Category Archives: Fiction

Don’t Mess With Red – prose by Paul Vincent Cannon

Photo: found on

“Many bowdlerised versions indicated a Victorian-minded censorship, which feared that Little Red Riding Hood might some day break out, become a bohemian, and live in the wood with the wolf.” Jack D. Zipes

Don’t Mess With Red

As the wolf, that teddy-boy with slicked back quiff and leather jacket, so rugged, so volatile, disclosed his true nature with the flick of his switch-blade, Red took to him with a broom handle forcing him from her house. As she chased the wolf out through the front gate she noticed a woodsman with a clip board , all suited up and frowning.

Exasperated, Red asked him why he hadn’t intervened, to which he replied, with an air of arrogance, “I’m here to effect your detention before the committee.” “O! Really, on what charge?” Asked Red. “On several charges in fact” said the woodsman. “Name them” said Red, annoyed and gripping the broom handle tightly. “Well, you’re so young and you were out after curfew, you were unchaperoned, you entered the woods alone, your clothes, they are inappropriate and provocative, you also beat an animal, and you’re a girl. What do you have to say for yourself?” With a snarl she hit him hard.

There’s a fruit tree in her yard that is thriving, and once a week she takes tea with the wolf.

Copyright 2022 ©Paul Vincent Cannon

All Rights Reserved ®️


Filed under Fiction, Humour, passion, politics, prose, quote

I Broke Away – Prosery by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Lillian is hosting Prosery (144 words) with an invitation to use the line “I wandered lonely as a cloud.” from the William Wordsworth poem ‘I wander lonely as a cloud.”

dVerse Poets – Prosery – Winter Be Gone

Photo: from our 2017 road trip through central Australia and down through South Australia, back to Western Australia along the coast. This photo taken along the Nullarbor, the ocean not visible, but further beyond the van is the Great Australian Bight.

“How sweet to be a cloud, floating in the blue.” A.A. Milne

I Broke Away

I wandered lonely as a cloud, not that that is a bad thing in and of itself. I finally broke away from all that encompassing bank of cloud that consumed me, owned me, clouded me. Just one big cloud of everything the same. Sometimes we were white and summery, sometimes grey and uncertain, sometimes black and laden with water. I wanted something else, something more.

I wanted reds, purples, pinks and oranges, colours of excitement, adventure. Colours of day and night, autumn and spring, storm and still. I wanted big and I wanted small. I wanted essence. So I broke away and floated along, determined to discover my cloudness. I wandered lonely as a cloud, and for the first time, entirely happy. Space was mine and I could come and go, and sometimes I need just that, to be far from the madding cloud.

Copyright 2022 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®


Filed under camping, Country, Fiction, identity, life, prose, quote

Shucker’s Delight – prose by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Lisa is hosting Prosery, a piece of prose of 144 words, inviting us to use a line from a poem by Zora Neale Hurston which comes from her work ‘How Does it Feel to be Coloured Me’ in ‘World Tomorrow’ (1928)

dVerse Poets – Prosery – Finding Ms. Zora Neale Thurston

Photo: found at

“Who looks outside, dreams. Who looks inside, awakens.” Carl Jung

Shucker’s Delight

No, I do not weep at the world – I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife. I find it occupies me best of all. I’m a shucker from way back and I have my own rhythm and movement, a time honoured practice of holding, inserting, twisting and opening. So simple, every action economical, a form of meditation, I love the concentration, one slip and I might lose a finger – I have wounds to show for every lapse. Wounds where I surrender focus to the searing hurts of humanity. This is no escape, just a respite, a regathering from the morass of pain felt in tones of colour, known in cries for justice, that which bleeds from the despair of prison gates. If I didn’t sharpen this oyster knife I fear the world would possess my emotions and blunt my innocent dance of freedom against power.

Copyright 2021 ©Paul Vincent Cannon

All Rights Reserved ®


Filed under awareness, Fiction, life, prose, Racism

The Game – prose by Paul Vincent Cannon

RDP Tuesday – Passage



“Children show scars like medals. Lovers use them as secrets to reveal. A scar is what happens when the word is made flesh.”  Leonard Cohen


The Game

She reached for the old book once again as she did every Thursday afternoon. It was quieter here in the bookshop then, and she loved to pour over the pages in private, knowing that she would faintly mark a passage that he would find when, as he always did, came looking later, long after she had gone. It was a delicious game that hadn’t yet lost its charm. She found what spoke for her, placed a book mark and pencilled a dot next to “Let us go to the vineyards and see whether the vines have budded …. there I will give you my love.” Sighing heavily, she placed the book back on the shelf and then found her way out of the shop. She set off, determined to buy some grapes before she made her way home. Smiling, she left her door unlocked.

©Paul Vincent Cannon



Filed under Fiction, life, love, prose, quote, relationship, romance, Sex

One Side – by Paul Vincent Cannon

dVerse Poets – Prosery 2



At dVerse Poets sarahsouthwewst has challenged us to write a prose piece of 144 words using a line from a poem. Sarah has chosen a line from ‘Full Moon’ by Alice Oswald: “Last night I dreamt I was the moon.”


One Side

The strangest things can happen in unguarded moments with a glass of wine. We were sitting out star-gazing when I blurted out, for no apparent reason, at least none that would make any sense, that last night I dreamt I was the moon. After a polite pause someone asked what I meant and I realised I was thinking out loud. I was roused from my thoughts with “Well?” Then someone filled the long silence with “They say that to dream of the moon means that you can face a challenge.” Someone else volunteered, “It means mysterious changes are coming in your life.” Then all eyes were on me again. “Well?” “Well, It struck me that I am only one side.” “What?” came the unified response. “you only ever see one side of me, I have a very dark side.” The night hid my smile.

