The Day She Rises

shnikt, shnikt

Metal strikes mineral in rhythmic space.

shnikt, shnikt

She is a lean shadow, sat alone. Silent tears shed blending into the briny tide that approach and recede her salt licked feet. Only saline tracks that frame her cheeks tell tale they existed.

Dawn chains to dusk, none saw her arrive, nor leave.

shnikt,

She has just been… there…

shnikt, shnikt,

Stone in one hand, blade in the other is no game or dream for her

shnikt,

We watch and wonder what on Earth caused this refrain

I do not weep at the world – I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.

Words unspoken yet heard by all nonetheless

Not what they seem, the tears screen not her melancholy, but her rage

shnikt, shnikt

And all we know is: the day she rises will lead to the night someone falls

shnikt, shnikt


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dVerse Poets Pub | Prosery: Finding Ms. Zora Neale Hurston

Today Lisa introduces the pub to one of my favorite writers, Zora Neale Hurston and challenges us to write a piece of prose that is no longer than 144 words, sans title, and must include the line “I do not weep at the world – I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.” from Hurston’s “How Does it Feel to be Colored Me” in World Tomorrow (1928). This can be flash fiction, nonfiction, or creative nonfiction, but it must be prose!

The Sunday Whirl | Wordle 510

refrain, lead, shed, dream, frame, space, recede, seem, screen, game, lean, chain

MLMM Sunday Writing Prompt, July 18/21 – The Quiet One

The Beginning of The End

She sat among her own.

Around her were other historians of the old, the ancient, in spoken word alone. Some old, some young, all in awe of the hoarfrost woman, the eldest of the griots.

Eyes of stone that easily flashed in compliments or condemnations, were a study in consternation as she gazed among those gathered. Especially the young who dared challenge their way.

“Only mouths are we who sings the distant heart which safely exists in the center of all things!”

Bent and cane dependent, she moved boldly nonetheless to the youngest among them and held out a gnarled, aged hand.  He had tried to hide the offending item he carried, but as always, she knew.  

He handed her the scroll. Their history on vellum.

He saw it as the beginning.

She knew it for what it was: the beginning…

…of their end.


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dVerse Poets Pub | Prosery: Here’s the thing about existing

At dVerse Sanaa tends bar and welcomes us to another round of Prosery where we are asked to write a very short piece of prose that tells a story, with a beginning, a middle and an end, in any genre of our choice.

Since it is a kind of Flash Fiction, there is a limit of 144 words. It must include a complete line from a poem in the story, within the word limit.

Punctuation can be changed, but it is not allowed to subract or insert words in between parts of the original quotation.

This week’s quote:

“Only mouths are we. Who sings the distant heart which safely exists in the center of all things?” – from Rainer Maria Rilke, “Heartbeat.”