Skyford sniffed and stood, his haunches holding his readied weight. It was a powerful thing, to be a rabbit: one could spring away, avoid detection, or squeeze beneath a barbed fence.
He barely twitched when Neumann padded to his side. A whisker moved as Suphia straightened near his foot. Skyford cocked his enviable ears, hearing rabbit after rabbit join their ranks amidst the cabbage patch.
So many men had teased with the expression, “Breed like rabbits.” Skyford’s face hardened into a leer. Today, man would change his aphorisms. Today, man would realize what purpose rabbits had been breeding for.
January 9, 2023, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story that includes rabbits. Is it a family? A strange planet? Some crazy bunny person’s pets? Who are they and what are they doing? Go where the prompt leads!
The human population’s COVID-19/Coronavirus responses were similar enough to events in this novel that Robbie Cheadle (of Roberta Writes) noted that, and therefore piqued my interest. I bought the book and read it during our family’s weekend trip to California.
Wyndham’s story takes place in England in the 1950s. Our protagonist is Bill Masen, an everyman who starts us off with his whining (er… whinging). Everything’s quiet, he can’t see, he’s in hospital, no one’s been ’round to feed or bathe him or finally take the bandages off his eyes, and HE MISSED THAT METEOR SHOWER EVERYONE KEPT GOING ON ABOUT LAST NIGHT.
Don’t worry; Bill figures out how to function like the adult male he is. Problem is, the other adults aren’t as functional.
Apparently, Bill reflects later, he’s lucky that he didn’t get to see the shower (if there was one) because every person who watched it is now blind. Being blind, they are completely helpless. Despite this, most are maturely handling the situation by committing suicide, looting easy foods, and moaning in the streets whilst expecting an outside party to rescue them.
Oh, and there are 7-foot-tall walking plants called Triffids.
Oh, and Triffids also have a venomous stinger.
Buuut, that stinger was removed by farmers.
Buuuut, then stingers weren’t removed because that made their oil better.
Oh, yeah -backstory: the Triffids were the product of Russia breeding a new source of oil for the worldwide shortage of foodstuffs so we’re not sure how they came out exactly and then some Russian defector offered viable seeds for sale and he probably blew up over the ocean on delivery so anyway now Triffids are all over the world and everyone has one in his garden like a sort of sunflower that could kill his children.
We are, however, going to spend most of the book discussing other topics, like how people behave in crises. We’ll also discuss people in charge making shortsighted decisions. Furthermore, we will describe more people in charge and their foolish decisions.
Oh, and there’s also a sickness some people get. And they die.
In all, I loved the book. It moves at much the same pace and has the same feel as The War of the Worlds. It’s not Jurassic Park, although maybe the film adaptation was….
The echo of his soot-crusted boots ceased. His kerchiefed breathing slowed. As charred branches, brittle pine boughs, and scorched roots recovered from his recent passing; he realized he was not alone.
Furthermore, Var could not be the only living thing in this unliving world.
There! Ash-strewn sunlight touched a new, green bud. And, there! A lonely peppered moth took flight. Oh, there! Buzzing annoyance nipped a sunburned ear.
But, there! -Most of all, there! In this unnatural glade amidst a smoldering hell of war’s aftermath, he heard an ancient sound: sweet, whistling birdsong.
Written for an early morning, and for Carrot Ranch’s prompt:
May 27, 2021, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story that includes tiny flying insects. Think about how the insects shape the scene or add to the action. Go where the prompt leads!
Respond by June 1, 2021. Use the comment section [on the site] to share, read, and be social. You may leave a link, pingback, or story in the comments. If you want to be published in the weekly collection, please use the form. Rules & Guidelines.
Either we’re all feeling especially creative, or we’re all stuck inside our toilet paper forts with too much time on our hands. Not that I’m complaining, but this week’s judging took longer than usual because I received so many entries!
Which doesn’t mean there isn’t a winner. This week, it’s:
They panicked the public with talk of the virus
The butcher was worried – his name was Cyrus
One night, when the store closed
He took all the bog rolls
Went home and confessed to a scroll of papyrus. A scroll of papyrus that he used as his journal and sometimes hid in the linen closet – on the top shelf under a bunch of pillow cases, unless he was keeping it under the bed, or in the garage; but then the police found it and he was arrested, went to court and got sent to jail… not for very long though (it was only toilet paper, after all)
bread, butter,
don’t care about the clutter
egg, cheese
oh, thank god a sneeze
I don’t want that terrible, low mortality, not as bad as the flu which has a vaccine and still kills more people but does not invoke stupidity, panic buying and food hoarding, disease
Congratulations, Tnkerr and Deb! You are the most terrible poets of the week!
