Thanks so much to all the ladies who welcomed me into the last meeting of their book club!  I enjoyed the writing exercise of taking a list of random words and creating something in 20 minutes or so that incorporated every word.  Here is my first attempt at this:

Words
velvet recliner
OPI Skyfall nail polish
phallus
grandfather clock
angst
rug
shot glass
tentacles
mashed potatoes
hair net

     He was old.  Worn down.  Decrepit.  The meaning of his life had been reduced to the monotonous ticking of the grandfather clock, the relentless groans of the velvet recliner, the patchwork of stains on the faded rug.  Deep lines of shame, and sadness, and faded glory, spread like tentacles across his weathered face.  A shot glass, empty and cracked, lay loosely within his gnarled hands.  Alongside was a plate - remnants of a final meal - beef, mashed potatoes, a roll.

     The angst which he felt in those final hours had faded away, diffused into his hide, hidden forever.

     His wife lay nearby.  The suddenness, the ferocity, of his final fury on display in the trinkets surrounding her battered frame.  Broken glasses, a bloody hair net, a torn dress.  And the incongruent reminders of a happier time - Revlon eyeliner, OPI Skyfall nail polish, Maybeline lip liner - faded remnants of a feminine life.

     The bodies lay motionless, drained, with a settling phallus-like stiffness providing a waxy countenance to this scene of grieving love.

One Such Night

Crashing waves broke over sharp boulders, then made their way up the beach; grabbing at sandy grains before being yanked back to repeat the process.  Sometimes they took with them mementos of their exploration.  Aquatic claws gripping a child’s toy, dragging the keepsake under the surface perhaps to one day emerge farther down shore.  Occasionally they brought something with them, depositing it in the rough granules, hiding it in mini-caverns created by larger debris left from storms long passed. 

                On one such night the wandering waves left behind a stolen object.  Their searching fingers found the perfect hiding place formed from earth hardened by years of weather and the trample of feet, both human and animal.  Now, secreted away in a tiny cavern, the relic awaits discovery.

(This was written by Ann, I'm posting for her.)

She clings to the dead tree.

It’s not that attractive.

As anyone can see,  

She’s just trying to live

Attached to something that

Won’t grow, a leaf, a stock,

Or anything with life.

She clings, she holds, she grabs,

It might as well be rock,

Dead as her hope inside.

She touches the branches,

She smells and softly exhales

It’s time to let go, chances

Are it’s dead, or not well.

Leaves bud the next day.

She can’t see.

She’s gone away.

Incessant

It’s endless.

The banging.  The screaming.

Surrounding her in resonating torment.

Hair waves from clenched fists like streamers on a child’s bicycle.

Silence pours from lips unwittingly torn open.

Light dulls in eyes no longer screwed shut.

Buried within her mind it continues.

The banging.  The screaming.

Somewhere a child cries.