Tag Archives: Writer’s Island

Writer’s Island: Clarity

22 Jan

This week’s prompt from Writer’s Island immediately made me think of the Johnny Nash song, I Can See Clearly Now The Rain Has Gone.  Then I thought it would be a great song to sing if the Hub was one day miraculously cured of his CFS/ME.  This is the quickest I’ve ever written from a prompt; but it’s easy when the words are already there for you.

An M.E.Pastiche In Anticipation Of The Great Day When Doctors Find A Cure (with apologies to Johnny Nash)

I can see clearly now the pain has gone
I’ll no longer fall over obstacles in my way
Gone are the migraines that had me blind
It’s going to be a great, great, great pain-free day
It’s going to be a great, great, great pain-free day
I know I can walk straight now the pain has gone
All of the inflammation has disappeared
Here is the energy I’ve been praying for
It’s going to be a great, great, great pain-free day
Look at me now
There’s nothing but big smiles
Look straight at me, no pain in my eyes
I know I can live again, the pain has gone
All of the dreadful pain has disappeared
I can see clearly now the pain has gone
It’s going to be a great, great, great pain-free day
It’s going to be a great, great, great pain-free day
It’s going to be a great, great, great pain-free day

The original lyrics:

I can see clearly now the rain has gone
I can see all obstacles in my way
Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind
It’s going to be a bright, bright sunshiny day
It’s going to be a bright, bright sunshiny day
I think I can make it now the pain has gone
And all of the bad feelings have disappeared
Here is the rainbow I’ve been praying for
It’s gonna be a bright, bright sunshiny day
Look all around
There’s nothing but blue skies
Look straight ahead nothing but blue skies
I think I can make it now the pain has gone
And all of the bad feelings have disappeared
I can see clearly now the rain has gone
It’s gonna be a bright, bright sunshiny day
It’s gonna be a bright, bright sunshiny day
It’s gonna be a bright, bright sunshiny day

A Temporary Poem

18 Dec

I’ve got a busy day ahead but I wanted to post something; apologies if you have seen this before.  Today’s prompt for Writer’s Island is triumph.  I hope to write something else so this is a stopgap:

Dog Day Afternoon

Spring day; a walk in
the park: the triumph of hope
over effluence.





Writer’s Island: Quest

5 Dec

A bit of fluff for a Sunday morning.  Thanks for the fun, Writer’s Island; and thanks to my editor, Vivinfrance.


Mission: Improbable

You suggest
a quest is best –
some sort of test –
to prove my love and devotion.

I respectfully suggest
you retract your request,
lest I reach a
why-not-push-you-in ocean.

Hmm.  I like that notion.


The First Time Ever I Saw This Is A Mad Factor

11 Oct

Red is the new Black.  Half of the text refuses to change from grey to black and I must have uniformity for my sanity, so it’s all red from now on, like the mist before my eyes.  WordPress grey is like a Stockport summer sky and I just can’t do wishy-washy; it’s not in my nature.

Phase Three of the X Factor started on Saturday, with the live shows.  I was disappointed in Matt’s performance; it wasn’t terrible but he’ll have to get better if he’s going to win.  I preferred his boot camp audition.  He starts singing at 1:40.

Mary was fantastic but I don’t think she’ll win. 

Aiden Grimshaw was the stand-out performer of the night.  I hadn’t rated him but the Hub, in his infinite annoyingness, spotted him from his first audition.  Although I’ve loved the song in all its incarnations, I never really understood just how mad a world it is until I watched his interpretation.

Perhaps the song needed a teenager to bring out the real meaning: it seemed to me that on Saturday Aiden was channelling Monday-morning Spud.  Today’s Drama of the Week was initiated by odd socks.  If my boys are anything to go by, grunge fashion extends as far as the feet; my sons never wear matching socks if they can avoid it.

 I’ve another pair at home just like it.

Spud has to wear black socks for school on pain of being expelled, but I compromise by buying multiple pairs of the same pattern so he has matching socks but they are not necessarily from the same pair.  Aren’t I clever?

This morning, he had a hissy fit because he had no school socks – and he had brought down his washing basket at eleven o’clock last night.  I can only assume I should have set my alarm early and got up at five to wash them.  I don’t have a tumble dryer but that’s not a problem because the morning screaming I do would provide enough hot air to send him off to school with the toastiest toes in Stockport.


