#62 Killer Samovar (Poem)

62

Write about a nonsense, anything you heard or read or came up with yourself. (May Doctor Seuss help you!)

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

The Killer Samovar 

Based on true story

I went to the kitchen

The house was asleep

But I wasn’t sleepy -

I fancied something to eat.

I know! 

I should wait till next morning

When all are awake,

But I was so fortunate

To find me some cake.

I opened the fridge,

And there was my beauty.

Jump into my shoes -

What’d be your duty?

“Stop! Do not move!”

I heard a voice from the sky.

And before my response

Something heavy did fly.

It fell on me once,

It fell on me twice,

It fell on me head 

The whole three times.

I could not believe it,

Once I was back on my feet.

You, the pot from my land!

How you dare to contradict?

I rubbed the knob on my head,

Put that heavy thing where it belong,

And stretched arms to my sweetie -

I could not wait for so long!

The vicious attacker 

Flew and struck me once more.

"There’s nothing in the fridge,

Not for you, you moron!"

It fell on me twice,

It fell on me thrice,

It fell on me head

The whole four times.

I stayed down on the floor

Right there on my knees.

The house was asleep,

Not aware of my caprice.

"I want the darn cake!"

I cried (it was loud).

The Samovar stroke me again,

For crying outloud!

It fell on me twice,

It fell one me thrice,

It fell on me head

The whole five times.

Here in my coffin

I’m peacefully now.

In a pretty make up

And my favorite dress with a bow.

“She died for a cake,”

My obituary states.

I’m peaceful… I’m speechless…

The killer escapes.

It fell on me twice,

It fell on me thrice,

It fell on me head

The whole six times.

The moral of this story

Is simple as hell.

Don’t put heavy items of metal

On the upper shelf.

* * *

Rise and Write 57-63. Week 9

#59. Doctor

59

Write about a doctor – a real one, a fictional one, a good one, a bad or spooky one.

When I was in 4th grade, I was constantly playing doctors and hospitals and thought that I wanted to become a doctor when I grow up. I played doctors and hospitals because doctors and hospitals played a significant role in my early years - I spent a month in a hospital in 3rd grade, and another month in 4th grade, and for a few years I would be under doctor's constant care - once a month I had to get up early in the morning, rain, shine or snow, and before breakfast, when it's still dark outside and most people are still in their bed, go to a hospital to have a blood test. Was it fun? Nope. It never was fun. There is very little that I felt positive about those experiences. But I did have a couple of heroes, or rather she-roes. One was my pediatrician whom I thought was one of the most beautiful women in the world. She always looked beautiful with make-up and manicure, and her hair cut and colored in a fashionable manner. She was what we call these days a curvy woman, nobody would dare to call her fat. When she left (we had many house calls), she always left a trace of feminine perfume behind. She was kind to me. She probably was one of my first girl-crushes, in the most innocent ways - I wanted to be just like her. I remember that there was a very kind and friendly woman doctor in one of my prolonged stays in a hospital in Krasnoyarsk too. I remember her much less, not in all those little details, but she was very nice and made my stay much better. There was also a nurse who'd come to give me shots when bed rest was required. She had the kindest face and the gentlest hands - I never even felt the needle which many children (and some adults) are scared of. Her shots were light and unnoticeable. Three times a day, every day for weeks in a row, Natalya Aleksandrovna would visit me at home. Always with a kind smile, always with a kind word, and with a needle which I don't remember.

Rise and Write 57-63. Week 9

#58 Apples

58

Write about an apple. Do you love eating apples or apple deserts? Do you find apples symbolic for school, fall or anything else?

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

I have to open my dark secret - I don't like apples, and never really liked them. There is one vivid memory from my childhood. I think I was not older than 6 - my father brought home an enormous red apple, which was fragrant, juicy and sweet. I was stunned - never before had I tried an apple that had such characteristics, and I have to say I still did not find another one quite like that. I also remember that when I spent a month in a hospital (if not longer), when I was 9 or 10, my parents would bring me home food and some treats (hospital food is never good, is it?), and there were apples which I did not like. But I guess at some point I tried to bite both apple and a cookie, a simple biscuit, and I really liked the taste. Only now I am aware of many apple deserts that are popular in different cuisines around the world - back then I did not know about then, and sort of by accident, or from lack of variety, I invented one. These days, I sometimes make apple deserts. Our family latest favorite desert is English Flapjack - which is not at all a pancake as Americans might think. Flapjack is made with oats, butter and brown sugar, sort of  an oat bar really. In my recipe, it is made with apples, and I also add honey to it. It's one of my most favorite ways to eat apples.

Rise and Write 57-63. Week 9

#57. Gait

57

Write about a gait. Maybe you watched one particularly unusual stride from a street café recently, or write about your own gait.

