creative writing – Page 2

stream of consciousness

Numbered Days 4/365

Posted on January 5, 2018July 10, 2021 by Kelley Farrell

My heart could be filled

But truth be told …

My days are numbered here.

This disease is terminal.

The doctors don’t know what to do.

“Well,” he says as he raps spindly hands

“You can’t stay forever in the land of the damned.”

Indeed Father Time.

It appears I’ve been diagnosed with life.

I can’t stop my feet from wandering

Or my mind from pandering

The sweet effects of a sunset over the sea.

I suddenly, it seems, have things

I need to be

Rather than this old burnt out bag of flesh

And crumbling calcium deposits collected for me.

So tell me dear, tell me love

You know our days are numbered here …

stream of consciousness

What Secrets This Lake Keeps

Posted on January 4, 2018July 10, 2021 by Kelley Farrell

What secrets this lake keeps
When the dark nights rain
And it’s just humid enough
For the lake to stain
With the ghost of clouds
That couldn’t quite take flight.
There’s a story here
Only unfolding in those nights.
Billy lives in that mansion across the way.
Him, his mistress and a perfect family.
He shines the spotlight over the lake
When the fogs settle in thick.
Billy claims it’s for the speedsters,
Whipping in and out,
Keeps them quick.
But I know the truth,
Of Billy and the lake
And the girl he vowed to take
As his first, his wife.
His heart and soul she was.
Until one day sweet Billy found her
Facedown in the red mud;
Gunshot wounds
To the back and head.
The gun was his
And sweet Billy was no saint.
Scared, he hid
Her body at the bottom of the lake.
Now he shines his spotlight,
When the fogs coat the waters thick
To keep the specter of his love
From spilling his secrets like oil slicks.

Go see what’s new at The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch

flash fiction

The Last Twinkies

Posted on December 8, 2017July 10, 2021 by Kelley Farrell

WordPress Daily Prompt – Varnish

The varnish on the wood steps is peeling away, cracking and splintering like the shards I’ve begun to feel in my soul.

How long … I wonder. Has it always been that way or did it degrade suddenly and explosively? Just like this world? Just like me?

Maybe it was just covered before. The warmth of a fake wool runner that we slid down on our bellies just a few blinks ago seems to be nothing more than a distant memory. My mind holds it like a memory from another world, gently as if the slightest breath could ripple the illusion and forever break it.

Cobwebs have taken over corners and chairs like the one my father sat in on Sunday mornings while reading the comics. They stifle the echo of his laugh bouncing off ceilings and through the hallways.

Now the only sound I hear is Sigh obsessively opening and closing cabinets. It seems that no matter how far gone the world is we still believe food will materialize in mom’s pantry. I hear him cackle with glee, “Twinkies!”

And yet here we stand, still just two kids, with the world forever crumbling around us.

“Sia! I found Twinkies!” Wrappers fall to the ground as Sigh stuffs two at a time into his mouth. His eyes betray the wonder, they never stop darting from the window to the door as he shoves two packs into my hands. “This is it.” He whispers, “I’ll go over to the Johansson’s and see if there’s anything left.”

I turn the golden cakes over in my dirty fingers. They remind me of summers and pool parties. Hours spent outside running through backyards and climbing trees only to shove the most un-nourishing thing you can find through your starving lips as a prize.

“Sia.” Sigh leans close to me, his hazel eyes moving into sharp focus. “If I don’t come back you have to keep going.”

He pushes the pistol into my hands and two bullets before disappearing into the swirling snow that is the ashen world beyond our memories.

I brush the cobwebs from my father’s old chair and settle into it, hugging the pistol into my hip. I try to relax but my thirteen-year-old mind knows I should be talking on the phone with friends or going to movies, not guarding the last two packs of Twinkies with my life.

The sun sets beyond the roofs of our long-gone neighbors. I find myself wondering how many bodies have gathered in these homes, on this street, in this neighborhood I once called home. The wind howls against the door but Sigh does not.

How long … I wonder.

Go check out The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch!

stream of consciousness

Dying Days

Posted on November 20, 2017July 10, 2021 by Kelley Farrell

I love the moment of evening
When the day clings with increasing desperation
Painting the sky in smoky pinks and hazy grays
With a bleary brush of dying days.
Perhaps it says much about me
That I would prefer to watch
The slow extinguish of the day’s flame
Than the brilliant lighting
After the darkest hours.
How can it be
That someone comes to love
The descent into night,
So much more than the rescue
From seemingly endless blight?
Maybe there’s no fear of the dark
When the stars are so clear
And a million galaxies streak across the sky
In all brilliant colors only visible in those moments
After the day has died.

Go check out The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch!

stream of consciousness

I Can’t Keep Count

Posted on November 18, 2017July 10, 2021 by Kelley Farrell

I almost didn’t post this because I feel like I’m getting kind of achy breaky hearty in my writing lately. I had a moment of “I should be more … positive, upbeat, happy, candle-lit dinners and walk on the beachy … whatever” but then I thought “no, this is what came out, this is what it is.” This blog, for me, is for more impromptu, practice/refining type writing so I’ve always told myself that what inspiration gets put out here is what it is.

WordPress Daily Prompt – Atmospheric

I can’t keep count
Of the moments
That have passed me by.
Each one sinking in like a hammer
To the heart,
Cracking the spirit,
Threatening to tear the soul.
It’s a mystery to me
Why I am pulled so.
Moments in time,
Easily forgotten.
But I can’t keep count
Of the dreams I have
Or the nights I lie awake
When I feel that stirring,
Churning and rising,
From the places I strained
To hide it.
I can’t keep count
Of the mysteries
You inspire in me;
Of the memories
You awaken in me,
Like ancient spirits
Springing forth,
Speaking a language
Cryptic and romantic.
Mostly I just can’t keep count
Of the moments
I wish you were here
With me.