Perhaps my child’s descent into typical teenagerdom inspired this bleak senryu, which came from the latest Writer’s Island prompt, ‘envision’.  It was five stanzas long at first, but you need to know the Book of Revelation to appreciate it, and it was so grim I couldn’t bring myself to post the rest.


Envision a world
where fowl gorge on the flesh of
kings, and hope is dead.


A Billion Interesting Facts

25 Sep

I read this today at Mike LaMonica’s Blog and I thought it was so interesting I had to share it:

A billion is a thousand million. If you wanted to count to a billion, it would take 31 years, 251 days, 7 hours and 39 seconds (if you counted one per second). A billion seconds ago, it was 1958. A billion dollars is 266 small U-Haul boxes jammed end-to-end and floor to ceiling in crisp $100 dollar bills. So you think a billionaire has a “ton” of money?  Well, a ton of $100 bills is about only, $90,800,000. Chump change. Most commercial jets fly about 7 miles high.  If you took crisp, new $1,000 bills, it would soar 63 miles high.

If I had a billion I might finally be able to put a dent in my credit card bill.  Or up my stats (£5 for you each time you read my blog or get a friend to read it).


The prompt for Writer’s Island this week takes longer to explain than the senryu that came from it: 

The twenty-second prompt for 2010 is in honor of American poet, singer-songwriter, musician, composer, cartoonist, screenwriter, and author — Shel Silverstein. Today would have been Shel’s 78th birthday…Today’s prompt will be both a word and an image, you choose which you want to use as inspiration. The appropriate word I feel is WHIMSY, to reflect Shel’s style. The image offered as a prompt follows here:

So you can let yourself be inspired by today’s word, and write anything you wish, light or serious in nature — just try to approach it in a whimsical, humorous, Shel-ian or Seuss-ian way…Or let the wonderful, whimsical image above evoke in you the inspiration to write. It is from Shel’s excellent book “Where The Sidewalk Ends”, and was drawn by Shel — but that need not influence your take on the illustration. You take it in and see it uniquely through your eyes, then whatever it is that strikes you as you view, express it.

Simple again this week, the word whimsy, or Shel’s illustration — whichever sparks your muse, let it move you to write.

So what moved me to write wasn’t ‘whimsy’ or the illustration but the title of the book, Where The Sidewalk Ends.  That’s the muse for you.


When the pavement ends,
opportunities begin:
leap before you look. 





I Really Wasn’t Intending To Blog Today

20 Sep

Honest; I swear.  But then I got the email to say the readwritepoem anthology for napowrimo has gone live and it looks so good I had to share it.  Find it here.  I’m on page 20 (or 34-35 if you use the bottom bit).  It’s well worth a look – where else can you read a whole book of great poetry for free?

As I am already here, I might as well share this poem for Writer’s IslandWe were asked to use this visual prompt:

Vane Kosturanov: FISHERMAN   You can check out the artist here; I didn’t know of him until yesterday but I love his work.


A WAG’s Tale
WAGs: collective noun for wives & girlfriends of sportsmen; it originated in British tabloid newspapers
Fish sits in his bowl.
Mouth opens.  Wide.  He swims side to side.
Feed me, he says. 
Feed me today.
Feed me.  Feed me.  Feed me again.
Fish is a bully; he feeds on her guilt.
He swims round his fake castle, fake flowers, fake lake.
Left side right side front side back side.
Forever the same view, same home, same space.
Feed me, he says; feed me again.
Fish is a parasite.  Fish is bored.  Fish is alone.
Fish must wait for his manna from woman.

WAG waits in her opulent home.
Mouth opens wide, her yawns become sighs.
Need me, fame says. 
Need me today.
Need me.  Need me.  Need me again.
Paparazzi are bullies; they feed on her gilt.
She swans round her fake castle, fake marriage, fake love.
In Hello magazine she glows as she shows off her home
(secreting the fee for an uncertain future; she has hate expectations).
Need me, fame says.  Need me again.
Fame is a fiend; it tires of her, even as she waits in her manor
for the rich man who made her his woman.





Hee Hee Hee

13 Sep
Redwood trees on the Golden Spike Trail

Image via Wikipedia








To bring you down, here’s a haiku for Writer’s Island, where the theme is LAST REDWOOD: 

After Armageddon 

The last Redwood eyed
denuded earth; saddened, sighed,
‘Alas, I’m dead wood.’




