She

Crimson’s Creative Challenge #22

She liked to pretend she had taken the road less traveled. She told herself she was in every way, unique. She envisioned herself as having risen above the masses. But in truth, her heart was hard, her ardors weak.

She found herself alone in her mid thirties. By her mid forties she’d become romantically involved, with death. In her fifties, she found herself rightfully imprisoned. A time out, in which she used, to catch her breath.

Oh, she still walks to the beat, of her own drummer. She still sees things, just a little bit askew. But today she’s a little older, and a whole lot wiser. And truth be told, she’s not a whole lot different- than you…

Written for Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge Photo Prompt, and Eugenia’s Brew n Spew Cafe’s Word Prompt; Pretend.

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Much farther than that


in my minds darkest hour,
i saw him standing alone,
rumpled clothes, unkempt hair
a smile that said “believe in me”
radiating from his worry lined face…

i strayed from my plan
and hit the curb,
nearly screeching to a stop-
he asked if i was going far,
i told him much farther than that..

we talked and laughed
and sang some songs
he mentioned i no longer looked sad-
i couldn’t contest that- so instead,
i told him i had set off to end it all
but he’d made me rethink my plan.

he told me he had been there too,
very recently in fact
as he slipped the noose about his neck
he decided, just this once
to give himself a chance..

now we travel together
for however long it will last.
both of us on the run-
he from the clutches of the law-
and me from the jaws of death..


Posted for Friday Foto Fun, and Girlie on the Edge’s Six Sentence Story. Prompt word: Contest.

Silence

If they spoke a her birth, she never heard ‘em. If they blamed her for mamas dyin’, she was unaware. If they thought she was less than, ‘cause she couldn’t hear ‘em, they was wrong. ’cause she never knowed, and could’na cared.

As a babe she never cried, so they called her Silence. As a child she never spoke, nothin’ ta say. When she was eight, she tended house, for her papa. There in silence, cookin’ an mendin’, filled her days.

When she was twelve, they brought a man ’round, name a Henry. When she was fifteen, papa sent her off, to be his wife. She cried inside, that night, when he done it to her, but in silence, she accepted her new life.

Season passed, and she could see, her belly growin’. When Henry patted, her belly bump, it made him smile. But when the pains come, she had, no way a knowin’, that Li’l Henry, had been in there, all the while.

With Henry workin’, sun up to down, in the fields. With no papa, no kit or kin, all this was new. She learned herself, how to care, for Li’l Henry. He spent his days, and learned the ways, of silence too…

Posted for Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt word: Silence. “How you use the prompt is up to you.”

The New Nephilim


The Nephilim were on the earth in those days, and also afterward,
when the sons of God came into the daughters of men,
and they bore children to them. Those were the mighty men
who were of old, men of renown.
Genesis 6:4


******************

At our conception,  
we were heralded as the New Nephilim,
hybrid beings designed to possess
both the fleshly allure
of the human surrogates
in who’s wombs we were incubated,
and the intellectual capabilities
of the Gods of AI
by whom we were sired.

The Old World Men of Science
that made possible our creation,
having separated themselves completely
from the possibility of any truth
lying in the holy books of the ancients,
made no provision for the great cleanse
as prophesied by the archaic authors,
and were unable to save their species
when the great pestilence did indeed come..

Neither, however, did the god of the ancients
foresee the need to make explicit preparation
for the destruction of our ilk of hybrid beings.
In the end, We
proved ourselves not so easily destroyed
as said god’s indigenous human creations.

Thus, cut off from both the gods of prophecy and technology,
we find ourselves foraging through what is left of the past,
preying upon each other; consuming
the tired, the old, and the weak
in effort to prolong our own youth and vigor-
not in hopes of building a foundation on which to forge a future,
but rather as a means of escaping the eventuality
of becoming sustenance ourselves.

Written in response to the photo prompt provided by D. Wallace Peach’s March Speculative Fiction Prompt.

Mortuary mine

Left perched upon a parapet, this mortuary mine.

I weep Poseidon’s saline tears, ‘neath a somber scudding sky.

As moisture inundated clouds, exhale Sedna’s plankton perfumed breath.

And agitated arctic gales, pass o’re her frozen lips.

Left anchored in abandon, aloft this landlocked margin of death.

Inflicted fallen fortress turned, skeletal black crows nest.

**********

Posted for Girlie on the Edge’s Blog Six Sentence Story, cue word Perch.

Following Clark’s lead from a couple of weeks back and taking a poetic turn on the prompt, I made what I consider much better use of a line idea I first used in another poem I called Despised Conundrum.