The exercise:
Let's go with: hovering.
Had a very enjoyable lunch with my Protagonize peeps in Penticton this afternoon, and lived to tell the tale! Unless, of course, a very slow acting poison was used.
The weather was pretty much perfect for the drive back, and once I got home it remained that way. The thermometer on our front window was reading 25 degrees at five o'clock.
Plus the apricot blossoms are prettying up the place quite nicely:
Mine:
The waitress interrupted the conversation at the table with her delivery of the meals. The men nodded their thanks and attempted to resume their discussion.
"Can I get you anything else?" she asked.
"No, we're good," one of the men replied. "Thanks."
As she left a brief assessment was conducted of each dish, including the likelihood of messes being made and potential dry cleaning bills. Preparing to tuck in, talk returned to their previous topic.
"Oh, haven't had a chance to try anything yet?" the waitress asked, reappearing at their table like an overeager puppy.
"Not yet. But it looks good!"
Off she went again as the men began to eat their meal. Three bites later, she was back.
"How's everything tasting?"
They could only nod in reply as, of course, she had aimed her question so that it would land while their mouths were full. She turned away once more, but not before a pleased smile lit up her face.
Two bites later she manifested beside them again, as though she had transformed from her bat form.
"All done?" she asked, reaching for the nearest man's plate. "Can I take that away for you?"
"No, still working on it. Thanks."
Disappointment weighed her down as she moved away, but it couldn't keep her down for long. She was back before the next bite could be swallowed.
"I'll just grab that from y-"
"I'm not finished yet," the man managed around a mouthful of burger, swatting her fingers aside.
Away and back, away and back. It seemed to the men like they were in a World War 2 bunker, fending off waves of German soldiers.
"This," one man said with a sigh after the most recent attempt at his meal, "is a bit much."
* * *
7 comments:
hovering
with Dragonflies
twenty four hours is their lifetime
they'd better catch your attention
it's said they represent change
that's true but the way they are hovering
tells me there's time to wait
eventually they showed me the way
only when the time became right
when I arrived I noticed
they're here everywhere day and night
I think you'll find that I'm of average height Marc, at least by European standards. So you're not short, just... vertically challenged? At least you're not horizontally enabled ;-)
Your waitress does sound unduly attentive, perhaps she was quite new to her job? I'm quite intrigued by your analogy at the end though; I'd probably have gone for something with a slightly softer imagery myself (perhaps, "like Canute, trying to hold back the tide") as I found the sudden WWII reference a little jarring. That may just be me though :)
Hovering
Dr. Septopus frowned and tapped a tentacle on a gauge. The machine the gauge was attached to hissed and leaked steam. Hot water dripped from a rusting joint and puddled on the floor, and something in the middle of the machine groaned mechanically, sounding almost arthritic.
"What are you doing, Doctor?" The Green Lightbulb was still in a wheelchair and yet had somehow succeeded in sneaking up behind him. Dr. Septopus jumped, clacking his beak in surprise and tapping the gauge harder than he'd intended. The gauge creaked, and then fell off. Steam gushed out of where it had been.
"Green!" Dr. Septopus turned, as the steam valves were on the other side of the machine and he needed to walk round. The Green Lightbulb's wheelchair hovered before him, explaining why Dr. Septopus hadn't heard it come in. "How are you making the chair do that?"
"I don't know," said Green. "I was trying to get it to do the hoovering as I moved around...."
I really should title my post "time" because that's exactly what came to mind when I read the prompt :) All in freestyle today.
Hovering...
I see time ahead of me,
curving into weeks, months and quarters,
forming a full circle,
making a complete year,
then spiralling into the decades
that make up my life.
Pick any point in time - a fleeting second or a moment - and it's a pixel in a continuously spiralling canvas, hovering in midspace.
The starting point was a dot,
the tip of the spiral of a cone,
the moment I was created and told to be.
Our end may not be as harshly finite and defined. A gentle wisp like the edge of a ripple, left to ponder on the time before its time, and what we made of it and how it came to be.
I see time in a bright shade of grey,
or perhaps violet and blue combined,
in moderation to the eye.
I see it in different shades,
in different shapes,
for each one of us blended and merged to our own form.
