Category Archives: Mondays Finish the Story

Mondays Finish the Story – Devil’s Abode

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© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

“The cemetery spread along the area known as Devil’s Abode.”

It’s where they used to bury the inmates that spent their life in prison or were sentenced to the chair.  The townsfolk didn’t want their ‘untainted’ souls mixed with the stained ones, so they plotted out another graveyard.  They don’t bury anyone in the Devil’s Abode now, since the Civil Rights issues.  It’s been all but abandoned out there.

I went to see it one time.  Curiosity got the best of me, I guess.  I was surprised it hadn’t become a tourist attraction.  I walked past the cracked headstones and dying trees trying to make out the faded names, when I came across a well-dressed man sitting on top of a slab, smoking a Camel.

“Good afternoon,” I said to him, with a nod.

He nodded back.

After a moment, curiosity conquered again.  “What are you doing around these parts?” I asked, trying to not sound rude.

After puffing out a cloud of smoke, he answered, “Business,” as he tapped the ashes onto the ground.


Mondays Finish the Story – Material Things

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I see absolutely everything.

Soaring on the heights of wings.

Discerning which of the ants down there

Are supposed to be the queen and king.

 

I may be deemed ethereal,

But definitely not imperial.

That’s what they have over me-

Their things are material.

 

I wish I could give you all the world,

Necklaces, bracelets, rings all pearled.

I wanted to be there already,

But my plans have all unfurled.

 

Maybe it’s some fear of commitment,

I already want to be at fulfillment,

Too much to say with no one to read,

So I guess I’ll just have to film it.

 

I need shaken this unshakeable vice,

That I feel each gift must have a price,

Even when you say you don’t need it,

Some gifts sure do entice.

 

So my darling, and dear friend,

I promise to make it in the end.

You’ll have more than you’ll ever need,

Until then, love I send.

 

 

Mondays Finish the Story – Petroglyphs

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© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham
© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

“The petroglyphs told the story of an unusual event.”

An event so precisely parsed even William could tell.  Our handicapped language is still working, but I still can’t effortlessly illustrate this devastating event of a feeling – a muted implosion of serotonin and adrenaline through capillaries that discharge blind aggression like kerosene between teen King and Queen Dopamine.  I need three bottles of codeine before I try to convey this allegory with metaphors, analogies, and similes like a Professor Dickens teaching the difference between two cities.  I could borrow a French expression, add an Arabic adage, and toss in a Portuguese epigram.  I can’t do this.  I have to postpone this interpretation to deaf bones.  I have to escape it – this feeling, this pain, this pleasure.  I’m prone to combat these, although I don’t condone, trazodone until I’m monotone.

Mondays Finish the Story – Town Funds

© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham
© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

“The Mayor and the town manager waved as their next victim approached.”

The methodology was simple; two people, every year, must die.  One year it would be two lower-class victims.  The next year, one middle-class or rich and one poor.  Then back to two poor.  The cycle continues.  The poor victims served as scapegoats; only killing the rich would make their intentions obvious, and being caught would be more likely.  Once a rich victim was taken, their family would pour all their funds into the town and state governments until they were found.

They were never found.

But the paychecks kept coming.  And the mystery of the disappearances only added to the advertising and tourism revenue.  Mysteriousness sells, even when engulfed in danger.  Everyone benefitted.  Well, except the victims.

The plan would continue on as long as the secret remained.  Few people knew, and it was about to be fewer.  What’s more intriguing than a missing Mayor?


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Mondays Finish the Story – Family Tree

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© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham
© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

“What a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.”

Obfuscating freedom with obscurity,

Trickery,

Deceptively-

Leading others to misery,

Melancholy,

Gloomy.

Unhappy-

Spindly spindles of sticky,

Tacky,

Gluey,

Lies not of necessity,

And they will inevitably,

Unavoidably,

Certainly,

Unescapably,

Unsurprisingly,

Be the end of me.

This web stuck up in a tree,

Of family,

Captured are he, she,

Me.

We’re all undeniably,

Irrefutably,

Indubitably,

Trapped for all eternity,

In this world we see,

Where things are not as they seem to be.

Our brothers are not brotherly,

And sisters not sisterly.

We never knew if our mothers were motherly,

Or our fathers fatherly.

Our guardians are not parentally:

Neither paternally,

Or maternally.

Those genetically,

Heritably,

Natively,

Naturally,

Evil things are a monstrosity,

That left us be,

Because of such a high fee.

They didn’t care about our survivability,

Leaving us under a park tree,

When our guardians selflessly,

Saved you and me,

From our deceptively,

Gloomy,

Gluey,

“Family” tree.

Mondays Finish the Story – Miners Hill

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© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham
© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

“The only residents remaining in the small town of Miners Hill are spirits.”

The mine collapse killed several bodies, and the living ones left with their broken families from the broken economy.  Without the mine, they didn’t have money to rescue the workers, and Miners Hill became a ghost town.

The ghosts of the miners still work the mine.  They work without any rest in hopes things will go back to normal.  They work every second of every day so their families have a reason to come back.  The hopeless ones are the hopeful ones, and the ones that gave up are gone.  To live in the shadow of a murderous hill was too dark for the people outside, but the men who are trapped in eternal darkness stay to work: work to get their families back, or work to get back to their families.  They’ve almost dug back up to the surface, out of their collective grave.

Mondays Finish the Story – Angel Flame

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© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham
© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

“The crew of the Angel Flame received orders to head out.”

Five men, two pilots, two divers, and the captain, pack into the DSRV (Deep Submergence Rescue Vehicle) in search for valuable wreckage, bodies, and, God-willing, survivors.  The cruise liner rested at the bottom of the ocean, one half upside-down, the other awkwardly on its side.

The pilots and captain waited as the divers surveyed the wreckage.  The light from the submarine hardly did anything to light up the dark abyss, and the divers struggled to search efficiently.  They returned empty-handed.

As they returned to the surface, the crew of the Angel Flame swore they saw wisps of light hovering around and past their sub.  The souls of the drowned followed their angels’ flame back to the top.

The support ship on the surface above didn’t see any abnormal lights from their view.  However, just seconds after the submarine surfaced, a hundred dead bodies emerged on the surface of the water surrounding the Angel Flame.