However, in the spirit of my blog’s name, here’s something to make you laugh: 







Dear Mr Policeman, My Husband Didn’t Kill Me; I Promise

5 Sep

I woke up this morning to find myself being garrotted.  It wasn’t the Hub reaching snapping point at my sound barrier-breaking snores, but my hair, entangled in my necklace.  I must have been tossing in my sleep and it wound tighter and tighter.  I think it was the unusual absence of my snoring that woke me (it’s hard to expel air if you’re not taking any in).   It’s my own fault; I was too tired to plait.

The experience set me thinking that if it happens again and I don’t wake up for good next time, given how I traduce the poor Hub on this blog, he would be the number one suspect.  If I’m cross with him when I accidentally murder myself, then that’s okay; but if he has been a sweetiepiedollbabe (plaiting my hair before bed; insisting that I make myself a cup of tea to relax), then it would upset me.  Of course, I’m not saying there aren’t days when I might provoke him to it, but he is a master of restraint.  And he doesn’t have the energy.  You see: try hard enough and there’s always a silver lining to an M.E. cloud. 

Talking of killing people: we were chatting to a woman last night who told us about her clapped-out car with the brakes that you had to pump several times to get them to work; she said she deliberately left them like that in case ‘a couple of tw*ts stole it; be their own fault if they hit a wall.‘  Pity that she forgot to mention it to her new boyfriend the first time he drove it….

We were talking to her at the 21st party we attended last night.  We had to leave early to collect the boys.  We were going to go back with them – great food and a lot of TB’s old mates to visit with – but it took us ten minutes to get to Old Trafford cricket ground and an hour and ten to leave it – and the hour took us only around the block.

Spud had such a good time at the Muse concert all he could manage was a dull ‘Yuh’ when we asked if he’d enjoyed himself.  Apparently, being hit in the back of the head by flying debris (Tory Boy) and drenched in flying beer (Spud) is all part of the fun.  The bands – there were three support acts, including Band of Skulls and The Editors, she added nonchalantly – all sang like their albums (not a given: remember Madonna at Live Aid…?) and they didn’t complain when drunks in the crowd hurled booze missiles onto the stage.

Spud reckons this was filmed directly behind him:

The boys were close enough to have a good view but not close enough to be flattened, although Spud is wandering around the house this afternoon in his pyjamas, shattered from his experience – being buffeted by an ocean of 14,000 bodies will do that to a fourteen year old boy.  Not too many bruises, thankfully; though we had been warned to expect them.   What he was when he came in, was starving.  Both boys were.  I had given them a hearty lunch before they left but they were out for nine hours, with little to drink and nothing at all to eat.  That was how I came to be cooking up a storm at midnight last night; luckily, I can whip up toast and cereal in my sleep.

Once he’d eaten and we had all wished him a Herry Birthmas (TB invented that one), I went to bed.  You know you’re old when your children tuck you in.


The theme for Writer’s Island this week is breakthrough.   We had a breakthrough just this morning: Toby and Molly lay side by side on the back step, having had a hearty sniff of each other’s nether regions (if you are new to my blog, I had better explain that Toby and Molly are my dogs, not my children).  Until today, Toby has run away when Molly gets too close, so we are all delighted.  It doesn’t take much to make a Tilly Bud happy.

I already have some poems on a similar theme (see below), though there is a very loose connection; if you want to see some new ones on the theme by all kinds of writers, take a look at http://writersisland.wordpress.com/2010/09/04/prompt-19-for-2010-breakthrough/

This one was written for napowrimo:

A Light Bulb Moment

You are old, said my child;
your face is wrinkled;
your hair is grey,
your neck all crinkled.
And what is that awful smell?
Have you tinkled?

I know there’s another option:
I won’t kill myself –
I’ll put him up for adoption.


Then there was a physical breakthrough last year:

It Was A Nine Days’ Wonder

It was a nine days’ wonder:
protection torn asunder
when two unknowns gate-crashed
a Presidential bash –
a dreadful White House blunder.


This next one is a bit naughty and describes a breakthrough of quite another kind:

For David, Who Inspired It

Turtle head
Turtle head
Peek out from your cosy bed
Change your mind
Stay home instead
Don’t torment me
Turtle head


I’ll let you go now, as I’m sure you are thinking of making a breakthrough of your own by this time.  Have a lovely day/night.

