Mar 2nd – The last link

March 2nd – The last link
One photograph
was all she had left
of there: the place

She once called home.
Faded colours
bled into the background,

the blue of the sky
a pastel now, blurring
into the house she grew up in.

The past smiled
in muted tones;
four people in front

of an everyday house,
hands held, arms around
shoulders. You’ve got

your mother’s eyes,
they used to say,
and now her mother’s eyes

only shine in a crumpled
photograph, tucked away
at the back of a drawer.

These moments never last.
The camera always lies.
She looks at it, every now

and again, a faded memory,
the last link holding
who she was then

and who she is now together.
She doesn’t look back
in anger, only sadness

and a sense of what was
and will never be again.
Thirty years separate her

from then, and her from
them. Thirty years can feel
like thirty seconds
when she thinks up the words

she dreaded to say then
and the stony ground
they fell upon.

She thought better of her brother,
thought he would be there,
would come through

even when they didn’t, couldn’t
wouldn’t. But he stood still,
unmoving as a statue

while she packed her bags
and left without their blessing
into an unsaved world.
Inspired by a prompt from here.

Viable creations

I needed to believe in myself that what I was creating was worth it.  It had to be viable.  My boss wouldn’t have any of it if I didn’t put it together in his precise fucking format.  Dickhead.  This was my idea.  I had to hold my fucking own and prove it.  Not to the dickhead, but to myself.  I needed to.  I so needed it – to have faith in my ability to fucking write.  Even if whatever I hashed out was utter shit, I just needed to keep writing.  This was who I was – who I am.  I’m a writer.  I create things.  I love – cherish being able to grow with my writing.  And to be a viable creator of things.




Prompted by link here.

Viable Creations – Dead Deer

Viable Creations

Sitting across the table, the mustard yellow table cloth fluttering in the warm breeze, he felt he had hit upon the solution. The problem was complex, the desired outcome ambiguous, every path to a resolution tried, unclear and blocked. He, they, had thought of so many possibilities, but none quite fitted the agreement. Of course, he reasoned, why do we not simply violate the agreement (again). She was happy with this idea, except the knowledge that it would be discovered, and there would be consequences. And she, they, did not like consequences touching them at all.

The limes lay, cut, on the board in the kitchen, as she gently placed the water they lightly flavoured on the table. Leaving the kitchen, entering the world, she looked breath-taking. Her ice white sarong moved as effortlessly as she did, the force of her small steps and the wind in harmony. He gasped, he could not help himself.

“Your hair looks nice today,” he said, miserly in his praise. Today suggesting it was normally quite foul. She did not notice, either the compliment nor the implied criticism. They were happy.

Sky and sea, both blue, but so very different. A brightness in both, a depth in one. He looked up at her again and motioned. She started to pour the delicately limed water, he asked for ice. She remained sitting.

She wondered aloud what his plan was now, how to get around this awkward impasse they are stuck with, still. She groaned when she heard his response.


Today I wrote between 20:15  and 20:25. I was prompted by an idea here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, my tweets here, and my book here.


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