Category Archives: word prompt

A slightly perverse offering for Lucy’s Works/ Horror House Wednesday flash fiction #4. (Another one to toss into the Shlock Mock Horror vaults.)

(The prompt as supplied; ‘Isn’t this… romantic?’  “You’re a psychopath.”)

Work In Progress.

‘Isn’t this… romantic?’
You’re a psychopath.”
‘I’m trying to be empathic
So let’s not make this a bloodbath.’

‘What my psychiatrist proposes
Is I indulge in empathetic thinking-
So here’s a bunch of wine and roses
For your nose and for our drinking.’

‘Your eyes look wary and distrustful
Even as my finest Cabernet you sup,
Do my cold eyes turn red and lustful
As I see scarlet dripping from your cup?’

‘I’ve prepared a five-star meal,
Fois gras, truffles and sirloin steak,
My culinary eye can scarce conceal
The chef’s made an all too rare mistake.’

Her sweet face taut with leaden lividity,
Her tender mouth ceases its idle talk,
My eye falls with a dreaming avidity
Upon her gleaming knife and fork.

‘I swore I’d strain to show restraint
But you see the truth, you know I lie,
Now you look like you’ve seen a haint-
Now the knife points out your blind eye.’

It’s the nature of the beast
To take a lamb to slaughter,
My famine has turned into a feast
And my loves blood flows like water.

 

©Obbverse

As the eyes of the watching world turn on a nation that is painfully- but finally- seeing a great history in the making, the President only looks to turn back the clock.

Faking History.

By mid 2020 Don’s cozy world felt more like Lost In Space,
All manner of irritations Donny finds he’s forced to face,
Covid deaths are on the up yet Wall Street keeps falling,
Employment’s soaring but work on his great wall is stalling.

Since George Floyd’s filmed death he/we can’t ignore
Police protestations of pure angelic innocence anymore,
Now innocent protesters can’t be bashed and battered?
Suddenly Don’s expected to believe black lives mattered?

Now racial profilings wrong, so’s a ‘random’ pat down search?
A Prez cain’t just gas it down his streets to some saints church?
All these twisted changes are apt to confuse a traditional man,
Soon they’ll be banning the Stars’n’Bars and the Ku Klux Klan!

Don yearns for the bad old days when places were segregated,
When cops pounded the beat and the streets were dominated,
Now strange changes seem to be happening at a gay old pace;
Sexist money honey grabbers now look obseletely out of place.

The idea of uniformly crushing discontent has GreaT appeal
But now even Generals want to bring the dogs of war to heel,
Even the Mighty Military now recommend a conciliatory tone,
Though they all know the one voice Don can hear is his drone.

Don had once heard that every argument should be two-sided
But since he always knows what’s best for all he’s long decided
To gather round him that guns’n’glory armed mob he Rightly favours-
His one change is ‘this speech ain’t free till ya’ll sign them covid waivers.’

It’s time to rally the dupes, to blow the dog-whistles, drop the wink,
To ramp up the racist rhetoric, ain’t no time to change minds, or think!
To call a rich Damn Yankee the Mouth of the South sounds a misnomer
But his sick message is bound to resound in unchanging Tulsa, Oklahoma.

©Obbverse

A prompt on Towel Day. Thanks, Douglas Adams, a one of a kind author. He’s up there, laughing at us, at least cosmically speaking. Thanks too, to Chelsea Ann Owens for the promptings.

Big Bang, Bath Towel And Beyond.

Irate ratepayer Arthur Dent was confoundedly annoyed
To find his house and home planet completely destroyed,
Luckily, the one poor excuse of a man Arthur had befriended
Was the perfect guy to accompany him when his world ended.

Ford Prefect was Arthur’s odd friends imperfect name-
A moniker once written oft on many an insurance claim-
Art never imagined his friend to be a bona fide illegal alien,
Born somewhere near Betelgeuse, not remotely mammalien.

Ford, once a wanderin’ scribe before his gig began to unravel
Knew his tenure on Earth was terminating, it’s nigh time to travel.

Ford had an inkling about this harmless planet he was stuck on
That in a twinkling Arthur would ask ‘where on Earth has it gone?’
Intergalactic Developers Inc saw Earth as an impediment to progress,
In their Universal view what harm is there in one itty-bitty bit of dirt less?

