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mogreen
43 Posts • 20 Followers • 55 Following
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Challenge
Ashes to ashes...
"How important is anything that could burn to ash in a few minutes" (Barbara Kingsolver, "La Lacuna) Poetry or prose.
Profile avatar image for Ferryman
Ferryman

Cold Turkey

The rain has blackened all the tree trunks, but a white face is painted on a young oak.

I almost missed it staring back at me from the wood line. Two eyes, an exaggerated nose, an idiot's toothy grin, they all follow me as I turn against the wind. I cup the Winston, and calm sanity warms my throat as I squint against wisps of rolled North Carolina gold.

It isn't really a face, I reckon. It's lichen, or moss, or some other forest growth that's had its way with the bark of some wild tree.

I lean against the wet railing of my deck. The air is thick, but cool. Soon, the sun will turn wet grass into the floor of a sauna, but for now, everything is perfectly comfortable, maybe even a little chilled.

Maybe it's just the face dropping my temperature a little.

I refuse to make eye contact. It's silly, I know, because it isn't really a face and there are no eyes. I can't shake my odd feeling about it, though. It reminds me of one of those moths that intentionally draws the eye away from important bits.

So where should I be looking, if the face is a decoy?

I chuckle, shaking my head. This place is playing tricks on me.

I drape one leg over the banister and straddle it. I don't have any patio furniture yet. It's pretty low on the priority list, since I'm still living out of cardboard boxes in the new house.

I'll go poke around the tree line when I finish this Winston.

What's the worst that could happen?

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dctezcan

The best of all possible worlds

It was a traveling fair attraction at first. Free for everyone. Called the Best of All Possible Worlds, people at first thought it would show them some sort of utopia.

They were wrong.

You entered a booth, attached to your temples a couple of electrodes which were linked to a computer, put on some VR glasses and discovered why yours was the best of all possible worlds. Everyone's experience was unique to what the program gathered from their minds. And it was an experience, lived fully, not a vision. Though mere minutes passed, it felt like hours, days, months, years, depending on the person. People stumbled from the booth and fell to their knees, kissing the ground in absolute joy to be there and not...elsewhere. It didn't matter if they lived in a mansion, a shack, out of a car or on the street: the responses were all the same.

Theirs was the best of all possible worlds and they should be grateful.

The catch was you couldn't talk about your experience.

Some people thought it couldn't hurt to tell a spouse or a best friend.

They were wrong.

It only took the investigation of a few cases of spontaneous combustion to find the connection and for most to realize silence was the price of admission.

Of course, that realization meant the booth quickly fell out of favor at fairs, people not being very good at keeping secrets. Even so, various entities recognized the value of the program. It was sold for a very respectable sum, the inventor retiring to a private island in the Pacific.

Or so the story goes.

Public psychiatric hospitals began to use the program to cure depression. The world seemed so much brighter after a visit or two in the BPWC (as the Best of all Possible World's chamber came to be known). The incurably suicidal merely shared their experience. The rest went on to lead happy lives.

Prisons used the BPWC and found behavior improved in 99.% of cases. (The outliers were executed, so one could argue behavior was universally improved.)

Public schools had multiple booths installed. They were used at the beginning of each school year and throughout the year with students who found it difficult to follow the rules. Or who came to school hungry or bruised. Or who had lost parents to any number of violent occurrences. Even teachers unhappy with administrative mandates took a turn in the booth.

Results are unclear at this time.

The most effective use of the program has been by countries struggling to maintain order in their own lands or in those they are endeavoring to enfold within their borders. BPW camps have been established all over the world.

It has been nothing short of miraculous how docile people become when they realize how good they really have it.

Our government's three-year plan includes providing personal BPWC's for every home in the country. For free.

It really is the best of all possible worlds.

Challenge
Ashes to ashes...
"How important is anything that could burn to ash in a few minutes" (Barbara Kingsolver, "La Lacuna) Poetry or prose.
Profile avatar image for flashgordon
flashgordon

isn't everything just bits of matter

disguised as a desk petunia person

swirling whirling twisting turning

nothingness if not invisible energy

once life spirit vigor vitality being

passes expires extinguished stilled

all remits to indistinguishable ash

dead unimportant without breath

Challenge
In for a penny, in for a pound.
Love with a cost.
Profile avatar image for dctezcan
dctezcan

In for a penny

"Clyde, I don't know about this."

