Golden Shovel No2

Each Saturday in February, Monty shares a prompt to create a Golden Shovel Poem from. I was a bit late for the first, only wrote something late at the last minute. But this time, I am early. Feel free to join in.

“Cocoa in pods and alligator pears”

The Tropics in New York by Claude McKay

I remember her skin, it looked and tasted like cocoa

In the shadows I hide to see her chest rise as she breathes in

She knows it well; me and her, we are like peas in their pods

I cannot be without her, but I am not allowed to near her and

Every day ends with new soul-wounds; deeper than alligator

bites. I stand still. I see her, having breakfast. Eating a pear.


As always, let’s not overthink. But this reads a bit creepy. Hopefully others wrote something a less stalker-ish.

Sunday Scribblings #16 mountains

We are running and running, hiding in the mountains,

I hear myself breathing your name

A sound barely above a whisper.

Far away from the reality that will crush us,

We are giving in to our secret desires.

The flowers you brought to romance me

Are scattered all over the floor, damaged by our hungry passion.

And I moan your name,

It rolls heavily off my tongue.

Our lust reverberates from these walls,

It is seeping into the floors; invisible to the blind.

And I scream your name in ecstatic bliss,

Flying high, then crashing down in waves of emotions.

The night is falling outside, stars shining bright.

I sign my name across your heart;

It will be protected by the ghosts of the mountains.


Written for Aaron’s Sunday Scribbling. Take a look at his blog, or consider using the prompts that are published each Wednesday to write, too. Prose, fiction, poetry, non-fiction, essays… everything is allowed.

Sunday Scribblings #12 – immortal

This week, Aaron gave us the following prompt: immortal.

I didn’t write anything new, but it reminded me of an image I created and shared recently.


The black background is a close-up of a vinyl record. The dots are the flash of my mobile camera, and the words and the name are mine.

I write a lot of fiction, but some of it is inspired by people in my life or those who are not in my life anymore. When I wrote the above quote, I thought about a special man who taught me many valuable lessons over the years and who will forever have that special place in my heart. And because he has that special place inside my heart, he is immortal. I write about him, about who he was to me and how he made me feel. I fantasise about what could have been and what never was.

When I think of you while I write, then you will become immortal too. Like Aaron who shares questions, reviews, these writing prompts, and much more on his blog.

I believe that it takes a long while to be truly and completely forgotten. Everything we do has an impact on the people around. Isn’t that a nice and scary thought?

Or, as the Austrian Post-Rock band Our Ceasing Voice said: The only ones dead (are those who are forgotten)

(From the album “When the Headline Hit Home” 2011)

beautiful beginning

The clouds gathered above my head,

I shook my hair, refusing to accept that I was mad

And the rain began soaking my naked body

My nose rose in defiance; yes, I was that snotty

Roots grew out of my feet, keeping me steady

One, two, three. I felt it in my bones; I was ready

I wasn’t drowning; I was nurtured and growing

And time and space was slowing (down)

My head fell back, and my arms rose against the gloomy sky

Fuzzy images behind my eyes; suggestive lies

Victorious at last, my skin was washed clean

Memories of who I was and where I’d been

My unquiet mind was reeling from this new emotion

Life passing by in slow motion

A new seed was beginning to grow

Goodbye. Hello.


Written for Peckapalooza (Aaron), who posted a prompt on his blog, The Confusing Middle. I don’t want to commit to writing for every prompt, but this is a beginning, and sometimes, prompts help to get the creative juices flowing.

Head over to his blog and take a look. I think you will like it. Also, if you want, write for the prompt ‘beginning’ and share it in the comments.

I hope you are well—lots of love to you.

A Little Respect

This flash fiction is dedicated to Ollie. He asked for a random number between 0 and 9999. I gave him the number 5752 and received a writing prompt in return.

A Little Respect

Mark lowered his head as he pushed through the Saturday night crowd at the city park. Music was booming from the speakers, making sure that everyone was bathed in the electric sounds and showered by the strobe light. Mark made his way to the bar. He was pushed and shoved; sweaty bodies rubbed against him. He was disgusted, but his shy self let it happen with hardly any protest. He reached the bar where orders were yelled above the noise. Mark walk on, to the small space were no patrons were allowed to be. In a locker marked with his name, he put his jacket and took out a black formal vest. He ran a hand over the fabric and smiled. He put it on and did the buttons up. Mark straightened his slouch and squared his shoulders. Whenever he wore the black vest, the usually reserved and shy man turned into a powerful and respected alpha male.
He barked orders at the staff; they had once again forgotten to keep their workspace clean and the fridges stocked. They obeyed his wishes and executed his commands. No one ever tried arguing with Mark.
Mark was a big man, his white shirt was straining over his bulging muscles, and the vest empathised his slim waist. His face was handsome with high cheekbones and an accentuated jaw that was dusted in dark hair. His blue eyes were piercing and cold. He exuded power. No one would have guessed that behind this strong exterior hid an insecure man. Work-Mark was like Private-Mark’s evil twin, and he liked it that way. He loved the power to order people around and to stare patrons down.
The DJ was playing pleasant tunes tonight, and Mark was in a good mood, a little less severe than he usually was. His hips swayed while poured drinks and mixed cocktails with exotic names. A smile here and there earned him some welcome extra money, but paper slips with private phone numbers were sent to the trash cans immediately.
Commotion, not far from Mark’s post, caught his attention. He whistled through his teeth for the security team to solve the problem, but they were no there. Mark jumped across the bar, it impressed the people around, and they watched where he was going with long and sure strides.
On the dance floor, two men were fighting. There had been an altercation; both men had bloody noses, one had a cut above his eyebrow. The shorter man held a cement stone in his hand, ready to use it as a weapon. The men were panting and alert; they were prepared to continue fighting over whatever their quarrel had begun. Mark stood between them, starting them down, spreading his arms in a way that kept the men away from each other. Around them, the party-goers who had danced moments ago were focused on the scene in front of them. Mark whispered an order and waited; the tension was palpable. If the man decided to use that cement stone as a weapon, all hell would break loose, and Mark was determined to keep his shift incident-free. The hand with the stone was lowered, and the other man took a shaky breath, slumping his shoulders. He murmured an apology, which was accepted with a nod. The men glared at each other, then at Mark and left in different directions.
Mark straightened his vest and went back to the bar as if nothing had happened. He grinned and shook his head. He was determined to have a word with the security team later that night. They were supposed to keep an eye on the crowd, and they hadn’t.
Mark’s favourite Erasure song was played, and he got back into his good mood. He ordered his staff around and made sure that no one stayed thirsty in front of his part of the bar. Mark liked this life, he liked the power he had in his job, and he liked his private life too. It all came down to “a little respect.”