I grew near a river that once burned a dozen times. I have seen orange horizons hours from sunrise or sunset. Places in woods and desert where trials were filed with debris. We have only one place to live for now. What view should the next generations have?
I run. A staggered path weaves between rock, trees and cactus. My enemy is above. I feel the eyes scanning the landscape.
“Shadows are my friend.” I whisper to my fellow creatures of the night. “I will sleep on safety beneath your own nose!”
I want to laugh. But sound travels to easily here. Its bad enough I see my quarry. But it’s myself dug in the hole hunted. He can’t get what he can’t see. The plan is working so far.
The clouds thin. Moonbeams stretch out. Rays of silver like nails in my coffin. I hide with my back finding an uncomfortable Saguaro. I watch the light chase the darkness. Hope is a thin shadow.
My pulse rises to match a deep thumping heart. If heartbeats slow maybe I can breath. But for how long?
I turn my head to look.
His face smiles back. An oblivious look or game over expression. If I could hear him. I hate the distance between us. Only in moving do I get to find out who wins this night.
“I would stab at you. You hide too far away.” I look away from him. “There has always been a man within the Moon. He stalks us all. He had always been death. He will always be death. Tonight, better be someone else’s turn.”
I curl into a ball and wait.
Written as part of a challenge called Tale Weaver, details available at https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2017/04/20/tale-weaver-116-the-moon/
“You’ll fry!” Burger shrilly screams.
The crowd jeers. Frantic spectators mix anxiety and anticipation.
Sizzles and pops fill the air as the burning starts. Trapped in a basket as the world goes black.
These are the final moments of a French fry
Why do we dance around them?
Like a broke compass pointing away
I see the working within better
Than I see the person you present
Toying and teasing worked years ago
Long past the point of hoping anymore
In your mind, justification wins
In your heart, distance breaks even
Lost individual adrift on unseen waves
Tides come and go beneath your world
Yet you spiral around blaming the rocks
You merely stayed in the same place
Everything else surely moved
The opaque window of your
Colors us to your disliking
One day you’ll open it and see
4. Ambedo ((n.) a kind of melancholic trance in which you become completely absorbed in vivid sensory details—raindrops skittering down a window, tall trees leaning in the wind, clouds of cream swirling in your coffee—which leads to a dawning awareness of the haunting fragility of life.)
11. Eminent ((adj.) high in station, rank, or repute; prominent; distinguished: conspicuous, signal, or noteworthy: lofty; high: prominent; projecting; protruding.)
Use at least 10 of the words to create a story or poem
The words can appear in an alternate form
Use the words in any order that you like.
Tag: Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie and Wordle
My clouded mind crumbles. Tides of care take flight and dazzle my ambedo mood. Voracious blackberries take eminent roles. They misbehave in whispers leading me from my troubles.
From what, do we ever know?
Shadows tugging at our heels
Or a scythe swinging unseen
Some hide from possible life
The taker of last breathes
You will run to catch me
I’ll not go quietly into the night
Good or bad, Dawn will be waiting
Look not for me Death
I’ll return the favor
Won’t you spare me over ‘til a another year?
Well what is this that I cant see
With ice cold hands taking hold of me
Well I am death none can excel
I’ll open the door to heaven or hell
Whoa death someone would pray
Could you wait to call me another day
Ralph Stanley, “Oh Death”
Free to explore each other’s
Kindred spirits left unbound
Tastes desire longing to run
Full frontal onslaught, eyes wide
Stolen moments lost in amazement
Touching of souls; touching of faces
Your touch illuminates
I bend like flower to sunlight
Invisible chains hold me fast
The sense of falling looms
Trepidation gives way to fawning
Being lost preferable to being found
The pause in breath
The will to forget everything
Same sacrifices in the sense of being
I lean toward the hands
Desire to be clay molded and fired
The perfect vessel for you
Brenda stirs a glass of sweet tea. The spoon bangs repeatedly.
“Your tea is ready. How do you like the sweetener.” she deadpan her question.
“It’s awful sweet. I guess I’ll get used to it. Dieting sucks.” Ron grabs the glass and walks back to his chair. The exercise souls be enough in his world.
“I thought 30 grams would be enough.” Brendas voice barely audible. “How much strycnine will it take?! One more glass, maybe.”