There is no greater thief than time
it takes from us our very breath
while we whittle away those moments sublime,
we’re one step closer still to death.
https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2020/12/20/sublime/
Tag: Thief
Carry on with the Farce – A bit of silliness.
This poem (in the loosest possible terms) was written in response to the Genre Challenge:
https://thehauntedwordsmith.wordpress.com/2019/03/27/genre-writing-challenge-24/
Today’s Genre is FARCE
I have employed a very strange rhyming pattern, this was to create a sense of chaos that is a key element of farce.
The dinner party guests appeared quite a mismatched crew,
There was Lord and Lady Haw-Haw seated next to Cardinal Richelieu
and a Vampire-queen,
like you’ve never seen
her dress revealing more than you’d care to view.
This was turning out to be
a night filled with possibility.
A man dressed up as a thief grinned in an impish fashion
and a Spanish matador flashed his cape with daring passion.
And then sweet Snow White
Had an awful fright
When the dinner gong rang suddenly, turning rather ashen.
This may well and truly be
The weirdest night you’ll ever see.
As they shuffled into the dining room behind the towering waiter,
The incongruous group began to talk about what would be coming later.
And then the French maid,
Pulled out a long blade,
That she’d found inside a stuffed alligator.
Crying “Liberty, Egalite”
And then she added “Fraternity”.
Then she started chasing all the guests, redolent of a farce,
Around the table, they all ran, though hiding places were rather sparse
The matador stuck out his hand
Grabbing the Maids small foot and,
She tripped and landed hard on her arse.
Then at the side,
The director cried,
“Cut! Print! Release” because you see,
It was all just a ‘carry-on’ movie.
You may or may not be aware of the ‘Carry-on’ films that were made in the late fifties and into the sixties and early seventies in the UK. They are pretty much the epitome of farce.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carry_On_(franchise)
This ‘poem’ contains the following prompt words:
https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2019/03/27/rdp-wednesday-thief/
https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2019/03/27/impish/comment-page-1/#comment-18492
https://onedailyprompt.wordpress.com/2019/03/27/your-daily-word-prompt-redolent-march-27-2019/
What do you See? – Ghostly Footsteps.
This poem is written in response to Helene Vaillant’s What do you see Challenge:
What do you See? March/26/2019
and also the Tuesday’s Writing Prompt Challenge from the Go Dog Go Cafe, to write a poem containing the line “Footsteps of the Mind”.
Tuesday Writing Prompt Challenge March 26, 2019
As I wander through the cloisters,
Just to see what I can find,
I hear a noise come suddenly
Like the footsteps of the mind.
Are these spectres from my memories?
Or something much more sinister?
Is it a thief that haunts the shadows
With some violence to administer?
My heart beats faster as I linger
In the dim and darkening light
Then I see from out the shadows
Something Impish, bold and white.
I see it bound and run towards me
And I scream and jump a mile
Then I realise that what I feared
Is just a dog, This makes me smile.
Can there ever be a terror
Greater than the one I find
When I leave my thoughts to linger
On those footsteps in my mind?
Copyright: Kristian Fogarty 27/March/2019
I have also included the following word prompts:
Word of the Day: Impish
https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2019/03/27/impish/
Ragtag Daily Prompt: Thief
https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2019/03/27/rdp-wednesday-thief/
A Present from Marrakech – Short Story.
I promised myself I wouldn’t write a long story today. I have some friends coming round for dinner later and the place is a mess so really I should be tidying up the place.
But then, one short story won’t do any harm, will it?
The trouble with stories is they are sometimes like back seat drivers. You set off knowing where you want to go and then the story kicks in and keeps telling you to go this way, then that way and before you know it, you’ve been kicked into the passenger seat and the story has taken over the driving altogether!
Anyway here goes…
On a boiling hot day, the kind where you can feel the heat of the ground through the soles of your shoes, I was walking through the markets of Marrakech.
The smell of the spices and the perfumed tobacco smoke from the hookah pipes was almost overbearing.
I wandered in and out of the brightly dressed crowds in search of something special, something truly authentic, to take home for my neighbour. He had kindly agreed to look after my chickens while I was away. My parents used to undertake this charge, but they were in the late seventies now and it wasn’t fair to ask them to drive the hour long journey from their house to mine just to make sure my hens food and water was topped up. They needed cleaning out at least once a week too and that was an onerous and rather smelly job. It was true that the eggs were a welcome reward for the labour but still, the job needed a better reward than just that. My neighbour, Ian, had said some time ago that he would happily keep an eye on them if we ever wanted a break. He had grown up on a farm and they had kept hens so he remembered them fondly. Possibly he’d remembered the good bits but had forgotten the bad. As well as laying eggs, chickens were prolific producers of something else. Need I spell it out?
Anyway, when I said we were off for two weeks to North Africa, Ian kindly agreed to chicken-sit and give the run a good clean out. So I vowed to myself then and there that I would have to find and bring him back a trinket.
The market was certainly a good place to come. It was full of exotic goods. Beautifully dyed cloth, brass ornaments, terracotta tagines and of course the hookah pipes themselves.
Suddenly I felt a tug at my waist. I looked down and there was a small hand pulling my wallet out of the pocket of my shorts. I tried to grab the hand but it pulled away and I saw a young boy running away through the crowd.
“Stop, Thief!” I cried out.
It was too late. I was just one of many victims of the pickpockets that took advantage of careless tourists in these over crowded places. Luckily I had left my cards and most of my money in the hotel safe. I had only come out with enough to buy lunch and the token gift.
I sat down on the steps of a fountain and slowly recovered from all the emotions you go through at times like these. The anger at the thief, the anger at myself, the regret at not being careful enough. Then I glanced over and saw by the side of the market a ruined building and a pile of rubble. I went to investigate a bit further. The rubble was mainly blocks of concrete and airbricks but there in the pile were a couple of exquisitely painted tiles, slightly broken and no doubt worthless. I picked one up that wasn’t too badly damaged. It was a white tile with dark and light blue interlocking patterns. In the centre was an eight pointed star made up of two squares. It made the perfect gift. It may be worthless but it was truly authentic.
The End
Copyright: Kristian Fogarty 20/April/2018
