Written for Fandango’s Flashback Friday
– August 1st. Fandango asks us to share something
from the past written on this date. Here’s one from 2022.
Category: Prose
Kissing Lake Ontario
Written for dVerse Prosery Monday:
Prosery In the Words of Lisa Bellamy.
Our host Sanaa asks us to write a 144
word story using the quote shown at
the bottom of the page. This is my prose.
Beautiful Boy
Written for d’Verse Prosery where the challenge is to write
a piece of flash fiction of no more than 144 words that includes
the following quotation from “Out Of The Cradle” by Walt Whitman:
“Out of the Ninth-month midnight”. This is my flash.
The Water’s Edge
Written for dVerse Poets By The Beautiful Sea.
This is one of my reworked pieces from 2022.
How I long to walk to the water’s edge,
to dip my toes and cool my burning feet.
There are times I think if I could just reach the water
all my pain would wash away.
Where are the days when I skipped along the shore
collecting shells and rocks and starfish?
My body would bake in the brilliant sun as I danced
like a gazelle from one end of the beach to the other.
I’d look back in amazement wondering how I walked that far.
Sometimes I would catch my reflection in the water
and see that young woman, vibrant and alive.
Hair of burnished gold, skin smooth and lustrous,
deeply tanned, and eyes as green as the ocean itself.
I smile at her but she does not smile back.
Perhaps she knows the hurt that lies ahead
and is already grieving.
I desperately want to be free from these chains of pain
but the key has long been buried in the sand.
I reach for it and again it eludes me.
Where is that young, desirable woman? Where did she go?
If you see her walking by the water’s edge, please send her home.
I have much to tell her. My heart is strong and my lust for life
and love has not diminished. Only my muscles fail me.
How I long to walk to the water’s edge, but my tired
and failing limbs will not support me. Oh, how they mock me!
Will someone carry me to the water’s edge?
How I long to walk there once again.
NAR©2022
From Concert for George, this is Sam Brown et al with “Horse To The Water” by George Harrison
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and are not to be used without permission. NAR©2017-present.
Identical Grief: A Haibun
Written for dVerse Poetics: Picking Up The Pieces
where today we are sharing grief. This is my haibun.
Tomorrow will be 4 months since my husband’s identical twin brother died suddenly. His wife returned home from a walk and found him on the bedroom floor; she said he was still warm. The news felt like an arrow ripped through our hearts. Jim was dead. How was my sister-in-law ever again going to walk into her bedroom without picturing her husband’s body? How was my husband Bill going to face the rest of his life as the lone twin? At one time there were three brothers; now there is only Bill. This is the most difficult trial for him. My husband lost a piece of himself that day. We are numb, disbelieving, questioning, dazed, numb, numb, so unbelievably numb.
You know how people say that time flies? Not when it comes to Jim; time has stopped for us. Logically we know he’s dead but our hearts cannot accept it. It’s unbelievable, inconceivable for us. It doesn’t feel possible. We function normally every day, do the same old crap, talk and eat and laugh. We watch movies, go shopping, pay bills, gab on the phone, babysit. We live the same lives we lived before Jim died except he’s not here to share them and we cannot wrap our heads around that. It just doesn’t feel like he’s dead. He should be here. It’s not right that he’s not here. It’s like someone has played the cruelest joke on us.
Now, when my sister-in-law looks at Bill, it’s Jim’s face she sees. And sometimes when I look at my husband, I see Jim and I find myself pondering why Jim was the twin who was taken.
I am Bill’s wife but Jim was his other half.
save them in your heart
golden summer memories
for when winter comes
No idea who’s who!
NAR©2024
This is “Comfortably Numb” by Pink Floyd
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and are not to be used without permission. NAR©2017-present.
Descent Into Madness
Melissa is our host for dVerse Prosery Monday. She has asked us to write a prose story of up to 144 words using the quote “I pray to God that she may lie forever with unopened eye” by Edgar Allan Poe. Here is my prose in exactly 144 words.
It was no secret that Frederick’s father committed suicide, due, in no small part, to his wife’s constant belittling. The note he left read “The vile bitch! I pray to God that she may lie forever with unopened eye”.
Not wanting his mother to be alone, and despite his wife Helene’s protests, Frederick moved his mother into their home. He hoped the two women might provide some companionship for each other but they soon began arguing.
Helene could do nothing right in her mother-in-law’s eyes. The old woman went so far as to flaunt Helene’s inability to have a baby, goading her on by calling her wretched, a desiccated vessel, a disappointing failure.
Now the pain and humiliation had taken its toll and Helene began her descent into madness. One day while Frederick was at work, she bludgeoned his mother to a bloody pulp.
NAR©2024
144 Words
This is “Song by Edgar Allan Poe”
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and are not to be used without permission. NAR©2017-present.
To Hang The Moon
Written for the dVerse Prosery Prompt by Amy Woolard:
“What does it matter that the stars we see are already dead”
“What does it matter that the stars we see are already dead? What does that even mean, Margie?”
“Oh, Nell. If I have to explain it to you, it loses its gravitas, its pathos, doesn’t it?”
“Gravitas? Pathos? I’m sorry .… when were you named chief cook, bottlewasher and poet laureate?”
Margie gave her friend a dismissive eye roll before turning her back, busying herself with little scraps of paper on her desk.
There was a time the two were like sisters, cherishing a bond they never found with anyone else. Now they barely recognized each other; their conversations were stilted to the point of being painful.
And it all came down to Nicole, a newcomer in their exclusive inner circle …. a renaissance woman and Margie thought she hung the moon.
“I miss us, Margie”
Intense silence. Spoken words were never as wounding.
NAR©2024
144 Words
This is “Sisters Of The Moon” by Fleetwood Mac
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and is not for use by anyone without permission. NAR©2017-present.
The Elephant's Trunk 