Silence

A longing gaze

A laughing look

A holy mess

beyond the pale.

Should I chime in,

pile on,

add to gossips' gluttony?

No, I would stay silent,

lick my wounds,

taste my blood,

and wait for courage to arrive. 

Is it still betrayal

if the heart has never strayed?

They say speak plain,

but it's easier to sigh

and wonder, 
so I'll take these words

I dare not say

and put them on a plate

(tidy, unlike life)

then take out fork and knife,

slice them into bit-sized bits,

and ingest them one by one.

And if you ask me

who's to blame,

I will say I've seen the knife
and felt the cut.

These scars are mine alone.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

Auld Lang Syne

Should I wax nostalgic

as the old year passes?

Already you are part

of what was then.

Although I know it
in heart and mind,

your brilliance fades.

I sing your praises
and read again your words,

but the fever that they stoked

has cooled.

Unless there is some secret

you have found

(unknown to those who went before)

the fire cannot be relit.

And so I nestle here

in the old year's last embrace,

giving a thoughtful moment

to that sliver of our past.

Give me now your blessing
and bestow your gifts on me,
for as these sands do sift away,
I would close my eyes,

make a fervent wish

and let you go.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday and Sunday Scribblings 2.

Samsara

Drunk on your words,

Entranced by your fire,

Bitten
Blighted
Blunted

Made small and single-minded

by your game.

But if I stop,

refuse to play,

what remains?

A gray world of duty:

Lethargic

Bureaucratic

Washed-out and empty.

Endless days.

The only living

is in the lie;

the rest is just existence.

And so I grasp samsara

With both hands.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday.

Compact

I would make with you a compact:

sworn to silence

sworn to peace

keepers of each others’ sins

partners in crime.

For now and forever after

let there be honor

between us two thieves,

a sterling bond

that tarnishes with neglect

but still holds strong.

Think not I would be jubilant

should there be more between us

than our silence

and your smile,

for I’m not one to fracture time

and give a piece to all.

And though you’re dear to memory

each hour is dear to heart.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday.

Amnesia

Would you judge me harshly

if I told you plain

of the splendor of a summer's night

that turned my head,

bent my mind,

made me something other:

culpable

expendable

maybe unforgivable

and unable

to speak free.

I would not take that chance 
and risk your censure.

So now I reap the harvest

that I've sown,

and though your gaze does tempt me,

I will stay here on my riverbank

gathering roses while I may.

Oh, let the breeze caress my skin

and whisper stories in my ear!

I'll make of memory

a secular sacrifice

(burned and scattered on the winds)

or maybe stuffed into a chest

of ancient recollection.

Locked up safe 
from you

(and me)

until my dreams' death rattle warns

that amnesia now holds sway.

 This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

Struggle

You’d think it would be easy

to give you up,

let you go,

consign you to the dustbin

of my memory.

Not so fast.

There’s no amour

in this love game:

vanity fair

stare-down

shakedown

take-down

of all that makes

good sense.

I would rather

taunt the lion,

prod the cobra,

clasp a viper to my breast

and take what comes.

Do anything but lose.

But though I make of this

a war,

jihad,

an epic fight,

it really is quite simple:

turn around and walk away.

So easy that it’s hard.

No matter that I play to win

in our little hate game,

by craving victory
(your love)

I lose.

This was written for Sunday Scribblings 2.

New Flash Fiction

New ST fiction available. This one was for Sunday Scribblings 2: Except by Candles

Thorn

It's just a little pain,

small reminder

(guilty conscience)

not quite sin,

not quite love,

not quite anything

told in books.

Unreal.

Try to look too closely

and it might disappear,

always to return

(nothing ever goes away)

almost true

stuck like glue,

stuck to you

and me.

Pluck it out:
an easy wish to make,

harder to do,
because this thorn that

pricks my memory,

stabs my veins,

and lives under my skin,

I also cherish

to my core.

These slivers of attachment
are not the enemy;

the nemesis lies within
my fickle heart.

