junk, and weeds, once they’ve become established. They’ve sort of matured, like a craggy, weather-beaten face that tells a history.
Of course, other people’s junk is always going to seem more attractive than any of my own, which comes with the label “Overwhelming Job Needing Urgent Attention”.
Walk between showers
No petals underfoot yet
Today, I’ve written a haiku without punctuation. This is less usual for me, but I’m mindful that in my recent poll a percentage of people expressed their preference for this type of haiku.
I agree it works better here, as the haiku is about a walk, with forward momentum and no lingering: the steady rhythm of footfalls on the pavement as the person catches the good weather between showers.
With regard to haiku that calls for punctuation, I think that my blogging friend Leigh W. Smith sums it up well (to part-quote her here): “punctuation simply helps me to know where you, as an author, wanted the breath to be taken, a pregnant pause to be felt, a full stop to slow me down”.
‘Sorry, Mr Horden. We’ve bought an electronic keyboard instead.’
Every time the piano tuner heard these words, he wanted to howl abuse down the phone at the traitor.
Once he’d terminated their conversation, he would hammer out scales and arpeggios on his grand piano for a couple of hours, putting all eighty-eight notes through their paces. The session always ended with a funeral march to accompany a vision of his ex-customer’s coffin on the shoulders of pallbearers.
With murder too extreme an act of vengeance, the lesser crime of burglary would suffice.
But what to do with the stolen keyboards?
Photo prompt: copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Friday Fictioneers — 100 word stories
Can I say it? In the good old days, roads were swept regularly and drains kept clean of leaves and debris.
Nowadays, we are lucky in the UK if the borough or district councils do these two jobs more than one a year. It’s usually more a case of breakdown maintenance i.e. fixing things when the drains are so bunged up with leaves that the road floods and becomes impassable to vehicles.
In the context of general world chaos, this might seem no more than a tiny inconvenience, but I’ve decided to moan about a minor issue as there’s still a slight chance of having my voice heard.
Regarding international issues, I’m but a grain of sand and a voice crying in the wilderness. Who actually cares what I think?
Wind whooshes drizzle;
autumnal red says goodbye
to summer. Frosts soon.
Thank you to those who voted and provided feedback to my poll last week. Those in favour of images and punctuated haiku won the vote, but this doesn’t rule out the occasional unpunctuated haiku in the future. You can see the full results of the Poll here