Editor Christopher Writes – #PoemADayForAYear: 27/02/15

Disclaimer:This is the blog and #PoemADayForAYear for 27/02/15 being posted on 28/02/15. I was a little drunk when I got in last night and did not post it though it was written in the morning. I did write the poems yesterday, as you will see if you go to our Twitter feed. Apologies for not posting it on time though the poems were written in time so my challenge is still alive.

Again, no waffling on today/ Let’s just get to it!

Here is a poem. The prompt is ‘naked’ and comes from SoulHoot

His feet struggle for grip

on the mud. 10,000 cheer as he

slips, keeps his balance and is then

turned into a naked mud angel

by the quarterback.

Here is another poem. The prompt comes from CapturedPoets and is ‘hard to accept’.

No.

No.

No no no no no.

It can’t…

No.

Just no.

Unacceptable.

Refuted.

No!

I don’t…

No.

So last night i started working on a flash fiction. I want to carry on trying to work this one out. Here is the original unfinished piece from last night.

One

She doesn’t like the crust on bread. She doesn’t like bread but finances do not allow for taste to be met at the moment.

She cuts the crusts off two slices at a time and puts them in the toaster. The dial is set at seven. Cremation to the point of carbonisation. She prefers the taste of coal to bread.

As the bread toasts, she puts the crusts in a food bag kept on the kitchen table. She bites her nails when she is nervous so untying the knot each day takes longer than it should. By the time the bag is open, small ropes of smoke are charming their way from the toaster and with the thud of cheap metal and plastic clashing, her charcoal bread is done.

She puts the toast unbuttered on a plate and sits at the formica table eating slowly. Once finished, she brushes crumbs out of her blonde dreadlocks.

Here is a slight reworked and longer version on it that I have been working on since yesterday.

One (Edited)

She doesn’t like the crust on bread. She doesn’t like bread really but finances are too tight for food she likes.

Piling two slices on top of each other, she cuts the crusts off and puts them in the toaster. The dial is turned up to seven. She prefers the harsh, crumbling taste of carbonised toast to the heavy, clogging taste of bread.

As the bread burns, she picks up the crusts to put in a food bag kept in the back corner of the counter top. She started to bit her nails when she had to quit smoking so untying the knot takes longer than it should. just as the bag is open, smoke ropes charm their way out of the toaster. With a thunk of cheap metal and plastic, her breakfast is done.

She sits at a table made from an unneeded door and rescued step-ladders. It is slanted. Once she has finished, she brushes dark crumbs out of her blonde dreadlocks, though a few still remain on her teal coloured, tribal print, charity shop bought scarf.

She reties the food bag, slips her feet into pre-tied Doc Martins, bright red with loose soles, and heads to the front door, carrying the bag of crusts with her.

Almost out of her field of vision, she notices a plump envelope on the door mat, squashing a few leaves she had walked in. The envelope is emblazoned with red letters. She looks slightly closer at it as she puts on a floor-length army green coat. She puts the crust bag in her pocket opens the door and leaves the house.

There will be more of these stories in the upcoming days, weeks, months. Trying to write a little intertwining collection.

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