Weekly Wordle #133 – Irrevocable

 

With an annoyed gnash of teeth, he swept the flower from the table. He heard her gasp at the door, saw her crushed face as the bloom sailed through the air.

Too late he remembered…

Knowing nothing could be done, they watch the snowy edelweiss float for the briefest moment, like birdseed tossed into the air, then seemingly hurtled towards the uncovered lantern for a curl of fire to capture it.

A sudden hollowness fills him – and he knows – his heart is gone.

He had scoffed at the old gypsy woman a year ago he rode away with his prize, her granddaughter.

Not anymore.

With an askance glance the charred remains of what could have been, the descendent simply turned walked away. It was his third warning. They both know, this time, it is irrevocable.

Smoky whorls landed oh so softly in his palms, soft like a kiss. Like the kiss of love he will never get to know.

…when her heart is gone, you will lose yours –  forever.

He stood there transfixed for a long time. A ludic Narcissus, staring into his tear-stained hands long after the ashes were gone.

That was his curse.
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Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie – Wordle #133 “December 12th, 2016”

Gnash, Lantern, Edelweiss, Birdseed, Capture, Heart, Askance, Descendent, Irrevocable, Ludic, Ashes, Curse

You can use at least 10 of the words to create a story or poem. The words can appear in an alternate form. Use the words in any order that you like.

I challenged myself to a- use all twelve words b- use them in order given and c- write a story in under 200 words

 

Weekly Wordle #132

I know all of the windows are down and locked; that the shutters are closed against the harsh wind blowing. The torrential rain that drenched so thoroughly late in the afternoon has turned to chilling huffs of air drying by force, regardless of those who of us would prefer a traditional drying via the sun’s warmth.  I know cannot actually feel its chill while safely ensconced inside, but, its howl seeps into my emotional marrow and I pull the quilt tighter around me in physical protection from its presumed frost. I imagine the wind as malevolent bellwether to the coming winter. Its simple breeze of earlier gathering a nuanced force – going from breezes, to winds, to gales that make weapons of weak branches and blow through fallen leaves causing haphazard grooves to chart our paths to the fence and beyond once the snow starts to fall.

It is late, past the witching hour, everyone has long since retired to the warmth of their beds. I am restless, so I choose to read. The soft bluish flame of the kerosene lamp on the table lights the nuanced world of words before me warmly. I pick up the lime half on the table near me to suck. Landlocked as I am, I flatter myself as the protagonist of the novel I read; lying about on a sunny beach with cool lime libation in hand.

Only to inhale and taste petrol instead.

I have been up so long I’ve become near nose blind to the gasoline scent of the lamp, never a good sign. Its scent is what reminds me of its presence and that it, like me, is not inexhaustible. I smile at my own little Faustian folly as I mark my place, put the book away and turn down the lamp.

I glance around the darkened room as I rise for my own slumber. The worries of the previous day now clutter at the bottom of a handbag to be dealt with on the morrow.

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Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie and Wordle

wordle-week-132

Gasoline, Lime, Bellwether, Late, Nuance, Marrow, Flattery, Clutter, Groove, Inexhaustible, Handbag, Faustian

Use at least 10 of the words to create a story or poem. The words can appear in an alternate form. Use the words in any order that you like.

Too late…

In less than a minute from contact the infection took hold of her as nanites crawled from inside her irises to cover her entire body.

He watched in silent shock at the transformation.

Bringing her to the very height of her beauty; the nanites slowed for only the briefest of moments, showing him everything thing she could ever be physically and by God was she stunning! He gasped in awe at her absolute perfection, the cruel, cruel taunt displayed before him as she gave him a glimmer of her classic smile. A smile he inwardly knew was not real, yet he was as mesmerized by it now as he was when she was alive.
Though yards away he started to reach out to her, to touch her, when the vicious nanites true job finally kicked in. Her momentarily perfect eyes implode in on itself as though a fine, blacker than black silt were being sucked into an even blacker than black hole.
Only then did it occur to him to run, before the nanites sensed his own body, when he saw the first hint of blackness encircle the fingertip of his still outstretched hand.
Too late…
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A guy sitting across from me on the train had absolutely filthy nails.  My muse took a wicked flight of fancy as one of his finger tips looked like something alien was slowly devouring it. Amidst my repulsion, and fascination on how a relatively clean looking person can have such crusty nails, this whole scenario above happened in that most dangerous of places – my mind.
Let’s  hope my fellow slicers are having a more benign mental state – check them out…
sol

Because

Saw this posted on Facebook…

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I feel this also applies to just about any and everyone in the creative field, but especially the writers.

