Liberation

Wednesday already and time for Friday Fictioneers. A 100 word photo prompt hosted by the creatively inspiring Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. I can’t recommend it enough, get yourself over, read the 100 + eager participants each week and join the ranks of the creatively insane..

hay-bales-sandra-c

The demolition crew were securing the grounds, unaware the ‘lost’ Toulouse Crown was being stealthily liberated. It had been bagged, wrapped and dangled from a window, before being dropped into a hay cart below; where a pair of hands reached out from the straw, grabbed it and disappeared back underneath.

All the while, the ‘Palace on the Hill’ sighed in resignation as the last of its treasures disappeared in a mix of manure and damp wheat. The heavy stone lintels that had withstood the aristocracy, the resentment and the bloody revolution, had been cruelly bested by subsidence and excessively acidic bird shit. ‘C’est la vie’.

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You Are You

Time for another Haibun Thinking Challenge. A weekly writing challenge to create verse, prose and haiku using the prompts provided.  Follow the link, read the others and have a go yourself.

This week I am using the literature prompt –

Today you are you!
That is truer than true!
There is no one alive who is you-er than you!

~ Dr Seuss

 

Holding her hand in his, he teased a faint touch across her palm. A tiny bead of sweat dropped from his forehead  and he wiped it away with his other hand. His heart rate quickened in his chest. Terrified she’d wake, he tried to stay calm. Then the torrent slowed, dissolving into nothing. Casting his eyes back across her face he waited for a flicker, any sign of movement. Nothing. He swallowed.

Raising his hand he brushed his fingertips across her cheek. Molten lava swam beneath his skin and he stilled at the touch. The hairs on his forearm prickled with anticipation and a current of electricity shot straight to his groin.  He lowered his face to hers. The touch of his lips no more than a whisper over her skin. He felt her warm breath like a summer breeze across his cheek. The faintest hint of strawberries, he could almost taste it on his tongue. Her taste was like you, her scent was like you.

She was his reason for rising each morning. The reason his demons stayed buried inside. She was the stars in his empty black sky and the sunrise that made his sins become yesterday’s mistakes. There had been others, many others. He’d moved through the shadows, watching and waiting.  They might have looked like her, had the same colour hair, the same colour eyes, but they didn’t taste like her, they didn’t smell like her. It wasn’t fair to let them live with imperfection. So he’d helped them reach a final blood stained escape.

Her eyes flickered open, slowly adjusting to the sunlight. Without raising her head she turned towards him and smiled. He lowered his mouth capturing her breath with his kiss. Lifting her head he tangled his fingers through her hair, pressing his lips harder onto her own. She matched him stroke for stroke, drowning in the intensity.  He suddenly pulled back catching her eyes with his. She had fallen asleep looking into dazzling blue lagoons. Those same blue eyes were now orbs of black pitch, bottomless and empty. He whispered against her ear, “you are you, not her” as she felt the cold tip of steel slowly slice across her throat.

*

Loving the wrong one,

Brings endless desolation,

Broken hearts don’t lie.

A Storm is Coming

 

I sense a storm is coming,

I can feel it in the air,

There’s a hint of melancholy,

And a reason to beware.

A mist of grey indifference,

And a guarded recompense,

A hint of desperation,

And a reason to be tense.

It’s in your curt responses,

And in your guarded stare,

It’s in your feigned affection,

And the reason you won’t share.

I see the clouds are gathering,

And I hear the thunder roll,

I’m lost without your shelter,

When the rain begins to fall.

Going To The Dogs

Time for ‘Sunday Photo Fiction‘ hosted by Alistair. A 100 – 200 word piece of short fiction based around the weekly photo prompt provided. Get yourself over to the linky and read the others and have a go yourself.

48-02-february-23rd-2014

The hair on the back of her neck started to prickle and a rancid smell of week old sweat hit her nose. She gagged, swallowing down the bile that was threatening escape.

“I think you’re barking up the wrong tree” Brian growled.

“No, he’s here, I can smell him” twitching her nose in distaste, she tried to separate the stench of Brian from their prey.

Brian kicked a leg out at the discarded take- away wrappers. He was badly in need of some sleep and a bath. He bit down on a piece of cheap meat and spit out a gob that landed just by her foot. He stilled, she twisted. She walked forward, the glare of moonlight casting a demonic sheen across her face.

Suddenly a soul piercing howl filled the silence behind them. Both turned, ears raised, teeth bared.

“Son of a bitch” she shouted, as all four feet hit the ground running.

As head of ‘Pack’  security it was her responsibility to protect the council, but that yappy mongrel was going to blow a thousand years of duplicity.

From his bedroom window, six year old Ben wiped his eyes. He must be dreaming, he was sure he just saw Granny Irene cock her leg and pee against a tree.

Your Scent

 

Your fragrance lingers in the air,

It’s on my pillow and in my hair,

I smell you now as I smelt you then,

And in your scent, you’re here again.

I lie atop an unmade bed,

Scented echoes, words you said,

Pledges made in sated languor,

Words of lust and words of candour.

Moonlit shadows, dancing lights,

Stolen moments, borrowed nights.

Tattooed chains around my heart,

Those ink stained links now torn apart,

All that’s left are fractured dreams,

Splintered hopes and silent screams.

*

But while your fragrance is in the air,

I know you’re there, some place, somewhere.

Waiting For The Bell To Ring

Time again for Friday Fictioneers. A weekly 100 word photo prompt hosted by the lovely Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Why not join the 100 + equally addicted participants every week. Just follow the link to have a go..

david-stewart

 

There will always be time for regret,

When the bell is calling us home,

Time to remember lost chances,

And time to reflect on our own.

*

There will always be time for apologies,

When no one is there to disturb,

Time to acknowledge our failures,

And time to review and observe.

*

There will always be time for reflection,

When the rain and the storm clouds go,

Time to relinquish the burdens,

And time to share all that we know.

*

So I listen for the bell in the distance,

And I wait for it to call me on home.