Category: Poetry like stories


​”This is the single greatest witch hunt!” His voice caught somewhere between a whine and a yell carried on the heavy air out into the night. As the inky darkness accepted the words rolling them over and over in fading echos it gained a chill edge, causing those whose shoulders it brushed to shiver. Developing a weightiness the wind filled with shadows and percieved threats. Shreiking across the miles it tore at sanity shreading peace no regard for the distraction left in its wake. Ringing with the sound of history repeated the bluster rages on, but fear not for it is followed by the winds of change.

 As seen in the Atlantic – Andrew Kelly

When I’m gone let me go, but carve my name upon a stone. 

Such a silly thing to pop into a persons head, especially a healthy person, but there it was. An unshakeable truth that once thought could not be set aside. All of a sudden the graveyard I was passing looked even more beautiful and tranquil. And selfish. And prideful. 

What makes us want to inscribe our name in stone after we pass on to what is next? Could it be our very human desire to be eternal and more than just existed? To be remembered requires no such monuments so the reason must be much more personal and deeply dark.

Are we naive to carve into the very earth our names? If even the names of young lovers inscribed in passion is eventually lost to growth; then surely with time even a name writ in pain will wear away. We are but yelling into a void hoping the echo might be heard by someone… by anyone. 

Oddly the thought made me smile. I want a stone; on a hill, near a tree, overlooking a pond. I want the wind and rain to slowly wash my name away. I want to be lost to time like all those who came before me, but first I want the taste of imortality. So till time has had its way with me let that stone stand as proof I lived and loved. 

For as the deep set lines wear away my need for them shall surely fade.

By Megatruth as seen on DeviantArt


I shiver chafing my hands together on the bus. Even sitting uncomfortably close to a stranger my fingers and toes ache with cold. Standing on curbs waiting for late public transportation has that effect on even the most weather worn new englanders I imagine.

Staring out the window I feel myself begin to thaw in the sunlight. Now I can see it. The riot of color, the light frost turning to dew on the grass… Then I can see it. There under a blanket on the cold stone footer of the decorative bridge lays a person covered with a blanket a shopping cart at their feet. 

The shiver comes again. This time it is the cold creeping under my skin and into my soul. 

How dare I complain. 

The image whips past me as the light changes, no matter it is burned into my mind. 

All rights to the owner of the image whom I thank

It happened in an instant, the shift from givers to users, and world merrily followed after.  Down hill.  For all the good it did us.

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I am not a product of abuse…

     no cuts or bruises mar my visage.

I am a survivor of indifference….

     proud of the scars upon my psyche and the mended fractures to my resolve.

And so I live with the uneasy truce

     between who I see in the mirror and the worn out images

held up in reference

     so that I might try, tirelessly, to compete with a stereotype which has never evolved.

My success?

     Downplayed.

My dreams?

     Limited.

My identity?

     Predetermined.

So still I come home to clean, cook, and amuse

     as if there had been no woman’s suffrage,

and I smile and nod in deference

     as those around me try to force me to devolve.

But I know my strength and my views

     and I feel not alone, as I am but one in this strong female lineage.

So ignore me and worse… make your inferences.

   I know I’m good getting better as I absolve…

your hateful sin of indifference.

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All rights to owner. As seen on Enlightened Conflict

    

My love

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As seen on Huffington Post - all rights to owner -

My love is not easy to explain. 

It is an ache inside me; reminding me that I would rather hurt than be wrong.  It is the part of me that clings to promises both unbreakable and unknowable. 

It terrifies me.  Freezing me in place. 

I cannot define it, this love of mine.  It does not fit well in the pre-labeled boxes I am familiar with.  It is not the stuff fairy tales are made of.

But it is mine, and for reasons I can not justify I choose it again every day.

My love is not easy to explain.

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Shadowy gusts rattle lonely brittle leaves.

Creeping darkness presses in upon me.

Rigid Jack-o-lantern stares fill my sight.

Each echoed footstep intensifies my fear.

As his breath moistened my neck.