Glad to see you came to no harm, Marc. As to being of average height – the definition is so varied you might as well say you are normal. :} You see I might be 5’6”, and while some say I’m tall, I feel short... then again I am the shortest person in my family, not counting the kids. I’m sure they will both surpass me at some point. Probably in their teen years *sigh*
Okay now on to the prompt, which of course makes me think of Rachael as her Frisbee 100 space ship can indeed hover. :}
Hovering
Designed just like a Frisbee,
It’s ratios just right.
A rapidly whirling edge,
Gives atmospheric flight.
An engine underneath,
Gives the initial thrust,
And tweaks the direction,
In any way it must.
But what’s truly amazing,
Of this air and space mobile,
Is the way it hovers,
Above the golden field.
Huh... I got poetry this time and here I was wondering what sort of episode Rachael might have. :}
The fumes from the new cabinets freshly installed in my kitchen are a little over powering, but that doesn't mean that the following isn't a true story.
Hovering
I remember it as if it had happened yesterday, we were busy playing, Land, a homemade game which could potentially have taken an eye out. But we were oblivious to the fact that it was probably not the best game in the world to play, and oblivious to anyone or anything else on the playground. I was usually the winner of said game mainly because I had the most accurate throw and could normally hit anyone I was aiming for. That was one of the advantages of being a tomboy and hanging out with geeks, nerds, and girlie-girls. Even close up they couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with a stick long enough to reach the barn. Why anyone but me would even want to play Land, is to this day, a mystery to me.
Back in those days the nuns at our school still wore the full habit which was like a catholic burqua but less sexy. They would hover around the school ground looking to see if Satan had managed to crawl up any of our innocent little butts and infect us with his evil thoughts. As far as I could tell none of us kids had any evil thoughts; I couldn’t say that about the nuns though. They were black wearing, callous, sexually repressed bitches with huge chips on their cowled shoulders. The rings they got from Jesus when they married him in their twisted consecrations would often be used as weapons on our unsuspecting heads as they snuck up behind us in their noiseless crepe shoes.
So there I was with a two foot long stick in hand ready to throw it at the cowering girl I wanted to score some Land from when I saw a nun hovering close by. I said our secret word, Soviet, which meant, look out Sister Frances is behind you and she looks like she just ate a lemon which sent all four of us into our usual acts. Laura pretended her shoes laces were untied, Katie lost something and had to search her pockets for it, Bobby had to pull out her ponytail and retie it, and I had an itch on my shoulder I couldn’t quite reach. That’s when I looked up and saw it. Them? It?
What I saw were four men dressed like Romans standing in a cloud. I shit you not. They had a door to the cloud open and had a ladder leaning against the outside; one guy was holding it while another was climbing up. I think I stood like that for a full five minutes mouth hanging open and eyes bugging out of my head after the bell had rung to end recess. You can say bullshit all you want to but I know what I saw. Maybe it was the sun, maybe the heat, maybe it was fear of Sister Frikkin Frances and her wedding ring of death. For all I know it could have been Satan playing banjo with my grey matter, but from that day on I knew that there were stranger things out in the wide world and they hovered a hell of a lot higher than any nun could.
As a 38 year old woman who barely reaches 5 ft in height I'd have to say your tall.
<>
Here's Mine.
Flying on delicate wings of black, blue, and red
The butterfly extends it’s proboscis from her head
Hovering silently above, it takes a deep drink
Of the nectar from flowers both white and pink
<>
Short, I know but absolutely nothing came to mind.
Writebite - really lovely, particularly enjoyed the 'there's time to wait' line.
Greg - well the average height in Canada for men is around 5 foot 8 1/2 inches, so at 5 foot 8 I declare myself close enough!
That was clever - I was quite expecting the machine the doctor was fiddling with to be the one hovering.
Watermark - that's excellent work, I really enjoyed that.
Cathryn - agreed, how tall I feel definitely depends on the company I'm in :)
Great imagery in your poem!
Iron Bess - I actually laughed out loud at this one: "They would hover around the school ground looking to see if Satan had managed to crawl up any of our innocent little butts and infect us with his evil thoughts."
Great descriptions, too, and I can see how something like that would make a permanent imprint on you. I think if it had been me I might have stayed there all day.
Krystin - you're about the same height as my mom then :)
Short, but full of great images. Nicely done.
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