This was written for Sunday Scribblings 2

Gaol

They tried to build a jail for me,

but instead, I built my own

with walls of futile wishes,

crazy dreams,

and childhood fears:

hard as diamonds

tough as nails.

No need for stone and steel

when secrets will do. 

Here I'm safe from 
shadows and sunshine,

strangers and fairy tales.
Inside these walls I'm safe 

from me

and you.

But though I make my gaol

and imprison myself inside,

I am no martyr.

Prophets may forecast my fate

and seers speak my doom,

yet here there is no jailer

and in my pocket is a key.

So still your mocking laughter

and be not proud,

for I have seen the place you dwell.
You are locked up, too.

 This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

Crasher

I tossed you out

but you got in again

(somehow)
skulking

sneaking

slipping

through the cracks

and in between

the interstitial spaces

of my brain,

insinuating

yourself

into my soul. 

An unwelcome guest

(discarded fantasy)

no more substance than

vapor

air

or smoke,

but you asphyxiate me

just as surely

as if

you were real.

This was written for Sunday Scribblings 2

New Flash Fiction

I have posted a new Steal Tomorrow story: Madame Midnight

Tabula Rasa

I would be a blank slate,

stripped of memory,

(stripped of you)

my thoughts wiped clean

with a little discernment.

Rid of recollection,

no need to fear

the sticks and stones

that break my bones

break my heart

break my mind;

remembrances that polarize

and become identity

all too soon

(not soon enough)

Perhaps I'll cast my lot with sinners

or selflessly side with angels.

More likely I'll put a posey in my pocket,

clench a clover in my fist,

and hope for the best.

So take me to the river of forgetting.

Build the bonfire high.

Tonight I'll cast remembrance 
to the flames,

and after mark my face

with the ashes that remain.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

Paramnesiac

In my heart.

On my mind.

The you I wish you were.

How many years

can fantasies live?

They need special feeding, you know.

Obsessions

Confessions

Expressions

of something

good as gold,

but not as bright;

something

that isn't love.

We crossed a line

(double-crossed)

played the game

at any cost,

ignored the signs

and miners' birds.

They're here to sing, not die.

Our minds are now oceans apart.
(older, hopefully wiser)

The illusions of youth

weren't yours to give

or mine to keep,

and so I did my best
to give them up.

But even after 
the fuss and fury,
the vows broken,
and promises whispered
in empty rooms,
the you I wish you were 

still lives on my heart

and in my mind.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

New Flash Fiction

New Jazz Gang flash fiction: Make a Wish

Saint

Quirky, troublesome saint,

thrust into my life by circumstance.

Edge of madness.

Edge of life.

Existing on a knife blade

where we slip and fall.

All the kings horses and all the kings men.

Cut your wrists.

Cut and run.

Cut your teeth on structure.
Plant hope in shifting sands.

Put everything in its in place:
Order from confusion. 

All the best saints first know pain.

Answer the dreams
of the fortunate few

while searching the soul's pasture
for signals.

Every meandering trail
ends in a dismal spot.

All roads lead to now.

We didn't need a crystal ball

to know where this would end:

(tablets ropes bullets)

They broke your locks

for one last time,

and you rose on the fifth day.

Canonized: perfect at last.

The young get hagiographies.
Mythologies.
Doxologies.

You're an unreliable specialty saint

who will not answer prayers.

But you left some useful memos.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl and Sunday Scribblings 2.

Legend

Should I let things stay unspoken

and in silence turn away?

As you say.

As you wish.

Clasp cold fingers

across my lips

and dare me not to speak.

But I invoke your name,
pray to you

in troubled times.
I kneel before your altar
and read your tattered works.
I do as you would do,
but not as you have done.

You would have me
bury your memory,

and scour your footprints clean.

But instead I trace the etchings,

take my knife

and carve them deep.

Unforgettable.

Oh mad genius,

you are legend.

En memoria de VAM, falleció 4 marzo 2014.

New Flash Fiction

I have posted a new Steal Tomorrow story. This is part of the City News flash fiction offshoot: Collector.

