Monthly Archives: January 2013


Well, I do not really know what to call this. Let’s say it is an experiment. It started with a word list from Mrs. X (whom I love writing for) at the Imaginary Garden. It contains poetry, prose poetry (I think) and outright prose. So, lets just call it “writing”, I will leave it up to you to tell me if it works as … well, as whatever it is.



I could feel each nerve fraying as I read
the passages from her diary,
each page revealing the deceit of innocence.

Alice was a twin — the surviving one. Her sister, Abbey, died four years ago at the age of nine. She fell from their treehouse, oddly alone in the sister’s favorite spot. Their parents passed a year later to the day, victims of apparent mourning and an previously unknown nasty addiction.

The writing starts the year Abbey died,
she is not mentioned at all.
The writing is the concise script of a perfectionists.

Alice went to live with her doting grandparents. They were well past child rearing age, but had a nice home in a decent neighborhood. Alice was the golden alpha-girl; last remnant of their only child. Their every joy was found in watching her blossom. Four years passed in a blink.

The first two years of entries were typical pre-teen
illusions and silvery imagination.
No reference to parents, sister of grief.

She was superficially social at school; friendly when required but not particularly close with anyone. Her teachers attributed it to her circumstance. It was understandable that a girl experiencing such loss would find it hard to make friends. At home she was a loner, elderly guardians lacking as companions.

Year three notes become more random, razor-sharp
bitterness and loneliness mingled
with endless optimism, anger and hope.

Alice missed three days of school before anyone was sent to their home. Alice was nowhere to be found; her room was pristine, a diary left on her bed. Her grandparent were found in their bed, peaceful in their repose. The coroner reported them suffocated in the sleep.

The last essays become an unspooling of reality,
a messy scrawl of dangerous thoughts
and the intentions of a killer, each one signed “Abbey.”



Filed under Flash Fiction, Poetry, Poetry - Prompts, Short Story

A Matter of Tradition

A southern tradition in a meal
each New Year’s day;
pork for health,
greens for wealth,
black-eyed peas for luck.
We adhere to these conventions
and hope a superstition can improve
our situation.

A year ended which held
little positive,
to say “I was able to survive”
being the best we can take away.
A year ahead without much promise.
The certainty of less prosperity looms,
freedom and possibility becoming
replaced by ideas of fairness
proven to fail.

New traditions are forming,
ugly traditions of hate and oppression,
urging the destruction of success,
to be replaced by the cult of dependence,
mass poverty and group identification.

A nation founded on ideas
of individual achievement and freedom
slowly falls to the old ways it once rejected.
The elites again become powerful pretending
to be shepherds,
while the people willingly march
to the slaughter.

Four More Years...?

............ .Loosely written for the Trifecta prompt to use ‘survive’. Also posted to Open Link Night at dVerse. Happy New Year? I have my doubts.


Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts