It sounds made up... (Orphan, Clay, Ragtop, Hills, Queen)

Where were her parents? The story never says. I guess it was more interesting that she was possibly an orphan being raised by her Aunt and Uncle, but it seems like too much. She already lived in Kansas in a shack, why pile it on? I’m surprised he didn’t give Toto rabies to make it even more pathetic.

Then we have this whole traveling in the tornado thing and landing on the wicked witch. Ridiculous. If your house goes up in the air during a twister, odds are it will shatter like a clay pot when it hits the ground, not rectify a grave injustice done to a land of oppressed little people.

And if this idiot Good Witch of the North had any thing on the ball, she wouldn’t have sent them walking through the hills of Oz in search of the Emerald City. She’d have just beamed them there or given them something to get there a little quicker… and in style, like a ragtop ’68 Mustang to navigate the old yellow brick road. As it was, she sent a girl in brand new shoes and a little dog on a three-day walk though the countryside. In the real world, Dorothy wouldn’t have gotten two blocks before she ducked into a Starbucks.

But the cake-taker was the Emerald City fiasco. They get there (miraculously) with their little band of misfits but the Wizard won’t help them unless they get the broomstick from the other Wicked Witch. This seems like a tough assignment for a little girl, her dog, a man made of straw, a Tin Man and a Lion wearing eye liner that made him look like a drag queen. If you’re the Wizard, act like it. Get off your fat can and go get it yourself.

But anyway, in the end the Wizard is found to be a fraud. Duh…knew that when the guy had to answer his own door.

~dt blogs daily at cayennelemonade.blogspot.com and solves imaginary problems for rich people at a Caribbean Golf Destination.

Untitled (Junction, Sleek, Lock, Candle, Midnight)

At this junction of my life, I never saw what was about to take place. Being the very sheltered daughter of a country doctor, life was simple, but hard. My mother had died giving birth to me, and all along I had been daddy’s right hand man. We did everything together. I had helped him as he was called out at midnight, candle in hand, to the farms all across the county. I always went with him, even when I was very, very young. Someone’s loved one would begin banging on the door, and it was that clarion call that they were sick, or bleeding or even dying. We would climb into our wagon, after daddy gathered up his bag of instruments, and set out to a farm somewhere down the old road that led from our place to what ever house we were called on to go. This one particular night, I remember arriving at the old abandoned shack at the edge of town. No one had ever lived in it as long as I could think back. The boy that banged on our door couldn’t have been over eight years old. What were they doing squatting here? Where had they come from? What were we going to find once we got there? The little boy was scared, real scared. He told my daddy his Pa had been shot. I wanted to go to sheriff McGuire’s house, but Daddy said we needed to attend to the man right away. When we got to the door, the lock had been pounded off by what looked like a rock. What was left over, from that part of the door, was lying scattered on the front porch like so many pieces of forgotten rubbish. The woman that greeted us was sweating; her hair looked sleek, and out of place, in the light of only one candle, blood covered her hands. What had happened here we did not know. She was agitated as she led us to the corner of the room where on a small cot was a man whose shirt was bathed in crimson. Daddy knelt down, tore open the shirt where the wound was, and went to work. The man groaned as pressure was applied by the expert touch of my Father. Then something happened that changed my life forever. A man; angry, dark, and wild rushed in, knocking the door off it’s hinges, he had a gun in his hands, they were shaking as he shot the man lying on the cot in the head. Then he turned the gun on my Daddy and put a bullet in his chest. How come when tragedy strikes we are never truly prepared for it?

~I am a classical teacher of history, literature, and theology. Passions are the same, as well as reading and writing.

Lost in Motherhood (Junction, Sleek, Lock, Candle, Midnight)

I wake up to the half-hearted cries of my infant... he's whimpering those little cries that tell you he's still half-asleep but his little brain is telling him to WAKE UP. I slowly roll up, sit up, and without waking up, I reach into his crib and pull him into bed with me. Before I get my nightgown fully up and comfortable, he has latched on and is going to town, making little noises and snuggling with me. I smell the faint odor of pee-pee. Ah, how sweet. I feel like a golden retriever... I really don't like nursing in bed but I am way too lazy to sit up in my glider at midnight. I chuckle to myself that I'm in bed with a guy who smells like pee-pee.

I look down at him and am amazed I had anything to do with his existence. He is so beautiful... I kiss his sleek, little blonde head and thank God for his safe arrival. I waited so long for him. We tried for years before finally getting the good news I had conceived.

Motherhood is a blessing... so why am I so miserable? I waited and waited for this... taking temperatures, charting cycles, seeing doctors. Now, he's here and I don't know who I am anymore. I'm at the junction of motherhood and obscurity.

No more lunches out with friends. No more meetings. No more checking email 20 times a day to see if I got a new account. Now it's comfortable shoes and packing diaper bags. My last power meeting was a phone call with the help line to get help with installing a lock on the toilet. I got the lock on there. Now no one can open it.

