Wednesday, May 29, 2019

#QueerBlogWed: Paula's Prompts

On March 6, 2019, P.T. Wyant posted at a Wednesday Words prompt involving a drunken goose, a streetcar, a little rowboat, and applause.

This poem, a completely different poem this prompt came from was the result...

You can hear anything at the Drunked Goose
Streetcars reappearing on ghostly tracks
Little rowboats escaping from bloody sea wrecks
Unrequited love being rewarded with rocks
All stories are greeted with applause
No one judges at the Drunked Goose
For everyone here is an amateur storyteller
Trying to flex their wings and apply their craft
Encouraged by the intoxication of ale
A pity they’ll never recall the stories they’ve spun
Their ditties sung drink after drink
Once sober, the storytellers will disavow them
Saying they can write a much better story than that
Yet they return to the duck night after night
Lured by the promise of applause and admiration
Never sure if they’ve ever truly earned it
Success and failure both lost in a draught of ale

To be forgotten in the headache of the waking day. 

Monday, May 27, 2019

Secondary Characters Speak Out: Quartz and Dyvian

Quartz: I’m not even sure if you should be here. Some might call you a secondary character in Tales of the Navel: The Shadow Forest. Others might call you the villain. 

Dyvian: Why, thank you. Such confusion is delightful. (He smiles, spreading his fingers and resting his chin upon them to regard Quartz.) I do enjoy keeping people guessing. 

Quartz: Right. If I’ve got you here, I might as well interview Bloody Oriana. 

Dyvian: (allowing his smile to sober into something more serious) That sounds like an excellent idea. 

Quartz: What??!!  (He splutters for a moment, gazing at Dyvian in pure outrage.)

Dyvian: You’ve made Oriana your personal demon, Quartz. By bringing her here, questioning and confronting her, you’ll see she’s a character just like all the rest of us. Having her at your mercy at Secondary Characters Speak Out would give you a chance to lay your fears to rest. 

Quartz: I’m *not* afraid of her!! (He stands up to glower in all of his stubby height at his seated guest.)

Dyvian: (with maddening reason) Why are you shouting?

Quartz: Because I’m furious, no outraged at the very suggestion! Me, afraid of that inept witch who can’t even retract her own curses? She’s a petty, irresponsible selfish excuse for a witch and a queen! Why would anyone be afraid of her, let alone me?

Dyvian: Because she had a hold over your precious Fairest’s heart, even when she was far away. Because she took away the human girl you came to regard as your own daughter, took her away somewhere, so all that remained was an empty shell of what she’d been. (All traces of amusement disappear from his face.) She had power of the worst sort, the power to steal away someone dear to you, even if she no longer wields it. (All traces of amusement disappear from his face.) You’re fortunate she no longer has that power. 

Quartz: At last you’re returning to the point, which is you. I’m supposed to be interviewing you, remember?

Dyvian: Don’t worry, my dear Quartz. (He bends his lips into an alluring smile of sharp white teeth.) I haven’t forgotten. 

Quartz: Don’t call me “my dear”. You sound too much like Nimmie Nott. (He starts to mutter.) That is if Nimmie Nott were tall, handsome, had hair like it was filled with moonlight, and dressed in dark colors which make it gleam all the more brightly…(His nose turns red)

Nimmie Nott (from behind the red curtain) Not again! First Sokrat, now this strange lord from another series? Quartz, you faithless lecher!

Quartz: Ahem, I meant to say if Nimmie Nott were tall. Too tall. (He scowls and blushes.) Why am I making excuses?

Dyvian: I am honoured. (He inclines his head towards Quartz and Nimmie Nott with stately grace.) As the Voice of Seraphix, I try to express my deity’s desires…and desirability. 

Quartz: And you’re what exactly? Your god’s high priest?

Dyvian: Something like that. We Followers of Seraphix are still pouring our faither, prayer, and energy into our deity, raising Them from being a godling to pure god. 

