Monday July 2nd, 2012

The exercise:

Your theme for today's writing is: empty.

That's how it's feeling around here, now that everybody has returned home. But we'll have more visitors soon, and hopefully some of those who just left will find their way back here sooner than later as well.

Another big harvest for locals this morning, even with the strawberries looking generally unimpressed with Saturday's multiple downpours. But at least we escaped yesterday's hail, which I learned fell on the other side of the lake during the afternoon.

That would have been very ungood for all the fruit in the orchard.


Words echo strangely,
The air is colder;
Days seem to darken
As they grow older.

Something is missing,
Now that you're not near;
Somewhere you're laughing,
Unknown to my ear.

When will you return?
Save me from this place!
All I will ask for:
A smile on your face.


Greg said...

It won't feel that empty for long, and I think you remember this feeling and cherish it. Once the baby arrives you'll wonder how you could have ever have felt like the place was empty :)
Glad the strawberries have survived the downpour, and hail during harvest sounds double-plus-ungood indeed ;-)
I like the touch of poignancy to your poem, though the short lines seem a bit abrupt towards the end. Maybe it's just that I'm still tired though :)

Lovely Rita, Meter Maid, tutted to herself as she checked the parking meter. The dial said that the time was expired, and when she squinted, using her X-ray vision to check the coin safe, it was empty. Someone had parked there and not even botherd to put a single coin in.
Dr. Traffic Warden, who was still feeling a little woozy from the puzzle box, and kept wondering why he had hook hands instead of tentacles, came briefly back into focus in the present. There was a crunching, thumping sound, perhaps like shattering glass....
"Lovely Rita!" he shouted, and then put his hands up to his face. Why did he think he had a beak?
"What?" Lovely Rita paused from smashing the car wind-screen with a shiny new tire iron. "Why are you scraping your face off? Are you on bath salts?"
"Mrrghgghhg," said Dr. Traffic Warden, discovering that his hook hands were firmly embedded in his lips. "Mrrrraaaaghg!"
Lovely Rita went back to wrecking the car windscreen. "I'll teach you to leave the meter empty," she whispered as the windscreen shattered into thousands of sparkling fragments.

morganna said...

The empty rooms echo, reflecting back, distorted, the least sound. My footsteps on the stair, the central heating system settling, pipes creaking.

Sometimes it even seems like I can hear voices, trembling on the edge of hearing.

Oddly, all is calm upstairs, and the only sounds I hear come from downstairs.

Cathryn Leigh said...

Empty (But not Forgot)

The house sits empty upon its lot
Looking lost and forlorn
A family feud between the owners
Now long forgot left it there
In the empty square
Surrounded by the trees
They’ve grown tall and hid it all
From prying eyes on the street
But I’ve been there and seen the ghosts
In which its company keeps
Their of stories love, stories of woe
I’ve listen to them all
And wonder when
The Estate will settle at court
So I can get the keys I need
To empty this house even more
I’ll strip it down, all the way to the ground
Then build it back up again
And the tale will be told, a thousand fold
As the public come streaming in!

A poem strangely inspired by the Homestead in which my mother’s family still lives and the Family bogs that have more owners than any piece of personally property should have... someday I wonder what’s going to happen to it. No one famous lived there – it’s just a house, steeped with working class tales, a struggling family, and the woman who paid for it, but never owned it, though she lived and died there. Occasionally my mother and I dream of being able to do what we want to that house – and I’d be tempted to do just that – rebuild the thing from the ground up and set it up as some sort of monument/museum to the people who’s stories aren’t often told.

writebite said...

marc, i combined prompts for this one,


They had a party to celebrate the sale which occurred a week before the anniversary of his birth, as it happens.
After having had everything neatly on display for so long in order to sell, the house is now empty as the last of the boxes fill the removalist’s truck.
So what will tomorrow bring?

Heather Banschbach said...

Marc- Funny that you should find your home empty now. My sister and her children have suddenly changed their plans and will be with me another 12 hours. I can not wait for my home to be empty of guests!

She knew she was expected to feel alone, sad, and generally lost without him around. With close friends and family, she took pleasure in reminiscing about John’s childhood, his first girlfriend, the night he had called her to get him out of jail because of a stupid mistake he had made, and other memories surrounding football games, science fairs, and lost teeth. They in turn supplied her with advice, bottles of booze, tissues, and promises of a bright future.

Unbeknown to her friends, she had been grieving the last 21 years. She had mourned the passing of silence. The ability to sit in her home without a child nagging or the thumping of a radio vibrating her walls or the ring of the alarm clock informing her that the soccer match was a mere two hours away had died the day John came into her life. So she smiled graciously, listened attentively, and accepted the tissues and wine from friends and family.

In the evenings, she listened to the fan turn overhead, the computer buzz on the small desk, and the gentle ringing of her ears. She poured herself a glass of wine before picking up her newest book and breathed in the sweet solitude of silence that came with her son’s departure from her home. Empty nest syndrome was not an issue for her.

Marc said...

Greg - the poor doctor has no luck in any of his incarnations, does he?

Morganna - love the way you set the scene with your opening paragraph.

Cathryn - really enjoyed the rhythm and flow of your poem, some great use of internal rhyme in there.

Writebite - what will tomorrow bring, indeed. Always the question, isn't it?

Heather - haha, but will that feeling remain with you after they've gone?

Great take on the prompt. I found it rather chilling, though that just might be my impending life change talking.

Morrigan Aoife said...

Her eyes are vacant
Like she has no soul
An evil reigns within
That she can’t control

Her lover is long dead
But she yearns for revenge
She pours the vile poison
His death she will avenge

Marc said...

Morrigan - love that opening stanza, it's very powerful.

The whole poem feels like the opening to a very intriguing story.