These two won for their trick of expanding out that last line to terrible proportions, after poeming so spot-on and terribly about hoarding. They (and a couple others) stood out for using this element to make their contributions worse, particularly since everyone’s poems are so terrible this week they are quite good!
While some are hoarding by the ton,
Others find no way to wipe their bum.
Trauma horrifying!
Dirty bottoms multiplying!
Someone please, help me find some!!
Hours before Armageddon
Down shopping aisles carefully treadin’
Just fillin’ my trolly
Promotin’ the folly
It’s not tears, it’s just fears that I’m spreadin’
We’re stuck in quarantine for a fortnight,
Our essential supplies are running light,
‘Nuff food and water ain’t our issue,
We failed to stock a pile of toilet tissue;
We’ve gone from sittin’ pretty to sittin’ tight.
There once was a store by the lee
That was fully stocked for everyone’s needs.
It had boondaggles, hoozits and comic sans font;
It had everything a lad or lass could possibly want!
But alas, it had one failing short: no toliet paper, so I’ll use me shirt.
“It is the end of the world”, someone chokes; there is a lull.
Stockpiling food for twenty years and toilet paper rolls,
But we’re all out—what do we do
Go out to Walmart, brawl with others like a zoo;
Then leave empty handed—outside, someone is selling them one hundred dollars per half roll!
There’s a man in DC called The Pres
He t-wee-ts, he pooh-poohs, and he says
It’s all something minor
Like everything from China
A few less old folk, who cares?
There are empty shelves down at the store
idiots crashing their carts by the door
I would have been late
till I pulled out the 38
now there’s great stocks of bodies on their floor
I’m getting a few extra things in
lots of meat and beans if they’re tinned
it was quite busy down there
until I coughed in the air
and the crowds miraculously thinned
I’ve got my mask on so I’ll be OK,
got my sanitiser and various sprays
got my loo roll and lentils
and ammo to shoot mentals
should be alright for a couple of days
With a P-51 and a stash of old food,
One can hold out in style, lighten the mood.
But you’ll still feel alone
With no one to bone,
So be sure to bring tissues and lube.
‘It’s a risk,’ said the serial hoarder,
‘And I might cause civil disorder,
Buy buying up Frosties,
And making you crossties,
So maybe I’ll stick to cornflakes.’
Or
To hoard takes three things: there’s pluck
And a significant dollop of luck,
But between me and you
On top of those two
Is you really must not give a fig (other soft fruits are available until some silly sod has bought them all)
A man in a fit of elation
Stockpiled like the rest of the nation
Well, bog roll he had
But it left him quite sad
When all the pasta gave him constipation!
There was a a wee lass from Madrass
Who needed paper to wipe up her ass.
She looked in a shop ran around the block
Finally settled on her grandpappies sock.
Boom boom.
Shelves stripped bare including the Gluten free
Load your boot with every single last frozen pea
You can keep your 10 year supply of toilet roll
Fill your trolley with all the Chicken casserole
But keep your pigging hands off my Yorkshire Tea
To avoid all the germs in the store
Gladys ate a bluebird and a boar
She washed down that pig
With an isolated swig
That socially infected her snout with a stout.
***PG-13 Warning.***
Traffic was so light yesterday
Officer Joe met his mistress to play
But his wife had a fever
And before he could leave her
He’d slipped his virus in her beaver.
—–
Thank you so much for brightening my week. I trust you had as much fun writing as I did reading. Come back tomorrow for next week’s prompt; we’ve got a potentially long road yet of more internet time together.
Tnkerr and Deb: Here’s a badge you can post as proof of your poetic mastery:
Hi. This is the part where I say, “Hi,” and mention that this is our 63rd time around the terrible poetry track.
Here is where I give some directions. I still like our mishmash of sources contest, à la Ern Malley, for a way to create terribly as well. Really, the trick is to write like you’ve never been taught how to do poetry.
Here are the specifics for this week:
Topic: Stockpiling against a worldwide disaster, in limerick form.
Length: A limerick. They’re five lines: AABBA, in anapestic meter.
Rhyming: Yes. In AABBA anapestic meter format.
Make it terrible! Got it? Make it terrible!! The world’s ending, after all!
Rating: PG-13. This is the perfect time to panic …poetically.
You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (March 20) to submit a poem.
Use the form below if you want to be anonymous for a week.
If not, and for a more social experience, include your poem or a link to it in the comments. Please comment if your pingback link doesn’t show up within a day.
Now’s the perfect time for levity. Give it a whirl.
There once was a dino named Ptery
Who loved to eat tree stars and berries.
Then, out of the blue,
Ptery saw rocks that flew;
Now, Ptery is becoming an evolutionary.
Chel Owens 