Check out Teresa Valle’s flash fiction story, Watermelon Goblins, on her blog, Cuentos, Little Stories by Teresa. (Note: the link points to the full poem which has a couple of slightly off-color words. Nothing major, but I like to warn people.)
Here is an excerpt:
There’s a story everybody tells about a box that should never be opened, and in the story of course somebody always opens it and then things happen. This is a story told by all the people of the world, is what my grandmother always said. In some stories the box is made of gold, or pewter, or brass. In some it is made of woven rushes, or thin porcelain or wood. In my grandmother’s version, the box is made of mud, and inside the box lives a storyteller also made of mud. He is a mud goblin, with reaching hands and a large slobbering mouth.
It’s a pleasantly rambling story, yet it is still cohesive in its own quirky way. It almost reads like creative nonfiction, except it’s creative fiction. Teresa admits to “blenderizing fact and fiction” in her About Me page, so who knows, part of it could be nonfiction. She also shares on her About Me page that her brothers have enormous foreheads but that her and her iguana have relatively small ones.
Thank you to Amy Sorensen, a.k.a. The English Geek, for bringing this poem to my attention in her post, Why I Love April. It’s by Naomi Shihab Nye and was written in response to one of the poet’s students asking her to write him a poem:
Valentine for Ernest Mann
by Naomi Shihab Nye
You can’t order a poem like you order a taco.
Walk up to the counter, say, “I’ll take two”
and expect it to be handed back to you
on a shiny plate.
Still, I like your spirit.
Anyone who says, “Here’s my address,
write me a poem,” deserves something in reply.
So I’ll tell you a secret instead:
poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,
they are sleeping. They are the shadows
drifting across our ceilings the moment
before we wake up. What we have to do
is live in a way that lets us find them.
Once I knew a man who gave his wife
two skunks for a valentine.
He couldn’t understand why she was crying.
“I thought they had such beautiful eyes.”
And he was serious. He was a serious man
who lived in a serious way. Nothing was ugly
just because the world said so. He really
liked those skunks. So, he re-invented them
as valentines and they became beautiful.
At least, to him. And the poems that had been hiding
in the eyes of skunks for centuries
crawled out and curled up at his feet.
Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give us
we find poems. Check your garage, the odd sock
in your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite.
And let me know.