Category: prose
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#SoCS A Stream of Consciousness: Chickens
23 December 2021: Even if it’s naked, you can tell a chicken from a duck, even under all their feathers, they’re all and entirely chicken. All those relevant bones, recognisable remains, every scrap, always recognisable as a chicken, not a duck. Poor deliveryman. Embarrassed by it all. Said there hasn’t been a duck in the…
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Reflections on a Corner
A Stream of Consciousness – Reflections on a Corner Dad said, the piano goes in the basement. It was the noise – the rhythmic low notes banging like enemy fire against the bulkhead. We were kids; mum explained it was to do with the war. What war, we asked. We were kids –…
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13 December: A Stream of Consciousness
Mike just walked by. He has a fistful of Christmas cards. I’m washing lunch dishes, looked up, and saw him. He nods. I guess we’re not on his Christmas card list this year. Actually, we never were. Give one to get one, I can hear my mother say. She had all sorts of wisdom packed…
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dVerse Prosery: 7 Dec 2021
Something About Red Tulips Your hand. As I sleep. Or do I dream. Is it your dream, or mine, or am I the voyeur, watching someone else’s dream. In your stories I am undressed, and so I dress in their stories. Patterned and purple. As night wants to be me … and awake. For your…
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12 October: dVerse Prosery
This Summer Boy This summer boy of tide pools and kelp forests. He plays in waves while grains of an hourglass slip from under his feet. Up to his waist. He’s afraid to move. Afraid to call for help. He hears a chaos of language from the shore. His legs tangle in the long reach…
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More Thoughts on Miz Quickly’s Day 6
Here are a few more thoughts on Miz Quickly’s Day 6 “All The Best Places” The best place to eat an apple:is on a sun-bleached, weathered wooden bench that threatens to slip a sliver into your thigh, but you knew this might happen, so you’re wearing your favourite worn-out jeans, a red cotton t-shirt, and you’re wishing…
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For One Liner Wednesday
Bounce A single blossom just now bounced on the rosebush, as if nudged by a breeze (of which there is none), or touched by the hand of someone’s memory. Mum died on this day a few years ago. For One Liner Wednesday #1linerWeds. Photo is my own. Shared with @Experimentsinfc #APoemADay on Twitter ©Misky 2021
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Stream of Consciousness Saturday: New Shoes
25 September: I won’t get far in these shoes. New, they are. My feet are little piggies. Pink and squealing. But I will them on, walk walk, to go on, just like the seasons. Surprising that the leaves are turning overhead. Seems too soon. Most have fallen on the autumn grass, crinkly and twisted as…
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A White, White Fog
A White, White Fog Did you see that woman withhair like a white, white fogstanding with her back to uswith one hand on her hip,looking at a child face downon the pavement? And you say, What woman. And if I were walking, I would’vestopped to make sure that childwas okay, and possibly…
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25 August: One Liner Wednesday
Rain filled the old steel bucket, and I emptied it onto the parsley, watched it spread around the chives, the basil, and the thyme, and I recalled that fisherman on the coast casting his net over the sea. Written for Linda Hill’s One Liner Wednesday. Shared with @Experimentsinfc #APoemADay on Twitter Prose and image ©Misky…
It's Still Life 