My Words

My words are the legacy,

Of a lifetimes regret,

The chances not taken,

And the mistakes that I let.

The stories remembered,

Are marked on a page,

The Ink dipped reflections,

Of a life spent backstage.

Tales of crossed lovers,

Of romance and pain,

Tales of the loneliness,

The fear and the blame.

Sensations of longing,

And yearning for more,

Reflections of darkness,

And the sunlight before,

*

My words are my legacy,

I leave them for you,

Guard them with care,

They will carry you through.

Before You

Before I had you, I could only feel winter,

The frost in the air made my heart nearly splinter,

With Ice in my veins, my senses were guarded,

Then you came along and the thaw slowly started.

*

Before I had you, I would always feel lonely,

The voice in my head would tell me tread slowly,

Raindrops would fall like warm tears on my pillow,

And I couldn’t see love for the mist at my window

*

Then you were there like an everlasting summer,

Filling up each day with breath-taking colour,

You gave me your heart and I gave you mine,

My funny and handsome and sweet valentine.

The Wives Club

Time again for ‘Friday Fictioneers’. A weekly 100 word photo prompt hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. A merry band of over 100 people participate each week. Becoming addicted is guaranteed, resistance is futile…..

janet-webbs-sangria

Ted’s confidence lasted about as long as the ice in his Sangria. Sally watched his eyes flit from one woman to another; a little blonde by the wall, the brunette, another blonde by the kitchen. She watched his tongue slip out just a fraction over his lips. Stood by the doorway, she couldn’t miss the tiny beads of sweat on his forehead or the dark patch of dampness spreading across his chest.

“Shall I introduce you to my husband ladies?” she said scornfully,

Ted swallowed.

“Or should I say OUR husband”

Their eyes met.  Sally smiled. Ted’s legs gave way.

She Sits And She Waits.

So today is Tuesday and time for the ‘Haibun Thinking Challenge‘. This week it’s freestyle week, so the world’s your oyster, so to speak. Clink on the link and have a read at the others and then have a go yourself, go on I dare you…….

 

She sits and she waits. She doesn’t know what for, because nobody ever told her that. They just said to wait. She listens to the wind and holds her breath to hear a breeze. Sometimes she reaches out her tongue, just a little, to catch the teardrops from the sky and when the sky begins to smile again, she reaches our her hand to try and catch a rainbow between her fingers, she never can.

So she carries on watching, waiting in the shadows. Sometimes she sings, no more than a whisper, and watches the trees dance a waltz on the melody. The arms of the old mighty oak sweep down low and she bobs a shy curtsy and holds out her hand.  Sometimes there are others. She sees children playing; hears laughter in the air, sometimes young couples rest against the oak. She keeps very still so they won’t know she’s there.

Time seems to pass in the blink of an eye, the sun rises higher and it sets ever lower, and still she sits and she waits. She remembers Mama wrapping her shawl real tight around her shoulders and sitting her down under the oak. Her ruby red lips shimmering in the moonlight as she kissed her goodbye. Mama said she’d come back when the man paid his dues. She didn’t know what dues were, but Mama said “she’d earned em”. Then the bad man came. He said she had pretty hair but he smelt bad and his prickly beard hurt her face. Then he upped and stole the life right out of her body.

So now she sits and she waits, just like a good girl.

Death is just a door,

That separates you and me,

Love will guide you home.

In The Trash

This is for my first attempt at a ‘Papi Prompt‘. As anyone who knows me knows, I’m a sucker for a good prompt. The idea is to write a 500 word piece of fiction based on the sentence provided. This week’s sentence is ‘I found the silk scarf I gave her for Valentine’s next…’  

Here goes 

stock-footage-house-fire-inside-destruction-during-the-night-with-flames-burning-the-roof-and-walls

 

I found the silk scarf I gave her for Valentine’s next to a single black stocking and an empty packet of contraceptive pills. I lifted them out. Smooth black nylon rubbed against my fingers.  It was nearly half ten but the streetlamp gave me enough light to read the packet. Birth control, why the hell did she need birth control? My senses went into overdrive. I tried to count, 1… 2….3…..  The therapist said count when I felt it coming on. I started again 1…..2…..3….  I kicked the trash bag by my feet; the sound of cans hitting between the kerb and ricocheting off into the road like a metronome keeping beat.

It felt like we’d been trying for a baby forever. “This is our year” she’d say as she sobbed onto my shoulder every month. So many shirts she’d ruined with all those crocodile tears. I felt my hands fist at my sides and the edge of the packet pierced my palm. I squeezed tighter.  A light went on in the bedroom, I looked up and saw her reach for the curtain, first the left side, then the right. They didn’t quite meet in the middle, I started the count again, 1….2….3….. Damn the therapist, this wasn’t working.  She couldn’t even get the lines straight; she knows how it upsets me. I make sure she knows. Every-time.

I stuffed the packet and the stocking into my pocket and walked back into the house. Downstairs was dark; just the gentle hum of the fridge filling the silence. I straightened up the shoes by the door, turned the key and locked the door. My hand went to the stair rail and I stopped. My heart was racing, sweat spotting on my back. For a few seconds I just stared.  The bathroom door was slightly ajar at the top of the stairs and I focused on the light seeping underneath. Then I turned back, re checked the lock, picked up the cast iron door stop and climbed the stairs, slowly.

“Where have you been” she called from the bedroom. Her tone restless, slightly raised. I wondered if she’d seen me at the bin. I walked into the bedroom; she was lying on the bed, wearing a red and black baby doll and a ‘come here’ smile. For a minute I was thrown by the fact she only had one stocking on. I reached into my pocket, fingering the nylon. She raised her hand, something white gripped in her fingers.  “It’s happened” she said, rushing onto her knees, pushing the thin blue line of the tester into my face. “I finally got to throw away the pills” she sang, half laughing, half crying. I grabbed her, pressing terrified, euphoric kisses across her face. 

I put the door stop against the bathroom door, like I did every night. The noise from the boiler could be really annoying. While I couldn’t stop grinning, the fact she was only wearing one stocking really rankled my OCD.

What Is Love?

 

Love is a layer,

Of butter cream icing,

Love is the embrace,

I feel when we’re dancing,

Love is the melody,

That plays in my head,

Long after the music,

Has left me for bed.

*

Love is a scent,

Of apple blossom trees,

Love is the honey,

From regal queen bees,

Love is the taste,

Of liquid pure gold,

Left on my lips,

Forever enthralled.

*

Love is a touch,

Of soft fallen snow,

Love is the warmth,

From a fireside’s glow,

Love is the feeling,

That flows through my blood,

Pulsating and yearning,

To be all that it could.