THE SWEAT ROLLS DOWN

The sweat rolls down like bills unpaid 

A stream flows down my spine with flair

My garments stick like clingy love

Behold! My sodden underwear! 

The fan spins fast, and yet I melt

The sweat rolls down like bills unpaid 

The Western world shrugs "autumn's here"

La Nina's promise? Overplayed!

The bedsheet sighs beneath my back

My pillow leaks a sordid tale 

The sweat rolls down like bills unpaid 

And leaves behind a moisture trail

My deo’s gone, it tapped out fast

Its musky charm was lost in shade

That fan's not spinning fast enough

The sweat rolls down like bills unpaid!

This poem in the Quatern form was written for the dVerse MTB: 16: 4: 8: in the Grass

A Quatern is a French verse form, possibly from the Middle Ages. It is a 16-line poem made of four stanzas, where one special line keeps repeating in a different spot in each stanza.

ERINACEOUS ERIN

Gino lured Erin away from the group. 

Now seated beside her by a bonfire, he made his move.

“I’m Ginormous Gino.”, he grinned, patting his crotch.

“Erinaceous Erin”, she responded.

“That Latin for horny?”, he winked, hand sliding behind her.

Then her spikes bloomed.

A brief struggle.

Then silence.

This exactly 49-word-long post was written in response to Sammi Cox's Weekend Writing Prompt #437 featuring the word “erinaceous”.  

MOMENT FOR THREE

We had a moment.

It watched.

This post was written for Shweta Suresh's Six-Word Saturday Six-Word Story Prompt. The word given was 'Moment'.

INSTANT AWAKENING

I wouldn't call myself a coffee aficionado. For me, a hot piping cup of coffee (or tea), has always simply counted as a morning fix to kickstart my body into daily routine. Nothing more, nothing less.

For the first twenty-odd years of my caffeinated existence, I drank only instant coffee. Always with milk. And ALWAYS with sugar.

Coffee outside the house usually meant a trip to the local South Indian/Udupi joint. There, the options were simple: Instant Coffee (usually Nescafe) or Filter Coffee. I’d pick Nescafe nine times out of ten. Filter Coffee was reserved for moments of reckless adventure.

So imagine my culture shock the first time I tried ordering coffee at an airport. It felt like a lifelong vegetarian being asked to choose between a wide lineup of Mughlai-style chicken delicacies and an authentic sushi spread.

Believe it or not, here's how it went down (possibly exaggerated for your reading pleasure):

Me, squinting at the menu board, mumbling: "Latte? Espresso? Match...chee..aah..”

The barista, a young man barely out of school (or so it seemed), turned sharply to stop me before I could complete my blasphemous utterance: “Mah-key-aah-toe, Sir.”

I panicked, “I just want a cup of coffee.”

The barista could barely register a smile, “Of course Sir...what type?”

“Hot?”

“We've got latte, cappuccino, espresso...”

“Do you have...instant?”

The barista froze, one hand over his heart, as if I'd touched his coffee beans inappropriately, “We don’t serve instant coffee, Sir.”

The woman behind me leaned in and barked, “Just get a latte and move on!" 

I felt a wave of perspiration avalanche down my forehead, "Just give me something that'll wake me up in a couple of sips."

The barista sighed, “Thank you Sir. One Espresso coming right up.”

I paid the lad, found a seat, and took a sip.

And at once I felt my soul grappling with my body to be let back in.

And from that day on, I've only been having instant coffee.

This piece has been written as a part of the Blogchatter Blog Hop. The word prompt for this week (September 30 - October 6) is the word "Coffee".

Turns out October 1 was celebrated as International Coffee Day, so here's me raising a virtual Cuppa right back at you!

READ THE LADLE

On that fateful night of carnage, he'd been downing gin and garbage,

chugging gallons past the corkage, slurring oaths I'd heard before

as I watched the bottles piling, I heard laughter turn to howling

then he sent for me to rummage filth he’d hoarded in the drawer

“Just one swig,” he croaked and staggered pointing t'ward the kitchen drawer

"Just one swig, and nothing more."

"Please", I begged, "you've had your measure, leave it be, forsake this pleasure"

But he scoffed as if at leisure, eyes ablaze like fiendish ore

"Fetch my bottle, wretched woman...I don't need your blessed sermon

don't you dare arouse my vermin...didn't I ask for just one more?"

When I stood my ground he rose and hurled my frame across the floor

Then his rage began to pour.

Then his hands began their speaking, fists like thunder fury leaking

he ignored my painful shrieking, struck with wrath to settle scores

as I faced the blows heart leaping, through the walls, the past was creeping

and the house itself was weeping, for the sins it couldn’t store

and the lantern swung like lightning, casting shadows seen before

ghastly shadows of yet another sordid tale of blood and gore

tales I'd far too long ignored.

When I stood up, body aching, every vow within me breaking

I could sense my spirit shaking, couldn't pray now anymore

suddenly there came a tapping, t'was a black bird, wings-a-flapping

and at once I started clapping, eyes transfixed upon the boor

then a ladle tucked behind me, I crept t'ward the drunken 'whore'

Quoth the Raven, "NEVERMORE!”

This poem was written for Luana Campagna's Haunted Poetry Challenge on Instagram. Participants were asked to write a poem in the style of one legendary poet from among Emily Dickinson, Edgar Allan Poe, Sylvia Plath, Federico Garcia Lorca and Christina Rossetti.

I chose to write mine in the style of Edgar Allan Poe's The Raven. Hope you like it.