Moll Flanders Forever, Articles Extinction and Eating a Scone

by Irena Pasvinter

Moll Flanders Forever

We are flakes of the serpent that glides into Westminster Abbey.

We start at its tail; the streaming body slowly carries us forward.

When we reach the tip of its tongue and pass the security check,

a terse, tidy sign greets our entrance into the dim sacred vastness:

“Pickpockets operate here”.


Moll Flanders might have retired and written her remarkable memoirs,

claiming repentance after many a vicious adventure,

but her spirit lives on through the ages. Her art has not been forgotten.

Guard your humble belongings, beware of dexterous artists. You’ve been warned:

“Pickpockets operate here”.


Articles Extinction

On this tragic night when articles died

Few people noticed and nobody cried,

But as morning slowly got on its way,

Linguistic skies turned depressingly grey.


Words stuck in throats, sentences stumbled,

Grammar growled at syntax, idioms grumbled,

So that by time of evening floss

Mouths got sour with taste of loss.


“Oh, never mind,” polyglots said.

“Who cares if article creatures are dead.

Latin or Russian don’t deal with this scum.

Let’s conjure declensions — it’s gonna be fun.”


They started declining, but linguists prevailed,

“We’ve still got word order. You should be ashamed!”

Yet some shady writers were openly thrilled,

“No articles, fine — less darlings to kill.”


As tensions grew higher, police intervened.

Declining leftovers were urgently cleaned.

Emergency measures strongly advised

To use “one” and  “this” from strategic supplies.


And so life continued, largely unblemished.

Only scientists wondered why articles vanished.

Theories flourished, brilliant and lame,

But somehow nothing was ever quite same.


Eating a Scone

Yes, I’ve been busy lately.

No wonder you haven’t seen me.

Right, a very demanding matter —

couldn’t find a spare minute.

Well, not yet, not quite finished.

Still have to figure it out.

No, thank you, no help is required.

Not at all, nothing exciting —

rather, a boring problem.

Well, if you insist…

I was busy eating a scone.

No, not of gigantic proportions,

a regular “go eat a scone” kind.

Not stale, it seems. I’m not sure.

No, I still haven’t gotten to chewing.

Can’t bring myself to taste it.

To fly a kite? No, thank you,

some other time.

Sorry, I’m in a bit of a hurry.

Good bye. Yes, I’ll be sure to eat it.

Irena Pasvinter divides her time between software engineering, endless family duties and writing poetry and fiction. Her stories and poems have appeared in online magazines (Every Day Poets, Every Day Fiction, Bartleby Snopes, Madswirl, Camroc Press, Fiction 365 and others) and in Poetry Quarterly. Her poem “Psalm 3.14159…” has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Visit Irena at

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