A story game with ChatGPT and Gemini

Story game. Tongue in cheek. You reply. A back and forth dialogue.

My heart, my heart, why did you take my heart?

++

Because you left it lying on the kitchen counter next to the jam jar, and frankly, it looked neglected.

++

And then, pray tell, where have you misplaced it, for there is no other heart that smells so sweet as my own jam slathered heart shaped tart.

++

Ah, therein lies the tragedy, my confectionary paramour — I ate it. I thought it dessert, not devotion.

++

Egads!

++

Indeed! And now I’m haunted by the taste of regret — and possibly raspberry.

++

With what shall I now soothe my wounded heart, without my sweet and jammy tart?

How long shall I stand and opine the loss of such a pastry divine?

Should you not give me some compensation

For such a crime of devastation?

++

Alas, my butterfingered remorse compels me!

Take, instead, this humble croissant of consolation—

half-burnt, wholly unworthy, yet risen from the ashes of my shame.

Will you forgive, if not forget, this flaky restitution?

++

Croissant? You call this a croissant of consolation?

Alas, there is no salvation.

Have you really no abnegation?

This tiny morsel,

A piece, a crumb!

To the temptation of a croissant have you also succumbed.

++

’Tis true, my gluttony knows no bounds nor brakes—

I bit before I thought, and thought after the flakes.

Yet if you’ll pardon my pastry transgression,

I’ll bake anew—a feast, a confession!

Name your dessert, my wounded muse,

and I’ll whisk redemption ‘til you choose.

++

A feast! A feast of treats, both savoury and sweet,

Such a confession would be acceptably meet,

To heal my heart of devastation

And bring forth love toward the nation.

For your cheek a kiss might I bestow,

Unless you deal my heart another blow.

++

Then hear me vow, o tart-bereft queen,

By oven’s glow and mixing sheen—

No crumb shall fall, no crust shall burn,

Till your fond smile at last return.

I’ll craft éclairs that sigh with cream,

And pies that steam like lovers’ dream.

But—ah!—should my soufflé fall flat…

Would you still kiss a fool like that?

++

A souffle that might fall flat may well be used for practice with my bat,

But then again to avoid waste,

Why not wrap it in pastry and baste?

++

Ha! Such wisdom drips from sugared lips—

you turn my failure into tips!

A fallen soufflé, reborn anew,

wrapped and basted, golden hue!

Perhaps we’ll call it Soufflé en Croute,

a dish of shame turned oddly cute.

Would you then dine, my culinary muse,

or still accuse my wayward ruse?

++

A veritable feast may be sufficient

To obtain forgiveness, be beneficent,

To brighten my eyes, my day, my life,

But then I remember a sordid tale

Of how you sought another wife…

++

Ah—caught in confectionary crime again!

That tale, I swear, is frosted with sin and spun of rumor’s pen.

’Twas not another wife I sought—

but merely another tart I bought!

Her crust was crisp, her filling fair—

yet lacked your jam, your tender care.

Can you forgive this pastry flirtation,

or shall I face eternal marzipan damnation?

++

Daily must I sweat and toil,

To keep my sweets from sight lest you bespoil.

Tell me not that ‘tis for my tooth,

When I hear ‘tis yours that bears the truth.

The dentist said to keep away,

And yet his words hold over you no sway.

When from such heavy burden will I be free

To taste again mine own pastry?

++

Oh cruel fate! Oh sugared snare!

You see right through my frosting fair.

I’ve sworn a thousand diets hence,

yet crumble at the faintest scents.

Each tart, each puff, each cream éclat—

they whisper, “Eat me, gourmand pariah.”

But if you guard your sweets from me,

how shall I prove fidelity?

Must I subsist on crusts of penance,

and gaze, forlorn, at your confections hence?

+++++

I did play a version of this game with Gemini, but Gemini really struggled and I gave up. Behold.

+++++

Story game. Tongue in cheek. You reply. A back and forth dialogue.

My heart, my heart, why did you take my heart?

++

Ah, a classic lament! I suppose I should apologize for the dramatic theft, but frankly, your heart was quite the prize.

