Creative writing

Squibs: some damp and some tepid. You have passed the first test and have managed to access a page that you have no right to. The next test is whether you can find how to add comments and move onto the third and final test.

Clouds

The puffy pristine white clouds are floating like ocean-going yachts anchored in an azure sea. There was no celestial cacophony of colour, the sky was blue – not a pure blue, but a multifarious mixture of blues blended together creating a one-dimensional collage, a Martianesque blue-shift sunset but without any hint of grey hues. I could feel a cool maritime breeze on my cheek, but the clouds appeared motionless. Perhaps, because I was being propelled at a rotational speed of around 750 mph on this blue marble we personify (and genderize or deify) as mother Earth. The clouds shapeshifted, morphing nebulously and letting out wisps and swirls, but never appearing to locomote; their locales fixed as if glued in place. Yet to appear stationary, they must also be traversing the troposphere at supersonic speed given the speed that I must be moving at. Succumbing to an OCD tendency, I started to track an imaginary path between and among the clouds, winding in and out of the white cotton candy. Oh, damn. I lost. Game over. The clouds shifted just enough to block a pathway between two fluffy balls, which have now clumped together to create a nebulous white cauliflower curd. Clouds are often a harbinger of rain, but these humble clouds looked innocent, bringing nothing but fair weather, living up to their Latinate name culumus humilis.

Beware

wearing sneakers and shorts
climbing the knoll
carefree and cheery
then came the squall

flurries of snow
out of the blue
an ominous object
came into view

there silhouetted
a shadowy figure
lurking with menace
and getting bigger

tentacles swaying
to pounce on its prey
wind howling
presaging the slay

watching the quarry
the headless beast
waiting unwearyingly
ready to feast

limbs lurching
covered in armour
reckless and feckless
comeuppance and karma

exposed and cold
snared by a snap
line and sinker
caught in a trap

mercury plummets
lo and behold
the temerarious trekker
lifeless and cold

blotchy red
another Joe Doe
fingers frosted
succumbed to the snow

flesh and bones
no longer woke
frigid and fixed
beside the white oak

Dysfunctional dialogue

Two ochre cereal bowls brimming with cornflakes stood eagerly awaiting milk, flanked by matching side plates ready to catch warm toast. Tony was sitting at the head of the rectangular table, hiding behind his favourite tabloid. His arm appearing every now and then to take a swig of tepid coffee from his oversized red devil mug. The colour of his cereal bowl matched his hair, which had lost most of its melanin in the last millennium. To curb his widening waist, sugary cereals were no more: sugar-free muesli and skimmed milk it was. Ker-chunk! Out popped four slices of burnt toast. Jane and Joey bolted downstairs, tossing their school bags towards the back door as they came.
Jane, pass the milk, will you?
United won last night: three nil.
Take your finger out of your nose, Joey.
Pass the milk.
Have they avoided relegation, then?
Did you wash your face, Joey?
It’s not in it. It’s just near my nose.
MILK!
Quiet. I am trying to read the news.
There’s your precious milk, cry baby.
Can I get another coffee, Tracy?
Dad, she’s calling me names again.
If you make it yourself.
Jane, be nice to the cry baby.
Dad!
Is there any news in that paper, Mum?
It’s ten past. You two had better get a move on.
fake news and football.
What time is it?
Time you weren’t here.
But, Mum. I’ve not finished.
Ah. We’ll miss the bus. Come on.
Don’t forget your bags.