Friday, November 11, 2016

A Haiku challenge for the Georgia Nutts Guild

Create 3 to 4 separate haiku poems that can stand as one or separately.

DAPTales

Slowly the music dies
But the carefree beat remains.
Translation, freedom.

The grass fans my knees.
I tumble and stumble.
Free in its embrace

I held broken locks
They are weights in my hands
Time to let them go.



Pallid, drifting dunes
Snow covered hills of mourning
Blood soaked soil beneath

Brittle vines frozen
Winter’s tacit secrecy
Memories of war

Young futures stolen
Bodies beneath morning’s haze
War at Nomonhan



Air
We are made of it
Light, fluffy, space within us
Air consumes everyone

Fire
Burning light flares
Warmth causing delightful rays
Blue, red white flashes

Water
Fluid movement wave
Life cannot survive without
Dancing blues abound

The GNG create a short story based on the word, 'Rupestrine'

Rupestrine- living among or growing among rocks



Darkness envelops the tiny speck that inhabits the softness underneath. The speck yawns, peeking through the shell that has embraced it for so long. A silver of illumination graces a lighter shadow in the darkness. Warmth, tiny speck muses tentatively stretching towards the heat. But no matter how fast it stretches the warmth is gone and tiny speck pauses, alone in the darkness. Eternity seems like forever as tiny speck wallows wondering where warmth went to. Sigh, what else could happen? Tiny speck speculates as drops off wetness seek it out in the darkness, pooling in softness. Ewww, yuck, what is this? Why am I here? I have to leave, and so tiny speck reaches further then before the time of warmth. Stretch, reach, climb, the darkness is falling away; black becomes gray. It seems too far. Tiny speck grows weary of climbing away from the darkness. There’s no hope. There’s no rest. I must rest. On this unyielding thing. I can’t go on. This is the end. Tiny speck lays against the unyielding thing, defeated. The gray grows muted. Tendrils of warmth embrace tiny speck. Warmth has returned and tiny speck crawls along the unyielding thing. Until a whole new world appears filled with warmth and illumination.




It seems as if we’ve been toiling over, around and under these rocks for hours! Sometimes the terrain is slippery, other times dry and throughout the summer months, steaming hot. I don’t know why we have to make this trek every single day! From one non-shaded end of open space to another, we scurry along, leaving our pheromones in search of whatever food might be available for others to follow. You would think that we could stay closer to where we usually find food, but nope, our fearless leader tells us that it’s safer to remain out of sight, secretly ensconced under and inside the coolness of the cracks and crevices of the rippled rock we call our home. Sometimes, much to our dismay; however, thankfully not too often, as soon as we emerge from the un-tilled soil beneath our behemoth protector, small humans lay in waiting to pick us off with their sticks or they fatally step on as many of us as possible in order to amuse themselves. I hate when that happens! But then there are times when the big humans come in twos, carrying a large square contraption that opens and closes and is full of food; I love when that happens because then we don’t have to travel so far for our dinner!



This was ths status of life for Joel Elliott.  And after years of doing his best, seeing himself as a survior against terminally stacked odds, he now faltered before the looming realization that his survival, his success, had somehow accrued a debt, the term of which was rapidly approaching.  His instinct whispered to him that this was not due to circumstance, as he had always chosen to believe, but by choice.  A dry, acrid lump clinched in his throat at the bitterness of the thought.  "You can't beat Nature," he felt, somewhere deep down. 



Sunday, July 31, 2016

RGN Written versions of RGN audio story samples: ReadGeorgiaNutts.com

Mia Maine

I have the use of both eyes and ears, arms and legs and all twenty digits. I am not so hardened that I can no longer love. I am not so blinded that I can no longer trust. I am not so jaded that I can no longer forgive. I am not so brainwashed that I can no longer believe. I falter. I bleed. I survive. Occasionally, I thrive. Every day, I am thankful.


Yvonne Renee Walker
 

Darkness envelops the tiny speck that inhabits the softness underneath. The speck yawns, peeking through the shell that has embraced it for so long. A silver of illumination graces a lighter shadow in the darkness. Warmth, tiny speck muses tentatively stretching towards the heat. But no matter how fast it stretches the warmth is gone and tiny speck pauses, alone in the darkness. Eternity seems like forever as tiny speck wallows wondering where warmth went to. Sigh, what else could happen? Tiny speck speculates as drops off wetness seek it out in the darkness, pooling in softness. Ewww, yuck, what is this? Why am I here? I have to leave, and so tiny speck reaches further then before the time of warmth. Stretch, reach, climb, the darkness is falling away; black becomes gray. It seems too far. Tiny speck grows weary of climbing away from the darkness. There’s no hope. There’s no rest. I must rest. On this unyielding thing. I can’t go on. This is the end. Tiny speck lays against the unyielding thing, defeated. The gray grows muted. Tendrils of warmth embrace tiny speck. Warmth has returned and tiny speck crawls along the unyielding thing. Until a whole new world appears filled with warmth and illumination.

Ana'Gia Wight 

My heart breaks for that one; you know the woman covered in bushes of orange and brown or the occasional patch of black drifting from the spot just above her right shoulder. The technical term for a woman such as this is ailurophile. It rolls off the tongue don’t you think?