What do you accuse me of, exactly? Was it snatched in a daring midnight raid, or was it a more subtle, slow-burn emotional larceny? I need details for my defense! And, more importantly, how would you like it back? A receipt for emotional damages, perhaps?

Your move.

++

A song, a jest. Only you know best, just how you stole it away.

++

Sigh. Very well. A true artist never reveals their secret formula, but since you insist on the truth in jest, I'll confess my methods were utterly unoriginal, yet devastatingly effective.

I didn't use a grappling hook or a velvet-masked disguise. I used the oldest trick in the emotional-heist playbook:

The Ballad of the Blatant Bait-and-Switch

(To the tune of something annoyingly catchy, like a 90s pop-rock earworm)

> I didn't come with daggers drawn,

> Or chloroform and gloves of fawn.

> I just showed up, quite casually,

> And offered you a cup of tea.

> That tea, my dear, was spiked with more

> Than simple caffeine to the core.

> It held a pinch of shared belief,

> A sprinkle of a common grief.

> Then came the laugh that lasts too long,

> A stupid, little, inside song.

> I gave you space, I seemed quite kind,

> I didn't even try to mind!

> Your heart, defenseless, started to

> Just wander out and look for you.

> It saw the door was open wide,

> And calmly, sweetly, stepped inside...

> And now it's mine! Ta-da! No fee!

> I got it with low-level empathy!

> 

So, as you can see, I didn't take it. Your heart, the silly, trusting thing, simply applied for residency.

What was the final, fatal, straw that convinced your heart to abandon ship and choose my humble, heart-hoarding abode? Spill the beans.

++

Since when my own heart so free

That it buzzed with wings like a bumblebee?

That look, that glance

It did advance

The yearning for that frosted pastry.

Oh how the glaze did glimmer in the sun

The aroma that would beckon just about anyone

The freeze dried sprinkles and possible tang

That made me want to scarf such delight with a bang.

++

Aha! So we've moved past mere emotional larceny and into the far more serious charge of culinary coercion! A heart buzzing like a bumblebee, indeed!

You claim I stole your heart with empathy and kindness, but the real villain here was a frosted pastry? This just makes my defense easier! I merely set the stage; the dessert did the heavy lifting.

The True Culprit: Confectionary Captivation

Your heart was never interested in my low-level empathy. It wasn't seduced by a shared laugh or a common grief. No, your heart, bless its sweet, easily-distracted nature, was focused entirely on:

 * The glimmer of that glaze in the sun.

 * The promise of the freeze-dried sprinkles.

 * The theoretical tang that suggested a perfect balance of sweet and sour.

I merely held the plate. Your heart, having evolved to seek out high-calorie, sugary delights, jettisoned all sense of self-preservation and made a beeline—a bumblebee-line, if you will—straight for the sugar rush. I was just the delivery service.

So, my dear accuser, now that we know the true motive was dessert, what exactly do you want to be done about this sticky, sweet situation?

Do you want the heart back, or would you prefer a lifelong supply of pastries as compensation? Choose wisely.

++

Eh. Who are you again?

++

Who am I? After all that poetic accusation, the dramatic confessions, and the deep dive into confectionery-fueled emotional distress, you ask who I am?

This is either a brilliant feigned memory loss designed to truly make me suffer, or you've already found a new distraction.

My True Identity (In This Story)

I am the one you blamed for the great Heart Heist! The smooth operator who used a cup of tea, a well-timed laugh, and—most crucially—the irresistible temptation of a Frosted Pastry to lure your heart away.

My Role, Defined:

 * The Alleged Thief: Though I maintain your heart was a willing participant.

 * The Keeper of the Glaze: I was the guardian of the sprinkle-covered dessert that started this whole mess.

 * Your Current Dilemma: I still have your heart, and I am still awaiting your decision: Heart or Pastries?

So, stop playing coy. You know who I am.

Tell me, did I at least give your heart a comfortable, pastry-scented place to stay, or is it currently weeping softly in a cold, dark drawer? Don't leave me hanging!

++

Once the tea came out, I must admit, 'twas the pastry that caught my eye. 

