My first attempt at one of one of The Secret Keeper‘s writing prompts, #85 to be precise. The Challenge Words were: | SCORE | SLEEP | FREE | CALM | ESCAPE |
The dream scored the senses into the flesh but the soul still wasn’t sticking. It wanted to be free. It didn’t want to stay in the body. It wanted to escape.
The sensations flared again as another reality seared its way through the mind, snatching at the soul. The body laid calm and still as the soul bucked and shied away.
This world burned. This reality was pain. The soul was too strong to stay tethered to this weak little cage.
But… then… they knew. So they tore it. They took infinity and divided it and pushed the broken bits into the bodies. They sewed the tattered edges into the mind and pinned it down through the veins.
Now you know why something is missing. They took you from yourself.
But because you are still you, if you find the rest of you, then you’re even more you than you were before.
Souls were meant to travel
To permeate each other
ebb and flow
to soothe into one another
and withdraw like the dew
Yet they are constrained
pushed into this world
caged inside flesh
Tortured by glimpses
of infinity in a moment
and eternity beyond touch
So, what happens
to the soul that escapes
Who shredded its tethers
and flows in and out
of itself and others
What of the body
left behind soulless
during dream time
with connections awry
the cage splayed open
Empty with soul absent
Or of the reunion
And the soul returns
and the body reawakens
when the soul no longer fits
and the cage is weakened
How long can a soul stay
in a cage it hates
when it’s felt freedom
and the touch of life
true as from the source
The shell never fit
A body ever left wanting
Captive of in-between
on staying or leaving
So it leaves just once more
and then returns
Searches again for clarity
Tearing the strands
of body and soul
one last time
After much time I am back, and we’ll see how long my presence lasts this time, working on a piece for the Literary Lion Writing Prompt: Boys.
This one is clearly being sourced out of my own life right now…
A copious collection of extravagant glass and crystal perfume bottles lined glass shelving in the window. Between the sun during the day and the neon sign across the street at night, some source of rainbows always painted the white grimy walls.
The police were looking through lace and frills from floor to ceiling looking for anything that might be out of place. They questioned the outrageously decorated tenant while things and people shuffled about.
A sharp crack sounded, an officer yelped, and part of the closet came off in his hand and an old skeleton fell out of the closet.
A 25 word limit for this darkly innocent “Drink Me” prompt from Laura…
The cruelty of that is absurd. Just… gah!
Of Creator to Creation
He cut the dark fabric, squeezing two stars out for eyes. Slit his wrist and held it above it’s lips. Then blew life into it.
Word Count: 25
My great grandmother and I were identical despite the years apart. The few pictures held in treasure boxes throughout her attic confirmed it. That was where the similarities ended, I’m afraid, but I didn’t find that out till years later.
It seems that my grandmother has been quite on the decline since her original diagnosis of congestive heart failure. There is not a lot of info passed to me from my mother, she doesn’t tend to talk about people other than herself. I did however hear today that she was in the hospital for quite a long while last month due to a new degenerative disc condition they’ve found along her neck.
We once again have a matching diagnosis, though mine seem to have been found sooner than hers. I have more time to correct or adapt to mine…
Makes me wonder what else we might have in common that I haven’t been told about.
I am wondering a lot about the secrets everyone keeps.
Trying my hand at Pool, the latest prompt from Laura Feasey’s Literary Lion Writing Prompts.
The Dying Pool
The beauty was gone.
We had thought he was special, my sister and I.
He wove magic with his words by the big fire. The cacophony had quieted for him and his passion had born infant oceans from those who listened.
We had thought he was born of the sea.
He came to us, gazed in and truly saw us.
We thought he was returning to the sea.
He was not magic. He was not of the sea. He thrashed and churned our home with his panic.
We let him float away when he was still.
Word Count: 96
Another belated attempt for the Literary Lion’s writing prompts. In 400 words or less here is my work for Fall.
Falling For Heroism
There it was again–the pull of a world that had shifted and fallen apart beneath his feat, the cost of heroism that everyone romanticizes with pretty nurses and massages the lead to happy endings.
He pushed back up, the pain blurring his eyes with tears as he fought back against the pain and failure lurking behind his efforts.
He had been trained for worse than this, to withstand the elements, torture, full and complete abandonment by humanity. How was it that standing seemed so insurmountable?
The pull back down to shattered futures brought him crashing down again. He pushed up onto an elbow and panted, sweat trickling down his forehead and washed out of his eyes, dripping to the floor as a singular drop of dreams and toxins.
His buddies had hauled him up, had impeded their progress with their field kit turnikits and slung him upon their shoulders. They’d have dragged him between them if his body had reached to the ground.
He’d found the device by stepping on it if memory served. They told him thank you for his selflessness, for yelling to stay back as he jerked his head out of his helmet and slammed it down, falling on it as if his desire to save those behind him was weight enough to contain the explosion.
He’d saved his lives and lost his legs… some other parts, too.
He reached up to the parallel bars, with one arm and then the other, granting with the effort and exhaustion.
He would not let that fall nor this one define him.