Laura: Fifteen Minutes Of Fiction

School Haiku

Words of worlds gone by,
Faces, spirits, live today
Oh literature!

Erase those numbers,
Though sure I'd had them done right,
Math, you're not my friend.

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January 2nd

It would seem nice to change a bit,
resolve to wipe things clean.
To start again, turn over a leaf,
become a better me.

But January 2nd dawns,
the same as any day,
the same alarm to wake me up
and push me on my way.

And here I am, discouraged again
at what I haven't done.
Caught up in all the ways I've failed
and why I haven't won.

The easiest thing would be to pout
and then move on with life.
And think, "oh well, it didn't work,
it can't be worth the strife."

But if I want to make a change,
then make it I must do.
There are no magic wands 'round here,
it's right on to day two.

Resolving does me little good
if one short day it lasts -
so here I come, January 3rd,
and 4th, and 5th, on past.

It's all a battle every day,
to punch or get knocked out -
I'll make that change in little ways
just as it came about.

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Erosion

Ponderous boulders are gracing the coastline's rim,
Guarding the land from the heart of the ocean.
Those which were sharper, eroded and duller now,
Worn by the water's perpetual motion.

Lapping, receding, and crashing back down again,
Rhythmic, the waves will not pass through resistance.
Cliffs that have laughed at invaders for ages, are
Still standing strongly, though worn from persistence.

Shining in sunlight and gleaming when moon comes out,
Silent and still when untouched by humanity.
Rough and uneven in countless years past, but this
Water-worn smoothness, now cause for their vanity.

Rocks in the days of old, brandished their weaponry,
Staved off attackers by night and by day.
Friction of waves leads the armor to sparkle, but
Time and the water have taken their swords away.

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The Speeding Ticket

It was just a speeding ticket, Rick reasoned to himself. Happened to everyone once in a while. Probably. Although the last one for him had been all the way back during his college years. But after that all he had was the one for his registration being 3 months overdue that time, but there were good reasons for it.

Who was he kidding? His wife was going to kill him. She'd never received a speeding ticket. He could just picture himself slinking into the house and shame-facedly placing it on the kitchen table. He'd have to, because she'd see in his face that he was upset, and ask why. And then her eyes would narrow slightly, and she'd sigh in that disapproving way. Nothing too dramatic in front of the kids, but enough to get the message across. No, of course he wouldn't do that. He'd leave it in his bag and wait to tell her about it until later.

But then, what if she found it first? She'd go through the bag to take out his dirty dishes, and certainly see it before he got a chance to show it to her. Then she'd ask when he was planning to tell her about it, and accuse him of trying to hide it from her. No, he couldn't do that either.

He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. Another red light. His drive home began on the winding roads of a rural industrial park, but soon took him through the more congested parts of town during rush hour. He looked around at the other motorists around him, waiting, all for the same reason. Some were on cell phones, others were reading to pass the time, one was bobbing his head to the radio.

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Fall Fibonacci

The
sun
seems so
much further
than it was before
But it's us who have moved away

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She

Sometimes I remember
that I don't really like what they do to me,
whoever me is, or isn't, or wanted to be,
but didn't, couldn't, lost in the sea
of it all, caught up in fake embraces,
still resurrecting traces of what
I thought I wanted, and perhaps still do,
though I avert my eyes from you,
because I don't believe in it.

Sometimes I remember
a little girl, blonde and curly-haired,
just smiling as she ran, so sweet and unprepared,
tossed into a bitter world to see how she fared,
but I still see her running, hear her calling out,
don't forget me, don't forget me,
with childish intensity, ricocheting about
my mind, I know she'll never let me
lose sight of what I did to her.

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Poor Planning

'Twas all arranged: my three-course meal;
I'd sauteed onions, made hors d'œuvres,
Chopped some carrots, whipped up mousse -
Quite sure to please once it was served.

But best of all, the beef rib roast,
With herbed potatoes all around,
My mouth just watered to think of it -
The guests would surely wolf it down.

Our thoughts and taste buds all were glad,
At all the joy this meal would spawn,
So imagine my shame-faced chagrin,
That I forgot to turn the oven on!

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Little Mass Merchandiser of Horrors

On the 23rd Day of the Month of September the human race suddenly encountered a deadly threat to its very existence, and this terrifying enemy surfaced, as such enemies often do, in the seemingly most innocent and unlikely of places...

...Wal-mart. Yes, Wal-mart, that bountiful world of insincere yellow smiley faces and flagrant fashion errors. For years it had seen unprecedented growth worldwide, saturating the market with cheap imitations of quality products, and lowering standards for millions of people.

And how was it able to achieve such “success” in spite of such apathetic service, warehouse-style shopping environment, and general unreliability? No, it wasn't the low prices, and it wasn't the commitment to... well to... selling stuff. It was the gnomes.

They may have come from China. They may have come from Taiwan. No one knows for sure, but what faster way to reach the hub of the general American populace than through the method they chose?

It was this one unfortunate Saturday morning that found Angie Jones barreling through said store with a large blue cart, wearing pajamas and barely conscious of the half-asleep throngs she was almost running over. Finally, she made it to the somewhat deserted lawn and garden department, and headed towards the back to get some cheap flower pots. And that's when they struck.

With no time to scream, shriek, or utter a sound, she was thrown headlong into a large, plastic, innocuous-looking gardening chest, and was given barely a moment to struggle before feeling the wet cloth covering her face, and remembering no more. Her half-filled cart sat awkwardly in the middle of the aisle.

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My Lame Ode to Chocolate

To chocolate, velvety, dark, and sweet,
Flowing so richly down my throat,
For all the day's frustration and stress,
Its presence is an antidote.

So beautiful even when bite-sized, but
Its purpose, I truly feel
Is when I release all my inhibitions,
And consume it for a meal.

Of cocoa and butter, this flavor is
The delicious essence of chocolate -
This taste is truly like nothing else,
And that is why I love it.

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Summer Haiku

The beach is open
And my world is expanding
Like the endless sea.

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