The Letter

When someone as gifted as Ela asks you to write with her, you do NOT say no. In fact, if you’re anything like me, you jump at the chance. And, since I am almost exactly like me, that is exactly what I did.

Now, I think we’ve all come to grips with the fact that I don’t really “do” prose well, whereas Ela is really quite gifted at it. As a result, she and I decided to be creative in working our way around this slight issue, and in the tale we crafted, I hope you’ll be as pleased with the results as we are…

theletter-copyDeath sat at the edge of the bed, slack-jawed and stone-faced. Well, more stone-faced than usual; as the crumpled piece of paper formed an impenetrable barrier between It and Its intended cache for this night.

Why had It done it? Why had It read that infernal letter in the first? An effortless matter, this should have been. Just one more soul, ready to be extracted. One more life, simply at its wick’s end.

And yet, this time was different. This time, as Death glowered over this weak and puny, yet oddly contented man, a strange new feeling came. A crawling, warming sensation previously unknown to It. Looking at this creature – this sheet-white man-ape of no previous regard – It felt something akin to what It imagined affection might be described as.

Utterly ridiculous!

Shivering, It dismissed the thought altogether and slowly rose from the bed, in order to do what It should have done in the first. But right before doing so, It once again did what It shouldn’t have done in the first, and glanced at the letter once more.

That damned letter. With its presence, Death knew that this man-ape with the childish grin, would live on. Well, at least until it was her time to be taken too. Sighing resignedly, It stalked forth from the room, forever more trying to forget the words that It had read:

“My Love,

You have waited for me an eternity
Trying to see me in a million faces
Yet you never could, for it was not the time for us.
Tonight sleep peacefully knowing that the nightmare is over
And that I am on my way to you.
Tomorrow, when you will open your eyes
You will see my eyes mirroring you.
No pain, no chain, not even Death
Will stop me this time.
I thought I saw you millions of times
In millions of lives, my Love.
But every time I lost the illusion
Like a smoke scattered above the frozen waters of my broken heart.
For you were nowhere else but here all the time, waiting for me.
Tomorrow, when you will open your eyes
We will finally start to live.
Let the past die and rise from this tomb of agony
For Tomorrow is here
And I am coming.”

———————————————————————————————–
Ela&Troy, 2013
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Please follow Ela at MeMyselfAndEla, a wonderful and gifted poet-writer who speaks eloquently from her heart.

Beyond The Sea

You know what I said last week about finding inspiration for these pictures? Yeah, well this week none of that happened, as the very second the prompt picture popped open, I shouted excitedly – and to no one in particular – “PEN PALS!!!”

That’s right, this week’s Friday Fictioneers immediately made me think of the pen pals bit I wrote a little while back for the 100 Word Song challenge, and I thought we’d revisit these kids now to see how they’re doing, cool?

Hope you enjoy!

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Copyright – Sarah Ann Hall

Wanting to touch her cheek, he reached out slowly, till his fingertips softly tickled the image on the screen before him.

They were so much alike, yet different. They were so very connected, yet far apart, each firmly entrenched to their own place.

He longed to traverse those few thousand miles, but was unable to break himself free. So instead, he continued sending pictures and words across the ocean, hoping that she would see in them, his love for her.

Sighing, he wondered what she was doing at that moment.

Wanting to touch his constantly tossled hair, her fingertips softly brushed the image on the screen before her…

•••

Briefly…

I am not going to even try to tell you otherwise – this one literally fell right out of my head, at almost 100 words exactly. If it’s good, it’s not because of any fine-tune crafting on my part. If it isn’t good, I apologize, but I saw in it a strange kind of beauty. One that I desired to share with you.

Here is this week’s 100 Word Song.

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She’d seen both mamusia and babcia stumble off, never to return. Tatuś and brat, she’d never seen again after the station.

She was now alone, confused as to why Yahweh would do this to her. How was survival worth anything, when stuck in this hell?

But then they came. They came, and the guards scurried like the cockroaches that they were. They came, and blew down the gates of hell with their big, beautiful machines.

As she accepted timidly the first food she’d had in months, she saw a bird, soaring carefree overhead. Yes, it alone knew how she felt.

•••

My apologies if I misspelled and/or used any of the Polish titles incorrectly.

This week’s song was chosen by one of my dear “Drag Mothers” (of the blog variety) k~, with “Feeling Good” by Nina Simone

684 Words Plus A Sentence

OK, so check this out! Know who got to pick the prompt this week? THIS KID!  

Hell yeah, I’m a suck up! But whadda I care, as long as I walk outta here with my 4.0, BITCHES!!!

So anywho, I’m pretty sure that we all knew I would go with either Lewis or Adams. And, as the prompt had to be the fourth line from page 144, Adams eventually won (sorry Clive, but every single one of your books seemed to have a real suck line, prompt-wise, at this exact location.)

All that verbal cacophony aside, and with the somewhat insane task of placing the prompt sentence somewhere within the 4th line position only (4, 8, 12, etc., etc.), here is my response to this week’s Master Class 2013, as pulled from Douglas Adams’ piece of genius “Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency.”

Please let me know if you like it!

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As he normally did, Leonard walked into the room, unannounced and unnoticed.