We creative types give many, many thanks to our respective muses, imaginations, inspirations or whatever we choose to call that which guides us to create in whatever medium. And while everything we do is a piece of our truths, it’s not always our personal stories we convey.  A Clockwork Orange By Anthony Burgess,  Breakfast at Tiffany’s by Truman Capote are first person stories told from the viewpoints of a fifteen year old boy who probably has Asperger, and a flighty young woman in 1940’s New York City, respectively.  Suffice it to say neither tale was told from the first person view of the author. We as readers seem to innately understand this when it comes to novels, without introductions, forwards or some other advance notice to clue us in. Yet not so much with poems. Unless the reader already knows, or knows of, the writer, the first person view-point is general taken as, well, personal.

While my drawings and paintings leave a lot to be desired, I do feel I have a fair hand at the written word, specifically my poetry.  Still, just because my writes are in first person singular, don’t always make them my first hand account.I mostly write in the first person, as in 95% of what I pen is from that perspective, and considering  some of the poems I have written, let’s just say be damned grateful those writes are pure imagination, okay?

Though I cannot help it if it is not read, I now make a point of adding a footnote at the end of my writes if I think there may be even the slightest confusion. At least now, if a comment is given under misunderstood information, I know it’s not because I didn’t let the reader know.

I write, you read, and if the correct words come together enough for you to feel something, then I feel I’ve done my job well as communicator. I’m not going to lie, it makes me feel good when I read that the things I write touch people.  If I manage to evoke a laugh, a quiet reflection, visceral anger or have your heart-break just a little, I am grateful. Just not a former sharecropper, or an unborn child, or a cutter or getting murdered or… or…

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Let’s see how others are communicating with what’s left of this lovely Sunday:

sol

Slice of Life Writing Challenge – Day 13 – Two Writing Teachers

 

The Daily Post: Ready, Set, Done!

<trigger warnings – bodily fluids>

I am going mad.

A feeling not entirely out of the realm of possibility given the circumstances, truth be told. Surely if any place could inspire the fragmenting of one’s mind, this dark abyss would be so.  The ongoing series of low moans seeminly reverberate about the cramped space further emphasizing the horrendous state.

When was the last time we had fresh air? Saw sunshine?

Normally a gentle roll, the summer storm turned the normally gentle rocking of the ship into anything but a comforting lull. Several found their insides unceremoniously gushing out as a result of the lurching.  I tried not to think about it, but it was more near silent susurrus, a subliminal messaging of sorts to which I would not pay heed because this sin’t happening to me… This isn’t happening to me… This isn’t happening to me…This isn’t…

The man directly behind me starts speak when I feel hi body convulse and warm liquid strike my head and trails down my neck and back. I realize the first words were the beginnings of an apology he now completed, his stomach empty, butI ould not offer him the comforting words of understanding asthe stench and sheer repulsionstarts to overwhelm. Feeling itI reflectively try to back away from the warm body in front of me.  But like the man behind is bound to me and the stranger in front of me is chained to the man before him, I am just as shackled and cannot move when the ship lurches.

“I am sorry my brother”

And release…

Cross section of a slave ship 1828-1829.

Click for full size

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Ready, Set, Done! is a ten-minute free-write where you tap away on whatever comes to mind, no filters attached. You are free to edit later, or do as I have and just publish as-is. I have NO idea where this came from. I typed the first sentence, kept going and this was the result. The image was found after the fact.

Friday 55: I Know

3am wake-up to catch a 5am flight. Don’t want to wake him yet, so I trod to the bathroom in the dark.
The splash of cold water on my cheeks is bracing and I cuss waking him anyway.

