Write a story or poem of 5 Lines or Less using the word poor
Link back to this post
If you are on WordPress this will create a pingback.
If you are not on WordPress put a link to your post in the comments.
You can also post your story or poem in the comments.
Here is my story this week.
It’s based on a childhood memory I have of my brother.
Get your butt in the house this minute, young man! I’ve had it with your shenanigans and now you’re going to pay a pretty price for the mess you made.
I’m sorry but I can’t pay a pretty price because I don’t have any money. I am not a man, Mommy. I am just a poor little boy.
Patricia's Place 
Thanks for the prompt, Patricia. I like your lines. Here’s my take on the prompt. I am also leaving the link to my last week’s entry (which I guess you might have missed reading) here.
In other words, sow
I love this Patricia. So sweet and simply penned. I’m sighing in awe of your talent for poignant brevity.
Thank you, Susannah. You are always so encouraging!
Was thinking about you since you’ve been silent all week. Glad you’re fine. I love how you write, clean and spare. 🙂
I am catching up on comments now and will write a short post as soon as I finish. I think I need some time away from the computer so will be AWOL for awhile. But I will return!
You’re a writer with good sense replenishing your imagination giving it rest. I admire that.
Here is mine:
I’m as poor as a church mouse, barely making ends meet.
When I was a kid we lived, all ten of us in a house by the train line, the 6.25 woke us up every morning.
That’s nothing we lived beside a river that woke us when it flooded every morning.
We were so poor we grew up eating our parents regurgitated breakfast, you get used to it after a while.
Huh, you think you are poor, we lived in a box, all fifteen of us, on a train line bedside a flooding river, our father flogged us every day for being poor and sent us to work in a factory bending bananas.
I’m so sorry, especially about the regurgitated breakfast. sigh
Thanks Susannah, some license taken in all this.
Poetic license Michael is an essays’s engine. Patricia’s had a Bentley’s, your’s a Jeep’s with the doors taken off…:)
Everybody wants the last word, don’t they? Reminds me of my father who always had a story about how hard he had it as a kid whenever we complained. Thanks for sharing your story, Michael.
Sweet story, Patricia.
He was a sweet boy.
Cute story.
here’s mine
🙂
Aww.. The story is adorable!❤️
My brother was a pretty adorable little boy.
Aww.. I can imagine! 😉
Sorry for being so late! Here’s my take on it –
http://iscriblr.com/from-rags-to-riches/