i married a man
with cereal aisle psychosis
whom i can leave to ponder
this or that
or that or this
for half a day
and still wind up
with naught
but a bowl of milk
for breakfast
my question is
if the cereal aisle
is such a conundrum
how did he
choose me?
Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?
We both know your heart is hollow
with a lining of artificial sweetener
and a crust constructed from the ashes
of all the victims who came before me.
“How nice to see you again.”
Your smile hides the snarl
that will wither me, I know
’cause I’ve been here before.
I’m the idiot who comes back for more.
The chase ends here, my fake friend.
You’ll fool me no more with your saccharine ways
The jig is up
and I’ll bury you alive
before you slither back into my life.
She walks like she’s being followed, slow and fast, turning right four times and then left, watching her back all the time. She sees a cheat from a mile away and wonders why he’s cheating. Look at his beautiful wife, after all. She wishes she could look over her virtual shoulder, to see if they’re all copying her.
She waits.
Tension is her middle name.
Is that something burning?
Are the homeless really spies?
She’d have her groceries delivered if it wasn’t for that weird guy who works at the store.
What was that noise?
The bugs are coming in.
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!!!!????
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.”
They say there are ghosts and goblins in Nightmare Alley, but I know different. Nightmare Alley is empty. Devoid of sound and light; even the walls are hard to find. But smell? Oh, there’s a lot of that going on. Dead things and garbage, feces and urine, all of it thinly masked by the sweet scent of mint.
Nightmare Alley is the place where men who have regrets go to die. It’s a dreamscape for the innocent who are eternally paying for their past lives. It’s the plague of the insomniac. It’s purgatory for the guilty who walk there forever.
your dark that should
be comforting
ends with a slap on
the cheek
or the ass
and you plunge into
thoughts disturbed
by demons of so
long ago
your dark that should
envelope you in a warmth at
the end of a screeching day
does nothing but make
you recall the
hope that
you lost
somewhere in
someplace within
that time when you felt
safe and whole
and now
and now when everything
lay to waste
in shades of emo
and silky
black
your thoughts decline
to the depths
of holy
nothing
You come back. You always do. If I didn’t know better I’d say you were a moth and I am the flame, but no. An insect doesn’t draw all that satisfying ego-boosting boot-licking luxury from a candle. You don’t burn up. You suck.
I wish you could grow up. Take responsibility for the debts you have created. But you act as though the world is your playground. You swing upon the chains that society links together and not surprisingly, it bears your weight. We are a forgiving bunch, me and the other plebes.
But you and me, we’re more personal, aren’t we. How many days and nights and weeks and months and years have we spent in each other’s company. Giving and taking is our history. I’ve plucked from you your essence and you… you have leeched my heart, drop by bloody drop, replacing just enough to keep me alive.
The light in my heart flickers each time we talk. You squint and through my eyes you see the workings of my brain – you analyse and I can actually see your “aha!” moment when you find that thing, that crack in my armor, and you’re like a vacuum. Resistance is futile.
You will never let me go. Even if you die before me I will always wonder if there is more I could have done. More I could have given. One more drop of blood; one more spark of light.
You were my love and now, now you kill me slowly. You always come back.
Dear Mr. [insert name]
Let me start off by saying I’m your biggest fan. The first time I saw you it was like WHOA I’ve got to hear and see everything you’ve ever done because OMG you’re so beautiful!! So I went on Youtube and I must’ve spent like hours that first day watching. Your [insert name] is the absolute best ever!!!!
It’s been about [insert time period] since then and I feel like I know you. We’re like soulmates. I feel like I knew you in a past life or something and whenever I watch an interview with you I’m nodding my head. It’s almost as if I know what you’re going to say next!!! Your words are like heaven to me and we’re so alike it’s just amazing. I know that when we meet you’re going to feel it too.
I’ll be seeing you on [insert date] and I hope you’ll find me in the crowd. We’re meant to be together forever. I know it. It’s like fate or something.
Until then.
I love you forever.
