OneWord, Storage

At OneWord, you're given a word and 60 seconds to write. Don't think, just write.
The word for today is "storage."

He’d made a place for his heart in deep storage, lost among the feelings he’d boxed up, suppressed. The move was necessary. He’d been hurt one too many times, taken advantage of his good nature and his willingness to help. Life ran roughshod over him and the scars ran deep. He became cold as a callus from the constant pressures, the friction. He was understandable disappointed of course, that no one seemed to notice the transformation.

Wednesday's Three Word Wednesday

The words over at Three Word Wednesday are beacon, grieve and kindred.

Graveside
She grieves at my graveside.
I know I shouldn’t watch – I should got to the light and all that – but it fascinates me so to be the observer in death that I couldn’t be in life.
Like the touching tribute from the guys when they poured a fifth of Scotch on the fresh, unturned hump of my grave.
Only, not my brand.
Or my sister, a beacon in my life, the inspiration for my career, waiting for the quiet emptiness of dusk to scream obscenities at my temporary headstone. Apparently, I was as much a fuck-up in life as I am in death.
Good to know.
She waited a full week after the funeral to come back. My kindred spirit in life. My lover, my one true friend.
As much as she tried, she just couldn’t quite silence the demons who whispered incessantly in my ears to make things easier on everybody and just fade away.
She tosses a plastic-wrapped bouquet of daisies into the dirt and takes an unfiltered Camel from a wrinkled pack. She lights it quick with my Zippo – at least it’ll be put to good use – pushes her black skirt between her knees and squats over raw earth. She scratches her ear while rolling the cigarette in her lips and tilts her head in earnest study of individual dirt clods.
She falls to her knees, swings wildly at the dirt with delicate fists.
When she’s punched herself out, she turns and flops her back onto the grave. She’s watching leaves flutter in the wind, taking huge drags on the cigarette.
Surprisingly, she breaks out into an immense smile.
Did not see that coming.

Tuesday confessional

It’s early, but the headache is a low, dull throb.
Just the body crying out for what it has been denied – caffeine, sugar, alcohol and whatever chemicals are in every foodstuff that’s processed.
Embarking on a 21-day, the early days are the worst.
Oh, there is food to be consumed. Fruits, vegetables, whole grains.
The bad stuff, well, it seems to be more filling.
The hope is clarity. Cut down on the junk, in hopes the message can be heard.
It is obvious I cannot be happy in my current surroundings. There are good friends, yes, but it isn’t enough. There’s a wanderlust in my heart that grows louder with each passing day.
So to open everything up, I fast.
There is meditation as well, soft candlelight dancing against dark walls, where it is quiet and I’m open to the possibilities.

OneWord, Yoga

OneWord is a writing prompt that deals in brevity. One word, 60 seconds. Don't think, just write. The word? Yoga.

She did everything for her husband, the faithful wife.
It wasn’t enough. As her responsibilities grew, she let her appearance go. A few extra pounds here and there – the kids were at an age where mini corn dogs and mac and cheese were staples and she ate along – and something changed. He’d stay later at work, be evasive on nights out with the guys.
His moving out nearly killed her.
She found salvation in yoga, strength training.
And he admitted, running into her out to dinner, that she looked fine.
She smiled, shyly.

Consulting the Tarot for 2010

There’s some truth is the statement that the future is just tomorrow’s past.
That still doesn’t excuse my thirst to find the “next big thing.”
So with that, it’s time to consult the Tarot for the first time in 2010. A self reading with my Aleister Crowley Tarot cards.
As I have done before, I use the Celtic Cross, which uses 10 cards and is considered to be the most complete system.


The question?

“What is my next path?

1. Base card, my basic situation: Prince of Wands; A new journey of discovery is about to be embarked upon.

2. Influences, either hindering or furthering the basic situation: Ace of Disks; You are becoming increasingly aware of your contribution and value.

3. Conscious thoughts on the question/situation: Knight of Disks; Make un-pressured choices, dream big dreams - and be generous.