“Crap! I know, sorry!” He yells.
“What do you know?”
“I left the toilet seat up again.”

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Just having a little fun with today’s Friday Flash 55

Friday 55: Sweet Dreams

Christ! You know what it is – just open the damn thing already!

I hold the daunting package in my white knuckled grip a few moments longer. Everything changes with this.

Carefully, I pull the seal, empty the contents and hold the book in my hands, officially going from dreamer to writer to…

Published author.

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Haven’t done this in a while – Friday Flash 55

That Which Is Called…

What’s in a name? Shakespeare asks.

Clearly he was never subjected to the abject cruelty of schoolyard children to the poor child whose mama got a little thoughtless in the naming department. I’m also guessing one simply did not use a diminutive in those days. At least not one associated with male anatomy, right William?

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Another go at Flash Fiction, also called sudden fiction, micro fiction or nanofiction via Friday 55.
Write a story in exactly 55 words, then tell the G-Man!

Friday 55: What You Ask For…

Again, I awaken breathless.  Again, remembering nothing of the dreams that could cause such a state.  Last night I told myself -don’t think in the morning; say the first thing that comes to mind aloud, and I will remember.

So I did, and I did; but now I wish I hadn’t…

I dreamt of you.

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Trying my hand at Flash Fiction, also called sudden fiction, micro fiction or nanofiction via Friday 55.
Write a story in exactly 55 words, then tell the G-Man!

At Last

It was a fantastic spring day,sunny with the occasional perfect whit cotton candy cloud the break the perfect blue sky. My sister and I had spent an afternoon of strolling around downtown and not quite window shopping as we caught up on news and gossip that somehow missed our various communications.  We had just taken outside seat a café when we saw him, coming out of a side door of the same cafe.

Yes, that him.

He was donning sunglasses as he came out, Looking as haughty as ever. Looking as good as ever.

My heart dropped a beat. Several beats in fact. My sister saw my face, turned  to look and let out a curse. Yeah, it was like that. We had a thing once.  No, that’s not correct. I had a thing. No, that’s not correct either.

We were both going for our doctorate and wound up in a lot of the same circles together with mutual friends until we became friends ourselves.  Good friends. And then I made the cardinal sin. I fell for him. And it was bad. Really bad. And he knew it. I never said a thing to him, but I know he knew.  He never said a thing to me but I knew long before I fell that I would never be someone he would love like that, yet deep inside I had hoped. Still, because I am a glutton for Punishment 101, I lied and said we’re just friends we continued to hang out. We hung out so much at one point some people thought we were a couple.  He was always gentle, but damn quick to say we were just friends.

Naturally it had to blow up and blow up it did. The argument was ugly and my heart was torn asunder like nothing I had ever imagined could hurt so bad. My only solace was that the semester was over and I didn’t have to see him for the summer.  Then fall arrived and fate cruel continued placing us in the same circles. It was agony. I gave up all social contact with everyone then and poured it all into my school work, finishing my studies, my thesis everything.

That was over a year ago. That was over a year ago and this doctor eventually healed herself. Enough to not want to cry at the thought of his name.  Enough to be able to talk about him with my sister and even laugh. With he and I no longer  travelling so many of the same circles any more, I even healed enough to be able to idly chat with him on the occasions our paths do crossed.

A woman came out behind him donning her own sunglasses. I recognized his fiancé immediately as we had at an even a month or so agao. He turned, saw me smiled and waved. And I’ll be damned if a shaft of sunlight didn’t find him at that instant, with a soft breeze blowing through his hair. And for a moment I was back in time, back to when things were good, when he and I were together, but not.  It felt so good for a moment and then reality rushed back into place. My heart broke again for the briefest moment. It was the oddest bittersweet feeling, like feeling homesick for a place that doesn’t exist.  And much to my sister’s surprise I laughed as I waved back actually happy for him.

I really was in a good spot at last.

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My hand at trying Kellie Elmore’s Free Write Friday. The prompt was based on an image, but the quote that came with the image struck me more and I went with that.

#FWF – Free Write Friday – Image Prompt