My heart’s stuck
Of a moment
As good as made up
My heart’s stuck
Of a moment
As good as made up
My chest is splayed open
My heart on full display
For your curiosity
Pins hold me down
Pulling the pieces back
Leaking my soul
Staining your table
With the love you claim
I miss you is too simple
For the way my heart needs yours
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.
“What do you see?”
I see the future. I see you and me. I see my heart exploding. I see a million fireworks. I see galaxies.
I feel it all within me.
I see our first kiss, unintentionally wonderful. I see awkward laughs and gentle embraces.
Word Count: 100
For Friday Fictioneers, massive thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for wrangling this massive flash fiction challenge in every week.
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
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.
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.
Is it the same moon we see?
Do you watch it roll slowly above the horizon, arcing gracefully?
I trace its path with an uncertain finger, lingering on the point where I dream our palms should meet.
A perfect intersection, a crossing of the souls. A perfect arcing destiny, straight into the heart from Cupid’s bow.
I wonder which plane you left on and if you’ll ever return. If you ever do, I wonder should our hearts meet again, perhaps under glistening Sun?
Dreams come true, if only for a night, a moment. If only under the perfect arcing moon.
PHOTO PROMPT © Gah Learner
And thank you to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneer’s every week.
Word count: 100
“Greetings from Montevideo!”
I write as neatly as I can across the postcard. I even think about slipping it into an envelope with a few pictures of my own.
A landscape shot here. Maybe the view from my office. It’s just the road but I find myself hoping you’re as curious about my life as I am about yours.
Maybe I’ll even slip in a photo of the twins. They’re six now but you never knew they were born.
I’ve never made it a habit to memorize the faces I make but I know I’m cringing.
Desperation, that’s what this smells like.
I turn the postcard over in my hands, even if I sent it completely anonymous … you’d know my writing from a mile away.
I’m sure it’d reek of wrinkled love poems and tear stained confessions.
It’d just become another love song you sing to another silly girl.
Word count: 149
We’re standing opposite one another.
Me and the boy.
Me, with insecurities spilling to the pavement and tears running my spirit dry, and the boy, with his faltering understanding and screaming eyes.
I draw my lips into the best line I can manage. I quell my tears, reserving them to the well settling in my stomach.
He turns away, arms crossed over his fading, shredding t-shirt.
This, I slowly realize, will not end like the story crafted in my mind. My narrative written on real life has gone horribly awry.
“I guess this is it then.” His voice trembles as my heart descends foggy valleys unknown.
Wait … But ingrained habit and childhood rules dictate; my poker face must remain. The last one standing wins. I’ll regret this …
Slowly, I reach a shaking hand for his.
We collect our shattered pieces in silence, me and my poker face opposite the boy I love.
I plaster my poker face, like a second skin, and tell myself it’s ok over and over again.
The boy tucks himself gently into the darkest corners of his mind where he confides in demons he hides.
The last one standing wins. My poker face has become my sin.