Far Out – Sunday Photo Fiction

AnElephantCant keek through a telescope
To see things that are out of his range
He hasn’t got good eyes
He can’t scan the skies
But he has no pockets to carry his change

This is a weekly invitation to write a short piece of fiction (c. 150 words) based on a photo prompt (below) provided by Alastair.
Just click on the link to find some far-sighted sagas of searching simplicity in response to this week’s excellent image.
But please first cast an eye over AnElephant’s myopic musings!

Copyright Al Forbes

Copyright Al Forbes

Far Out

There are fewer swimmers in the Mediterranean now.
At this time of year, late October, the holiday season is over, and the weather is cooler.
Where I swim, far out past the end of the jetty, I rarely see anyone.
From here the few people on the beach look tiny, and to them my head is just a minute black dot.
So, when I see a figure floating in the choppy waves, I am curious.
As I approach it I determine it is a lady, grey-haired, somebody’s grandmother, no doubt.
She appears to be unperturbed by the blustery conditions.
She is relaxed, on her back, gazing at the sky.
She has not noticed me.
I slip under the water, find her hair.
A quick jerk and she is under, floundering, gasping, swallowing.
I pull her downwards, just long enough, then kick for the next bay, at the other side of the pier.
That was fun.

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other girls

other girls by anelephantcant

other girls by anelephantcant

Other girls have arms to hold me
Other girls have legs so long
Only your legs make my head turn
Only your arms make me strong

Other girls have smiles that dazzle
Other girls have lips to kiss
Only your smile brightens my life
Only your lips bring me bliss

Other girls can sing sweet love songs
Other girls have hands to hold
Only your song has a melody
Only your hands are so cold

Other girls have eyes that sparkle
Other girls have hearts so true
Only your heart holds me captive
Only your eyes make me blue

Other girls have feet so dainty
Other girls have words to say
Only your words bring me heartache
Only your feet walked away

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Time – Friday Fictioneers

AnElephantCant always behave sensibly
This may come as a bit of a shock
He likes to let his hair down
Go out on the town
AnElephant rocks around the clock

Once again it is Friday Fictioneer time.
Timekeeper Rochelle watches while ticking tale-tellers create a minute masterpiece in 100 words.
And ABelatedElephant tries not to be second best.
The idea is to write a very short story, circa 100 words, based on this picture prompt (below).
That’s it.

Copyright – Douglas M. MacIlroy

Copyright – Douglas M. MacIlroy

Time

They are afraid to execute me.
The law says they must, but these petty fools are in awe of my power.
So I have to spend eternity sealed in here, with no sustenance, no water, no air.
I am the greatest sorcerer in the land.
The others trapped me with their combined magic.
But, as they squabble for the crumbs, I am eliminating them one by one.
And now I can walk free whenever I choose.
In the meantime I have been amusing myself.
In the king’s palace they have just started to notice.
I know how to melt time.

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Childhood – Haibun Thinking

AnElephantCant hide a dark secret
He feels that at this point it must be revealed
Michael’s photo is super
But AnElephant makes a blooper
He just cannot find a good rhyme for field

AnElephant makes another illiterate assault on this great weekly challenge hosted by his friend Al.
And he again thanks Al for his ongoing efforts with this site.
Please take a moment to check out this page to see some superb interpretations of the Japanese Haibun, a literary form which explores the relationship between the human experience and nature.