New Flash Fiction

I have posted a new Vince story: In the News

Signs

There's a sign outside the window

of the room where I get my tea:

New

Coming Soon

Countdown

I am wearing my poker face

when I hear the news:

gossip

innuendo

I smile and nod,

but keep my feelings safe

from prying eyes.

It's all a charade, you know.

They don't just come,

but also go.

And so I don my mask,

paint my lips,

and style my hair.

Blend in.

Camouflage

There is Ginseng in my cup,

red ink on my hands.

Outside: blue screen of death.

This is my day, writ large.

And when the clock strikes

and it's all over

(tea and sly asides)

papers crumpled in bins

(do not shred)

I descend the staircase,

step by step.

Outside, my glasses fog

in summer's heat.

I am blind.

This was written for Sunday Scribblings 2.

New Steal Tomorrow Flash Fiction

I have posted a new story in the Jazz Gang series on the Steal Tomorrow site: Sunny.

New Flash Fiction

By Alice Audrey's request, here is a follow up to Sunday's flash fiction: Speedball in Love - Part Two.

New Fiction for Sunday Whirl

This one takes place in Vince's gang, although Vince himself doesn't make an appearance. I realize that may disappoint some of his fans...

Speedball in Love

À mon ami

I miss you

(without missing you);

lost chance

to explain,

though you will never

understand

my words

my mind

my heart.

Was it opportunity

or crisis

that made you walk away?

Too near the chasm.

Stall for time.

Do anything

but open up your soul

and question what’s inside.

Change hurts.

Now days grow long,

reminding me

of other summers’ fires,

and so my gripe is this:

We could’ve tamed
our memory,

shared a laugh,

(thank god that’s over),

but you turned your back

instead,

refused to see complexity

in me,

while I recognized

(with fond and knowing smile)

the contradiction

in you.

Bonne chance, mon ami. 


NOTE: This is a Three Word Wednesday Post.

Morality Tale

I won’t make this a morality tale,

though I’ve seen the lies,

felt the deception,

all smoothed over
with smiles.

You’ve fed the evidence of disaster

to the fire,

burned it to ash
like your soul.

Better that you had given
your fairy tales

to the flames, instead.

You can bury the truth,

but it will sprout again in Spring.

Have no fear
that I will reveal your secrets.

(Secrets have their own ways.)

But though I do not raise the hue and cry,

accuse, pull off your mask,

I know what lies beneath.

And in the wickedest arcane corners of my heart,
Je suis d'accord.

This is a Three Word Wednesday post.

Time Flows

I analyze the viscosity of time,

its rate of flow,

its tendency to stick in tricky places,

and sometimes stop

while I hold my breath

and wait.

Who can say how long it takes

to become adept
in time’s meanderings?

For though it appears to run

in patterns

(its own peculiar channels),

in truth it follows paths
of its own devising:

Random

Rambling

Rampant

If hours were edible,
I’d choke them down.

If bankable,
I’d save them in a jar

(under my bed)

like private fireflies,
just for me.

Instead, time flows,

through my fingers and my hair,

out the back door,
across my yard,

vitreous and virulent,

hard to measure.

But still I attempt
(in spite of everything)

to rate the viscosity of time.

This is a Three Word Wednesday post.

55 - Insect

I was there when the strange winged creature landed. I wasn't sure what to think. A few curious people wandered over and we speculated. We weren't afraid of the monster, but maybe we should have been, since the odd being's presence led to an invasion of art-seekers, followed by that even more noxious species: tourists.

Note: This work of art was observed in Terlingua.

This is your last time to submit your 55-word story to Mr. Knowitall, so get on over there!
 

Phoenix

I saw you

emaciated,

hungry,

with a hole inside

that could not be filled

with mercy

(though I tried).

With the cunning
of a judo master,

you took my food

milk of human kindness

and turned it into
something foul,

fuel for self-destruction,

an ugly, noxious thing,

a flame

that gives no warmth,

only ash.

And so I waited for the end,

wrote the obit,

held my breath,

picked out my widow’s weeds.

