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Friday Fictioneers – We Were Just Children

FFbenches

PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

 

Sitting behind me, as fate would have it, as you drag your finger across my back, I know it’s you.  The faintest touch of a dizzily dragging finger that makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck like you knew it would.  But we were just children.

 

And you were still just a child when you passed to the other side; when you knocked on my door and asked to come back.  It was too late.  I felt a guilt it my heart I didn’t know was there, like you knew I would.  But we were just children.

 


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Jaded Diamond

It’s been three years since they said it would be over in three months.

It’s been three years since I wasn’t warned to bear the brunt.

It’s been three years since I couldn’t munch-crunch on brunch-

Only ever wanting to confront the bunched up grunts with a punch,

And a punt in their scrunched up guts.

But I was too weak – too tamed to maim the brains I blame,

For my guts lacerated like a hollow candy-cane.

So all my aggression, depression, pressurized this compression,

That I prayed would turn my lump of coal into a diamond – that’s my confession.

Kept tryin’ to turn it into a positive,

But I’m positive – it sure was causative.

 

The result was no diamond.  I’m jaded.

My ‘care-free’ faded.  My Mr. Brightside shaded.

And to not be angry at the God who forgave me;

I hope He’ll save me from these drugs I keep taking.

‘Cuz I know that I’m destined for more than monthly injections,

For this lower intestine.

And you know I’m bestin’,

To alchemize this jade into perfection.

It’s predestined progression- not even a question of reaching succession.

I’m working to the top.

Until then- can’t stop.

Sunday Photo Fiction – Behind Closed Doors

stonecat

Walking down 3rd Street, passing across Washington, we phase through ethereal fog. We can taste the smog, the ‘city-water’ sitting water splashing under endless tires, me and my daughter. The aftertaste of old pennies and nickels permeates my palate. I can almost taste the tableau of top brass, Thomas Jefferson, under the steel skyscrapers. The contour of the skyline sharply engraves itself on the curvature of the night sky’s full-moon like the flavor of the etching of the executives on the change in the pocket of my mouth. The rigidity of the urban iron and the awful aroma of alloy is obnoxiously noxious, but despite my derision, I stay stone-faced in disdain.

Cars cruise past the far lane as I try to keep sane through all this pain. I look down at my daughter for some respite and she’s already looking back at me with a crooked smile in delight in the light of the city at night and I can’t help but wonder when we forget that everything will be alright. Her face scrunches in playful disgust as she sticks her tongue out: sensing the same sense I’m sensing. I just can’t help but wonder at what age do we hide our true feelings behind closed doors behind closed doors behind closed doors behind closed….


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Friday Fictioneers – Rainy Nights

It’s been a while….

© Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
© Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

I tagged you first as the rain fell.  You chased me through the umbrella-d drones: scared of shorting their circuitry.  The rain fell on us.

I looked back at you when you stopped smiling to blow the wet hair off your face.  I didn’t notice wet socks in new shoes while I stopped you in your tracks with a puddle splash.  We circled around lampposts and street signs, cutting through drizzled grass back to the car.  I jumped in to lock the door from you, but you were too close behind.  You tagged me in the passenger seat the night the rain washed away our age.


Sunday Photo Fiction – House on the Sand

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She parked her walker at the side of the old beach bench and reached her shaky hands into the pocket for her sunglasses.  After fumbling through small bags of tissues and her pack of daily pills, she found them and clipped them onto her bifocals.  Her vision isn’t what it used to be, even with glasses, but she didn’t see the point in getting new ones.  Her sight was blurry and the glaucoma had hazed away her view.

She could still make out the children making sand sculptures: castles, moats, faces, and animals.  She watched them play in all the sand they had left in their hourglasses while sitting on wood on pavement.  Their grains of grit will slowly wash away with the creations they’ve built with their time, and they’ll eventually figure out it’s all temporary.

She pitied them, for their houses were built on sand.  Even their castles would not survive against the tide.  For those precious grains to slow their falling, they would have to be burnt to glass – hardened, but the flames take their toll.  It is best just to build your house on the rock.

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.

Sunday Photo Fiction – Anchors Aweigh

Joining another community with familiar faces.  Hope I’m not being intrusive at this point!  Check out others here!


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Another sleepless night after seeing so many fall asleep for eternity.  Not enough Trazodone, melatonin, and alcohol in the world can turn my waking mind off.  The door is locked, the curtains closed, the fan on, and my bed is cozy, but I have to keep my candle lit to fight off bad dreams.  I think it might be keeping me awake.

I can see the flicker of light and shadow on my bedroom wall dance around in harmony from being lit.  Sometimes I can see the bright and dark form into shapes, into figures, into people I know-knew.  The ghosts are making hand-puppets on my walls.  I can see the outline of the mother that raised me, and the father that brought her down.  I want to fix them; I want to join them.  I can feel the weight of my skin and bones clinging me to this bed like an anchor as I see my parents waltz in the flicker of candlelight and moonlight.  A few more pills, a couple more shots, and then I can join them in sleep.

Anchors aweigh.