This week he chooses this quote as his inspiration:
“Grown up, and that is a terribly hard thing to do.
It is much easier to skip it
and go from one childhood to another.”
– F. Scott Fitzgerald

the teacher by anelephantcant

the teacher by anelephantcant

Childhood

When my daughter told me she was about to produce my first grandchild, I was pleased but not overly excited.
An absent and, sadly, too often uninvolved father, I did not expect to dally overmuch with the next generation.
Well, as it turned out, for a variety of reasons, I spent literally hundreds of hours in his company, mostly just one on one.
And he taught me more than anyone else in my life.
About puddles and trees.
And tadpoles and dinosaurs.
And big trucks and silly songs.
About Puff and frozen ponds.
About wobbly sticks and ice cream.
About trees and birds, museums and unmatched socks.
Double-decker buses and giraffes.
About magic and about laughter.
He taught me how to look at the world afresh again.
And to love life.
In short, (okay, not very!) he taught me to be a  child again.
So now, when I walk knee deep with rolled up trousers in the winter Mediterranean and people ask me if it is cold, I see his laughing face.
I smile, shake my head, and thank him for my life.

there is no cold
for a child
who is having fun

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The Mansion – Sunday Photo Fiction

AnElephantCant knock down a building
Although he is large and eye-wateringly clumsy
But if he must choose
He breaks down taboos
With a strange mixture of humour and whimsy

This is a weekly invitation to write a short piece of fiction (c. 150 words) based on a photo prompt (below) provided by Alastair.
Just click on the link to find some tumbling tales of crashingly high quality in response to this week’s excellent image.
But please first cast an eye over AnElephant’s rueful rubble!

Copyright Al Forbes

Copyright Al Forbes

The Mansion

She promises she will marry me if I build her a mansion with 100 rooms on the hilltop.
She is 6 years old.
For the next 10 years I spend every spare moment at the builder’s yard, or the carpenter’s, or the glazier’s.
That is when I am not with her.
We are inseparable until I go off to the city to study architecture.
She is now 16 and very beautiful with many suitors.
The most persistent of these is Lionel Languid, the rich man’s son.
But for 5 years she resists all advances and on my return our engagement is announced.
And I start to build.
She asks me to forget our childhood agreement.
I delay the wedding, keep on building.
She pleads with me.
We get married but I postpone the honeymoon as construction continues.
She moves out of our cramped hut into the lavish living quarters I have designed for her in the West Wing.
I continue with the main section, the entrance hall, the drawing rooms, morning rooms, dining rooms, library, ballroom.
She begs me to move in with her, says we are like strangers.
I start work on the master bedroom, the nursery, the family rooms.
Time passes, or flies by, for I work constantly.
I finally have something worthy of her, something I can offer her with pride.
I call on her private rooms to find Languid is already there.
I burn down the entire structure in one night, while they still sleep.

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a year

a year by anelephantcant

a year by anelephantcant

a year
has slipped past
since last
I saw your face
a year
of good times
and bad
a year
when I cherished
a few moments
of joy
and endured
many months
deeply sad

a year
when you smiled
and held
my hand warm
but only
in my desperate dreams
a year
when the darkness
grew blacker
each night
the sun slept
and there were
too few
moon beams

a year
when I witness
my life
running slow
a year
that says
I am growing old
a year
when the rain
is less wet
than my tears
a year
that ends
with my heart
empty
and cold

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The Combo – Friday Fictioneers

AnElephantCant play the keyboard
Although he quite likes a bash on the drums
He has to accept
He is musically inept
He is more trunk than fingers and thumbs

Once again it is Friday Fictioneer time.
Band leader Rochelle ensembles a symphony of storytellers to create a tale in 100 words.
And AToneDeafElephant tries not to be too unharmonious.
The idea is to write a very short story, circa 100 words, based on this picture prompt (below).
That’s it.

Copyright-Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Copyright-Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

The Combo

We weren’t a bad combo, but we needed a decent guitarist to draw the crowds.
The problem was, even with just the two of us, there was always conflict.
Musical differences, I think they call it.
I wanted to branch out, be more creative.
He wanted to stick to the Charlie Parker school of bebop.
Cool stuff, but a limited audience here in Hickville.
I need to make money, so I tweaked his last composition to make it a more commercial sound.
When it sold, he said it was all his work.
That is why he is in the cartons.

Posted in Daft Rhymes, Friday Fictioneer | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 16 Comments