Entitled to a Dream – Poems for January

When I am finally
Rich and powerful,
I will divulge to them
The secret to my success:
Luck. some of it was hard
Work, but 90% was pure
Luck. happened to be born
In the right place, the right time,
Happened to have the right
Connections, the right parents.
Cause I am tired of dullards
And nobodies wishing for more.
Reading books by Billy Gates,
Following Elon Musk’s twitter,
Hoping some of the magic
Will sprinkle onto them
So they can have the lives
They so deserve. Instead,
They will work and work,
Thinking if they hustle longer,
Hustle harder, the galaxies
Will align and a few yachts
Will appear on their doorsteps.
But even if I were to tell them all this,
They wouldn’t believe me.
Because it could not possibly be
True. “I am different,” they
Will say, “it’s gonna happen
To me, I know it. This can’t all
Be for nothing.” “Well,” I will
Respond, “keep on dreaming
I guess, keep on dreaming
And working and maybe someday,
Maybe someday…”


Written for the Sunday Writing Prompt at Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie.

The Big Finish – Ep. 1: “The Opening”

Once their dance was completed, they watched as a tear formed across the sky. The ground rattled and the opening grew and grew. 

“We did it! We summoned the elder god!”

“Nice!” They high-fived each other and ran off somewhere. 

Meanwhile, at the other side of town, Ted was driving his dumb car to the grocery store. But as he drove he noticed flocks of birds flying above. He squinted at the trees as they shook. There was also an unusual darkness that seemed to be spreading across the sky. 

“Great,” he said. “It looks like I’m going to die today,” and continued driving.


Written for the Photo Challenge #336 at Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie. And I’ve decided to make this a series because why not? Well, I guess we’re going to find out why. What’s going to happen next? I don’t know. Stay tuned!

Theater Tableau

Let’s watch the face
reel a performance,
each hand a shadow,
each word a myth warm
underneath stage lights.
The seats are silent.

An aging thespian,
but tonight is his
debut, again. Oh,
the fire he had lent
to the air that night.
Theater’s empty

Except for the man
on a stage that is
his. Doesn’t need us
for a monologue,
but the lights remain,
watching the air fall.


Written for Saturday Mix.

Above the Brave

Nothing was ever given to shadows
Tucked into caves,
Their darkened eyes sloped
Across hidden graves
Shaped beneath the jagged waves.

You might say this is no way
To behave, too frightened to meet
The glaives raised in distant fields,
Too empty to be dissidents
Or knaves.

Sullen, dark shapes
Unable to brave the eyes
Better faces once gave,
Now those faces are saved
By the glory of waves,
And the shadows, cradled
And able.


Written for Saturday Mix at Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie.

Justice & Other Trivialities

“Was that a knock?”

“What?”

“…Nothing.” It must have been Morrie’s imagination. After all, they watched the poor sod hang, his body swinging in the air for all the town to see. He wiped his brow and continued digging with his brother, Keith.

After they finished the hole they dragged the coffin from the back of the wagon and shoved it into the earth. As they proceeded to shovel the dirt onto the coffin, Morrie heard it again, and, this time, so did his brother.

“My God!”

“But we watched him hang.”

The knocking became more rapid. The two brothers stood above the hole, unable to process what they were hearing. Until finally:

“Um, hello? Can someone–I believe I heard voices unless my hearing is finally going. Oh, what a dastardly fate!” The voice was muffled behind the wood, but it was clear.

Morrie stepped down into the hole and onto the coffin. “What are you doing?” Keith asked.

“The man is clearly alive!”

“Right, but…he’s supposed to be dead, ain’t he? So why not just…”

Morrie stopped and looked up at his brother, considering for a moment. Then he said, “No. That isn’t proper. He needs to be hanged again.”

Keith sighed as Morrie pried open the coffin with his crowbar. After a few snaps the lid was released, revealing a well-dressed man squeezed into the box, his hand blocking his eyes from the sudden gaze of the sun.

“Oh my. Thank you good sir. I wasn’t sure how long that nonsense was going to last.”

Morrie pulled the man up. The man grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped himself. “I can’t say that was the most fulfilling sleep I’ve had. Ah, good day sir!” He waved to Keith above. Keith didn’t wave back.

“Now, thank you kind sirs for heeding my call. But I must depart. I have unimportant matters to intend to. Good–” The man clawed himself out of the hole, and as he was about to leave Keith placed a hand on his chest.

“Ain’t gonna let you do that? You killed a woman. There’s justice that has to be done.”

“Ah. Yes. ‘Justice’ as you call it. Right. Right. Well, as I insisted during what one could hardly consider a ‘fair trial’ I am not one to partake in such murderous activities. It is simply not in my character. In fact, I could hardly smother a fly without asking its name first.”

Morrie climbed out of the hole. The two brothers surrounded the Englishman, and the Englishman sensed this.

“And besides. Justice had already been met out. I was, unless I am mistaken, hanged.”

