Clementines, satsumas, mandarines –
one of those small round oranges,
the ones that come with Christmas.
They sit in the big white bowl
surrounding the wise pineapple
or jump over bananas.
The apples are green with envy
for they get all the attention.
Walnuts are trying to get through but
they alway fall through the cracks.
They are the rocks at the bottom of the fruit display.
Ho ho ho
~ yeah, hmm, random. I’m not much of a foodie but I do remember the excitement of Christmas when we were allowed the small orange fruit – lets call them satsumas although it might had been mandarines (does anyone know the difference?). Exotic fruit was a short supply commodity in the 80s in the communist countries, especially if you suffered from lack of money as well (which we did). And although we have embraced the advantages of free economy, up to this day I only buy satsumas at Christmas time.
Writing 101 – Day 10
Dress him in a sweater
The excitement of the retirement home residents over yet another bingo afternoon left her yearning for a small explosive device. Not that the other activities were more fun. Like this knitting. They knit sweaters for dogs. Dogs! Not orphans, not homeless, not the affected by war. No. They knit for dogs. But at least she can take the needles and yarn with her to the park; it may take few hours before the caretakers notice she’s gone AWOL. She stretches her fingers. Damn arthritis. She wouldn’t mind to be young again for a moment, just like the two lovebirds strolling across the grass. She would pass on the drama of the youth though. That seems to be raised by a notch by each generation. Everything is going down the drain nowadays. Dogs wear clothes, men are crying and being old gives you the privilege to do what they tell you to do. Back to knitting, we don’t want the damn dogs to freeze.
I still don’t believe Dukey is gone. My little puppy. I keep thinking about him. I try not to, especially with the cuts at the office. I am so distracted and the work is getting to me. The queen B of a boss is breathing down my neck, terrorising me with her sneaky eyes from 9 to 6. I wish I could retire and sit outside and read, play with dogs or even knit like the old lady on the bench. Is that a little sweater? It’s too little for a baby though. Oh my, so sweet – I think she is making it for a dog. Dukey would look so cute in a red sweater like that. I say that to Tom, but I don’t think he is really listening. I always thought he couldn’t stand Duke, but then he – I can’t think about it. It was such a horrible day. Tom is fidgeting. Is he crying? I would never say he has such a sensitive soul. I squeeze his hand harder and lean on his shoulder to assure him he can count on me.
He blinks. He double blinks, triple blinks and flutters his eyelids so fast his vision is blurred. The speck of something is still lodged in his eye. His right hand is plastered up to his biceps and his left is trapped in hers. It would be unwise to try to extricate himself. He double blinks again. She keeps talking about the dog. Duke Zuzu Theodore the Third. There never was Duke Zuzu Theodore the First, nor Second for that matter. First class Pomeranian. First class yapping pom pom more likely. He was squashed under the wheels of the neighbour’s car two weeks ago along with his stupid heroic arm that tried to grab him out of harm’s way. She is still upset about it. Although it’s not a surprise that the mongrel ran off on the road. His eyes starts to water. Blink. Blink. How can I get this thing out of my eye? Triple blink.
Writing 101 – Day 9
Wednesday. Lunch break. The day of the food market. The windswept passageways of the architectonic disaster also known as One New Change are flooded with hunters and gatherers. 15 minutes wait for a paella is not worth of my time. 15 minutes of waiting for anything is not worth of my time. The dog must have eaten his wristwatch; mine commands exact 12:46. Second date has ceased to be a romantic encounter for me and I start scripting a dump-fest in my head.
I spot him at the Portuguese stand being swallowed by the chorizo lovers. It would appear he has forgotten to sharpen his elbows today. He struggles to manoeuvre through the gaps; an elephant trapped in a glass labyrinth would be more elegant. 12:51 and I’m faced with a rumpled suit and sweat patches. His mouth is opening and closing so he must be vomiting an apology but I am distracted by the small drop trickling down his left cheek. It is almost at his chin. I don’t wait for it to fall.
Writing 101 – Day 8
”Stop wiggling, would you?”
”Only if you get OFF MY BACK!’
”We have been over this zillion times already my dear. I am the head therefore I am on the top.”
”Just because you are the head it doesn’t mean you get to choose!”
”Sure it does sweet cheeks. Of course butt like you could never understand this. Well it is not entirely surprising as you do not have a brain and therefore lack in th—”
”I’M NOT A BUTT – I AM A TAIL!’
”Tail, butt, ass – same difference”
”Did you just…you…how dare you…you, you…”
”Trouble expressing yourself?”
”Aaaargh. You are soooo….”
”Please honey, calm down and go to sleep. Shall I sing something to you? And PLEASE stop the wiggling already.”
”That wasn’t me.”
”You’re the tail. You wiggle.”
”It wasn’t ME. It was him.”
”I think we are going out.”
”You can’t think, you don’t hav—”
”Whatever. I’m right. We are going to fly. And maybe this time I will land on the top.”
”In your dreams.”
”He’s gonna flip it.”
”No he’s not and anyway brainless ass in charge? Not on my wa—”
”Here we goooo!”
Writing 101 – Day 7
World behind your eyes
Writing 101 – Day 6
NB | I’ve decided to take a shortcut on this one and added a link to one of my older posts. It is quite possible I will return to this assignment…once I catch up!
She smoothed the red envelope and
could just make out the cut out uneven squares
provided by the morning paper
I KILL YOU
She placed the unopened letter to the in-tray
and walked back to her desk.
She could still smell the glue on her fingers.
Writing 101 – Day 5
My room is, for now, empty like a blank page. Just dark grey carpet and double door leading to the balcony. 9th floor guaranteers to partially reveal the Houses of Parliament and the London Eye. It is a perfect place to drink my morning coffee and spy on the St. Thomas hospital. Also to watch the New Year’s Eve fireworks if that’s your thing.
There is a built-in wardrobe (yay!). I can picture where my brand new IKEA bed with extra storage will go and the matching IKEA chest of drawers. All in white. That way the room will still remain a blank page, the furniture will simply form the lines. Only then I can start to write and edit, embellish, enhance.
Huge pink cushion? Check.
Fairy lights? Check.
Table lamp with buttons? Check.
Multicoloured & multi-paterned bed linen? Check.
Lime green wicker basket? Check.
Straightjacket? Probably needed.
Criminal investigation on a basis of violation of good taste? Pending.
Writing 101 – Day 2
Prompt: Free-write for 20 minutes
I have realised I haven’t done this exercise in a while. Then I was reminded again when my fingers started cramping up after barely two pages. I filled five pages with immediate thoughts and random stuff. It was liberating but there isn’t much of a substance in it. That doesn’t mean it was pointless. The freedom that comes with ignoring the nudging self-contiousness, dismissing the urge to edit every single syllable and leaving the misspelled words at peace is what is unlocking the treasures inside us. No boundaries, no obstacles, just us.
Twist: Publish the result
Writing 101 – Day 1
Upper Crust, the saviour when
the train door closes on your drunken face,
another half an hour
waiting in the dark and rain
Saviour when you really shouldn’t be outside
or by yourself
The feeding hand that will ease your hangover
the supplier of stodge that
makes the next day little bit prettier.
Upper Crust, we (the insolent idiots who always miss the point where one more pint is a pint too much)
U in the A to Z challenge.