As long as I don’t move I pretend no one can see me. I’m a statue, gathering snow. Birds traipse across my table, eyeing my lone piece of banana bread. They examine then flit off to inform their friends.
It won’t be long before they descend, all for too sweet artificially flavored bread.
My pen stares stoically at my notebook. It needs to bleed. It needs release.
My notebook is having none of it, a lovers quarrel I’m sure. It remains steadfastly shut against the longing notes my pen wishes to deposit.
Quiet conversations erupt into laughter. Engines spurn to life. A world of constant din and none of it can be composed until the notebook forgives the pen.
I force them together, apologies be damned, but the pens strike is fatal; leaving an ink lined hole where a word should be.
I try again, gently this time. The paper shreds beneath the pen’s flow. Total refusal to cooperate. Ink won’t flow over paper, not while they’re not speaking this way.
All the world’s deadlines building unending pressure. Surely that’s enough to squash any relationship but pen and paper? I thought for sure they were stronger.
I walked my dog here from the time the rain smelled of flowers through heated summer pains. We grew old here, grey hairs cropping up like pine needles. Soon we were covered with avalanches of them, prickly and sticky like aches and pains. Needles gave way to winters and snows heavy with human sorrow.
I had my first kiss here when birds were still quiet against the rising sun. He rested his hand on my cheek. He told me it would be alright. We planned a wedding through the morning dew and afternoon rays. But when the evening breeze came it left no remains. In the dark they strangled what we thought we had. By midnight it was just me and the needles, alone again.
I find myself in this place, over and over, shuffling dying fire starter from one memory to another. There’s smoke in the distance; the smell of burning dreams. I wonder what’s the cost to catch it all aflame and dissolve into the night, a waft of regret on the scent of what remains.
Word Count: 178 For Sunday Photo Fiction – This might as well have been partially written by Dirty Three (seriously, I’ve been on a binge)
Jada had no idea why it was the kettle. Surely it wasn’t always. How many childhood stories were there about tea kettles being possessed?
She couldn’t resist the designs. It begged to be taken home.
Such a tea slut.
The walls rumbled. In front of her individual scales twitched and flapped. A beast of terrifying size draped over her furniture.
Jada knew the beast couldn’t be real. Yet here it was, half chasing something in its sleep; its forked tongue hanging from between scaly lips. Its serrated claws curled as it feigned trotting through a field playfully tossing its massive head.
And probably a corpse.
A feeling of panic rested low in her belly. Jada’s legs ached to run but she was frozen.
Its head snapped up. Jada could see her reflection in the glossy red iris. The beast inhaled as its nose passed across her.
Not a snack, the whole meal. Is this really gonna be my last thought before I die?
Its putrid breath filled Jada’s nose. Instead of a roar it let out a series of low clicks.
Oh god, it’s engine won’t turn over.
Word Count: 200
For Sunday Photo Fiction – It’s my first time joining in with this (we can post on days other than Sunday right?) Also, dragons are like puppies. Who knew?
Maybe one day you walk out of the office heading for nowhere and end up here. Eye to eye with everything that’s left of Bessie the desert cow you never knew you cared about.
You waltzed out of the gas station, one brain cell on reality and the rest playfully baiting eternity, when three pairs of hands and a graying beard shove you into a rumbling cargo van.
Who knows really how long your face will remain plastered over crumbling brick walls and flashed ever sparingly across the bottom of nightly news screens.
Like Bessie it could already be long gone. A skeleton in some rattled detectives closet, only to be unearthed when ground is broken for that new shopping mall in ten years time.
For now you’re flung four feet deep with dirt and desert bugs collecting in the folds of your skirt. Broken blades of grass and decades old Bud Light cans settle into their rightful place nestled among your bruised arms.
Caressing your hair, chopped and dyed, the slow harness of time takes hold.
And you have no choice but to sit with Bessie, the eyes which see it all, and wait.
There’s something to be said for being an empath in an abandoned city.
It seems everywhere I step is full of energy, an oddity considering no one’s lived here for decades. The air still hangs thick, even on the cool days, it’s electrified. A man once asked me exactly what I saw in this old city.
You see, it’s not the fear. It’s not the energy expelled in those last few precious moments that binds me here. I think there’s something else, something more that leaked beneath the surface that day.
It’s the memories. It’s everything that ever was and everything that never could be. It’s every smell and slight wind blown treasure which was lost that day.
The energy from those moments, those dreams, those regrets ooze from the blades of grass and dying leaves. They hang in the air, waiting to stir.
I did not take this picture from google earth per the rules. It’s from this article.
I may be a little odd. I would kill to visit this location (not literally kill, despite what I write I wouldn’t do that). The pictures coming out of Pripyat have been amazing, the aura that leaks through them is palpable. I’d be terrified the entire time I was there but I would go in a heartbeat.