4. Unconscious thoughts about the question/situation: 10 of Disks, Wealth; You are required to meet obligations.

5. Past influences, or that which is just ending: The Chariot; Use the powers of your mind to focus your energy.

6. Future influences, or that which is just beginning: Four of Swords, Truce; Summon creativity and resourcefulness from the depths of your being.

7. Myself, my attitude toward the question/situation: The Magnus; Be playful and stay open - the possibilities are endless.

8. The energies coming to me from the outer world: The Aeon; A gathering of lost fragments allows you to connect to your Higher Self.

9. My hopes and fears: Two of Wands, Domination; Assess your situation with patience and self-restraint.

10. Result, outcome, key: The Empress; Look for opportunities to be generous, warm and nurturing.

OneWord, Options

Quick and dirty nanofiction, based on OneWord. That word is "options."

(Spoiler alert: A story I wrote won honorable mention in a contest run by novelist Jason Evans. There were 237 entries. Go check it out.)

Options
The options were endless.
Everyone said it, even more thought it.
Standing there as he was, maybe he didn’t believe it. Perhaps he chose not to believe. He was a cautious sort, always looking to take the easier – more safe – route. Hence the job that paid just enough, with OK reviews and cost-of-living raises.
But now, there was no looking back. The very people that once meant something were dead, buried.
His options were endless.
If he could lift the veil of sadness and choose a new path for his life.

Wednesday's Three Word Wednesday

The words over at Three Word Wednesday are ideal, measure and teeter.

Changling

I teeter on the verge of epileptic anger, shaking uncontrollably with rage.
Three measures of the solution dissolved into a Diet Mountain Dew, my preferred beverage of choice. Two measures too much for the ideal reaction.
But I’m here to prove a point. No more Mr. Nice Guy.
I rip off my T-Shirt, kick off my All-Stars and loosen the top two buttons on the 501s. Experience counts for something, and I can’t keep hiding all the tattered clothing.
I’m just in time.
My white skin goes all mottled as the transmogrification begins on a cellular level. The solution reaches each cell’s midi-chlorians, which in turn, begin the metamorphosis. Muscles twitch, stretch to sinewy tensile strength right on the bone.
My brow grows heavy, the bony ridge there becoming fortified. I can feel all my bones begin to change, increase in their density and strength.
The pain intensifies, but it’s flecked with pleasure.
I grunt in satisfaction as I watch my junk expand to porn-star standards.
I bring my hands to my face, watch their delicate features grow ashen. I watch in a mix of horror and satisfaction as each finger elongates and thickens, watch as course hair sprouts across each knuckle. I'm mesmerised as I view each fingernail harden into blade points; their luster is like polished bone.
My jaw goes slack as the bones there thrust forward, just as my canines grow into fierce, pearly fangs.
This new body trembles with life; the power ripples under the skin.
It’s time to show them. Time to show them all.
I let out a growl, which is low-pitched, guttural, fearsome.
There’s a hard rap at the bathroom door.
“Honey, what are you doing in there?” mother asks.
I wipe away the steam and staring back at me is me.
All 112 sickly white pounds.
“Showering, mom, jeez. Can’t a guy get a little privacy around here?”

Tuesday confessional

Images online, in print and on television of pain, suffering – chaos.
That’s what a 7.0 earthquake does to the most impoverished nation in the Western Hemisphere.
Haitians suffering, while in America, we sit and watch – and text donations to the Red Cross by sending ‘Haiti’ to 90999.
Yes, it’s important to give. Open your wallets and purses, as these people need food, water, medications.But what happens after?
After the television images stop. After the New York Times pulls its correspondents and focuses on the Next Big Thing?
The Haitians will go on suffering. Their homes are rubble, the government is non-existent. Basic services do not exist. And won’t, unless aid continues far into the future.
We can look to our own failures in New Orleans to see what happens long-term.
And then the realization sinks in that because of a set of unfortunate incidents in your personal life has given you an incredible gift – the ability to go anywhere and do anything.
And helping those in Haiti seems like a good and noble thing to do.
You use contacts at the Red Cross and call the national headquarters. You’re asked if you’ve had medical training. You say you do not, but are willing to do whatever.
Alas, they say, what we can use now more than anything else is your money.
There still may be the opportunity to help in Haiti as the country rises from the rubble. Or, service may come in any number of places where help is desperately needed.
It’s something to look forward to doing.