"C'mon, Bonnie girl. Don't you love me?"

"Aw, Clyde, you know I do, but this is crazy talk."

"Ain't you tired of being poor? Goin' to bed hungry? Barely makin' a living waitin' tables? When there's tables to wait. Livin' in a shack on the wrong side of town while the other side drinks champagne in mansions?"

"Well, yeah, but..."

"I want to give you champagne," he said, pulling her close. "I want to give you pretty dresses and all the hats and shoes you want."

"I don't need all that. I just want you, Clyde." She paused then said, "And maybe a camera with some film."

He laughed. "Whatever you want," he said, kissing her. "If you really love me, you'll do this. For us."

"Clyde, I just don't know..."

"All you have to do is drive, Bonnie girl. I'll do the rest."

It was a rural gas station. No one got hurt and Clyde took Bonnie shopping when they got far enough away.

But the money ran out, as it will when there's none coming in, so Clyde planned the next job.

And the next.

And the next.

And each time, Bonnie argued a little less.

Then he planned a bank job.

"That's too much, Clyde. The gas stations, the small stores, they're all far from everything. But a bank? In the center of town? We could get caught. You could go back to jail."

"I ain't going back to jail, Bonnie," he responded angrily. "It ain't no place for nobody," he said more softly, thinking back to the head he'd bashed in after the guards looked the other way while he got bent over in the john. He'd make them all pay.

"This ain't no different than the others, Bonnie. And we can take a longer break. Maybe settle down for a bit somewhere, living off what we get from the bank. Take some pictures with that new camera I'm gonna get you..."

"Clyde..."

"In for penny..."

She sighed. "In for a pound...all right."

So, they pulled off the bank job.

Then a few more.

And then they stole a new car, or three, kidnapping the owners as well to keep them from notifying the police too soon. Clyde gave them some money and food when Bonnie dropped them off on a dirt road somewhere far from where they picked them up.

And then he killed a sheriff. Or two. Or ten.

And Bonnie stayed by his side.

The police raided one of their hideouts, but Bonnie and Clyde escaped though they'd had to leave their stuff behind. The authorities developed the film in the camera they found. Amongst the pictures was one the newspapers published, and the public loved, which showed Bonnie smoking a cigar and holding a gun. Cigar smoking gun moll. She was just posing for the camera, they thought.

What they didn't know was that it was the gun with which she'd killed the man standing between her and the exit from the bank.

I mean, her man was in there.

The gun was aimed at his head.

She pulled the trigger first.

I mean, in for a penny, in for a pound, right?

Challenge
First Line
Continue the story after the first line: "Everyone in town agreed the lake was haunted, but only I knew what was actually buried beneath it." Feel free to change tense/pronoun as needed. I'll pick the winner!
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dctezcan in Fiction

Seven lakes

Everyone in town agreed the lake was haunted, but only I knew what was actually buried beneath it.

I live in a small town nestled between green mountains and surrounded by seven lakes. Unexceptionally, the name of my town is Seven Lakes. We are a vacation destination during the summer. People come from all over to hike our mountains, camp in our forests and swim in our lakes.

Five summers ago, people started disappearing around Lake Number 7 - we are not an original bunch - and the local flock of mocking birds started echoing what sounded distinctly like women screaming.

I should say that it was women who started disappearing. Young, beautiful women, with their whole lives ahead of them. Snuffed out in an instant.

Well, perhaps a wee bit longer than an instant.

They never had a chance to scream. I mean, I'm no amateur - I've had quite a few years of practice. I don't give them an opportunity to do anything but die. No, those last moments are for me alone. The sudden fear when they know they have been betrayed as they realize I am their worst nightmare come to life. The terror-stricken eyes as they discover they cannot yell, or move, or fight. The silent screams as the blood seeps from the thin slice around their necks.

It is a rather slow process, actually. The dying, that is.