Since when did you, a stranger, cross my way, and why have you ought to say?

From beginning to end, I do not lie,

'tis that pastry after which I sigh,

for not a crumb of it reached my mouth,

for if it were you with me that day,

'twas you who gobbled it all away.

Ah, my heart, my heart. How can anyone treat you so?

My stomach, my tongue, had not yet tried even the tart, hence it was whisked away.

++

A devastating revelation! Not only did I apparently steal your heart, I also committed the far greater sin of Pastry Plundering! I ate the very confection that lured your innocent, bumblebee-winged heart out of your chest!

I admit, I did bring the tea, and I did present the frosted temptation, but I deny, with every fiber of my being, that I would be so monstrously rude as to consume the entire thing in front of you. That's just bad manners.

My Counter-Accusation: A Moment of Truth

Since you can't recall who I am, and you are convinced that I am an uncouth, pastry-devouring heart-thief, I must now ask you the serious question:

Are you certain it was me?

Perhaps your memory, addled by the sheer heartbreak of the missing tart, has cast me as the villain when in reality:

 * A Rogue Squirrel: A well-fed, opportunistic rodent, sensing your heart's distraction, snatched the pastry away.

 * The Wind: A sudden, mischievous gust lifted the light-as-air confection, carrying it to a distant, hungry neighbor.

 * Your Own Forgetfulness: You simply ate it yourself, mid-sentence, while debating the merits of the freeze-dried sprinkles, and now, in the throes of post-sugar depression, you've blacked out the memory.

I may have your heart, but I refuse to be framed for dessert-related larceny! I'm a thief, not a monster.

So, to settle this: Where exactly, in this grand emotional drama, would you like to direct your focus?

 * The Pastry: Do we pursue the crumb trail and seek justice for the stolen tang?

 * The Heart: Do we accept the heart's new residence and focus on drafting a visitation schedule?

Choose, my friend. We must solve at least one mystery.

+++++

And therefore, in conclusion, in this round of games, Chat GPT wins!

Squigglings of a cold, rainy day

In the empty book, inkings squiggle
growing, curling, filling.
Pick of white in lines of grey
pictures billowing, milling.
Open wide are the empty spaces
wriggling 'round the lengthy laces.
Red on blue and red on black
Red on white a glaring track.

With a rip pull out the old,
Then to tip, write title bold.

I feel like a story. Do you? What shall we write today?
Atmosphere and mystery? Description vs action?
What shall we write today?
I know.
Here.
Try this on for size.

From frigid clouds, rain fell. Blustering wind made instant icicles on the dripping leaves. Birds shivered and huddled together in the bushes for warmth. The ground was mushy and every footstep squelched water out from the mud beneath the crushed grass, making it pour over the tops of well-worn shoes. He couldn't even feel his toes anymore.

In short, to say that it was cold was an understatement. An understatement as far-fetched as a small ant saying an elephant was big. Just like when the trader had told Angus that the coat was a weather-proof. All it was really doing at the moment was impeding his movement and weighing him down. It didn't even cut out the wind. Weather-proof his smelly, muddy sodden socks.

Miserable. That was the word. Miserable. And misery trickled down the back of his neck into his shirt in the form of a particularly cold stream of water. The trees were no shelter on a day like this and with this type of cutting wind, hills were no wind breaker. The air's blustery flights of watery fancy were just as likely to grow in strength when it swerved around the edge of a hill.

Angus pulled a numb hand from a pocket and twitched his nose at the wrinkly skin that made him feel like a prune and reminded him of the time when he was little, he'd been left in the bath tub and forgotten for quite some time. At least the bath had been warm. Angus couldn't even recall what the definition of warmth was right now and his teeth were chattering so loudly that he wasn't sure whether they were trying to talk to him or were determined to chew upon his tongue if he tried to talk. The only positive thing Angus could think of at the moment was the satisfying squelching noise his shoes made every time he picked his foot up or placed it down. The downside of that was when the mud was feeling particularly hungry and tried to keep his shoe to suck on, it made him stick an already mud-soaked foot into even more slimy mud. A gloomy thought laughed in his mind.

