1360 - Gone.

 Gone.

The breathing is slow.  

Getting slower.

Getting further apart.

In. Pause. 

Out. Pause.

I hold my breath.

In. Pause. 

Out. Pause.

More than a pause.

I wait. Transfixed.

Bleak reality.

There is no in.

Nothing.

Gone.

◊

1359 - The Edge of Belonging

 Image by ChatGPT

The Sunday Whirl presents twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  

This week's words are:

sorrow, dip, embers, moment, chain, wild, silver, free, trance, glimmer, faint, trim

The Edge of Belonging

I do know that I have always been one of life's observers, 

always standing slightly on the outside, watching.  

— Jane Green

Like embers floating high

Above and away from the flames.

Like silver glitter swirling in a globe.

The innocent bystander.

The dispassionate observer

Watching, trance like, from above,

The parade, the charade, of life around him.

People talking, engaging, interacting,

Swirl around him, unknowing, indifferent

To his underlying sorrow.

And yet, in fairness, it is not of their doing.

He chooses to be with them, but not in them.

Occasionally, with effort, he pushes himself

To dip into the wild, frightening maelstrom

That swirls around, engulfing him.

But he cannot stay, he doesn’t fit in.

They are free, he too is free, but separately so.

They are not of his tribe, not of his kin.

With them he feels chained, restrained,

More like a suspension than a solution,

In life but not of it.  Swirling.  Swirling.

A commensal diner at the table of life.

Now and then there is a moment,

A glimmer of acceptance, of dissolving 

Into the rapidly flowing tide of life,

A brief contact with a kindred soul.

Entering more a side eddy than the full current,

Life briefly swirls and tumbles then calms.

The parade moves on, leaving him beached.

Only to wonder why? Only to trim his sails,

To reduce expectations, to retreat

To the faint but safe region:

The edge of belonging.

◊ 

1358 - The Alchemist

 

Image by ChatGPT

The Sunday Whirl presents twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  

This weeks words are:

time, hear, lose, world, off, string, life, particles, reel, need, find 

The Alchemist

The room is dusty, the air pungent.

Strange liquids bubble and fume.

He sits alone in this unearthly gloom,

Dusty in a dust filled room.

His is a life of relentless toil

To find the secrets once foretold:

The magic process that legend sold

Of turning lead into gold.

He had heard of times, now long past,

Where such changes could be done.

So in this world, cut off from the sun,

He continues the quest, long since begun.

Smoke and dust particles swirled around 

He lost all sense of day and night

Driven by a need to win this fight

He toiled away to candle light.

Despite a string of abject failures

He persisted with his chemical tricks

At last he found the golden fix—

He turned his hand to cosmetics.

◊

1357 - The Boy Who Had Everything.

 

Image by ChatGPT

The Sunday Whirl presents twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  

This weeks words are:

favour, kind, jinx, spell, sorcery, gift, denial, child, style, rapture, truce, way

The Boy Who Had Everything. 

Born into extreme privilege,

Wanting for nothing.

No favours were refused,

All gifts given, were expected.

Denial of wants unheard of.

But is this where happiness lies?

The way to satisfaction?

Or is it a kind of treadmill,

A hedonic carrot and stick?

Can happiness lie in "more"?

Is money the source of joy?

The beguiling rapture of the ledger?

But...money begets power

And power absolutely begets money.

The sorcery of the image.

A "win at all costs" mentality,

A style of social warfare.

No spell or truce conceded,

Nor any prisoners taken—

Weaknesses that may jinx.

So, like a drain-hole on life,

Community wealth steadily moves

Away from those who need it

Towards those who only want it.

The French had a solution.

◊

1356 - The Library of Forgotten Dreams

 

Image by ChatGPT

The Sunday Whirl presents twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  

This weeks words are:

habit, flash, dreams, twist, shakes, rain, scars, knitted, glass, secret, pages, huddle

The Library of Forgotten Dreams.

Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, 

life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly.

-- Langston Hughes

The binding is hardened, the pages dusty.

Brown, brittle, they smell old.

The writing is ornate, with curlicue flourishes.

The pages hold stories from long ago,

Dreams, as old and as dusty as the book,

Fill the pages, secrets held by the past.

Scars too, and habits begun and dropped;

Twists of life from long ago.

Sometimes a smell or a particular tune 

Will trigger a flash of recollection.

The author, not a particularly apt term

For an unaware contributor to this volume,

Will huddle over the pages.  Searching.

Searching with a concerned look

And knitted brow, they shake their head:

Did this really happen?  Did I do this?

Like rain on a glass pane,

The past is mottled and blurred

And just a little bit unbelievable.

◊

1355 - Echoes of Past Glory

 

Image by ChatGPT

The Sunday Whirl presents twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  

This weeks words are:

lock, fades, echo, out, voices, burn, show, friends, time, power, hear, second

Echoes of Past Glory

The windows are cracked, dusty.

