Weekly Short Stories Contest and Company! discussion

He knew she would be
his wife - his chair spun, a voice
said, "This is your life!"

Confused, was what he was.
What just happened?
He stared up, motionless.

Pondering affairs
and wives, he found himself glad
that he had nine lives.

All the town’s florists
had green thumbs, lazy fathers,
and beautiful mums.

Her flowery words
left no room for any words
except for their mum's.

Although in disagreement
he had no choice but
to listen to her voice.

Nor was it just what
she’d said, whose poisonous tone
made him flinch with dread

of unslaked evening’s
sharpened claws, its drifting clouds
like a surgeon’s gauze.

:-)
Interesting and clear imagery.

Thank you, Guy!

He was cut open
by her words, now
he just isn't the same.

Madge lurked in Bellport’s
waterfront dives, her lacquered
nails like flensing knives.

Floyd, once calm, inner-
directed, screamed wide eyed, “I’ve
been vivisected!”

Good one M. I don't know how to follow that!

Thank you, Lee! I’m just doing my best to follow yours, which are fun to read. I think you and Guy are the only ones keeping the thread going.

Thanks M. I love this thread. Never knew what Haiku was before i joined this group. Yours, Guy's and Ryan's are fun to follow.

Even to this day, She
haunted his dreams, Many-a-nights
he woke with a scream.

For that reason he avoided
women, but Macy made
him rethink his decision.

(I’d be ashamed of myself, but it isn’t one of my talents.)

Her glance stopped him dead
in his tracks when she emerged
from the clothing racks.

No sonnets, ballads,
or grooks could capture Macy’s
department-store looks.

M's can be very hard to follow, Lee. You are doing very well! :-)

These are fun. I'll see what I can come up with when I get a chance to breathe.

She left her fella
(a bloke named Finn) and hooked up
with a mannequin.

Perfect, Ryan!

What he lacked in moves
and passion, he made up for
in posture and style,

in that suave, square-jawed,
GQ fashion, and possessed
of an ageless smile.

'Dashing!' Many had called him
But in that heavy cloth,
He felt like falling.

These are great, Lee and M :)

Her hair was tawny,
her skirts racy, like the tides
the Muzak’s rhythm

as long shifts dragged by.
He fell for Macy, and took
his chrome stand with him.

His hopes now are dashed
with lack of stagger-swagger.
Tawny rhythm scene.

Go get clean Benzine.
Posing, filling will, nilly,
broken fires begin.

Macy heard the crash
and found him; rumpled, his tie
that was made in France.

Oh, the mess that lay
around him! She righted him
and straightened his pants.

High pitched laughter sounded
Turning around Macy saw,
soon she joined in laughing

Noticing, she'd placed him in a bra!
What a sight, fitted dress
pants, bra and a tie.

A small crowd gathered,
with “oohs” and “ahs.” Soon the store
had sold out of bras.

[Nice one M]

Macy wiped her brow,
sighing with relief
she still had her job.

(Thank you, Lee! I predict that Macy will end up as the store manager.)

And the promotion
that followed had her selling
to men black brassieres.

[Haha! Good for her, maybe she'll open Macy's!]

[Hey Guy!]

They had no idea what
to do but Macy made
them look so cool.

His blue eyes wowed them,
his frozen smiles, and he kept
abreast of the styles.

Macy was promoted soon.
For keeping men stylish,
making women swoon.

She dated awhile,
but tarried. In her spare time
she turned to writing

when her oldest friend,
now married, was no longer
very exciting.

[Hey Lee! :-) I'm still alive, although barely eking out words anywhere.

Fun Haiku Lee and M! :-) ]

She left the business, now
getting old, her memory was
jagged by blue-eyes and frozen smiles.

Gray haired, her eyes blear
with cataracts, she wandered
with the mannequin

in dreams, where gusts swirled
religious tracts, riffled books
by von Däniken.

In slums on Forty-
Second Street, they spied a tiled,
crumbling rondavel

immured in summer’s
listless heat, sprung from pages
of some old novel.

The mannequin spoke,
that look in his eyes. She scanned
the cracked avenue.

They talked of silk scarves,
splashy French ties, and dress shirts
of uncertain hue.

Among blown newsprint,
a crow dislodged a dog-stained,
scowling Dick Tracy.

A fading display
in a smudged window gazed out,
a younger Macy.

From a nearby shop
long shuttered came the pea-green
smell of something dead.

The crow, disgusted,
muttered, “It’s another day
in the haiku thread.”

Only seventeen
Young and sweet as honeydew
Stung me like a wasp

I thought, as I fled
in haste, “I should have guessed it
from her firm, wasp waist.”

Her good willed parents
Filled her with the wasp's sharp sting,
Unreflective truth.

The mirror showed her
a big, giant, fat, huge lie.
But she didn't know

Only seventeen
That was fifty years ago
Will she crash and burn?

Oh how frustrating!
just watching life's turns,
having to just watch and wait.

Her prince, to keep her
in thrall, hung a large mirror
on her boudoir wall.

She shook her booty
in her black boudoir with glee,
her mirror kept silent.

Her shaking booty
shocked the land. She played KC
and the Sunshine Band.

With shaking hands
the life of love was lost, again.
Just close the door.

Her glass on the door
Quietly mocks all who pass
Love up to see me.

The hanging ferns knew
why her mind’s dim, broken streets
remained unspoken.

Only seventeen
The day her lover left her
Took her cherry too