Quartz: The difference between a godling and a pure god being?

Dyvian: Power. Whether Seraphix can manifest and work Their miracles in reality and within how many degrees of reality. 

Quartz: Sounds complicated. (He scratches his beard.)

Dyvian: You have no idea. (Some of weariness, shadows of care appear under the Voice of Seraphix’s eyes.)

Quartz: Probably not. Only your plans aren’t going as smooth as you’d like, eh?

Dyvian: Do plans ever go as smoothly as we’d like? (He spreads his hands in a rueful admission of fallacy.)

Quartz: I suppose not. You, however, are losing something very precious in the collapse of your plans. (Something almost like sympathy crosses the dwarf’s broad features.) This is why you said you understood what it was like to lose my Fairest to that witch. 
Dyvian: It’s not particularly inaccurate to call my nephew a witch. (This time it’s Dyvian’s turn to scowl.)

Quartz: Meaning Damian Ashelocke. (He scowls right along with Dyvian.) It was a surprise to find out he was your nephew.

Dyvian: Not to me. The real revelation was that Duessa Ashelocke was only my sister by marriage before she ever created the Gardens of Arachne. 

Quartz: That’s a change of spelling. Didn’t the scribbler used to call them the Gardens of Arachnia? 

Dyvian: (spreading his hands) Just another one of our creatrix’s whims.

Quartz: Eh, we’re getting distracted from the topic at hand. You’re related to what? This Duessa’s husband?

Dyvian: Stefan Ashelocke, yes. It was he who summoned the mists from the Shadow Forest to surround his realm, creating our land, the land of Mystere before Duessa ever shaped the Gardens of Arachne, creating its arachnocracy. 

Quartz: This is some sort of ruling class of lady spiders. Only they’re human-looking women with up to eight arms, eight eyes, and fangs, right?

Dyvian: (smiling a dark smile) I do admire Duessa. She created a haven for women, a land of beautiful gardens filled with beautiful boys for their personal power and enjoyment. 

Quartz: How did she do that?

Dyvian: By making a deal with Arachne, the Spider. In order that women would no longer fall prey to monstrous men, women would become monsters themselves. They’d offer a sacrifice, a portion of their prey’s essence to Arachne as they fed. 

Quartz: This prey you speak of, aren’t they those what d’ye call them? Marriage Feasts? (He shudders.) Bloody creepy if you ask me.

Dyvian: Really? (He sounds genuinely surprised.) I thought they were an elegant way for monsters to feed and to feed their monstrous god. Not that it can’t be improved on. 

Quartz: I’m surprised to hear you say this. Weren’t you one of these Marriage Feasts?

Dyvian: Yes and I found the experience to be quite pleasurable. Not to mention enlightening. 

Quartz: Your bride completely drained your life force, sharing it with the Spider and the other ladies! She left you nothing but a statue! How exactly was that enlightening?

Dyvian: My statue had a shadow. There are ways for a shadow to find more life energy, especially if that shadow can slip through a crack into the Shadow Forest. (He offers Quartz another dark smile.) Yes, there are ways to feed myself…and my little Leiwell. 
Quartz: Right. Well, that’s quite enough for now. (He tries not to shudder.) Don’t want to spoil the story after all. 

Dyvian: Quite true. Thank you. It was very kind of you to invite me. (He’s now all courtesy and graciousness.) Do consider my suggestion of having Oriana here. It will be a trial for you, but one which shall make you stronger.

Quartz: (He looks away.) I’ll think about it…

Wednesday, May 22, 2019

#QueerBlogWed: Wednesday Words

On March 20, 2019, P.T. Wyant posted at a Wednesday Words prompt involving an apple core, a barking dog, and new curtains.

This freebie story for The Players Are the Thing was the result...Fagin, Oliver, the Artful Dodger/Jack, and Charley Rhodes are all characters from Charles Dickens' Oliver Twist, which I'm currently reading along with a great many other things...

