Stone Sangria

blledin

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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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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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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Finally Felled

The walls came up.

Towers shot up.

Brick by brick.

Layer by layer.

 

Witness to slaughter and mutilation,

I stood,

the sickening creak and crash

everywhere

assaulting my spirit.

 

What was worse?

Waiting or watching?

 

Meanwhile, I grew tall and proud.

I shot branches into the blue.

I dug deep with my roots,

anchoring myself firmly

in the black depths of soil.

 

They walked to me with their motor tools

and the whirr heralded my glorious fall.

My turn.

Finally.

 

First my young limbs

fell, with gentle thuds

and a soothing rustle of leaves

like the whoosh of a shroud

as it falls gently,

shielding the body

from prying eyes.

 

Limbless, I waited.

 

Chips flew about

dents carved me.

The saw,

finally,

broke the stature

I so carefully cultivated.

 

I gave up.

Not without some noise though.

 

I fell.

A mighty crash.

The dust rose and blinded the sun.

 

My roots were pulled out

with the ruthless perseverance

and incompetence

of an intern dentist.

 

I bled, a bloodless sap.

Hewn into manageable chunks, I was taken away.

I didn’t look back.

 

A vagrant stump,

a distance away,

stubborn,

resilient,

soon shot

a few green leaves

into the air.

 

Surreptitiously.

 

[200 words]

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Thank you PJ for hosting this awesome challenge Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers.

Thank you Shivangi Singh for the photograph!