Posted in stream of consciousness

Less

The human memory is notoriously faulty.

Janine no longer remembered if she saw the light or if it was just the surgeons blinding head lamp as he crawled into her mother’s cavernous heart in attempt to save her.

Janine no longer remembered if she merely thought the words or if they actually slipped between her gritted teeth.

“Don’t bother, there’s nothing there to save.”

With all his gracious intent, the doctor took her hands.

“I did all I could but it just couldn’t be done.”

Janine couldn’t slam the gate fast enough, “You could’ve done less.”

No prompt to speak of.
Music: Moon Duo

Posted in friday fictioneers

Captivate

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.

PHOTO PROMPT © Anshu Bhojnagarwala

Word Count: 98
For
Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

Posted in stream of consciousness

An Ode to Black (Repost)

“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?

Posted in What Pegman Saw

The Art of Dying

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.

Posted in Word Prompt

Sedated

My head is a balloon floating from a child’s hand. The bed, beeping machines, city streets with colonies of feet fall out of focus below me. I’ve never been much a believer in heaven or hell but beyond the clouds there exists a veil. It waves me forward, a welcoming call.

Oh but I can feel the child like tug after all. My balloon head fills with lead, plummeting, it lands squarely against the bed.

Perhaps it’s a bit too loaded, this moment they allude to in death. The pressure to ascend just right, or be doomed to plummet into the hand of a mad man, is enough to drive one from sanity.

The nurse slips a round or two into my IV. I never truly see her. My mind shuffles like channels over the TV, all white noise and infomercial pleas.

For the briefest of seconds a signal flickers. Sensations flood my mind, driving me quickly into overtime. Between the thrashes and splashes the nurse stands stoic, medicine at the ready.

I don’t say much, my tongue operates like the finest mush, but the nurse with her ruby smile assures me. She pats my hair and caresses my arm.

“Don’t worry dear, I’ve got the cure right here.”