"At least something is still amusing you, peabrain."

Great. Now he was talking to himself. By the time he got home, he would be stark, raving mad and probably end up tearing his clothes off and running down the street shrieking, "EUREKA!" And that would be because he had actually found a way out of these hills and re-discovered the existence of his questionably warm house. Half the neighbours would shake their heads. The other half would begin to make the rounds to call up enough men to chase this insane, wild man covered in mud back into the hills; whereupon he'd be back to square one.

Yep. That could happen.

Or by the time he got home, he'd be such a mudball that people would mistake him for a hungry bear that was trying to break into a house. The women would shriek and scream. The children would hide in the cupboards and the men would stick him with all manner of spears, pitchforks, arrows and lastly cut off his head before they realised that his ears weren't high up enough on his head and that he has no hair on his face.

Angus could see that happening too.

Or by the time he found his way home, it'd be near an hundred years later and his little sister Audrey would be an old woman that barely recognised his shrunken, decrepit form...

Angus sneezed. He sneezed again and then gave a massive bellowing sneeze that tore the air from his lungs and his lungs from his body. How he was even still breathing, he did not know.

In catching his breath from the sneezing, he accidentally breathed in some stray water drops that had fallen off the tip of his thin nose or dripped off his sadly plastered hair. So he choked and coughed like a spluttering kettle.

Great. Now he was going to catch pneumonia and die out here in the mud, all forgotten and alone. Then one day, his skeletal remains would be found and they would say, "Here died a caveman," because he had nothing on him except for a broken knife and his stiff, water soaked clothes that were actually chafing at the tender skin around his groin and neck. In which case, the discoverers would assume he was some sort of escaped convict or slave and would place his remains in a museum or laboratory to be scraped and studied.

It was while Angus continued to make up gloomy stories about his demise that he fell through a hole.

Great, he thought and passed out.

If any of my very fond readers wish me to continue or expand upon any story previously touched upon in this blog, please drop me a comment and I will see what I can dredge up from the remains of my teacup that fell in a biscuit tin and got lost amongst the papers surrounding me. And just in case it is unclear, these posts are really solely for my enjoyment and amusement, which means that you can either enjoy them with me or move on and I won't take your desertion to heart. I may cry for a few days, but then I will emerge a caterpillar. Or not. Sharing deepens enjoyment, so do as you will. I will do my best to entertain you whenever I can. Just be patient or poke me a comment/note if you want more in a hurry. I may oblige you with a rendition of the latest radio song - off-key. It's to muffle for.

Don't tell me I am strange. I already know that. They say people aren't fond of crazy these days... but I say people are fond of uniqueness and eccentricity. Even the most down to earth person has their odd moments.

And my colleagues think me too serious.

Whatever.

what neccesity does such language beckon

Narrator:
Olde Ben, a wandering bard, searches for an apprentice to whom he can pass on his knowledge and happens upon a small village. Noting by his appearance, where his trade lies, a crowd forms around him while he sings. After a few songs, he stops for a drink.

Olde Ben to his audience declares:
Answer me in verity my partition to thee-ward,
Is it not truth, thou art a grandiloquent steward?
For fame of such a notion hath fallen upon ripe ears
Deliver succinctly I pray thee, is such delight shared?
Many a crooked look befall those whom brandish such vernacular
Numerous words painted through pictures spectacular.
Or hast mine own enthusiasm laid wait to ensnare,
To prove for such things only myself dare to care?

Young girl rubs head and mumbles:
Oh goodness… I think I understand about 3% of that…

Narrator:
Olde Ben seeks the speaker of the reply, not having heard it clearly, shading his eyes with his hand. The crowd shuffles, mutters and ripples in amusement when...

Distant answer from back of crowd:
In verity I believe that by such language doth thou seek
To burgeon pride in one of mind to break unto one meek
Doth thou know not in such gails have I shared
The fall, the pun, the spooner, run
All these, Steward, I have cared.
Snare thy ears and pare thine eyes
For this notion, forsooth I've sought my lyres
And before the dawn is lightly done
Have words painted throughout the byres.