Writer’s Island Prompt Number 17

22 Aug

Hitler: An Argument In Favour Of Abortion

The worst mistake ever made:
Your Ma’s readiness to get laid.
Curse the dawn that gave you breath:
It led to sixty million deaths.
Cry for those who passed your way:
Disabled, Gypsy, Jew and Gay.
The saddest tale ever told:
You lived too long; you died too old.


We were asked to consider time travel: when & where we would go back to, what we would re-live or change.  I immediately thought of an old poem that I wasn’t quite satisfied with and I re-worked it for the prompt.


A Painter Pictures A Thousand Words

16 Aug

Sometimes I look back over my day and think, well that was 24 hours of what’s left of my threescore year and ten I just wasted; but today isn’t one of them. Today I painted my downstairs hall; washed and hung out and brought in again to the final value of pi; made breakfast, lunch and dinner; cleaned up after breakfast, lunch and dinner; went to the chippy to collect the dinner; paid bills at the bank; walked the dogs; and a hundred little jobs besides. Admittedly, I delegated some of those jobs but I know the hall painting and shoving stuff into the machine to the final value of pi were mine.

The re-decorating goes on. I like painting and I dislike wallpapering so a lot of the re-decorating i.e. all of it, involves painting over wallpaper. Let its removal be the next man’s problem, because it certainly isn’t mine. So long as the wall looks good, who cares if it’s going to take a blow torch and a pitchfork to strip the old paper? My walls look goooooood. Not all of the walls in the hall: the side going up the stairs doesn’t need decorating because no holes were made in it, nor unsightly brown plaster left for me to cover up. Besides, it took me six years to finish that bit and I’m not painting over it again five minutes later.

I can’t take credit for the colour: that’s the Hub’s department. He has a great eye for colour (the left one); he once took a photography course and was the only person ever to achieve 100% on the colour test. Don’t ask me what was involved in the test because I never listen to him so I wouldn’t know; though I did hear ‘100%’ and gave him a pound as a reward.

When we were choosing paint, he liked Pebble and said it would match the wallpaper in the hall; I didn’t like it but I remembered why I was a pound out of pocket and bowed to his superior judgement. And he was right again. It looks gorgeous and he’s so annoying. We couldn’t have got a closer match if we’d taken the wall in to B&Q (or was it Homebase?) and asked them to mix the colour for us.

I am being taken out to lunch tomorrow or I would be painting the woodwork. It’s just as well because my hand is cramped from holding a paint roller all day.

I do apologise that this post isn’t particularly funny or interesting; could it be that I’ve lost my power? Perhaps my power is in the clenched fist that is my right hand and decorating is sucking the life out of it…? A nice house or an amused audience? I’ll have to waste tomorrow thinking about it. Threescore year and nine and 364 days to go….


The Writer’s Island Prompt this week is ‘inception’. We could have referenced the movie but I haven’t seen it and have no idea what it’s about, so I can’t. This is a poem of two halves. It was supposed to be a poem of the first half but as I was writing it I realised that it was out of date, so I added the years and the second half. I am not satisfied with it and I will come back to it at some point, but I’ve been working on it for three days and I’m not getting anywhere.

Quandary: From Inception To Resolution

our parents won’t let us marry.
Solution: a small acquisition.
Inspiration: no contraception.
Retribution: a wedding reception.

Seventeen – Mrs Teen – Mama Teen?
No way; no baby for me;
just lies and deception:
a fake miscarriage after the marriage.
And divorce after that.
I don’t miss marriage;
I have my cat.

our parents want us to marry.
I’m thirty: the clock is tutting.
But that’s so in the past;
we might not last.
If he gets ugly, old and fat
that will be that.
I’ll buy my folks a cat.

Travels With My Hub

19 Jul

The Writer’s Island prompt this week is ‘reunion’. The poetry part of my brain has ceased to function so I thought instead I would tell you about the Hub’s trip to the island of Réunion in the Indian Ocean. It was about 1993 when he was working as a salesman for Henred Fruehauf, selling articulated trailers.

They didn't look quite like this when he sold them...

When he first got the job I thought he was selling those little Venter trailers that cars pull; he was quite insulted – particularly as he had been there two years before I realised my mistake.  



