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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Common Ground

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A cramped space this. I need to stretch, feel the earth under my feet. A little less talk and a little more quiet.

Thriving in closed spaces, you’ve mastered the art of contorting yourself, being stashed away.

The air is mine own. My mind lifts off- a sailboat in flight, the air my water, the water grounding me and the earth a vast expanse of ocean I float on.

You and I see the same road.

You are intent; and I never really look.

When did I begin to speak a different language?

Your eyes unseeing, uncomprehending, a thousand miles away.

Your every word, every drawn breath, every expelled curse- so easy to understand, mired in the world.

I surged ahead, wanting nothing.

And yet, here we are.

You lead, your eyes on the road.

I follow. My eyes also on the road.

The darkness is complete till dawn breaks.

The sky bursts. Clouds scud across the palette. Tints shifting settling into a golden hue.

Let us stop here and confront each other in enforced silence.

After breakfast at this lovely place, things will seem a little less intense, our bellies warm with pancakes, omelettes, buttered toast and hot coffee.

[200 words]

Priceless Joy Thank you for hosting this challenge. I’ve missed your challenges, missed writing and it feels great to be back and alive once again. Footy and Foodie, thank you for the photograph.

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Celluloid Eyrie

203 06 June 18th 2017

Murthy’s shadow loomed on the white sheet that stretched pole to pole at the little ‘hall’ with tin sheets for a roof.

A little better than an oven when the weather was pleasant and a lot worse than a sieve on rainy days, its only claim to grandeur was a statue of a rather pompous looking bird that had seen better days.

A fire caused an uneasy calm.

It was painstakingly restored when the demand for movies became greater especially when times changed from bad to worse.

The booming from the inside, invited the passers-by in once again. Anything to escape the direct scorching heat of the midday sun. Anything to escape.

It was like an oven inside, though fans whirred sleepily when the power was there. Power cuts saw the generator operate just the projector, improving the air immensely with Kerosene fumes.

Months morphed into years. Murthy’s routine never faltered.

A sloshed brother made a half-hearted attempt to follow the enigmatic Murthy one evening and passed out effortlessly.

Nobody knew what he looked like, where he came from and where he went.

Nobody cared.

Only the haughty eagle knew, but wouldn’t say a word.

Splat!

Damn! A passing crow.

[200 words]

Thank you Al, for hosting Sunday Photo Fiction

spf

 

L’amour toujours

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Madame Sophie collected the finest things in life first. Waterford crystal. Flora Danica. And then she set her sights on people, for people were attracted to things, mais oui!

She was known for her exquisite soirees. The lustrous rope of pearls felt cool against her fevered skin. She took her place by the piano, accompanied by her dear doting husband.

Alas! La Belle Madame could not sustain the high note. She would reach it but didn’t have the confidence or the passion to stay there. She would break off…Such a pity. Oh, Mon Dieu!

She never gave up though.

Madame began trilling. She scaled higher and higher.

‘Wait for it, here it comes!’

‘Now.’

As if on cue, little Gregory, Madame Sophie’s youngest, held up the bowl of Waterford crystal and put it on his head.

Madame was well into her range when she espied little Gregory and her precious bowl. The notes escaped her glorious throat, soaring higher and higher, as she let herself go completely.

Resounding applause brought her back.

A beaming Monsieur slipped an extra pastry to Gregory.

You see, Monsieur had decided that Madame had had enough disappointment.

[193 words]

Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers is a weekly challenge hosted by Priceless Joy. Thank you PJ, for the awesome opportunity! Thank you Louise with The Storyteller’s Abode for the photograph!

 

 

Maisie’s Muse

05-jules-paige-26-march-2017

Sunday morning. Finally. A glorious day. A getaway. All week in the cramped flat. Hardly any action. It was once a week, but enough for a girl.

He was always there before dawn to grab a hunk of bread and a chunk of cheese. His steaming mug of coffee slid across the counter and he caught it in time, before it became poetry in motion, scalding her if she wasn’t careful. Helping her to scramble into the little boat, he tossed the ropes aside and set sail, bobbing all day. They left before the others and he returned with her, spent, sunburnt and sweaty, just the way she liked him.

Gosh! He smelt so good!

Maisie felt the breeze ruffle her to distraction and turned, smiling into the wind. Her perfect profile, gorgeous brown eyes, oh, a man could drown in those limpid pools of honey. She had eyes only for him, and looked at him like no woman ever looked at a man.

The quay was deserted at this time. She could be herself, with an extra spring in her step and a joyous whimper, she found herself in his arms again.

It was only he.

And she.

Woof!

[200 words]

Sunday Photo Fiction is hosted by Al Forbes. Thank you Al, I enjoy this challenge immensely! Thank you, Jules Paige, for the photograph. I love it!

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Offcloud

clouds

As I think, I speak.

Really?

As I speak, I do.

Not really.

The thought does not always become the deed.

Deed, indeed.

For the mind clouds over.

Inaction.

The dark cloud on my horizon?

Never.