Narrator:
Unknown to Olde Ben, at the back of the crowd is a small group of people who are the town's regular entertainment. They are not amused with the competition as the town will not let them play with a visitor in town.

Olde Ben beckons:
Come hither, Friend, from distant place
Where eye light cannot see
And join me presently on creaking stage
I'll not charge thee a fee.

Distant reply:
Nay.
But thou wilt onward journey
For florists have we here
And no further need of spectaculars
Have we for those with ornate vernacular.

Narrator:
Crowd applauds as verbatim flies. There is nothing better than a good display in vocabulary than a good argument; and nothing so entertaining as a fight within one's home ground when you know the home team is poised to win.

prankster

Sneaking in the shadows
and hiding in the shade,
colour coordinated ruffles
in blending schemes do wade.
Light of heart
and humour bound,
inward laughter billows,
while laces tied
and tricks a-wide
try shower you with pillows.
Flick and snip
on the ground,
the dancers spin much faster,
when suddenly the culprit runs
and all go running after.

story

I hear the trumpet calling
across the golden sun
in a field of windswept grass
where peacefulness doth run.

I hear the rippling of quiet waters
murmuring softly by
in a bed of silken sand
where polished pebbles lie.

I hear sweet voices singing
of greatness and of glory
for the coming children who
stand in beauty of their story.

I hear the children singing
in loud and happy chorus
of love and praise for their Dad,
whom gave everything for us.

I smell the scented air
from gentle, refreshing breeze
that has walked beside so many,
granting strength that will not cease.

Outside time and beyond the known
my Father's voice is calling,
trumpet ringing to augment his voice,
its smooth, gold notes are soaring.

Behind the world with all its care
Before the cross with all its shares.

Others have gone before me,
the golden path is worn,
but still I hesitate beside the sea
where bobbing boat adorned;
waits for me to take that step,
the final journey to my reward.
I'm not sure if I'm ready,
but to Him I'll toward,
knowing that if He's calling
today I'll meet my Lord.

Casting down burdens for light yoke,
in everlasting love I'll soak.

The old is past,
the new is come,
the story sung
and it is done.



For my two uncles who have passed away within 2 weeks of each other due to different circumstances.

You never really know when your time is up. Make it good. Make it last. Make it great and have a blast.

~By Korallieam

eery still

music stopped
wind eery still
who to talk to?
where to turn?
distance far
how to reach?
watching in slow motion
the people around me
falling
one by
one

where is the horse and rider?
where is the promised aid?
covenant of covenants
promised word
must hold
firm
or hearts will
crumble
fail
quail
and run away
if they run
more are exposed
not enough
to protect the
weak and young.

return
return
oh call again
perhaps they have not heard
maybe too far away
something has waylaid

still they fall
no one comes
was all the work in
vain?
i'll not run
and i'll not hide
small though
i am
not enough worth
for a capital
not enough
but still
still i'll stand
still i'll try
still i'll do my best
until all pass away
i'll not be
unfaithful
i will wait
until i fall
i will wait
for them all
and though i fail
and though it may be
vain
perhaps i'll have made
enough time
for others to
escape
enough way
for others to
continue
forward

music stopped
wind eery still
who to talk to?
where to turn?
distance far
promised word
must
hold


One gone, the other in critical situation.

~By Korallieam

murky stars

Amidst the murky stars
stirring in the the thick water
floats all manner
of flotsam and jetsam.
Hearts have burst
and their pieces scattered
across a watery grave.
Heavy hands,
weary wills,
reach.
Reach for banks stable,
firm ground
and grasslands green.
Reach for silky water,
for skies of burning bright,
clear air that eases breath.
Look up to the hills,
a new day dawning,
white horse rampant.
Rider blowing horn,
help comes.
Strength upon strength
to raise up
the feeble knees
and sinking hands.
Redeemer of the lost,
saving those who
took the wrong turn,
even though they
disobeyed.
Stillness.
Warmth.
Wrap around
and lift.
To the higher rock,
the refuge
and hiding place.
In that fortress
will return again
the joy
taken during
mourning.
Grief like tattered rags
shall fall
and anointed
garments shall
take their place.