A half-eaten apple core lay on the ground, next to the steps leading up to the house. Beatrix stared at the decaying, once yellow innards of the fruit, devoured and discarded. 

A dog started barking on the other side of a window, covered by pristine white curtains, with a frilly star pattern within them. 

“Shut up.” Beatrix rubbed her eyes. “I’m not the Canine Anti-Christ.”

The dog let out a particularly piercing yelp, as if contradicting that statement.

“Fine. You’re right. I am the Canine Anti-Christ.” Beatrix put her hands on her hips and glowered at a black muzzle which poked its way through the curtains. “In fact, I’m looking for my Thirteenth Sacrifice so I can fully manifest in this dimension. Care to volunteer.”

The dog yipped and back away from the curtains.

“Oi, Fagin, what’s got your tail tangled?” A loud, cheerful voice rang out inside the house. “It’s only Beatrix. Hey, Grumpy!”

The door opened to reveal a thick-set figure with shaggy, yet somehow glorious coppery curls. Reggie gazed out from under a singel lock with a bright, hazel eye. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you still be sleeping your coffin, like Mona is?” 
“Hah, hah. Your sense of humour is every bit as tasteful as your curtains.” Beatrix eyed the innocuous white barriers of cloth which failed to hide anything, let alone hide anything. “If Mona is sleeping in her coffin, wake her up. I need to talk to her.”

“You’ll have to wait a moment, Your Grumpiness.” Reggie opened the door, grabbed an eager Fagin to stop him from lunging outside at Beatrix before stomping over to the staircase. The faint scene of sour of milk and dog drifted out the door. “Rise and shine, Moan! It’s your unlucky day! Your evil ex has come calling!”

Beatrix winced at much at the cheer in Reggie’s voice as their words. “Can’t you just stick to one nickname?” She took a ginger step towards the threshold and the smell. She had no desire to go in. Hopefully no one would invite her. “You’ve already given me the title of Grumps. Since when am I an evil ex as well?”

“Oh, you’re Grumps to me. You’re the Evil Ex to Mona.” Reggie offered Mona an evil grin full of even white teeth, flashing against the rich bronze of their cheeks and lips. They released Fagin. 

Beatrix backed up in alarm, but the dog raced up the stairs in the direction of Mona’s room, tail wagging with way too much enthusiasm. 

“That should get her downstairs.” Reggie cast an admiring look in the dog’s direction. “He’s got more energy than he knows what to do with.”

“I can see that.” Beatrix didn’t want to get any closer to the threshold, but she could hear Fagin scratching at the door and Mona grumbling. Like Beatrix, Mona was not a morning person. “Why is he Fagin?

“Because he corrupts kittens and leads them to a life of crime.” Reggie shook her head, but there was no hiding the admiring gleam in her hazel eyes. “He’s already taught the Artful Dodger and Charley Rhodes how to steal popcorn from Gina and myself. He’s trying to coax Oliver as well, but he’s too shy.”

“Just like the book,” Beatrix said, interested in spite of herself. A small black kitten strode up boldly to sniff at Reggie’s bare, painted toes. He was followed by a tiny ginger ball of fur who rubbed against his human’s jean-covered legs. “Are these the Artful Dodger and Charley?”

“And that’s Oliver.” Reggie pointed down to the bottom of the stairs. A pair of greenish-blue eyes peered out of a smoky patch, trying to pretend it was part of the steps. “Fagin is a terrible influence on all of them.” 

“Which you’re enjoying.” Beatrix cast a critical eye over Reggie’s wiry brown arms, exposed by a cheap, university t-shirt, oval face with high cheekbones worthy of an Egyptian mummy cast, and suppressed a sigh of envy. People like Reggie didn’t need to worry about how they dressed, they were good-looking enough to make a simple jeans and t-shirt part of their beauty. Just another one of the little injustices of the universe, ready to mock Beatrix. “One day you and your pets will take over the world and the world can’t say I didn’t warn it.”

