Prompt For Hour Thirteen

What if the world changed suddenly? What if one of the laws of science that has always existed, suddenly stopped existing, or the details of the rules changed?

For example what if we woke up one day and gravity as we know it had changed, the pull of the earth would still be strong enough to walk on for us, but some lighter animals such as mice, would struggle. It would be easier to walk but harder to wash the dishes. We would be in big trouble, but it might also be a very interesting world to imagine.

I want you to alter or stop one of the rules of our earth that we count on. The details are up to you and your imagination.

This poem can be very lyrical or very narrative, or anything in between.

3 thoughts on “Prompt For Hour Thirteen

  1. A haibun

    Dream Come True

    I am growing younger by the minute. So is everyone else; everything else. Whoa! Time is in reverse gear. The sun sets first and then rises. But no one notices it after the first day as they alternate anyway. Like repeating “maraa maraa maraa” endlessly. After a while, it just sounds like Raama. Or maraa, if you prefer.

    prayer beads
    the merry go round
    of a prayer

    Everyone is tickled silly, congratulating each other. The woman next door can hardly wait for the day she will be twenty. Twenty years to go back in time, if you were to believe that she is only 40. Maybe on mercury.

    But hey, my sister is pregnant again. Only with the same baby she had two days ago. This is ridiculous. And I am not even thinking of what happened in the toilet.

    I don’t want to be not born again. I want to live. I Want to Live! I WANT TO DIE!

    the layers of warmth
    in my good morning

  2. EXPRESSIVE Hour 13, PM 2017

    “Red narrates, red highlights, red beautifies brunettes but doesn’t blemish blondes, red embellishes, red loved, and red kills too – but it is not the color of mourning.”
    – Marie-Caroline Sainsaulieu, “Expressive Red”

    What if the world turned red? Red, red, and red, with bits of white, orange and black. As if there were to be no mourning anymore. No lost words, no missed affection, no ungentle touching. Only relaxation, and the quiet smoothing of hair.

    Take Degas’s “Combing the Hair,” for instance. No blue eyes, blue skies, blue bells. No lying in green fields, strolling sandy shores. No snarled black tresses, no blonde roots showing. Only the comb’s whispers, your arm and hand caressing my hair.

    after Edgar Degas, Combing the Hair (La Coiffure), The National Gallery (Britain)

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