But you have emerged
from the fire,

cleansed,

purified,

a degenerate angel

transformed to man.

And now I see the truth:

that all our darkest moments

precede dawn.

This is a Three Word Wednesday post.

Fuel

Each fever runs its course:

white heat,
unquenchable,

unrivaled.
No quick healing here,

just an endless grind:

ground down

blunted

broken

hunted

haunted

and plenty of

obsession.

Cast into the desert,

stung and sweating,

searching for something

(to hold onto)

searching for someone

(with an answer)

but in response,

the dismal quartet of words:

It's not my job.

It's not my job.

No one can help you here.

So I watch the time

tick away,

each additional second

a further weight to bear.

Longing for escape

is only natural,

for the fever burns,

consumes

conflates

conflagrates

and contains no answers.

Today i am made of little pieces,

tied together with twine.

Fuel for the fire.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

55 - Silverware

Too many spoons.

What should he do?

Though he pondered it often,

he hadn't a clue.

Then a friend said,

"Go make a zoo.

Take that old silver

and make it like new!"

So that's what he did,

using forks and knives, too.

If you're near Big Bend park,

you can now buy a few.

Does your work of art contain exactly 55 word? Tell the G-Man!

Phobia

It’s just a little phobia,

paranoia

paradox

that we can love

and yet despise;

hold each other close

while miles apart.

And though I search

for something true,

true to life

true to you

(and me)

authenticity eludes my grasp

and I am left

with empty hands.

Should I try again

and risk contempt?

Oh, hide away the ego

and enlist common sense

to guard it,

lest we do more damage

than before.

Tiptoe quietly past.

Let sleeping dogs lie.

This was written for Three Word Wednesday.

Turning

Green days and sunshine

turn to Indian Summer,

and the small but telling signs

that winter comes.

Nothing in a bottle will save you.

Season's turning

strips us bare,

and truth's towering form

casts its shadow.

Dust to dust.

Youth is squeezed out

of mottled hands,

flesh goes slack.

The body yearns

to plop into a wicker chair,

fuss and  fury ended.

But the mind still feels

spring's caress

and, seeing youth

pass along a city street,

recalls an earlier season.

Fires die but sparks remain,

and I will eat of the apple

all the days of my life.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

55 - Terlingua Afternoon

They brought me here in the old pickup. Now they're hammering and calling to each other. At the other end of the patio, a man without shoes strums a guitar. Tourists wander around with cameras and sometimes go inside to buy a t-shirt. I just lie here, soaking up the sun.

Another day in Terlingua.

Dog lounging outside the Starlight Theater (now a restaurant) in Terlingua ghost town.

Have you written a story in exactly 55 words? Don't keep it to yourself! Tell Mr. Knowitall.

Unplugged

We moderns stride about,

smug in certainty

and gizmos,

muttering paeans to our gods

via Bluetooth.

We live indulgent lives:

instant answers

instant love

beamed by satellites

and towers.

But still there remain

pockets of wildness.

Devoutly tapping

yields no magic here.

Only rocks will answer.

Note: Photo taken on recent visit to Big Bend National Park.

This is a Three Word Wednesday post.

55 - Jacal

He had only a shack

of ocotillo and mud

but he raised a large family

and was known as a stud.

With wives in two countries

and friends in three nations

old Señor Luna
had quite the relations.

And though he was poor,

never did something great,

this tough old Latino

lived to be 108!

Gilberto Luna had wives on both sides of the US-Mexico border and at least 11 children, possibly more. He raised many of them in this jacal in what is now Big Bend National Park. He died in 1947.

Have you written a story using exactly 55 words? Tell Mr. Knowitall and join the fun!

55 - Room Service

The card on the tray said "enjoy" but how could she? Each bite must be weighed, each calorie counted. She had been schooled in the art of self-denial and rich desserts were for guilt and shame, not pleasure.

Then she took a bite...

To hell with guilt. And shame? It could take a flying leap.

One Basket

I put my eggs

in a basket,

though I can't trust

it will hold.