The children were busily sucking off the teat of the flat screen, slowly turning bloated and blue from the poison of mediocrity and “lowest common denominator,” while the tube of boob slowly drained their life force. Similarly, Leonard’s wife sat ignoring him, giving all her attention instead to a smaller screen, held by one hand and stroked lovingly by the other. She gave this device the sort of attention that would have had a boy on the cusp of manhood running home in order to change his soiled trousers. Saddened by seeing his world in such an alien state – one that, had he actually been paying attention, would have realized had been corroding like this for years – Leonard walked over slowly to the wall. Limply at first, followed by a more forceful attempt, he pulled the hard plastic plug of the television from the socket, causing the children to almost fall to their faces, as if the very light from the screen had been a physical thing that they’d been leaning on up till then.

As was normally the case, it was only when he pulled stunts such as this, that his wife seemingly remembered they shared the same house, space and life, and immediately thrust the entirety of her personality into exploding her reign of anger upon him, screeching, “Now what in the fuck did ya that for? Ain’t you got no common sense, love? Ya stupid fucker, plug it back in!” Leonard knew the attack was coming, but it still hit him like a brick when it did. The only solace was his amusement over her continued use of the word “love.” It was a habit started when they first met and she meant it, but now just a disconcerting reminder to him of what once was. The fact that at times she would call him this, all while cursing the very flesh used to make him, caused him to giggle uncomfortably inside.

The children also knew the attack was coming, and as such simply stayed put until the venom and spit had flown. Once they knew the coast was clear however, they too joined in with their mother hen, verbally pecking at Leonard’s soul with insults and complaints.

Gathering what little self-worth was left, Leonard stiffened as he meekly chirped aloud, “Now listen lovelies, we can’t keep livin’ on like this, as livin’ on like this ain’t very much like livin’ at all.” But even before the words had finished dribbling forth, he saw the steely gaze from his wife, and realized his mistake – he should have kept his mouth shut, stayed in the background, hidden.

“Plug. It. Back. IN!!!!!”

Things had been much better when he had been hidden.

“But Dearie…”

“PLUG IT! BACK IN!!!!”

The tone in her voice alerted Leonard to the idea that the words she growled no longer meant what you would normally think they did. No, this time “plug it back in” could have been read more accurately along the lines of simply, “die, you turd.” It was a common enough phrase for Leonard to hear from her as well, just one normally stated with the actual words being used to express the idea.

Slowly looking about the room, Leonard realized his error. His life was no longer his own. He had been beaten out by technology and – again had he been paying attention – his own indifference. His wife had taken to her, her phone as a lover. His children had left his lap, for that of the flat screen’s. And he, well, he had allowed it all to pass while apparently off in some cloud of his own.

Defeated, Leonard fumbled about as he plugged the television back in, thrusting the hard plastic plug once more into the electric vagina that had become the life source for his kin. Shortly thereafter, the children returned to their previous state, one that even a zombie would see as unbecoming. And his wife, after muttering one more “Ya stupid fucker,” returned absent-mindedly to the task of jacking off her handheld lover.

And, as he normally did, Leonard walked out the room, unannounced and unnoticed.

•••

Much to my surprise, today’s track was actually posted on Youtube by my friend and former DJ for Buffalo NY’s “premier” Punk Rock club, The Continental… enjoy!

A Quick Tale

The thunder clouds loomed large, before I took Ian to his school dance last night on my way to the grocery store.

But still we walked.

20130510_171130And tired of its threats being ignored, just after my first stop was completed, the sky opened in a phenomenal rage; gusting me with wind and bulleting me with drops small and stingy.

My umbrella was no match for the sheer volume of water and the bullying weight of the wind, and I found myself almost afloat as I dance-sailed to the store.

Throughout it all, I felt happy, alive, in love with love. It seemed that the harder the storm pushed, the more enamored I became. And then something odd happened. Something strange and disconcerting. I’ll try to explain.

At one point, while I dueled the wind pointlessly with my Mary Poppinish saber, my face cracked itself into an expression I felt very much that my father would have made, had he been there and still able to crack expressions. And for a brief second – just a heartbeat – I became him. I became him, and I felt a shudder of disgust. Not at the man who he was, but at the man that I could become, if I’m not careful.

It hit hard, and I found myself saying to him, yelling above the storm, “I love you dad, but I am not you. I can not be you. I refuse to hate the storm that blows me. I refuse to box myself into a world of only my understanding. I refuse to look at a gift from God – regardless of how seemingly crazy it might be on the surface – and simply deny it as a result of my ignorance and fear. I don’t know what I don’t know dad, but I refuse to allow that to stop me from learning. The cliff scares me dad, but instead of turning away, or living the rest of my life peering over it, wondering ‘what if,’ I will leap dad. I will leap, and I will fly.”

This is Love. This is why so many die without Love. Love is gentle, kind and patient. But Love also asks that we trust it wholly. Especially in those times when we would feel most comfortable in not doing so. On the surface it may appear slightly different to us, when it comes in the form of a pet, a child, a friend, or a lover. But with all of its faces, and no matter where it invades our life from, Love asks that we trust it, even when the storm brews.

Especially when the storm brews.

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This post courtesy of a stormy day, a man in flux, and The Daily Prompt.