Monday's Fiction in 58

Fiction in 58 is a meme I created a few years back to try and write tight, but with more focus. It’s 58 words, no more, no less. This is non-fiction.

Struggle
She wears the weariness like a heavy cloak, the weight on her frail shoulders serves to compact her already petite form.
Already a mother at 17, she carries the lifeless child down broken streets, wailing for help. Tears cleanse her dark skin of the crumbled powder that was once her shack.
Television cameras capture her suffering for posterity.

OneWond, Sink

Apparently, there will be no Sunday Scribblings prompt. So let’s wander over to OneWord.
The word? Sink.

Never mind the depth, she said.
They’d been drinking old fashions at a dive near the canal, a place where they still sold smokes in machines where you pulled a knob and the pack dropped. It was dark and dank and was just her kind of place.
Truthfully, these places drew the life out of him. And he didn’t have much to spare.
Never mind the depth.
He stumbled home with that reverberating in his skull.
And continued to sink, ever after a bath and a call to his mother.
And in the darkness the depth of concern washed over him like a cold wave. For comfort, he cradled the handgun to his chest.

Very short stories

Thos post is a bit self-serving.
For a time now, I’ve been creating on Twitter #vss.
Or, very short stories.
Twitter allows someone 140 characters. Take away the hashtag, that’s five (with a space).
So the trick is to tell a story in 135 characters.
There’s a lot of really good writers who have embraced the #vss format.
I do it for fun.
But I wanted a repository for the stuff I’ve done. Sure, I’ve shortened some original fiction down to fit. But I’ve also had some ideas that I’d like to stretch into fiction that has more heft.
This post is that repository:

The leather and the studs, the whips and the humiliation was fine, part of their play. Making the bed afterward, that troubled him.

He fingers the powder that fills his pockets. Each digit dark to the second knuckle. He sniffs. No, the grit doesn't conjure her smell.

He was bound for Mexico. She hitchhiked, just for the thrill. He stopped. They shared Big Gulps, Twizzlers and eventually, themselves.

He fights for women in power suits, yet wears frilly lace and hosiery. He thinks of coming out. "The devil's in the details," he sighs.

He wakes in a stupor. In bed is a hooker, two midgets and an empty bottle of oil. "There's a punchline in here somewhere," he croaks.

Cut too deep and the blood doesn't flow. Too shallow - it's a scratch. Drag the razor just right, she thinks, and happy droplets form.

Instead of hands, he had pinchers. In winter, he masked them with mittens. While handsome, he was not popular in ballroom dance class.

On her bracelet, a brass key. Dull against surrounding silver. It unlocks a wooden box in a bottom drawer. Contents? His beating heart.

My subconscious works freelance. While I slumber, it goes to work. It's OK, I'm not using it. The insomnia, yeah, that can be a bitch.

He rubs the soft fleshiness of his arms, using the friction for heat. No matter, the coolness continues. "So this is death," he says.

The young entomologists wrapped themselves in passionate embrace. He shuddered in final ecstasy. She laughed as she removed his head.

Hot breath hangs like storm clouds around his head. In the bitterness he stands, waiting. The cold is anesthesia to his hopes, dreams.

Despite six months of 'rest,' Holden graduated with his class. Instead of catcher, he learned to answer advertising to career council.

After Becky left for college and Tom joined the Secret Service, Huck decided to try bootlegging. Best damn hootch around, folks agreed.

"Her mottled skin festers with many pus-encrusted boils." "What did you say, shithead?" my sis asks. "Nothing. Dad, are we there yet?"