Ford, our hapless Intergalactic hitchhiker, earthbound and lost
In desperation stuck out a digital thumb, plus all fingers crossed,
Finding on wakening they had been both uplifted and stown away                                                    And all Arthur’s earthly goods had been spectacularly blown away.

Now all Arthur possessed was his towel slippers and tatty bath robe,
Scant protection for a mere human going up against an alien probe.

 

 

(Hmm, barely made it past chapter one;
Guess Doug’s tales and mine are done,
For to 250 words I’ve been constrained;
Read Doug’s book and be better entertained.)

©Obbverse

How to not go shooting in the woods. Prompted by the Chelsea Owens Hilarity contest. Oh, and sponsored by Smokey the Bear.

Dumber Jack.

Jack the Lad could barely wait to turn twenty-one,
To cast his vote, to drive, drink, (legal-like) and tote a gun,
To pick the biggest baddest gun you’ve ever seen,
To play the part, just like in that Soldier Of Fortune magazine.

Off out to the woods he went to bag him a bear,
Or a boar, a deer, doe or buck- a duck, Jack didn’t care,
Through thicket underbrush and bosk Jack barged,
In his blundering search only his smart phone wound up discharged.

As the warm autumnal sun began to wane
Our hunter looked for any game, in vain,
In his ceaseless aim he couldn’t, wouldn’t stop;
Still as graceless as a bull in a china shop.

There wasn’t a critter to be found for miles around
As he trampled his way through his unhappy hunting ground-
Finding fording a stream is done at a huntsman’s peril-
A cruel cool baptism resulting in blown-out knee and twisted barrel.

So, cold, wet, lost in the woods as it grows dark,
Sat nav and phone flat, ah, but Jack’s quite the bright spark,
His safety match strikes, the dry leaves catch fire!
Remains to be seen, if anyone ever finds Jacks funeral pyre.

With this nasty toxic brew doin’ the rounds its time to sit and reflect on tried and tested ways to help us forget our worries. C’mon, cheers up!

Always A Good Year.

In winters chill
I tend the still.

Come spring time
Dandelion wine’s truly sublime.

In summers heat
Aaaaaaaah, my home-brewed treat.

First autumnal gale?
Scrumpy, by the pail.

(For the uninitiated/uninebriated Scrumpy is a kind of a cider. With a kick.)

©Obbverse

Nothing like a word prompt to get a story started. Blame Brian at Bonnywood Manor for this light and dark offering.

Last Night.

Hugo approached the final room slowly,
His heartbeat flickering along with the one remaining candle he held aloft,
In the dark corridor his guts grumbled lowly,
His fruitless search for a hidden chamber would have flummoxed Lara Croft.

Perched high on a mist-shrouded mountain top
The old chateau had looked a delightfully romantic place to stay,
A memorable, if unplanned overnight stop,
Now within these walls ‘twould be sweet relief to see a new day.

The room he sought came to light,
Turning the dusty rusted key in the door, it groaned in its cobwebbed lock,
What should have been a welcome sight
Had the rank air of abandonment, Hugo saw with awwwww, then shock.

His nose wrinkled at the ancient stink,
The room filled him with disgust, but what made his hot blood run cold
Was in the cracked mirror above the sink;
A crazed sight no human being would- should- could wish to behold.

In his heart he felt the dread,
He held the candle to his face and felt his fine young face fill with misery,
His red-rimmed eyes, flat and dead
Strained deeply in the darkly reflected shadows, yet there was nothing to see.

His hand went to his tender throat,
He hoped to wake in the morn, put this down to a close shave,
He held to that hope, desperate, remote,
Till his hand came away, bloody and cold, cold as the bloody grave.

How he’d been welcomed by his host,
The Count had celebrated, feted his arrival like a long lost friend,
Hugo had stood for toast after toast,
He recalled swaying, and saying he hoped the night would never end.

But what kind of half-life is it to lurk
In the shadows, in the twilight till another endless day is done?
Hugo is no fan of night work
So he stands, face to the east, yearning, almost burning to see the sun.

 

©Obbverse