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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
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Everyday Canvas
"Failure is unimportant. It takes courage to make a fool of yourself."
CHARLIE CHAPLIN
Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness
to learn
anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive
is too small for you.
David Whyte
This is my supplementary blog in which I will post entries written for prompts.
February 3, 2017 at 11:32am February 3, 2017 at 11:32am
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Prompt: Craft a piece of flash fiction based on the art of the rant: What exercises you? That is, what gets you in high dudgeon? Who pisses you off? Be specific: not just "I hate that guy," but a riff on the last three times he cut you off in mid-sentence, the poisonous glow of his smile, and the unfortunate fact that he's your brother-in-law. Inspire us with your passion.
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He is nobody to me, nobody! Except he is married to my senseless sister, Ellen. Senseless did I say? It is more like Ellen is overly sensual yet laughably naive to fall for his strut, his wavy hair, and his honey-almond eyes, even if that’s all he's got. Yes, that’s all there is to this excuse of a brother-in-law. He’s got nothing else. No insides, no decent upbringing, and no respect for her. Worse yet, he is passive-aggressive and unfaithful to the core, the least of it in thought, and he is sneaky. His tactics have forced Ellen to turn into a doormat and blame herself at the end of each conflict.
I know he hates me for he knows I am the one to talk sense into Ellen. With me, even the nicest thing that comes out of his crooked mouth is always a back-handed compliment because he looks at me with his toothy crocodile smile as if he were about to utter a praise, and then he says something that sounds like admiration, but isn’t. He also calls me sis, but what comes out of his dirty mouth sounds like sicks or just sick.
The last time I went to their house to see Ellen, he said, “Sicks, you look gorgeous in that dress! I should get one for my mother, but I think she too thin and a bit younger-looking to pull it off.” Well, I am no Ellen to thank him for an insult; therefore, I said, “Are you sure you liked my dress for your mother? I think you want to wear it yourself.” His features deflated for an instant, but he regained consciousness immediately and turned to Ellen. “You didn’t tell me your sister was into cross-dressing men, Ellen. No wonder she knows so much.”
Well, he surely knows how to play Ellen. After each storm between them, which he attributes to having been caused by Ellen and after screwing her with his neurotic silence and exclusion of her for a few days, my half-witted sister grovels at his feet and begs his pardon. At that time, he utters one of his favorite expressions that I absolutely hate. “Oh Ellen, my love, I do understand. Definitely, I do. Female hormones play havoc in women’s brains, but let’s not give in to them again, shall we!”
I so abhor men who talk down to women especially about female hormones to get themselves off the hook.
If a rival country accused our CIA of bad hormone manipulation, wouldn’t our guys blow those people off the face of the earth? This brilliant flash gave me another dazzling idea. I am now taking a few lessons at the Bulls Eye Shooting Range. I need to have an exact aim to bleed the tocsins of passive-aggression out of this reptile.
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Note: I am a good one to hide behind fiction or poetry, and if any of you is worried, I don’t have a sister named Ellen. In fact, I was an only child. 
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