Wednesday Prompts

My father, booting home. It rains.

You're twelve, thirteen, the door is locked.

Outside, there is nothing that I need

There you go again, diving in

A sand-box

Mummy, mummy, there's an armoured tank in the front room!

You can blame many things on ABBA

Somewhere on the streets of Paris

I will cut my hair too short and speak too loud

Frankie's gotta blade

So what IS this thing with Flamingos, the one-leg thing?

In an easy, uncomplicated way

Hood

My father shot the Christmas roast, and then turned to us

Here is a bird that will never be

I decide and feel everything begin to simmer

I may be the Mayor of Bombay

Swimming up the Amazon, patient.

I am a child. They bury me.

They were at my table, talking. They are dead.