Sunday September 16th, 2012

The exercise:

Write a bit about: the wreckage.

Quiet morning on the deck, lunch at a nice restaurant in town, restful afternoon and evening at home. That's a pretty good Sunday in my books.

I feel like there was something else I wanted to talk about today, but I can't remember what it is. Oh well.

Mine:

Thoughtless words,
Which briefly soared and roared,
Now smoulder on the ground.

Beneath ash
And blackened letters a
Shattered friendship is found.

Without hope,
With clung to sighs and lies,
No rebuilding is done.

Instead each
Side only focuses
On which of them has won.

5 Comments:

Greg said...

Heh, that can't be right, where's the backbreaking labour in the gardens, and the weeding, and all the other things that you farmers have to do all the week-long and year-round? ;-)
My Sunday was spent in the East-End of London showing my parents some of its hidden treasures. I'm not entirely sure it was appreciated :-/
I like the structure and rhyme-scheme of your poem today, it definitely adds to the tone of the poem. I'd hyphenate "clung to" myself as it helps the reader spot how the phrase works, but that's my inner editor speaking :) The ending is touching and sadly true.

The wreckage
People think it's easy being a T-cell: they think we just roam around the body, jaunting along in the blood stream, hitching a ride with the red blood cells, bathing in plasma and generally taking it easy. Well, it ain't so.
Here I was, once again at the scene of the crime, looking over the wreckage of the cell. There were lymphocytes lurking around, hiding whenever I turned to look at them, hoping to get in and scavenge what was left behind. And there wasn't a lot.
"Apoptosis," said my assistant, scratching his forehead. "Gotta be."
I nodded agreement; the cell had clearly exploded, probably after ingesting an intruder. The question in my mind was where that intruder had got in in the first place: where there was one, there was bound to be more. I needed to find one, pattern them, and get the word out to the other T-cells. And fast.
"Reckon we can let the clean-up crews in?" My assistant was clearly edgy, wanting to get on. I surveyed the wreckage one more time and nodded. We needed to be hunting down wherever these guys had come from.

writebite said...

marc, very synchronous to me at the moment.
greg, brilliant angle for this prompt.

morganna said...

Emily sighed as she answered the questions for the fifth time. No, she had no idea who the man was. No, she had no idea why anyone would want her dead. No, she had no idea what was going on. Her assailant had apparently told the police quite a pretty tale, but none of it made sense to Emily. She wondered where Chris was and feared the worst.

She decided to do what she did best and run from the wreckage of her life. Leaving a cryptic note for Chris just in case he were still in a position to find it someday (she couldn't bring herself to actually think of the words dead and alive in connection with him), she slipped out of town as soon as it was dark. Obviously, London had followed her to the edge of Wales and she hadn't fled far enough before. This time, she was headed to Ireland.

Cathryn Leigh said...

@Marc - glad you had a restful Sunday. So true, and just such a shame - in response to your response to the prompt. :}

@Greg - LOL, how'd you know I was studing about immunity today (actually I'm on the Heart and Lung Transplant Module) - since our product measures cell mediated immunity they figured they should educate us on that whte immun system does.. *grins*

@Morganna - tsk tak - one shouldn't run away from the wreakage, some many fun things could be made of it! *giggles* I'm sure your protagonist ahs her reasons though.


The Wreckage

Washed up upon the sandy beach,
Amoung splintered boards and tattered sails,
Barrels nestled in the sand.

The natives are out looking for loot,
For the storms provide them with what they can not afford,
Barrels of cocoa butter.

The loot is sold to feed the family,
One on them is kept home their for use,
A barrel of saving slave.

A child bogged down in fever,
Beset upon by Measles and Mumps
Bathed in the soothing cream.

To the grandkids wide eyed with wonder,
She tells her tale and shows the sincle scar,
Thanks to the barrel of butter.

Based upon the true tale from my grandmother's childhood.

Marc said...

Greg - this is the time of year where we get quite tired of all that and just go out there to harvest :P

Fascinating entry today. I feel like I might have even learned a thing or two from it!

Writebite - sorry to hear that; hope things get resolved as best they can be.

Morganna - Ireland! Love that place. Wonderful setting to work with, looking forward to what you do with it :)

Cathryn - cocoa butter, hey? I'm learning things all over the place today!