Tiny Tony

snow falls peacefully
cold winds blow gently
coat wrapped tightly around my body
holding in the warmth
christmas eve
time for family
boots clicking on cobblestone
bowler pulled down
shoulders pulled up
pistol in it's holster
One last hit before family
family

Speakeasy.

The streets glow with red,
melted candles cling to cobblestone
and music floats
out brass and gold,

but the black and white
fits us like a glove,
among the sound and haitus
and strange smelling spirits,

streetlights cover us in
shadow, the snow slips under
our feet and slivers of conversation
rise out of the storm drains & cellars,

an avid quiet hum mimics
the distance between our seats
and the spotlit stage,

girls sweep by,
their dresses covered in mermaid scales
pool above their feet like chartreuse
bells,

their feet dragging slowly
over the time they've spent
on dusty wooden floors,
barrels of oak leak their gun powder,

unaware of how much time
has passed,
slipping past
the speakeasy.

storm

Raindrops streaming down
echoing on the roof
an unfamiliar sound.

Thick black clouds
a dark curtain
drifting behind the palm trees.

The typically bright blue sky
and sun that never wanes
now lost in a gray haze.

Noir Christmas

Sometimes when we think of the 1940s we see everything in greyscale because of the cinematic qualities that arise out of this time. Images are retained in black and white, sometimes grainy and old. These are qualities of another time, and see how you can incorporate them into a Christmas scene. It can describe just about any place you’d like, preferably somewhere that people decorate or gather. For example, you could picture a mall or shopping scene and describe it with these noir like qualities. What feelings are associated with this sense of place and what kind of people are there? Is it the current time or are we back in the past in your Christmas scene? What types of sensory experiences does this place invoke? Feel free to observe or be an active participant in what’s going on in your 1940s setting.

Noir Christmas, Graphic1 by Phatpuppy

Christmas Noir by Terry.Tyson, Lemax fans miniature villages

Christmas in Pottersville, Filmsnoir.net

Christmas Noir, L.A. Facing North on Broadway at West 7th Street

The Old Bookstore

Antique Memories

You wipe the dust from the old shelf,
it too having a story.
But that is now why you are here.

You came for whats inside.
Sitting on the bottom
hiding with the dust bunnies.

Black painted metal
worn and scratched
printed words faded to a smudge.
It's finely crafted lenses
cracked and chipped.

Carefully you lift them
so they can sing there song.

Flashes fill your mind
A women dressed in black
sadness fills her heart

You look down to see
the object in your hand
But it is not your hand you see
it's hers.

You sense her life
where she has been.
You see the world
through her eyes.

A whole lifetime
and more
all flooding in.

As quickly as they came
they are gone
and you are alone
holding her past in your hands.

The Candy Cane

You see a 100 year old candy cane.  Biting "Arrrr, Owwww!" You notice it is a hundred years old. You set it down. You are 100 years in the past. You think to yourself,  "Wow, that was no fun!" You see the hundred year old candy cane, but it is not old. You take it, you ruin the future! Spacefoot! 100 year old case...gone. You are a spacefoot candy hundred year old home fneded.

Regal

eyes shut arms extended
flowing energy of times past
amulet floating
still
memories
flashing
by
 entrancing
ancient people of times lost

silence

the beauty of wood
pressed against my hand
warm spirits fill my mind
amulet of a king

Buddha

Round prints are left on its glossy surface,

its pieces round and smooth were once held

in the palm of her hand,

daughter and mother, overseer of small things,

it sits deliberately on the table

with its fists resting gentle on its knees,

a joyful open mouthed grin spread across its quartz face

and exaggerated earlobes that appear like as pliable pears,

but are soft as marble.

His small bald head is as shiny as the rest of him,

wise bushy brows and a lengthy robe wrapped around,

his feet press sturdily into the small box of sand

where he sat a dynasty ago,

a millennia to a small child

whose hands pressed Buddha’s heavy stone body

into her small open-palmed hands,

he signifies change to her,

with small textures of wear chipped away,

and while she grows, Buddha shrinks if only a

small bit,

where he sat,

next to hot clay filled with

Gen Matcha or wooden sticks,

beneath shelves of papyrus or salves of beauty cream

that gives his face its shine,

he has been passed down from the hands

of a strange general, his arms brisk and

his voice loud,

but not to Buddha who sat with him,

in his same posture,

feet pressed

and sturdy,

into the ground.

Pretend You're Psychic! Prompt

pg. 1

pg. 2

pg. 3

Lost treasures

"If you should find this box, 
my life's treasure you now hold. 
I spent so much time searching, 
my life is past..."

Soft sad word spoken
by someone long gone
telling you his story
and the story of this box.

You take hold of the pouch
and gently pry it open
dust floats out like memories
of a man long forgotten

Someone else's memories,
things you'll never know.

Hands gently find
the contents of the pouch,
with fingers like feathers
soft and delicate,
grasp the thing inside.

 A shinny silver trinket
with vines and leaves of gold
a woman's name inscribed
a date from long ago
faded

I wonder how something so small
could mean so much.

Skeleton Key

Samantha found a magic box. "Wow, what is this?!" Samantha remembered "The key. The skeleton key!" Samantha opens the box. She thinks for a second, but someone swishes by. It's the thing! "Where is my box?" He grabs her. She is dead.
End.

Erin M.

-Thanks

Samantha found a magic box. Inside are some things she will look at. Samantha thinks highly of herself. She is proud of all the things she has in her box. The letter is probably some bull shit. Samantha should not read other peoples mail. She needs to worry about her moldy box. I think the story ends with Samantha signing up for I-tunes.


D.M.