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.
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.
You may be wondering why I’ve gathered you all here today. Please, settle down–yes, you in the back! Calm down!–and allow me to explain.
No matter the length of the journey, whether it be an epic one or a trip to the corner store, each begins with a single step. As did mine. My epic journey began like any other. I awoke, brushed my teeth, and set out. I made it all the way to the car before I realized I had forgotten my car keys!
You in the back! I’m not going to tell you again! So I went back into the house for the keys, but the phone was ringing. I went to answer it in case it was important. Because you know, I was heading out on an epic, year-long journey! It turned out to be someone selling time-shares. Imagine that! So I hung up and off I went again.
I waited the proper time at the airport – got a coffee, that sort of thing. It wasn’t until it was time to head to the gate that I realized I’d put my plane ticket down when I ran to answer the phone!
So that is why I’m here, talking to you a mere three hours and forty-five minutes after I embarked on my epic year-long journey. I shall attempt to go again next month, and when I get to the secret location to which I’m going, I will purchase your gold, with the money you have entrusted to me, and return with it a year from the time I leave. Yes I know! The man in the back would like his money returned to him now, but I’m afraid…
What do you mean, you all want your money back? Hey! Get off me! I… ahh!!!
Linda G. Hill 