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Today's poem or short story prompt is "golden".
Word with "bough" and "hour,"
ReplyDeletethe puzzle constructor might say,
though I can't remember now whether
they outright say "word" there---
but I’m here to declare:
silence is not this word.
I'm with Adrienne and her pond,
not the pond the Fondas and Hepburn
filmed at in the magical window of twilight,
but where drowned things live she wants
to see raised dripping, brought to sun, offering up
what’s lost and needed. That's the gold.
The metaphorical kind. All actual
gold, we have just discovered,
when you follow it back, hails
from colliding neutron stars, or
so we figure these days.
Whether its color in space is our word
I suppose depends upon the light
and which kinds the perceiver detects.
-- LisaLou
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeletePART 2 of 7
ReplyDeleteThe bug climbed onto his undershirt and inched forward, more slowly this time. In a few seconds, it stood at the edge of a pool of golden light, the sun shining through the front window. It turned and climbed down the backside of Joe's arm, then across to the far side of the table. It vanished underneath.
Joe sat for a long time staring, waiting for the bug to come back, but it didn't. He tilted his head slightly and looked at the clock. Eleven-seventeen. He smiled. He'd been up since five. He'd poured a bowl of Special K ("watching his weight" he laughed to himself) with warm milk he'd left out the night before, but only managed to eat a few spoonsful.
It was Wednesday. He should be at work. He should have been at work on Monday and Tuesday too. Maybe that was who was calling? He let his eyes drift across the kitchen table to his laptop computer, the top open, the screen saver running loops of cartoon characters skiing down a vast, white mountainside. Yesterday, it had "ding"-ed at least two dozen times. Email from work, updates on the current projects or requests for new ones. He thought he'd read some of them Monday but wasn't certain. Monday was a long time ago.
There was a sound outside. Short, abrupt, and loud. Repeated. A dog. The neighbor's dog. The mailman was early. He heard the chute click open and clang closed and the sound of envelopes falling on the floor in the front room. He guessed. Flyers for oil changes, a promotion at the local furniture store, some bills, and a letter from someone he'd known a long time ago but had lost track of. They would be writing about their life and about how much they missed the old days. How they'd tracked him down after several years, hoping they might get together and talk about an idea they had for a story. Or a play. Something, anything.
He closed his eyes and opened them up again at Two-forty-four. "What is 11 times 2 times 2?" He smiled. But where did the "11" come from? He loved equations and they didn't need to make sense. They just needed to work. He felt hungry, but not enough to get up and make lunch. That would come later.
He lifted his head and wiped a bit of drool from his lip. He turned and rested it on the table again, this time on the right side.
- Mike Fedel
August 1, 2013