“You’d never warn the world, Grumpy.” Reggie met Beatrix’s criticism with a wry smile of their own. “You’d miss out on enjoying its misery if you did.”

She didn’t get a chance to retort. A door opened upstairs, pouring down the sound of canine excitement and Moma mumbling in a sleepy voice. “Fagin, down, boy. Reg, why are you waking me up?”

“Beatrix stopped by to see you, Moan.” Reggie grinned up at the sight of a groggy Mona which Beatrix couldn’t see from her vantage. “She’s waiting for you on the doorstep.”

“Oh, crap! I mean hi, Beatrix!” Things were tossed around at the top of the landing, possibly clothing. “Is Rhane with you?”

“No, so you needn’t bother freshening up.” Beatrix peeked her head around the threshold to glimpse a tousled head of dark hair disappearing into a room. “I just need to talk to you for a moment.”

Too late. The door slammed shut with a hasty “Just give a moment!” drifting down the stairs.

“There she goes.” Reggie gazed up the staircase, their smile crumpling around the edges. “I don’t know what she sees in you or why she goes to all this effort.”

Fagin clomped down the stairs, sending a startled Oliver scurrying for the darker corners of the house. Charley and the Dodger chased after the other kitten. 

“Rejected, again, huh?” Reggie gave the dog a comforting scritch on the muzzle. “Well, that’s just life. The ones we appreciate never appreciate us in turn.” They gave Beatrix a meaningful look under long eyelashes.

“It’s not me Mona is hoping to see or hopes will appreciate her.” Why did Beatrix’s voice come out so defensive. “She’s trying to impress Rhane.”

“Because you made Rhane all the more desirable by living with her.” Reggie looked Beatrix up and down. “Mona is still hung up on every little thing you say or do, Grumpy. Did you know she bought an old black jacket only because it looks like yours?”

“Yeah, well she never bothered with taste any more than you.” Beatrix fought the urge to touch the sleeve of the jacket in question. It was old, worn, covered with old pins featuring Babylon 5 and Dark Shadows. “I bet you still buy pre-sliced bread at the supermarket, even though you could wait for a much better bread at the Farmer’s Market.”
“While I bet you still buy your tea in bags from Cost Plus even though you could get a much better quality leaf online.” Reggie raised their eyebrow at Beatrix. “We’re both tasteless, Grumpy, not to mention we’ve got tastes we really can’t afford.”

“The bread isn’t the one that really gets me.” Beatrix shrugged, feeling some of the tension leave her. “It’s the dice and gaming supplements.”

“You ought to budget yourself on that stuff.” All playfulness departed from Reggie in an abrupt rush. “Supplies don’t make a roleplaying game great.”

“I know that.” Depression, the unhappiness lurking behind the caustic shell Beatrix had been forming around herself was starting to leak out. 

What had happened, the joy in running a game with only a handful of dice in a room where the air conditioner didn’t work and the sweat dripped down their faces? Those moments of screaming when they’d rolled five tens or moaning over all the ones appearing accusingly at them? The long hours of talking together about their characters, their plans for the future?

First Mona and Rhane started going off by themselves. Later Rhane started departing right after the game ended to go for a walk or write in her notebook. Beatrix and Mona were left staring at each other. One of them would make their excuses and depart. 

Only when Beatrix saw new dice, a new dice bag, or a supplement with an attractive cover did some of the rush, that old excitement come back. Only it was getting harder and harder to hold onto the feeling, not to mention expensive. 

“Knowing is one thing, doing is another.” Reggie backed away. “Here’s comes trouble. I’ll leave you two lovebirds to work out whatever ails you.”

“It’s not like that!” Mona yelled after Reggie retreated with Fagin. She turned to brush a bouncy wave of brown hair out of her pale face. “Sorry about Reg. You know what she’s like. Come on in.”

“No, thanks. I just came by to give you a brief message.” Beatrix took a deep breath. “We’ve got a new player joining us. Her name’s Zoe.”

