Pain and Beauty

Woman With a Towel, 1898, Edgar Degas


Off with the layers of sadness.

Painfully peeled one by one

with reflections of my storied past

and a future of hope and healing.

Time to bear my soul

to those few I hold close to me.

Re-open old wounds and ugly scars

that are physically present for public consumption.

View them and draw your own conclusions

yet look beneath the skin you see

and see the real hurt lying deep below.

View with open mind and open eyes

not with eyes closed protecting you

from these unsightly pains before you.

These wounds are mine.

Earned from alcohol and abuse

during the years of innocence we call youth.

Look deeper till you see my heart

injured and still bleeding yet

still pumping the very life that is me.

Search deep within me

and find the love and caring

that I know exist within me.

For you my dear friend

are the one that can help me heal

with your gentle ear and sensitive nurturing.

Only then will my bare skin become

soft and beautiful.

And I will find my peace

in the life that is before me  

and beyond.


This was written for The Mag #163

Pain in His Eyes

I walked into our makeshift barracks.  Sarge sitting on a footlocker, idle and expressionless.  He’s still in his gear, vest and all.  His helmet lay on the floor. His eyes gazing ahead into what could have been another galaxy.  Who knows.

“Hey Sarge, whats going on?”  I asked.

“Nothing Willie, nothing at all.”

“You don’t look  yourself.”

“I am not myself,” he says.  “I am someone else now.  I’m different.”

“You’re creeping me out Sarge, what is it.”

“I killed today.” he stated matter of factly.

“So” I replied gruffly.

Sarge gets up quickly and stomps toward me, grabbing my neck and pushes me against the wall.  Others in the room quickly get up and stand by with looks of astonishment.

“What the fuck you doing Sarge.  This is combat man!” I yell, our faces only inches apart.  “WAR!”

“War! Well war doesn’t take away the fact that I have feelings dammit.”

He lets me go and stares into my eyes, his lips quivering with either rage or hurt.  He turns and walks toward his footlocker.  Its quiet.  He stops and looks around the room.

“I believe judgment will come when I  face God,” he says.  “I get that its war.  That don’t mean it don’t hurt.  What the fuck are you guys, soulless! Look at me, I am different now!”

“You ever kill Mackie?” he calmly ask the Wyoming native laying in his bunk.

“Why no Sarge,” he states in his country accent. 

“How about you Pryor?” 

The cocky Brooklyn native answers “Nah man.” 

“How about you?” he says to me.


“I hope you don’t.  None of you!”  he yells.   Then says calmly, “I have to live with this, right or wrong.  Forever.”

“But Sarge, its ok man,” I say to him.

“Oh yea, tell that to that kids mother,” he says quietly.  “Is that what the Marines telling your mother if you die here.  Its ok?” 

War gives birth to pain.  Eternal pain. I now know.  I learned today. From Sarge.

This work of fiction was written for Trifecta: Week Sixty.

Please remember:
  • Your response must be between 33 and 333 words.
  • You must use the 3rd definition of the given word in your post.
  • The word itself needs to be included in your response.
  • You may not use a variation of the word; it needs to be exactly as stated above.
  • Only one entry per writer.

Let it Flow

This weeks Trifecta writing challenge.  As you’ll recall from your elementary science class days, the structure of the earth can be divided most simply into three sections: core, mantle, crust.  Here’s a diagram.

Image courtesy of Danilo Rizzuti /

Give us 33 words from it. Interpret the prompt however you wish–literal, metaphorical, or somewhere in between.

I gave it my best shot.  Here is it.  In 33 words!  It’s called Let it Flow

My heart is like the earth.

A rough crust formed by pain.

It’s mantle houses my everyday feelings.

While both protect a core of Love.

Waiting to be pierced for it to flow.

I Wish

I wish I could paint a picture.  On canvas with colorful brush strokes.  It would hang in a museum to share with the world, so bright and radiant.  To interpret as you wish.  For people to look at and wonder what was on my mind while I held that brush.  For it to have meaning to each visitor.  Whether it be happy or sad.  My own Van Gogh, painted with pain and anguish for the world.  For me.

I wish I could pick up a guitar then put a pencil to paper and write a song.  A song to share with the whole world.  A song to sing to people on the street as they toss their change into my guitar case or on a stage with the audience singing to me as if they wrote it.  I hear their happiness or is it sadness, so loud and clear.  A song that will last generations and is no longer mine but everyone’s.   Forever.

I wish I could write a story.  A story penned so eloquently with my pain and suffering.   A story I can share with the world.  So people could read and understand that they are not alone in their suffering.  Written for me but knowing there are others that can’t pen their feeling as I can.   With the hope that they may someday meet me and say thank you for writing what they feel.  They have healed.  My gift to them.

I can’t paint nor play a guitar.  I can’t pen my thoughts eloquently. 

But I can dream.

Till we meet again. Good Day.

Mind of Shoo 

My Last Words

Words are my life.  Words have afforded me things way beyond my imagination.   My words, many have told me, have helped them heal in times of pain.

What do you say to someone who’s only minutes away from their last breath?  When that someone is the women you love.  I stand outside her room, the door inches from my face.   No words are flowing, just tears.  I have never married.  She knows why, that’s why I am here.  I push the door and enter, but it’s too late. All I say is  “I love you forever.”  Words please heal me.

These words are fiction, written for Velvet Verbosity’s 100 word challenge.  This weeks word is breath

100 Word Challenge writing prompt