They come in many forms; hiding behind closed doors keeping the worlds at bay, save for the four legged furry creatures who became their children of choice. Sometime they manage to keep things together. Litter boxes cleaned and cleared, the fuzz swept up by one of those rounding robo things offering a poor critter a short ride into the broken mantle hanging down from the wall.

For the unfortunate ones with no place to call their own, those of us civilized folks walk right past them in the park, trying our darnedest to not notice the ammonia permeating from the soiled garments covered in things I dare not dream of identifying. Eyes covered, head hung low we rush along our way without a thought as cold hands rub over fur for warmth.
They’re not all off of their rockers you know. They just really enjoy the company of beings who know when not to bother others just as they wish to no bother us. So call them what you will: Bitch don’t ever, no matter how tempted, call that one a crazy cat lady.

Danielle  

I haven't exactly planned tonight's dinner. It’s not because of lack of choice mind you, but because I'm poor at planning.  There are pork chops, spaghetti, tasty fish fillets and chicken tenders too. After making entrees, you have’ta plan the sides too. The sides always trip me up. It makes little sense stating it aloud alone, but I blame that darned oven. That thing never pre-heats just right. Can't plan the sides to finish in queue with the main piece of the meal.
Planning always gets jinxed by that oven refusing to heat up and stay the temperature its set to. Anything 400 degrees and below... those foods suck the most to create. On those nights we're lucky if everything finishes in an hour, it usually takes two. Grumpily tummies often lead to grumbler evenings till the food reaches completion. I truly hate my oven.

DAPTales

‘Smoking Kills’ was a slogan that was drummed into my head as a child in the 80’s: Say no to drugs. Eggs in a frying pan: A crude demonstration of my brain on drugs. I sat pensively on the step, hidden by the wall of the porch and waited for a bag of bones, also known as Mr. Teathers.  Gingerly, he creaked and cracked his way to the old metal lawn chair that was disturbingly more at home on the old porch tile than the mud patch of my grandmother’s lawn. From the shadow of my location, I heard the strike of a match and the slow burning sound of a drag. Silence… Drag. Cough. Drag. This was the moment. I tilted my head toward the banister to spy ascending curls of smoke from the tip of his cigarette. Slowly, his breathing became labored until it leveled into a steady rhythm. The instant I heard the first snore, I grabbed the bud and ran.

Jeani Brent

The forest glowed like multi-valued amber.  The pine and fir trees stood with their backs straight and firm against the forceful wind whistling and shrieking as it passed through.  The air was so hot it was breathless, consuming every bit of oxygen it could encircle.  Flames roared as they chewed up almost everything in their wake.  They jumped from tree to tree, racing fast down the round trunks to the bushes and ground below.  And fast as lightning they raced up and up and up, far into the sky, as though searching for some unfounded target; dancing fun-like along the tree tops.  The forest had become nothing more than a feeding ground for the ravenous, insatiable flames, which continued growing larger and larger until nothing more could be seen.  As quickly as they roared in, the flames swept their way through, leaving nothing but charred metallic looking skeletons standing in the ash-laden forest floor.

Zakiyyah Zai'mah

I make my way through the thick brush looking for the path to the wall where our work is taking place. With each footfall, squishy sounds emanate from beneath my feet and puncture the occasional silence which alternates with the cacophony of sounds from nocturnal creatures that guard the night.
Finally, I reach the road which winds upward towards the wall. Just ahead of me is Zainab. She has become a true leader for the warrior-women. She is our voice, our conscious and the central motivating factor in our drive for freedom from our watery prison.
Quietly I approach her and as I come closer to her, she swiftly turns around as if in preparation to defend herself from attack. Hastily, yet very succinctly, I offer the warrior-women greeting code that was established when we began this clandestine project,
“If your sister is your hairdresser…” Immediately she withdraws and responds with a smile, “Then you need no mirror.” Zainab then focuses and calls out, “Zakiyyah, is that you?”
“Yes, it is”, I happily respond -- grateful that she knows my name. We smile, turn and together, we continue walking toward the wall.


alFalaq

(PIFFLE: Nonsense)

Joshua hadn't yet looked up from cleaning his nails.  In fact, he had finished a full two and a half minutes before, but he kept his gaze carefully downward and fidgeted his fingers, maintaining the pretense.  This was his common practice when he wished to avoid what he presumed would be an uncomfortable, or at the very least, annoying interaction with another human being.  His true friends recognized this about him.  Delano leaned back, apparently having abandoned even the hope that he might still seem to harbor any humility.  He couldn't help it; being right was at the very core of his life's aspirations.  He waited for some acknowledgment from the other man, who still seemed to be trying to get his nails clean.  Joshua breathed once, deeply and stared briefly out the window.  He knew Delano was prone to some weird notions but this whole business about the Gods in the garden hammock seemed pure piffle.  Not quite dumb enough to be naive, not quite intentional to be absurd, it just hovered in the vast middle ground of plain, un-decorated idiocy.  Like a foolish idea heard once and cherished without the benefit of reason; yet in his own words it has his direct experience that he had met and spoken with God, or at least A God, whom he had accidentally woken up from his nap right there in the garden hammock. Joshua considered monetarily an attempt to look directly at Delano.  He decided ungracefully to just keep staring at the trees waving lazily outside.  "That's bullshit," he said, rather blandly.

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