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.
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 the word "the wrong location"
The Wrong Location
ReplyDeleteYou could have walked a little quicker
I would have never noticed you
You stopped though
Looked into my eyes
Smiled
Like in the movies
I felt like I was in that movie
Where you know that this is the person
You are meant to be with
Or marry
Or here's your soulmate
Like in the movies
You then believe in the concept of destiny
Of "it's meant to be"
The universe set up
Past lovers
Bad jobs
Fenders benders
All to bring you to this bright happy place
When it ends
You will read articles about brain chemicals
Dopamine-Norepinephrine
How these feel good chemicals flood the brain
Energy Color Pleasent Dreams
Quell your anxieties
You stop believing in your private fairy tale
As you divide up furniture
Pack your coffee cups
Take your clothing from your side of the closet
You might feel this magic again some day
You are a hopeful girl
For now though
Your star-crossed meeting
Just boiled down
The right time but
The wrong location
Or something like that
A PALE GREEN HOUSE
ReplyDeleteThe director drove to the site, parked his car and grew very quiet.
The two co-producers (women who had flown to Detroit to meet with him and talk about budget and timeline) looked out their windows and chattered with each other and nodded. The row of houses had the right look ("a typical Midwestern city, upscale without being pretentious, on the line between 'lower-class' and 'lower-middle-class'") and feel ("a calm, quiet place where nothing of much interest could be expected to happen") to make the film convincing. The lawns were pretty (all trimmed to exactly the same height), the houses unassuming (all painted the same dull, muted tones) and the streets clean (not a stray twig or piece of paper to be found).
The location scout sat directly behind the driver, picking at a fingernail. It was his third film with Paul (not counting the two shorts they did together in film class, fourteen years ago) and he still didn't have any idea when the director might go off on him. His left leg (the one with the tiny scar mid-thigh from a piece of glass somewhere in Arizona) bounced up and down like it had a mind of its own. He liked working with Paul; the money was good (though another agency tried poaching him just last month, the third in as many years) and he got to travel.
"Are we getting out?" someone said.
The director shook his head and started the car. As they drove, he told them that they couldn't film there. It "wasn't right". The location was "too quiet" or "didn't have the right feel" or some other crap like that. He lost track of the lies. They didn't matter. All he knew was that the third house on the right reminded him of her.