My knees buckle and I finally…

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All rights to owner

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I recently saw a six word story challenge on Leigh’s Wordsmithery. It involved telling a Halloween story scary, funny, or other in only six words. Building upon this already difficult challenge of sixes I set out to tell a Halloween story in 6-6-6 format.
6 sentences
6 words per sentence
6 sentences must spell out the final 6 letter word of the tale, using the first letter of each sentence.

It took me just over 24 hours but here you go…I hope you enjoy it 🙂

Just to…

My Lady…

With dew covered lips you enticed me,

A maiden making promises of womanhood,

And I ran to you

Just to walk with you.

With honeyed words you called to me,

A woman in full bloom,

And I dreamt of you

Just to lie with you.

With heavy limbs you gestured to me,

A mother flush with life,

And I stayed with you,

Just to lose myself in you.

With bleak eyes will you beckon me,

A sage at the well of wisdom,

For I would sit with you

Till the end of you.

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Today marks the first day of fall, my favorite season. So… doubly inspired by the idea of the Maid/Mother/Crone female trinity, found in Celtic mythology, and the transitions from one season to the next I wrote my ode to mother nature.

Break out the sweaters, heat up some cider, and let the leaves fall ’cause its Autumn!

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All rights to owner

“Don’t be a girl about it.”

“Don’t be such a fucking girl about it!”

Go a head, insult me.  Try to make me feel small, I dare you.  Tell me your truths in ways that are meant to make me quiet and fearful.

“You’re a bitch.”

You think so?  Why thank you.  Yes, I am sure of what I want and of how to get it myself.

“You’re weak.”

Define weak please.  Do you perhaps mean that I cannot lift the same amount of weight above my head?  Perhaps…but what if I can rig a pulley system to do my heavy lifting for me?  Are we equals yet?

“No one would ever want someone like you.”

I do not pin my self worth on how wifely, motherly, or proper you imagine me to be.  Also, I believe that my standards, not yours, are the ones which must be met.

“You’ll never make it in a man’s world.”

I would never presume to walk a mile in a man’s shoes, nor would I want to.  However, I would be more than open to you attempting a day in my life.  A word of caution…its not as easy as I make it look.

“Fucking girlie ass bitch!”

We appear to be circling.  So let me stop you there.  Yes, I am a girl.  Yes, I am smaller than you.  But, no that does not make me weak.  It is not a liability, and I am not ashamed of it. 

I learn like a girl, I work hard like a girl, and I live strong like a girl.

What do you do?

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I also think, do science, and support myself like a girl. What things do you do…like a girl?

Check out this YouTube clip if you haven’t seen it already.

We are nothing so much as a collection.  A collage of thoughts or feelings that, for better or worse, define us.

My collection is a series of sour notes strung together in a way that fools the ear into believing it has heard a song.  I am the discordant melody that plays in the dark to alert you of the danger not so far ahead.  Beware, I cry as I introduce myself.  Run, I caution as our conversation begins in earnest.  To know me is to smile at the devil.

I am a broken thing.  It is this which best describes me, not my height, hair and eye color, or zodiac sign, but the pieces of myself which litter the crooked path I have tread.  I lost my ears to the lies they told me, my hands to those takers who never gave back, my heart to lost love, and my back to the ones I supported.  Still the torn soles of my feet venture forward, tentatively seeking safe purchase.  Even now the fire in my belly lights my eyes constant in its hunger for answers, and in my mind I hear that nameless tune, which I mutter on endless repeat, that is my life’s story.

When I think of myself I see the splintered shards of a dropped vase.  The shattered pattern which is, in its self, whole just different from the glass ornament it once was.  Do not react to my brokenness.  Make no attempt to fit the fragments back together.  For, each loss changes me and each scar redefines me.  So let the key change in this song of mine, the melody remains the same, but flee before the entropy I so ardently embrace.

Because I know, not what will emerge from the next moment of destruction, only that Pain walks with me and he is jealous of my attention.

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Quote from Janet Fitch's book White Oleander

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I wrote this after watching White Oleander, the movie, based on Janet Fitch’s book of the same name.  I bleed for the Astrid character in salty tears.  I love this story.  I envy the strength in the characters and their ability to know who they are.  I hate this story.  I despise that we as a people can hurt children in such spiteful and uncaring ways.  I am inspired by this story.

What movie, book, or character has inspired you lately?

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