Other tests and trials

have proved it unreliable;

each failure an assault,

a mugging,

a sneak attack,

or a lie

whispered in the dark.

But we make our choices

with high ideals,

choose our course

and try to stick to form,

bearing blown chances

and lost opportunities

with nary a peep.

So though I'm uncertain

what the day will bring,

still I'll take these eggs

and put them
in my basket,

not because

I know no better

but because this

is all I have.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

55 - Opossums and Voodoo

At first glance it seemed like a nice place - a quiet pavilion by the water, a place to rest on a hot summer day. It was ideal until she noticed the dead chicken and the furtive scurrying of gray furry creatures.

She wondered what it meant, but then noticed the sign, which explained everything.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. No opossums or voodoo were noted by the author at this location. 

Got a story you can tell in 55 words? Tell Mr. Knowitall!

Distraction

You're a nice distraction
from my proximal problem,
proximate cause,
proxy for so many things
that I refuse to say.

I could spend
all my days
mired in the muck of imagining,
making up fairy tales,
(stories of you)
fables and tragedy,
(mysteries, too)
spinning story lines,
each a fine diversion
(nice excursion)
phony version
of the tale I dare not tell.

So let's walk away from it all,
tiptoe quietly, please 
lest these tales become truth
and shred my heart.

Tonight there is a sinkhole
spreading under my feet,
and something feral and insatiable
lurking under the bed.

This is a Three Word Wednesday post.

Cruel to Be Kind

They say I must
be cruel

to be kind,

but I’m not sure.

If I cast you out,

unkempt,

unkind,

uncared-for,

who here is the monster?

Am I playing to
your sucker’s game,

or engaging

in some ghastly sport
of my own?

I have no answer,

though I quiet my mind

and seek interstitial space

in which to rest,

gain perspective,

gather my thoughts,

garner just a little

peace

(and hope)

that when they lay my heart

upon the scale,

if it can’t be feather-light

it will at least be feather-bright.

This is a Three Word Wednesday post.

Quicksand

I've listed my faults,

gathered my failings

into one nice tidy box,

but they are just words:

routine,
empty.

formless,

plucked from air

(and a dictionary)

with gutsy optimism

that they are something
to grasp on to.

But labels are funny things,

defining choices,

narrowing the flow,

creating an invisible prison

devoid of chance,

bereft of choice;

the type of place fit only
for automatons

and guilt.

I would walk away from it all,

step outside the ring of lies,

the polluted stream

of fevered dreams

and cravings for certainty
in an unsure world.

There is nothing here
but quicksand

and illusion.

The body succumbs to temptation,

but the mind can choose
to be free.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

Hooked

It’s just a rogue thought,

passing fancy,

a little dream,

a fantasy,

accelerated by a story line

that just won’t quit.

Quiet.

Shut up.

Silence the chattering mind.

Don’t bite the hook,

lest you be dragged to shore,
passive,

(dark island of your own derangement)

where you’ll be served up

by the natives

as a snack.

This is a Three Word Wednesday post.

Wait Too Long...

I've defied 

good common sense

which said:

cut my losses,

cut and run,

cut away this malignancy

that keeps me

out of balance,

out of luck,

out of love,

a witness to 

your lost potential;

dreaming of a former

you.

I've tiptoed around the issue,

prayed for symmetry,

searched for synergy,

begged for sympathy,

but no others see my plight

or hear my plea,

and there are no greener pastures,

bucolic landscapes

for effecting

an alternate ending

to this sordid tale.

No, I have missed my chances,

and all that I am left with

is a tenuous balance 

on the edge,

and a free fall into an open pit,

whichever way I fall.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

Traveler

Rangy,

wander far,

and now back home.

What country did you visit?

What new customs sampled?

Were the natives affable,

or did they terrify you

with their strange ways? 

A nice place to visit,
but I wouldn’t want to live there.

You tasted new delights

and attended a masked ball.

What costume did you don,

and is it one

you’d wear again,

or will you fold it carefully away

with rose petals and a kiss

for memory’s sake?

