Gingerbread

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…

Advertisements

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

Oakies

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 @Pixabay.com


Madder*

T’was her ‘eyes of porcelain and of blue’, that ensnared me from the start- like daggers edge they cut me thru- thrust passions blade- into my cold dead, heart..

They seared past years of frozen flesh, pierced sinew, shattered bone- carved out a place inside my soul-  my will- now hers alone..

To be granted the privilege of breathing the air she exhaled into the night, I sacrificed- no cursed-  no damned- all that I knew to be right…

Soothingly she sucked me in, entangled me, entwined, till lost in greedful, lusting flesh, I slipped past the last safeguard- of my merely mortal mind..

She arched and curled around me now, sliding her lips of scarlet silk, over mouth, past chin, down curve of throat-  alas to sup- my heady crimson milk…

As she drained from me life’s sweetest succor, I found her anything but cruel- for I emerge the sated host- from her cursed immortal renewal…

Six Sentence Story courtesy of Girlie on the Edge

‘eyes of porcelain and of blue’, Lyrics from Bye Bye Love by The Cars

*Madder Defined Adjective- wildly excited or confused; frantic:         overcome by desire, eagerness, enthusiasm, etc.; excessively or uncontrollably fond; infatuated:

Old Sean

This week’s photo prompt is provided by Akshata Ram.

Old Sean was a peg legged sea cook, headed off to the Final Frontier, when he got drunk on a swing on the side of the road, and well he just never left there.

In a makeshift kitchen gazebo, he whipped up stews and gazpachos galore, till he added an adobe oven, then he baked crusty breads, fluffy biscuits and more.

Tho’ he loved his snow fort in the forest, his peg leg heart how it longed for the sea, so he caught a ride with a witchity waitress, on a broom she called Mr. McGee.

Now McGee was a broom with a mind of his own, and put a twist on the witchity waitress’ command, to the sea they did fly- that part he got right, but they could not get him to land.

So Old Sean set his peg leg on fire, if it’s one thing brooms don’t like it’s a flame, McGee stopped with a jolt- dropped Old Sean on a boat, that just lost their cook- in a card game!

Word Count : 174

Photo Prompt courtesy of Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers