| Squid Blog Day-to-Day with Squiddy |  |
| Squid Blog Day-to-Day with Squiddy | |
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "choke". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Choke- Squiddy Geiger - August 30, 2012
I think that I shall never see
An artichoke that pleases me
They're far too much like scales
Yet this does not affect their sales
I think that I shall never know
A rutabaga, but maybe so
The name is wrong, as you can tell
Even if it is fun to spell
I think that I shall never eat
A dessert dish that tastes of feet
It may have happened there on Friends
To complete the writer's comic ends
I think that I shall never take
Another job where I must rake
Two summers spent in this way
Much too lazy now, today
I think that I shall never write
An ode to Choke, it would be trite
The word beguiles, I cannot tend
My fields of words, this has to end
I think that I have finished now
No mention of dog, or pig, or cow
My nonsense poem, does it please you?
No? Well too bloody bad, you snob.
Er, I mean:
If not then I shall bid you adieu.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "deja vu". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Deja Vu- Squiddy Geiger - August 29, 2012
Sierra put the key in the car lock, wondering if it would surprise her yet again. She set her packages in the back seat, then sat in preparation for the Test: a deep breath, held for five seconds, then she turned the key. The car sputtered to life reluctantly, shuddering and whining. It backfired twice for good measure.
She sighed with relief, and put the car into reverse, backing out of the stall carefully. Another long day of painful work in a call centre, yelled at by all and sundry. It would feel good to get home. She'd taken a steak out of the freezer and put it in the fridge, to celebrate the arrival of the weekend.
Tomorrow, she'd work on her resumé. She needed to get out of this job, and there was nowhere to go inside the company. Time to jump ship. Again. Tonight, however, she'd celebrate. Steak, a nice red wine, some good music and a book. She'd unwind in style. She'd been looking forward to it all day, and in five more minutes, she'd be home.
The song on the radio, a nameless tune from the soulless 90s, was annoying her. She switched stations, settling on an 80s song she'd hated in the 80s but had since come to love. Her mind wandered, reminding her of foolish fun with her high school friends, none of whom had liked this song, either. She wondered if they, too, liked it now.
She pulled into a stall in the parking lot and turned the key off, cutting the song off in mid-word. The car, however, shuddered and sputtered for another thirty seconds before it finally died.
She got out and gathered her things and walked away, arriving at her destination. As she put the key into the car lock, she wondered if it would surprise her yet again. She put her packages in the back seat, then sat in preparation for the Test.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "fly". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Fly- Squiddy Geiger - August 27, 2012
Floating. The sensation was odd, not what he expected. Mother had warned him to expect some nausea, but there was none, just - floating. It wasn't quite the same as swimming, but he could feel a similarity to it.
"Just keep your head up to start, Braden, and you'll be fine," she'd said, but he rolled slowly over in the air, relishing the odd sensations. He put out an arm slowly, and slowed his rotation, then kicked with his feet and flopped over into a rather ungainly forward roll, letting himself tumble several times before stopping, coming to a clumsy halt.
"See, Miriam?" his father almost shouted. "He's a natural, look at that somersault!" His father kicked back and floated lazily over to where Braden had been experimenting. "It took me a few days of practice to show the control you already have! By the end of the week, you'll be ready for outdoor work. In a month, you'll be a pro!" He turned back to Miriam, smiling. "Won't he, Miriam? I can feel it!"
"Ok, Braden," his mother laughed. "That's enough for tonight, and don't let me catch you practicing unsupervised, not until at least next week." She flew over and kissed his forehead. "You do seem to have a degree of talent, but you just learned the spell, without the modifiers. Plus, we don't know how stable your casting is." She pointed to the floor. "Down you go."
"Yes, Mom," Braden said reluctantly, as his hand flicked in a close approximation of the gesture used for 'down' that he'd seen used by others many times. He landed on his rear with a loud thud, and an indignant "ow!". He got up and rubbed his injured pride, then brightened visibly, wishing it was tomorrow already.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "fathom". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Fathom- Squiddy Geiger - August 23, 2012
Jerad pondered the mysteries of the universe while he ate his lunch, on a break from the boredom of his job. His days were spent watching the line and occasionally pulling imperfect pieces off it and tossing them in boxes to be examined and, if possible, fixed and sent to market anyway. Sometimes the fixes were cosmetic; the flaw was still there, but hidden. Oh well, not his problem.
He played with his food, and as he played, an idea soared out of the mess on his plate. He grabbed at it, the idea still not completely formed in his mind, and scared it away. It had been good, a new process for the factory that would revolutionize the industry, he was certain - but as he realized it, the though dropped through the cracks at the bottom of his brain, and drained out.
It was the story of his life. He'd had a cure for the common cold once, but it fled into the night, as he was waking up. He'd found the answer to an ancient riddle that Humanity had been studying for centuries; it was snatched from him by a brain fart. His cure for cancer, obliterated by an untimely sneeze. The loss of this marvel of industrial technology, therefore, did not surprise Jerad in the least.
He had never been able to fathom the quirk of fate that had given him this imperfect genius. Supreme intellect, he consoled himself, was his; it was not his fault God had given him no way to capture the inspired ideas and development. It was what it was, he was who he was, a simple factory worker with great unknown ideas.
