(hope)

Hope

She is a grounded child seeking a playmate in her shadow.

She is an echo, hitting the wall of isolation, waiting to see if she’ll be caught as she bounces back.

She is a tap on the shoulder, toothpaste on a mosquito bite, a kiss on the bruise.

She is the reason we taste the coffee a second time, even after getting burnt the first.

Writing Prompt #3

“Oh, my God”

She touches her left ankle gently, carefully pressing on either side of the wound. She feels her breath catch in her throat as the blood trickles over her shaking hands. Fuck. Clenching her teeth, she tries targeting her toes. Tries to make them point, flex, wiggle, move. She can’t. With a shriek of desperation, she yanks the blood-soaked fur boot off her foot, only to cry out in pain as her ankle violently snaps back. Tears blind her. She reaches out but find no one to hold her steady. She takes hold of a nearby piece of drift wood and knocks it over. Her raw knuckles burn as she scrambles on her knee, sliding her hands over the sharp rocks and broken glass that cover the dock. She takes hold of a piece of metal, presses it against the driftwood hard- until her palms bleed- and carves her name. Quietly, she jumps into the blue.

Scattered Eggshells and Crudely Stacked Bricks

She sits on the wall with her shoes undone

Swinging her legs and watching the laces swing back toward the crudely stacked bricks

And hit them.

Sun-marked fingers curled over the edge, she observes the scattered eggshells below.

It’s long been since the fall, yet she still sees the way he cracked under their kicks,

The way the grass withered and gave way to the frozen soil beneath,

And the way he shattered with the sigh of a kingdom who,

Really,

Couldn’t put him back together again.

She still sees a fall he couldn’t wake up from, startled and relieved

To find his face pressed against a pillow,

A fall with no mattress or outstretched arms at the other end,

A fall to be ridiculed for being nothing more than a talking egg.

Still,

She figures,

It must’ve hurt.

She leans over father, tries to pick up the eggshells, and scrapes her knee instead.

She looks down at her feet. How silly.

She stands up,

Ties her shoelaces,

And walks off.

The Life Recordings of a Wooden Table

I live in the shadows of passed childhoods

Paint smears and pen marks on my glossy surface faded by years

And days.

I live in the vulnerable hopes of seven names, carved on my legs

By a love struck teenage girl, and in the pain

As each one was left in its turn

Crossed out.

I live in scarring shattered glass and wine

Blood-red with the crudeness of heartbreak

And in the suspenseful touch of a cell phone, cold against my skin,

Failing to ring after the fight.

I live in coffee rings, overlapping,

And the nocturnal, ceaseless mumbles and typing

Of a tired mind.

I live in the silent rest of a cane against my splintered edge

And the trembling fingers of age

As it knits.

I live in polishes, wipes, scratches and slams.

I live in promises, murmurs, cries

And tears.

(In-class activity w/various writing strategies)

I stand in line, intently,

Cautiously,

Gazing at those next to me

Could that be you?

A broken umbrella slams on the ground

A pistol firing in a crowd of

Stillness.

Heads turn from all directions, conversation bubbling

Among a collage of startled faces.

I smell smoke.

Take a step back, now, turn away

Catch my reflection in a nearby window

I am scared.

Rapidly, roughly, rushing civilians pass me

As the red flames lick at the grass below

I push my way through out onto

Winston Avenue

.

Am I lost?

I am not visible to these countless people,

Crushing me from all directions. I am lost.

I am a puppet, my strings attached to a hand of greater power

I do as is its will

After all, what joy can I hope to find if I’m not celebrated

By others?

I look down, close my eyes

And see Victoria

Were I to push her back, force her to look at me,

Might she then give me mercy?

Snow-White Daisy

A fleeting murder of crows leaves a trail of ash-black feathers as they fly by. On the back patio, a small-framed girl dutifully lays out her mother’s moth-eaten laundry to dry. She shivers delicately. The summer Sun, once scorching, now but peeks behind the overcast clouds. Her back to the house, she brings her cold hands up to her face. Her frail, dirt-stained fingers gently massage her temples, fading her determined expression away. She is tired. There is no denying it. A quick glance over her over-worked body is proof enough. Not a day over thirteen, it is almost in a surprising manner that she regards the sprouting weeds around her ankles. It is too stern. Too cynical, even. For as she lets her eyes wander up their wilted stems, she can’t help but think of herself. Unwanted; left to be plucked away and replaced by a blossom seed. Kind of like the photo album that rests on her mother’s bureau. The one with little Billy’s picture, in which where his beaming face once appeared there rests a torn-out smile. Flowers are abundant in her garden; they are over-rated to her. Yet she knows flowers are what Mother wants to see. And she knows she is no snow-white daisy.

Harold's Sad Case

(Writing Prompt #2)

He slammed the car door shut, let the metallic pang as it ht the dented frame ring and bounce off the garage walls.

Harold liked it; he enjoyed sound. He enjoyed movement, too. Sometimes he’d wake up a few minutes early Thursday mornings, his day off, and catch the 139 Special, just to cross Carson Bridge and get a glance of the construction workers labouring away underneath.

As he closed the garage door behind him, he lowered his old Aviator glasses over his deep, grey eyes. He loved movement, just couldn’t be part of it.

Tentatively, he played with his broken umbrella, sprinkling fragile rain drops as he tossed it back and forth between his hands.

Where to go? Where to go? Harold had finished his last shift for the day at the bank slightly under an hour ago, and still had two hours to kill before his watch gave three beeps, indicating the time to take his nightly dose of vitamins.

Slowly, reluctantly even, he took a step back toward his battered car. Today was pizza night at Mike’s Bowling Alley. He knew his co-workers would be there for their usual Friday night game. He reached the rusting key toward the car door, but closed his fist tightly over it before it reached the metal keyhole.

With a swift turn of his heel, Harold scurried up the stairs to his house, locking the door behind him. He was welcomed by an empty answering machine and went to bed at nine. It was his birthday.