We met in the desert that time, just me and him, he walked, but I rode a camel.
We started our journeys, him from the west, me from the east.
We’d left at dawn, just as the sun peeped up, as we plodded across the dunes.
We arrived as the blistering sun beat down. We did our trading, and then we left.
Was there a moral? No need for that… Just good business.
~~~~~
Image credit: Pedro Kümmel@Unsplash
This image shows desert dunes with footprints left by humans and animals in the sand. The photographer explains; Under the warm sun, the dunes carry gentle scars of passage, lines and footprints that vanish as quietly as they appear!
It had been quiet as usual, apart from those times when the services were on. I had a part-time job in the cathedral. I did various tasks, from the top of the gantry to do the stained-glass windows, to the lowest part in the crypt where I moved odd objects, but very gently.
I had been in the crypt, but for some reason I headed up. There was a strange noise, and it was getting louder. And then the whole ceiling disappeared into the sky, as the crypt ripped out.
I stared, and stared. It was a spacecraft. How extraordinary!
~~~~~
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers Genre: Sorta Fiction Word Count: 100
dead metaphors, like those dead poets who witter on: loyal treachery and melancholy merriment want some affordable caviar?
such a nonsense poem pretty dreadful I would say so anything else? tortuous spontaneity that’s a nice one, isn’t it.
those dead poets are buried in Poets’ Corner shall we have a look?
~~~~~
For Colleen Chesebro’s TankaTuesday #47 – 13 January 2026 where this week’s host Robbie Cheadle’s invitation is to ‘choose an oxymoron and write a syllabic poem to demonstrate its meaning.’
Scatty had changed herself just now, since she’s a shape-shifter; she grinned as far as she could – her beautiful fur glistened as she cornered Clouseau, forcing him to sit down, he had already lost his gun and his truncheon during the altercation, and he was bemused – ‘where’s that suave Pink Panther, not this very dangerous big cat, a black panther?’
Inspector Clouseau mumbled something, but no-one could understand anything he said, while the red-headed woman grabbed some handy rope which she’d seen, she tied his hands behind him, and pretty tightly too.
‘I don’t want to be negative about this,’ said the red-headed woman, as she finished her handiwork, ‘but we have to move quickly now; I’m sure I can hear many sirens in the background, and they are getting louder every minute.’
‘This is becoming a nasty business,’ piped up Joan, and rather crossly, and not usually for her either – ‘sorry, what’s wrong with me?’ as she shook her head, ‘we’re becoming grumpy and quarrelsome, aren’t we?’
‘Well, we need to shift on,’ said Scatty as she became her usual self, still smiling since she did like being a beautiful black panther, ‘but nevertheless, I believe we have oneonly choice, we need to get to that gate on the other side – I think we need to run!’
Francis then said: ‘this is really important – this is our oath, this solemn vow – for all of us,’ as he looked at everyone around… ‘so where are those diamonds now?’
What’s happened to that pond? It was fine last time I looked. Who broke the edges? And who messed with the middle? There’s still a little fountain, and it’s still working, although it’s a bit wonky.
It looks like ice, but it can’t be, since it’s spring. Proper spring now. Most odd. I shall have to sit on my haunches and squat down. Then I can peer and look more closely too. Ah, that’s much better.
There have never been fish there, but something is moving. Lots of them in fact. Tadpoles, my children! ‘Ribbit, ribbit, it’s me, ribbit, ribbit!’
~~~~~
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers Genre: Hysterical Non-Fiction Word Count: 100
a new brood, that’s life these are guinea fowls, cheeky; here’s the family there’s mom, dad, aunt and uncle and here’s the best one – young’un!
~~ “Tame birds sing of freedom. Wild birds fly.” John Lennon ~~
a new guinea fowl learns to chatter and squawk, a lot he’s bigger each day and now he’s a teenager such fun we’re having, we’ll wave
~~~
For Colleen Chesebro‘s TankaTuesday #46 — 6 January 2026, where this week’s host Willow Willer’s invitation is to write syllabic poetry in the form of a puente [using a quote as a three-stanza poem’s bridge]. The selected quote’s topic is to be the writer’s choice. On the topic(s) of ‘new beginnings for the new year or your life.‘
It seemed that everyone had now decided that those wonderful gems were real, as Mr Cushing began to hum the theme song, ‘Diamonds Are Forever’, while The Old One was grinning as he said, ‘I was an extra in that one, I was just behind Sammy Davis Jr. who was a casino player,’ – ‘how extraordinary,’ said Mr Cushing as he stopped humming and his eyebrows shot up for a moment.
‘Shirley Bassey,’ yelled the red-headed woman, ‘I saw her on King Street, Manchester (that was a long time ago), she’s small… just like me,’ as she smiled with glee.’ *
The two gargoyles waddled to the far end of the shed to make sure that the great big doors would open; ‘we can do it, and we won’t need to force it, we are sure.’ So they heaved and hoed, and it opened just enough, and they both grinned since they could see a useful gate quite near: ‘all we need now are those pretty diamonds,’ as they waddled back.
‘Not so fast,’ said Inspector Clouseau, as he entered the shed, ‘Em off my pheune and I’m just waiting for back up,’ as he waved his gun and held up his truncheon.
Now things became complicated since several actions occurred at the same time: someone ran to turn off the main switch; various people grabbed something, hoping it were some diamonds on that particular shelf; and the last piece of the jigsaw, when it was light again, a black panther appeared.
Dad was a happy driver, and I could sit next to him now. ‘Clunk click every trip’ as we said at the same time.
We arrived at a kiosk by the park. Dad parked his almost new car – a navy-colour Hillman Minx. I had got out, and I hurried over there. There was no-one around, but there were lots of flyers. ‘I’m going to take one of each.’
Dad had been reading his newspaper while he waited for me. Then we strolled around the park, and I had my new camera. I clicked, and clicked again. It was such fun.
~~~~~
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers Genre: Non-Fiction Word Count: 100
luna's on line 
