Fridge poetry

The trouble with magnetic fridge poetry sets is that the choice of vocabulary almost forces you to write in a certain way. Some words leap out at you (like 'breast' and 'chocolate') and just demand to be used. And some have obviously been included to complement each other. Some words are annoying in their absence. So I have a go at writing 100 words ... and this is what I come up with:

Creature left me the following message in the middle of the night:
So this morning while my tea brewed it became this, by a process of mere word substitution, still 100 words:

strange beings

They came out of the mist, unsteadily, the tufts of grass and uneven ground was difficult for them to navigate and their ungainly stride made a faintly ridiculous sight. Their intent was unclear but it was argued amongst the professional observers that it was plain they carried no obvious weaponry. The more wary advised a cautious approach with defensive preparations kept in close reserve. Hysteria was inevitable however, one faction rushing for the hills, the other reaching for their guns.

It was assumed they must communicate by some kind of telepathic method, there was no obvious oral or any other sensory communicating organ. Their limbs were stiff and indicated a preference for some kind of powered movement. They appeared superficially homogenous but on closer inspection the subtle differences in their surface markings demonstrated an individuality comparable to humans.

The ship that hovered above bore a distinct resemblance to a welsh dresser, the rows of willow patterned plates rotating slowly and emitting a quiet hum. The blanket of white had concealed the means by which they had descended to the surface. We waited. They waited. It seemed a standoff was developing, neither wishing to make the first move for fear it be a faux pas.

Then an unassuming volunteer stepped forward. She seemed to have some instinct about the strange beings and they reciprocated, parting awkwardly to gather her into their fold. She looked back once and was gone.

(Linking back to Magpie Tales 91. Finding myself a little surreal today. My first thought on seeing the image was the scene at the end of Close Encounters where the bloke goes up into the space ship surrounded by all those weird little aliens ... go figure.)

Man Mountain

Although his tall frame had withered quietly with the passing of the years Rose had always thought of Mr Mountain as a big person. Maybe it was just the memory of their first meeting when she had crawled from under the hedge and found him on the other side. The box that emerged from the back of the hearse looked as if it could not possibly contain him.

The gathering was small, just a nephew and his wife who had driven up from Stroud and a handful of stalwarts from the village, and herself. The memorial on the neighbouring plot somehow made her feel unreasonably irritated. Why did people think so much of themselves that they felt the need for such ostentatious megaliths, since it was never really there for the dead person but for the visitors who came to mourn. She tried to bring her attention back to the muted murmuring of the vicar but it all seemed so irrelevant. She thought fondly of the time he had rowed them out to the duck island on the boating lake and the duck call he had bought specially for her to try and lure them out. She suddenly had an almost irrepresable desire to sing 'Toot Sweets.'

(An out-take from my NaNoWriMo novel, but I like it so much I might put it in.

Linking back to Magpie Tales 90)