“Darlin…”, the devil said, with a drawl so pronounced, you could smell mama’s chicken and okra on the stove, “…if we are not permitted on occasion, to bathe in the pools of self pity, lathering ourselves with the soothing essence of misery, while washing our hair in the effervescent pearls of despair, then what pray tell are we doing here…”

Tear for two

tear roseHer words are carved deep into the signposts of this journey.  She speaks with a wisdom, a knowledge of life, it should require lifetimes to amass.  

She captivates me. Delighting me with her stunning tales of torment.  Allowing me to know her sorrow. To caress her pain. I had thought once, they were a cry for help.  I have come to discern, to appreciate fully, that she simply reflects my own despair.

As words spoken into a deep and wide canyon, her utterances, are as an echo reverberating back to me.  Delivered by her voice calm and sweet her tear stained narrative seduces my soul.

She makes me laugh as often as we share a tear.  Though it is the misery which has bound we two together.  To the affliction of adoration we are tethered.

Reminding me of the heavy cost exacted in anguish born of having danced too…

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Place Your Bets

Only an observation, likely something suggested
in folly. We can keep on wishing darlin’. Or we
can embrace opportunity.

Rolling with the punches
as they say, has come so natural. If indeed
that, something better, presents itself, manifesting
our truest desire, perhaps we will see it more
easily if we engage in the mundane earnestly.

Falling on ears abundantly deaf, refusing to linger in
absurdity. Retreating headlong into the soothing
premise found in the certainty of the unknown.

A stage crafted solely to depict the harmonious
performance, of two very well rehearsed puppets.
Each player reciting their parts of the well worn
script consummately.

Wagering none of the sentiment
proves the safer bet.

50 Word Thursday #13

This is my attempt at 50 Word Thursday #13

The rules are simple. Minimum 50 words, max 250, in multiples of 50.

Using the pic (featured image) or the following phrase or both.

“Holly found it quite impossible to suppress his permanent smirk. ”

I changed it up this week, using only the pic.

Thanks Deb Whittam


Her thoughts drift to a time, a warm, sunny spring afternoon, in this cove, when the future held lots of magic. A young couple, their only care was the next whim.

She surrendered her heart, so easily then.

He looks down at her knowingly, still reading her thoughts after many years of marriage.

She knows that she will always find this spot special. Here now, she wants to feel that love .

The boat has changed, but the magic lingers. Her heart racing, just as it did then. His hands wrap around her waist, and she knows she will surrender…again.


Longing in Reality

He catches a glimpse of it often. Though it never manifests straight on. Only revealing itself, in his peripheral.

The sight is enough to chill his soul. He accepts that it serves to torment him. To render his punishment for the failings inherent with mortality.

Disturbing his slumber, bringing terror to the cold darkness of isolation. Serving as a reminder of what he can no longer know.

A vision of what might have been, had her love remained. His shattered mind though, fully seeing the truth and longing in reality.


Does she still laugh at silly things. I haven’t heard it for so long. There was a time back before our lives took separate paths, when we would finish one another’s sentences. Her laugh would hold me spellbound, it was like an addiction I craved.

That kind of connection in my experience is rare. I have never known another that way. I have known a deep love, but that was a unique bond shared between two.

Life, love, work, and it seems time itself came between us. I do cherish the laughter we shared, even more so now. I can’t help but wonder after these years of being apart if those days, those fleeting precious moments really, still surface on days like today in her mind.

Are there times when she needs a friend, and she can recall that gentle flowing conversation. Do her memories include visions of the young man who gladly played her clown. Just so he could catch a glimpse of her smile and hear her sweet laugh. She likely packed it away neatly. I may just be longing for a time when everything made sense. When the uncertainty of tomorrow held magical possibilities. She would say no regrets, live and laugh.

50 Word Thursday #12

This is my attempt at 50 Word Thursday #12
The rules are simple. Minimum 50 words, max 250, in multiples of 50.
Using the pic or the following phrase or both.

‘He still wanted to go there, one way or another, and to find that brunette, if she existed’

Thanks Deb Whittam

‘That’s when I wake up. When I am almost to the door of the hotel. I am sane enough to know it is a dream. I tell you though, I can feel my feet on that pavement. I can smell the rain in the air. Her sweet voice calling to me…Robert from the balcony.. Her dress, the sound of the people in that square…so vivid.’

The psychiatrist stood. “That will be all today Robert. We will talk soon. Try to rest.”

‘She knows me somehow. I have seen her four nights in a row. I can’t explain it. I just know I need to get to her Doctor.’

The heavy door shuts behind the doctor, who is looking down at the clipboard in his hand. Trying to rationalize what he has heard. He still wanted to go there, one way or another, and to find that brunette, if she existed.

No explanation, makes any sense for the condition. His colleagues are just as puzzled as he. Robert is the third person this month…to tell Doctor Bill Jennings this same story…verbatim. All seemingly unrelated individuals, describe the same square, hotel and brunette in red on the balcony.


Appalachian Gold

The wood, burning in the stove sends a slight crackle into the room.
Steam rises invitingly, from the coffee cup, setting on the hand carved
wooden table. It is a frosty morning in the hills.

The mountain holds a treasure, coveted in this region. One that propels industry.

Harvesting this dirty fuel, is never more grueling, than on cold mornings like this one.

The holler is sparsely littered with similar scenes for several miles. Hard
men, ready themselves to burrow into the open earth. Men who drink hard,
swear hard, and ultimately die hard, swing a hard pick underground.

Their women, most of whom are too young to look so broken, cook
bacon, eggs, and cathead biscuits. Packing lunches of bologna and
sassafras tea. They wake children for school, who will drop out and go low.

Little luxury in this hardscrabble life. Miners huddle at the grave’s mouth
an unspoken prayer, recited by each in unison. Dear Lord, let the timbers
hold, so that I can come back tomorrow and dig the Appalachian gold.

50 Word Thursday #11

This is my attempt at 50 Word Thursday #11

Thank you Deb Whittam


Along with the photo above, the following phrase serves as a prompt.

‘If I’d stopped to think I might not have done it, but fury is a great disregarder of caution.’

The rules are simple.  Write something, poem, short story, anything, using 50 words minimum 250 words maximum in multiples of 50. Can use the photo or phrase or both.


Fallen Star


Ruby, you’ll be in the electric chair for sure over this one.  Jesus a US Senator, well…yeah there is no self defense claim here..not that they will listen to. It doesn’t matter how many people he promised to introduce me to in Hollywood or how many times he tried to paw me- you are done.

Brings me out here alone, after telling me we wouldn’t be.  I should have just jumped off this boat and went back to Iowa.  That ain’t happening now though. What was I thinking.

If I had stopped to think, I might not have done it. But, fury is a great disregarder of caution.

Calling me those vile names…because I didn’t want his greasy hands on me.  That did it. Sent me over the edge fast. Before I could even blink twice, the gun…I had it in my hand.  It was so loud.

The cigarette calms my nerves, the whisky burns and makes me forget about the pain in my head.

I’m sure a few taxpayers will be grateful at least. “Miss are you okay over there? ”, a voice called from the shore.

Oh shit…I inhaled my last draw of freedom.

Flash Fiction: Derailed

Ya know how they say “there was something about her eyes”? In this case it was so true. Eyes that whisper, you will never make the cut. She entered the scene long and wavy in all the right places. There he is. He’ll be swimming in heartache by dawn, and he hasn’t even bothered looking at her eyes yet. She is no damsel, and he definitely is no hero. Mixing one complete part of wow, with two parts dumb, this train-wreck is pulling out of, boy, your life will never be the same-ville.