Category Archives: Creative

1594. I feel an interactive page coming on

Hi. My name is Sinead and the other day I felt like getting all interactive on my blog. Lots of people do. They get all interactive and everyone takes part and it is fun. So I thought why not me too? It also attracts new faces to the blog. So this is what I done.

Write a poem no longer than 14 lines and 54 words including the words haversack, hurdy-gurdy, enthralling, table, and Rumpelstiltskin. The posting was accompanied by a picture of an Australian short-beaked echidna for inspiration because they’re cute and lay only one egg every year. So they would be no good keeping instead of chickens!!!!

Well, no one responded, not even my friend Debbie, so I asked my friend Debbie if she had any thoughts as to why, and she said “Nah she didn’t”. She should know because she has an interactive page on her blog and lots of people post pictures of themselves on it. But I don’t want to do the same because it will look as if I never had an original thought in my life. Anyway I never posted a picture of myself on my friend Debbie’s blog because my parents probably read it.

I also asked my biology teacher about it, and all he said was “Not another, Shirley” and I said my name wasn’t Shirley. So he wasn’t worth asking. He’s like that, Mr Thompson, he puts everyone down. But I’m not going to let it beat me so I’m going to put up another challenge and let’s hope this time a lot of people find it attractive enough to enter and give it likes.

My friend Debbie just asked me if I wanted to go down to the town mall, so I said yes, so I’ll come back to this later maybe.

Hi. This is me later. I’ve changed my mind, and now I’m creating a new blog on fashion. I’m only going to have pictures of me wearing my own stuff. Let’s hope it attracts lots of likes. Ms Turnwall, who teaches gymnastics at school and I bumped into her at the mall, and she is always very encouraging, and she said that the idea of my fashion page would not only be thought-provoking but it could also be sensational. So come on, everyone, and give my fashion pictures lots of likes after I post them, probably next week after I finish the written assignment Ms Turnwall gave us to do on Russians spying on our national gymnastics team at the Olympics.

I’m hoping to be a journalist when I leave school so all this is good practice.

1593. A bit of a romp

Jock was all of nineteen and more than halfway through his apprenticeship with a building firm. He loved to party on the weekends, and if he didn’t have to work he would have loved to party every night of the week.

One Saturday night he was invited by this guy and his girlfriend to go back to their house for “a bit of a romp”. Jock thought it a good idea, and followed the couple’s old van to their house in his car.

Would he like a beer? A coffee? Anything? Jock thought he’d like a coffee. Why not? He had a night of “romping” ahead of him and plenty of time later for a beer or two.

Twenty minutes after finishing his coffee he knew it had been laced with something. One of his hands started to shake, and he felt scared. There was no reason to feel scared but he did. He was terrified, in fact, of something unseen. He stumbled outside and got in his car. He drove off.

He didn’t have a clue where he was going. He just drove, quite slowly because things were a bit fuzzy, but he had to get away. There was someone standing under a street light. It was a hitchhiker. Jock stopped.

“Can you drive?” asked Jock. The hitchhiker could. “Can you drive me home? Someone laced my coffee and I’m not thinking straight.”

The hitchhiker drove. When he got safely home Jock gave the hitchhiker money to get a taxi to where he was going. All night Jock sat up in his bed staring at the door. He was scared stupid. He thought someone would come through the door to get him.

This was a turning point for Jock. He settled down (ever so slightly), met someone, fell in love, and they now have five kids. Most weekends Jock takes the kids camping or fishing. Or they just mess about. A good story, eh?

The Terrible Poetry Contest results for this week!

A big thank you to Chelsea for inviting me to judge the terrible poetry contest this week. The task was more challenging than I thought it would be!

No more suspense. The winner is.

In Love With a Ghost

By Mathew

I’ve fallen in love with a ghost,

She’s the one I care for the most.

No matter where I am,

She’s always there.

Supports me with this cross I bare.

Touches me in places where,

Other people aren’t aware…

~

My heart,

You pervert.

~

Your mind must be full of dirt

~

She also touches me under my shirt.

~

Like a gentle breeze, she tickles me.

Caresses me so tenderly.

If only she were still alive,

Then our love could really thrive.

~

Although there’s something about our connection

Which leads me to spring a massive…

~

Affection

~

Her haunting leaves me with no objection

~

She whispers in my ear at night,

About how she died here years ago.

