Hitch

PHOTO PROMPT © The Reclining Gentleman

Endless preparation. Cautious Plotting.

Every uncertainty covered. Every risk managed.

She approaches in the rear-view mirror; skinny legs, schoolyard scabs, sadness. Lit blood-red by brake-lights. I’ve parked ahead to make her walk, allowing her the rest of her life to take in all my perfectly planned lies. Baby on board stickers, well used child-seat, scattered toys and children’s books; each placed to give maximum comfort. An illusion of safety.

She sticks her head through the door searching. Scanning for threats; in vain of course – are all carefully hidden.

“Buckle up.” I say as she sits, “can’t be too careful.”


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Book Review: Blood Sushi – Edited by Jinx Strange and Angela Meadon

 With a great deal of trepidation, Edmund powered the turntable and placed the needle just forward of the first cut.

After the static hiss, he heard the sound of children crying. It was as though someone had recorded a nursery full of crying babies. The track sped up and slowed down intermittently and the effect was positively nauseating. He brought the needle ahead five grooves and dropped it again. A woman groaned in what was either pain or pleasure or both while a little girl giggled in the background. There was a sick, wet smacking sound, like a bat hitting a head of cabbage over and over, and beneath that, almost imperceptibly, someone chanted in a language that sounded like German, but wasn’t.

Edmund shivered.

The moaning choked off suddenly, the rhythmic smacking quickened, and the little girl started to cry.

Edmund lifted the needle.

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Ephemeral empathy

PHOTO PROMPT © David Stewart

Saltwater on a young boy’s cheeks sympathetically streams down our own. One cold child is a burning key, melting hearts, locks. Gates swing wide under the weight of shared humanity and gnawing guilt of action long overdue.

We preen in our kindness…for a while.

Our sympathy is temporary, our empathy ephemeral. A dead face is singularly unforgettable, but unremembered amongst the immediacy of a living tide of desperate tears crashing against our shores. Tragedy en masse makes the many a mirror; we see only our own needs and safety, our own faces.

Gates shut; rust.

Nobody counts in large amounts.

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The World Must Turn

PHOTO PROMPT – © Jennifer Pendergast

Stars reflect from the black ocean mirror, such that it appears we sail unimpeded through space. Void above; void below. Our barge cuts through the stagnant and stinking sea; soundless but for a faint high-pitched sizzling. Forged from cold iron, our boat keeps us safe from the floating corruptive sorcery, but dissolves at the mundane threats of salt and acid.

When the world stopped spinning the waves stopped crashing and the wind stopped blowing. Without constant global churn the magic settled; in the seas, in the rivers, in the rain.

We sail to the Axis; the world must turn.

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Writing Exercise: Swimming Lesson

photo credit: via photopin (license)

photo credit: via photopin (license)

The following is a simple writing exercise I tried on Saturday. It’s no more than a 10 minute effort at observing my surroundings and writing them down (tapping it out in my iPhone notes). This is a 200 word attempt to really see, feel, smell, and emote with the environment around me, to be present in the moment and try to translate it into meaningful text.

There is no plot, no movement, little to no action; it is a tiny slice of life captured in a short stream of conciousness writing.


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Stained Glass

Oops – bit of a rush and managed to post a blank page. This has now been corrected, and the story included. Sorry folks.
KT

Uncertain Tales

PHOTO PROMPT – © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

The Saints watched silently when the Father sinned against me.

Sunlight through beatific images of a holy few; glorious glass glowed, dappling the room in shattered colour. A broken rainbow; a broken promise, a broken child. Sanctuary spoiled; safety swapped for shame by a weak man’s ungodly urges. The consecrated corrupted; the martyr’s glass truly stained.

The Saints’ silence echoed, reverberating loudly and deafening those who should have cared, drowning out my cries long after the crime.

Unseen.

Unheard.

Unholy.

The Saints watch silently again now; one final, mortal sin. Stained-glass bottles and rainbow coloured pills. Another martyr to silence.

photo credit: No Lens: Stained Glass via photopin (license) photo credit: No Lens: Stained Glass via photopin(license)

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Stained Glass

 

The Saints watched silently when the Father sinned against me.

Sunlight through beatific images of a holy few; glorious glass glowed, dappling the room in shattered colour. A broken rainbow; a broken promise, a broken child. Sanctuary spoiled; safety swapped for shame by a weak man’s ungodly urges. The consecrated corrupted; the martyr’s glass truly stained.

The Saints’ silence echoed, reverberating loudly and deafening those who should have cared, drowning out my cries long after the crime.

Unseen.

Unheard.

Unholy.

The Saints watch silently again now; one final, mortal sin. Stained-glass bottles and rainbow coloured pills. Another martyr to silence.

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