Thursday May 18th, 2017

The exercise:

Write about: the bomb.

Went grocery shopping with Miles this morning after we dropped Max off at playschool. While he was having fun making a Cat in the Hat hat, Miles enjoyed driving around the store in the grocery cart and I was able to get all the shopping done.

Worked out nicely.

This afternoon while Miles napped, Max came with me to my chiropractor appointment and then we squeezed in a bit of park time before coming home to take care of Miles so that Kat could finish up with some work she was doing.

Before dinner, and a little bit after, Max and I attempted to clean up and organize his room. It was not easy with Miles 'helping', but we did get rid of three cardboard boxes he'd been hoarding in there (two of them on the very large side of things). It looks loads better now, but we still have his craft box, his toy box, and his bookshelf to tackle.

Hopefully tomorrow.

Mine:

They say that I am a
Ticking time bomb.
That I am only safe when
I remain calm.
I am offended by this.
I don't like this claim at all.
Can't handle my heat?
Can't wait until my fall?
Christ, y'all make me sick.
Keep your distance if you're scared.
Keep running but if you cross me
Know that you won't be spared.

1 Comments:

Greg said...

Sounds like a busy day! How messy can a craft box get anyway? ;-)
I like the interesting semi-acrostic you've worked into the start lines of the poem: a very long tick, or interspersed ticks? It reads like it wants to be performed and I've got an idea in my head of how that might happen, but I'd definitely be interested to see it done to see how well my ideas match up :) Great work!

The bomb
"Nobody move! I've got a bomb!"
The customers in the bank looked around, most with blank stares on their faces. Behind the bullet-proof plexiglass windows the tellers looked bored. The security guard, a corpulent fellow whose black-and-grey uniform had a sprinkling of powdered sugar on it from his doughnuts didn't even bother to stand up.
"I've got a bomb," repeated the small girl. She couldn't have been much older than six, and was standing in the middle of the bank in her school uniform holding her satchel with both hands above her head. "This... this is a stick up!"
"Sweetie," said a middle-aged woman carrying a bunch of gladioli in an oversized handbag, "it's only a stick-up if you've got a gun."
"What do they teach in schools these days?" sniffed an older woman in front of her. "In my day people knew how to hold up a bank properly."
"I know," said a man in the adjacent queue, rubbing a finger over his short, stubbly moustache. "A bomb would kill her too, she can't successfully hold up a bank with a bomb."
"Would you like me to hold you bomb for you, sweetie?" said the first woman, extending her hands. "It must be heavy, holding it above your head like that."
"No thank-you," said the little girl. She lowered the bomb. "So none of you are going to let me hold you up then?"
There were some chuckles, people glancing at one another and then looking away again, embarrassed at the eye-contact. "No, I don't think so," said the stubble-moustached man. "We're all quite busy today."
"But you are adorable," said the first woman. "This was a lovely break."
The little girl opened the satchel and removed a black-box the size of a cake-tin with three glowing lights on it. There were some more chuckles, but a little more nervous now, and then she pressed a button hidden underneath.
The time-bomb sucked time out of the area around the bank and concentrated it inside. The little girl was protected by the box, but everyone else inside the bank aged instantly, skin wrinkling and sagging, turning brown and then black with age. Muscles withered and atrophied; bodies collapsed as they could no longer support themselves, and tiny tumours grew to monstrous, lethal cancers in no time. In the space of four heart-beats the only person left capable of doing anything other than dying in the bank was the little girl.
"I have a gun as well," she said conversationally, "but this is much more fun."