“And die. You died as well,” Keith said coldly.

The Englishman smiled and nodded. “Ah. I guess I had neglected that last part. However, it would be wise to consider that it is not in my interests, nor in yours, to–”

“Justice. That’s all that matters here. You killed a woman. And I don’t care if we have to watch you hang three or four more times. You will pay for taking her life.”

“Hm.” The Englishman rubbed his chin.

“Now,” Keith revealed the gun in his holster. “You’re either comin’ with us, or, we toss you back in that box. What do you say?”

“May I propose a third option? I’m a man of great wealth. Now, I do not wish to besmirch the occupation of gravedigging, but–”

“How much?” Keith sharply asked.

“$500.”

“Make it $1,000.”

“Hm. Hmmmm.” The man rubbed his chin. He then looked back at Morrie who gripped his shovel tightly. Then his eyes fell back on Keith. “I’m not one to bargain or negotiate, especially with two fine and experienced businessmen such as yourselves. But I believe $500 is a sufficient price to–”

SMACK! Keith smacked the Englishman with the butt of his pistol and watched as he collapsed onto the muddy ground. He grabbed his ankles and started dragging him back to the hole.

“Wait. WAIT!” The man yelled. Keith stopped and flipped the man over. “I believe we can make an arrangement.”

“$1,500.”

“Ah. So much for justice. Fine. I will have to sort through my finances, but I believe this is not an unrealistic demand.”

“Sort away.” Keith pulled him back up to his feet. But as soon as he did this the Englishman charged toward the other side of the hole and clutched the shovel on the ground. Keith started firing his gun into the man’s back, but the man hardly winced. He twisted back to Keith and bashed him upside the head with the shovel. Keith fell into the open coffin.

Morrie had watched all of this unfold before his eyes, but could hardly believe it. “You…You are the Devil…”

The Englishman’s eyes darted toward Morrie almost as if he had forgotten he was there. “No. Just English.” He smiled and dropped the shovel onto Keith’s body. The Englishman wiped his jacket off and his brow. “I was never one to engage in dirty work.”

Morrie crouched down and peered over the edge of the hole and started to weep. Keith’s eyes were wide open, but all life had faded from them. Blood oozed from the side of his head.

The Englishman noticed Morrie’s display. “You know,” he said, “any man can be a good friend if you try hard enough. I would wager that there are plenty of fine fellows out there willing to dig graves by your side.”

“He was my brother…”

“Ah. Those are a little bit harder to replace. Well…at least you don’t have to dig another grave tonight. Good day.” And the Englishman strolled out of the cemetery at a leisurely pace.


Written for First Line Friday.

Lullaby

There was another fire, but it wasn’t dire.
As it rose higher and higher, the shadowy choir
emerged without ire. Their voices came
and formed a wire, surrounding the fire
‘til the flame went silent like a mire.
The voices retired once again into night,
knowing another pyre will dream soon
into being. They will come back once
more, a tire twisting ‘long the same
night over and over, and I will sleep.


A pretty bad poem I wrote for the Saturday Mix, but ait was fun to put together.

12-Minute Tales – The Marty Philosophy

“‘Never burn a bridge you could push them off later.’ Hm. That’s a strange thing to put on a gravestone,” Marty said to no one in particular. “I wonder what kind of person this guy was. Sounds like a true Machiavellian.” He shrugged and continued his walk through the cemetery.

“Maybe he just really reveled in revenge. But I just can’t imagine living a life that way. Better to let things slide. That’s the Marty philosophy!” However, as Marty strolled by the endless stones he thought about how in just a few decades some of these names will be forgotten. And many years afterwards, these sacred sites will no longer be sacred. Centuries from now, Marty speculated, will summon archaeologists hunting for the secrets that only ancient bones held. We’d like to think things are sacred, but give enough time, and everything becomes fair game.

Eventually, Marty sat down underneath a tree. A warm breeze rolled over him. The rustle of leaves overhead. He closed his eyes. Marty was homeless, but it was moments like this where it didn’t seem to matter anymore. He didn’t feel so much free, but rather like nothing as the world softly pulsed around him. He could feel himself dissolving into the softness of air.

He opened his eyes and listened as his stomach murmured and gasped. Strange noises, but they weren’t painful, at least not yet. He stood-up, brushed himself off, and let the world carry him off again.

“Did any of these people let go,” he said, “did they ever find peace? What does peace look like anyway? It’s just a word. Maybe there’s really no such thing. Just a passing moment, like happiness or sorrow. Maybe we’re just vessels for outside things.” As he walked a speed-walker passed by him at a brisk pace. “Hm, who exercises in a graveyard. Then again, look at me!” He laughed to himself, though no one heard him.

 


Written for First Line Friday. Somehow, it took me 12 minutes to write these measly paragraphs though I might revisit this story later. There might be something interesting here than can be expanded upon, but for now it’s just an odd look at an even odder character.