I’m a two-dimensional figure,
posed for a display in a shop window
unable to move
unable to speak
but people walk by and laugh
and point at me as though
I have no feelings.
I do!
I am not the one who put me here
not the one who chose my pose
and yet I bear the brunt
of the ridicule meant
for my poser.
What a hoser.
He won’t even apologize.
***
Apology
Instructions on side of box read:
1. Carefully slice the circular sticker holding the top flap, using a sharp knife.
2. Lift flap. Caution: Do not look inside box.
3. With arms extended, reach into box and find the green tab.
“Wait. How can I find the green tab if I can’t look inside the box?”
“Keep reading!!!”
4. The green tab is smooth; the blue tab has pockets.
“What the hell are tab pockets?”
“Just… feel!”
“Okay, got it.”
5. Pull the green tab gently toward you.
6. When you feel a breeze, cease pulling.
7. Clasp blue tab and count to nine.
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven…”
“…eight? Why did you stop counting?”
“I farted.”
“Damn it, Marty! We bought a box of stinky wind for nothing!”
***
Wind is the prompt. Bizarre is the story.
If I can’t have you, I can at least dream you are here.
The day you died I thought I would expire with grief.
These four walls seem to mock me – outside is inches away, but here I stay.
Holding your lifeless body, trapped somehow in those moments when your eyes gazed back…
If I ever escape, I will find you and hold you and never let you go.
…there I remain. Except when I sleep, I dream you are here, my love.
My love. Until we meet again.
***
Inspired by my novel-in-progress.
“Hey, Brother! Where you bound?
I’m off to America. For breakfast.
“I hear there’s a crisis going on over there.”
“Crisis? What crisis?”
“Oh, it’s the crime of the century, some say.”
“You don’t say!”
“Mmhm. But then again, some things never change.”
“True enough. Some things are indelibly stamped.”
“Well, if you decide to go anyway, enjoy yourself.”
“I’ll do my best. Though now that you’ve mentioned the crisis, my may take a walk in the woods by myself, to think it over.”
“Yes, well. Sometimes we come to mistaken conclusions, even in the quietest moments.”
The Daily Post word of the day: Crisis.
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.
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.”
Linda G. Hill 