He fears all manner of things. She, slathered in piercings and tattoos, flirts openly. In one awkward moment, she reaches for his hand.

Chronically unemployed, he'd tried everything. Scanning the news, he saw his calling: "Wanted, death's assistant." It even paid well.

He gets a feeling of weightlessness, walking along the roof lip of his building. Sometimes he shuts his eyes and the fear emboldens.

He checks his watch. Thirty-six seconds pass since he last looked. "Nervous?" she asks. "Kinda hoping for that four-hour side-effect."

he serves savory morsels to uneasy party guests. She explains offal, and they eat lustfully. He would have been pleased, she thinks.

The laser came parcel post, in one large cardboard box. Hooking it to the car was no problem. Explaining the need to his wife, tricky.

She'd convinced them, at $20 a head, LSD was woven into the wallpaper pattern. They shrieked; she marveled at the power of suggestion.

He's hell-bent for destruction, waltzing down a path with no salvation. "Say, lets get some Cap'n Crunch!" She cocks her head sternly.

Something swam in his lobster bisque. He fished with a spoon, pinned the offender. As expected, a sea fairy was dredged from the depths

He bought flowers, exotic perfume. He dazzled with expensive wines at dinner. Nothing fazed her. Silently, he took her hand. She cried.

He covers an eye, blinks. "I've a brain tumor," he says. "Ridiculous," she says, not looking up from the crossword. "It's a hangover."

He'd done an exhaustive cost-benefit analysis. "Sorry hon, but I have to let you go," he told his wife, pointing to a spreadsheet.

He could feel the toxins beginning to take hold, with every bite. "Honey, isn't wonderful mother came over to cook dinner?" He smiled.

He scoffs at her notion of uterine rights, through dessert and coffee, and the aperitif. "The penis is a political prisoner," he says.

They had an amusing wine, the house specials. Small talk ensued. The conversation became tangled in feminine politics, uterine rights.

He'd been busy excising past demons. At last, he twisted the wedding band off his finger, read the inscription, tossed it in the river.

Freezing rain pelts his upturned, ruddy face. He lifts his arms, raising colorful bags like flags. "Where's the fucking car?" he cries.

Young lovers hook pinkies over coffee and tell lies: "In Prague, I'm Miss Simone, whipstress." "In the war, I brutalized farm animals.”

He watches rain pelt the window, each streak a tear. His heart cries out. "Come back to bed," she says, this one who is not his wife.

It's a sultry evening under the stars. He points out constellations. She hides yawns. "That's Penis Minor." "What?" "Just making sure."

She sits naked on soft cushions, her skin luminous from oil. He walks in with a beer and a scratch. "You're blocking the TV," he says.

To fight boredom, he'd fill a syringe from the cryo-chamber and shoot their blood into zero gravity, capturing the droplets on canvas.

Her body was swathed in gauze, the beauty enhancement done. Curious, she dug at the bandages, saw green scales. And tried to scream.

She worked retail, which wasn't all that bad. Not as lofty as those childhood goals, princess or ballerina, but better than a stripper.

The child huddled, his cry a sing-song of misery. Maybe with some accompaniment, a guitar or tambourine, it would sound more festive.

The Cuddahy's basement smells sickly sweet. Playing Risk, the eldest Cuddahay daughter whispers, "Want to see dad's skull collection?"

A gas smell hangs heavy. Mom fingers her pearls, drops Styrofoam into a pot. "What's cooking?" "Napalm," she says, "for the church bazaar."

Tablecloth, candles, mood music, a sumptuous feast. He takes a greedy mouthful. "This is cold!" he says, spitting. "Revenge!" she cries.

In every boy beats the heart of a man. But her little Edgar's heart thumped the rhythm of a sociopath. Hence the iron bars, razor wire.

When the cuffs came out, he thought it was an extension of rough lovemaking. When the tazer came out, he knew he was in deep, deep shit.

Over breakfast, she asked nicely. He suggested they play rock, paper, scissors. He won, three out of four. She'd have to wake the boy.