“Really?” Interest and apprehension warred in Mona’s large, dark eyes. “What’s she like? Who is she playing?”

“She’s going to play Rhiannon.” Beatrix took a deep breath. “It seemed easier since Rhi already has a relationship in the campaign with Amber and Isolde.”

“Not exactly a good one.” Mona scowled, sucking in her lower lip. Isolde, Mona’s muscle-bound artist, wasn’t exactly fond of Rhiannon, to put it mildly. “Are you sure about this? Rhiannon seemed to be a big part of your plans.”
“Well, maybe it’s time for my plans to be upset.” Beatrix glanced away at the half-eaten apple once more. “Nobody seems to have been enjoying themselves very much of that.”

Mona widened her eyes while her mouth dropped open. “Really?”

“Really.” Was it that shocking? The fact that Beatrix was letting go of Rhiannon, who’d been a favorite non-player character of hers? Or was it Beatrix was all right with her plans being upset?

All she’d done lately was worry about the plan, fret about the plan, snap at players if they took their characters in a direction different than the plan. 

Even the Game Master was getting tired of the plan. 

“Let’s see what happens.” Beatrix looked up, straight into Mona’s brown eyes. Soft and loyal as a puppy dog’s. Mona often reminded her of a puppy dog, willing to follow Beatrix wherever she might lead. She’d sneered at what seemed to be a lack of any intiative to form plans of Mona’s own, but perhaps there was something more to her old friend’s unquestioning loyalty. “It may be time to shake things up.”

She turned her back on her friend’s incredulous expression and headed down the stairs. 

Wednesday, May 15, 2019

Paula's Prompt: Wednesday Words

On March 13, 2019, P.T. Wyant posted at a Wednesday Words prompt involved a four-leaf clover, a portrait, and a betrayal.

The mention of a portrait and my recent Blogging From AZ April Project: Character Conflicts got me thinking about A Portrait Is Worth a Thousand Words, my tale of a ghost, a portrait, and the artists/writers obsessed/tormented by both. No, it's not a Work in Progress, since I finished a short version of it, only to have it to be rejected. I'm still looking for opportunities to publish it. Here's a freebie story from Yuri Cross's perspective, the tormented artist, which may or may not make its way into a rewrite of A Portrait is Worth a Thousand Words...

I’ll never forget the day Westerleigh found a four-leafed clover. 

“Look at this!” He stooped to pluck the tiny green plant from the field, honey-coloured locks falling forward to cover his face. “Good luck is coming my way! Do you think I’ll have a chance to see Hartford Hall?”

Part of me hoped not, yet it meant so much to Westerleigh, his ancestor home. The walls in which the one he worshipped had once ruled, studied, and played with unseen forces from.

Westerleigh didn’t seem aware of my lack of enthusiasm. He had more than enough for both of us where the subject of Elizabeth Hartford was concerned. 

“Maybe I’ll be able to see it.” He tucked the clover behind his ear, hazel eyes swimming with dreams, unaware of the sunshine overhead, the verdure of the field, all the things I tried to capture in my sketchbook. 

Not that I would do much to appreciate the vibrancy of this scene in my own drawings. I would render it to a charcoal shadow, devoid of color. 

“You know what I’m talking about, Yuri.” Perhaps Westerleigh was oblivious to my discontent or perhaps he sought to chase me out of it. “The famous portrait of Elizabeth Hartford, which hangs above the staircase?”

“As if you’d ever allow me to forget that.” Not a day passed when my obsessive companion brought it up, the famous portrait painted by my famous ancestor, Judith Cross. It was cursed to haunt me as much as it haunted Westerleigh, only I didn’t get nearly as much joy out of the process. 

Enough. My own grumpiness was starting to irritate even me. 

“I don’t think the luck a four-leaf clover grants you is that specific.” I attempted to soften my voice, make it something more civil. “What it grants you will probably be something more unexpected.”

