My heart’s stuck
On repeat
Of a moment
As good as made up
Tag: life
The Day Maude Died
The day Maude died she expected it. The white daisies rambling across the mustard colored wallpaper had already begun mourning. Large drops of water appeared over them and rolled to the floor.
“Good.” She mumbled. “This living business is for the birds.”
Maude glowered from her 5th story window.
At 11:59 she felt the air being sucked from the room as it began to spin. Her exhilaration dissipated when Gary appeared.
“What are you doing here?” Gary shrugged and motioned to the room as if to ask why he wouldn’t be.
“This wallpaper is a crime to interior design. Christ Maude, is this where you’ve been hiding?”
“I’ve never known you to be a connoisseur of design.”
“Down to business; I’m a busy demon. You’re not dying today Maude.”
Rage rushed from her toes to the very tips of her hair.
“What?! Do you know how long I’ve been here?! 1,517 years Gary!”
“I know, but they like the work you’re doing down here.”
“No! No! No!” The smirk dancing across Gary’s lips was enough to send her into overdrive. “Go get the kerosene. We’re going to the council.”
Gary’s smirk turned to a deep frown.
Word Count: 198
For Sunday Photo Fiction
In The Garden
Verdant – RDP word of the day
Music – Dirty Three – Self titled
Luscious.
Fertile.
Sasha’s garden was everything Mari could never inspire in her own. Her belly too, round with verdant life in a way Mari would never know.
Obsession.
Jealousy.
Rage in Mari’s veins blossomed as she feigned excitement for Sasha’s burgeoning life. Sasha’s roses brought home awards. Her daffodils sailed into a spotlight all their own. The baby kicked while she laughed on.
Inspired.
Alone.
Mari took to a rusted axe in order to get the job done.
I forgot to time myself but I intended to aim for 5 minutes to start. This probably took about that long.
Subscription
I signed up for more but it seems they lost the paperwork.
I can reason it away.
What’s life but missed words?
I’d cancel early but the fee is too high.
Sorry for my lack of anything lately. I’ve been busy, stressed … insanely tired, etc.
Subtle
I want to believe
In subtle moments
Strung between you and me.
Life Is But The Moments
Life is but the moments we make in it.
At least that’s what Edna thought she remembered him saying now. Sixty years on she supposed exact verbiage no longer really mattered.
The plane rattled down the runway. Edna watched the early morning horizon slip by. These moments always reminded her of her mother’s silk scarf floating away on the wind. The way it twisted, trying to escape the inevitable hand of fate it was dealt, and the way her mother ran after it, crimson nails just barely missing the straggling threads.
Had she known then how some people were capable of so much more … had she understood the intricacies of human emotions, fits of rage and the abilities of people to do things outside the realm of “normal” … Like kill others or freeze moments …
Edna settled back into her seat. It took so much out of her now, she figured she only had a few more times in her.
A few more things to see, to record.
A few more moments to live, to love.
Instinctively she reached into the old leather messenger bag, relishing in the old smell of cigars and aftershave, and patted the worn inner pocket. Her notebook, a verifiable tome of time, was secure inside.
I know this doesn’t really make sense in it’s brief form but it was something that struck me and I wanted to share here.
Friday Fictioneers – Counting Lighters
This here’s a true story.
The moment I realized what rock bottom looked like as I barreled from above.
And tried to hit the brakes but just wasn’t strong enough.
I wasted drunken moments counting lighters scattered around, at least ten collected in my dead flower jar.
Then the music stopped and that moment of eerie silence …
Right before girls screaming and wild stampeding.
“There’s a boy on the bedroom floor. There’s a boy dying through that door.”
In my apartment.
High on my drugs.
Drunk on my liquor.
I wasted moments counting lighters … I spent seconds wishing on stars.
PHOTO PROMPT © Yvette Prior
Word Count: 100
Many thanks as always to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.
I honestly do not know if this will work in 100 words, I like it but I also know it seems kind of abstract.
Pint Sized Brain Eater
When you first log into WordPress and go to your reader there are usually a couple of suggestions of things you can search for. Today I logged on and the suggestions were “zombies, toddlers, philosophy” and I thought to myself … That’s fucking gold.
Here’s my toddler sized contribution to WordPress’s suggested searches today.
Tiny feet pitter-pattered down the hallway … That’s what they want you to believe anyway. Instead tiny feet were storming and dragging through the hall bringing the low groans and high pitched shrieks full circle. Any parent on the outside may suppose this is a normal toddler sized tantrum but no … What now railed against the locked door was no toddler.
“A pint sized brain eating machine.” Turns out everyone was right, there is no philosophy degree that will prepare you for life. Unless of course you want to one day end up on the right side of a domesticated door while the small daycare you thought would be “fun” and “educational” turns on you.
Don’t adults always catch what kids have? Why did we ever think the zombie apocalypse would start any other way?
Here We Are
Stream of thought writing, I guess this is going to be a weekly thing now –
Prompt – Inkling
Music – Steve Reich – Works 1965-1995
Inkling.
It starts with a drop, a spot of ink infecting, spreading in the water.
It was all so clear
Until
You loosed the ink composed of your fear.
Now it’s here, spreading, floating, clouding
A situation we thought was through.
Tied up and tossed aside
Like a neatly composed pile of trash.
But here we are
Lost in each others eyes.
At least I am.
I have a feeling
You are too but we can’t, can we?
Inklings aren’t enough
They don’t spread through the veins,
Becoming all we are.
Do they?
Be still, they say, let it be.
Let it disperse, the way ink should
Eventually the floods will carry it away.
Except I’ve been waiting
And it’s still here
Floating and spreading
Infecting all we’re becoming.
But of course
They say
There was never another way.
The inkling was always there
Just hidden away by fear.
You’re not scared
And I’m no longer afraid …
So what is this inkling that remains?
Time inches by
Sand through the hole we’ll never hold again.
Spread by the wind like the ink in water.
How many seconds has it been?
How long until this dam breaks
And our infested waters overflow
Carrying away everything we know,
Our fears?
Our belief?
Time’s up.
Check out The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch
Smudged Charcoal Memories
Stream of Consciousness Writing Attempt – Wordpress Daily Prompt – Candid
Music: Alberto Giurioli – once again I’ve found myself just shuffling on Spotify, no specific songs or albums
Candid.
I have photos in my mind, candid pictures, frozen in time.
Of you, me, the world as it wishes it could be … the way it is and the way it could.
Like rough charcoal sketches, outlining your jaw
Tracing your lips and infecting everything we’ve become.
Conversations are easy, expressions in stars and beauty …
Total comfort we take for granted.
And yet here we are, with candid pictures but nothing solid.
Smudged charcoal memories
Scenes were there, we know, but we’re always just missing the point.
Always just grasping the cusp of the greater things
Only to find ….
We were never meant for the better side
So we cling to something more, hoping, praying, waiting …
We hide beneath silence and sideways glances
While we dangle from the precipice
Fuzzy charcoal portraits and blurry night walking pictures
With broken smiles and tear stained eyes
Are all we left behind but not all that’s left to find?
How long can you hold on? Hold out?
Close your eyes
10 minutes up.
