Posted in stream of consciousness

Bitter Pills

Yet another Sunday, it’s the end of March. What the hell?

Prompt- Swallow

Music: Wooden Shjips – Back To Land

Swallow your pride, it’s a bitter pill but it’s better this way.
Say the things you know will sting, slaps against the grain.
Anything to make you walk away.
Swallow arsenic words, poisonous to all around us.
Implode.
Anything to protect you from the mess I’ve become.
He was right you know,
Selfishness choked me on the way down
And I never deserved you.
Spin me into sweet melodies,
They slide down easier than reality.
Anything to hide the truth of what we’ve done.
Once I tried to take a handful of bitter pills
To forget your name, forget your face,
Forget the way I had you stamped in that place.
I fell down, busted my brain instead.
Now my thoughts leak and blend fact with fiction,
I can’t tell anymore what was real and what was just part of the mission.
All because we tried to swallow little bitter pills,
Is it better this way?
I hear they have a pill to answer
To straighten out our brains.
I don’t know, what do you think?
Maybe seeing stars isn’t a bad thing
If the answer is swallowing our pride
And staying side by side.


Go check out The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch

Posted in flash fiction

Friday Fictioneers – Lips So Blue

I saw the sign. I heard her small voice say, “we should turn back.”

Jermaine, I chastised, always too sure of yourself.

The sky sure is blue from here. Small clouds, formed into puffs of slight dog fur, float by casting their shadows among the scattered glass.

If I could speak … a thousand things I know I should say.

An impromptu apology to my momma, for what I don’t know.

Maybe all the years of grief … maybe all the years to come.

Beside me her eyes stare like glass, reflecting rolling hills and jagged cliffs.

Her lips are so blue.

bjc3b6rn-9
PHOTO PROMPT © Björn Rudberg

Many thanks to the wonderful Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for rounding up Friday Fictioneers

 

 

Posted in flash fiction

Friday Fiction

When I was a little girl I pressed my nose against the glass of my dad’s old Volkswagen as we passed under bridges in the city. I puffed great smokey blasts of fog to draw little hearts and “hellos” in as the sleeping men tossed in their bags.

“Dad, why don’t we help them?”
“They have to help themselves first.”

There was a woman beneath the bridge today snapping pictures of our homeless communities. Preserving our tents and bags in rough black and white photos for exhibit.

“Don’t you want to help yourself?”

I hear they feed you in jail.

camera-ted-strutz
PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz

And Friday Fictioneers courtesy of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields


Go check out The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch

Posted in stream of consciousness

Threads of Gold

I want to lie between the lines.
To feel the words moving and sinking,
Gnashing and gnawing at the chains binding them so.
I want to sink into the crevices between the melodies,
The breaths between the chords.
To feel the rhythms beating and crashing,
Tearing and thrashing at the ropes holding them down.
I would inhale every heartbroken word.
Let it sink into my skin,
A permanent tattoo of something
Too strong to break yet too fragile to hold.
Something nurtured in the dark
Until it becomes too bold.
Let the waves crash over me,
Stripping my spirit clean.
Sew my pieces with your song,
Delicate threads of gold.


The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch

Posted in stream of consciousness

What Secrets This Lake Keeps

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