My grandfather planted this tree with roots poisoned after the war. His father watered it, the seed which came before. My father nurtured them, these roots of ruined fiber. This tree grew ever higher. Its fruit, rotting, my mother prepared for me. She sweetened it, tried to soothe it down, Nothing could disguise the smell of these roots rotting in the ground. It falls to me, as this tree must be fed; A living sacrifice of a life never lead. I toss my children as far as I can; Mutter the same empty words my mother offered Over knotted hands.
Word Count: 100
A write for Friday Fictioneers, roped in by Rochelle Wisoff Fields. I also think it’s Sunday (though I am not 100% sure). I’ve been writing my research proposal/thesis. I’m afraid I’m not good for much else right now.
People are a little weird. That’s the mantra of this town. Specters and night crawlers With thigh high make up In star bowler company Smoke infinitely long rings of mood dust. Then there was me And you Collapsing across peeling laminate counter tops And day old sandwiches With the the bread always toasted. How one falls In this topsy turvy place, From barstools to backseats. Or bedsheets. Up? I suppose it only makes sense. This has never been the city of dreams But we liked to pretend. And why not? There always has been, There always will be, More ways to fall in love.
The girls stared across the table at each other. Each clutched a brightly colored piece of paper in dirty fingers. The warden tapped his watch. “Which one’s it gonna be?” Hana watched as her younger sister slowly unfolded her small pink slip. Janey’s face contorted into a silent victorious howl as she shot up from her old chair to take a lap around the room. Hana slumped, defeated. “Ok Hana, let’s go.” “No!” Without thinking, Hana was up and running towards the muddy grass outside. “You’ll never take me alive!”
Her father groaned towards the sky, “It’s just a bath.”
There’s a certain beauty to life alone. A certain finesse to the fine art of dying in no ones arms but your own. I’ve lost count of the seconds slowly rolling into days. Those things were never ours anyway. It’s funny … The noises your mind will come up with to keep time floating in oceans with little salt. At first you know it’s just the children in your head playing. Then you begin to doubt as shadows creep out. Humans can die from any number of ailments … A common cold to a lightening strike, Historic rejection or morbid curiosity, It’s what makes us the same. At least that’s what they say. Maybe I relied too much on silence in those days.
My shadows frolic through the roaring break. They toss their hands to the wind And dance the steps to heaven. I don’t imagine they’ll let me live.
Word Count: 147
A write for What Pegman Saw. This weeks location is St. Helena island. For more information and rules visit the link. To read more stories click the blue froggy below.
Art of Dying is also a song by George Harrison, not really much in common with this piece but still nice to listen to.
“It’s soldiers; marching …” Liza stomped in place. “I don’t know. What about a mass influx of downtrodden people?” “Hannibal’s army rumbling over the Alps?” “Liza, you’re always thinking war. What about the devastation left behind?” “Bea, those rocks are strong! Why shouldn’t they be troops marching to victory?” “One good quake and they’d fall.” “One good rebellion from your influx?”
A group of high-pitched voices chimed in, “There they are! Ready or not here we come!” Liza tried to run but found herself face down in the dirt thanks to a stray rock. “One good rebellion.” Bea laughed.