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

 

 

Posted in Word Prompt

Tame It

WordPress Daily Prompt – Circle

There’s this thing,
Running circles in my soul.
It’s happy and sad,
It’s light and dark,
It’s beautiful and bad.
It feels like your hands,
And tastes like your tongue.
It slips along my skin,
Seeps through my pores.
It sends shivers up my spine,
A chill through my brain.
It has your name,
In big flashy letters,
And a sabertooth grin.
Won’t you come help me tame it?

Posted in Word Prompt

Memory

WordPress Daily Prompt – Irrelevant

At first read this doesn’t seem to match with the prompt, but hear me out. In abusive relationships one is often made to feel irrelevant. They don’t matter, their feelings, their thoughts, etc are of no concern to the abuser. So while the piece itself may not directly seem to go with the prompt, overall it hits a theme.

Tell me your earliest memory of your father.

All around me stories are shared of picnics and lakes and beautiful afternoons spent tossing a ball.

And you?

A gaze fixed directly on my downcast eyes.

My earliest memory you ask?

Well, that would be when I was about five?

The house is dark but not like its night,

It’s the type of dark you sit in when your paranoid father has you hiding out from his imaginary buddies.

The ones that he always says served in the mercenary with him,

Or the ones who are always about to come to collect on some unspeakable debt.

Except that’s not true.

Like the times he left us to care for our newborn sister;

While he ‘ran to the gas station’.

He always returned, hours later, a cigarette and the smell of stale alcohol on his breath.

But no job and not the least bit impressed

At our daring skills of keeping the newborn alive and well.

I’m standing at the end of the hall, just between our living room and dining room watching him,

But he doesn’t see me.

Because he’s too busy watching from between the closed wood paneled blinds

While chain smoking menthols …

Or maybe it’s lights.

The smoke floats into the steepled ceilings,

Curling and smiling,

As he mumbles about drug lords and gangsters.

I dare not make a noise,

Because at five I already know what disturbing him will bring.

It comes with a sore body and red eyes,

And the kind of cry that racks you until another round of hits forces it to stop.

I trace my steps back, as quietly as possible,

To the room where I’m supposed to be taking a nap.

But my sister and I, we never nap …

Instead we lie awake and dare each other to play quietly.

The first person to make too much noise,

To rustle their paper too loudly or inch the volume up on the small TV just a tad too far,

To bring down the paranoid wrath …

Well there’s no prize in this game,

But we won’t dare them again,

Not for a few days anyway.

Posted in Word Prompt

Blacked Out Drunk

Blacked Out Drunk

I’ve always been afraid of the dark,

Yet here I sit in the sallow lights and echoing quiet of this paneled sun room.

Surrounded by faded childhood toys and furniture so old it creaks when you sigh,

Like the sighs from the main room of the house as they shoot up a sweet release.

I’ve never been much for the hard drugs, the heroine and coke I mean

No, I’ve taken a liking to the ones that leave you breathless in piles of your own sweat and vomit.

Drugs like alcohol and the pure adrenaline pumping through my veins as we race through the streets wondering if this will be the day

When the dark and I meet to finally settle these differences

Demon to demon, blood thirsty, craving the fall …

Today wasn’t the day.

So here I sit in the sun room staring into the darkness with a half empty case of beer and an empty bottle of Jack.

Did I drink that much already?

It’s not my fault.

It’s just that the alcohol falls down my throat,

The way the bath water did the night I was blacked out drunk

And when I came to, choking and struggling for air,

All he said was ‘if you didn’t wake up we were going to leave you on the corner for the ambulance to find.’

Nevermind that I’m naked and doused in cold water.

Nevermind that it’s January and the snow banks are taller than me.

Nevermind that it’s 2AM and dark outside and so quiet.

Tonight, I resolve, I won’t drink so much.

Except I already have and I can feel my demons closing in as the room starts to spin.

Maybe I’ll wake up drowning in the bath again,

Or perhaps this time they’ll leave me, with the booze and the drugs, on the corner for someone to find.

In the cold, naked and doused in water.

In the dark and the quiet.

Where the demons dare to seep into the recesses of idle minds.

But that’s the thing about the dark and the silence and the demons;

They’re so much easier to ignore when the alcohol is just falling down your throat,

And you’re always blacked out drunk.