©Paul Vincent Cannon




Filed under challenge, Fiction, prose

The Sanctum Tree -a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon (part 6 of the Keeper Series)


Part Five


Part 6

The Sanctum Tree

Through the roiling, boiling mass
I could see faces, places,
and many strange things
surging and swirling,
the Seer raised her hands and
immediately the mass settled
to a sheet of grey,
she invited me to the edge
and I peered in,
she uttered an ancient incantation
and a tree appeared,
the Seer sharply gasped:
“It is the Sanctum Tree”
and with her hands she
manipulated the sheet
to show more,
I could not quite grasp the situation,
the Seer was tense
her brow deeply furrowed
she took my hand firmly
and urgency spoke,
“Keeper, your hour has come,
you must go to her.”

©Paul Vincent Cannon




Filed under Fiction, Free Verse, Mythology, poem, series

Such Adventures – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

What Do You See? Willow Poetry




Graphic provided by of Willow Poetry


Such Adventures

Just this once
he’d walked instead of the bus,
his mind a whirl
since, and ungraciously,
clearing out the spare room,
being immediately distracted
by so much past
but especially, most especially,
his temporarily forgotten
dog-eared and yellowed
‘Tales of Worthington’,
of derring-do
and worlds beyond worlds.
He sighed,
such adventures,
as he rounded the corner
into Brink street
past the old familiar
wasteland of the mill,
he felt drawn to have a look
and before he could find a way in,
he was somehow
already overlooking the wall,
as a ladder of no ordinary type
had appeared and swept him up,
and there it was,
Worthington’s Worlds, all majestic
just as he’d imagined,
and, in the next moment,
as he moved forward
he wondered if Mabel would miss him.

©Paul Vincent Cannon




Filed under challenge, Fiction, Free Verse, life, poem

The Door Opens (part three) – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon


Part One – How Is It That I Go?

Part Two – The Oracle Warns

Part Three


The Door Opens

Struggling to breathe I
managed to pull the bell rope
unseen eyes upon me,
an eternity passed as
the moon descending accentuated
the cold darkness,
alone, I waited without choice
until the door grill was wrenched
and someone bellowed,
“Who calls on Vendell at this hour?”
I rasped out,
“The Keeper.”
and heard his sharp intake of breath,
“Wait” he said less confidently,
eventually the door opened,
as I crossed the threshold
the door closed
and the air changed again and
I breathed easily once more,
Tarvey remained red
a time for wits was upon me,
the unknown beckoned me to follow,
down darkened hallways.

©Paul Vincent Cannon




Filed under Fiction, Free Verse, life, poem, series

The Oracle Warns – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon


Part 1 can be read here:  How Is It That I Go?

With thanks to Helene Vaillant at Willow Poetry for the original challenge ‘What Do you See?’ And the encouragement of fellow bloggers to add to the story …

Part 2


The Oracle Warns

This road disclosed no knowledge,
I could not read it at all,
it held its secrets tightly,
never had I experienced this before
and the castle offered nothing from afar,
it seemed quite ordinary
as castles go
still, I proceeded carefully
though I rested a little
in the knowledge that Tarvey,
my oracle stone,
was alight and blue.
And then the strangest thing happened,
as strange does,
I was caught unawares
in a time slow,
where I felt the air change
just as the oracle turned amber,
a warning,
I shuddered and turned to go back
but the air pressed me onwards
to Vendell, and I held my
resolve to find a way through.
Soon enough Vendell loomed before me
and as I drew to the gatehouse
Tarvey turned blood red,
while the air gripped my throat.

©Paul Vincent Cannon



Filed under Fiction, Free Verse, Mythology, poem

That Dress

Amorous – Word of the Day


‘The Kiss’ by Gustave Klimt (1862 – 1918), born in Austria, Klimt was part of an era of radical social and cultural challenge, as an artist he was deeply influenced by Freud and became a symbolist painter, though far from subtle. His paintings are deeply erotic. He was a founder of the Vienna Secession movement which was ecclectice – it had no proclaimed style but rather welcomed all to coexist. He was considered ahead of his time.


That Dress

So still, the noise has gone, replaced by the beating pulse in my temples. It’s so warm in here, I loosen my tie, anticipation, my breathing shallow. A smile creases my lips. Wow, that dress, a cliche no more. Black, which looks stunning against your pale , soft skin. That alluring dip draws my eyes to the equally glorious rise, how a necklace would grace that. A length to show off your legs … I take your hand, so cool compared to mine. Time is warped, everything a blur, the air is electric, but you say nothing. I’m shaking inside as I reach out and touch your dress, a subtle swish as I graze the fabric. My heart leaps, dizzying, a kiss, surely yes …

“Can I help you sir?” “Wha … What?” I stutter. Jolted, stung, it wasn’t you. Who? My hand leaves yours, a smear of sweat remains, so hot in here. “Can I help you sir?” I blankly stare. “Are you looking for a gift for someone, your wife perhaps?” Noise rushing in, lights, sounds, movement, confused I shake my head. My ardour dampened, I leave the dun, and muted mannequin and retreat, but oh my, that dress.

©Paul Cannon


Donna Summer “I Feel Love”




Filed under art, Fiction, history, life, love, romance, Sex