Chop chop busy busy

There once was a writer named Viki
whose work life was taking the mickey.
Left with no writing time,
would it be such a crime
if she were to pull a sly sickie?*


*if my boss happens to be looking in, this post should actually read cough cough sneeze sniffle

Waaah!

Some time ago, I was whining about the prolonged absence of my poetic muse (if you're wondering, it later sent me a postcard from Rio, declaring it intended to stay there for the foreseeable and advising me to put my iambs firmly on the back burner). Though slightly irksome, an inability to poeticise is not a disaster for me, as I've come to see myself as more of a prosey type anyway.
And this is where I begin to panic. I have an essay due in on Friday, and no inspiration - and, apparently, no inclination - to write it. I find the subject (Chekhov's The Cherry Orchard) entertaining, and I know that there is a wealth of incisive and learned points to be made, but when I sit down to type I find myself a slave to the urge to displace. I can only hope that a sense of mounting panic will do something. Soon.
And now, instead of skiving on my blog, I suppose I must mix my metaphors, pull my socks up, and get my bandwagon rolling.

Sock, horror

Davis tiptoed over the shiny unfamiliarity of the floor, and hoped his shoes were clean. His eyes darted over the alien surfaces; their gleam and powerfully clean scent assaulted his senses. Ranged over the surfaces were intriguing contraptions, with buttons and lights twinkling at him in encouragement to meddle. He poised, finger hovering over an enticing dial, when the machine on the floor to his left sighed into silence.
Hunkering down, Davis peered cautiously through some sort of viewing screen, but he saw nothing clearly. There was a self-satisfied click. Intrigued, Davis tugged at a slight protuberance on the machine’s plane surface, and a porthole swung open.
Incredible. Davis couldn’t believe it. Gone. Was it a teleporter, or a vaporising machine?
The sound of approaching steps halted Davis’s wonder. He rose, and turned to the approaching figure.
‘Can I watch TV now, Mum? I’ve emptied the drier. Don’t know where all the socks have gone, though.’

Soupy Twist

She’s lost to me now, perhaps forever. I swear I was only trying to help.
She was sleeping, or away in a different consciousness, curled pitifully on the sofa. It was my chance. I was preparing the soup for her father’s lunch, but he’d brave beans on toast if it would help her. I ladled the steamy creaminess into her Tigger bowl, a favourite since babyhood, and tiptoed to her. I dipped the spoon, and blew. Her lips were slightly parted, and I tried to ignore the waft of death on her breath, the shrunken lips, the concavity of her cheeks that used to be so plump. Is that why, because we called her Chubbychops?
She reared awake as the soup oozed into her mouth, hurling the bowl and me away from her. Chicken soup splattered wallpaper; the carrots looked suddenly vomitty. She retreated to a corner of sofa, spindly legs tucked away, and as she glowered at the shards of Tigger bowl I knew that she had broken her last faith with food.
I collect the pieces. What else can I do? I weep as I realise. Fifteen fragments; one for each birthday.

Aw, shucks!

Big, juicy thanks to Cathy at My New Notebook for giving me this rather snazzy Rockin' Blogger award - it's a real pick-me-up at a time when life, work and studying seem to have combined in order to puree my poor little brain. After a good cogitate, I have decided to pass the award onto the spiffing Grumblog and Random Blethers, though it was a tricky choice as there are so many bloggers of quality doing their thang out there in the ether.

A flash fiction about paint

The picture was in Gareth’s head, perfect with vivid clarity. Now he just had to bring her to life.
First, he prepared his canvas, covering it with an even layer of delicate peach. Next came a bold sweep of black, making the green eye doubly brilliant against its white background. Then a skilful touch of pink, soft as childhood laughter, and her complexion was alive. Gareth lingered over her cheekbones for a moment, delighted and enraptured by their compelling symmetry.
Finally, he took the thinnest brush, and filled in the warm expanse of lip. He had thought scarlet at first, but that would be wrong. He chose a quiet brown-red, not too glossy.
Finished. Gareth stepped back, and gasped. She was beautiful, even more beautiful than she had been in his mind. He looked at himself in the mirror again. Gareth was no more. Giselle lived.