Monthly Archives: January 2012

Flashy Fiction – Photo Prompt

Well, I tried to post this to Flashy Fiction ( a cool flash fiction prompt site recommended by Poetic Bloomings), but once again Blogspot denied me the ability to post. Aggravating. Anyway, here is the photo and my depressing flash piece.

She kept herself busy most of the time. It was the best cure for overwhelming loneliness. Their basement apartment had been turned into a laundry where she washed sheets for the army hospital.  Everyone did their part, and with the men all gone the work was left to the women.

There was a never-ending supply of sheets. The wounded seemed to come in faster every day. She did not mind the work; it was hard and left her tired at the end of the day when sleep threatened not to come. The bleach was harsh on her hands and the washboard hell on her back, but she knew it was nothing compared to what her husband endured. Like the other wives, she dealt with her discomfort stoically; happy they had at least been spared artillery and air raids thus far.

They adapted; there was no choice. Every attempt was made to maintain some sense of normalcy. Stores were still open, though often poorly stocked. Meals were often sparse as well; cabbage plentiful but rarely any meat. They could get flour for making bread and that served well to fill empty stomachs.

She only allowed herself emotion twice a day; before going to sleep when she missed him the most, and when she woke and could still feel his arms around her. But every day she was hit once more with a force like a punch to the stomach. Even though she tried to prepare for it, she always had to turn away.

Each day after school her boy would come home and stand in the window. He would lean out over the bricks bleached out by the wash water they dumped on the walk. Every day he would stay there until dark, scanning the faces of the men in uniform that would wander by. Looking for the one that called him son.

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Filed under Creative writing, Flash Fiction, Short Story

River of Stones – Jan 24

A day of sun at last –
illuminated browns and rust of
dead winter foliage preferable
to the wet grays.

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Filed under Poetry, River of Stones

Dragons and Old Men

Just some fun with a good ol’ sword and sorcery yarn.

Damn, but dragon hide is sturdy stuff,
my lance broken, horse dead or run off.
My shield was busted by a swipe of tail,
helmet went flying and left arm broken.

Our foolishly brave troop is down to me plus three,
all hiding and rethinking our chivalrous vows.
Two have died from swipes of massive claws,
three roasted in fiery breath, one ingested I fear.

Sitting here with my back against this boulder,
wondering how in the hell to get out of this mess,
pledging that the monastery will be my destination;
damsels can stay in distress, the dragon keep his gold.

What’s this? A newcomer to our futility. Oh Joy!
Much help, I am sure, this old man trudging up the hill;
stooped against the slope, leaning mightily on his staff,
clothed in oversized robes and wide brimmed hat.

Halfway up the hill, just below my hiding place,
he is greeted by the dragon’s challenging roar.
Stopping, as if mildly distracted by the breeze,
he looks from under his hat and strokes his beard.

I hear the now familiar mighty beating of dragon wings,
the old man seems unperturbed, as if studying the event.
Another roar is accompanied by the heat of belched fire;
much like viewing the executioners work, I cannot look away.

Suddenly straightening with unexpected speed and strength,
he thrust his staff forward as the fire engulfs him….
What?! I saw it but do not believe! The dragon’s fire parted,
passed him by on sides and above; not a singed hair in his beard!

There is a new tone now to the dragon’s cry; rage maybe? Fear?
The sorcerer takes a step forward, staff held high in right hand,
steely eyed he begins raising the left as he starts chanting,
a white, glowing globe begins to form in his upheld hand.

Continuing his mumbling as he slowly takes two more steps,
coming even with my spot as the globe grows and swirls.
Beating wings are deafening now as he thrust left hand forward,
launching his magic at his monstrous, unsuspecting foe.

A brilliant, blinding explosion of light and a piecing scream….
I awake to his gentle hand on my arm; ‘Is it over? Is it dead?’
He smiles and shakes his head. ‘No, one does not kill a dragon.
You just have to convince it that it is time for it to move on.’

He stands and takes up his staff, a helpless old man once more,
and makes his way down the hill, carefully avoiding the rocks.
My remaining companions gather round and watch him go,
all somewhat surprised that he left us the damsel and the gold.

 

 

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River of Stones – Jan 23

the crows, alone,

brave the downpour.

proving their indifference,

or arrogance.

 
http://www.writingourwayhome.com

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No Cure

Shawna at Rosemary Mint issued a challenge to use the following words in an original poem:

blazon, sensescent, rust, ticklish, savage, caracol, potpourri, kiwi, cure, eclipse. Once again, not a happy result; might have to give these another look when in a different mood.

Senescence came upon him early,
brutally,
unkind.
He had watched his parents gracefully
embrace the passing of time,
seeming to notice age in the way that
subtile potpourri will tickle the nose.
He would have no such adventure,
savaged by disease with no cure
that marked his body like blazon rust
marring exposed iron.
Denied a cure, dreams dismissed,
he would never visit Caracol, or
New Zealand to eat kiwi from the vine,
or dance with his daughters
on their
wedding day.

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Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts

River of Stones – Jan 22

Greeted with birdsong

in the early a.m.

They are north

too early,

but welcome.

 

 

Miserable day; wet, overcast, running a fever, cant breathe, body hurts… but had to be a ‘stone’ in there somewhere.

http://www.writingourwayhome.com

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Filed under Poetry, River of Stones

Sleeping In

Posted to The Mag in response to the below photo prompt.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It is at times
acceptable,
even
preferable,
to put off the trappings
of a black and
white world
and remain
comfortable
in our nakedness,
and oblivious to the
passage of
time.

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Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts