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15 for 15 entries
Forum entries |
Created for the "15 for 15 Contest --- Closed"  .Copies of my forum posts. |
| June 19 - Moss |
| Prompt image: http://www.writing.com/main/images/item_id/1741033-June-19---Moss Tall and straight and dressed in green The sentinels, for many years, Just watched the moss tide moving in. They calm their younger siblings' fears The sentinels for many, years After this tide first took seed, They calm their younger siblings' fears A tree is stronger than a weed After this tide first took seed It took some time to make its mark A tree is stronger than a weed And light will always conquer dark It took some time to make its mark They never saw it as a threat And light will always conquer dark. And so they stand and watch it yet. They never saw it as a threat Just watched the moss tide moving in And so they stand and watch it yet. Tall and straight, and dressed in green. |
| June 17 - Ice |
| Prompt image: http://www.writing.com/main/images/item_id/1741029-June-17---Ice To be out of one's element. Everything here is made of water, and cold. Our presence is resented, our warmth, our otherness. We can choose: we could let the environment push us away, or we could try to change it to suit our needs. Or, we could simply carve our a corner that will allow us to survive, and observe the world around us. A world of cold, a world of water; a world apart sitting above and below us. |
| June 16 - Glass |
| Prompt image: http://www.writing.com/main/images/item_id/1741028-June-16---Glass He had seen it. That was the worst part of the whole wretched business. He had been so close. His claws dug into the ground as he was dragged back to his cell. It wouldn't make his captors release him, but at least it would slow them down while he feasted his eyes on the sunlight. There was something unique about the colours of nature, and he wanted to remember them all. Until, all at once, it was too much. He released his hold on the dirt and closed his eyes. He has seen freedom, been close enough to smell it, only to lose it again. He swore that he would never again try to escape; even while he knew that he would, in truth, never stop. |
| June 15 - Dog |
| Prompt image: http://www.writing.com/main/images/item_id/1741026-June-15---Dog "What is it?" "I don't know. Some made thing, leave it alone." "But what is it? The humans sat down to eat food here, and they left this behind. Maybe it's food too!" "Does it smell like food?" "Wait a bit... no, it smells like human." "Well, yeah. What else?" "It smells hard, like that ball thing for chasing. Maybe this is for chasing. Come over here and give it a nudge." "I don't know about this..." "Come on! Look, it's not doing anything. Push it with your paw and see if it moves." "Okay, here goes... Hey! What's that noise? I don't like it. Leave it alone." "I don't think I like it either, now. It sounds alive. Maybe it will move if I bite it." "No! Put it down! Look, the humans are coming back!" "...have fallen out of my pocket. It'll be around here somewhere. Are you still ringing it?" "Of course I - oh, wait, it's gone to voicemail. I'll dial again, hang on..." "Hey, what's that dog doing? No! Bad dog! Drop it!" "Hush, you'll scare him! Nice doggie, what have you got there, eh? Give! Come on. Here boy, give it here..." * * * "Oof! That's the last time I play chase with a dog. I'm exhausted!" "Well, maybe if you took better care of your phone..." "Oh, shut up! I didn't drop it on purpose. I'm just glad to get it back in one piece." "You're sure it's not broken at all? Does everything still work?" "I think so... yeah, it's all here. Hey, I left the camera app open. And... there's a new photo? Ha! Lookit this - those mutts must've stood on the button or something..." "Oh, that is beyond cute! Here, give me the phone for a minute..." "What are you doing? You stay out of my Facebook account..." "Relax, I'm just... there. You have a new wallpaper: one canine self-portrait. Maybe it'll remind you not to keep your phone in your trouser pocket." |
| June 14 - Gun |
| Prompt image: http://www.writing.com/main/images/item_id/1741023-June-14---Gun Don't look at the eyes. See the object, imagine the target rings rippling outwards, aim and shoot. One target, one shot. Move on. The heart is a painted symbol, not a vital organ. Shoot well, take pride in accuracy. It's not life and death, it's a test of skill. Victim. Murder. Corpse. Scrub those words from the brain. Target. Mission. Result. It's a job, nothing more. But don't look at the eyes. For they can steal your soul, one piece at a time. Placed third |
| June 13 - Wheat |
| Prompt image: http://www.writing.com/main/images/item_id/1741020-June-13---Wheat White heads hang heavy Stalks bowed beneath the weight Fields ready for the reaper They won't have long to wait White heads hang heavy The end-of-year account Is somehow always showing A negative amount White heads hang heavy White vans drive away Our land for generations Where we can't afford to stay |
| June 12 - Turtle |
| Prompt image: http://www.writing.com/main/images/item_id/1741018-June-12---Turtle A shadow loomed overhead. In his hiding place, the fish trembled with indecision. To hide from the predator, or chase off the intruder? It all depended on whether the creature was hungry for sea anemone, or for... something else. The turtle passed without a backward glance, apparently not hungry at all. The clown fish emerged from his shelter and pulled a face at the retreating shell. "And don't come back!" he called out, just loud enough to sound as though he meant it. The turtle flapped a lazy flipper and arched gracefully away through the clear, tropical waters. |
| June 10 - Rails |
| Prompt image: http://www.writing.com/main/images/item_id/1741014-June-10---Rails Freedom. We all want it. We all need it, to some degree. Without a level of freedom, we stagnate and die, like plants kept in pots too small for their roots. But, as with most things, the key to true freedom is balance. Consider a car and a train. The driver of a car can go just about anywhere. He can take a turn at any junction - he can even go off-road and cross fields. Stunt drivers have even been known to navigate cars through hotel lobbies and up flights of stairs1. The train, meanwhile, can only go where the rails are laid. Even at junction, it is the points controller, not the driver, who decided where the train will go. At first glance, the train seems a poor, fettered vehicle compared to the freedom of the car. But as you sit at a level crossing, watching a train speed past, it probably doesn't feel like you have the upper hand. The same rails that dictate the train's course allow it to run twice as fast as a car, and haul many times the load of even the largest lorries. And, how many kids say they want to drive cars when they grow up? Footnotes |
| June 9 - Surf |
| Prompt image: http://www.writing.com/main/images/item_id/1741011-June-9---Surf Holding his breath, L29 let his scuba equipment sink, the empty oxygen tank falling out of sight in seconds. As the collapsible board emerged from the soles of his shoes, L29 reached forward and felt for the line that had landed in the water ahead of him. He clipped it to the harness around his waist and hips, letting the helicopter lift him up and forward. As he rose smoothly through the waves, he signalled his partner in the chopper. Their long-established working relationship had given rise to a complex sign language that served them well on missions. A single thumb angled backwards told the sniper sitting high above exactly who was following, and from how far. As L29 adjusted to the drag of the wind on his rapidly drying wetsuit, he heard the crack of his partner's single shot. He relaxed. Another mission accomplished. |
| June 8 - Play |
| Prompt image: http://www.writing.com/main/images/item_id/1741009-June-8---Play Hunted. Pursued by the pack. Trapped by gravity, at the mercy of wind currents. I fall, I feel them closing in. I fly up again, each jump a little weaker than the last, until the inevitable hand touches my surface. But then - a second chance! The leader is knocked aside, his grip loosened, and the force of the jolt giving me new lease of life. I see water ahead, and fly over it with glee. Will I find refuge in a new land? Or will I be returned at last? Summoned by that most powerful of incantations: "Can we have our ball back?" [copy of forum post: "June 8 - Play" ] |
| June 7 - Dragon |
| Prompt Image: http://www.writing.com/main/images/item_id/1741007-June-7---Dragon (fantasy image, woman posing with dragon) Grisnelda knew how to make an entrance, that was for sure. The lightening strikes, the living hair, the ornate staff - not to mention that dress, well, it added up to a pretty impressive look. But the dragon was just tacky. I mean, we've all got them. It's not as if owning a dragon is anything special, but Grisnelda just had to go all OTT. As usual. The poor dragon was under so many cosmetic spells it was a wonder it could move at all. Huge spine raised all over its back, ears and horns pulled out of shape, and feet shrunk down to stumps. You could see the distress in the creature's eyes, and for a moment I wondered if all the spells used were cosmetic. The open-mouthed roar, not uncommon in show dragons, seemed closed to a look of pain. I cast a glance at my own dragon, sitting patiently beside the door. No-one could call me sentimental, but I would never torture my stead for the sake of making it look more impressive. Besides, it doesn't need to look impressive. My dragon is the fastest, strongest and most powerful creature for miles, and everyone knows it. Could that be it? I wondered, seeing Grisnelda glaring at me. Did she do this to score off me? For a moment, she scared me. Certainly, I was more powerful in magic than she, but I always worked within the bounds of sanity. Someone prepared to overstep those bounds, what might she be capable of? I decided to take the moral high ground, and let Grisnelda have her victory, if it was so important to her. I inclined my head in respect and she glowed in triumph. I moved forward, smoothly, and took her right hand in mine. "May I congratulate you on a most magnificent ensemble," I said, bringing all my years of diplomatic experience to bear and keeping the sarcasm out of my voice. Too late, I noticed Grisnelda pulling her hand frantically from mine. She hurried to re-cast the silencing and controlling charms, but it was too late. We all heard the dragon's screams, and before anyone could move it had bitten its mistress in half. As Grisnelda died, her spells faded. I moved in to contain the dragon, now a frail, toothless creature. It looked once into my eyes, then lay down and died. At peace, at last. [copy of forum post: "June 7 - Dragon" ] |
| June 6th - Frog |
| Prompt Image: http://www.writing.com/main/images/item_id/1741005-June-6---Frog (A little girl beside a garden pond, reaching out to pet a frog) "...and I'll let you live with me, and sleep in my bed, and everything." Her mother couldn't believe what she was hearing. "Chloe! Who's there? Who are you talking to?" As she came around the side of the house, she saw a very annoyed little girl standing beside the garden pond, on which concentric ripples were gently spreading. "Mama! You scared him away! Now I'll never get my ball back!" "Scared who away, darling?" "The frog prince. My ball fell in the pond, and I saw him there, and it was just like the story, only he didn't talk to me yet, and now he's swimmed away and I won't never get my ball!" Young Chloe paused for breath, and her mother fought to hide a smile. "Well, I'm not a frog prince, but I can try to get your ball out for you. We'll fish for it, with the net from the shed. Alright?" The prospect of getting her ball back perked the little girl up a bit, but she still looked doubtful. "But what about the frog prince?" she said, her eyes scanning the pond for the sight of him. "Well, if he want's to be a prince again, he knows that there is a lovely, kind little girl here to help him out. But, for now, maybe he likes being a frog. Let's leave him to make up his own mind, shall we? Now, let's go fishing for that ball of yours." [copy of forum post: "June 6 - Frog" ] |
| June 15 - Win |
| The excitement, the exhileration, the glory, the cheers, the money and the fame - finally, after long training and hard practice and winning the heats, finally here you stand - the winner. What is going through your mind, as you are photographed wearing your colours and your winner's flowers? The dust of the track is still in your mouth, and you can still feel the heat of the car. Your opponents slink away, beaten back into the shadows - or else are carried away from their wrecked vehicles. Do you think of them? Your family look on - proud of your achievement and happy for your victory, but all the time aware that any day it could be you on a stretcher, your car flipping over and over off the track. Your successes and near misses resonate through them all. Do you think of them? Your team are fussing over your car, lovingly restoring it to perfect condition. The worn tyres are replaced, the bodywork examined minutely, the engine fine tuned. Their hard work and dedication can make the difference between winning a race and losing your life. There they are, in their overalls. Do you think of them? Maybe you do, maybe you don't. Who knows? Who will ever know anything except what they see in the photographs and hear in the news? Who will ever hear of the hopefuls who lost, the families who looked on, or the mechanics who laboured in obscurity? Your public sees only you, the winner. Do you think of them? Perhaps, right now, it is enough that you have won. **Outasync** (outa time, outa ideas, outa here!) |
| June 14 - Sad |
| “Brilliant! You were brilliant! Well done!” Praises ringing in her ears, Gilly walked to the car. She hadn’t said a word since leaving the dressing room, and all her movements were subdued. “You must be tired, darling,” said her mum, starting the car. “You worked really hard, and it looked wonderful. I’m so proud of you.” Gilly nodded, but didn’t meet her mum’s eye. She lay back in the comfortable car seat and closed her eyes. She didn’t move again until she felt the car pull up outside the house, and heard the engine turned off. She listened for the sound of her mum’s door opening, but instead she felt a hand on her shoulder. “I know you’re not asleep, Gillian,” she heard her mum say. “Come on, what’s the matter? You were so excited about being in the play, and now you look miserable. Did someone say something nasty to you backstage?” “No.” “You were word-perfect, and you looked marvellous. You can’t be upset about your performance.” “No.” “So, what’s the matter? I know you’re tired, but there’s something more. What is it?” Gilly looked up at her mother and suddenly burst into tears. “It’s all over,” she sobbed. “All that work for months and months and now it’s over forever.” Gilly’s mum folded her daughter in a hug. “Gilly, darling, there, there. It is a shame, of course. But there’ll be another school play next year.” **Outasync** (outa time, outa ideas, outa here!) |
