This grey dismal scene
embossed my mind
long forgotten memories
path of my past
icicles dripped dark lies
“failure, fool, worthless”
mud sucked boots
clothes would never dry
and the sky, the sky
spoke the words
“there is no sun
it’s been removed”
only darkness looms
etching finality on your tomb”
no places to dream
those were taken away too
go ahead and scream, and scream
no one will hear you
here I stood
holding my hand
the one that couldn’t remember
tried so hard to forget
we stood together
at the past’s path again
Drip – L. Moon 2013
Here’s to a New Year for Friday Fictioneers. Enjoy the work submitted by fantastic writers and poets.
Aged marks the alley
A way traversed by man
many feet have covered
more years than that have spanned
Aged marks a history
where crimes in stealth occurred
running for a hidden place
but they had been observed
Aged marks a story
the stones that cannot speak
holding back the knowledge
not told on any street
Aged yes and crafty
we carry many scars
were you to know the secrets
you’d gasp and be alarmed
Seek not for the answers
we whisper in our drink
this alley holds much darkness
Thanks to Rochelle and Friday Fictioneers for another week, another great prompt, and an entry into an alley where there may be no exit.
I took the liberty of editing Kent Bonham’s shot just a bit. I wanted the focus to be on the stones of this alley.
Just past the doors, there was something going on. There were deliveries of crates day and night.
One delivery guy got lost and walked into a room full of male statues.
“I guess it’s gonna be a museum.” He scratched his head.
“Put him up over the lintel of the front door,” she smiled lustfully at the handsome face of Hermes.
“His head seems to hold up the building,” one passerby remarked.
He wanted to write home to Pericles, “Be careful, my young friend, never to piss off a Roman goddess. They need one of us to lead Athens.”
Pericles and Hermes shared two things: they were both Greek and they were both orators. Neither seemed able to keep their head…
This week’s prompt takes a classical bent Rochelle the curator at Friday Fictioneers.
Photography courtesy of: Al Forbes and Ancient History.about .com
*plunk” another pebble fell from my hand.
She’s gone. slipped right through my fingers like the stone.
I remember when she told me, “Honey, I’m a ghost. We have to find my killer before I lose my potency.”
“Ghosts have potency levels?”
(The little things I didn’t know about my wife.)
“He killed you for your family’s BBQ recipe?”
” Best in the west” she grinned as she quoted the label.
I fell in love all over again, chasing down her killer.
They found him in a vat of the family recipe.
Now I hold her memory and aimlessly watch ghost koi.
Today’s Friday Fictioneer’s photo prompt is the photograph of the Koi taken by Douglas Macilroy.
To say music was “my life” was an understatement.
From dawn to dusk I sang the songs my heart wrote.
When I lost my voice, my fingers became one with the keyboard.
My brother dismantled my keyboard; the guts were strewn like a dissonant message from my room to the instrument.
“You killed the song in my head,” I screamed in the key of C.
I was cut on a metal shard, bloodied notes fell to the floor.
I refused to let him take credit for the score written in red that day.
That score became a famous Dark Mass.
Today’s dismantled keyboard is the prompt for Friday Fictioneers. Wishing Rochelle a Happy 1 year celebration as the conductor of the Friday Fictioneers
“It’s fine art!”
She proudly waved her hand at her creation
This once little known artist had gotten a grant to turn a two-mile long canal into a gallery.
Where there had been reeds and lily pads there were one hundred shopping carts.
He smiled to the tour group he was leading.
“This artist has portrayed what life was like for the middle class in the 21st century. Four-person families lived out of one shopping cart. We kept the shopping cart belonging to my grandparents.”
A young boy cried out. Who will feed the ducks???
This weeks watery prompt for Friday Fictioneers is inspired by Janet Webb. Our hostess Rochelle deserves the honor of a set of waders this week.
Here is the link to the more “political” post that this photograph inspired.
I stand on the stage where I had given my life’s blood
I love the stage
the drama that swirls center stage, in the wings and in the musty corners
my final role was Desdemona
That last night was my finest performance
“That death’s unnatural that kills for loving…”
If memory serves me well, Othello had been out of character that closing night
No ministrations could calm
When they removed Desdemona’s body, they were unable to revive me
“She severed her own bloom,” he calmly stated
Tonight “my love” I meet you upon life’s stage
I pass on bloodied thorn …
The photo prompt is shared by Sandra Crook (L’Amphitheatre des Trois Gauls, Lyon, France.) and opens the curtains for another week of Friday Fictioneers directed by Rochelle Wisoff Fields
Just for point of reference in the drama: “When they removed Desdemona’s body they were unable to revive me” “me” refers to the actress playing the part of Desdemona. Thus Desdemona and the actress died tragically that night at the hand of Othello.