What makes a break appealing?
The roughed edges and crumbling pieces?
The promise of what could be?
A gold plated realigning
Designed and designated
A relic, broken, now beautiful
Useless, now worthy
A crack in society
Sealed to history
Tag: broken
Moscow Mule
“Get me a Dublin Donkey!”
“It’s Moscow Mule you dumbass!”
“Amaretto Ass!”
Lara crouched behind the bar searching for notes on how to live a better life. She was tired of night after night of red-faced, smoked laced patrons. She was tired of having her ass pinched and her tips written out as “meet me in my room”.
She tried side jobs, formal interviews, even a stint as a bartender at a more prestigious joint. It never worked.
Lara was made to sling cheap booze in sticky holes in the wall. She was born to salvage societal trash, even if it was with alcohol.
She dreamed of turning them into something more. She longed to fix the broken things.
A pair of hazel eyes peered over the bar, down Lara’s shirt.
“Hey gorgeous …” Slurred words morphed into exotic sounds, like waves on an island or the calls of southern birds. “The wife left me. Be a doll and make me something strong.”
Those eyes, brimming with tears, brightened when Lara returned his gaze.
Her heart lightened. A new project. Broken but not shattered. Hopeful.
“Meet me in my room.” She scribbled on a stained napkin. “I can fix you up.”
Word Count: 200
For Sunday Photo Fiction
Photo Credit: Morguefile
Broken Bottle of Whine (Repost)
By some twist in irony this is exactly a year old and somehow it’s relevant again. Cycles, full circle, something. Thanks for partaking in my whine.
Sometimes I wish I could be the mom
That my father claims I am.
Shitty and repulsive
With no other care.
I couldn’t be the person
In the narrative he keeps,
The story he likes to tell about me.
The daughter that left her child.
The daughter that only comes around for money.
The daughter that only cares about the next party.
Tonight I’ll try to convince myself
All these things I do aren’t just for show.
I’ll wish I were beautiful.
I’ll wish I were smart.
I’ll wish I hadn’t broken your heart.
I’ll tell myself everyone’s proud of me.
Tonight I’ll sit on my bathroom floor
With my broken bottle of whine
And cry myself to sleep.
So when I wake tomorrow
It will all just be a bad dream
And my bottle of my whine
Will be poised on the counter neatly,
Waiting to be filled with
Broken expectations and unfulfilled dreams,
Bad words and ugly names,
Until it overflows and needs to be broken again.
Then I’ll sit on my bathroom floor
With the weight of this world,
Frothing and rushing,
Threatening to drown me
But never winning out.
Knotted Hands
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.
Click the blue froggy to read more!
Little Broken Things
All the broken things,
Shattered glasses and
Splattered milk,
Tinged with red sunset
Tear stained eyes.
All the pieces of our souls,
Scattered by junkyard choirs
Over matching dresses
And pearlescent necklaces.
Limping toys with busted voices,
Parades of soft things, purple and bruised.
All the little broken things …
I Am
I am broken bloodied nails on a brick wall
The last attempt to make the world see.
I am lines and lines and lines of cocaine
Drowning the scorching pain.
I am silent screams never heard over rumbling trains
Regrets forever tied to the rusting dying tracks.
I am lanes of cars aimlessly flying towards oblivion
Wind blown and unable to turn away, no looking back.
I am thousands of black holes existing in one
Roaring, devouring every soul.
I am the oceans weaving, waving edge
Morphing, consuming, land and sky.
I am a body in a shallow grave
Eyes open, tongue split and breath spent,
I am a girl with a carefully laced valentine
Waiting, waiting, but I’m afraid this is it.
Six Word Stories From the Void
Nothing but a whiney little bitch
Nothing but a snot nosed snitch
Should’ve been a boy, stupid girl
Should’ve been stronger, weak little shit.
For sale: broken heart; completely shattered.
Just get over it, little witch.
– Six word stories from the void
Broken Bottle of Whine
Sometimes I wish I could be the mom
That my father claims I am.
Shitty and repulsive
With no other care.
I couldn’t be the person
In the narrative he keeps,
The story he likes to tell about me.
The daughter that left her child.
The daughter that only comes around for money.
The daughter that only cares about the next party.
Tonight I’ll sit on my bathroom floor
With my broken bottle of whine
And cry myself to sleep.
Tonight I’ll try to convince myself
All these things I do aren’t just for show.
I’ll wish I were beautiful.
I’ll wish I were smart.
I’ll wish I hadn’t broken your heart.
I’ll tell myself everyone’s proud of me.
Tonight I’ll sit on my bathroom floor
With my broken bottle of whine
And cry myself to sleep.
So when I wake tomorrow
It will all just be a bad dream
And my bottle of my whine
Will be poised on the counter neatly,
Waiting to be filled with
Broken expectations and unfulfilled dreams,
Bad words and ugly names,
Until it overflows and needs to be broken again.
Then I’ll sit on my bathroom floor
With the weight of this world,
Frothing and rushing,
Threatening to drown me
But never winning out.
Messed Up Broken Down Carousel
WordPress Daily Prompt – Carousel
Round and round we go, like some messed up broken down carousel.
I don’t know what you’re in my face about this time
But I know you’ve never pinned me into the corner like this,
And your eyes have never bulged so far and been so red
As your spittle lands on my cheeks.
“I just don’t understand why no one understands!”
I’m not sure what we don’t understand,
But you’re gripping my arm to keep me from running.
I really just want to escape to my bedroom, shut and lock the door
But I honestly think this will be the time you break it down.
Then suddenly
You’re gone
And it’s over.
Later you’ll give me some lame “I’m sorry but …” and tell me how it was all my fault
And round and round we’ll go,
Like some messed up broken down carousel.