Inaction is now a habit and defines my character.

Under this cloud, I thrive.

My head in the clouds, my feet on the ground,

I have it all.

Not for me, your world, love and concern.

Don’t cast your shadow on me.

I unthink.

Why do you presume to disturb the air around me?

I unbecome.

You are just a passing cloud.

Uncloud.

 

[99 Words]

Thank you, Rochelle, for hosting the Friday Fictioneers’ Challenge.  Shalom!

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

 

A Game of Hornes

cow

Presenting-“The Cowntess Moasty-Toasty of the House Cocoamuff, First of Her Name, the Unburnt Toast Almost, Queen of all Ambling Bovines and the First Moos, Cowleesi of the Great Grassland Stretch, Breaker of Great Wind and prospective mother of Prize Heifers…”

A secret tryst in the barn, induced by unlimited Cocoa and muffins, Pat-a-cake being the predominant theme, Moasty-Toasty was christened after her gleaming brown coat reminded the others the toast was almost burnt before her first Moo.

The First of Her Name, and probably the Last. It won’t catch on, really now, would it?

The Queen of all Ambling Bovines, for Moasty Toasty has been known to emulate her mother, the Cowager, who was known errr, for  mooching. The Cowager has long since been forgotten, the public having such short moomory.

Thus, the addition First Moos.

Cowleesi,  note the eyes, the tuft of hair, the distinct resemblance. The sun never sets on the Prairies, Pampas,  Veld,  Rangelands, Steppes, and Savannah, Great Grassland stretches all.

The ABC diet, rich in asparagus, beans, broccoli, brussels sprouts, and cabbage contribute to the penultimate title.

Throw in handsome Angus, and you’ll have little Bullah, and Cownnie gamboling in no time at all.

Charmed.

[200 words] Sorry, went overboard!  😀

Thank you majesticgoldenrose for the photograph. A million thanks, PJ, for hosting Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers challenge! I had loads of fun with this!  ❤

 

Stuporia

drinks

it begins with just a glass

 

the thorn in your side

being passed over

a hundred things

clutch at your throat

refusing to let you breathe

 

you plod doggedly

gulping in fresh air

whenever you can

 

a smile feels raw

laughter threatens

to slash your stomach

you are afraid

it might all spill out

powerless to contain it

anymore

your heart crushed

in the vice of a cold hand

 

and then this glass

beckons

 

a sip doesn’t amount to much

 

the blood around your cold heart

begins to unfreeze

 

astonished

it rushes to your head

 

giddy now

the world around you

ceases to be

 

ceases to stifle

 

a film covers your eyes

your senses sing

and then are lulled

 

incredible

huh

 

soon

you cannot do without

this escape

 

illusion

 

this trance-like state

now eludes you

 

years of suppressed agony

threatens to escape

wrenching life from you

as it struggles

a sapling

growing

on impervious rock

 

somewhere along the line

you have become the perpetrator

all because you sought comfort

in that one glass

 

they avert their eyes

they walk away

you are so alone

 

all you have is this one glass

refills maybe

and an olive

that’s just an afterthought

[200 words]

This piece is in response to the weekly prompt at Sunday Photo Fiction. Thank you, Al Forbes, for hosting it.

Photo prompt courtesy – A Mixed Bag

 

Vantage Position

airport

It’s all about waiting.

So that’s where I come in.

A need to break the monotony.  And a quick bite.

They come to me; the aspiring, the ambitious, the smart and the successful. For, invariably, there is a delay and their best laid plans are thwarted.

I take their orders and execute them in silent efficiency.

Newspapers are whipped out. Screens light up and they are lost to the world.

From the corner of my eye, I make note. The regulars. The daily travelers. The once-a-weekers. More than that, I can’t be bothered.

The married, on clandestine escapades, betrayed by hands rendered bare, base of fingers decorated by rings of pale skin, in place of metal twisted off, in furtive haste.

The eyes give them away first.

Nothing much escapes me.

I pick up a card and read the name.

I’ve always kept my eyes and ears open and my mouth shut.

Wait and watch, I’ve been told, and things will come to you.

Jackpot!

[165 Words]

Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers is a challenge hosted by PJ. Thank you!

Thank you Dawn Miller for the photo prompt.

Elegant Exit

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Empty velvet lined boxes

Stand proudly on shelves

Their rightful occupants

Being awaited for

In vain

 

A lesser life this

Than believed

Far from prying eyes

Too hard to bear

Exquisite pain

 

Behind lush foliage

A mansion stood

Anticipating

A fresh coat of paint

In vain

 

The vintage car

Last to go

Larger than life

No discreet way really

Inevitable shame

The pursuit of dignity

In vain

 

Deeds signed

The ink barely dry

Time to call it a day

Finally

Time to leave town

Might as well leave in style

Head held high

A fitting end to a lifestyle

Vain.

 

[100 words]

Thank you, Al Forbes, for the photograph.

Thank you, Rochelle, for hosting the Friday Fictioneers’ Challenge. Shalom!

To read more entries please click here.