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

It's a little difficult to come back to daily writings after a long-ish period of silence. I compare our daily writings with the daily exercise routine before participating in a marathon. If you decide to run a long distance and all you've done before is exercising from time to time, almost randomly, you know that you need to work on your stamina first - you need to build up your strength little by little. This is what it is about - building a writer's stamina. Not about being perfect or genius in your every piece. It's all about work and about honesty with yourself. 

Write about a gait, eh? The first thing that comes to my mind is a line from a popular 1980s Russian song which goes something like this... "With your flying gait, you came out of May, and disappear into the whiteness of January..." Yes, it's a love song, and it's about a short passionate affair, and it is sad, though disco music does not suggest sadness - it just never does. I always, as a little girl, imagined a beautiful young woman in a flying white dress and high heels, probably silver ones, her face not visible, but more beautiful than one can describe, disappearing into smoke and light. And it's all because of one phrase - "your flying gait". The power of word!

Rise and Write 57-63. Week 9

Rise and Write! Prompts 57-63. Week 9

Hello writers,

Well, I have managed to complete all the week 8 prompts and am ready for the new challenges, and I think so are you. Her you go - write! 

Prompts 57-63. Week 9

57

Write about a gait. Maybe you watched one particularly unusual stride from a street café recently, or write about your own gait.

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

58

Write about an apple. Do you love eating apples or apple deserts? Do you find apples symbolic for school, fall or anything else?

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

59

Write about a doctor – a real one, a fictional one, a good one, a bad or spooky one.

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

60

Write about a puddle. Did you enjoy jumping in them as a kid? What? You still do?

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

61

Write about a charming person – a real one that you’ve met or a character. Of  what does their charm consist or of what is it made?

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

62

Write about a nonsense, anything you heard or read or came up with yourself. (May Doctor Seuss help you!)

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

63

Write about feeling great! What’s the sensation in your head, chest, knees, etc.? Does it make you jump or sit quietly and savor the feeling?

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

#56 Sorry

56

Write about feeling sorry for something you have done or something you have not done. Remember that you can always use your character!

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

Maybe there is something. Back then, I felt hurt that my understanding of love did not meet with his. I felt hurt, I felt devastated. I thought it was all his fault. But it was not his fault that our understanding did not match. He did not know back then. And I also did not know. Nobody's fault. And I am sorry. I only hope that he will find someone whose understanding of love will match his, so they can live and love one another happily ever after.

And maybe there is something else. Back then, I felt hurt that my understanding of friendship did not meet with hers. I felt hurt, I felt devastated. I thought it was all her fault. But it was not her fault that our understanding did not match. She did not know back then. And I also did not know. Nobody's fault. And I am sorry. I only hope that she will find someone whose understanding of friendship will match hers, so they can live and be friends with one another happily ever after.

Rise and Write 50-56. Week 8

#55 Suitcase

55

Write about a suitcase. Is it a brand new thing from a department store, a charming vintage or a ragged old thing that saw the world? Describe its smell, shape, feel…

OPTIONAL: Work on your fiction and share.

Two suitcases, not pretty ones, not even plain traditional ones, rather two duffle bags - one enormous bag and one reasonably medium sized, were my luggage on my way to a new continent. How to explain to someone whose furthermost move was from one house to another house, or even from one city to another city? How to explain that you have to fit your whole life, short or long one, or a reasonably medium sized one like mine was, in a couple of suitcases, not necessarily pretty ones or traditional ones, or two duffle bags, such as mine? How to explain that whatever you chose to bring with you, you'd better truly love and cherish, if it fits your bag, and whatever does not fit, will stay out of your life from now on? A few items of clothing, a few most beloved books, a few photographs of your childhood and people you love... A few items that won't mean anything to anybody else, but mean so much to you, as those items you won't be able to buy in Walmart where you'll be taken on the second day of your new life to replenish a few practical things that you left behind - a hair dryer, a nail polish remover, those important little things that you won't bring with you to cross the ocean, but can't live without when you're in your 20s. The duffle bags looked enormous and weighed enormously when you were in the first airport where your father saw you off and you both tried very hard to not shed a tear, and in the second airport, a bigger one, where they still spoke your mother tongue, and in the third airport where everything looked like out of the movie and people spoke a language you've never heard before, and in the forth airport, after the longest flight of your life, where people had a skin color that you've never seen before. The duffle bags, looking so enormous in all those airports, suddenly looked tiny at home, in a small room where the one with whom you chose to continue your life journey brought you. In the little room where you unpacked all the things carefully chosen to stay with you on the new continent, the duffle bags were emptied, folded and tucked away, and all you had left were those few items of clothing, few most beloved books and few photographs of your previous life. The enormous duffle bags rapidly became a little pile of familiar things which traveled with you from your childhood home to a new world. Everything else in the tiny room and beyond it, in the house, on the street, in the town and the whole new continent, was unknown.

Rise and Write 50-56. Week 8