writing

Slowly you turned…

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.

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*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.

The Chronicles of Mary, Part 5

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.

Frail

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.”

Frail

drive, a haiku

driving happily
top down, wind in hair, I smile
between teeth, dead bugs

Drive

#SoCS – Unpredictable

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.

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Nightmare Alley – 100 words

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.

Spelling Matters, a Limerick

There once was a young man named Rand
Who thought his desert rather bland
He yelled at the waiter
Who just wouldn’t cater
When Rand asked he take back the sand

Find The Daily Post prompt here.

Concentration through Glass

This post is a combination of the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt, Concentration, and the Daily Post prompt, Glass.

If I watch a raindrop upon my window, as it runs down causing a rivulet of light and shadow, in it I see the world in inverse. Is it that rain turns the world upside down? Or is the contrast of the dry inside and the wet on the outside so opposite that it flips my mind on its head… so to speak?

Mind blown.

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A False Lie

Tension filled the courtroom. Both prosecutor and defense stood when the jury walked solemnly back in.

As the crowd held its collective breath, the foreman spoke: “We, the jury, find the accused to be guilty of spreading false lies.”

The prosecutor and the defense turned to the head of the court for confirmation. The judge banged his gavel. “The defendant has been exonerated by virtue of double negative. Case dismissed!”

The Daily Post prompt today is False.

Breezing Through – strange poetry

A human infant, if left outside (safely) in a high wind may lose its breath, but it will likely survive into adulthood,
a chick, high in a nest may get blown away and never seen again,
a bee caught unawares in a sudden gust may end up in another garden,
but a fart captured by even the slightest breeze is sure to die.

Have pity for the fart. For it is a rare and short-lived species.