Fantasy Friday: We Squirrels

A rodent came to me, and it knew more
About me than my mother does, I'd bet.
Its gaze did penetrate me to the core,
Although the two of us had barely met.
It hypnotized me, I believe, or did
I always have grey fur like this? A tail?
These black and liquid eyes? Where have I hid -- ?
Yes, look at me, and deeply. There's a trail
We're following into the woods. You see?
Look closer, focus, feel it 'neath your feet.
This is the place we're truly meant to be,
With acorns and such other things to eat.
You understand? Hold on, I'm coming there.
What's wrong, my friend? Now all you do is stare.

Throwback Thursday: The Most Famous Sonnetations

When William fell in love, and love again,

He found his feelings weren't requited, quite.

The lady dark, he'd never see again;

The lovely boy avoided him for spite.

But in imagination, both of them,

Enraptured by his ev'ry honeyed word

Responded warmly to his charméd pen,

In such a way as all of us have heard

Who've drunk with him. Indeed, we've heard enough.

We want to tell him, man, just stick to plays.

Your wife and son have really got it rough

Just as things are. Your wand'ring eye and ways

Are getting old. Nobody wants to read

Your whiny poems, which fulfil no need!

Weird Wednesday: Doggie Heaven

Mariah's life had ended, but she felt
Disoriented as she looked about.
She couldn't speak, did not know where she dwelt,
And felt the urgent need to just get out!
Alas, a giant door contained her. "Aww,
You want to go outside? Do you? Well, speak!"
All she could do was yip; her mouth and jaw
Could not form words, but what she'd done seemed fine.
Outdoors the world was wonderful, with smell
And sound that fair bewitched her. "Puppy, mine,"
A voice said "You e'er treated your dogs well
In life. Now that you're dead, you get to live
The life that those once in your care will give."

Terror Tuesday: The Room Tone

Those things that share our spaces, but cannot
Be sensed by humankind, sometimes are found
By strange experiments. Sometimes, unsought,
However, they're discovered through their sound.
Such happened as a narrator, by night
Was cleaning up her day's recording work.
She'd worked to make her studio just right,
But still, persistent noise would cause a jerk
Of grim annoyance. As she analyzed
The tones beneath her room tone, she'd a shock.
Such whispers, such foul utt'rances, disguised
As emptiness! Each ticking of the clock,
Persuading us, in silence, to do ill,
Perverting ev'ry talent, ev'ry skill!

Mystery Monday: Her Voyage, Part X

What could I do? Back to my normal life
I went, but kept an eye out for what news
Of Kris that I could get, it wasn't rife;
In fact I nearly missed what I could use:
Some visitors to Nova Scotia last
December said they'd seen, on one cold beach
A fin progressing through the sand, so fast
That they weren't sure it had been real. To reach
The couple was a moment's work, but they
Had not seen any humans with the thing.
Just hoping, I phoned up Cassandra Rey,
My hostess from my last year's Digby fling.
"Is she back in her cottage?" "No, but there
I something hot and singeing in that air."

Satire Sunday: Publication Day

A small-town newsrag, in the pixel age,
Much like a unicorn, was strange and rare.
The revenue to justify each page
Was calculated with the greatest care.
Then came the week - for once a week was all
The readership could justify, in costs --
When just one article, about a fall
From great height at the local mill, a loss
Of man-hours, not of life, was going to fit.
To print more stories meant more sheets, and that
Was quite forbidden. Not one little bit
Of leeway could be given, so a spat
Broke out between the editor and those
Who staffed his paper. "I don't need your prose!"

Sci Fi Saturday: A Frustrating Interview

It wasn't ever known what caused the end
Of that good ship, Obama, forty souls
And unknown cargo. Zadok, my old friend,
The salvager, claims to know the whole
Sad story, but he'll only tell his tale
When fabulously drunk, on planet-leave,
And at his fav'rite dive. O'er bad synth-ale,
That blots his mind, that soaks into his sleeve,
He darkly hints of solar flares and worse.
"I found 'er," he will say. "What are the odds
That she should wind up on Hygiea? Curse
That barmaid, I am dry! What's that? Ye gods!
It's true. Nobody lived except one man,
And he seems plumb immortal! Bring that can!"