1922 - Accommodation 101

 

Image by ChatGPT

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

plumes tufts mosses fantasy fabric filtering threads forest cracks layer ruffle flow

Accommodation 101

Cobwebs.

Dust.  A lot of dust.

Weeds—

In tufts and plumes,

To be honest, a forest.

Moss-covered steps.

Crumbling brickwork.

Peeling paint.

Mildewed and cracked walls.

Tattered, faded, fabric curtains,

Hanging by threads.

Overflowing letterbox.

Layers of rubbish,

Tins, bottles, wrappers, newspapers,

Enough to excite a legion

Of future archeologists,

Built up on the decaying verandah.

A stray cat, unruffled,

Looks through a taped-together window.

Sunlight flows in, filtering 

Through the filthy glass,

Adding the feeling of

A Gothic fantasy

To the premises.

In short—

A typical student house.

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1921 - Twelve Words, Two Eggs

 

MLMM Monday Wordle #493
presents the following words for us to work with:

smug, noise, celebration, assumed, gentle, quiet, reserved, delivered, surprised, guest, one, unkind

Twelve Words, Two Eggs.

He stepped from the quiet 

Of the morning street

Into the noise and bustle

Of the local café.

A celebration? No.

Just the unrestrained 

Chatter of the regular crowd.

“A table for one, please”

He is led down the back,

Passing tables "reserved"

For more organised guests.

He had assumed, as always, 

There would be a table.

But would not have been

Upset or surprised if not.

It was not smugness,

Just a gentle view on life:

What will be, will be.

He orders his usual

And it is duly delivered.

He uncaps his pen,

A fountain pen, blue ink.

It would not be unkind 

To call him ‘old school’—

He enjoys the ritual.

His pen hovers 

Over the blank page…

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1920 - Immoral Compass

 

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

velvet compass echo random rust silver shadow pebble stone drone clip dry

Immoral Compass

The ribbons are faded.

The velvet liner too.

The pins are rusted.

The silver is tarnished.

Recompense for a life lost.

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Somewhere, 

With a well-clipped lawn

And white pebble paths,

A headstone

Declares the dry truth

Of a life cut short

By the random whims

Of the greedy or ambitious.

Their decisions

Cast long shadows

And echo through time,

Through broken families

For generations to come.

◊

Marcus liked to equate

Human society to a hive.

There is some truth in that:

Queens have drones and workers

To do their bidding,

To die for her, if needed.

Kings have soldiers.

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Footnote: Marcus Aurelius (121–180 CE), 

Roman emperor and Stoic philosopher, 

frequently used the beehive as a metaphor for human society.

1919 - Curved Downhill

 

MLMM Monday Wordle #492
presents the following words for us to work with:

biscuit, passed, duke, found, slight, princess, curved, sheet, alone, downhill, happy, companion

Curved Downhill

9:30am

The morning tea trolley

Is found

Moving room to room:

Tea, coffee, biscuits.

Room 403 – Mr Ellington.

“Good morning, Duke!”

“Good morning, Princess!”

The slightly built lady smiles—

“The usual?”

“Yes, please.”

He is alone.

His wife, companion

Of forty years

Passed away last year.

He is waiting.

Not unhappy.

Just waiting.

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3:30pm

The afternoon tea trolley

Is found

Moving room to room:

Tea, coffee, biscuits.

Another—longer—trolley,

Passes by.

Its contents covered by a sheet.

The tea trolley

Reaches Room 403.

It is empty.

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1918 - Time Machine

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

waves cake strays strand churning spot buzz colors sudden flow early stirring

D'verse Poets has an Open Night too.

Time Machine.

I

The Kenwood—it was hers.

It shudders and buzzes

As it churns the thick mixture.

Given the chance

It would walk off the bench.

Did once.

It has a fruitcake mixture in it.

Granny’s recipe, by inheritance,

Mrs Kiers’ recipe, by attribution.

Butter, sugar, eggs, flour,

Spices, strands of peel,

Lots of fruit.  

No brandy, she was Methodist.

Finally, too much for the machine,

I take over the stirring.

The mixture flops, not flows

(fruitcake mix does not flow)

Into the paper lined tin,

And into the oven.

Then comes the aroma…

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II

The aroma coming from the oven

Is a time machine—

Suddenly the mind strays 

To earlier days—

To memories that come

In the waves and colours

Of a special spot, 

A kitchen in my childhood:

Her work-worn hands,

Her face lined by life,

Her practical frocks and aprons,

The patterned lino floor

Of the kitchen where fruitcakes

Just magically appeared

From her old gas oven.

Same recipe.

Same Kenwood.

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