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 |   The simplicity of my day to day. |
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This is where I write my thoughts, feelings and my daily trials, tribulations and happy things
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| How about having some more fun with word couplets: black stallion, sugar cookies, whipped cream. farm hand, peanut butter and grape jam. Jack, the farm hand, put down his stable rake and without washing his hands unwrapped his peanut butter and grape jam sandwiches. His favourite horse, a black stallion called Midnight, shook his head. “What are you looking at, Midnight? You wouldn’t enjoy peanut butter. It’s not for horses.” Jack sat in the straw and ate. To him, horse manure smelled fine, it certainly didn’t put him off his food. The horse watched every bite. “You’re making me feel sorry for you, aren’t you?” “The horse’s lips trembled. “Okay you’ve won.” Jack opened his lunch box and found his wife’s sugar cookies and a container of whipped cream. “Look what Jenny made, just for us.” Midnight opened his mouth and ground his large teeth. Jack dipped a sugar cookie into the cream and offered it to the magnificent beast on an outstretched, flat hand. The owner of the horse, famous horse breeder entered the stable and laughed seeing Midnight and Jack standing side by side, unaware they both had sugary cream all over their mouths. |
| Have fun with these word couplets: black silk, blue dress, bow tie, corner booth, police sirens and the coroner. “The Coroner gave the verdict of accidental death!” Sonia was incredulous when she spoke the words. “It wasn’t accidental, my daughter was poisoned, I’m sure of it.” “Your son-in-law stated that he thought he was using peppermint leaves to make her cup of tea.” “He knew only too well it was Oleander, but how to prove it, Mary?” “You can’t do anything about it now but accept it.” “I’ll never do that!” Sonia’s eyes flared with anger. The funeral was a subdued affair. The body of Louise was dressed in her favourite blue dress and black silk stockings. She appeared to be sleeping peacefully. “She can’t be dead!” Her mother sobbed , turning her gaze onto her daughter’s husband, hatred in her eyes. It was a few weeks after the funeral when Sonia sat in a corner booth in her favourite café sipping a latte when she saw, through the window, ‘the bastard,’ as she’d begun to think of her former son-in-law. Dressed in an evening suit and sporting a flashy red bow tie, he was holding the arm of a gorgeous young woman, escorting her to his car. Sonia’s blood boiled, a red mist of anger filled her mind and without thinking she left the café. She followed his car back to his house and as he stepped out and was walking around to open his passenger’s car door, Sonia planted her foot down hard on the accelerator and ran him down. Police sirens filled the still night air. Neighbours left their homes to see what the commotion could be in their normally peaceful street. They would have seen a young man, blood pouring from a massive head wound, lying dead on the road and a middle aged woman handcuffed and escorted away from the scene. |
| Prompt: Take any cliche and subvert it to bring it alive again in a poem or a blog entry. Here's an example of Shooting Star Out here every night, rifle in hand, picking them off. Trouble is, they're fearless. Kill one and at the speed of light another takes its place. ONLY TIME WILL TELL That clock that hangs upon the wall Ticks away those hours and days Its face is blank yet observes it all And sooner or later it betrays |
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