I’m too late
For this date,
Though if I’m not …
I’m too late
For this date,
Though if I’m not …
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.”
You can thank Ramin Djawadi and the Westworld Season 2 soundtrack for this (he also composes the music for Game of Thrones if you’re interested).
I haven’t done any stream of consciousness attempts in a while …
Sometimes my tongue gets heavy before spilling over, filling my mouth with boiling sand. I try to ask you, push forth these things which have my heart bursting its seams but all I have are irritations, enveloping themselves in the bed of my skin. Though I claw and scream, leak precious blue blood over everything … Though I tear holes and try to dig away the itch there is no relief from the boiling grains buried within the thick.
Nothing to do with writing (except maybe that I listen to music when I write) but I just don’t think I’ll ever get tired of this one (it also has energy, hey RDP!)
Today’s RDP Prompt: Energy
Johnny would approve.
There’s something to be said …
I think I thought you heard me …
Do we never learn?
Are you still afraid of heights?
Or has it spun, is it your turn?
You never saw it coming right?
Cuz we’re falling …
And I thought I heard you singing
Weaving tapestry tapes and sound.
How did it go again?
(2013) – Do you still have our song?
Free flow Saturday – With schoolwork and my vacation I’ve gotten out of the habit of writing over the past few weeks. I’m trying to get back into it. This seems like the best place to start.
Prompt: Hypnotize (this random word generator doesn’t always come up with good stuff but it pulled through today)
Music: Low & Dirty Three – In The Fishtank 7
I’ve never understood
People at rock shows in towering heels
But I’m mesmerized
By their sultry disregard, reckless abandon.
I think it’s odd
When families talk over dinner
Yet I’m entranced
By their shifting notes in laughter and love.
Once the idea
That I should be my own person,
Capable of a life beyond one envisioned
Of me, for me, in spite of me,
Sent chills through my skin.
Somehow here I exist,
And I wonder if this
Is what normal feels like?
I haven’t done an actual timed stream of consciousness write in a bit. Normally I write for 10 minutes but I’m only going to do this one for 5 because it’s our last day in Lisbon and it’s my mom’s birthday!
Music: Reignwolf – shuffle on Spotify – There isn’t much on Spotify so shuffle is really the only way to listen
Word: Pin from the random word generator
It was dead silent, I couldn’t hear a thing
Probably not even a pin drop,
But I heard the years
As they snapped shut.
They melted away
Exposing old bricks
And scarred exteriors
Covered to weather the storms.
All the shiny paint,
The expensive knick knacks,
Expansive fronts I covered
Every fault and piece of distorted past
Under years of specially crafted
And you, I hoped,
Would still find the cracks as beautiful
The violinist swayed like smoke. The small crowd followed suit as he laid a spell over them with his dance. The beat of the small drum set vibrated through the ground just enough for the man to keep time along.
He squinted as the bow struck and slid across the strings while the violinists’ fingers moved devilishly quick. The young girl beside him slid a crumpled piece of paper into the palm of his hand.
“It sounds like blue, light not dark, like watching storm clouds or flying towards the stars with wind in your hair. It feels like love.”
PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Word Count: 100
Thank you to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields as always for wrangling in Friday Fictioneers.
Sunday stream of consciousness/free flow writing. I have not written very much lately because I have been battling with SAS (the statistical program) for my most recent class. I’m in the last 3 classes of my program so I’ve been particularly busy. Also, a small plea, if you know how to use SAS for more advanced econometrics send me a message because we are not on friendly terms.
Prompt – Shadow – Word generator here
Music – Fantastic Negrito – Please Don’t Be Dead (new album, I’m still getting the feel for it but love it so far)
The shadow of your assumed greatness follows me, an assumed masterpiece reflecting back. Tucked into corners of misperception and illusions of grandiose you take credit for me while underscoring my need. A king of your domed sanctuary, a tyrant by any other name. A shadow crouching low, grasping at my ankles, pulling me back. The words that fall from your mouth increasingly sound of death. 50 rounds of ammo in 30 seconds but no sympathy from your gallery.