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”).
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."
In the sky through the clouds you can see silver haze Dispersed like the sheen of a dragon of steel Look too long and you’ll swear that your gaze Is returned and the dragon above sees its prey.
Do not run, do not hide, or you’ll be her next meal Say charms, not too loud, dance a jig, maybe two If the fear in your eyes, it can see, it can feel Then no magic on earth can save you or save me
As she comes, whisper soft, murmur tales of lost love Spin dreams of a land where a knight stays true blue Melt her heart, let her eyes fill with tears, and above Your bent head she will breathe not her fire, but her cheer.
Then your heart it will swell, you will ask all you will, Deep lore of the earth, wondrous songs of the sea All to you she’ll impart, from her lips it will spill Then she’ll fly to her lair over clouds over moons.
BJÖRN RUDBERG at dVerse challenges us today to write our verse in Anapestic Tetrameter, and so I’ve attempted, with a dropped syllable in each quatrain’s second line. See more dVerse offering and join in by clicking on Mr. Linky.
Twisted is just what I got juggling Linda’s #JusJoJan (“twisted”), Michelle’s #JanuaryWritingPrompt (“cannibalizing airframes”), Melanie’s #WOTD (“jentacular”), and Di’s #Take Seven (“add, all, basic, being, bit, determined, hidden, knew, lean, lurking, measured, more, show, sneer, started, there, tin, tired, treat, wobble, work”). Whew! Here’s what I ended up with.
It was very hush-hush. The servants kept at their WORK, starting with their JENTACULAR* routines, putting on a SHOW for all the houseguests, DETERMINED to keep them away from the HIDDEN runways and hangars where their fancy aircraft were stored. The servants KNEW more than they let on about the TWISTED, seamy affairs among the guests and BEING discreet acted MORE or less ignorant of it ALL. But they were TIRED of being TREATed with that hint of a SNEER that the upper-classes didn’t bother to hide. Once in a while, a guest would express an interest in checking up on their plane, but there was always a butler or an under-butler or housemaid LURKING THERE to sound the alarm, and soon the guest would be diverted with a TIN of something savory or a MEASURED warning by a LEAN threatening native. ADD in a BIT of theatrics, and the guest’s knees would WOBBLE in alarm as they retreated. The servants had STARTED their own enterprise in this neglected corner of the world where so many starved while others jetted in and out of their massive estates. Their enterprise was pretty BASIC. They were cannibalizing airframes off the luxury jets of their guests and selling them to dealers around the world. And thanks to the increasing number of millionaires, it was a thriving business.
*jentacular –“means just about anything related to breakfast.“
Aloft a brothel’s barge with two beside liquid lines processional, embowered golden scents, stood a painted courtesan as in a vision the monk saw.
His chanting fingers trembled, as if her subdued scarlet figure were of a bride, pink as dew, whom he had left to follow the path of his enlightenment.
Fearful he took a closer look: the vision turned, her gaze obsidian and chill his blood like the Yangtze ran his visage grayed like the Changjiang Plain where she for him in dishonor won his pellucid peace with her forsaken cries.
He made as to rise, prostrate to sink, reverent, but she her glance of saber-scorn withdrew and looking behind at her companion true whispered, “There sits a saintly hooded fool!”
For dVerse’s MTB, synesthesia is the name of the game and I thought I’d add a bit of ekphrasis to it to spin an operatic tale. Be sure the check out Mr. Linky for more offerings in this vein.
When I saw the “a vendre” sign, I had to have it! Carolyn would have understood. Her pink Cadillac had been a hand-me down from her sister who’d made a name for herself in Mary Kay sales. Carolyn drove the flashy pink Cadillac just to shock her preacher and her co-parishioners. To them, being too enthusiastic about God was just as vulgar as driving a pink car! But people like me who looked like they didn’t belong in a Manhattan church understood. Now as a missionary, I knew I had to spend my last dime on this welcoming pink boat!
Word count: 100
written for Rochelle's Friday Fictioneers
click on the pink frog for more tales of a hundred words or less
& join the fun!