Grand (an acrostic poem)

Go big or go home meant Lilly was going home

Reaching for the strap she felt the subway lurch away from the station

At least she had come close, or at least she tried to convince herself of that

Now it was over and her bed would be the only one calling

Daring her dreams to try to be that big again she began to silently cry

 

Image: upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/b8/New_NYC_subway_train.jpg

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Animal Manifesto (a 100 word story)

No one ever sets out to become a killer.  There is always an inciting incident that pushes one to cross that line from believing human life is sacrosanct to it being discretional.  It can be trauma, either real or perceived.  It can be reprogramming of the brain, either willingly or not.  It can be the realization that humans are still animals and as such not special.  That’s what happened to me.  Now I sit here at my keyboard with this manifesto on the screen and wonder if they will remember my middle name.  I’ll never know of course.  Carpe diem!

 

Image: pixabay.com/photo/2017/10/25/16/54/african-lion-2888519__340.jpg

The Cost of Magick

Reginald waved his hands in the complex gesture and used his will to force the universe to make the impossible possible.  The stone split down the middle and fresh water trickled out.

“That’s it?”  The young man had a bowl haircut, and that was the least awkward thing about him.

Reginald took out his handkerchief, and after wetting it in the trickle, dabbed his forehead.  “You make water come out of the stone and then you can judge.”

“But Simeon Galbrath made a new tributary for the White River out of a grassy knoll.  You said he was a hack.”

Reginald folded back up his handkerchief and put it away.  “He is a hack.  I out-dueled him like fifty-three moons ago.”

The young man gestured at the trickle as a rebuttal.

“I told you.  The time of magick is passing.  The costs are so great that it almost isn’t worth it.”

“That’s not what Lucinda said.  She said you’re getting old and senile.”

Reginald was about to say something, but the young man cut him off.  “I’m wondering if she’s right and I’m wasting my time.  I’m not getting younger you know.”

Reginald took in a breath to speak, but again the young man continued.  “I mean look at that.”  He gestured at the trickle.  “I think your magick is just shriveled like your manhood.”

“You think so?  Let me show you my magick.”  Reginald began to wave his hands around.

The young man shifted his weight to his back foot and folded his arms in front of him.  “Try to impress me old man.”

Reginald grabbed as much of the universe as he dared and forced his will upon it once more.  This time the universe protested, sending Reginald to his knees, leaving him gasping for breath as his heart threatened to burst from his chest.  Finally the spots began to clear and Reginald slowly got up.

In front of him the young man was nowhere to be seen, but a small adolescent goat with the most horrendous bowl shaped hair on his head brayed mournfully.

Reginald smiled evilly at the goat.  “That was worth it.”

Image: menshaircutstyle.com/wp-content/uploads/mens-bowl-cut-hairstyle.jpg

Professor (an acrostic poem)

Projecting out into the student filled room

Ronald felt the thrill of performing again

Oh the joys of the beginning of the semester

Fresh faces full of hope and promise

Everyone eager to feast upon very utterance

Still Ronald knew that this honeymoon would be short lived

Since he had two homework assignments to give due on day two

Ordinarily that should trouble his inner child

Reality was his inner child moved away from home a long time ago for not paying rent

 

Image: media.salon.com/2015/02/a_serious_man.jpg

Clock (an acrostic poem)

Counting the seconds until this ordeal is over

Listening to the bits of sand fall from the virtual hourglass in my mind

Oblivious to the alarms screaming to do something

Can’t take much more of this for my bum ticker

Killing time was never my thing

 

Image: i2.wp.com/www.stridentconservative.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/06/Broken-clock.jpg

Wiggle Room (an acrostic poem)

When push comes to shove

It didn’t really matter if he chose white or black socks

Going along those lines socks were totally optional even

Glenn still sat there in his boxers, trying to figure out what to do

Looking at the rest of his intended outfit he smiled ruefully

Eventually he had to choose

 

Really there was only one decision that could make him happy

On went one black sock, then one white sock

Obviously if he got sick of them he could take them off

Making that the best decision he made that day

 

Image: previews.123rf.com/images/romikmk/romikmk1509/romikmk150900008/44898472-bad-socks-folded-neatly-in-a-pile-isolated-on-a-white.jpg