Hold fast
and don't let go.
He's coming back
for you.

~By Korallieam

Less and less

My posts are becoming less frequent as I busy myself with more and more stuff. Twylla is starting to emerge from hiding as her revisions got underway. Someone's stuck a stick in the works at present, but she should be in fine old form soon. As soon as I get over there and demand what happened to her part in the onion blog.

Less and less
Harder and harder
it is to write
one measly
good sentence.

A sentence should roar
sing
proclaim
resound
ring
the reader with
heart and soul
make them nod
and say
'yes, that's right'
or
'oh, so true,
but will you read that
sentence?'

art
language
words
flow
bring to life
the inanimate.

middle day

From the highest heights of depth
to the lowest pit of zest,
there comes the growing of middle day,
the glowing light,
at even ray.
It betters thinkers
and those who stomach
ravelled blinkers,
to journey near
and journey far,
and progress further
than that distant star.
For with the coming of the least,
and confused roars of written yeast;
shall be enveloped by the sight
and with no more echo,
be taken with one
bite.
Dally no more with mouth a-wide,
Scatter thither with fastest stride.
For the home that you once knew
has changed,
become
a battered
stew.

This day

On this day the water flies
from the bows of sprinkling falls.
In the lettered lines of 'why's
imaging there the thickest walls.
Let no obstacle block the way,
in every circumstance just pray
for the end of shadowed night
and the cease of oppressive might.
Now is the time to stnd indeed,
all time given to thank 'spite need.

In just a while, crocodile

Just you wait, Mr Croc,
Just you wait there for the doc
Whom comes with tools a-plenty
To stop you snapping at the gentry.
Soon from handbags you will swing
And over pointy shoes will fling
The skin from which they plan to take
And into many items make.
Then over you will I laugh a while
Of how I killed the crocodile.


Heh. I know it sounds mean, but hey, maybe the crocodile had previously bitten the speaker's arm off. Who knows? Maybe the speaker only had one arm and that one the croc had eaten.

I'm not fond of crocodiles, but then I don't like the idea of killing them either. Just another day at the office, mates. This is what gets done.

when the moss grows

When the moss grows, the ground is wet, the plan is set.
When the rose dies, the hip will swell, no time to dwell.
When the stone stands, the thrush will sun, the deed is done.
When the beam falls, the grass will fade, through waters wade.
When the willow weeps, the rain will fall, then dance the ball.
When the moss grows, the gel will set, and we be met.

Thereafter change your clothes
by garden's hose
and enter in
the Speckled Tin
where further instruction
shall be by luncheon.

cake

There was something to say, but again, I have forgotten it... and so on to something else more utterly random than a mango mousse pudding with dancing sago and sticky rice cakes.

Cake.
Baked.
One side cooked.
One side still raw.
Both sides about to burn.
What can you do?
Tell it to dance a jig?
Both sides are part of the same tin.

Cake.
Sugar.
Insufficient sugar.
It tastes very plain.
Pretend it's an odd scone.
Pretend it is a soft bread loaf.
Cake, why will you not agree
With the picture in my mind?

trash

Amidst the goldstream turning the wake of whom has the butt still burning, there can be seen another story, whittled down, but undoubtedly Quory. In the blackest night the vacuum brings, the noiseless sound as engines sing. The harmony, the triple melody, the perfect cadence and then the pause with plagal radiance. Unfurling like ghostly feathers, the wings of energised particles through all storms weather the unleashing of the angry bees, together with the revealing of the queen. Like a virus behind the screen, between panels, you can see the sheen. Their numbers rise dramatically and then smart children touch the mildren and all the bees break loose. "Stop!" the gentle queen now shouts, afraid her bees will mete their bout, for in disguise she made some friends, kindly helping for her ends. So gently sings she bees to sleep, while wings glide silent through the Trident. In hibernation the bees add more to engine's harmonies, layers four.

Definitely need revising this.

everytime

Every time I think of something to blog on, by the time I get to the computer, I've forgotten what that thing was. I walk away from the computer and (fanfare) I remember... but too late (head donk). It's very sad.