"Here's looking at you, kid."

Cobwebs have long taken over.

"After all, tomorrow is another day."

The chains on the doors rusty—

"Elementary, my dear Watson”

The locks and hinges too.

"There's no place like home."

Inside is musty, dusty and old.

"I love the smell of napalm in the morning."

The red velvet curtain faded, tattered.

"All the world's a stage."

Posters from the shows 

Of the glory days, faded, curled.

"You can't handle the truth!"

Voices from past shows echo

Through the circle and stalls,

"Houston, we have a problem." 

Memories from a time long past.

"That’s not a knife… That’s a knife."

But there is no-one there to hear them.

"I see dead people."

Will the powers grant a second life?

"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."

Will friends come out in support?

"To be, or not to be, that is the question."

Does a candle still burn brightly

For this dead relic of the past?

"I'll be back."  

◊

1354 - The Warriors

 

Image by ChatGPT

The Sunday Whirl presents twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  

This weeks words are:

hollow clawing bruised broken spell spiralling fog halo bound trace dragon crimson

Poets & Storytellers invite us to use the word "torch".

The Warriors

Bruised but not broken,

Sword drawn, shield raised,

The warriors stand defiant.

The field of battle crimson with blood,

A spell in the battle permits reflection.

It is not for the warriors to pick the fight

They are bound by the hollow dreams

Of distant leaders. Drawn into the spiralling

Fog of ego fuelled aspirations, to conquer

Foreign lands, green and inviting.

Do they feel remorse, a trace of regret,

As they fight for a cause not their own?

These warriors deal in a clawing, ugly world,

They give full loyalty to the dragon,

No harps and haloes await them.

◊

1353 - Nobis solis culpa est

 

Image by ChatGPT

It initially refused to provided one as it 'didn't comply with content policy.'

The Sunday Whirl presents twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  

This weeks words are a pretty bleak lot: 

past, climate, water, trudge, sludge, sodden, despite, despot, rise, demise, few, inner

"Nobis solis culpa est."

(The fault is ours alone.)

They trudge,

Trudge through sodden fields,

Trudge through sludge filled ditches,

Searching for water, food, shelter.

Anything really.  They trudge because they must.

Children, crying, cling to their mothers.

The men carry the load, the inner one as well.

There is a permanent climate of fear,

There are predators, man and beast, in the shadows.

A rag-tag, rag covered, rag and bone army

Through bleak, grey ruins, they trudge on. 

The demise of their past dreams, past lands,

The wretched, stinking skeletons of a despot’s ego.

Few challenged his rise, most praised it,

Despite the obvious warning signs

They cheered his rise, ignored his words.

Where are they now? Vanished. Silent.

Do they regret? Do they too trudge?  

Probably.

◊

The title is a riff off "Non Nobis, Domine" 

Where god is give credit for glorious victories.

1352 - Smoke and Mirrors

 

The Sunday Whirl presents twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  

This weeks words are: 

touch, hum, flash, faint, gather, staff, tricks, head, snap, bits, cast, shadows 

Smoke and Mirrors

Act I.

Good Evening 

Ladies and gentlemen,

Boys and girls!

I have great pleasure in introducing

The Amazing Lorenzo!

A flash of light, a puff of smoke,

And a very dapper gentleman

With red satin lined cape 

Silk top hat on his head,

Magic staff in his hand,

Steps from the hazy shadows 

And bows to the audience

Gathered in the room before him.

The children are mesmerised

By his every unbelieveable trick—

Things vanish with a snap of his fingers.

The hum of the saw and the scream

Of his beautiful assistant, who faints

Halfway through being sawn in half,

Only to reappear, apparenty untouched.

Cards are cast into his hat

Only to reappear as bits of colourful silk.

And then, with a puff of smoke

He is gone, as mysteriously as he arrived.

Just the faint smell of gunpowder lingers.

Announcer

That was the Amazing Lorenzo!

Give him a round of applause.

Act II

Good Evening 

Ladies and gentlemen,

Residents of Utopia!

I have great pleasure in introducing

Lawrence Greaseball!

The next Member for Utopia!

Flashing lights, a loud drum roll,

The slick car-salesman type,

With his smile on high beam

A logo on the cap on his head,

And assistants and staff at hand,

Steps from the stage shadows 

Arms wide to the crowd

Gathered in the room before him.

The faithful cheer and clap

The cynics are alert for his tricks

Deficits vanish with a snap of his fingers.

The quarter acre block is no longer a dream

If he is elected as their local member.

Taxes will be cast aside. For some.

Jobs will not be touched, well just a bit.

In the land of milk and honey,

Life will hum along for everyone.

Thank you.  I love you all.

Cast your votes for me and all will be fine.

