Posted in stream of consciousness

The Truth Have I Murdered

Music: All Them Witches – Dying Surfer Meets His Maker
Taken loosely from the idea of a lyrical essay

The boy doesn’t love you.

And why should he?

Don’t “please mister” me …

You’re the culprit here. Look at those hands, doused in red.

Disgust! That’s what I feel when I look at you.

The truth deserved better.

Better than being dragged by your breathless frame,

Heaving from the act,

Down the drain.

Witless.

I’ll ask you again.

When no was the answer …

Why didn’t you just give in?

Posted in friday fictioneers

My Name’s Annie – Friday Fictioneer’s

If you’re reading this my name’s Annie.

If you’re reading this then I guess the worst has already happened.

Maybe not. Maybe it’s 50 years from now and you’re in the woods with a metal detector and by some miracle the little clasp on this plastic bound kiddie journal hasn’t rotted off yet.

Most likely you’re mom and dad, in the middle of my room, surrounded by pink bunnies and blue gnomes … I always said I was too old for those.

If you’re reading this, my name’s Annie and I’m a good kid … I killed that boy because I had to.

dawn-in-montrealPHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

Thank you to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for putting together Friday Fictioneers every week.

Word Count: 100

Posted in Word Prompt

Mama …

“Mama, just killed a man …”

Ironic. 

My only thought as I lean back against the stiff seats of a decrepit Cadillac.

“What year is this fucking thing?” I kick at the peeling floorboard fabric. When I don’t get an answer I sigh heavily. “It was rhetorical anyway. Leather fucking shoes … What is that anyway? Cow? Pig?”

A life long believer in animal rights I wrinkle my nose and muster every ounce of spit I have to project across his boots. “Fucking gross.”

The man beside me remains a statue, eyes glued to the sagging fabric above us.

Radio static impertinently interrupts Mr. Mercury. “Man, fuck this car.”

I kick my heels, stained a deep glossy red, to the waiting chasm of peeling carpet and random trash. “I’d ask you to get my zipper but frankly my dear …” I throw the man a sheepish look over my shoulder. Remnents of our drinks from earlier mixed with an ill advised nacho platter for one dribbled down his chin. My stomach rolled. “Frankly I don’t want you fucking touching me.”

I peel the bodycon dress from my curves with the precision of someone who’s undressed in front seats one too many times. Away it goes too, this time to the hungry mouth of the backseat, a gaping hole of no return from the looks of it.

Stepping from the stagnant car into the cool fall air I finally feel free. The creeping spider sensation no longer makes it’s way up my spine, into my fingers or my jaw.

No more do I feel the need to scream and yell, to clutch the last breaths of whatever is near between my crimson fingernails. The grass on my bare feet, the moon beaming down on my gentle windblown hair, sets me at ease.

“Do you feel that?” Gleefully I lean towards the opened passenger door. The statue of a man stares up to the sagging fabric with eyes of opaque glass. “You know?” I continue, “There really are two wonders in life, birth and death. You, sir, certainly make a fine addition to one of those.”

My sequined bag lay just inside the door, where it would ultimately stay. “But first!” I clap my hands and wiggle my hips as I snatch the matches from their designated spot. “It has been a lovely evening. I hope you fulfill all your wildest dreams and all that other bullshit no one ever really means.”

It’s amazing what a small orange flame can accomplish in an old Cadillac. I stand by, absorbed in the crackling flame. It dances and licks at the decrepit car. I throw my arms in the air and dance to the fading sounds of Queen playing on loop in my head. Feeling particularly at ease I even attempt a small bit of air guitar.

“Alas, there’s a reason I never joined a band but I must now bid you adieu.”

The wind is picking up. I know it will carry the scent of the fire, bringing curious onlookers and emergency workers far sooner than I anticipate.

No worries, even if they came now there would be barely a thing left.

With that I begin the slow tumble from cloud nine although I hate to admit I am tumbling faster these days.

I walk, naked and alone, down the abandoned road. The smell of the burn at my back, at least there is still one thing to put me at ease.

The next morning my husband caresses our daughter’s hair while I make our son’s breakfast.

“Did you hear?” He almost hisses the words across the spacious kitchen. “They found another one.”