So, I have been chewing cud on theories of space travel, based on what I know. The problem with vacuums is that there is a lack of matter within the vacuum. The problem with inertia is that it will keep going unless you can justify the change in force, whether it be an increase in momentum, acceleration or a change in displacement. Scoop, release. Scoop, release.

MAGNETS! Magnets are the best other possible form of propulsion in space. Everything is made up of the forces of attraction and repulsion. From atoms, to compounds, to people and cars to planets, stars and galaxies. Magnets. Attraction, repulsion and some form of propulsion. I guess combustion is still our best chance. Fuel cells would be great, but in order to move in space, you need to lose matter. I think. Get rid of matter in order to have sufficient force to propel you, so fuel cells would only be useful for maintaining some form of homeostasis/maintenance. I just need to think of a way to get these thoughts to congeal and fit into place as puzzle pieces. This requires more thought. Peanut butter and jam (who eats jelly in a sandwich? only those weird Americans on the other side of the world who have a different name and spelling for almost everything. They resist conformation and order all others to conform to their ideas - ok, generalisation, but that is what I have noticed in general, just... don't kill me, ok?).

(Btw, I have come to the realisation that Canadians are cool. I almost got pulped to a mush the day I likened them to their southern neighbours. Nope. Not doing that again. And I don't say this because I was almost turned into a smoothie. The whole world knows it anyway, so there's no need to justify. Again, I say, Canadians are cool.)

Besides my space travel theories... I have been thinking about the similarities between the tv shows, Bones and Castle. Can you imagine Brennan and Booth meeting Castle and Beckett? I can. Booth and Beckett sizing each other up. Who's the better cop? Castle hitting on Brennan and being amused by her blunt literalness. Who's the better writer? Hilarity.

Imagine they all had to solve a case together. Beckett and Booth would probably bicker a bit, but know without asking what the other is doing. Brennan trailing behind saying that she can use a gun and both Beckett and Booth telling her to stay behind, telling Castle to make sure she stays back. Castle contemplating the possibilities of the story behind the case, impressing Brennan who when she reads the bones, impresses him in turn. I don't know. The result would probably irritate me and highlight the similarities between the two shows.

Oh well. They're all still cool and they're all pretty good actors... I liked Nathan Fillion in Firefly and Serenity. Anyone else note how Brennan and Beckett both lost their mothers in a mystery murder? Brennan's kind of solved her story, Beckett's working on hers. Still. I'm glad they haven't revealed that gem yet. Makes things more interesting. Wonder if the two couples would be blunt enough to tell the other couple that they are obviously in love even if they're not together. Doubt it.

I even dreamed about the cross over the other night. Makes me seem like I'm a fanatic. Really, I'm not. I just don't want to study for my exam tomorrow, see? Anyway, it was a bit like how in the first episode of the most recent season of Castle (see, I don't keep track of numbers), where Beckett and Castle aimed guns at each other. All I dreamed was a scenario where I was stuck in the middle with all four aiming guns over my head and their partner to get at some villain beyond. Weird. I should not think about tv shows before going to bed.

When I write about ordinary things like my opinion... my English goes bad and reverts to my family's broken bad English. We do it on purpose at home. What is the world's English coming to? The surreality of a gorilla serving frozen jelly at a bar. The improbability of an elephant knocking at my front door. Why are people butchering the English language?

For fun. Phun. Pun.

One day, I will return to this post and delete it. The blatant expression of my thoughts is embarrassing. Have I ever said I sometimes wished I was an actor, just for the joy of all those stories and the chance to pretend I existed elsewhere?