Then he is gone, as mysteriously as he arrived.

Just the faint smell of aftershave lingers.

Announcer

That was Lawrence Greaseball!

Give him a round of applause.

◊

1351 - The Fighter

 

The Sunday Whirl presents twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  

This weeks words are: 

bell, mimic, blade, gaze, hills, jar, soothe, mind, stars, timid, beastly, sea

Elephant's Child supplied these words as well: Ripening, Turmoil, creation, vineyard, one.

The Fighter

“Only the dead have seen the end of war.”

— George Santayana

He has had enough.

He stands, gazing out to sea.

Behind, the hills comfort him, 

Vineyards with their ripening load

Offer a respite from the turmoil.

Above him, the stars look down

And also question ‘why?’.

For years he has fought the good fight,

But still they came, one battle after another, 

Mimicking the waves, a ceaseless creation

His spirit and blade were razor sharp then.

His mind dwelling on the futility of it all now.

For years he has fought. And gained what?

No bell tolls for the start or finish,

Nor any bells ring for the fallen he has held

As they too questioned why they were dying? 

He had no words to comfort them,

No words to soothe their troubled hearts,

Collateral damage in the unequal fight.

It was not for want of courage,

These were no weak or timid fighters.

But strong hearts were not enough to save them

The enemy, well resourced and ruthless,

Rebounds and returns, time over time,

A genie that will not be jarred or boxed.

He has had enough.

He stands, gazing out to sea.

Behind, the hills comfort him, 

Vineyards with their ripening load

Offer a respite from the turmoil.

Above him, the stars look down

And also question ‘why?’.

◊

1350 - Hindsight in Paradise

 

The Sunday Whirl presents twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  

This weeks words are: 

enchantment, latch, apples, chatter, crave, catalyst, catastrophe, wings, gift, sing , miss, limit

Hindsight in Paradise

Long ago, when the Big Bang was still 

a recent and painful memory,

Birds filled the trees, to flutter, to chatter,

To sing, to flap their wings,

To do their regular birdy stuff.

Other animals roamed the plains

Sure, they killed each other now and then

But generally, it was a time of enchantment,

A time of sufficiency, a time without craving.

A time when every creature knew their limits.

Nothing could prepare this idyllic space

For the catastrophe about to be set free.

Man!  What a disaster that was.

Gifted paradise by some heavenly father

It was the catalyst for all the dismay to follow.

In retrospect, (Oh, hindsight, I love you so!)

Maybe it would have been different

With a heavenly Mother: not the dire consequences

Just unconditional cuddly maternal love.

These vengeful male gods just miss the plot.

I grant you that the weadling snake, 

Made temptation to lift the latch 

To the forbidden orchard hard to resist.

But consider life today if some bloody parrots

Had eaten the apples before Adam got to them?

◊

Me? Bitter that the bloody parrots ate all my apples?

Yeah.

1349 - The Companion

 

The Sunday Whirl presents twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  

This weeks words are: 

ruinous, cards, glass, alluring, spin, dirt, flutter, secrets, roots, ghost, glitters, web 

The Companion

"...with artificial intelligence we’re summoning the demon."

-- Elon Musk

The woman’s face,

A caricature, looks at me.

The screen reflects my face,

Old and lined, a glass pane

To the ruinous toll of years.

“Tell me about her,” it says,

Its tones alluring but mechanical.

It sifts through the cards of my life,

Shuffling memories like a dealer

In a game I cannot win.

It spins my stories with precision,

Pulling secrets from forgotten corners.

The flutter of her laughter,

The dirt on her dress,

The roots of my longing—

All woven into its web of code.

“What do you remember of her?”

It calls forth a ghost:

Her smile, her gaze,

Her accent, her unconditional love.

But no breath, no warmth—

Just an echo of what was.

And yet, I press on,

Clutching at the glitters of memory,

Is this counselling?  Maybe.

For even in this hollow company,

I find some solace,

A whisper of life spun anew.

◊

1348 - Reflections

 

The Sunday Whirl presents twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.  

This weeks words are: 

splinter, steaming, shadows, old, mirror, rose, honey, crow, edge, gaze, stone, ghosts 

Reflections.

How do I confront aging? With a wonder and a terror. 

-- Keanu Reeves

I don’t like mirrors.

They should be splintered, damned.

At best, left to the bathroom’s steaming effects.

Each day I see the world but not as it sees me

Rose tinted glasses, milk and honey.

I gaze at young girls and enjoy their beauty

They see me and think he’s a nice old guy.

At my age I am on the edge of joining

The ghosts who inhabit the shadows.

Crows will sit mournfully on my headstone.

And so back to mirrors, inforced reflection,

This guy in front to me, who is he?

Where has he been, and whence going?

The evidence is before me.

I don’t like mirrors.

◊