“Such a pity.” Westerleight touched the tiny speck of green in his hair. “Maybe I should have given it to you, Yuri.” For the first time, those luminous green-golden orbs fixed themselves upon me, offering a little of their boundless emotion to me. 

“Luck won’t get me a space in the art gallery.” I suppressed the wrenching feeling in my chest at that precious moment of attention. “Connections are more likely to win the day.”

“Not talent?” Westerleigh cocked his head, studying me, truly listening to me. Take that, Elizabeth Hartford, you overbearing ghost. 

“Talent is simply a flicker of potential. Constant practice and diligence are the qualities that transform it into a steady fire of creativity.” I shrugged, trying to hide how much I was savouring my companion’s attention. I often spoke to Westerleigh, sharing my sentiments with him as I did few people. 

Westerleigh could listen and respond as few people could, awakening my own awareness of what I was trying to achieve with my art. Alas, I constantly had to compete with his obsession. She might take him away at any moment, whisking Westerleigh away in a romanticised vision of the past. 

“I draw every chance I get. I brought my sketchbook here, hoping to make an outline inspired by this field. “I think…I hope I’ve gotten better than when I last visited here. Improvement is my only chance against my rivals. Talent may be just a flicker, but a few of them have transformed it into a flicker no one can take their eyes from.”

“Yuri.” The smile on Westerleigh’s lips softened into something sober and serious. “You’re one of the most talented people I know. Your work is as captivating as anything I’ve seen in that gallery.” 

“Just how often have you visited?” I sniffed in disdain, blowing my bangs off my face. “I didn’t think you allowed yourself too much distraction from your precious Elizabeth.”

Even in my own ears, my words sounded catty. 

Westerleigh widened his eyes, staring at me for a moment in silence. As if I’d betrayed him. He’d confided in me, only me, about the full extent of his obsession. I’d thrown it in his face.

“I’m sorry.” My own apology came out gruff and inadequate. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“I thought you understood.” He turned away from me, hiding his face. “What it’s like to have a connection with an ancestor, which is intimate, yet overwhelming.”

“Overwhelming is right. Oh, it’s a great connection, one guaranteed to give me a place in the gallery, but it’s too much!” I couldn’t stop the words from coming. They flowed out like blood gushing from a wound. “Anything I ever do, every achievement I’ll ever make will be compared to Judith Cross’s!”

“Exactly!” Westerleigh whirled to face me with moist, bright eyes. “Don’t you see? Don’t you appreciate it?”

“Appreciate what?” I snarled. “That I’m only the descendant?”

“The challenge!” His hands balled into fists. “To surpass Judith Cross! You’ve got a higher goal than most artists even dream of!”

“It’s too high!” I glowered in the face of such innocent eagerness, so clueless about the bitter disillusionment which lay ahead of it. “I’ll never paint anything like Elizabeth Hartford’s portrait!” I bit my lower lip. “Like you, Judith loved, truly loved the subject matter she captured in oils, transferring it to a canvas. Unlike you, she had an intimate knowledge of her subject, having held her in the darkness, explored her flesh, listened to her private whispers in the night. It enabled Judith to capture Elizabeth’s soul!”

The truth rang in the envious cry which spilled from my lips, oh, yes. How could I not admire that painting, admire it as much as Westerleigh did? Unlike him, I did not love my ancestor’s work. It was my rival as much as Judith Cross was. It mocked with its livelike vibrancy, its beauty. It taunted me as much as this field did with shining verdure patches under the sun.

“Don’t try to.” 

Westerleigh’s hushed words cut through my anguish, like a knife slicing through a thick, impossibly crusty loaf of bread. 

He reached out with one of his small hands, the same soft brown as the slender bark of the trees which offered their tentative shelter across the field. 

I might have recoiled. I’ve never enjoyed casual touch or being touched at all, yet this was Westerleigh. Westerleigh whom I yearned to get closer to, the share my heart with as I did no one else.