Then I swim with them down to the cave I discovered while swimming in the lake as a child. A perfect graveyard for my many treasures.

The townspeople keep away. The disappearances along with the inexplicable screams of the birds has convinced the town the lake is haunted with evil spirits whisking away the unsuspecting living. Many vacationers, however, think we're a superstitious lot or just like the idea of scaring themselves in their own real life horror film. They think they'll just walk away as they do at the end of their favorite flick.

I know better.

Challenge
Forgotten
Write about something related to the concept: "forgotten." Short story, monologue, whatever—just make it prose.
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dctezcan

Gone, but never forgotten

"Gone, but never forgotten."

"To Charlie," they all responded, downing a shot of his favorite tequila. Everyone's eyes were on me, the poor widow. They seemed to be expecting something though I wasn't sure whether it was a speech thanking them for showing up for the memorial, more tears of grief, or the customary silence they were used to from Charlie's little wife.

"Another round," I said to the bartender. "It's what Charlie would have wanted,"I said to the myriad faces that seemed surprised to hear me speak.

"Here, here!" A few voices shouted.

Two more shots and I was three sheets to the wind and ready to say what I'd come to say.

"I want to thank you all for coming out to help me celebrate the life of Charlie Nichols, the best man I have ever known." I heard a spattering of affirmation amongst the group.

"Charlie was always there for everyone, whether to help paint a house, listen to a problem, or with a dollar or two." I paused. "Or thousands."

Some uncomfortable laughter.

"So, imagine my surprise when slowly, one by one, all of Charlie's besties fell into a black hole as Charlie battled for his life these last ten ears."

Some squirming ensued.

"Where were you then? When he needed to hear a friend's voice, hold a loved one's hand. Of course, he had mine, but what happened to you?" I asked in a soft voice full of hurt for my beloved.

"Were you afraid he'd ask you to pay back all the loans he gave you over the years to help pay for his medical bills? He had every right, but you knew him. He would never dream of asking anyone for anything. He was a giver through and through.

"So, where were you when he was still here to appreciate your presence? Where were you when he needed reassurance he was loved and needed and that his was a good life worth fighting for?" I looked around.

"Was it too hard to watch a friend suffer and die?" I paused. No one would make eye contact. "Imagine how much harder it was for Charlie to endure that suffering with only my shoulder to lean on after having been there so often for so many, if not all, of you. Was it too much to expect that you be there for him? To expect even a phone call on his birthday?"

"Charlie was my husband, but he was also my best friend. My heart broke every time the phone rang and it was a scam or a telemarketer when he was hoping it was one of you. I watched the light die in his eyes as his illness ravaged his body. When he needed you, really needed you, he discovered he had been forgotten.

"So, forgive me when I say you are full of shit when you say, 'Gone, but never forgotten.' You forgot him a long time ago."

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Lilacmourning in Poetry & Free Verse

Where Wildflowers Bloom

She wasn’t planted with care or design,

No hand chose this patch of ground.

She rose through the rubble, cracked and dry,

Where silence was the loudest sound.

They called her a weed—unwanted, wild,

Too tangled to be tame.

But they never saw the quiet work

It took to bloom from pain.

Each petal carries pieces of

The wounds she used to bear,

Each leaf a scar that learned to green

From long-forgotten care.

The rain did not arrive with grace—

It thundered through her chest.

But even storms can wash the soul,

And give a seed its rest.

She healed in secret, slow and sure,

While no one thought she could.

She found a kind of rooted peace

That gardens never would.

Now she blooms in colors strange,

Too bright for some to see.

But she is proof that healing grows

Where wild things choose to be.