| June 13 - Monks |
| Every path teaches you something. Enlightenment. Happiness. Fear. Exilheration. Even when you think you are sitting still, the path can take you on a wild ride! **Outasync** (outa time, outa ideas, outa here!) PS. If my brain kicks in, I may write this up as a proper entry. Otherwise, that's it. Sorry folks, I'll try and do better tomorrow. |
| June 12 - Boy |
| Working as a decorator, I get to see the insides of lots of people's houses, but rarely ever do I see them as "homes" - all the furniture is usually moved and covered up before I arrive. Sometimes I find stuff under the covers that surprises me - a really up-market house with cheap furniture, or a straight-laced old lady with a ton of Mills and Boone books in boxes. But this discovery has got to be the most surprising. We had been working away for a few hours in this big old house, when one of the chairs gave a sort of a moan, then the covers moved! Don't ask me how, but someone had thrown the cloth over this armchair that had a little boy asleep in it! Poor kid was a bit groggy. No wonder, really, since he had been breathing the paint-fumes in while he slept. It can even get to us sometimes, and at least we've got masks and stuff. Thankfully, we always have an emergency oxygen mask with us, because one of our workmen is asthmatic. We gave the kid a few puffs of air, then I carried him downstairs. Poor little perisher, he's got a big house, but no-one to come looking for him. He clung to me like a limpet, as if no-one ever carried him before. **Outasync** (outa time, outa ideas, outa here!) |
| June 11 - Knight |
| "Mwahahahaha! Put the prisoners in the dungeon! And oil the rack!" roared Sir Distick "Yes, master," I replied, wearily. There was only one "prisoner" and he was an actor specially hired for the part. He routinely breaks into the castle in various guises, gets caught and "thrown into the dungeon", then let out and paid his salary. Hey, it's a living. Probably a better one than mine - I have to keep pandering to his lordship night and day, while our professional prisoner gets to go home and sleep in his own bed. Not that Sir Distick knows that, of course. He imagines that the dungeons must be getting very full, and I have to keep inventing horrible deaths for them, to explain why the wailing isn't louder. Well, I'm doing all the wailing, and even using the natural acoustics of the castle, there's a limit to how much noise I can make. I actually quite enjoy the wailing. I'm not allowed to make noise at any other time, because Sir Distick goes ballistic if I "disturb" him. He disturbs me plenty, but these things don't cut two ways. If I've learned nothing else, I've learned that. One law for him, and another for me. And woe to anyone who crosses him. Usually he leaves the torturing of prisoners to me, in which case they are subjected to having to eat whatever I can find in the pantry, and being forced to leave via the back door. But if he gets angry - and it doesn't take much - then he likes to administer the punishments himself. Took me a month to stop limping, last time. Poor old Sir Dipstick, he doesn't have a clue about real life. I do my best for him - even if he isn't always grateful. He's got the voice, and the temperament, everything needed to be your classic villain. Trouble is, times have changed. He's become a tired old cliche, no use to anyone anymore. Poor old dark and stormy knight. **Outasync** (outa time, outa ideas, outa here!) |
| June 10 - Wrap |
| What did she do, the old woman in the foreground? The others are either ignoring her, or glaring angrily at her. It looks as if they are about to go on a journey, and it won't be very comfortable for the older woman if she is out of favour with her fellow-travellers. There might be a chill in the air - all these women appear to be holding their wraps about them, as if against a cold wind. Perhaps the old woman would prefer the cold wind to the cold shoulder. **Outasync** (outa time, outa ideas, outa here!) |
| June 9 - White |
| Every inch slathered in thick white cream, he stood before the crowd. The voices raised around him, he had a flicker of thought, an image flashed across his mind's eye, of a mob hounding a man out of town with tar and feathers. If anyone threw feathers at him now, he thought, they would stick pretty effectively. At least, for a while. He almost wished he was covered in feathers - it might make him feel warmer. Oh well, no use hanging about, he told himself. Everybody's waiting, just go for it. He took a deep breath and plunged into the water. Just twenty-one miles to go. He wondered, ruefully, how he had ever been persuaded into this stunt, but there was no going back now. He was swimming the Channel. **Outasync** (outa time, outa ideas, outa here!) (Just in time!) |
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