She checked her lipstick, chambered a round in the .45, slid it into her apron. "What's that for?" he says. "You know these things get."

With any luck, he pleads guilty and gets away with time served. "I'm sorry for what I said," he says. "It's my mother's recipe," she says.

He hugs the glass in his hands, feels the coolness from the melting ice. It's late, dark and the only thing stirring are worries, heartache.

He felt his orbit decay, sensed the heat of reentry into the atmosphere. Frantic, he worked the knobs. "Leave the radio alone," she said.

He sulked in a stained tank, sipping wine from a jelly jar. She stirred a pot, sighed, recalled a time before she was Mrs. Crocker-Boyardee.

The interrogation lasted hours. She'd warned him in the car. Thanksgiving, parents. His payback lay in her childhood princess bed, later.

Water flowed over the counter, soaking her shoes. She clutched fists to her chest; he drew circles on the table. "Pink is positive, yeah?"

A TV flickers inside a living room; outside, a house cat stretches its paws on the porch. He stands, takes it all in, contemplates suburbia.

He examined the luxurious, dark carpet of fur covering his flesh and howled. Kicking numerous Rogaine bottles aside, he felt himself again.

He wakes naked in a hotel room, covered in bite marks. Picking his clothing up quietly so as not to wake her, he spies her teeth in a glass.

Ripping tags off the new mattress satisfied, especially the "do not remove under penalty of law" one. He smiled. Until the rap on the door.

If there had been screws, she would have turned them, oh my yes. Made him suffer. "I'm sorry, did you say something?" he asked. "No. Dear."

"Liberty!" she cried, upsetting the table service. He put fists on the table, tried to comfort the children. "She's been reading," he said.

She sits at a card table in the lawn, with a sign that reads "GUESS." "Guess what?" you ask. "That will be five dollars, please," she says.

She could barely remember the time before, the expensive trips, parties. The baby cooed, her heart swelled and everything felt as it should.

They gathered at the 7-11 for Big Gulps and snacks and pondered what it meant to be teenagers. Wait, strike that. They sneered at customers.

A gathering of their kind was set for the Hilton ballroom downtown. Everything was fine, until staff lit up the disco ball with the lasers.

He sits with elbows resting on the bar, expensive shoes hooked to the rail. Just like a Venus fly trap, waiting for a delicacy to happen by.

"Warmer." He tired of the game. Asked to find her spot, he ran a hand across her flesh, her breasts. "Freezing." Men are doomed, he thought.

They arrive at the place he hates. Like pre-school sharing; corporate sharing. At least he has something - Stevens' body cooling in the can.

The subway's crowded, it takes everything to stare at his shoes. She blows by, a cool breeze, drops a flower in his lap. A tear waters it.

Money's in the pot, rules set. It's early, so nobody's stepping up. He shrugs, stands. "One number?" We remain quiet about his open fly.

She was all angles and corners; he was curves, gentle lines. When out together, people snickered. Alone, their contrast melted into desire.

He stood at the sink, eating cold cereal. Peering into the drain, he saw what his life had become - a dank hole, filled with rotting debris.

He sat in a sunny place, squinting. "What are you doing?" she asked. "Crows feet. I'm making crows feet." "Why?" "On men, they're so sexy."

She awoke startled, gazing into dilated brown eyes. Pancakes? he asked, sour breath slowly replaced by the happy smell of warm maple syrup.

He scrunched the coldness of his murderous heart into a shard, screwed on a smile and went in for the kill, thinking only of her warm blood.

The watch hung from a heavy silver chair, itself worn shiny by the seconds humming like heartbeats. He checked it often, waiting for change.

Rain plays drumbeats against cool glass; the sun is hours from rising and yet he sits, watching. His tea has gone cold, just like his heart.

OneWord, Powder

Went to writer’s group recently. Got into a discussion about prompts. One person said, “Prompts are for people just getting started, who don’t know what they’re doing.”
I disagree.
Prompts help keep your mind fresh, helps find the details in your writing.
So, in that vein, here’s a OneWord prompt. Sixty seconds and the word “powder.”

