“Is there not one crumb of dignity within you?” Her hectic voice screeching.
He barely lifts his head.
Which just enrages her more.
“Nothing to say, huh?” She snaps
Her left hand suddenly rummage within her purse.
Two shots ring out.
A figure covered in cloth falls
Today a wish fell from the sky
Dust, maybe fairy dust it sparkled
My breath stopped, my heart paused
Trying to comprehend was it meant
My eyes glued as it tumbled
Finding my upturned palm
Slowly gossamer wings appeared
Spellbound I stared at the sight
It tested those frail wings
Turning to face me
Then leapt back skyward
I wished it stayed
I wished for the wisdom of a child
Knowing to act not think first
As it rose, I jumped up
Failing arms desperate to grab on
My mind crawled away
My face dropped a bit
I knew next time what to do
When the next wish falls from the sky
1. monkey wrench
2. dust bunny
3. jejune [naive, simplistic, and superficial|(of ideas or writings) dry and uninteresting]
5. goose-neck lamp
8. vexatious [causing or tending to cause annoyance, frustration, or worry|denoting an action or the bringer of an action that is brought without sufficient grounds for winning, purely to cause annoyance to the defendant]
9. pernicious [having a harmful effect, especially in a gradual or subtle way]
11. milk bottle
12. vermilion lipstick [vermilion:a brilliant red pigment made from mercury sulfide (cinnabar)]
My vexatious glances lock on that vermilion lipstick stained milk bottle. The effect of dementia or angst… i know not. I’m drunk on pernicious ideals life is fair.
“Mollycoddle, your word to label me” I yell at shadows cast from the gooseneck lamp.
I see monkey wrenches you laid into my plans. Row boats beached on distant shores. They mix in their darkness with the dim light. A dust bunny becomes a dragon. More jejune debris from brief in humans.
Plagued by a tub of words! I imagine spry swings of alliteration. But thumps of forgetable lines suck. No tap of the pencil changes things.
I long for simple times
I remember when it was perfect
Being as one without boundaries
Magic lived between what was us
Just to bring that back for a moment
To grasp the raw emotions
No plague of worry or thought
When the mist clears my eyes
A lone thought cries out
How do you recreate
What never was
Her long brown hair trails
A little tattered at the ends
You feel her presence quickly
The air turns cool as she moves
Dark eyes sparkle with color
Her smile warming at first
Against a deep blue sky she glides
Trees glow in her wake
You hate to see her turn away
Behind her a long dark shadow
In which things slowly fade away
Color breathes rapidly now
“What do you mean he’s gone?!” Abigail looks at her mom.
“The guy across the street. You know sits by the flower pots and waves to everyone.” Mom points with her right hand. “He’s gone”
“He told Sheila he was going to find peace very soon. He was weird” Abigail grows tired of this conversation
“Find peace? What kind of freak did we talk to all this time?” Mom furrows her brow
“Mom, maybe he was a psychopath or bank robber! How cool he lived right there.” Abigail taps on her phone “Im gonna be so cool. I lived never a real life criminal!”
“We don’t know that! You can’t tell people that Abby!” Mom looks concerned and stops to look at back across the street. “What if he was?”
Written as part of a challenge called Flash Fiction for the Aspiring Writer
My time has come. You’ve spent eons trying to understand me. I have wrote my messages in blood, white chalk, paint and tried digital for awhile. The whole was “the End is near”. With humanity it always was. Every sense of fear created conquest, war, famine and death. My saddlecloth changes and your names do, as well. In my bid adieu, I cast the last light upon the end of your path.
My nature is much that of your languages. The ability to redefine what it is the I may be. In a final attempt to reveal the truth, I appear as I should to your modern words. You may not look upon my face, lest you may remember my true name. Your time for heroics past. Like your history and adherse to the myths of belief, you will rise into the air as dust.
Farewell. My efforts to teach you the importance of tomorrow and banding together have failed. Tomorrow, finally will come. Remember how you wanted to live your last day. It’s close.
“Sympathy? I remember sympathy. It was a two way street, once.” Her face stretched and slightly twisted. Shadows fill lines within her face.
“I… I don’t understand…” his voice breaks in disbelief and the hopelessness of being bound. The sleepiness and mix of a pharmaceutical cocktail crawl under his skin.
“I have remembered everything. Particularly, how much sympathy I have seen.” She fractures a small smile. It provides light in a darkened room between two empty souls.
1. pistil [the female reproductive part of a flower. The pistil, centrally located, typically consists of a swollen base, the ovary, which contains the potential seeds, or ovules; a stalk, or style, arising from the ovary; and a pollen-receptive tip, the stigma, variously shaped and often sticky.]
2. stamen [a stamen is a male reproductive organ of a flower. It produces the pollen. The stamen has two parts: the anther, and the stalk. The stalk is also called the filament.]
9. granny knot [The granny knot is a binding knot, used to secure a rope or line around an object.]
Slowly, I dawdle down the dark street. My lone measure is a skirt. Loops of flowers, touching stamen and pistils. Arabesque lines clutching each other like granny knots. Eye sockets simmer as I take measure of its movements.