I wish I could have met her sooner,

Perhaps I could have been her beau.

~

And then one night I met a neighbor,

We spoke about my couple acres,

And the woman of my dreams,

The experiences creating steam,

And how she died too soon it seems…

~

It was then that he informed me,

Of the man that lived before me,

And died there on the property,

From a clot to his coronary artery.

~

Now my home is up for sale,

And when he touches me I wail.

~

Goodbye dear ghost lady of my dreams.

Congratulations, Matthew! You are the most terrible poet of the week!

All entries had twists – and sometimes twists galore! There were two major criteria in making a decision: to write with or about twists, and to compose a terrible poem. Some (I thought) had marvellous twists but were almost too good! Some were terrible but weren’t quite so strong on the twist aspect. In the end Matthew’s poem for me was just a nose ahead because the formatting was terrible – and format is part of a poem. This poem muddled bold, italic, normal, double spacing… It was impossible not to read it slowly. (Why does every poet on the blogosphere double space?) The poem also had terrible rhyme (I particularly liked “neighbor” rhyming with “acres”), rhythm, and assorted poetic devices. Congrats Matthew – your poem was terribly terrible.

The rest of the entrants are below for your general edification and enjoyment (and I didn’t do the double spacing!)

—–

Untitled piece

By Trent McDonald

On a midday dreary

My eyes were all a-teary

As I had a report to do

 

My boss, grim-tongued mastered

Was such an awful bastard

Would kick me with his shoe

 

No way could it be finished by COB

And my boss knew it, that SOB

But he still goaded me with bull poo

 

So I decided, what the heck

I tied the noose around my neck

And went to hang myself in the loo

 

But when I rose, I heard something scary

And noticed an office fairy

Writing page after page of the report, over one hundred and two

 

I was saved and wouldn’t die!

Maybe my boss wasn’t such a terrible guy

Maybe he’d give a raise too!

 

As I started to celebrate I heard the clock

Ring the bells of five o’clock

And started to feel blue

 

For I was sleeping at work, it would seem

And the help of a kindly elf was all a dream

And my career was over, it is true

 

So I dove out the window instead of the door

I might have died, but I worked on the first floor

Now I need to go work someplace new

—–

Take two

By Deb Whittam

George and Helen went up the hill,

For they sought some water????

But George fell down again

So they called the police chief’s daughter.

Her name was Carmichael,

Because that’s always the way

She was happy to come along

She was having a boring day

Suspects, there were plenty

Helen for a start

But Carmichael wasn’t going to be mislead

She’s knew these plots by heart

The priest she dismissed

He was such a craven creature

Same for the murderer

He was just looking to feature

Out went Helen, out went the lost sheep

Out went the thief,

Who claimed he’s fallen to sleep.

Carmichael had this sussed,

She called them all to announce her verdict,

It was the phantom of the opera,

For he’d just relocated and was the local hermit.

—–

Untitled piece

By Nitin

We’re looking for masculine men

Who’ll fight with lions in a den

Not church boys or skinny dudes

Who cry with each turn of their moods

We want these men for our parade

We want them to be icons who’ll never fade

Yes, yes for the big bash

Where real men eat, brawl and smash

Wee doo wee la la la woo

And some super masculine Kung fu

We doo wee la la la woo

And some hyper masculine farts in the loo

We doo wee la la la woo

And let’s kill some cows. Mooo!

Yes, we want these men for this big event

Where they’ll lie in a pink tent

Stretch, stomp, jump, skip, flex

And some super masculine muscles like T-Rex

Stretch. stomp, jump, skip, flex

And some hyper masculine gay sex!

—–

Untitled piece

By Gary

Yoda was the all seeing Jedi Knight

Yet was fooled with a hood and a dodgie light

While Luke was being the Star Wars Galahad

Who honestly thought that Vader was his dad

Bruce Willis seemed the perfect host

But ended up being a sodding Ghost

Poor Liberty Valence ended up getting shot

By John Wayne that’s a strange train of thought

The Sting was a shock when Paul and Robert copped it

But it just ended up being a gigantic counterfeit

The Village tried to fool us with a bit of double play

But it ended up being set in the Present Day

Anthony Perkins seemed such a nice chap

Yet as Mum and a psycho he got me into a flap

Seven tried so hard to subvert

By having a Box in the desert

Vertigo was Very very bleak

Judy being Madeleine was a bit of a cheek

Who in the Murder on the Orient Express would be first to admit

But what a sneaky trick to have them all do seem do it

The Wizard of Oz seemed strangely certain

Yet the wizard was a sad bloke behind a curtain

Reservoir Dogs was as cool as a soda pop

Yet sneaked in that Mr Orange was in fact a cop

Wow Scream tried smoke and mirrors

All to hide we didn’t have one but two killers

Jacobs Ladder tried to hide the thread

Hang on a moment another one who is dead

Even poor Harry Potter tried to be as shifty as a Manx Cat

I never saw Peter Pettigrew was Scabbers the Rat

 

