Written for dVerse Quadrille #233: Bring On The Boo!
De Jackson (WhimsyGizmo) invites us to scare up
a poem of exactly 44 words, including some form
of the word ‘boo’. This is my contribution.
Tag: Despair
Gonna Make You Burn
Written for Today’s Writing Practice #19
where we’re given today’s prompt.
Here’s where the prompt took me.
Desperation
Bits and pieces of an old one,
patched together for
The Unicorn Challenge;
this is my 250-word story.
Three years ago my darling Nina, my life-force, my soulmate, was killed in a ghastly accident while riding her bicycle to the library. I’d offered her a lift but she declined; Nina hated my motorcycle, calling it a deathtrap.
I remember the call, the ambulance and police, the excruciatingly long ride to the hospital, the lonely wait in the eerily quiet emergency room, the surgeon’s voice .… his words that torment me day after day after day. My wife is dead, our all-too-short marriage erased.
I am lost, blindly wandering Gehenna. I shut myself off from everything. Well-meaning friends brought Nina’s bicycle to the studio where she taught ballet. I heard it’s a lovely memorial but I can’t bring myself to go by.
It’s time for me to leave, escape the painful memories and the desperation. Our friends stopped calling long ago and there’s nothing left to do. It’s time for me to go.
I remove my wedding band and place it on the dresser next to my phone and wallet.
“Will my motorcycle start up?” I wonder “Or has it died, too?” I grab my helmet and walk to the garage. My bike stands in the corner, covered by a tarp now buried under three years of regret and bitterness. I strap on my gloves, open the garage door and climb on my bike.
It is pouring rain; I have no idea where I am going. It doesn’t matter; I’ve stopped caring. Now I need to stop the heartache.
NAR©2024
250 Words
This is The Dirty Mac with “Yer Blues”
This portfolio (including text, graphics and videos) is 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.
ON LEADEN FEET
A provocative & evocative image from
Jenne at The Unicorn Challenge;
our mission, if we choose to accept it,
is to write our reaction to this prompt.
Here is mine.
Carry myself with pride, as my mama taught me. My name is Elizabeth but everyone calls me Betsy. I am sixteen, pretty and full of life. This is day one of my first paying job – working in the cotton mills. I’m lucky and so grateful.
Mama is home caring for my seven little siblings. Daddy left one day and never came back.
In my lunch sack is bread, an orange and a chunk of cheese; a plain lunch but it keeps me going. During my break I’ll sit by the banks of the river and splash my scorched face. Life is good.
Carry myself with stooped shoulders. I’ve been in the mill for eight months. It’s hotter inside than the blazing Georgia sun. Humid, too, to keep the thread from breaking. Boiled potatoes and river water for lunch. I’m sixteen. Maybe I’ll meet a husband here.
Carry myself on leaden feet. I work six days a week, twelve hours a day. I earn $1.00 each week. The air is thick with cotton dust. Nobody talks anymore; we keep our mouths covered but that doesn’t stop the coughing. I have no time or energy for anything else. I’m sixteen and feel like I’m sixty.
Carry myself with doom. I’m coughing up blood and see nothing in my future except dying in the mill. I think I’ll just walk into the river and never come out.
Carry my dead body to the graveyard. I was only sixteen and my name was Betsy.
NAR © 2023
250 Words
“Isn’t It A Pity (George Harrison)
The Elephant's Trunk 