Posted in flash fiction, friday fictioneers

Old Things

Lydia hated the old things her father insisted on keeping.

“Who needs this stuff? Ancient teapots and spoons?”

Her father admonished the girls irreverence for the past.

“These belong to your ancestors; gifts from the Gods.

I don’t want them. Ever.” She shoved the old silver items away.

“The last person who disrespected the Gods met a terrible fate. These items are meant for you.”

Lydia rolled her eyes and glowered. She was much more in tune with the modern age.

She landed with a thud as her feet slipped from under her. “What was that?!

I told you.”

PHOTO PROMPT © Valerie J. Barrett

Word Count: 99
A try at Friday Fictioneers this week. Click the link to read more.

Posted in Word Prompt

Loose Window Cranks

These old windows, operated by worn cranks, filter the world through a permanent haze. Worn paint peels off by the inch revealing layer upon layer of stained pasts. The floor creaks where I stand though I don’t so much as sway. Perhaps it’s the teenage angst they claim should be boiling within my viens. The walls give nothing away, not a blink nor a smirk and I wonder again and again if they could just absorb me, make me disappear without a trace, what history would this old room show?

Greta had the room before me, so they say. Before that a man with barely a face and no name. Before them? Those people are long gone. Victims of loose window cranks.

The world through that window haze looks so serene, a universe unlike my own. It must be so divine, to float away in that daze.

My mind begins to drift, the very thing that spurred my interment here. I’m drifting away, from this room, from the world at large. There are creatures beyond the window, in the blurry starlight of the world at night. Some are big, they fly far above me to places yet unknown. Some are small, confined to the land below. They nip the seams of my tattered jeans, wishing to bring me low. It’s their cries, shrill and unending, that pierce the silence.

Detached from myself, I pull the crank and feel my soul drop thousands of feet in seconds; right back to the creaking floor of this room. The years have rusted this portal shut.

Somewhere, in the back of my rational mind, I hear the nurses say “take the medicine dear, it’ll keep the monsters at bay.”

Crank

Posted in stream of consciousness

The Rain Is Coming

Sunday! 

A note for the curious: Daylight savings time does not work on biological clocks. 

Prompt: Meander

Music: Nine Inch Nails: Not The Actual Events

Rivers meander through the woods.

I splash through them in ratty old shoes and uncombed hair.

If I can just follow the babbling stream,

Follow to where the siren voices are calling me.

Dirty fingers clutch my ancient stuffed bear,

A toy from generations before.

His stuffing is busting from the frayed seems in his neck

But I love him anyway.

My constant companion.

The water splashes around my ankles,

Stabbing me with sharp, cold droplets.

How long till the rain comes?

The small stream won’t meander through the woods then.

The storms feed it,

Grow it like a monster in your dreams.

Soon it laps at the edges of our safe spaces.

I have to make it to a safe space before it rains.

Once it starts it will never stop.

The rocks along the bank are slick

But I have to stay close.

If I lose the meandering stream

The rain will surely get me too.

My beloved companion, clutched by an arm,

Is losing steam.

His seams …

Are ripping, falling.

We’re leaving a trail of stuffing.

There’s not time for me to consider,

My young mind knows we should be more careful

But I can smell the rain.


Please check out the poetry over and The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch

Posted in Word Prompt

Liar That I Am

I’ve never wanted to hurt you …
Liar that I am.
I’ve never wanted to betray you …
Imperfect as I am.
I’ve only ever wanted to feel you …
Hold me in your arms again.
But I’m a liar,
A hopeless, frantic
Romantic.
Living out a fairy tale fantasy
Crashing through reality.
Finding truth
Under moss covered mystery.
Only to unveil fools gold
Where there should be
Great poets of old.
Forgive me my love
And my liars tongue.
We only wanted the
Fairy tale ending,
Sparing the real life bending.
Now I see,
One exists in the other
But my liars tongue
Can’t stop whispering rumor.
Forgive me love,
Liar that I am,
I was never the princess
In disguise.
Only a damsel
Trying to escape demise.