… the brilliance of my fellow bloggers Vincenzo Francesco and YourOtherMotherHere tempted me to try something new – and I am just too intrigued to let it slide.
I decided to create a new Category called ‘Storylines’. Based on the poem Escapade, I will let the original story unravel in different directions – it sounds like an interesting thing to do.
Maybe some of you will be as intrigued as I am to do this – I encourage you to join in the fun, take the original poem and let your mind wander. All of my follow-up poems to ‘Escapade’ will be found in the new category ‘Storylines’ – if you care to join me on this journey, feel free.

Thank you so much for the inspiration, guys! I am looking forward to discovering where this will lead…


18 thoughts on “Storylines

    • Well, here ya go… I don’t know how you’ll feel about it. Use it or not as you see fit. Believe me, I will not be offended if you decide not to use it.


      blood-red pumps
      tilt crookedly next to
      blood-red drapes
      where a pizza box of
      blood-red checks
      lies tossed on the floor by
      blood-red hands
      still twitching watched by
      blood-red eyes
      that gleam above
      blood-red lips
      smiling in anticipation of
      blood-red leftovers.

      I don’t know how this will change anything when I send it, but the second lines are all indented after every “blood-red”.

      I was thinking a vampire orders a pizza delivery the night before and almost drains the delivery guy who is so busy staring at her red pumps that he doesn’t have time to react. Now it’s almost time for her to go back to her coffin, but before she does, she’s going to have some leftovers.

      All this because I like cold pizza for breakfast! (smiles)


  1. Hi Miriam,

    Here are a few verses I’d like to add…

    tried beyond strength
    her pace now waning
    gusts of wind
    promising freedom

    she averted the crowd
    slipped out of time
    into her timemachine
    to recollect her thoughts

    her small-town heart
    torn in two
    longing for what
    seemed to elude her

    the feigned kisses
    the habitual lies
    her eggshell existence
    what did it all matter?


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