Anonymous – dVerse Meeting the Bar



the coins

exactly for what

you need to purchase,

don’t look the shopkeeper in

the eye, don’t attract attention, be

polite, hide your cracked and dirty nails,

give your meek thanks and leave as quietly

as you entered. Poverty-stricken you don’t have the

option to demand any more than that. Money talks loudest.


learned the

rules the hard

way. You want to

pass them on, ease the

path for those that follow in

your shoes but the arrogance of youth

is bravery that you have long forgotten, it

was a lifetime ago. You watch their smiles fade.

They too will learn the hard way. Money talks loudest.

This week on dVerse Meeting the Bar, the lovely Victoria has introduced the poetry form, the Etheree. This is another form new to me, dating from the late 20th century and introduced by Etheree Taylor Armstrong, a poet from Arkansas. Simple enough (perhaps!), the form is one word (or syllable) for the first line, two words (or syllables) for the second and so on, up to the tenth line. Rinse and repeat, reverse, or stop right there, however the mood takes you. It was so much fun to try and no, I have no idea why I wanted to write on the subject matter I chose.

If you love poetry, whether reading or writing it, do visit dVerse. Put your feet up, sup on a gin and tonic, swig a bottle of beer, chat a while with the barkeep, enjoy yourself…



The weather lingers in these parts. The mountains tower over our village as it hunkers down, clinging to the foothills. In autumn, when the air is dank and the sodden leaves lie on the ground like dead fish stranded after high tide, mists loiter below the craggy peaks. If you are a Rare One like me, you venture out from the safety of the low-slung houses and meandering lanes, and haul yourself up by your fingertips to the granite summits. You pierce the mists like a bodkin through hessian and it is as if you have ascended to the heavens. If you stay below, you remain buried in the bowels of the earth. All light is stolen, all is shadow. But it is all you know, and so you stay.

Then, there are the Nights of Anger. Most hide their heads, mouse-dormant, most warn their children not to venture outside. For the white-hot shards that splinter the sky, the roaring air that shakes the centre of the earth as if it is but a child’s plaything, they do not leave our small world willingly. They are trapped by those dark peaks raised heavenwards, pointing to other-worldly forms of justice – they are subjecting us to the timpani of the gods and hell’s illumination to teach us all an unknowable lesson.

Some elders claim that long ago, a heinous crime tore the guts from the village. Others believe that the storms are a warning of devilry to come. All agree that something is foul in this valley, and that the village is the rotting carcass. The air is rancid butter, cloying and oily. I alone have stood above the clouds as the air borne battle rages. I have tasted the electricity, have felt the roiling air pummel my flesh. I alone know the truth of this land, and it is in my gift to rip it asunder. Nature’s storm clouds have nothing on me. Nothing.

Rigid – Five Sentence Fiction


He comes and goes as he pleases – he tells me that he always has, and he intends for this to continue.

My jaw flexes and my heart burns with the impact of these words.

Words, mere words and yet they inhabit my mind, my every waking moment, my tossing and turning in the cold, lonely nights.

He knows that I know where his travels take him, and still, he continues.

He has his bread buttered both sides.


Here is my latest entry into the lovely Lillie’s Five Sentence Fiction, where the theme this week is envy. I have linked it with the theme of my entry into Three Word Wednesday, which you can read here.

Please do visit Lillie’s blog to read, read, read some more! No two pieces will be the same…