[signature]
P.S. I’m getting a tattoo with your picture next week! I hope you’ll sign it for me and then I’ll get your signature tattooed too!!! 😀
badge by Doobster @ Mindful Digressions
This post is part of SoCS: http://lindaghill.com/2015/02/13/the-friday-reminder-and-prompt-for-socs-february-1415/#comment-39145
and Love Is In Da Blog: https://justfoolingaroundwithbee.wordpress.com/2015/02/08/love-is-in-da-blog-february-ping-back-post-rulessuggestions-week2/
Sturgis peeked out from the closet and watched the faint line of light between his bedroom door and its jam flicker as the bodies passed back and forth. The fishy smell of his own pee, puddled and dried and puddled again on the shag carpet underneath him filled his nose. He’d tried to go in his shoe but it leaked. At least the screaming had stopped.
The men with the black coats with POLICE came in a while ago. Some of them spoke in low voices, while others laughed and said bad words. Sturgis wondered when they would finally leave.
It started the way it always did. Mom dressed up in her shiny silver pants that showed all her lumps and creases, and shoes that made her almost as tall as a man. She piled her hair on top of her head and painted her eyes so many different colours that it was hard to tell what colour they were supposed to be. Then she bounced him out the door in her tight sparkly top, her bosom patting him on his head, and into the car for the long, boring drive to Auntie Bambi’s house. The car radio was broken, so Mom sang. “Out of the frying pan and into the fire,” over and over. He’d never heard the song on the radio before, but Mom seemed to know it. She always kissed him on his forehead and told him she’d be back in three days. Sturgis didn’t know why it was always three days, but it was.
Today was only day one.
Sturgis loved Auntie Bambi the best. She called him Fishie hugged him a lot and told him he was handsome. She always felt soft, and sometimes in the winter she would warm him up by opening her shirt so he could get closer. She said her own little boy, Ralfie, had been just like him before Ralf got scooped up by the cops. Auntie Bambie had given Sturgis Ralfie’s room and told Mom to drop him off any time. He thought Auntie Bambi loved him more than his mom, who told him she hated the city he was named after.
This time wasn’t any different from any other time. After Auntie Bambi was done hugging Sturgis, she always got on the phone and invited a man over. While she waited for the man, she told Sturgis that when he was bigger she’d invite him over all for herself, just like the men. Then she’d send Sturgis to his room, even if it was early. Sometimes she forgot to feed him, but most of the time she called him out to the kitchen and sat him down in front of a plate of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches while she and the man went out on the veranda and hid in the corner behind the big piece of wood that was nailed up between the house and the house next door. Once, Sturgis peeked out; he never told anyone what he saw. He just really wanted to forget all that soft white flesh bouncing like Mom bounced, but when Auntie Bambi held him, he remembered what it looked like all over again. Only then it wasn’t so bad.
Sturgis thought about getting out of the closet and telling the POLICE he was there. He almost got up once. But then he thought about all the questions they would ask him, just like on TV. They’d take him to the COP SHOP and interragade him. Mom told him that people who got interragaded got Gatorade, but he thought Mom was just joshing him. Even though Sturgis was pretty thirsty, he didn’t want to leave Auntie Bambi’s house. He thought maybe Auntie Bambi didn’t want the POLICE to know he was there either. Maybe that’s why she’d been keeping so quiet.
The other reason Sturgis didn’t want to be interragaded was because he didn’t want to have to tell the POLICE what he heard. The shouting started before dinner time. He didn’t know the man who came over but the man seemed to know Sturgis. The man kept asking about Mom, and wanted to know where he could find her. He said some very very bad words about Auntie Bambi–even worse than the words the POLICE said when they were joking–and then he started looking for Sturgis. That’s when Sturgis hid in the closet.
Then the big sounds, like firecrakers on Canada Day, went off. And then the sirens brought the POLICE.
Sturgis hoped the POLICE would leave soon. He needed to pee again, and Mom would be mad already that he’d gone in his pants. Usually when he had an accident at Auntie Bambi’s house, she washed his pants and didn’t tell Mom. But mostly he wanted a hug from Auntie Bambi. Her softness would make everything better, like always.
Find the Flash Fiction Challenge at Chuck Wendig’s site: http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2014/06/27/flash-fiction-challenge-bad-parents/
Linda G. Hill 