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.