Oh, find your way back

to where you were before!

For after all the dancing

and charade,

you’ll be galvanized
by journey’s end
to pick up all the pieces

and make your house
a home.

This is a Three Word Wednesday post.

Illusion

I would state my case,

state my plans,

write every little aspect

in a memo

(just for you)

and facilitate understanding,

so you embrace my contradictions

instead of turn away,

too certain of your certainties

to see.

But that's just a foolish dream.

In this country of illusion

you will confirm

affirm

support

sustain

your own beliefs,

instead of juggling

with the notion

that this time
you are wrong.

Since I have no love of argument

and shouting at the wind,

I will therefore leave my note

unsent

unposted

unaddressed

and let you tie

the ragged strands of truth

in whatever knot of lies you wish.

I hope if nothing else,

it makes an interesting picture.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

55 - Snow Day

A snow day was all he wanted.

He wished and prayed for it hard.

Just some precip and freezing temps,

and he would have snow in his yard.

So he sat in front of the TV

watching forecasts, hoping for snow,

and to his delight, during the night,

he got his wish, wouldn't you know!

This is an older pic, but there really is a chance we'll get a snow day tomorrow.

Have you written a story in exactly 55 words? Don't wait for a snow day to tell the G-Man!

Slow Dance

Calm, precise, stylized,

each step a minuet:

an exercise in control. 

skin deep

Probe the surface
and you’ll find

all the deadly sins,

plus a few extra.

Following the prescribed pattern

conceals our lustful and malevolent thoughts,

gossip and jealousy,

and the great trespass of boredom.

So hide your repulsive desires

behind a mask

and execute each figure

with a smile.

We are beautiful.

We are perfect.

We are liars.

And we are legion.

This is a Three Word Wednesday post.

Suit of Clothes

I would conjure

a suit of clothes

and stuff you inside,

like an eagle in a sparrow's nest,

making you bend and twist to fit;

here too loose
here too tight

tie the flapping bits with twine,

perhaps add a cap,

though it doesn't fit right.

Then I would love you

(or hate you)

for how well you wear

my creation.

Something tells me 

here lies madness,

though I suspect

you dress me, too,

in curls and trinkets

of your own devising,

that no more suit  me

than the feathers of a crow
or a peacock's plume.

But let us not break our spirits

over such matters.

I say here now,

I know my duty,

and though I breathe a little sigh,

I will carry my conjured costume for you

back to the chest of dreams

where it belongs.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

Storm Clouds

Headed into the storm again.

(All deeds carry a price.)

And though I try to stay remote,

sit still,

be mindful,

wait for wisdom

to illuminate my cluttered mind,

the impact of the past

makes unmistakable ripples

in the present's pool.

If there is one thing 

I need now,

it's a clear day,

unlittered 

by catastrophe.

uncluttered 

by the weight

of fresh disasters.

Clinging to the lifeless past

only buries me deeper

in the muck

of wishing,

story-telling

imagining what is gone

or cannot be.

These are the scenes that haunt me

as I wait for the clouds to part

and reveal the sun.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

55 - Un-wisdom Teeth

They read the instructions
in the DNA,
then decided
to toss them away.

"We're rebels, iconoclasts,
we do as we please.
Grow vertically?
Don't be a tease."

They grew horizontally
(thought they were clever)
but found themselves
in a different endeavor.
Painful extraction
is what fate bequeathed,
for that is what happens
to un-wisdom teeth.

I'm almost 100% after my foot injury, and now this. When it rains, it pours, right?

Have you got a story that can be told in exactly 55 words? Let the G-Man know!

55 - Acoma

He heard they built it high to keep it safe, but eventually everything falls to invaders and technology. Today he feels welcome in his t-shirt and goofy hat until he overhears a native quip, "If we don't like you, we'll toss you over."

Watch your back. Don't haggle over pottery. The past is not forgotten.

Can you tell a story in exactly 55 words?  No need to toss anyone off a cliff - post your tale on the G-Man's site!