His pockets were full of the stuff. Slick, fluffy, powdery. Dark gray, with flecks of black. The occasion little bit of whitish grit. His fingers turned the color of the powder, each and every time he took them from his pockets. Darkness down to the second knuckles. He got up the nerve to smell those fingers.
The powder could not conjure the smell of her.

Wednesday's Three Word Wednesday

The words over at Three Word Wednesday are jolt, ribbon and zeal.

Space

The space smells of crayons that have been left in the sun too long.
A third-floor walkup, it’s utilitarian in composition. One great room. A small kitchen is pushed to one side. A smaller bath that’s often mistaken for a closet. Four cheery floor-to-ceiling windows offer views of a tree-lined street, the city skyline.
Lives have been lived in this cramped space.
The first, young lovers with a zeal for French chamber music and Sunday mornings spent in bed with pastries, coffee and the newspaper.
The recently divorced middle-aged woman who cried herself to sleep most nights and a fit of desperation plucked a gray-and-white kitten with a pink ribbon tied to its neck from a cardboard box at the subway stop to fill up her loneliness.
The artist who tortured himself with jolts of intravenous drugs and jugged wine until his long-suffering muse told him to fling himself off the George Washington Bridge.
A fresh coat of paint the color of eggshells awaits the newest tenant. A pilgrim from the wilderness with a few battered cardboard boxes and a beloved, battered IBM Selectric typewriter.
He picks absently at a flyspeck on the window with a fingernail as he watches life pulse in the city.
He turns from the windows and commits the crayon smell to memory, hoping one day to incorporate it into a story he’s yet to write.

Tuesday confessions

In the darkness, the only shadows cast by flickering street lights, the mind works overtime.
There's no sleep, there hasn't been long stretches of slumber for days, and the coolness off the windows brings with it a melancholy.
Searching.
For boldness, a bold move that makes a difference. Makes sense of the changes, all the struggles up to this point.
But in the darkness, over a city that sleeps, few things come to mind.
It's the letting go that's the problem. The work ethic. Being a stable, productive member of society with a job and a purpose from it.
Up from the chair and back to bed. Stare at the ceiling. Reposition. Stare at the wall.
Something's gotta give.
Soon.

Monday's Fiction in 58

It’s Monday, time for a Fiction in 58.

Punchline
He awakes in a fog, head splitting, mouth dry. He’s naked. With him in bed are a hooker, goat, two midgets dressed as clowns, a robotic dog and a large, empty bottle of canola oil.
A wave of nausea washes over him as his memory remains out of reach.
“There’s a punchline in here somewhere,” he finally croaks.

Sunday Scribblings, Extreme

The prompt over at Sunday Scribblings is “extreme.”

Extreme

Paulie bought the beer and everyone else brought something to snack on.
We’d convened on the fifth floor of a derelict factory on the outskirts of town. You know the kind, black sooty, greasy, lots of glass-bring windows that were chipped and broken from natural decay and the errant thrill-seekers with pistols and rifles.
The fifth floor, where some calamity has torn a sinister sneer into the concrete box, a gaping hole floor to ceiling. And in that hole, an unobstructed view of the skyline.
Brown bottles bobbed in water and ice in a new galvanized wash basins. Paulie had set up a couple of long industrial metal-legged tables, where the beginnings of prepackaged snack items started to appear.
Most of us, well, we stood hugging a beer to out hips, watching dusk fall on the city. Neon and sodium vapor street lights just started to awaken when Paulie checked his watch and mentioned casually that it was time.
He opened the scarred metal door to a utility closet and there was a red velvet covered lump. Like a matador brandishing a cape in front of a bull, he lifted the material with flourish.
On an old wooden footstool stood one of those old time detonators; a tall wooden box with two connection points and a wooden T-handle plunger. Two thickly-coated wires were held in place to the contact point with wingnuts.
Paulie raised his arms overhead and someone started in on a snare drum.
And without any further theatrics, Paulie dropped his arms - and dropped the plunger.
It took a few moments – there were some mumbled grumblings coming from the crowd – but the explosions started bringing wave after wave of heat toward the building. We shielded our eyes from the flairs of fire and mayhem and a few people clapped.
“Civilization is so overrated,” Paulie said, just as he fingered a button on an electronic detonator he’d taken from the pocket of his blazer, the one that awakened the drums of nitromethane and bags of ammonium nitrate fertilizer stockpiled in this building’s basement.

