Just Another Halloween #amwriting

201-05-may-28th-2017

Sunday Photo Fiction. Click on the link to see the instruction and join. And, thanks to Alistair for hosting! 🙂


 

Just Another Halloween

I wonder if Orson Welles knew that his stunt back in 1938 would have copycats even now 79 years later. While the details have changed, there’s always someone out there who thinks it’s colossal fun to cause panic around Halloween. Last year it was the “clown” guy and this year it’s the Predator, which I think is pretty lame because that just screams costume.

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Shattered

j-hardy-rubble

Friday Fictioneers for 5/26/2017


Shattered

The teenagers called me “crazy artist lady.”

The men loitering nearby called me worse when I refused their “offers.”

My lover called me stubborn for staying. “It’s not safe.”

I scoffed. “They’re just talk.”

 

I worked all day and into the evening, but flagged. Grabbing Gordo the Great Dane’s lead, we loped to the coffee shop; I hummed something cheery.

The barista smiled. “Your showing’s tomorrow?”

“Day after.”

“You must be excited.”

“And nervous.”

 

Red paint dripped down my door from the four-letter slur. Inside, three years of blown-glass artwork glittered in the light, innocently beautiful in its destruction.

 

end 5/24/2017

Sascha Darlington

Music Lives #amwriting

My first quadrille thanks to the good folks at dVerse. If you want to join in, click on the link and read the instructions.

 


Music Lives

A chord cascades

in quiet

the sound of song

pulses

molding emotions

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Freedom’s Just Another Word #amwriting

The suburban noise proved her undoing. One little girl screamed every five minutes as if a hell-demon nipped at her $120 sneakers and then there were the lawn mowers constant growl, the car alarms, the woman shouting at her kids, and maybe worst of all the teenager next-door with his synthetic music.

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The Gray Area

This is a bit longer than the stories I usually post. However, if you have the time, please tell me your thoughts. I would very much appreciate it. Many, many thanks, Sascha. (ps. I am happy to read your longer piece as well, just let me know…except if it’s novel length (sorry).

The Gray Area

I’ve been over twenty hours on this highway, watching the pavement slide under the tires, passing through rain that glosses the road over like ice and nighttime in which reality becomes the repetition of a white dotted line against black. My headlights show the tawny sleekness of deer at the edge of the highway, the fat waddle of groundhogs, and, for hours, a plentitude of nothing except images like a succession of stills from a movie many years old.

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Can’t Write Scared

dVerse~ Poets Pub OpenLinkNight #196

 

Can’t Write Scared

At university

the stoned poet said

“you can’t write scared”–

I continued

each word precisely penned

attuned to imaginary readers

whose lips curled derisively

on occasional lapses

of censorship.

I was an egg

concealed in a flimsy shell

like another half-dozen

cosseted caricatures

playing writer

spinning trite phrases

of sweet sounding words

imaginings of pink packaged

saccharine sentiment

but then I succumbed

to non-consumption.

∼∼∼∼∼

On rebirth I cried

“you can’t write scared”

and I didn’t, for a while

developed succinct style

of hewn craft on drafts

pinched words like pennies

wanted bennies, not

in my twenties anymore.

Fear pervades the core

bores into the brain

insane unremarkable drivel

pours through pores

I wrote scared

but scarred surfaces

surge upward

like polished wood

trampled on daily

til frailty exists no more.

 

5/18/2017

Sascha Darlington

(oops. I had farce in there, but deleted it.)

 

Future Lives #amwriting

They went to the hayloft because there was nowhere else. He was shipping out in the morning. She was off to college.

Her palms cupped the sides of his face to study his eyes and he grinned down at her. All of these years of wanting saved for these precious moments of frantic clumsiness.

She had waited for him, for always.

Sharp needles of straw pinched their skin as they made love, him trying to be gentle, her needing him as part of herself.

She felt they were on the precipice of future lives with time as tenuous as gossamer.

 

5/17/2017

Sascha Darlington