“Don’t try to paint as Judith did. That’s not the path to surpassing her.” Westerleigh fixed his eloquent eyes upon me, fixing them with their plea as much as with his words. “Draw what calls to your heart, what you yearn to release.”

These words struck me, like an arrow hitting my chest, even as I held his hand, sitting in the sunlit field as I seldom ever did. 

Draw what called to my heart. What I yearned to release were shadows, shadows of jealousy and fear. Yes, I was haunted by my ancestor. Haunted by the vague suspicions she confided in her journal, even as she filled their pages with images of her lover’s shining red hair and equally shining confidence, determination to stand out from everyone else. 

Ambition, every story and many a painting warned about the perils of ambition. Elizabeth had been relentless in her ambition, her determination to crack the secrets of the universe, to invoke the poetry of eternity into some tangible form. Judith pursued her, trying to catch some of this passion in her own work. 

Was I any different than either of them or Westerleigh? I refused to be defined by my ancestor, gender, or any of the rules which offered guidelines to finding a path to identity. I wanted to forge my own, shape my identity, invoke the shadows within my mind to come forth. What would they give me, once I started to draw them? 

The potential frightened me. My vision was a much darker one than Judith’s or Westerleigh’s. Perhaps even darker than Elizabeth’s in all of her ambition. It was certainly a less optimistic one. 

Not that I couldn’t cherish optimism. The sight of it shining in Westerleigh’s eyes made the ache in the chest transform into something inexpressible. Something I longed to express, nonetheless.

I could feel the smile touching my lips. I saw it reflected on Westerleigh’s when I let go of his hand. 

I picked up my discarded sketchbook and flipped it open. I found where I’d dropped my charcoal and picked it up, seeing the blackness spread across my fingers. 

I began to draw. 

Wednesday, May 8, 2019

Paula's Prompts: Wednesday Words

On March 27, 2019, P.T. Wyant posted at a Wednesday Words prompt involving a lost cat, a hot meal, and a sock.

This story popped into my head which is based off a true story. I think Sage was more trapped than lost, though...:)

Sage mewed on the other side of the door. He’d nudged it closed with his nose, very pleased with the way it had shut, only now he couldn’t get out!

A toe covered with tasty sock poked its way under the door. Distracted from his distress, Sage gazed at it with avid interest. He wasn’t as interested in feet as his sour sister, Cinnamon, but something wiggled within the sock in an enticing manner. 

Keeping his eyes and whiskers fixed on the sock, he crouched…and pounced, only to have the sock withdraw and the door open.

Sage nearly bumped into a familar leg, Dad’s leg. He looked up into his father’s funny human face. 

“Sage, you might want to go downstairs. Your mom just heated up your cat food. Your sister is going to eat your share if you don’t hurry.”

That was a lot of human words at once, including the inexplicable one, “share”. Sage heard the clinking of cat food bowls and the familar purr of the microwave which meant dinner was about to be served. 

He raced past Dad to hurry down to his meal before Cinnamon could get at it.

Wednesday, May 1, 2019

Paula's Prompt: Wednesday Words

On February 27, 2019, P.T. Wyant posted at a Wednesday Words prompt, "How did Lady Angeline's shoe come to be in the chandelier?"

This poem was the result. The first two lines are P.T. Wyant's. The rest is mine. :)

How did Lady Angeline’s shoe
Come to be in chandelier?
She never liked that shoe
Perhaps she kicked it into the air
Mayhap an unsuitable prince came a-courting
He’ll find no spare on this lady fair
Or maybe it’s just the latest fashion
To dangle a shoe in mid-air?
Perhaps it’s a form of protest
Hanging her slipper there
Only the lady knows the truth
Or perhaps she doesn’t care
She just watches the reaction of every guest
Poised, not turning a hair
A secret smile playing on her face
While the shoe dangles all the way up there. 
Whatever happened to the other half?
When once it was part of a pair?