“Another what dear?” I pluck our son from the playpen and strap him gingerly into the highchair, giving his nose a little tweak. “Eat your cereal.”

“Another burned car, another body.” My husband pulls me close, forever my protector. I giggle as I push his hands away.

“Aren’t they always men? Perhaps it’s me who should be holding you.” He flashes that pearly white smile while running his hands through perfectly gelled locks.

Already I can feel the spiders creeping along my spine, working their way into my fingers, along my jaw line.

I sigh, hoping to dispel them if even for a moment.

You should feel guilty.

But as the news cycle runs on loop in my mind I feel none.

Guilty

Posted in What Pegman Saw

What Pegman Saw – Not Shit

I’ve been all around the world chasing that little guy. Let me tell you a thing or two, the guys got some secrets.

Just wonder, a guy who’s been spotted just about everywhere on god’s green earth? Why else would you hop from continent to continent like that?

Just ask him what went down at the Billinudgel Hotel between that Mr. and his wayward Mrs. Took them forever to clean the place up after … I don’t know what Mr. Pool-boy had been eating but it definitely stained the ceiling. The Mr. remained calm, even had a beer while Mr. Pool-boy’s pieces …

Well, maybe he won’t tell, that makes him an accomplice.

Maybe they pry it from the bastards dying lips so he’s an eye witness.

Either way, come a little closer, I’ll tell you something real.

Pegman didn’t see shit.

And me? It’s my job to keep it that way.

wps-billinudgel-hotel-coming-of-age-180408

Word Count: 150

This is my first try at the What Pegman Saw challenge. I’ve seen a few other bloggers I follow participating and it seems interesting. Every week there’s a new place, based on Google street view. This week’s destination is The Billinudgel Hotel, NSW, Australia.

You can find rules here and this weeks destination here.

 

Posted in Word Prompt

It’s Only April

WordPress Daily Prompt – Cloaked

The darkness cloaks some bullshit.

Mari stared at the paper.

The darkness cloaks some bullshit. There’s some fucking noise outside, a siren. It’s all bullshit.

She pressed her temples. She really didn’t want to fail this student but he had turned in papers like this all year. This was shaping up to be the most ridiculous one yet.

The darkness cloaks some bullshit. There’s some fucking noise outside, a siren. It’s all bullshit. The jackass took off through the back door about an hour ago. It took the god damn cops an hour to get here.

“Jesus, I’m going to need some wine.” Mari had sat this particular student down just a week ago and explained that he really needed to knock it out of the park on this paper. They made a deal that if he could make an A she would pass him in the class. He knew the material and Mari knew he could pass if made the effort but the effort seemed to be completely lost on him.

The darkness cloaks some bullshit. There’s some fucking noise outside, a siren. It’s all bullshit. The jackass took off through the back door about an hour ago. It took the god damn cops an hour to get here.  I’m trying to tell them to turn off the god damn siren. Little bro is in the back sleeping. Somehow I’m threatening and now I’m face down in the mud with some fat white fuck breathing down my neck about Miranda rights. 

Mari poured two glasses worth of a red blend into her glass. “Ok, let’s power through. This is the last one.”

The darkness cloaks some bullshit. There’s some fucking noise outside, a siren. It’s all bullshit. The jackass took off through the back door about an hour ago. It took the god damn cops an hour to get here.  I’m trying to tell them to turn off the god damn siren. Little bro is in the back sleeping. Somehow I’m threatening and now I’m face down in the mud with some fat white fuck breathing down my neck about Miranda rights. I’m trying to tell them it wasn’t me. Now little bro is awake and his footsteps are covered in fucking blood. Wanna see cops get real? Show them a four year old with bloody fucking footsteps. I tell them the jackass took off and who knows where he got to since it took them a god damn hour to get here. Little bro is crying in the backseat but they won’t let me sit with him because they want my alibi. Fuck them, I work two jobs and they can call my bosses to verify. Fat fucks. Little bro keeps asking why and you know what? I don’t fucking know. But I graduate this spring and I’m already eighteen. Thank fucking god, or whatever, mom had a will that named me legal guardian. Just give me an A Ms. Vargas. It’s been a long fucking year and it’s only April. 


Don’t forget to head over to our collaboration blog, The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch! We have beautiful poetry and wonderful insights to writing it this week