Saturday, April 25, 2009

MySixWriMo Day 25


We’re in the home stretch! Let's see if we can keep the momentum going.

Here’s today’s prompt from Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides:

For today's prompt I want you to pick an event and make that event the title of your poem.

And here’s today’s goody from The Writer’s Book of Matches:

A ten year old boy suspects his neighbor is wanted by the police.

See you in the comments.


Greta said...

Old Man Bascomb

They don’t come with their lights flashing or the siren howling, but I see the way they come up the walk, hands over their guns, cop eyes moving.

They’re right to worry; Old Man Bascomb’s a mean one. One time, when me and Danny were shooting rusty cans off the fence, he yelled out the window, you hoodlums knock that off or I’ll put a cap in your ass.

What with the cops here, I figure he musta finally offed someone.

The cops stand at the door, but no one answers. Bascomb’s not there; I saw him sneak out, eyes patrolling, lugging that giant suitcase again. He’s a weird one. He always takes that suitcase, but he comes right back. It’s no mystery to me why his wife took off so sudden like that.

JohnOBX said...

I'll turn the poem prompt into my 6 for today:

Sometimes the planets do align: some scrap lumber, a neighbor with extra fill, a bored two-and-a-half-year-old, and a free afternoon.

"Watcha doing, daddy?" Sara asked.

"Making something," I said, trying to remember if it was 44 1/2 or 44 2/3rds. Damn, I'd have to go back and measure.

Four hours and eighteen wheelbarrow-laden treks later, the little girl had her first sandbox. When I can make both the women in my house smile, I've had a good day.

Greta said...

Serendipity, indeed, John.

Here's a fun tip from yours truly: set the kiddie pool up next to the sandbox. Makes for lots of fun running back and forth, while Mommy and Daddy just sit in a chair and relax :)

Stephen said...

Nice piece, John. And what a last line there, Greta. A little touch of Hitchcock with that one, hey?

Here's my late effort.


He smirked at me and told me his name was Joe or something, not John. But I knew who he was, from the moment I saw him turn the corner and put a hand on Miss Polly’s doorknob. That cleft chin and thin mustache, those eyes as dark and confident as the devil himself, there was no mistaking who he really was—at least not as far I was concerned.

After he closed Miss Polly’s door, I ran down the hall and bolted into the apartment.

“Daddy,” I said, almost breathless now, “you’ll never guess who’s staying down at Polly’s.”

I told him and he just looked up at me, said I was silly kid, and that there was no way a famous bank robber would be messing around with a girl like Polly Hamilton.

Greta said...

Cool take, Stephen.

And yes, I was thinking of Rear Window when I wrote mine.