I have done every Mommy thing the stupid book told me to do. The house is child-proofed, he has all the right lullabye CD's, brain-building DVD's, and developmental toys. I watch him like a hawk and tick off every "milestone" he reaches. Of course, so far, that's roll over. But, he did it beautifully.

Why do I hate this? I tell myself it is easier everyday. I tell myself this every time I nurse, change a diaper, wipe off spit up. It's only for the next 18 years right?

My question is this: when can I be ME again? When he starts school? When he graduates high school and starts college? Who will I be then? I am afraid I am just going to be his Mommy for the rest of my life.

The time is passing quickly. I bought the big number one candle for his birthday cake last time I was at the grocery store. Only 10 months to go.

Does anyone else feel this way?

~hpt is a stay at home Mom of two and loves it. Don't hate on her, this is truly a work of fiction. She waited her whole life to be a wife and mom, and is thrilled to be married to her husband and blessed beyond belief with her two small children, who have both already had big fat number one candles on their respective cakes.

Truth (Nothing, Cozy, Temptation, Lighthouse, Paint)

There was nothing of warmth or comfort in the sterile room. I closed my eyes and tried to escape to a happier time, some better place. But the black screen of my eyelids still carried the image of the florescent light above the exam table, posing too large of a distraction to the image I was trying to conjure of a cozy little cottage on the beach. I waited for the light to fade so I could sink deep inside myself into total blackness...so I could yield to the temptation to disappear, to make myself so small, so tiny, that no one could see me. Not doctors, not nurses, not friends, not family. No one who would crease their brows and fill their eyes with sympathetic warmth when they came to see me. No one who would paint over reality with murmured platitudes and clichés.

“Hang in there.”

“Be strong. We need you.”

“You’re a fighter, you can beat this thing.”

And the biggest lie of all, “You will be all right.”

I know I will never be “all right” again. At least not here, not in this place.

I wanted to be alone, to lick my wounds, to cradle my suffering close to my breasts and rock it to sleep. Or better, I wanted to be with someone who would speak truth to me. Truth with a capital T. Truth that would let loose my spirit so I could break free from the chains that held me to this little patch of earth. I wanted to talk of eternity, of God, of souls…of my soul especially. Not of treatments and medicines. Not of appointments and plans. I knew it was time to move beyond these things.

I needed someone who could bravely and honestly look at the beacon of my illness flashing from my emancipated body like a lighthouse on a shore warning ships of dangerous shores ahead. Someone who could face death with me, embrace it, walk with me to the edge and wish me happy travels.

~Belinda resides in North Carolina with her husband, three children, and one dog. Unfortunately, her fish died this week. Visit her blog at Upsidedown Bee.

The Reticent Murderer (Hobby, Mug, Reticent, Knife, Intrigue)

I am a most reticent murderer. I’m afraid I do not take pleasure any longer in the intrigue that is involved in planning out the best possible way to kill a man…all those hours of watching, stalking, and studying…all that time spent imagining the how and where…all the effort of deciding the best tool to use: knife or gun; electrocution or poison. Shall I run him over in a car? Or push him in front of the subway? After all these years, I am finding it tedious.

But, each job is unique and each demands its own attention. So onward I move. What are his daily habits? When does he leave for the office? Where does he go for lunch and with whom? Does his wife know what he is doing on his business trips to Hong Kong? Does she suspect or is she totally oblivious? Does she know jogging is not a healthy hobby her dear husband has recently picked back up but an excuse that affords him the opportunity to be unavailable to her for an hour everyday yet available to the pretty young associate from his firm? I take hundreds of pictures – by the time I am ready to transition to the last phase of the project, his mug literally wallpapers my office. There are pictures of him walking his dog, hailing a taxi, dining with his wife, walking his kids to school…and kissing his girlfriend. Always there is a girlfriend. That is the one common thread that runs through each job.

I have decided on this one. The plans are complete. The details have been polished and set out for examination hour upon hour. I find them faultless. It is perfect. This may be my most creative work yet. A satisfied sigh slips from me as I slide on my red stiletto heels and move to the mirror in the front hall to carefully put on my lipstick.

~Belinda is a mom, wife, and engineer in North Carolina and has never planned to murder anyone. She writes, muses, and ponders at upsidedownbee.blogspot.com

A Cup of Tea (Hobby, Mug, Reticent, Knife, Intrigue)

The duct overhead rattled as the furnace forced air through the vent. Jim's head popped up from behind the short wall that separated our cubicles. He lacks the restraint for asking me questions, not reticent in his queries. It seems he has the hobby of diverting my focus away from my own work. I took a sip of my tea. Looking at the inside of the mug, I thought about finally washing that thing. However, the boiling water I poured over the tea bag most likely cleaned it. I wondered if repeated layers of dried tea left behind anything detrimental to my health. Probably not, maybe the tannins that I am already drinking. It seems interesting that so many plants developed tannins following different evolutionary branches. I had to force myself to focus back on Jim, make eye contact, listen to what he was saying, show some level of manners. As Jim droned on regarding the intrigue surrounding the regulations he worked on that only a select group of people actually obey, I wondered if I was really paying attention to him. I guess if I was thinking about that, the answer is no. A dagger to my heart, a knife in my belly, stiletto to my temple; all would have relieved me from Jim.

