The Mermaid’s Return

The banshee howl of the wind in the rigging was now beginning to be rhythmically punctuated by the drumming of the storm-swell surf upon the rocky shore.  Oh, if only our good ship, Mermaid could live up to her name, and carry us safely seaward.  But such was a forlorn hope as there was a sudden explosive crack as the foretop snapped, showering the deck with splinters.

Captain Higgins called the order to abandon ship, and before the words had fully left him, a titanic wave swept him from the deck and from our view.

“You heard the cap’in,” Rogers, the first mate bellowed.

The two remaining boats were lowered, and every soul remaining on the ‘maid scrambled to save themselves.

I was tossed from the gig into the icy waves, to be almost immediately dashed upon an up-crop of jagged rock.  Though winded, I managed to scramble upwards above the hissing spray.  I was battered but alive, but not so my lovely ‘maid.  With saddened heart, I watched her prow pitch heaven-ward as if to offer her spirit.  Then slowly at first, and then more rapidly, she slid backwards under the waves to rejoin her fellow mer-folk.

 

Padre

 

Daily Writing Prompt

Ismism

Handcuffed, Arrest, Oppression, Racism

Pixabay

I have studied at the International School for Holocaust Studies at Yad Vashem in Jerusalem, the Centre for Holocaust Education at UCL Institute of Education, and taken part in several courses and workshops from the Holocaust Education Trust, and Yahad-In Unum.  Through it all one mantra introduced to me by Professor Yehuda Bauer has stuck with me: “There is only one race – the human race”

One of the most challenging, yet rewarding aspects of my role as an educator is the teaching of ethics.  Here again, ideas of “the other” are a major concern.  It is one of the early exercises that I engage in with my students is an attempt, to isolate “who is the other?” within the class.  When gender, gender identity, height, weight, eye and hair colour, and a vast array of other distinctions are considered – the only possible answer is “everyone.”

I often shock some students when I comment that there are no such things as black people or white people.  All humans are actually on a spectrum of brown.  Yes, very light or very dark in some cases, but nevertheless – brown.  Objections are countered by a simple experiment of having students place their hands on a sheet of white paper.

But in society today we still have to deal with racism, sexism, classism, ageism, antisemitism, islamophobia, xenophobia and so many more.  Isn’t it time we begin to show our dislike of something sensible like the “isms” themselves?

 

Padre

 

 

Under-Calculation

dream_and_dramatic_fine_art_photography_alex_stoddard_04

Alex Stoddard

Like with many pets that look so cute when they are small, the Zurgs had miscalculated exactly how big their acquisition from that beach on the third planet would get.  They had found it while on last decade’s vacation and the children pestered them to keep it.

“Xixi, you really have to stop indulging the kids,” Xorgon Zurg said glancing over to the pet corner.

“What do you mean?” she replied.

“That biped you got for Ziron.  It’s eating us out of house and home.  And, its out-growing its tank again.”

“It’s not like you need to take care of it,” Xixi retorted.

“No, I just have to pay for the stupid thing.  Do you know what the vet bills come to?  I thought not.  ‘It’s a little one,’ you said.  ‘It won’t eat much.’  Do you know what the water alone costs?  What’s a Xenonian to do?”

Padre

Photo Challenge #304

 

 

 

Finding Clarity: A Reverse Cinquain

Confused, Hands, Up, Unsure, Perplexed

Image by Robin Higgins from Pixabay

Confused
Uncertain in chaotic world
Seeking a mind-peaceful
Assuredness
No doubts

Colleen’s syllabic poetry theme this week is  “FINDING CLARITY.”  I have approached it as an goal to which we can aspire.  It is written in the reverse Cinquain form. Collen’s useful poetry form “cheatsheet” notes that “a . . . cinquain is a form of shape poetry and is always centered on the page. The required syllables needed for each line give it a unique shape. The cinquain (aka the quintain or the quintet) is a poem or stanza of five lines.”  A reverse Cinquain is “a form with one 5-line stanza in a syllabic pattern of two, eight, six, four, two.”  Confused?  Well, I hope you find clarity.

 

Padre

 

 

Fowl Morning

It was the task Iris hated above all others.  It was time to feed that infernal bird.  Its inky feathers were as black as its soul, and the satanic red head and horn-like comb were further proof of its maleficence.  Every day she was accosted by its onslaught as she sought to do no more than to met its needs.  Many were the day in which she would return to the house bruised or pecked bloody.

As she entered the yard, the fiend clamped down on her foot, intent on gorging its meal.  It was the task Iris hated above all others, but not today.  Iris slowly raised the feed bowl over her head and as the vile creature extended its neck to wrest it from her, she grabbed it by the throat and drawing the knife from her skirts she severed its head from its body.

“Merry Christmas,” she said triumphantly.

 

Padre

 

Daily Writing Prompt

Another Auction Annual: Alliteration Experiment

 

Another auction annual –

Bargains, bringing buyers back –

Carrying cold cash,

Dream deals desiring.

Each expert examined everything

For fabulous finds.

Gazing glorious goods

Hands hasty hiked

In indicating interested intent.

Joining jealous jostling –

Keeping calm key.

Last lot –

Masterful move made

Nonchalantly nodding

Others outbid!

Perfect purchase, proficiently planned.

Quest – quickly, quietly

Realised, resolved, reached!

Slight smile signifying satisfaction.

Today’s triumph total!

Undeterred, unrelenting,

We will watch, we will wait.

NeXt – Year – uZ!

 

Apologies at the closing fudge.  This was a form experiment.

 

Padre

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Commute

City, Transit, Streetcar, Toronto, Transportation

Image by Bohdan Chreptak from Pixabay 

Homeward bound on the evening train

Past platforms damp with evening rain

Workday over, now the commute

Soon home to comfort, shedding business suit

A bite to eat, tell the kids goodnight

Then with loving spouse by candlelight

A sip of something – stress to allay

And share some tales of our day

 

Padre

 

 

 

The Clock

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Brainsparker app for iOS

Insomnia was plaguing Henry.  He lay sleepless watching the clock slowly ticking towards midnight.  Thoughts of the Doomsday Clock flashed through his mind.  It too was approaching the witching hour of destruction.  What would prove to be the cause of this devastation?  Thermo-nuclear holocaust?  Global warming?  COVID 19?  All made the sense of anxiety worse as they weighed upon him on this milestone of the midnight of his upcoming thirteenth birthday.

Padre

Fandango’s Flash Fiction Challenge #54