OneWord, Burst

Pardon the lateness in this post. I had a late night with friends, then ended up singing karaoke at this dive bar downtown. It's been a slow, relaxing day with limited movement.
OneWord is a writer's prompt that asks people to see what they can do with one word - and 60 seconds.
The word? Burst.

She held her breath until she felt her chest would burst. Everything around her took on a hazy edge; his music, coming form the car stereo, started to go mute. The edge of her vision narrowed.
“Look, baby, all I said was I think it would be good if we saw other people, to make sure that our love is strong.”
She’d heard that one before.

OneWord, Figure

Sixty seconds and a cloud of dust. That’s OneWord, a writer’s prompt for those who want a challenge. See the word and write. The word? Figure.

She spent the time in it, but often, even she marveled at her figure.
The curves were all in place, sumptuous, each angle crisp, taut. Two hours at the gym a day, avoid the fries, it was dedication.
That figure brought looks, lines, suggestions. Her social calendar was full. Yet, nothing lasted past the first encounter.
The figure drew them in, but her insides were vapid, putrid.
She just worked harder on the figure, forgetting the beauty locked deep inside.

2010, an early assessment

The first few days of 2010 have so far bumbled on, so much like 2009 ended. A low-energy, gear-grinding set of circumstances. Lurching forward enough to move, but without much gusto.
The agent of change resides in the heart, in the mind. Ruled by the gut. Played out by rising above fear and doubt and stepping forward into the darkness. Waiting for the light.
Can’t seem to find the light switch. Yet.
So things continue as they have, without much taste or texture.
This emotional life needs cardiac resuscitation, a couple thousand volts would do, to start the beat, keep it strong. Still looking for the paddles to make it so.
Thing is, time is not the enemy. It is a friend, a soft favorite T-shirt. Hurry up and wait? Bide the time that’s there. Experience. Taste, touch, feel.
Even if it starts out as a lonely affair.
Richness comes from memories made in boldness.

Monday's Fiction in 58

It’s Monday, time for a Fiction in 58.

Bazaar

Her face is a plastic mask, devoid of emotion, color. She’s chosen to hide what’s inside. It isn’t fear. Something so much more sinister.
She manages a smile. They smile back. She dreams of pipe bombs, scorched flesh, pain.
The women circle.
“Either a church bazaar or a riot will break out,” she whispers.
She’s ready for both.

A OneWord for Sunday

The prompt over at Sunday Scrbblings wasn’t very fun. It wasn’t doing anything for me.
Hence, another OneWord.
And that word is “ship.”
Sixty seconds and go…

He let his hands skim the hardened graphite pieces, impossibly white still, despite the time. It’s like he’d forgotten what it was like to touch and he was reliving the sensation for the very first time.
Years in stasis. Too many. The ship had drifted past through several systems, so the computer’s star charts were worthless.
He wiped a hand across the computer touch screen, making sure – again – that the other pods were not functional.
And fingered his self-destruct key around his neck, like an eerie talisman.

OneWord, Shift

The word du jour at OneWord is “shift.”

She stared into the mirror hard, daring it to be wrong. When had she gone so old? When did the crow’s feet show up? The lines around her once-full, pouty lips? When did her raven hair become flecked with gray?
She bore twin holes into the glass and concentrated in a singularity. There was a moment of white-hot heat in her mind, combined with a high-pitched whine and in that moment a shift. And her face was 20 years younger. She touched her lips with two fingers and smiled.
“This is serious getting old,” mirror, mirror on the wall whispered.