I don’t mean to say it so much But sometimes this world *d*ucking sucks. And when I’m frustrated I don’t really want my phone to trade my violent words For small feathery creatures, Perhaps in hopes it will quell raging digits. Somehow it works and I laugh at the absurdity Of our materialism And our in love yet in loathe relationships With AI and short fuses. Then I think of you And my words come to a jumbling, clotting stop Because I’ve long preferred making myself small In hopes that avoidance of everything big Will render me no more than the innocent bystander to a life I’ve never felt in control of. Maybe I’ve always believed I didn’t deserve the beauty you gave me. It doesn’t erase the emptiness, Or the memories of the last time I truly felt home etched in my soul. But I can’t type “fuck” because iPhone prefers ducks.
Silence sounds like … Your spirit spinning Out of control to the DJ. Your breath slowing In puffs of hazy cigarette smoke. Your heart pounding Under the soft weight of my hand. Your smile against My hair under the cold moon. The fading drops Of my rocks failing to skip. Your fingers drawing Shivering lines down my back. Silence sounds like … All those things I feel in my soul When your eyes lock with mine And we fall away from time. 143
Originally published here in Dec. 2017. The prompt at the time was silence. Today’s RDP prompt is intimate
I couldn’t let love day go by without something!
I’m in the final weeks of my grad program. Unfortunately that’s meant I haven’t been on here. But if anyone’s interested in my research on investment in clean energy let me know and I may post the presentation here for all to see!
People are a little weird. That’s the mantra of this town. Specters and night crawlers With thigh high make up In star bowler company Smoke infinitely long rings of mood dust. Then there was me And you Collapsing across peeling laminate counter tops And day old sandwiches With the the bread always toasted. How one falls In this topsy turvy place, From barstools to backseats. Or bedsheets. Up? I suppose it only makes sense. This has never been the city of dreams But we liked to pretend. And why not? There always has been, There always will be, More ways to fall in love.
“Six … I count six broken dreams …” “Oh my god Jerry! They’re just watering cans! I’m gonna put flowers in them.” Zan thrust a faded can into her boyfriend’s hands. “Saw it on pinterest; such a great way to spend a Saturday.” Jerry looked down at their toddler son. Last time Zan ‘saw it on pinterest’ the family had to dress as zoo animals for pictures. “This is what you do for love kiddo.” He whispered. “Oh look! Here’s a yellow one!” Zan clasped her hands and gasped. “It has a bluebird!” “Seven … I count seven …”
Word Count: 99
Many thanks to Rochelle for hosting weekly Friday Fictioneers. Visit her page for more info about the challenge. Want more fictioneers? Click the blue froggy below.
Your soul is a percussive instrument, beating and vibrating, keeping time with the wants and needs bouncing through your mind. You’re projecting, sending pulsing signals out into the world with every move you make, vibrations in colored solar flares to tell every soul what you seek, what they can help you find. We constantly meet and crash, impressing on one another the desires of each other. When my soul met yours it beat so perfectly in tune, moving in beat exactly with mine, complementing every move we made. There was no moment, no hesitation, only total realization. You were part of me and I was part of you, there’s never been another way it could be. Your soul is a percussive instrument and it beats in perfect time with mine.
This was posted in Nov 2017, just over a year ago. It’s not perfect but I’ve always liked it. The prompt of the day was percussive (I think).