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.



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 photo is mine.

She languishes in the window seat peering dreamily thru sunlit glass, upon the lush rolling hills of wild flowers, and endless seas of emerald grass.

On the breeze the scent of hyacinth, and fresh baked cinnamon apple pie, kept warm by a sun that never sets- held aloft, in springs eternal azure sky.

She is adorned, in the crispest organdy, trimmed in exquisite Italian lace, as a halo of flame kissed ringlets, frame her inordinately delicate face.

She is a vision, of unattainable perfection that exists solely inside her own head- where she remains inadequacies prisoner, in a cage made of gingerbread…

The Walk

Born Mary Rose Mulcahy, baptized in white lace, a shy, soft-spoken child- filled with feminine grace.

Raised by loving parents, in a modest, comfortable home who could see how far away, from all of this she’d roam.

Surely as a child- as she lay awake in bed, she never in her wildest dreams foresaw what was ahead.

Who can say if she had known that time would heal her rage, maybe she wouldn’t have walked away at such a tender age.

It doesn’t really matter now as she walks the dark ‘ho stro’ picking up tricks for a couple of bucks- for the drugs to make herself whole.

Born Mary Rose Mulcahy baptized in white lace she walks the strip in white stilettos, selling her feminine grace.

A bit of rhyming prose posted for Girlie on the Edge’s Six Sentence Story. Cue word this week : Strip


Somewhere in between the photo prompts provided by JSW Prompt on A Writer’s Life and Kat’s Twittering Tales I was reminded of the thousands of Oklahomans who migrated to California during the Dust Bowl of the 1930’s.

Photo credit: Easystreet

Deddy sed we was a goin’ to the land a milk n hunny, but when we got there it were dry n brown and folks said we tawk funny.

There weren’t no jobs- very little milk, and we ain’t never seen no hunny. Cal-i-for-ni-a weren’t a very friendly place, for folks din’t have no munny.

They took to callin’ us Oakies- as if it were somethin’ bad to be. As if for some kinda reason, it were shameful, justa be me.

Weren’t none of them folks from there, so I never did understand, what made them think they was better ‘an me, ’cause I was born on Oklahoma land..

No sir, Cal-i-for-ni-a, weren’t what it was cracked up to be. So lord, if that’s where you’re serving milk and hunny- don’t set no place for me..

JSW Photo Prompt

Kat’s Twittering Tales photo by Pixel