~N. Franklin June is the pseudonym of a researcher at a university. He resides in Michigan with his wife. www.franklinjune.com

The Secret of the Sea (Hobby, Mug, Reticent, Knife, Intrigue)

It was a breezy evening & I was standing in the balcony of my house overlooking the sea. The waves seemed to be calling for me solemnly & smiling with a kindness like never before....perhaps wanting to share a secret. I felt gullible, friendly and as always, intrigued by the mysterious water lip. I decided to nothing the distance between the waves & myself. Resigning from all the worldly hobbies which I have been pursuing with dwindling interest all these years in a sort of mundane manner, only because it was woven into my way of life somehow & somewhere, I ran towards the sea - eager & proud. Eager, to listen to the secret of the eternal life that the waves seemed to be holding on to, so strongly for its immortal lifetime across the lifetime of innumerable mortals. And proud, because the sea chose me, to relay on the mystery. I ran & ran, with open arms as if ready to embrace the sea for its graceful, long-awaited kindness; my feet not feeling the sand on the beach, my mind detached from attachments whatsoever. As I got to the shore hued in vivid desperation, the sea welcomed me subtly with its swish of overwhelming passion – as if liberating years of pent up love for me – was this the secret? The breeze seemed to nod in acceptance, brushing against me in a soft & fresh murmur. The sea, unbelievably, had knifed its years of reticence, slightly mugging from the pain - it was not much and the breeze soothingly washed it out in no time. I was ecstatic. I began to swim deeper & deeper into the sea, whispering in awe, the revealed secret. I wanted to get closer, get one with the sea....I swam so deep that the mortal world was not visible anymore & the shared secret would be unseen, unheard of & secretive. I stayed there for long, soaking in the subtle vastness of eternal love. And when I came out, I was flying, high above the loneliness that had shadowed me like a loyal companion all my life, high above the ordinary, high above avoidable emotions that had sometimes made my vision misty; high, unlearnt & with a crystal vision, high, feeling light without the burden of the mortal form, free at last...

~I am Meera & this is my debut five word visit. My relationships fuel me up. Challenges, word(l)y & otherwise, are a stir. I love making people laugh, though my verse this time is one of the exceptions (sometimes exceptions seem to occur without any exception!)

Screw Your Eyes Shut (Elephant, Remote, Water, Interrogation, Backpack)

Screw your eyes shut. Screw them shut as tight as you can, till your nose wrinkles and you can feel lines appearing and deepening on your chin. Now raise your first two fingers, nearest the thumb on each hand and press them over your closed eyes. Let your fingers be the gold coins of the ancient corpses of kings, so your fingertips can feel every ridge of bone, the lacrimal, the zygomatic, the ethmoid, the temporal.

At first it will be all black, and your eyes will start to water a little. Suddenly, you will have flashes of bright white light, little waves of interrogation lights. And red distress signals, out on the dark dark seas of your sight. And even more suddenly Things will come into focus. You will see pictures you have never seen before, Things you dream of in the dark dark recesses of your mind, dreams spiked with drink and drugs and the endless party that was rock’n’roll, dreams that you thought you’d never dream again.

I saw God once. I saw the sea, an expanse of ever-changing silk, and a swimmer, not waving but drowning, and too remote for me to hear his cries. I saw Anne Frank, eternally young trapped in the pages of a diary in a Harry Potteresque world where the dead can live. I saw an elephant, raising its trunk to the water, and a sunflower raising its head to the sun. I saw a pair of hikers, carrying sleeping bags and a backpack and a bedroll, climbing a slope that was littered with muddied snow, under the low glare of the malevolently red sun.

I saw, I saw, I saw.

And then you take away your fingers, and you open your eyes, and you cannot see, and the real world is blurred and fuzzy. It is not good to stray too far into the realm of the undiscovered, and every voyage takes you further out to the remote waves where, like the swimmer, you are too far from solid ground on both the x and the y axis for anyone to hear you calling out at all.

~Bella B is 15 years old, blogs sporadically at theflyingpen.blogspot.com, and believes that the mundane is more interesting than the remarkable if it's told properly.

Remote Fear (Elephant, Remote, Water, Interrogation, Backpack)

"Honey," my voice rose above the littered room, "Where's the remote?"

The simple interrogation required a simple answer. I waited for the three minute monologue on responsibility and cooperation while sifting through a week's worth of newspapers on the floor. Then I looked up. Her face stared back in silence across time that stood still.

"You look like you've seen a ghost!"

Her hair, grey as an elephant, shined like water in the moonlight. I reached for the keys and grabbed my backpack.

"It's okay, love, let's get you to the hospital."

~Posted by TherMumz, who is one of the best writers who has never been published.