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 "comfort".
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 "comfort".
PART 6a of 7 (two posts because of a character count limit)
ReplyDeleteWhile the pans cooled down, Joe leaned against the counter and considered his next move. "His" television show had started, which meant he must studiously avoid the front room, where he might catch a glimpse of it and -- curiosity piqued -- sit down and waste an hour of his life laughing at jokes that even the writers didn't think were funny. He looked at the pan with the pasta sauce.
You need to eat, you know.
No, I don't.
You'll get sick.
What are you, my mother?
You like it. It's your favorite.
Not without noodles.
This is why you are alone.
He didn't answer that one. It didn't deserve an answer. And besides, he figured, the other voice was him too and who owed themselves anything?
He took the pans to the sink and washed and rinsed them. No plate, fork, or glass to clean. That would speed things up, save him some time. Then, he could... what?
Joe picked up the plate he had planned on using for dinner and washed it, rinsed it, dried it, and put it back on the shelf. Order had been restored. It was seven forty-eight, he normally finished supper at eight. He had twelve minutes to fill in if he wanted to get himself back on schedule. The thought didn't comfort him. In fact, even the fact that he was doing the math in his head bothered him. Was he really reduced to this?
He considered using the twelve minutes to look for the bug who had been on the cereal bowl earlier. Who knew what kind of mischief it might get into overnight? And once it had established a safe beachhead, might it not go back and return with allies? Maybe he should have killed it. But maybe not. Maybe it was as likely that the other bugs would send a search party to find their lost companion and then where would he be? In even worse trouble than before.
Joe found himself wandering toward the back door. Outside in the backyard, the two bicycles they used to ride on the weekends were leaning up against the garage. It had been raining the last few days and he'd told himself over and over that he needed to wheel them inside. He thought about the bikes and about a trip they'd been talking about taking. It was the Paul Bunyan trail that ran from Brainerd to Bemidji, Minnesota. One hundred and ten (twenty when it was finished) miles of paved road. He was pretty sure it was one of the old converted railroad lanes but wasn't positive. They'd looked at dozens and dozens of places to spend their tenth anniversary and he'd lost track. The Paul Bunyan was their choice for no reason other than "it has a cool name". They made decisions like that all the time. Except this last one.
- Mike Fedel
August, 2013
PART 6b of 7 (two posts because of a character count limit)
ReplyDeleteThe bicycles were both painted red, a weekend project they'd done last summer. They were identical Diamondbacks, bought from a couple whose riding days were behind them. Joe remembered that picking up the bikes and loading them onto the rack on the back of the Expedition had felt almost ceremonial - the passing of the torch from one generation to another. It was absurd of course - most of his fantasies were - but he kept it as a pleasant moment to look back on. "Upon which to look back," he corrected himself.
He opened the door. The night was cool and dry, the sky turning dark, stars beginning to make their appearance. When he got to the bikes, he stopped and rubbed one of the seats. Which? Whose? They were identical. He didn't even remember who had parked theirs first.
Joe wanted to get on one of them and ride it around. Around the yard, if not the neighborhood. But which one? Would he be taking a nostalgic trip on a lover's old bike or merely a familiar trip on his own? He knelt and looked for markings of any kind. He remembered he's scraped his against a pole while locking it last summer but couldn't find the scratches. The position of the handbrakes didn't help, they were the same. Everything was the same. Maybe that was the problem. Too much the same?
He wheeled one of the bicycles into the garage and left the other one outside. Once inside, he found some electrical tape and wrapped it a few times around the seat tube. This one was his. Now and forever.
- Mike Fedel
August, 2013