Today’s writing prompt at Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie is the image below, by Gabriel Isak.
I saw you today.
On the beach
the four paper airplanes sailing low
across the sky
the Missing Man Formation so sadly
appropriate.
you know, I kept keep hoping,
hoping you’ll be back, they’ll find
you.
You.
somewhere.
somehow.
Ten years is
ten forevers
Still, I hope.
Still,
and forever.
It’s the Saturday Mix over at Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie
This week our task is to write a poem or short story using personification and the statement, “The flood raged over the entire village.”
What began as a balmy summer breeze playfully ruffling the voile sheers had morphed into angry howling winds. Quaint beach homes dotting the island were uprooted and splintered like toothpicks. No screams could be heard over the violent, crashing wind.
Perhaps there were no screams; it was just after midnight and most of the island’s residents had been mercifully asleep.
Next, a streak of lightening crackled the indigo sky where just an hour ago stars winked and a benevolent moon shone bright. A blast of thunder and gallons of hot rain plunged from the sky.
The flood raged over the entire village. Clothing, furniture, books and other artifacts of what used to be were later found broken, muddy, and shredded.
It was the nightmare from which no one awakened.
Wildon was an odd one. Abandoned in the forest haphazardly by irresponsible parents — a human and a goat — he was adopted and raised by a family of timber sheep.
They did the best they could with him, but timber sheep are not skilled in parenting outside their species, let alone an interspecific child.
Who is? I ask you.
In any case, Wildon never lacked for love. His adoptive parents, Gary and Millicent, doted on the youngster and his siblings, Gregg and Gergg, thought he was the coolest thing since sliced cud. Having Wildon for a half-brother made them über-popular at school, hence their roaring social lives.
Although Wildon didn’t excel in his studies, he was a whiz-bang when it came to the pan flute. It was as if he were born with one in his mouth. Wildon became obsessed with darn thing and played it constantly to the exclusion of everything else — even beautiful naked women.
The whole pan flute thing got on Gary’s last wooly nerve. Finally, he issued an ultimatum: Either Wildon put the pan flute on hold occasionally, or he could hit the trail. Millicent was aghast and enraged that her husband would issue such a threat against their almost-child. A huge fight ensued and when Wildon left the family homestead, Millicent was right behind him.
And from that moment on, everywhere that Wildon went his mom was sure to follow.
Today’s writing prompt at Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie is the metaphor, “blowing one’s own horn.”
Derek was an average kid. He made Bs and Cs in school, maybe an occasional A if he was lucky. His parents, however, claimed he was a ‘gifted child.’ They fawned over him mercilessly. If he failed, it was someone else’s fault — the teacher or coach didn’t like him, or the other kid cheated. But if he excelled, Derek was the best there ever was and ever would be.
Eventually, Mom & dad’s mindset rubbed-off on Derek. He truly believed he was better than anyone, deserved recognition and adulation.
One day in band practice, Joey was having trouble with a tricky piece they were practicing. After a few fumbles, Derek lost patience with his inadequate classmate.
“Mr. Bowen,” Derek piped-up in exasperation. “Why don’t you let me show Joey how it’s done.”
“Aw, geez.” There was a rumbling among the students. “There he goes tooting his own horn again…”
“It’s not a horn, dummies. It’s a saxophone!” Derek retorted. “And if I don’t toot it, who will?”
Hank was loath to admit that he’d bitten off more than he could chew. He’d just made Junior Partner at a prestigious law firm and had much to prove. Add to that a ridiculously high mortgage, newborn twin girls, and a wife who is used to the finer finest things in life and you had a recipe for burnout, or worse.
Hank’s upbringing did not lend itself to self-pity. In his father’s words, Real men take responsibility for themselves and their families; they suck it up and keep on keepin’ on. They don’t complain or ask for help. Be a man—a Real Man!
Bottom line: Self-care was for pussies.
So, Hank did what every other man in his family had done throughout the ages. He bore what seemed like a ten-ton boulder on his shoulders and did it with a smile.
For eleven years he managed it. Then one day his wife took the kids and left. The note said she’d grown tired of being alone and had found someone new who would spend time with her and her daughters.
Her daughters.
A few weeks later, Hank was fired from his position at the law firm.
Now what? Hank wondered, as he continued to balance the metaphorical boulder on his shoulders.
It was all he knew.
Ergo, the Ogre 