Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Monday, November 26, 2012
Monday, November 5, 2012
Umm..
Spread out your feathers
Startle your whiskers
Stretch your feet
Uncurl your tail
Wiggle your feelers
Feel the bone in your wings
Itch your scales
Brush your teeth
For it will take a very long time
(The previous stanza did not rhyme)
To evolve into that
Oh shoot, dammit, drat
Which animal would need
Wings, scales and webbed feet?
Perhaps in a world
That has fallen sick and hurled
Its oceans over every shore
Leaving no land and therefore
A need to swim
And to fly at whim
This was amusing
For while I was drawing
Was simply reclining
No poem came to mind
No theories opined
Only animals combined.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Chapter One
From the road, a cobbled path led to a wrought-iron arch. Through this arch was an ill-maintained garden, long overgrown with weeds and wild berries. Every few feet, blue bells peeped out over the little white flowers of the berry bushes. A long-winded mud path showed the way to a heavy door with a metal knocker adorning its center. To the corner rested a three-legged footstool. Creaking on its hinges, the door opened into the vast living room. It was modestly furnished with a sofa-set by the fire place, a table- upon which rested a dim lamp, a book and a pair of spectacles- and a grandfather clock in the far corner. To the right of the room was a door that led to a dining room and to the left, broad stairs went up to the rest of the home.
On the first floor, Sam sat in the study that used to be her father's. He would sit in that stuffy, cabin-like study for hours at end reading and writing till his eyes were sore from the text and his fingers stiff around the fountain pen he held. Busy scribbling down one of her latest masterpieces, Sam was lost, deep in thought, with her glasses nearly slipping off the end of her nose. "This just isn't right.", she whispered to herself and threw her father's old, worn pen into the ink pot- making blotches all over her long essay. She sat in the shapely, velvet blue chair, rocking restlessly, thinking of a way to fix her work, searching for inspiration.
Hearing the moaning squeak from her overused chair, her mother popped her head into the study and let out a gentle, "Sam?". Sam jumped in her seat, startled by the sudden break in monotonous creaking. "Searching for inspiration, are we?", asked mother mockingly. "Yes, though my brain seems to have no more space for inspiration of any sort! I am very inspired. But not for the topic I write of.", said Sam weakly. "Maybe the market place will be of some help. Get us some bread for dinner, won't you?", saying this, she left a basket at the door and left before Sam could refute. "That sly, old woman knows me all-too-well.", laughed Sam after her as she took off her father's white-turned-yellow work shirt to reveal her simple frock- laced with light blue and dotted all over with little blue flowers. She dusted off her sleeve cuffs, wishing she had straight sleeves like her father's instead. She pocketed some coins and her unfinished work, picked up the basket and fluttered out of the study. The coins jingled in her little pocket as she hummed down the stairs. She set down the basket to pull open the front door and left.
The sun pierced her eyes. It had been days since she left the house or even sat by a window- bent over her work, she merely stopped for dinner. She slowed down her pace and considered going back in for a large, straw hat but decided against it. Her eyes passed over the garden that seemed to have grown considerably since she last saw it. She never took the mud path. Straight through the growth, she shuffled through- looking down at the freshly bloomed bells and the little berries sprouting. She noticed a white rose bush growing in a corner and made her way toward it. She sat down, examining the plant- looked around to find anymore. She found a baby snail climbing along the fresh shoot of the bush. She put out her finger and waited patiently as it climbed onto it. Touching its mucilaginous feelers, she timed how long it took for them to extend out again. This tiny creature made her forget her work and engrossed her completely. She laid out her coins on the ground and made a passage for the snail. She set him down on the first coin and waited for him to walk over their cool surfaces. She sat cross legged, head in her hands, staring at the tiny snail follow the trail back to the rose bush. She christened him Shell-o and felt around her pocket for more coins. She found her essay and took it out. She began reading it aloud to Shell-o, asking for his opinion. He seemed to have very good taste in English literature and found him a sympathetic critic. He gave her some curious suggestions and she suddenly cried, "You're right! Come along, we must fix this at once." With that, Sam pocketed her coins, her work, a good many rosebush leaves and a rose (just in case) and tenderly lifted Shell-o on her finger and bounded back to the house.