Untitled piece

By Ruth Scribbles

My brain betrays

The intentions of my ways

I say do this

But then I do that

How can I survive

Opposite directions?

Go right he said

I turned right but

It was my other right

That he meant

If he had said go straight

I would have succeeded

But right and left

Cause many plot changes

Thank you all for entering. Go to Chelsea’s site Saturday at 10 a.m. MST for next week’s prompt.

1592. How best to murder a spouse

To poison someone by putting poison in their lemon curd or lacing a black currant pie with arsenic is highly uncreative. It’s very run-of-the-mill. Likewise to get a gun and shoot someone point blank is crass. Such gross behaviour is equally uncreative. Let it be made clear: to murder someone by shooting them with a pistol is the height of boring unsophistication. Only a yob would do something so dull and unrefined. Martin Werherall believed that if he was going to kill someone it was best to do it creatively. After all, he was a pharmacist and had all sorts of resources at his fingertips.

As a teenager Martin had developed wonderful, dexterous skills. His parents had sworn black and blue that no child of theirs should put sugar in their tea or coffee. Sugar was the scourge of the contemporary diet. One simply did not need to add sugar to a beverage. Drinking sweetened things was a matter of sugar addiction. But Martin knew a magician who taught him, with practice, how to conceal a sugar cube in the back of his hand and the palm of his hand and goodness knows where else. Then with a modest wave Martin could drop the sugar cube into his mug and his parents were none the wiser.

Now that he was all grown up with his own pharmacy and married and struggling to find happiness he decided to rid himself of all matrimonial encumbrances. The easiest way was to combine his pharmaceutical and magician abilities and drop a pill into his wife’s cup. It should be made clear, in the interests of creativity, that this pill was not a pill of poison; it was a pill that was intended to prolong life and happiness in the pill-taker. Martin frequently dispensed such pills to patients in this pharmacy. But it was for sick people. Healthy people would possibly discover that their heart would begin racing irregularly and they would drop dead, basically from too much health! Such was the brilliance of Martin’s plan.

One day, with a wave of the hand, he surreptitiously dropped a pill into his wife’s cup of Camomile and Spiced Apple Tea infusion. That should finish her off.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” said his wife of seven years, pulling out a pistol concealed in her breast. She shot Martin dead.

God! No wonder Martin wanted to be rid of her. That woman was so crass.

1591. A terrible conundrum

What a conundrum it was for Geraldine. Here she was in her early twenties and not once had she ever been asked out on a date by a man. Sure, an older brother took her to the Prom, probably because he felt a bit sorry for her. It wasn’t that she was ugly or anything; in fact, she was quite pretty. And she wasn’t boring. She was vivacious, intelligent, charming, practical, and capable. Why no man would not want to date her was really beyond comprehension.

She had promised her sister that she would babysit the two little children while her sister and husband had a well-deserved night off at the village gala ball. And now, look what happened! Arnie Beukenholdt invited Geraldine to the same ball.

“Bloody hell!” exclaimed Geraldine. “I can’t go. I promised my sister I’d babysit.”

“Oh well,” said Arnie. “Not to worry.”

Of course, come the night of the ball and Geraldine’s sister phoned to say she had caught a cold so the babysitting wasn’t required. Quite frankly, Geraldine was down in the dumps. Arnie Beukenholdt was possibly the handsomest man on the block, and a wonderful sportsman. And such a lovely personality. He wasn’t exactly made of money, but he was hard-working and comfortable. Arnie and Geraldine were made for each other. Geraldine half dialled Arnie’s phone number and then lost confidence.

Then! Oh would you believe! Such things usually only happen in Victorian novels but here it happened in real life! The phone rang! It was Arnie.

“So,” he said, “I wanted to catch you before you went babysitting. If you can’t go to the ball, what about next Thursday?”

