Image: ChatGPT with some PS fiddling.
Image: ChatGPT with some PS fiddling.
The Sunday Whirl presented these twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.
stuck water words winds wither still cluster bridge spell wicked temples realm
But we do.
Remembrance Day.
Where the same words are said,
Over and over, year after year.
But they have never stuck,
Never been absorbed—
They vanish on the winds of…
Of what? Winds of arrogance,
Winds of expediency perhaps.
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Wars still happen.
Young men and women still die.
The old and the covetous,
Safe in their palaces and temples,
Fall under the spells of the voices,
Wicked and ambitious, beguiling,
That whisper a cluster of seductive lies,
Lies that they can extend
The realm they control
With no cost to them.
But not without cost.
The joyous hopes of the young
Wither and crumble,
Thrown off the bridge of ego
Into the cold and turbulent waters
Of expediency.
◊
Remembrance Day,
Lest we forget.
But we do.
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The Sunday Whirl presented these twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.
dead pines penance mourns folk glimmer graveyard remorse ghostly fragments lover shadowy
The Watcher
The crab looked at him
From the shadowy, glimmering pool.
The faint movement of the eyes,
Showing it was not dead, just still,
Just watching carefully.
He continued along the beach,
The cold, ghostly eyes watched
Him depart, showing neither pleasure
Nor remorse. Passive relief.
◊
The tide had burdened the shore
With a graveyard of plastic.
Like a lover scorned,
The sea returned our gifts.
I wonder, he thought,
Whether the planet mourns?
Whether it pines for the times
When folk still cared for it?
Before we fragmented.
◊
Back in the rock pool—
Displaying patience, not penance,
The crab watched.
And waited.
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The Sunday Whirl presented these twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.
preys brews fly glow forest cave monster spin hidden filter head stick
Flying Solo
A faint glow through the curtain
Announces the sun has risen.
Above a bed, a fan spins slowly.
There is a large lump in the bed
Beneath the woollen blankets.
Inside this blanket cave is a man.
He stirs, slowly, reluctantly.
Eventually his head sticks out
From where it had been hidden,
Groans and retreats again,
Until the persistent drone
Of a lone circling blowfly,
As urgent and manic
As only a blowfly can be,
Becomes too annoying to filter out.
He pulls back the curtain
And surveys the rich forest
That was once his lawn,
Wonders idly if there be monsters
In those woods, a monster
That preys on blowflies, perhaps?
Probably not, he decides.
He sighs, pulls the curtain closed,
Brews a strong coffee, drinks it,
Puts in yellow foam earplugs
And returns to bed.
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The Sunday Whirl presented these twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.
anchor search moment laugh find inhibits comfort always want squirrel spaz auto
The Pitch
An advertising man proposes a name for a new cider.
“You want something that welcomes,
That oozes comfort and familiarity,
That people will know and search for,
Something that stops them for a moment,
Makes them laugh, makes them happy,
Something that puts them on autopilot,
Something that makes them buy,
Buy by the crateful, to squirrel away
Beneath the stairs, always ready,
So that it is anchored in their mind,
So that it is easy to find when needed,
Where nothing inhibits their desire.
It is spicy. It is made from Jazz apples,
I recommend you call it SPAZ.”
“No.”
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The Sunday Whirl presented these twelve words for us to use in a creative writing piece.
show backbone beings believe bit storm stream ring scratch tempting devil hunch
The Devil Fish
The storm was coming.
It showed in the slate grey clouds
Building on the horizon.
But he believed
That it was the best time to fish.
Besides, he had promised
To bring home some dinner.
So he was tempted
To fish, just a bit longer…
Sensible beings were already ashore
But he had a theory, more a hunch,
That the fishing is best in a storm.
All he needed was the backbone to hold firm.
He let the line stream out
For just one last try.
Nothing.
No nibbles.
Not even a pull, a scratch on the line.
Just rain.
Torrential.
Drenching.
Rain.
◊
Back in the pub,
With a ring of enthralled mates,
He told his tale of derringdo,
Of his fight with the Devil Fish,
The one that got away.
“It was this big”, he said,
Holding up his hands,
“Between the eyes”, he added.
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