A typhoon exits the TV, bringing in another victim. From the top of a typhoon. The wind spirals, the lights flicker, the curtains draw in. Whilst the man claws the TV in his “final” scene, as the violent green wind spirals him inwards. leaving markings, on his box, shattering him, morphing him into a two-dimensional sitcom.
Living his dream...blood dripping from the eyes of countless hours watching the lighting flicker....
- as the cast surrounds...
all souls taken, exchanged.
they must laugh, at him their lines say so.
while frowns hit the cast’s faces.
The hydraulics now run the man—the production.
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Invitation to Renga With Me
Ladies and Gentlemen, I am returned. I am envisaging a grand entrance here, a footman perhaps, announcing my arrival, or a both doors flung wide attention grab. That I actually slipped in quietly with an itsy bitsy haiku seems far more in keeping with my actual style. Either way, I am back after an absence of a couple of weeks in which I dedicated myself fully to a family holiday. I could do no different, it has been a very full trip, and a wonderful trip for it. But though I read most of a novel, I took no time to read on Vocal, and no time to write either.
By Hannah Moore7 days ago in Writers
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