An oasis of joy and wonderment
Ever since her mother’s diagnosis, she started thinking about the birds again. She hadn’t thought about the birds ever since she was little, but she’s 19 now and can’t fantasize about such things anymore. Her mother will die and it will be up to her to take care of the family. She can’t dream of flying through the rain or silhouetting on a telephone wire, watching the world below, not anymore.
Written for the One Minute Fiction challenge at Cyranny’s Cove.
The mush of this year
coagulates into another
but it’s not enough
to deter the residuum
of hope that the days
will finally sharpen.
But each step
is barely a memory
and memory barely
holds me. The sky
today might as well
be held in place
for each and every day
and the century
can remain in this
mist that atomizes
shadow and man,
the sky and buildings.
2023 is finally
2024, for what it’s worth.
And the future is
already ghost,
and the past steps
forth, and sleep
blurs into sun.
But the present
was never home.
Written for Simply 6 Minutes with the prompt being below (substitute 2022 with 2023):
It wasn’t even 9:00 PM and the streets were already drenched with whiskey and blood. Sections of the city were actively being massacred with riots chewing through the buildings and barricades while police officers launched illegal projectiles into the crowds with unvarnished glee. However, Martin was oblivious to all of this as he walked towards the nearest Taco Shack.
This particular street was empty, for now, but there were destroyed and abandoned vehicles, and puddles of blood and other liquids surrounded by flaming rubbish. But Martin hardly seemed aware of the smells nor the distant sounds of violence. His brain was in a haze as he shuffled through the night. The only thing he could focus on was the image of an overstuffed taco with beans and cheese oozing from each bite.
Finally, he reached the Taco Shack. He stepped on the unhinged door and the particles of glass. The lights above were barely holding on to life. He staggered towards the front counter and gazed up at the menu.
“Uh…can I get 3 number 3’s?” That’s when he noticed that no one was standing on the other side of the counter. He widened his eyes and saw no one in the kitchen either. Martin scratched his head. “Shit, are you guys open?”
A small voice squeaked from somewhere below. “Please sir, go back home.”
Martin looked around. “Hello?” But he was unable to locate the source of the voice. That’s when a head poked up from behind the counter. “Oh shit. Can I have 3 number 3’s,” Martin asked.
“What are you doing here?”
Martin was confused by the query; so, he responded simply, “um, I’m hungry?”
“You idiot, don’t you see the city is being destroyed,” the employee said in a half-whisper. Martin craned his bloodshot eyes towards the front of the restaurant. The windows were shattered and beyond the windows the storefronts were decimated. His vision sharpened and he even spotted a body dangling from a 2nd-story window. His eyes shifted back to the head peaking from behind the counter.
“Can I just get a taco to go?”
“You’re serious?”
“Just, you know, put some beans and cheese in a tortilla and put it in a bag. You don’t even have to add rice.”
The worker sighed and quickly assembled the taco and handed it to Martin, sans bag. “Here, now get out of here.”
“Thanks!” But before Martin was about to take his bite, he remembered something important. “Oh, right,” and he started clawing through the pockets of his bathrobe. “Um, I know I have my wallet.”
“Dude, it’s on the house. Now go!”
“Gee, thanks. I will never forget this,” Martin said, throwing the worker a peace sign. The worker didn’t reciprocate and Martin returned to the war-torned evening. As the screams and gunshots loudened, Martin walked past the destruction, half-oblivious to it all, fixated only on the warmth of beans and cheese, a satisfaction that not even the stars could glimpse at.
Written for OLWG #292, using the first prompt.
At the end of the world
there were only some faces
surrounded by desert,
eyes dull with thirst.
They were beyond
the formalities of acrimony
and the delusion of words
as they felt the final wings
the sky seemed to summon
just for them.
But the bird too was tired,
resorting to these dry stragglers.
Written for the Weekend Writing Prompt #291: “Acrimony”
I’m tired of being cozy.
When death finally
remembers me, no god
will step in my shadow
with judgment’s tone.
Instead, it will be hospitable
silence, not even the murmurs
of regret.
I have no rage,
even as the years wane
to whisper, and I have
accomplished nothing.
Today I am in bed
away from the cold ghosts
of the sky that conspire
against the many misfortuned.
Instead of taking advantage
of my luck, I go to bed,
I go to sleep, tuck my eyes
into the endless stomach
of my warmth.
Written for Stream of Consciousness Saturday, the prompt being “cozy.”
I’m not a fan of departures;
they try to mean something
even though we’re just two
animals. The wrong words
always come and unease
the sky between us.
It’s such a stupid thing,
silly even, this walking away,
because the clouds
and seagulls know
that we will be back near
each other. We will stare
past desire and conspire
the hours into safe silence.
We have our designs.
But today is here, bitter
with formality. I pretend
these are the final words
while you barely tear
and a seagull wobbles
on a nearby fence.
X: Sometimes, I feel bad for the rich.
Y: I don’t.
X: Imagine having all the money in the world but still feeling dissatisfied, empty. It must be so disheartening.
Y: Boo-hoo.
X: I read about some billionaire, I forget his name, obsessed with prolonging his life. He wakes up at 4 every morning, meditates, goes for a jog, and then sticks himself in some freezer, all before breakfast.
Y: Hm.
X: It’s like he’s trying to accumulate the only thing he doesn’t have plenty of: time. And what is he going to even do with a few extra years? Is he hoping that he will find the answer within those extra years?
Y: Why do you care?
X: I don’t know.
Y: You know, what the rich can do? They can get a real job. Maybe that will give them some purpose. That’s what they’re missing after all. After achieving the goal of sucking all the wealth of the world, they need a new project.
X: Well, do you think all of them are bad? They’re still human. If you were in their position–
Y: Jesus, you make it sound like they caught some disease. You know, if we only had this kind of empathy for the homeless, or for people who actually work–
X: I’m just saying, they aren’t complete monsters. Maybe some of them are but…I don’t know. It’s just interesting to think about. We’re just animals after all.
Y: So?
X: And I think if you look at people through that lens once in a while, you–
Y: Start making excuses.
X: Start understanding that there is only so much that can fill the void. In fact, sometimes there isn’t even a void. Just a feeling of emptiness once all needs are met.
Y: Sounds like a void to me.
X: Maybe. I don’t know. Sometimes “a void” just seems like a lofty term to cover up something so simple. Instead of saying “or, I got to fill this void,” maybe the rich should say “well, looks like all my needs have been met, maybe I can do something for others or try achieving something.”
Y: But, like you said, people are animals. The rich especially. All they know is survival and hunger and greed. Just gotta accumulate more and more resources cause that’s all biology knows.
X: That seems a bit cynical.
Y: It was your idea.
X: Right, but I didn’t mean it that way.
Y: That’s the thing about ideas, they can be twisted in any way. Ideas are just another tool that us animals use to get what we want.
X: Geez. Maybe we should switch topics.
Y: Hm. I was thinking the same thing.
Their eyes lingered on the street below as the light of the sun started to lower. The cold air brushed along the windows and Y started watching a small, elderly person trudging along the mush of snow that lined the street. Maybe the rich have the right idea, he thought, but then again, the idea of waking up at 4:00 seemed a bit pretentious. He puffed his cigarette and X drank his wine, both in silence.
Written for OLWG #289.
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