The Waters of Lethe

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systole/diastole

diabolic rhythm

an unwilling heart

clogged roads

life

courses

most reluctantly

systole/diastole

brash waves drive from behind

inevitable and unavoidable

foxtrot on the treadmill

tango with wires

pounding waves

pulsed into spray

on ticker

systole/diastole

a coded tempo decrees

control

systole/diastole

a heart much maligned

cannot be repaired

systole/ diastole

measures

walls of my making

rendered inflexible

systole/ diastole

rigidity sets in

i pace

rigor mortis sets in

i forget to breathe

in my fury

systole/ diastole

evergreen memories

don’t go away

condition the core

now brittle and callous

systole/diastole

regulate

thin the blood

slow the heart

adjust the rhythm

systole/diastole

take this memory

fertile

weeds of thoughts

plunder

systole/diastole

every onslaught/ failed attempt/ wretched expectation/ wrenching betrayal/ gaping wound/ gnash and gash/ cutting word/ tightening of the heart/ suppressed retort/ repressed emotion

barbed wires of a resilient memory

systole/ diastole

a pattern of my remembrance

a curse that i live with

what wouldn’t i give

to forget

Memorize

Divine charms

On a hillock I reside, removed from all inhabitation.

Steps hewn into granite lead you to me.

Your breath is tested, your feet calloused, as you strive to reach me.

I wait patiently, watching over you, from the innermost recesses of my sanctum sanctorum.

My vision pierces clear even through layers of fragrant sandalwood paste, lovingly smeared to appease me.

Appeased am I, indeed, for my love for you transcends everything, even my fury.

My claws receded and roar subsided, a long while ago.

I chose to be tame, putty in your hands.

Love overpowering is what you crave.

I am enamoured by your display of deep devotion.

Come to me.

The path is steep.

The road is lonely.

Fear not.

I shall watch over your every step.

For I am truly enamoured.

Truly blessed.

For you belong to me.

Enamored

Stone Sangria

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You.

Consider this.

Sangria and Stone. Blood and Marble. Dramatic contrast.

The creation of a free spirit? Not really. Speculation is rife.

In love? Hmmmm.

Committed? Who?  Not really.

Wedded? This one? Really?

Remained unwed? Really!

Rendered unsuitable. Now. Officially.

Smiles a lot? What’s cooking?

Enthusiastic?  Must be on steroids.

Thoughtful? Maybe suicidal. Rubs palms gleefully What’s up, you poor thing?

Pays attention to self? Snob. Disgusting vanity…

Doesn’t give a #%@^ about anything. What the @&^*!

Wants to live? Try getting one first!

Content with this life? What life?

Answers all questions. Must be lying…

Politely declines. Getting ahead of ourselves, now, aren’t we?

Agreeable, to a fault. Desperately seeking approval. Uh huh.

An aloof stance. Oooh!  The audacity.

tbh-You are a spectacle, like it or not.

Might as well get on the loop

Even mount yourself on a platform at the museum.

Don’t have an armour? Bleed!

Turned to stone? Wait.

There’s a spot that has freshly calcified.

Scanning target. Fresh petrification sighted. Aim. Shoot.

Rivulets flow.  Akin to art.

Mission accomplished.

So satisfying!

Shame!

[175 words]

Thank you Jade M. Wong, for the beautiful photograph.

A million thanks PJ for hosting the FFFAW challenge.

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Potent Potions

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Believe me, you don’t really want to know me before I’ve downed these three cups in the morning. It takes three different concoctions to make me this fabulously effervescent, fascinating and gorgeous creature from the grumpy, sullen and dour monster that I really am.

I fumble around the kitchen, in the ungodly hour before dawn, put the kettle on, and have my first cup, warm water with a twist of freshly cut lemon. No, nothing stimulating is added to that, it is after all dawn, not dusk. So that goes down with a shudder and grimace and then the kettle is back on, the water boiling merrily, while yoga challenges every muscle in my being, new degrees of soreness enhanced with every painful stretch.

Where’s my tea?

Finally!

None of that fragrant lavender, chamomile, exotic versions please. I want my chai, thank you very much.

An agonizing hour later, while I’m glowing with newfound health and vigour, I reach for coffee. I like it strong, do you mind? Yes, caffeinated. Yes, I know. Blah! Blah! And Blah! Take a flying leap, it’s my blood pressure, my life and eventually my doom.

Sip, guzzle, and gulp.

I’m ready for the day.

[200 Words]

Thank you Dawn Miller for the very intriguing photograph, would love to know what the original context was.

A million thanks, Al, for hosting the Sunday Photo Fiction challenge. A joy to participate in, as always.spf

Amma’s Congee

Pot story

An iron fence separated the park from the lakeside where a few villagers set up their makeshift tents. Living by the lake assured them a new life, the luxuries of, cooking, cleaning and maybe even bathing, when the guard looked the other way.

Amma, eighty years old, ever-present, self-appointed mother of the lot worked around houses, ingratiating herself to the security folk of the imposing mansions. When the maids swung haughtily down the road to dump trash from the kitchen, Amma would scavenge, marvelling at the waste of good food. Chopped stubs of onions, juicy flesh intact, baked potato still clinging to peel, good enough to eat. Green chilies and curry leaves thrown away untouched were salvaged by Amma who returned home with her loot, that eventually found salvation in the boiling pots.

After excruciatingly hard labour, returning home in the evening, tired and hungry eyes lit up at this welcome sight, aromas wafting to their pinched nostrils.The flavour of the congee was so comforting.

Amma grinned as she gathered the empty pots to scour.

[175 words]

Thank you, yarnspinner for the evocative photograph, I enjoyed writing a piece centred around it.

Thank you PJ for hosting the FFFAW challenge!

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Vinylanimation

The remnant of a bygone era, I am obsolete. Turned to stone. My songs silenced forever.

I was. A pliant lump shaped into flat discs turning concentric at the sameness of it all, the routine circles, ranging from the larger to the smaller, the potency of existence versus the necessity to live turned outward, searching for meaning.

I became. An expert at holding still, while the circles formed concentric with every turn. I strained and my life came full circle every time, the needle however slipped into another groove.

I watched. Fascinated how the narrow confines of my tiny grooves keep me in, my full throated angst held back, and the melodies, sung and unsung, an inconsequential part of something greater.

I existed. In carved grooves that I created, the needle my muse, as it moved from groove to groove, I played.

I stopped. A scratch and two jarred just a bit and then I stopped. Silence. I preferred silence to broken songs. The unfamiliar, even irregular rhythm of my heartbeat was preferable to throats scratched dry. The same fragmented song over and over again.

Meanwhile static crackles. My song still inhabits those grooves. How do I unravel my song? How do I emerge from those spaces I inhabit?

I wait. For one groove to progress to another.

I am. Here, trapped in vinyl.

I ask. For my turntable, so let’s take a spin if you can.

via Daily Prompt: Inhabit
Inhabit
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