She pulled the footstool, knocked hard several times and waited twiddling her toes. Her mother came to the door and on seeing the basket on the floor, shook her head with a sigh before yanking it open. Sam jumped inside with a big grin on her long face and her big, brown eyes beaming at her mother. "You were right, Mum-o! Inspiration is out there!", saying this she lifted Shell-o to show her mother and then darted back up to her study. Weakly, mother followed her upstairs and looked inside to find her propped up at her desk again, with Shell-o surrounded by a bunch of leaves by her ink pot. Sam looked ever so pleased with herself, that mother just smiled and left with the basket, half wishing she wasn't so much like her father.
On the first floor, Sam sat in the study that used to be her father's. He would sit in that stuffy, cabin-like study for hours at end reading and writing till his eyes were sore from the text and his fingers stiff around the fountain pen he held. Busy scribbling down one of her latest masterpieces, Sam was lost, deep in thought, with her glasses nearly slipping off the end of her nose. "This just isn't right.", she whispered to herself and threw her father's old, worn pen into the ink pot- making blotches all over her long essay. She sat in the shapely, velvet blue chair, rocking restlessly, thinking of a way to fix her work, searching for inspiration.
Hearing the moaning squeak from her overused chair, her mother popped her head into the study and let out a gentle, "Sam?". Sam jumped in her seat, startled by the sudden break in monotonous creaking. "Searching for inspiration, are we?", asked mother mockingly. "Yes, though my brain seems to have no more space for inspiration of any sort! I am very inspired. But not for the topic I write of.", said Sam weakly. "Maybe the market place will be of some help. Get us some bread for dinner, won't you?", saying this, she left a basket at the door and left before Sam could refute. "That sly, old woman knows me all-too-well.", laughed Sam after her as she took off her father's white-turned-yellow work shirt to reveal her simple frock- laced with light blue and dotted all over with little blue flowers. She dusted off her sleeve cuffs, wishing she had straight sleeves like her father's instead. She pocketed some coins and her unfinished work, picked up the basket and fluttered out of the study. The coins jingled in her little pocket as she hummed down the stairs. She set down the basket to pull open the front door and left.
The sun pierced her eyes. It had been days since she left the house or even sat by a window- bent over her work, she merely stopped for dinner. She slowed down her pace and considered going back in for a large, straw hat but decided against it. Her eyes passed over the garden that seemed to have grown considerably since she last saw it. She never took the mud path. Straight through the growth, she shuffled through- looking down at the freshly bloomed bells and the little berries sprouting. She noticed a white rose bush growing in a corner and made her way toward it. She sat down, examining the plant- looked around to find anymore. She found a baby snail climbing along the fresh shoot of the bush. She put out her finger and waited patiently as it climbed onto it. Touching its mucilaginous feelers, she timed how long it took for them to extend out again. This tiny creature made her forget her work and engrossed her completely. She laid out her coins on the ground and made a passage for the snail. She set him down on the first coin and waited for him to walk over their cool surfaces. She sat cross legged, head in her hands, staring at the tiny snail follow the trail back to the rose bush. She christened him Shell-o and felt around her pocket for more coins. She found her essay and took it out. She began reading it aloud to Shell-o, asking for his opinion. He seemed to have very good taste in English literature and found him a sympathetic critic. He gave her some curious suggestions and she suddenly cried, "You're right! Come along, we must fix this at once." With that, Sam pocketed her coins, her work, a good many rosebush leaves and a rose (just in case) and tenderly lifted Shell-o on her finger and bounded back to the house.
She pulled the footstool, knocked hard several times and waited twiddling her toes. Her mother came to the door and on seeing the basket on the floor, shook her head with a sigh before yanking it open. Sam jumped inside with a big grin on her long face and her big, brown eyes beaming at her mother. "You were right, Mum-o! Inspiration is out there!", saying this she lifted Shell-o to show her mother and then darted back up to her study. Weakly, mother followed her upstairs and looked inside to find her propped up at her desk again, with Shell-o surrounded by a bunch of leaves by her ink pot. Sam looked ever so pleased with herself, that mother just smiled and left with the basket, half wishing she wasn't so much like her father.
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