A mirror
Simple in it’s contruction
yet complex in its dept.
Placed before us
it offers a glimpse of now.
A person or people
reflected in the moment.
A smile, a pretty face, a satisfied glimpse.
For some, the mirror is a curse.
A seemingly counterintuitive device
reflecting the soul not the flesh.
A faceless reflection
illuminating pain and disfunction.
Or a blank mirror
reflecting nonthingness.
I don’t like mirrors.
Poetry written for VisDare 19: Mirror
Tough one this week! Well, here is my attempt for the week. Very different from what I normally write.
Silence was broken by the hoot of Mr. Owl
echoing throughout the swamp.
Sitting majestically above.
Watching movement below.
Mr. Snake slithers cautiously beneath the leaves.
Avoiding becoming the meal.
Nature’s chess match.
This fiction was written for Trifextra: Week Sixty-seven.
This weekend we want you to give us 33 words (exactly) that include among them at least one example of onomatopoeia. When looking for a good page to link to in order to help describe the device, we stumbled upon our very own Apoplectic Apostrophes‘ post on literary devices. Check it out if you need help remembering how onomatopoeia work.
Gaze into nowhere
and look into eternity.
See the unfinished
in all its glory.
Its beauty is unique.
Your imagination grabs a vision
and expresses it in form.
Captured as only you can.
Shared with those who understand.
You see what is within and express it.
We only see what is before us and feel it.
You make us feel what you see
when you gaze into nowhere.
We are mere mortals needing your talent
so we can experience the within.
Show us beauty. Show us pain.
Show us what is not yet there.
For you are an artist.
For eternity.
This was written for The Mag #167
I thought I would love.
At least once in my lifetime
with every ounce of my heart.
But it’s sealed within an iron wall
impenetrable to every emotion.
A wall built over time
with the craftmanship of a skilled welder
following the blueprint of a scarred soul.
Not a madman steered by ills
but a kind, gentle man protecting.
Protecting what… he never knows.
I yearn to love.
To torch an opening so blood can pour
and feel the emotion built up within me
all these years.
I thought I would love.
But I only protect.
My selfish self.
Written for:
Faster than father’s whipping. More powerful than a bottle of alcohol. Able to overcome poor judgement. Look! Into your brain. No abuse. No suffering. Only peace. It’s YOUR Mind! Free of the past!
This fiction was written for Trifextra: Week Sixty-six.
This weekend we’re having some fun with the prompt, some super-powered fun, that is. We’re asking you to write the origin story to the superhero of your choice in exactly 33 words.
I found him in the study…moving books around as if he was the head librarian.
“Father,” I said.
“Yes’” he said as he stepped out from behind the ladder.
My father was my guiding force through my youth though I never told him how I felt. Now, I can’t. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know anything but this library. It’s strange how disease can take a man’s family away from him yet he can read, understand and be intelligently vibrant. This library is his life now. His family he has long forgot. I take care of him. This is his study in my home.
This fiction was written for Friday Fictioneers. Visit and read the rules and join in the fun!
There is more to this..at least it feels like it. Sometimes…the story is not nearly complete but I hope that someone feels something from what is here. I didn’t want to change what was here just to keep it in the word limitation. I like what is here. I don’t know why. I just do.
Till we meet again.
Good Day.
Mind of Shoo
“Good Morning students,” the instructor says profoundly. “Welcome to the first day class for those who survived childhood with an abusive alcoholic unscathed.” He looks out into the empty desks before him. He paces a few steps with his head down and hand on his chin. His eyes are as vacant as the scene before him. ”I will raise my voice so those in the far back can hear!” he yells into the void. ”I am Professor Minnefield. Survivor of physical and mental abuse from an alcoholic parent,” he projects in a booming voice of confidence. ”If I can go through life and succeed….”
“Mr. Thomas, keep your voice down,” the nurse abruptly tells the man standing in front of the picture on the wall. ”You can’t go on yapping like that. This is the quiet zone of the ward. Here, let me help you tie the back of your hospital gown.”
This fiction was written for VisDare 146: Vacant
The picture to me was haunting. This is what came to mind. I was limited to 150 words so ends upbruptly.
Till we meet again. Good Day
Mind of Shoo