He was on a three-week trip taking in Mauritius, Madagascar and Reunion. Before you get all jealous, he had it hard (so he tells me): three weeks away from his wonderful wife and first-born child – and six weeks of me not talking to him because he was away so long. One year he was away for a total of twenty-seven weeks; he wasn’t fighting a war so I didn’t see the need.


Mauritius might be a wonderful holiday destination but it’s not a great place to be on your own, on business: soppy honeymooners do not want a lonely businessman attaching himself to them. He said it was the only place he never enjoyed visiting, apart from the evening he got up on stage and sang Wonderful Tonight with a live Philippino band.


Madagascar was beautiful but incredibly poor. He left his hotel one morning and passed an old lady with a wooden box on which she had three tomatoes to sell. She sat there all day in the heat and when he came back in the evening, she was still there with her three tomatoes; nobody had the money to buy them. The food was so bad in Madagascar that for the only time while away on business he lost weight instead of gaining it; but at least he had the money to buy food: he saw children so hungry they were licking cellophane wrappers from dustbins. He saw many naked children; the lucky ones had old adult shirts and/or pants. He gave away his change every day, which was riches to them, but he came back from that trip and held three-year old Tory Boy and cried for the ones he couldn’t help.


Even so, he says it is the most beautiful country he’s been to and he would love to go back some day.


I put that story into a poem for my South Africa collection:


A Trip To Madagascar 

A naked child
licks cellophane,
sitting atop a
rubbish heap.
A businessman observes
him, returns
home to his
cherished son,
and weeps.


There was hunger in South Africa, too:


Dustbin Day 

The man raids my
wheelie bin,
burrows deep.
Climbs inside. 
Nervous, I watch from
behind burglar bars,
locked security gates.

Gold shows in his hands:
a tub of mouldy stew,
more compost than food.
He eats it.  I am shamed.

Resolution: no more squandered food.
Dilemma: no waste, no treasure.
Solution: freeze left-overs ‘til bin day;
maybe I could add some buttered bread;
a piece of fruit…wrap it in clean plastic.

Pleased with my charity,
it is fifteen years before
I understand that I
failed him that day:
Government changed;
the starving remained.
I left South Africa;
he raids someone else’s bin.


Of course, not everyone went hungry in those days (a braai is Afrikaans for barbecue):


After the Braai 

We supplied the meat and drink,
salads, mash, bread rolls and
desserts, for as many as twenty
guests, and sometimes more.
I never served mealie pap,
though some ex-pats liked it:
I never learned to make it.

The best part of a braai was
next day’s leftovers and chips:
rib-eye, pork chops, t-bones,
sausages, fillet steak, chicken,
porterhouse – diced and
cooked in a red wine sauce;
a portion of slap chips and
salad on the side.  These
days, I would add some rice,
but I didn’t like rice back then; pity.

We snacked on cold meat for
several days after a braai.
The children preferred it to
sweets and chips (we say
‘crisps’ now).  Food was
inexpensive, plentiful and
of excellent quality.  For
some of us, at least.  We
never knew we had it so good
until after we gave it up.


His final stop was in the French-speaking island of Réunion. He was a seasoned traveller by the time of this trip so he had checked and knew that he could expect to pay 20 Francs for a trip from the airport to the hotel. He arrived at night and he asked the taxi driver the fare: ‘Twenty Francs’ was the reply.  Fine.  Halfway up a quiet hill – or possibly a mountain – the taxi driver said, ‘Twenty Francs for you and twenty Francs for your luggage.’ When the Hub protested that he wasn’t paying that, the driver shrugged (so far from France yet still so Gallic) and said, ‘Fine. I’ll drop you off now and you can walk to your hotel.’ Figuring that it was Henred Fruehauf’s money and it wasn’t a battle he could win, the Hub agreed.


He said the part that really made him mad was when he arrived at the hotel and the driver told him he was off shift and suggested they go to a little bar he knew. I can’t print his reply because this is a family blog.


He found theRéunions anti-English – détente has only been around a hundred years or so and it obviously had not reached the colonies* at that point. Whenever he spoke English the Réunions were rude and unhelpful. But he’s bilingual, and cunning: he would first speak in Afrikaans and when they couldn’t understand him, he asked if they spoke English, and they were most accommodating because they thought he wasn’t English. It’s the one country he never wants to go back to.


