Posted in friday fictioneers

Gathering Place

You always said the kitchen was our gathering place. 

“Over fine food families are saved.”

We’ve finally begun washing away the smoke gathered on your plates. Odds and ends scavenged from charred remains gather dust among piles of bills. There’s a bill for every emotion it seems but our payment for grief falls short. 

In your absence we gather under your favorite tree. We try to laugh but they burn our lungs on the way out, so we stand and pretend. Maybe we believe you’ll turn the corner, picnic basket in hand. Maybe if we just squint a little harder …

PHOTO PROMPT © Ronda Del Boccio

Word Count: 100
For
Friday Fictioneers, many thanks to Rochelle for herding us in.

Posted in Word Prompt

Love By The Numbers

One, Two, Three, Four
Love by the numbers
Is all that’s welcome here.
Safe and pale,
Liquid blues,
Sallow hues.
Color me soft,
Shade me dear.
Give me love
But only if
You love me by
The numbers here.
Who needs bright?
Those aren’t right,
Strain the eyes
And all bite.
No, too trite.
Love by the numbers
Is all that’s welcome here.
And who needs dark?
So stark,
Distressing
And under caressing.
No, no dark.
Love by the numbers
Is all that’s welcome here.
Safe and pale,
Chalky pinks,
Fading weeks.
Color me soft,
In the lines
But only if
You love me by
The numbers here.


The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch

Posted in Photo

Numbered Days 4/365

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 …

Posted in Word Prompt

It’s Not New

I’ve been working on some other stuff that won’t make it on here for a bit but I wanted to post something today. So for the prompt neophyte (who actually uses that word?) here’s a  part of something that I’m still working on.

It’s not new,
These rising sensations
Whenever I’m near you.
It seems my head is always
Filled with these dreams
Yet plagued with this fear.
Stepping into the dark,
When you’re so afraid
Of what you can’t see
Snarling just beyond
The lights breaking
Keeps me tied to this path
Of non-waking.
I can feel you there,
I hear your music playing
But you wander just beyond
The lights leaking.


Also, go browse The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch! Last week our posts were “The Art of …”

Posted in Word Prompt

Moonlight Glow

WordPress Daily Prompt – Succumb

Lying here with you tonight,
You look so perfect in the moonlight.
I’m not sure how long
This will last.
How long have you been gone?
Silence greets me,
An old friend in a familiar coat.
Your dead eyes keep staring,
Into the perfect moonlight glow.
The rusty metal above
Rattles and rumbles,
Symptoms of the train hauling troubles
Over the beaten track.
Needles like pine
Litter the ground,
There’s no one else around.
I pluck the needle from your arm,
Like a mouse nursing the injured lion.
You make no move,
Your dead eyes just keep staring,
Into the fake moonlight glow.


There are some amazing insights to poetry over at The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch! Go take a look! There are posts up by me, Beckie, Grabbety, Wanji, Pradita, Brett and more!

Posted in Word Prompt

It Shouldn’t Start This Way

I used a first line generator for today. The line was “The night was dark and stormy.”

“The night was dark and stormy.”

That’s how these stories are supposed to start. They shouldn’t begin with butterflies and rainbows but life is a mystery, just like Ofelia. She was everything I wasn’t. Tall and beautiful with long legs and short choppy dark hair. Her parents even let her wear makeup and have more than one ear piercing. She could paint her nails black and her clothes …

The closeted goth inside of me died a little every time I saw her. She was perfection.

Next to her I didn’t have to be Danielle the red headed step child with glasses and freckles. I didn’t have to be the weirdo who couldn’t wear makeup or have earrings like the other girls. I didn’t have to explain my long hair or my modest attire.

Beside Ofelia I wasn’t my mother’s demon spawn daughter that needed saving. I didn’t have to worry about my CD’s being broken or my books being burned. I didn’t have to explain my art, my dragons or my demons.

To Ofelia they were all infinitely “cool”. Next to Ofelia I could fade into the light that surrounded her darkness. She protected me, whether she knew it or not.

Perhaps that’s the only way to explain why we were digging a hole in the woods on a humid July night; or how we came to the point of burying a body together.


Go check out The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch

We have posts all about writing routines up by:
Grabbety
Kelley
Smita
Nitesh