Friday Fictioneers: Two Voices, One Head

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?

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Photo Prompt: courtesy of Douglas McIlroy
Friday Fictioneers — 100 word stories

Neglected Structures & Overgrown Places #11 — Rubble & Rubbish

Rubble 01

Rubble 02

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”.

Monday Morning #Haiku 35 — Fuchsia

Fuchsia in Rain

Walk between showers
No petals underfoot yet
Fuchsia sparkles

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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”.

Friday Fictioneers: Scaling Down

Copyright-Rochelle Fields

‘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?

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 Photo prompt: copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Friday Fictioneers — 100 word stories