*I have just discovered it is not a colony at all, but a bit of France.  That explains everything….              




A Wuss On A Bus

16 Jun

Thanks to all the supportive comments from my readers and incessant nagging from Flo, I have decided I am up to the challenge of riding public transport into Manchester. My desire to get the book in my hands is greater than my desire to stay safely at home, tucked up in bed with a bag of Maltesers and a wish-I’d-been-brave-enough-to-go cuddle for my sweaty pillow (sweaty because of the nightmares I’ve been having about travelling on public transport). I figured I did it once to be a part of television history (the first leaders’ debate at Granada Studios) so I can do it again to be a part of my own history.  As long as I leave the place by nine, I can be home before it gets dark.

Think of me tonight, riding a bus in broad daylight; I can’t believe how brave I am.


This week’s Writer’s Island prompt is ‘the gift’.  I struggled with it and could only come up with this trite little rhyme; the rhythm of the last line is deliberate:

A Strange Gift

Time spent in thinking and writing
is always time well-spent;
time to compose a poem
is surely heaven-sent:
so thanks, Lord, for the gift of
long-term unemployment.

I Am Still The Pigeon

26 May

I got two pieces of good news yesterday: I passed my interview and I start my work placement on Monday; and I won £100 worth of shopping.   I am a little relieved about the interview because it could all have gone horribly wrong: I went to freshen up beforehand and there was an incident in the public toilet.  I can’t give you details because I have embarrassed my sons enough and Tory Boy is still hoping for a career in public service; it all worked out for the best in the end, is all I can say.

The competition was run by my landlord, Stockport Homes.  A woman phoned to say I had won for this area in their ‘shop local’ competition.  I had to say in 100 words why I use my local shopping centre in Castle Street; it was part of the ‘use them or lose them’ campaign, as independents are being squeezed out by big business.   Think about it: you can buy your groceries, your furniture, your clothes, your pet needs, your insurance, your lunch, and pretty soon your bank services from Tesco; and you can get it cheaper than any single shop can offer you.  Sounds good, but will you think that when the next general election is sponsored by Asda?  The candidates will have to start the day with a group hug and a yoghurt.  Makes me queasy just thinking about hugs that early in the morning.

I have to spend the money in the local shops and claim it back.  I’m not sure how it will work because the lady promised to send me an email with the details and I’m still waiting.  Could it be cat-and-mouse, Stockport Homes style?  We promise you something great – money, a kitchen – and then you never hear from us again.

It is ages since I last won anything.  At least I do occasionally win stuff: the poor Hub has only ever won one competition, and that because the odds were stacked in his favour.  He put petrol in the car one day and went to pay for it, when he noticed a sign above a box inviting him to put his name in for the chance of winning an England shirt; the date showed it was the last day of the competition.  As he dropped his entry form in the attendant said, ‘You’ll probably win that.’  ‘Really?’ the Hub replied.  ‘Yes,’ she said; ‘You’re the only person who’s entered.’


I still miss napowrimo so I am going to take part in some weekly poetry prompt exercises.  This first one is from http://rallentanda.blogspot.com/ We have to write a poem inspired by Feet Beneath The Table  by Charles Blackman, 1956.

\Here’s mine:

Feet Beneath The Table by Charles Blackman, 1956

Alice – louche, right-eyed and pushy.
Nailed by the artist.
There are no shivarees at this party.

Carroll quivers in his grave, unveiled
to 21st Century eyes as
Charles Dodgson, paedophile.

Truth huddles, sad, like long-held pain.



‘Shivaree’ was yesterday’s Word of the Day from Dictionary.com and I just had to use it: 

1. A mock serenade with kettles, pans, horns, and other noisemakers given for a newly married couple.
2. An elaborate, noisy celebration.


This prompt is from http://writersisland.wordpress.com/  We have to write about an imaginary friend.  My poem is based on something that happened with my boys when they were younger; I have to find a better title:

A Tale Of Friends And Brothers

Two brothers, eleven and six.
Six – being six – had John
and Michael living in his head.
John and Michael and Six
were inseparable until the day
Eleven – being eleven – ate John.
Six wailed; Mother bellowed,
‘Eleven, sick him up at once!’
Eleven feigned retching.
John was returned
to his rightful mind.



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