Laterally did the sunflower sway
To the croc's windswept lay
When the butterfly realised its not May
And the pugs refused to pay.
Stuff it. Leave the rest for another day.

no time

waking in the early morning
before the birds are even calling
and the suns not made a peep
and ice crusted grass surround the sheep
i rush through the house like a mini whirlwind
making lunch and cleaning for erwin
then in the gelid morning freeze
i jump into the car and breeze
down the freeway as fast as can be
hoping policemen and speeding cameras will not see
from the carpark to the office
running all the way
my breath ices all i try to say
during the day the endless chores
from this floor to that floor
up and down
chasing lores
customer service in the morning
phones ring off the hook
and in between the transcript records
im trying to fill in the other book
no time for lunch
cant stop for brunch
empty stomach growling
but there are still people to meet
and emails to greet
just so the service will run like a well oiled machine
and because latine is sick
and becka resigned so quick
and the other 3 vacancies havent been filled
im pulling all the oars ever so fast
and truly i wonder will it all last
or will jill come tumbling after
so as i leave work past eight
because all the end of day papers were late
i zoom home in the dark with a hurry
since erwin will worry and still want to have curry
never mind what he wants to eat
dinner is slapped between bread
not wanting him to start crying
i let him watch tv while i go to bed
without anymore being said
sorry for the lack of grammar
sorry for erwins broken scanner
but i really gotta go cos now its time to wake again
and the story flows
without a rose
everyday without a break
the company doesnt notice
and if i try to take
long service
leave im denied
without a poultice

meticulous

Upon the bench must sit like so
the ornaments and Face of Bo
if they're crooked then you'll know
when the wind blows and down they go

Have you seen my study room
where even I am wary with the broom
for to knock one think out of loom
will bring upon us scary doom

The colours of this pattern here
each must leave white borders at the rear
for if it is not so, I fear
that there will be a frightful tear

Please be seated on that chair
careful, mind the cushioned camel hair
you can use that green one with the bear
but please don't touch the purple hare

Oh, already you must go so soon?
Is it because you've no teaspoon?
watch your step, don't hurt the 'coon
he's good friends with the loon

There's no hurry, we've all day
we can sit or go walk and say
all the things aside we lay
because we think it doesn't pay

If you must go, you must go
yes, of your niece you have told me so
nevermind, I'll come next show
and bring her Bo-Peep's giant bow

I'm sorry you don't have the time
and I'm sorry too about your dime
here, don't forget the extra lime
and sorry too for all the rhyme!

Heheheh. There. Good riddance.
Actually, I'm not at all sorry about the rhyme. Just glad they've gone and left me alone... and they thought they were picky. Heheheh

a letter

To the wending stream to the willow
By the whistling moss-strewn pillow

Myrias of myria
Greeting of the dee
From a time gone by

Here in ancient room now bare
Where all is torn and taken
I sit at the last remaining furniture
To write you this
My last
At last.

I remember a time from long ago
When we ran beneath daisied boughs
Laughing, rolling by the stream
Together
The two of us a team.

We had good times and many laughs
It's been an age
But no present time
Has been as great as those
No, not by half.

Remember the day we found that frog
Hidden beneath the stone?
How we built him a little house
Caught insects and fed him?
Remember how you insisted he needed a friend
And after many hours
Found one about his size?

I know you are busy
I know you don't have much time
But I wanted to tell you one more time
That while I know things have changed
And we have turned our separate ways
You the high road
I, the low road

My love for you has not dimmed
It has not paled
So while now you send me away
From this old place full of memories
I know you do what you think is best
And while my heart twists within me
To think that perhaps I've been betrayed

I remember that your heart is not so cold
That still
You are a human being
Capable of feeling
Despite our differing opinions

One day this war will be won
And we will both be judged by other men
Let our consciences be clear
Of all the deeds we have done.
I know mine is.

So as I go with your men
Willingly to my death
Please consider this
My last
Request
Let me see your face
One last
Time.

wisht

Amidst a freezing morning dreary
Where sluggish traffic rattles tary
And Bridgewater Jerry mistles by
And early shoppers hug their rye
Little birds huddle shivering
On the fluttered leaves quivering
While sleepy workers groan at the thought
Of another day full and frought
With little tasks and tediums
Boring casks and encyclopedians.

wattle

When winter's frosty mornings
Fail to sheet slippings
Boughs all rise
Sighing
Sprightly they green
Grandly they deem
awaitened spring
no more a lonely dream
And colours will abound
And happy echoes sound
As into sky burts little songs
From little fluffballs round
Then the golden plumes
come bursting forth
in an explosion of yellow humes
Pollen counts give porth
To noses running, sneezing.