Note to the Netherworld

When I abandoned all aspects of self, and melted into you, I thought, how can I lose you, if there is no distinction between where you end, and I begin?

So when I lost you, still impervious to the fact that I was ever a whole person without you, I built a life on the foundation of your loss.

Recently I remembered, I once had a bucket list all my own. I checked off Aurora Borealis in February, and I am prepared to check off the second entry next month.

No, I haven’t forgotten you- I just remembered me.

Written for Carrot Ranch’s Prompt: Bucket and Sammi Scribbles Weekend Writing Prompt: Impervious, both of whom required exactly 99 words this week.

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My thirteenth year

They say, that the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence, but laying in the tall soft grass out behind Grand’s the summer of my thirteenth year, I couldn’t imagine that could be true.

I hadn’t wanted to spend my first teenage summer, miles away from home, let alone with a grandmother I hardly knew. But, looking back on it now, it is one of the defining points of my youth.

That was the summer I became my father’s daughter. He was no longer just a picture on my mom’s dresser, but a very real man- in whose bed I slept, whose records I listened to, and whose adventures I shared- via the pictures painted for me by my Grand’s words, as we lay together in the cool green grass on those long hot summer days.

Days that will forever remain, the summer of my life.

Written for Crispina Kemp’s Crimsons Creative Challenge #19

Noxeema on a sunburn

Photo By Mabel Amber on Pixabay

There was something about Mama’s velvety southern drawl, that made everything she said as cool and soothing as Noxeema on a sunburn.

I don’t know if it was her elongated vowels, the softness of her consonants, or her soft, vanilla scented arms around me, but no matter how real the monsters were to me, when Mama said, “They ain’t nothin’ unda the bed, shugga. Monstas ain’t real”, in that moment, I believed her.

Of course, as soon as she thought I was asleep, and slipped out the bedroom door, I would go rigid in the center of my little twin bed, waiting for the long bony arms to emerge once more, one on each side, followed by the feather-light touch of icy fingertips as they fluttered almost imperceptibly up the length of my body, finally encircling my throat- making it impossible for me to cry out.

Of course, Mama was right. Those monsters weren’t real.

As I grew older, I found out, monsters don’t live under the beds of our childhoods. Sometimes they parade around town as trusted professionals, who we find out much too late, have abused our precious children. Or high school football heroes, who drunk on their own testosterone, rape our daughters in the name of rites of passage.

And then again, there are those that successfully conceal the fact that they are in fact monsters, until they have promised to love, cherish and protect you- “until death do us part.”

I guess that’s the kind even Mama believed in- at least that’s what she alluded to at the trial, when her attorney asked her if she knew who besides herself, may have had a reason to want to see her son-in-law, my husband- dead.

“Why Sir,” Mama purred, with her most gracious southern inflection, “I do believe that would be just about every motha who ever raised-up her baby girl to believe, that monstas- ain’t real.”

This was written to satisfy the following prompts:

Misky’s Twiglet Prompt Phrase: “Mama said”, BrewNSpew Cafe’s Prompt: Velvety, and The Haunted Wordsmith’s Story Starter,”There’s nothing under the bed.”

Unfortunate decision

An Alliterative Acrostic posted for Chelsea Ann Owens Terrible Poetry Contest. The theme this week is: Verbosity. You have been forewarned…

Dare you hear the haunted humming of your heinous, heathen, heroin heart? As it whines, whispers, moans, meows, making love to your muddled mind..

Even in sacred, solemn silence- it mouths, mimes, meanders, melding wit with wisdom, it’s wanton wishes, willfully woo you with, and without words.

Cunningly the darling devil delights in its own devious desires- dipping, delving, deeper, deeper, desperate to draw on your personal penchant for privilege- pestering, pleading, plying, pulling- please?

It gropes, it grasps, it gathers, regretfully you dis-graciously give in finally, to its felonious, festering, frivolity- finishing your frolic with a familiar foray into faux forever….

So stealthily has it succeeded in ceremoniously sucking you in, so slyly you have been smitten, smote, stolen, sold.  All attachments annihilated. Set adrift. aloft. alone..

In grotesque hues of envious green, grinning, glaring, gorging, gouging away at your still sensitive sane self, it splays itself, spread-eagle before you.. begotten, betrothed, bewitched, beguiled- be damned..

Openly, luring you with liberal libations, limitless ludicrous luxury, lovingly, lustfully leering, “look at me”… At last releasing, its succor, slowly, sensually, silently, seducing you. You succumb. Such sweet surrender….

Never one to linger, laughing as it lecherously leaves you.. You look longingly, lingering- lost… Addicted. Abused. Used-up. Useless.. Another unfortunate decision…