This
blog is devoted to a select group of poets. We're starting with poets
from the Ann Arbor area, but, hey, if you're from Detroit, Grand Rapids,
Saginaw or the Upper Peninsula, then that is okay, too.
Our goal is to provide you with a prompt every day from which you are to garner inspiration and submit a poem. How to submit will be very easy. Just put your poem or short story in the comments section and hit post. You may not immediately see your post, but it is there under the "Comments" section. You may need to click on "Comments" to see your poem. It is there on another page.
Today's poem or short story prompt is "alibi".
Our goal is to provide you with a prompt every day from which you are to garner inspiration and submit a poem. How to submit will be very easy. Just put your poem or short story in the comments section and hit post. You may not immediately see your post, but it is there under the "Comments" section. You may need to click on "Comments" to see your poem. It is there on another page.
You
may need to have a Gmail account to post in the comments section. Most
of you do have Gmail, but for those of you that don't it's extremely
worthwhile to open up one now! That way you've got a chance to get your
work out there in the world.
Today's poem or short story prompt is "alibi".
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ReplyDeletePART 1 of 7
ReplyDeleteJoe watched the small bug crawl across the tabletop. Its motions were quick and smooth, rehearsed no doubt a thousand times across similar surfaces. He'd never seen a cockroach before, but he guessed that was what it was. Like everyone else, he'd heard about them. They were always in other people's houses, never in one's own. "We don't live like that."
The bug, no doubt, didn't care anything about how we lived. Bugs go where bugs go. We are the ones who imbue them with meaning. Some months ago, he'd been in a pet shop and seen a college-aged girl pay $25 for something called a "scarlet millipede". It was just under two inches long and evidently quite rare in the northern states. Why would someone pay for a bug?
He considered squashing it, but the thought quickly faded. It was going about its business much the same way as he or anyone else might. It crawled up the side of his cereal bowl and down inside. It didn't matter, he'd eaten all he was going to eat. The bug crawled back up and along the rim, balancing like a small performer on a bright blue circus ring.
The telephone rang. Joe didn't move. He enjoyed the sound more and more these days. It meant that someone, somewhere, knew he was still alive. Or at least suspected such. That was reassuring in an odd way. Of course, it was probably just a bill collector. Or a telemarketer. Everyone else sent email. The only people who used the telephone were bill collectors, telemarketers, and relatives over seventy. There was nobody in any of those categories to whom he wished to speak.
The table felt cool under his left cheek. He thought about getting up and walking to the bedroom to get dressed, but there was no reason. He had groceries in the refrigerator and no longer went out to rent movies. Everything was available online now. There was no reason to leave the house.
His leg itched, but he made no move to scratch it.
The bug got bored exploring the cereal bowl and climbed down. It walked halfway across the table before changing its mind, turning, and coming toward him. He wondered if there was purpose in the change. Or were the bug's movements completely random? Like a wind-up toy with gears and wheels that changed direction every few seconds. He'd had one as a child, he remembered. It was red and had a silver star painted on the door. He wondered if there might be one for sale on Ebay somewhere. You could get anything there.
The bug came closer, scurrying toward his outstretched hand. It vanished from his line of sight for a second. He felt it climbing, then saw it as it crested the back of his hand, a triumphant mountain climber scaling the first hillock. It tickled slightly as it crossed the pale terrain. It turned left and made its way up his forearm, stopping just shy of his elbow. It stayed there for several seconds before it moved on, forward toward the edge of his undershirt.
Joe thought about flicking it off. And again, about squashing it. It would be a lot of work to clean it up, he thought. His mind drifted. He was in a courtroom, bugs the judge and jury. They spoke a language he didn't understand. He looked at his lawyer, another human. The look on her face indicated she didn't understand their language either. The alibi he'd provided wouldn't matter, they wouldn't be able to understand it. It didn't matter, he was never called to the stand to testify. And his lawyer never said a word. She just shook her head and wished him "good luck".
- Mike Fedel
August, 2013