It's difficult to say why curiosity killed the cat.
What became of curiosity? Now on the run.
We can safely bet that although the cat died
Curiosity suffered more. Eventually found
dead in a brothel in Scunthorpe.

The most beautiful thing in the world is...?

The most beautiful thing in the world is...?

Answer here

Dachau

A shoe or cloth and wood.
The rafters set, guarding the wall.
The chamber, the chamber, leading to nothing but fire.
Their photos, their markings.
"No smoking", no coats, yet hooks on the wall.
The shelf to be empty.
The chill of the hall.
These people were here.
I cannot touch their ghosts.
These people were here-

Three 50 word stories to enter into blog collection.

 Abbey had walked those streets for years, as a child she had stood outside Marvel's corner shop wishing for treats, not the clinking bottles her mother always grasped on her drawing back of the shop door like a stage curtain. Now she slept there, wishing on stars for a toothbrush.

The kitten. The sole object of her attention, doting  parent created a doting pet owner. Always it was stroked, and loved by the child. The fleas ended that, it had to live outside in the shed, the memory gets vague there, it ran away, she still cries fifteen years on.

A club, somewhere, small town minds and a short skirt. The blonde waitress doesn't mind being touched up, the visitor does. Barry puts his hands where he likes and throws a "lesbian" when they are removed. A blush & departure swiftly by the visitor, Barry follows, returns with a black eye. 

Memories can be 
bitter or
sweet or
both.
But you can't keep them forever
they're like bubbles,
You have to keep making new ones.

Principles vs music taste.

I can stand the rain on my window.

I can.

No longer will I "stand by your man".

...Or my man, or anyone's.

He hit you, and it felt like a kiss?

Seen that bruise on your face love?

You must be taking the piss.

The valleys and peaks
Of your toes and knees
Under crumpled black sheets.
Scattered with paisleys.
The morning light, glints dust
Around your face
Your smell; oil paint
And a spice I cannot place.
I you had never touched a paint brush
from that day to this,
you'd still smell like paint.
As if you'd baptised the smell of
Royal Blue #42 into your skin.
Our thing, you take the coloured glass oval
that hang from string around your neck,
and press it to your forehead.
"This is my magic third eye.
I can see the world through this eye".
I believed you.
Next the ceremonial placing of the
Tea Cosy,
upon your head.
Now bishop of all from the headboard, to your toes.
You're solemn.
"How old are you Grandad?"
"Ohh" the answer caught in your chest
I wait with baited breath...
"Older than God".
I didn't believe you.