Tomorrow, maybe he'd discover the secret to World Peace. He looked forward to it. He finished his lunch and went back to the line, nodding to himself with satisfaction.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "shadow". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Shadow- Squiddy Geiger - August 22, 2012
Pretty in a subdued fashion
Hiding from the limelight
Friendly with all who address her
Never initiating conversation
Lively mind behind bright eyes
Filled with sad reticence
All who know her like her
Reticence brings consternation
Witty repartée when caught by surprise
Her armour out of place
She quickly covers, returning to
Her quiet contemplation
Loving tenderness reserved
For her four-legged feline friend
Who never asks what ails her
No need for examination
Wiser than her years should show
She alone knows the reason
What shadow crossed her path
Bringing such isolation
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "crush". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Crush- Squiddy Geiger - August 13, 2012
Orin smiled thinking about the new girl in town. She was perfect. In every way, she was perfection, and she would be his. He'd known it the moment he'd seen her outside Murphy's Hardware. He had known there was a new girl staying with the McKeons - Mrs. McKeons' niece or something, but he'd never thought she'd be so perfect.
He'd started across the street to meet her then, but she'd been met by her cousins; he pretended to have remembered something and turned back, walking home quickly. He'd seen her many times since then, but always with someone; he needed her alone.
When he'd seen her two days later at the Five and Dime, she'd smiled at him as she walked past. She was talking to Jimmy McKeon, but she still smiled at him. He'd almost died, hoping she didn't see his blush. He was biding his time, waiting for a chance to catch her alone. He wasn't stalking her, really. Just following her movements around town, watching her closely. But not stalking her, no.
He'd almost run into her on Thursday in the Shop'n'Save, and had mumbled a "sorry" as he hurried off. She'd been with Mrs. McKeon. She'd frowned slightly, which made his heart drop, but only for a moment, because then she'd smiled again, as she turned away. Or maybe he'd imagined it; he wasn't sure now.
It wasn't until two weeks later, after many close calls, and a lot of frustration, that he finally caught her alone. She was at the library, he'd seen her go in alone. He followed a short time later, and there she was, alone. He smiled and moved around through the stacks, looking for a vantage point. He found one, and, while she wasn't looking, snapped a picture. He hurried out.
At home, he carefully hooked the camera to his computer, and tapped impatiently for the software to recognize his device. He created a folder, and called it "Sharon", then copied the pictures to the folder. At last, she was his. He opened his slideshow software, and watched the faces of his true loves as they floated briefly in front of him.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "smoke". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Smoke- Squiddy Geiger - August 04, 2012
Watching the time, keeping careful track
Racing to get things done in time
Hoping the hours will somehow turn back
Finishing the project would be sublime
Hiding my tracks, taking my time
Choosing my words carefully
Planning the demise of a dirty slime
Cackling over his proposed end, gleefully
A distraction placed carefully over here
Smoke and mirrors arrayed about the room
Knowing he'll show without any fear
To bask in short lived glory? Nay, pending doom
I laugh and I smile, so filled with joy
My plans are coming together, my intuition
Tells me the best way my trap to deploy
As my machinations soon will come to fruition
Something in here perhaps, to wet his whistle?
No, he'll suspect that, poison too easy
So food is out, as he'll suspect the gristle
I can't do anything obvious, but perhaps sleazy?
So my planning continues, at fever pitch
My preparations extensive, so far as I can see
Nearly done, I'll soon fix that son of a bitch
Oh fuck! what's that? He's come for me!
Something I should have learned long before
The moral of my story, now that I'm dead
If you get so lost in planning, lock the door
Your enemy is coming to take your head
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "wound". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Wound- Squiddy Geiger - August 01, 2012
Oliver fretted. It wasn't fair that he had to wait here "guarding the house" while the rest went out to have fun. He wasn't the one who lost the damned key, why did he have to suffer for it? He should have been out there with the others, having a great time at the fair, but no, he was stuck here, protecting the house.
Protecting the house? From what? Everyone was at the fair. Except him. What the Hell was he supposed to do until they got back? Chores were all done, he'd read the few books in the house so many times, he could practically recite them. There was nothing to do! It just wasn't fair!
Emmett had lost the key, Emmett should have stayed here at the house to protect it. But of course, Father hadn't listened, he never listened to Oliver. When there was an extra chore to be done, did Emmett do it? No, Oliver did it. When there was a problem about the farm, did Emmett get blamed? No, Oliver got blamed. Everything was his fault and everything was his to do. Well, no more, Oliver would let Father know exactly what he thought of this, when they got home. He'd had enough and he would say exactly what was on his mind, despite the probable caning he'd get for talking back.
Oliver heard someone coming up the path, and waited, pacing, ready to unleash a torrent of hate. The door opened and Emmett walked in carrying a packet which he set on the table. "Father sent me back to guard the house for the afternoon. You're to go enjoy yourself at the Fair, and here are two apples to eat while you go! Now get out of here!"
Oliver's prepared blast, caught before it could start, redirected to his gut - his tightly wound spring broken. He meekly took the apples from his brother, smiling sheepishly, and headed out the door. He was going to the Fair! All thoughts of blasting his brother were gone as he closed the door behind him. What a wonderful day to be alive!