What a weird delight
A congealed dressing
Of our thoughts
As if the stiff lipped fear ever meant we could stay.
A collective thought grew among us, slow and warming, passed in the offering plate from one to another and nurtured with each passing hand.
Who are we to stay?
In the darkness we gathered what little we could claim and disconnected ourselves from this place.
Incorporating a couple of the daily words. Abberation from FOWC and emerge from RDP.
Where were you
When I couldn’t stand
With your impetuous knocking
On the windows of my mind
In the shadows
It was an impetuous knock on the old wooden door.
It was Margot’s corked shoes tapping.
Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap.
It was the shrill cries of children that weren’t mine.
It was the old tile with its yellow triangles inside blue circles
And the slow boiling blood stripping it clean.
Two quick stream of consciousness type things for the RDP prompt of the day.
Also, check out Pint Sized Lit
We all want somebody to save.
“My confidence is gossamer.”
“That guy was pretty confident I guess.”
“Yeah, the heart guy. The big monster one. Like an olden days Kool-Aid man.”
“I don’t think … Gossamer is a word. It’s not a person or monster or whatever you’re talking about.”
“No offense, I know my Bugs Bunny. Maybe you mean another word?”
“Maybe you have the name wrong. My word is Gossamer.”
“Google it then. Let’s see who’s right.”
“Gossamer, thin, delicate, insubstantial.”
“And, right there, Gossamer. Big red heart dude.”
“Yeah, also, have you met yourself? Your confidence is not “gossamer”. You’re not a wilting flower or silk blowing in the wind.”
I haven’t done a stream of consciousness write in a long time. I didn’t time this one.
If you haven’t read these before. This is a stream of conciousness write with very little editing (so apologies for anything that doesn’t make sense). I pick a prompt, usually a word of the day, turn on some music and just write whatever comes to my head for a set time (usually 10 minutes).
Daily words: Image and Dough.
I’ve never seen anything like it.
It’s lips curve downwards and it’s nose hooks right under those skeptical eyes. Made in your image but it’s not you.
It’s soft and stretchy, moist and sticky. Strings of dough stretch from one lip to the other as it mocks my humanoid appearance.
A spark forms in my belly and spreads like wildfire. Before I realize the scope of my ideas, my limbs begin acting. My legs carry me forth, my arms swing out wildly. My fingers pinch at its doughy arms, pulling away long pieces and tossing them into the endless span of existence below us.
They can’t work fast enough, its sticky being pulls at the hairs on my arms and legs. Doughy fingers work their way through my hair, ripping me back.
I could try to frantically escape but something tells me this is like quicksand. It envelops me. Moist strings pry into my mouth, holding my tongue and filling my lungs.
You are dreaming. You are dreaming.
My jerking body flings onto the floor. Pizza boxes scatter and cower from my cries.
A stray pepperoni sticks to the bridge of my nose. A menacing reminder encroaching on my vision.
Maybe I’ll lay off the pizza.
Running away is kind of my thing.
My life has been spent
Escaping the comfort of what I know,
Swan diving into oblivion.
Something for RDP.
There’s a tide rising within me.
A radiating wave of light reflected from the ocean floor.
I’m submerged in relief,
Grasping for air.
Very quick tiny poetry – slash – stream of consciousness write. This year I’ve been learning the art of balancing my “writer/author time”. I don’t have much of it. In the past, I spent the majority of my writing time writing here. That meant I didn’t often get to the projects that were more substantial. My goal for this year is to devote more time to things that don’t really go here like short stories and work that can be published. I really, really thank you guys for sticking with me even though I’m not posting often right now.
I am 100% sure they do this on purpose.
How funny it is that these words seem so different yet so intertwined.
I’ve been posting less lately but, for once, it’s not bad news. I want to focus this year on publishing. While I’ve been writing, I’ve been more reserved with what I post on the blog. I’ve been revisiting old pieces and working on them more also. If anyone has tips for publishing on amazon let me know!
Darlene, in all her 108 years, didn’t think she had ever seen anything like it.
There were rockets to the moon, scandals and those who said all of it was fake.
There were plenty of misunderstandings, plenty of things faded from memory only to reappear in the strangest of ways.
Isn’t history funny?
Now she watched the news slip in and out of existence on continuous feeds. Omnipresent, it seemed, but always fading.
Between videos of freaked out, tear-stained faces and breaking news bulletins Darlene’s memory hummed to life. She remembered this. Before TV, a man and radio, dramatizing a Martian landing.
A few articles exposing the truth slid away as quickly as they came, but still, hysteria ensued.
This was originally posted when I was doing regular timed stream of consciousness writes. This was also back when wordpress provided a daily word prompt. The word that day was candid. Today’s prompts are circular and riddle. I can see circular tones in this and a riddle of kinds.
I have photos in my mind, candid pictures, frozen in time.
Of you, me, the world as it wishes it could be … the way it is and the way it could.
Like rough charcoal sketches, outlining your jaw
Tracing your lips and infecting everything we’ve become.
Conversations are easy, expressions in stars and beauty …
Total comfort we take for granted.
And yet here we are, with candid pictures but nothing solid.
Smudged charcoal memories
Scenes were there, we know, but we’re always just missing the point.
Always just grasping the cusp of the greater things
Only to find ….
We were never meant for the better side
So we cling to something more, hoping, praying, waiting …
We hide beneath silence and sideways glances
While we dangle from the precipice
Fuzzy charcoal portraits and blurry night walking pictures
With broken smiles and tear stained eyes
Are all we left behind but not all that’s left to find?
How long can you hold on? Hold out?
Close your eyes