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.
Tag: ragtag daily prompt
Submerged
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.
RDP: Water
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.
Evanescent History
I am 100% sure they do this on purpose.
FOWC: History, RDP: Evanescent
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.
Smudged Charcoal Memories (Repost)
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
What Really Happened to the Dinosaurs
We came here on the backs of our ancestors greatest invention. The ability to cross among the paths of time has been an integral part of society but, as with any great discoveries, it was coveted.
Facing extinction we gathered our prized possessions, animals, science … and sent them across realms.
We would have returned for them sooner but …
George didn’t write down the coordinates of where he sent them.
Right, we would have returned sooner but … were unable to.
We believed our ideas, our species, our discoveries were safe. We believed there would be reprieve from a world too far gone. We’ve been driven nearly to extinction in the name of progress.
But this, this is not what our people left behind. Where are the animals? The science?
Maybe they ate it.
Perhaps they are far more advanced than we think? Did they somehow find the exact coordinates before we could recover them?
Hear me out. Maybe they are our science, our discoveries. We did save a number of cellular organisms. Perhaps they ‘evolved’. This proves their significance at least.
Significant? They are killing themselves. This is not what our ancestors wanted. A planet of intruders? No.
Theus, you’re getting a little worked up.
Millenia of progress has been bastardized.
It rarely goes any other way. Perhaps this is for the best. Remember, change is the very essence of everything we know.
I’m going to blow it up.
Theus …
The command has been activated. We can find another planet to maintain our civilization on.
Permit for Hope
Every full moon we’re given permits. On occasion they’ve felt like rocks, weighing down our souls. Sometimes they function as population control.
The abstract isn’t something we’re terribly familiar with but I remember what it’s like to feel. When I was first brought here sadness compounded fear. Anger settled in next. A long lost cousin staying despite what I insisted.
They dangle these permits, inspiring us with lust and greed.
What shall we receive?
The paper melts away in my hand but not before I can read. A permit for hope, emotion I no longer crave.
Ragtag Daily Prompt: Hope
Fandangos One Word Challenge: Permit
Tales of A Teenage Wasteland
When I was 18 I got so drunk that my friends thought I was going to die. I went limp, crumpled onto the floor like a discarded shirt.
As you do, in some realms of fantasy when your friend may be dying, they stripped my clothes and tossed me into the shower then set to planning.
How could they handle this? How could they keep from getting in trouble? After all, I was certainly not supposed to be drinking.
“I know!” I’m sure one of them said. “Let’s put her on the curb and call 911.”
Let it be known, my friends weren’t the most brilliant because it was January in a very north eastern state and the curb was a snow bank they could lose me in.
The rising water in the tub nearly choked me as my friends tried to wrangle my wet body. I tried to breathe but at first my lungs just wouldn’t expand.
“We thought you were dead!” Their gazes passed over my cold naked body. “We were going to leave you outside.”
“That the best idea you had?”
Drunk and nearly dead I managed to wonder if it was too late to look for new friends.
All The Rage
Has anyone ever really thought about how Santa’s fat ass fits down the chimney?
He slaps on some spanx, squeezes his ass down there. The miracle of Christmas.
It doesn’t feel like Christmas. It feels like rush hour on Monday morning when you’re already late.
Stop. Go. In and out of traffic.
Did you just honk at me?! Motherfucker.
I slam the gas until I’m not sure it’ll unstick and ride up beside the only asshole my 20 mph over the speed limit wasn’t fast enough for.
It’s Christmas and I intend to bestow the gift of a great big F you.
I swerve in between the lanes. I can see the sweat running down this jerks neck and the veins in his eyes as they go wide.
Merry Christmas fucker.
My fingers are tingling, a sensation that dances up my arms.
I pay enough attention to know this is a bad sign. I have to dial in my frustrations.
Calm. Calm. Relax.
I take deep breaths, my therapist would be proud. My doctor probably would be too. The air moves in and out of my lungs, sponges absorbing this cursed city air.
That’s ok. Just breathe.
The tingling recedes only slightly as I focus on the point between breaths, just like the therapist taught me.
In … Out
RDP: Chimney
FOWC: Dial
Every Day is the Same
I’d heard of the yellow brick road. I saw The Wizard of Oz when it first came out. I never thought I’d find myself standing here. The bricks aren’t yellow, more of a grey, and the air hangs heavy and full of electricity.
Trees aren’t the same. They’re monstrous and dead. Orbs of fruitful memories drop to land. They scatter, running from the light, but I catch a few. And what delight! They’re flexible and sticky. They play back cherished memories.
But what of the ones that run? They roll from the path, away from the sun, into the trees, obscured by dead leaves.
I chase them down, determined to know.
What is it these scared orbs hold?
In the darkness they reveal things unknown. Small strings which take hold. They pull me farther, abandoning the path, as they trap me under a forest wrath.
These memories aren’t cherished. Forgotten and unloved, they demand immediate resolve. I find one after the other, a path none should take.
I abandon handfuls of the light and cling to the dark. They pull at my strings, they break my heart.
Then I jerk awake, just an old woman in a bed. Little memory of the dreams I’ve had. Nothing rushes back, nothing remains. It’s just me and a window and brick wall company.
Every day is the same.
RDP Prompt: Memory Lane – FOWC: Daily
Flourish
I’m terrified
This is everything
Life was meant to be