Geraldine explained to him what happened. Hasty preparations were made. Geraldine didn’t have time to even do her hair properly. Arnie picked her up in his run-down beaten old car and they went to the ball.

How they danced the night away!

1590. Wasps and things

(The photograph is of Paper Wasps at my front door! No, I didn’t leave them there! But look how organized they are – soldiers, guards, collectors, builders… !)

Garrett was eleven years old. He liked spiders and bugs and stuff. Goodness knows how many insects had perished as he kept them as pets trying to work out the parameters. What do they eat? Where do they live? Under what conditions do they thrive? So far, he had had little luck in keeping insects as pets; except for tarantulas, and with eight legs and not six they were better off being called spiders. Besides, how to keep a pet tarantula was well documented. Also ants. He had an ants’ nest behind glass and he fed them bread soaked in sugared water. They seemed to thrive.

Of course, he also cared for monarch butterfly caterpillars. He knew what they fed on, but for the last couple of years he’d grown a little tired of them. They were so commonplace. No! What he wanted was to keep scorpions, and bumblebees, and grasshoppers, and wasps, and… different things.

As luck would have it, once he visited the insect department of the local museum at the same time as a visiting entomologist. Professor Marinko Magyar was one of the country’s leading experts. He specialized in native species of bees, but he knew an awful lot about other sorts of insects. Garrett told him of the difficulty he had in keeping insects as pets.

The professor could not have been more helpful. In fact, he was so delighted that a young person was enraptured by insects that he offered to help Garrett set up a bumblebee’s nest. It was wonderful! Under a removable wooden lid, the bees were behind glass so everything could be observed. A polythene pipe opened to the outside world where the bumble bees could freely come and go to collect pollen and whatever it was they collected. It was a lot of work setting it up, but the professor enjoyed helping the young lad who had shown such interest.

Next, the professor showed Garrett how to successfully keep crickets. The particular species they cared for required rain before they would lay eggs, so a water spray bottle was kept handy. Fortunately, Garrett’s wonderful and expanding “insect zoo” was in a large spare building apart from the house, so there was plenty of room to expand; and far enough away for Garrett’s mother to avoid having to come near “the horrible things”.

Over the next couple of years, with the help of the professor, different species of insects were added to the collection. Garrett and the professor spent hours working with the little creatures. The collection was going to become famous! It all finished, however, a couple of years ago. Now that he’s older, Garrett is taking the professor to court.

1589. Manageable portions

I’m sorely tempted to write about something horrible – just for a change. Yet, as a theatre reviewer once said of one of my plays, “There’s enough trouble in the world already without this play.” I shall therefore avoid the temptation to indulge in horribility and keep to the usual niceties grounded in a tender reality. So here goes…

When Anastasia murdered her husband she had little idea of the wonderful repercussions it would have. She had chopped him up into manageable portions, put each into a plastic bag, and stacked them in the freezer. Each week she put a bag of a piece of her husband out at the gate to be picked up by the trash collection truck. She had only the one plastic bag left. She had overlooked it because it had been covered (in the freezer next to the chicken drumsticks) with a flannel for the sake of modesty.

Anastasia had thought that last week’s trash collection had ended her saga of weeks of removal, and now, with the discovery of what lay hidden beneath the flannel there was yet another week to go. But that is not what matters. What matters is what else she saw. Beneath the flannel-covered remains there was a key. She knew instantaneously what the key unlocked.

For weeks she had searched the house for the key to the safe. How it fallen into the freezer was anyone’s guess. Immediately she went and unlocked the safe. There was nothing inside but a piece of paper and a bank card. On the paper was written a pin number. Anastasia dashed straight down the street and inserted the card into the bank’s hole-in-the-wall ATM. What a discovery! What a huge amount of money! What a fortune! Anastasia did a little dance in the street there and then.

By now the once-flannel-covered portion of husband, which she had inadvertently been holding when she dashed out of the house, was starting to defrost. A kindly neighbour saw it and asked, “Anastasia! What on earth is that you’re holding?”

“Oh!” said Anastasia, “it’s a leg of mutton for my dinner. Perhaps you’d like to come for dinner and we’ll share it.”

Of course, the neighbour came to dinner. And of course, of course, Anastasia put the trash out at the gate to be picked up early next morning, before serving her guest chicken drumsticks.