The scirocco blew in our second day in Trieste. We sheltered from the blood rain in an old church. How long? Joan asked. ‘The answer my friend is blowin’ in the wind.’ Not my favorite. Hurrah for May 17th, 1966! ‘Judas!’ a voice yelled from the crowd that day when Bob switched from folk songs to electric guitar. But that year, he wrote my favorite, today anyway. I watched her cradle her sleeping baby. He wrote it when his eldest son was born. It was released on June 22, 1979. A single. “Forever Young.” We looked out. The rain had stopped.
I’ve heard it said that a woman should never be afraid of her own life. Yet I am. Every day the crowd multiplies. I grow old. The room grows smaller. Am I to be buried alive? Not with grave dirt, but with ghosts. The more confined I, the more rampant they. What diabolical art is this, that the dead suck life out of those they abhor? My nights are theirs to engorge upon in hopeless pain, my days spit out remnants of their celebration. For as vines strangle and overgrown briars encroach, my ghosts encircle me. And I am afraid.
Come along and join in with Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers and Eugi’s Weekly Prompt. Eugi asks us to use any variation on the word prompt (“celebration”).
Seeing a rose, I once said that we stand out like that, red on green, and you reply, tongue-in-cheek, you mean like an ambulance at 3 AM in a Mississippi swamp and I shut up, crushed, like you’d said we were an accident that had been waiting to happen, as if crucial to finding the way is this: there is no beginning or end, just a screeching of brakes, a clang of metal, the jolting of bones, and then the long drawn out police report and insurance claims, a ledger of rights and wrongs, and the spindrift pages in the moonlit night where my heart spills and the nightingale vies with a shrike impaled on a thorny bush that ought to have a bloom, a rose, while someone, no one, looks for a medic to resuscitate the dead in an ambulance at 3 AM.
For Cee's FOTD
and dVerse's Prosery where Merril asks us to use a line from a Jo Harjo poem, “Crucial to finding the way is this: there is no beginning or end,” to write a 144-word piece of prose. Click on Mr. Linky and join in!
If one day you are told this was an accident, caused by your increasing crescendo of scorn, my darling,
tracking why? in (what your sort) calls poetry.
Poetry is simply
breaking through walls.
[Addendum for Friday Fictioneers:]
United World Chronicle, 6/5/2100: Missing Woman.
Christina Lightfoot left this note and photograph for her fiancé, Lord Ettlesworth. After multiple crashes, she successfully flew her automobile into outer space. The vehicle reportedly runs on a nuclear-powered, zero-gravity generator. The World Authorities Commission Force (WACF) is requesting information in return for zero lifetime taxes on sales, income, property, and travel.
For Rochelle's Friday Fictioneers (100 words or less; click frog for more)
and Sammi's Weekend Writing Prompt, 37 words, "Crescendo."
Nothing in you, nothing in me, Nothing as far as eye can see Nothing to say who made me, Nothing makes itself plain to me Nothing will be my guide and creed No absolutes but what my thoughts decree Ruler of my own destiny Master of sky, land and sea No limit to whatever desires mingle, set free It’s all about me, from A to Z I’m free to decide what’s best for me What’s wrong for you may be right for me Ask Mother Nature, what’s cruelty? Evolution’s progress, look at me! [SPLAT!] – Last sounds of Nobigbug Butméé
Genre: Poetry Word Count: 100
I’ve been rather under the weather lately but roused myself to participate in Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers and Eugi’s Weekly Prompt. I’ve read many of the entries already and am inspired. Eugi asks us to use any variation on the top photo or the word prompt (“mingle”). Rochelle asks that we use the photo prompt (above) and limit our words to 100 or less. Check them out!
Oceans away from me in India, doctors mark the dead, the funeral pyres burn ceaselessly. Just yesterday I heard India has become the first country to exceed 400,000 coronavirus infections in a 24-hour period. More than 3,500 deaths were also recorded during the same period.
Wayward my fluttering thoughts fly across the seas
Distracted with worry for friends and family;
Yet borne on anxious wings my prayers fly straight to Thee,
O God, pleading Thy compassionate mercy.
For Cee's FOTD challenge; Eugi's Weekly Prompt ("flutter") for April 29, 2021; Sammi's Weekend Writing Prompt, "Wayward," word count exactly 77 words.