I have no rhyme or reason.
She appeared in the music shop window. An enigmatic child before Christmas breathing slow circles of lust across the glass. Day after day she faded in and out, inching closer to the gold plated door handles. Her rats nest hair, highlighted by shimmering grey, and clanging camping pots scared patrons away.
The day she finally slid her dirty fingers across the grand piano keys we knew. Whatever she unleashed, it was beauty the world wouldn’t be ready for.
People looked on. Phones took video. It wasn’t long before every mind became captivated.
We haven’t seen her in months now.
Word Count: 98
For Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.
“Head like a hole. Black as your soul …”
I like the color black.
I wear it frequently.
All my dresses are black,
Except for that red one.
My shoes too,
Except that pair of brown boots
Or those dark blue ones.
When I was in high school,
I wore black eye make up
But I didn’t hang out with the goth kids.
The real depressed girl
Who actually listened to industrial
And not Marilyn Manson
Was too goth for them.
I like my coffee black,
With just a little bit of cream.
I like my rebels black
With their motorcycle screams.
I like my nails
About nine inches long
And now you have
To start at the beginning of the song.
Once again I’m reposting. This was originally published in … maybe about a year ago in 2018 I think and the WordPress prompt of the day was Black. I couldn’t help myself back then and I can’t help myself today. Tell me about your favorite music?
There’s a certain beauty to life alone.
A certain finesse to the fine art of dying in no ones arms but your own.
I’ve lost count of the seconds slowly rolling into days.
Those things were never ours anyway.
It’s funny …
The noises your mind will come up with to keep time floating in oceans with little salt.
At first you know it’s just the children in your head playing.
Then you begin to doubt as shadows creep out.
Humans can die from any number of ailments …
A common cold to a lightening strike,
Historic rejection or morbid curiosity,
It’s what makes us the same.
At least that’s what they say.
Maybe I relied too much on silence in those days.
My shadows frolic through the roaring break.
They toss their hands to the wind
And dance the steps to heaven.
I don’t imagine they’ll let me live.
Word Count: 147
A write for What Pegman Saw. This weeks location is St. Helena island. For more information and rules visit the link. To read more stories click the blue froggy below.
Art of Dying is also a song by George Harrison, not really much in common with this piece but still nice to listen to.
The moon and stars
From where you are
Do you ever see the ground?
Hold tight honey, there’s bad times coming …
I’m too late
For this date,
Though if I’m not …