Tag Archives: short

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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Chop Chop!

The date at 6.  The clock at 5.  Everyone waiting for me to arrive like festivities barred behind brittle little braces and I’m the Straw that breaks its back.  I want to be there.  I want more time with you all.  But painful is the prodding that produces this person to patiently mosey around from my private cove.  The lines on the clock face tick lines on my face, and all I hear is –

 

Chop Chop!

 

My private cove where my actions are my own and not the production of string pulls on my marionette.  My door like scissors that cut me loose into my own sanctuary.  I drop my masquerade in a jar by the door and may work on my dreams in peace.  And pieces they become for two eyes of my own for I share them with no one; not for my sake, I just wear a particular prescription.  My farsighted lenses I paint over with roses save me from the Grims that speak with no filter.  So I stay here with myself.  I lie in bed and let my aspirations float up into the ceiling fan – and pieces they become.

 

Chop Chop!

Love Letter

You’re the gravity,

That gives these words weight.

Without you, it’s just a blank slate.

 

You’re the word I can’t stop repeating,

Until it loses all meaning,

But I can’t stop from singing.

 

You’re the body I hold under the sheet,

Because when our brains turn off,

Our hearts still beat.

 

You’re the gravity,

That gives these words weight.

Without you, it’s just a blank slate.

 

You’re the one after the “To”,

Who I’m sending this love letter,

To try and make our love better.

 

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.

Mondays Finish the Story – Devil’s Abode

2015-08-31-bw-beacham
© 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.


Mommy Under the Bed

Copied from my post on nosleep.  


Another night of overtime.  This paycheck better be worth it.  It better be worth not seeing my wife, my kid, my home… my TV.

I got home late again.  I try to turn the key and knob so it doesn’t make any noise.  I can feel the deadbolt clunk back, I tiptoe inside, and lock the door behind me.  I quietly slip my shoes off and slink up the stairs.  It was only after I got into the bedroom and undressed that I realized my entire body had been tense since I got to the porch.  Something about being quiet tenses you up.  I slide into bed next to my wife, kiss her on the back of the head, and go to sleep.

“Daddy.”

I squeeze one eye shut and crack the other to see my son is standing next to my bed in his pajamas.  It’s still late, but he had turned the hallway light on.

“Yeah?”

“Mommy is under my bed,” he said.

“There’s a monster under your bed?” I asked, trying to wake my body up enough to be coherent.  Usually I could force some motivation, but I guess these long nights had gotten to me.

“No, Mommy,” he says.

“Mommy’s right here next to me.  Go turn the hallway light off.”

“Bu-“

“Now,” I demanded.  He scampered back out of the room and turned the light off.  As soon as it was dark again, my wife shifted comfortably back into bed.  Now that she was awake, I knew I had to get up to check on him.  I picked myself up on my elbow and sat up.  I felt incredibly weak, but I bent back over and told my wife I’d be right back.  I couldn’t see the bedroom in the dark, so I felt around until I grabbed my robe and walked to the hallway door.  My son was standing there waiting on me.

“Alright buddy, let’s go check it out.”  My eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness of the hallway, and I finally managed some energy.  I guess it was nice to see my son for the first time in a while.

We walked to his bedroom together.  I grabbed his hand, opened the door, and flipped on the lights.  I closed the door behind me to drown out some of the noise for my wife.

“Alright, buddy.  Let’s check this out.”  I knelt on the floor and bent down.  I collapsed.  My wife’s mutilated body laid twisted under the bed, her head snapped towards me and her eyes wide open.  I couldn’t breathe.  I couldn’t move.  But….

“Buddy, don’t look under here!”  I said, my voice rising and shaking.  I reached for her, every part of her body tense and strict.  Her skin looked dark blue.

“Daddy?!” he whimpered.  Hearing my son made me release some tension, enough for me to hear footsteps coming down the hall.

“Run and lock the door!” I told him.  He ran over and locked it, then we both scooted to the back wall and watched the doorknob jerk.

Friday Fictioneers – The Blacksmith

Tried a more fairy-tale approach for this one!  Been trying different writing styles lately.  Feedback is welcomed!

© C. Hase
© C. Hase

A king once told a local blacksmith to build him the strongest shackles in the world so he could capture a dragon and take its gold.  In return, the blacksmith would receive a large portion of the wealth.

Immediately after the king’s proposition, the blacksmith ordered his son to travel the world and send him the strongest stones he finds.  Whenever the blacksmith received a stone, he molded it into a shackle, and tested the strength of it on himself, as he was a strong man.  After several years, the blacksmith had finally found the strongest metal, but he could not tell the king because he had locked himself at home.