Monday May 5th, 2014

The exercise:

Write about something or someone that is: angry.

I can't say for sure that this guy was ticked off (in fact, I'm fairly certain this is just the way he looks all the time), but he definitely looked like it:


That's Houdini the Great Horned Owl from the rehabilitation center we visited yesterday. It was so cool to be able to get so close to him.

Even if he didn't look particularly happy about it.

Mine:

Put your hand against my side
To get a taste of what's inside.
Feel my heart beat against my rib cage
While I tear another page
From this book filled with rage
That spilled from my pen
But only when
I let my guard down,
When no one is around.

2 Comments:

Greg said...

Houdini is a pretty handsome owl! Is there a reason why he's called Houdini?
That's a great little poem, it feels like stream-of-consciousness and the rapidity of the lines really helps to build the emotion. Fantastic stuff!

Angry
Des poked the altar. It wobbled. He lifted the altar cloth, wondering what he'd find underneath, and discovered that the altar was actually a pile of housebricks hastily stacked on top of one another. He leaned over, carefully, and lifted the opposite corner to check, and found a choirboy trying to quietly mortar the bricks together.
He let the altar-cloth fall and a smile appear on his face. The community tried hard, and needed to be appreciated for that, for all that he sometimes wondered if they'd collectively sold their brains some years ago and were getting by on lucky guesses ever since.
"You!" The woman who'd marched into the hall, her handbag swinging like a dangerous weapon and her twinset slightly dishevelled, pointed at him with a red-lacquered fingernail. "I am ANGRY!"
"And I'm the Presiding Religious Authority," said Des, his smile not wavering a fraction of an inch. "Could I ask you not to shout please? It displeases the Gods."
"I'll do as I damn well please," said the woman. Her handbag slammed down on the altar, which wobbled and then sagged at one corner as the bricks collapsed. "Is it supposed to do that?"
"About as much as you're supposed to do what you're doing," said Des. "Why are you damaging the furniture and fittings?"
"I haven't had my miracle," said the woman, apparently deaf to Des's questions. "I paid for it, and I want it. NOW!"
Des waved a hand, and two burly gentlemen who'd been sitting in the front pew quietly observing stood up. One of them extinguished a roll-up, a thin white stick with a tiny stream of evil black smoke crawling from it like the snake that tempted Eve, and put it behind his ear.
"You don't pay for miracles," said Des. "The age of indulgences is over. And I've certainly taken no money from you, just as I'm not willing to take this attitude from you. Gentlemen?"
"Unhand me!" screamed the woman, but she'd already been seized by each elbow.
"The miracles of the dismissal of anger from the temple," murmured Des, who firmly believed that the Gods help those who help themselves. Except kleptomaniacs, of course, because you have to draw a line somewhere.

Marc said...

Greg - oh, I'm sure there's a good reason for his name. I'd pretend I didn't ask because it was so busy, but it honestly didn't even occur to me at the time.

Thank you for the kind words on mine :)

Hurray for more Des! An entirely satisfying followup to his debut - I particularly enjoyed his thoughts on the altar and kleptomaniacs :D