Weekly Short Stories Contest and Company! discussion

I’m not sure why, but I have a feeling Mr. Smith is going to get used to finding his lunch prepared when he comes home at noon.

Returning to the
accounting firm, Mr. Smith
felt a twinge of guilt.

No, he felt like an
utter worm, his sweet wife home
working on a quilt,

perhaps adjusting
pillow shams, having yogurt
(no doubt blueberry)

while he was sliding
between the gams of a high-
heeled secretary.

whose hair was color
blonde. He sized her up once more,
confusion on his
face. "Were you a genie be-
fore?" He asked, wholly amazed.

You’ve intuitively brought it full circle.

I’m at a loss to explain how I got going down this muddy road. I’m simply appalled. I secretly long to write something wholesome, but my muse always threatens to quit.

Should I make my way
though a sea of wildflowers
to the shadowed knoll?

Maybe you had a
thing for blonde bombshell genie?
Was it Julianne Moore?

:P

Ah, Julianne Moore!
(M makes the sign of the cross
and backs out the door.)

Go to sleep hahaha

I’m fading out. Good night!

Would you dare fade out
in the sea of wildflowers?
It's time to wake up.

Caught a ray of sun,
tried to hold it in my palm,
but I let it go.

To be summoned by
her in the dreamlike hours
of muttering trees;

to fade away in
a sea of wildflowers moved
by perplexed breeze.

Her scent lingered in
broad daylight. Her presence did
nothing but bruise me.

OMG!
I'm LMAO, on the floor, and then I'm blown away by some soft beautiful poetry! I am supposed to be going to bed, and yet, here I am re-reading this and laughing in delight and amazement.

*


Her worn black lace bra
filled my nostrils with the scent
of Chanel and sweat.
I lingered there longingly.
Here, for her I lingered long.

Guy! You're alive! :))

A figment of the
past, drifting through time. I yearned
for a sheer image
of her I could no longer
touch--it was an endless death.

We fled, in rye fields,
in deep clover, where waves pound
chalk scars of Dover,
or by the vine-hung Moselle,
the boom of a distant bell.

Catcher in the Rye
never caught my childhood dreams
rather fear realized,

Of adult woes and troubles
Holden, won't you bring me back?

It’s been so long since I read The Catcher in the Rye, all I remember about are the scenes in which he visits a prostitute and merely wants to talk, then has a nervous breakdown and sees the sidewalk coming up at him.

I visit a miss--
my desire, to talk--then
kiss a cold sidewalk.

That's a great one M! I haven't read it in about fifteen years myself; I just remember the scene where he says he wants to catch children in the rye fields. I was pretty disturbed as a young teen by the scenes with his professor and the young girl.

Dad's enlightenment
came in New Orleans' gutters,
face first off the bus,
away from drunken laughter
thinking "Who the hell am I?"

Ah, New Orleans! I haven’t been back there since before the storm. It’s one of the places I love reading about, that’s steeped in the atmosphere of a fascinating past.

I’d known them before,
in a nightmarish life--the,
long bar, the door, the
pearled knife, the cypress floor of
the Old Absinthe House.

Alex, M, Leslie, great chain this morning! Wonderful start to my day. (And yes, Leslie, I think I might be alive still. Thank you for noticing!)

Alex wrote: "...
Dad's enlightenment
came in New Orleans' gutters,
face first off the bus,
away from drunken laughter
thinking "Who the hell am I?" "

Alex, this is very strong! Really hit me hard. Nice!

Thanks a lot Guy! :) I'm lucky the 7-7 lines are allowed, haha.

M, you're reminding me of flaming shots of absinthe, from a YouTube video I saw recently.

Flames on faerie green
dance wildly on tongues, down throats
Hiss of life, of death.

Before absinthe became legal again, my father and I tried to make some. We’re lucky we’re still alive.

As the fée verte dripped
from a silver trowel, there
rose, from the wine stem’s
milky green, a lithe, long-haired
goddess in a bath towel.

Alex- very nice haiku :))

M, hmm, goddess? :P

Bombshell, by any
other name, is still a bomb-
shell, even if she's
in a bath towel, even
if she appears from a drink.

My first wife was a
bombshell. Whether short or tall,
I seem to forget.
What matter, if I recall
which was blonde and which brunette?

Such arduous quest
not to get past the bombshell.
It has been a week.

Bring Alison here,
she could be a mighty help.
Is she a blonde too?

:P Good morning, M!

Good morning, Leslie! Alison's hair is a dark, reddish brown.

*


The green was envy
and the brunette, bath-towelled,
her finger crooked,
her mute call to bring me near
and make my goose over cooked.

[Sorry about that.]

hahahaha, guy!

Hahaha

Sorry M, I promise never to bring up the bombshell ever again :)

goose in deep water
feet higher than its still head
a lost pillow song





.... ooops forgive me

LoL! And so very clever! Excellent!

i think that was an accident, Guy.

bahahahaahahahahha.

Bahahahaha,
black sheep, have you any ice?
The machine down the

hall, past the fake palm
tree, isn’t working, and I’ve
called the desk clerk twice.

Hahahaha nice, M :)

One for the old man
who wanted scotch on the rocks.
One for the little

boy, who wanted a
milk shake. Bahahaha have
you got any ice?

One for the bombshell,
and one for the dame whose niece
has a gaze that would

melt the tires on
a Formula One race car,
and what a chassis!

Hahahaha

Yes sir, yes sir, for
M's mice worth. Please include the
gorgeous bombshell too.

Good morning, Leslie!

Good morning, M! Good night for me lol

I thought we're letting go of the bombshell :P

I did sing, but your last haiku left me breathless haha

A bombshell a day
keeps the blues (but not the wife’s
steep lawyer) away.

Good night, then! I almost said, “Sweet dreams,” but those aren’t usually the kind that furnish material for gripping stories.

It's your fault haha

The mind is willing but the flesh is weak.

“The flesh is willing,
and the mind . . .” Wait a minute!
What Bible is this?

I should be ashamed of myself. I’m trying.


Before they knew what
had befallen them, they had
flung their garments, yea!

with vigor and vim,
all proclaiming the Gospel
according to M!

Excellent chain, M and Leslie!


The Gospel of M
left the reader wondering
if truth was her nose?

Or would it be found,
redone by what could be read
in Blunt's painted toes?

Lol! Oh my, Blunt is in the house again? :))

Thank you, Guy! I see you’ve brought us back to St. Emily.