Cover image for post one sip of you is the entire summer in a frosted glass , by anarosewood
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anarosewood in Poetry & Free Verse

one sip of you is the entire summer in a frosted glass

I am on soul withdrawal

yet I don't ever plan on being fully sober again

sitting in an AA meeting in a smoke-filled room

in the universe's waiting room,

cheap coffee, folded chairs

and no air

you, my dear

are a frosted glass of cursive lines

a shot of tequila served chilled

( crisp, fresh,

and with my favourite kind of twist )

I am on soul withdrawal for now

but I was made for decades

of being soul drunk on you

my fingers itch for you

they itch to open the bottle once more

______________

music vibes: Ashley Monroe - "Hands On You"

Profile avatar image for HandsOfFire
HandsOfFire

cycle

corset

sun breeze

quick sex

car drive

another week

paranoia

message

skip work

self checkout

solo

linoleum

one pink line

sigh

sign

cheat fate

didn't want it

hurt

didn't want it

"gambit"

paranoia

charred heart

sob

parallel

didn't want it

impossible

possible

choice?

tears

intersect

didn't happen

deserved

imagination

ghost regret

status

life

work

sex

trembling heart

still

status quo

Challenge
Feigned indifference
"Unexpressed emotions will never die. They are buried alive and will come forth later in uglier ways." (Sigmund Freud) Poetry
Profile avatar image for beatricegomes
beatricegomes

Kindling

Bobby carved trenches in the sand with his toe,

Watching the dirt pile into walls on either side.

He heard the crack of a ball ahead,

The buzz of a gnat by his ear,

Felt the blinding sun beating down on his brow.

Dad shouted something,

Wrote something down on a clipboard

As Bobby traced shapes in the dirt.

Dad was once a shortstop too.

"Don't be afraid of the ball," he said.

"Keep it in front of you," he taught Bobby.

Suddenly, a sharp pressure against Bobby's right arm

Exploding into fireworks through his elbow.

Bobby crumpled,

Howling and clasping his arm.

Stern eyes landed on him.

"What did I tell you?"

Bobby choked back a whimper.

"There's no crying in baseball."

Dad frowned, but after the game,

He bought Bobby a red-white-and-blue ice pop

And told him it was their secret.

Dad could fix anything.

The dripping refrigerator,

The rattling car,

The baseball card a school bully ripped.

Dad taped over the tear and made it good as new,

Wiped Bobby's cheek

And reminded him

That crying is for girls,

And was he a girl?

Bobby shook his head so hard he saw stars.

Then dad couldn't come to many games anymore.

He was in bed a lot.

His cheeks had grown hollow.

Another dad on the team held the clipboard these days.

He didn't bring Bobby rocket-shaped ice pops.

He made him play in the outfield.

One day Mom sat Bobby down

And said, holding back a sob,

That Dad had to go away.

Bobby asked when he would come back.

The funeral was a few days later.

Mom dressed Bobby in his little black suit,

The one Dad bought for his First Communion.

She didn't put the tie on right.

Dad always did it for him.

It's a good thing Uncle Stan was there

To remind Bobby to "man up"

And be strong for Mom.

Mom lit a candle for Dad that night.

Bobby watched the flickering flame from birth 'til death,

Stared fighting back tears

Until it had burnt down to a blackened stump.

Bobby lit candles every year,

One for each year his father was gone.

What started with one candle became a chaos of forty flames

Arranged around his little house.

He went by Robert at work now.

Each year, Bobby swallowed the lump in his throat

Until it fell deeper, deeper within him.

Each year, the candles grew bigger and brighter.

He stomped on the ember in his chest until it disappeared,

Even if for just the next 365 days.

One day, Mom's phone rang into silence,

The voicemail left unopened,

The text message left unread.

And just like that,

The light in his life went out.

Bobby bought a new, black suit,

Tied his windsor knot,

And gritted his teeth through the service.

Uncle Stan wasn't around anymore,

But no one had to remind Bobby

To keep his chin up and eyes dry.

He had run out of surfaces in his apartment

For his shrine to grief,

Every table and shelf covered in drips of melted wax.

The matches had burnt calluses onto his fingers,

And a black, smoky haze spread across the ceiling.

The flames popped and crackled

And consumed the wax,

Spilling fire and brimstone all around him.

The firefighters dragged him from the blaze,

Still clutching the old mitt Dad bought him,

As the ceiling came down.

As the night faded to blue dawn,

Bobby walked through the smoking ashes,

Hoping the dams in his eyes would hold.

He ran a shaking hand through his hair,

Smearing charcoal across his face.

He fell to his knees and let the dam break.