Thursday December 25th, 2014

The exercise:

Write about: one day.

Merry Christmas! I hope Santa was good to you and yours, and that your day was filled with laughter and love.

Max got quite the haul of stuff. I can't even remember it all right now. I'm not even sure I saw everything he received.

I do, however, know that if we hadn't taken away the mini basketball, soccer ball, and football that his Aunt Nicky gave him he'd have been quite happy completely ignoring the remaining presents.

Also: he's going to have a blast playing with the train set Kat's parents bought him.

I've got some cash and gift cards to spend, a CD to listen to, a couple books to read, and a laptop fan to replace the one that Max broke when he dragged it (and our laptop) off the couch a few weeks back. Probably some other things too, but it was a rather overwhelming gift opening session.

I should get this written up so that I can get to bed, because I need the rest tonight.


One day each year
We leave behind
Our worry
And our fear.

We focus on
Family and friends,
And it starts
Before dawn.

And sure it might
Break down
And not last
Until night.

But for some amount
Of time it does
And, really, it's the
Thought that counts.


Greg said...

It's always fun watching children's excitement at getting all those gifts at once, and I guess it is a little bit overwhelming for them as well! The mini sports set sounds fantastic; I hope you can convince Max that they're only for use outside the house :) I got a copy of Organum, which I've been wanting for a little while, and it's going to take me a few days to work my way through that deciding what I want to cook from it!
Your poem is seasonally very apt, especially when it gets into the third and fourth stanzas, and I'm definitely impressed with the quality and variety of your rhyme-schemes of late! I almost feel like I should respond with a poem too... almost.

One day
Something rustled in dirty straw, a short furtive noise that was probably a rat. Dim rays of afternoon sunlight leaked into the cell through a tiny grate set just an inch below the ceiling and only four inches wide; really all they did was add texture to the darkness. Outside a door only eight feet away from the wall with the grate there was a heavy tread, followed by a crunch and a soft expletive. That meant that Jacquard was the guard on duty at the moment; Rollins didn't care how loudly he swore, or belched, or farted. The steps started again and then stopped; there was a rattle as the tiny viewing window in the door was drawn back.
"Like the view?" asked Molinard. He was naked, lying on the floor where he'd been thrown by the guards all those days ago.
"Can you see anything?" asked Jacquard from outside the door. His voice was girlish and high. "Because I wouldn't even know you were in there if you didn't speak."
"So don't you worry that I might have escaped? Perhaps I've trained a rat to speak for me!"
There was a snort of laughter and then the scrape of a key in the lock. The door swung open and Molinard covered his eyes with his hand, squinting as lamplight filled the cell with a brightness that seemed intolerable. Eight long seconds later his eyes adjusted and he could lower his hand again, and was surprised to see Jacquard still standing in the doorway, the lamp held high in his hand.
"See something you like?" he asked again, but with much less certainty in his voice. Jacquard was so fat he blocked the doorway completely, and his tree-trunk like legs and branch-like arms were carrying a lot of muscle as well. Molinard was fed if the guards remembered, and doubted very much he could even knock Jacquard back, let alone get past him.
Jacquard gestured with his lamp-hand, sending shadows cavorting around the cell. The walls were covered in scratches, the unmistakeable five-barred gate of someone keeping count. "What is this?"
Molinard smiled slyly and pointed to a corner where the scratches started. "That's Day One," he said. He pointed to the far corner, still empty. "And that's One Day."

Marc said...

Greg - nah, the balls are soft and bouncy enough that he'll be okay inside with them. Though we're still working on convincing him not to throw them up in the air in the kitchen... especially when we're cooking.

Ah, a cookbook seems like a wise gift choice for you. Hope you enjoy the results!

Thanks. I tried to make a go of only writing poems in the lead up to Christmas, wanting to have some sort of theme despite the lack of a proper countdown.

Excellent descriptions to set the scene at the start, a couple of intriguing characters, and a clever take on the prompt to end it... love it!