your arrival is music
to my strained ears
relief for my nerves
that threaten to pop
the hair out of my head.
you’re the sanctuary of my mind
which struggles not to leave home
to escape the cries of your offspring
for every young mother of a newborn
who is blessed to have her mate
come home of an evening
Why can’t all the clocks be the same? It doesn’t matter how hard I try, none of the clocks in my kitchen change at the same time. And I know why: it’s because there’s no second hand. You change the time on a digital clock, but you don’t know… YOU DON’T KNOW! You can’t have ANY way of knowing if you’re setting it for 7:05:05 or 7:05:58. And when the second one happens, you’ve got to friggin’ start all over again! And some of them you have to scroll through 23 hours and 59 minutes to get to the right time again! Who in the living HELL thought digital clocks were a good idea in the first place? And don’t get me started on the clock in the car. I set it according to my phone and a month later it’s slow by a minute. How can anyone be expected to live like this!!!!????
Making the punishment fit the crime ain’t always easy. Yeah, there’s the obvious ones – cutting off the hand of a thief, chopping off the testicles of a rapist – but what do you do with them there politicians? I suppose you could tie up their tongues to stop ’em spewing propaganda. You could given ’em an epidural so they can’t stand on their platforms. Or you could just dowse ’em in oil and send ’em sliding up the road. Call ’em slick.
Yep. They sure are.
You move with devastating slowness. How can you not hear it? Instead of stepping off the tracks, you turn to look at me, and I’m screaming and screaming, “There’s a train coming!!”
And I wake up in a cold sweat, my legs cramped and my lungs devoid of air. As the seconds turn to minutes I relax. It’s got to be the taco I ate for dinner. There’s always a trigger*.
The Daily Post prompt today is Slowly. The Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt is second. Click the links to check them out and join in.
*Author’s note: “Slowly I turned…” is a reference to a series of old comedy sketches. Worth the Google search if you’re not familiar with them.
After three years on the job, Mary finally got a week off. She decided to spend it carefree, devoid of responsibility or effort. She put her feet up and read all day, watched Netflix, and only once did she get up to answer the door. It just happened to be a lawyer, serving a subpoena for her to appear in court as a witness to a labour dispute.
how lengthy
is the time spent
between creations
of yours
while you are deep
within yourself
diving and drowning
and unable to function
until a spark of a thought
fires your synapses
and the light in your eyes
goes from ember to blaze
and you’re elated for days
and oh, your creations
they shine!
they sing!
they inspire the masses
to dance
and be glad
and they sing along
then listen
to your background music
as they read
or make love
and you
dive back
down to
your depths
I knew there was something wrong when I arrived at my fiancee’s house and saw the feast laid out on the table. The rows of gleaming cars might have tipped me off, but I’d been so happy to get back home after two long years at sea that I didn’t notice. I’d wanted to surprise her. I was the one who ended up with the shock.
She was marrying another man. I deserted the navy for nothing.
This post is a combination of The Daily Post prompt, which today is Feast, and the Tuesday Use It In A Sentence prompt by the lovely Stephanie, whose word of the week is Desert.
How frail is the bully on the inside? He who has likely gone through abuse unlike any most know, he who must release the pent-up energy that he’s unable to expound in the face of his own bully. Likely his parent.
Gently, I say,
understand the frightened child
as you take his punches
and then say unto him
as you bleed upon the ground,
“You are no better
than your own abuser,
asshole.”
driving happily
top down, wind in hair, I smile
between teeth, dead bugs
If I wrote a story about you,
I would use words like “mystic” and “crazy.”
I would get a hand from the gods
because the gods are my friends.
I could choose a few anecdotes –
ones that would make people laugh.
I might bake a cake and call it you,
just so I can share you with my other friends.
If I clap my hands and you come running,
I will praise you, my friend, for that means you love me too.
I might circle the globe with you,
and we might just have fun.
Even though you’re afraid of heights
and I don’t need a plane to fly.
We could ride elephants and catch heffalumps:
it’s the Pooh thing to do.
And when we get home with all our treasures
we will place them on shelves and forget they exist.
If my enthusiasm for you dies,
I will probably die.
If I decide suddenly that I shan’t drive you to the airport when you need to go
(because that’s what friends do)
you might disown me, but I’d deserve it.
And if the water of my endless ocean of devotion for you dries up,
I will be left with a salty taste in my mouth.
But chances are that’s the worst case scenario,
because you’re as crazy as I am, and us crazies need to stick together.
If I wrote a story about you,
then it would definitely include me.
This is part of Stream of Consciousness Saturday, because it’s totally stream of consciousness writing and it contains this week’s prompt, “if/then.”
This is part of The Daily Post because it was totally Unpredictable.
Linda G. Hill 