Check out The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch, there are new posts for you to read!

stream of consciousness

Sum of Our Moments

Posted on November 5, 2017July 10, 2021 by Kelley Farrell

We travel these paths, burdened with purpose and prose, in hopes that we’ll not long travel alone.

In your eyes I find a spirit, a soul, a beacon that flashes through the darkness of my night.

A thousand words I know but not one that can express the way my soul reaches for yours.

Are our arms enough, will we be able to reach, when our spirits entangle across this space?

In my bones I ache, every inch of my being screams to stay, rattling my steps as I back away.

Because we’re just people, different, incomplete and the sum of our moments is lost on me.

stream of consciousness

Stupid Plane/Traffic in LA/Writer’s Block

Posted on October 28, 2017July 10, 2021 by Kelley Farrell

There’s stuff in my head,
But it’s trapped,
Held together
By an epic roadblock.
Like the traffic in LA,
Which I would know about,
If I’d gotten on the stupid plane.
Wouldn’t you know it,
I love flying.
I love staring out the window,
Watching the world go by.
I think flying over the Italian Alps
Was my favorite so far.
But I still don’t like the traffic
In LA
I get frustrated every time I’m there,
And scream and curse at the weird
Random highway lights
(what’s the point, it’s all jacked up anyway)
Also, why is there a subway system,
If no one uses it?
I just don’t understand,
The traffic in LA,
Which I would have told you sooner
If I had gotten on the stupid plane.

As a note, I’m still working on my post for The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch this week but we have some great other ones up, so go check them out! Mine should be up tomorrow

stream of consciousness

Passing Through

Posted on October 15, 2017July 10, 2021 by Kelley Farrell

WordPress Daily Prompt – Ascend

We’re all just passing through.
Dropping our bodies at the door
As we search for more.

Show me your soul,
Stand for me completely bare,
It’s all that matters here.

We’re all just passing through.
Picking flowers on the shore
As we wait for more.

Give me your hand,
Don’t leave my spirit alone,
It’s all we have to go on.

We’re all just passing through.
In a moment we’ll no longer be
So, please, just stand with me.

As always, go check out The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch!

flash fiction

Millie’s Gone

Posted on October 12, 2017July 10, 2021 by Kelley Farrell

WordPress Daily Prompt – Fraud

Moira packed each picture away carefully. Eventually Levee Harolds family would want some things but boxes of wedding pictures featuring his soon to be missing widow? Those weren’t likely to be the best souvenirs of his life. There would be some story about sweet Moira Harolds spinning out of control in the wake of her husband’s death, perhaps she would disappear to begin another life. Those were details that the former Mrs. Harolds didn’t have to bother with.

No, the only concern Moira had was packing boxes that would be eventually picked up by someone and her new packet of papers.

Moira ran a thumb over a silver and gold frame holding a particularly stereotypical wedding shot of her and her now deceased husband. When she looked at it through the eyes of her new persona, one Vera Milguy, she felt little. There was perhaps a twinge of sadness for the former Mrs. Harolds, after all Vera Milguy wasn’t a complete monster.

Beyond that though there was something else brewing. A feeling that neither Moira nor Vera could quite place. A deep unsettling sadness was threatening to take hold.

“Maybe it’s better to set these to the side for now.” The woman dropped the frame back onto the soft carpeted floor and stretched. The former Mrs. Harolds had been quite sentimental. It made sorting through things a chore. None the less it was something that had to be done in some capacity. She smiled to herself as she thought of the guidebook. People would shit themselves if they knew there was a guidebook.

Crossing the room she surveyed the few things left on the walls. Two large paintings, a collection of ornate masks and a rather decorative full length mirror. The former Mrs. Harolds had fine tastes, perhaps Vera could learn a thing or two from her. She turned in front of the mirror letting her black skirt swirl around her waist.

For a second she caught sight of herself, giggling like a child as her curls bounced around her shoulders. Without warning that deep unsettling grief leapt from the darkness and took hold of the woman.

She struggled to understand who stared back at her from the mirror. Was it the former Mrs. Harolds? Her new prospect Vera Milguy? Perhaps it was any one of the many others.

No, the blue eyes swimming in tears reached even further back. Her lips twitched and trembled as the sobs threatened to overflow. There was no longer a woman crying in her reflection but a child, the timid and shy Millie.

Without thinking she lifted a finger to her lips and bit it gently, it did little calm her but the pressure satisfied a nervous tick Millie had nursed since she was a toddler. Sweet Millie was filling with sorrow over the passing of Mr. Harolds. She was filled with fear over the path life was taking. The small timid Millie wanted to run home and cry in her mother’s arms.

“No.” It wasn’t the former Mrs. Harolds or Vera who spoke. “No!” Millie, a grown woman now, stared at herself with fists clenched. “Millie’s gone! Do you hear me! She died with her love when her father shot him the head!”

With force that surprised every persona she’d ever taken on, Millie slammed her fist into the delicate glass sending shards flying around her. The cracking and crashing echoed through the hallways followed by the clip of Vera Milguy’s high heels. Blood dripped from her bruised knuckles as she slammed the front door behind her.

“It’s better this way.”

stream of consciousness