Script Frenzy Twenty-Twelve has gone
Like grass from an unwatered lawn.
My College Play was barely born
And won’t grow up before the morn.
The play’s not dead: I’ll finish yet
(Take that as promise or as threat),
But April’s output literary
Went to something much more scary:
One part of a pending book
For which triathlon’s the hook
And my tale’s, say, the worm’s hind end
Through which the reader bait’s been pinned.
So, Flopsy and Elena wait
Onstage until a later date
When I turn my attention back
To giving their shared tale a crack
At closure, which ’til now’s been hid
From them (and me). At least I did
Meet one deadline so far this spring,
And maybe this Tri book’s a thing
About which tens of readers might
Say, someday, “He did something write!”
“That’s not a real rock. Put it down,”
Said Mopsy. Flopsy faked a frown
And told his brother, “She’s my friend!”
“Come on, you know how this will end,”
Said Mopsy, shaking both his eyes,
His nose, two ears–to his surprise
His whole entire head was shaking!
Surely, there was no mistaking
What that meant: His neck was loose!
He honked, “It’s happened! I’m a goose!
Do I have feathers on my cheek?”
“These are not the droids you seek,”
Said Flopsy to a passing cow.
He turned to Mopsy. “What– oh, wow!”
He gaped in shameful wonderment,
“So that’s where my cucumber went!”
He plucked the fruit from Mopsy’s beard
And sniffed it quietly. “That’s weird.”
He gestured with the proto-pickle
At his brother. “Does it tickle
Having that much fur all over–”
Mopsy drew his four-leaf clover
From his shoulder holster: “Don’t
Complete that thought!” “All right, I won’t,”
Said Flopsy, and his eyes rolled back
Inside his head. A gentle smack
From Mopsy’s shamrock made him laugh
Exactly how a scared giraffe
Would not, which caused them both to bray
With glee, “Happy St. Patrick’s Day!”
Happy birthday, MLK!
This is late, but that’s okay,
I hope, ’cause Flopsy had a dream—
Or half of one–that made it seem
Like carrots were the root du jour.
And isn’t that what freedom’s for?
Two of these you may have seen;
The new one’s Chapter 17.
The “Not Exactly Hamlet” post,
Supposedly about a ghost
And where the spark of Moo first burned,
In Chapter 18 has returned;
Something Wicked This Way Smells
As Chap. 19 returns as well,
So now we’re all caught up, with plenty
Story left for Chapter 20.
Sorry for the eight-week wait–
I hope that never’s worse than late.
At long last, the anticlimax! No, not that one, this one.
The Bad News: The NaNoWriMo train has left the station, but Flopsy and Mopsy are still on the platform, stuck for all time at an official word count of 16,208.
The Good(?) News: The Narrator desperately wants to help tell their story, because it’s been so desperately dull for the past 150-odd years…and things are about to get a lot odder. We just have to get through a bit more excruciating exposition: The Narrator.
Finally, some progress on the convergence of Flopsy, Mopsy, Helen and the Narrator: Everyone, Including the Narrator. Probably too late to meet the NaNoWriMo deadline, but that’s the way the banana crumbles (assuming, as always, a freeze-dried banana).