Wednesday's Three Word Wednesday
The words over at Three Word Wednesday are faith, miracle and whisper. Good words for this time of year.
The Gift
A sheet covers the window, colored push pins driven into the peeling wood; the sheet the color of limes that have turned.
Curled as he was in bed, the light he tried to hinder continued to reach out for him; it whispered hurtful things that demoralized his spirit.
“Faith,” he whispers back, through wavering eyes slick with old, sticky tears.
She perched on the barstool like a coil, nails blacked by Sharpie, her face a Kabuki mask of white powder. Straight shots of whiskey lined up, each glass knocked back she’s overturned.
“It’s a miracle you’re not dead,” the bartender says, slings a wet bar towel over a meaty shoulder.
“Fucking miraculous,” she whispers, willing the tears to evaporate, less they mess out her carefully applied lacquer.
He stares at the black handset of his telephone, disgusted at the ring of earwax buildup around the depressed holes of the speaker; bile rises within his throat and he fights off vomiting into his metal trashcan. He’s whipped himself into a rage only he can comprehend, see. Two squirts from the industrial-sized hand sanitizer on the pristine desk, he works the antiseptic like lather.
“Peace,” he whispers, tears evaporate as he swipes each perfect cuticle of each perfect finger across his red-rimed eyes.
Whispers are murmurs on the wind; pleading, pondering, puncturing the stratosphere with the desperation of human frailty.
For those who can listen to the silence, pick up the peace, they are the ones rewarded with the gift:
Nourished souls.
The Gift
A sheet covers the window, colored push pins driven into the peeling wood; the sheet the color of limes that have turned.
Curled as he was in bed, the light he tried to hinder continued to reach out for him; it whispered hurtful things that demoralized his spirit.
“Faith,” he whispers back, through wavering eyes slick with old, sticky tears.
She perched on the barstool like a coil, nails blacked by Sharpie, her face a Kabuki mask of white powder. Straight shots of whiskey lined up, each glass knocked back she’s overturned.
“It’s a miracle you’re not dead,” the bartender says, slings a wet bar towel over a meaty shoulder.
“Fucking miraculous,” she whispers, willing the tears to evaporate, less they mess out her carefully applied lacquer.
He stares at the black handset of his telephone, disgusted at the ring of earwax buildup around the depressed holes of the speaker; bile rises within his throat and he fights off vomiting into his metal trashcan. He’s whipped himself into a rage only he can comprehend, see. Two squirts from the industrial-sized hand sanitizer on the pristine desk, he works the antiseptic like lather.
“Peace,” he whispers, tears evaporate as he swipes each perfect cuticle of each perfect finger across his red-rimed eyes.
Whispers are murmurs on the wind; pleading, pondering, puncturing the stratosphere with the desperation of human frailty.
For those who can listen to the silence, pick up the peace, they are the ones rewarded with the gift:
Nourished souls.
Comments
You must publish your flash fictions.
Wonderful work.
symmetry in poetry or what?
missalister