Music Prompt #9 “The Beigeness” performed by Kate Tempest

Posted on September 18, 2015 by Michael

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JEiBdU0tFB0

The music draws my attention

From across the fence

The beat is relentless

Designed to drown out

The yelling the screaming,

The crying the hope.

The woman emerges from the laundry

A cane-washing basket sits on her hip

Her head covered with a tired scarf

Her feet dragging a pair of worn out sandals,

She approaches the ragged clothesline

Hangs out the greying wash

The result of not caring, no future.

She thrusts weathered wooden pegs

Onto the creases of washed out clothing

Kept clean as the price of sanity.

The baby in filled nappy crawls to the door

She frantically calls to the next one to grab him

No response she drops her wash

Bolts up the stairs to collect baby

Goes inside and there’s once again

The frenzy of voices

As no one accepts responsibility.

‘I did it yesterday,’ I hear one say

And the sounds die down as the music grows in volume.

She stands at the door, exasperated by the indifference

To life, to love, to anything.

At the clothesline she wipes her face on her sleeve.

A man appears at the door

In singlet, cigarette hanging from one corner of his mouth

He watches her, snarls,

‘These kids of yours are fuckin’ driving me crazy.

You gonna get me breakfast or not?’

She glances up at him, pegs a shirt to the line.

Resigned to her fate, poverty, mediocrity,

Surviving day to day

Clinging to any useless man who hints at loving her.

She looks in my direction and turns in shame

Realising she looks a mess, a shambles

Her self esteem rock bottom.

In public she hides all she can

The humiliation of being a no body in a somebody world.

She often dreams of the glamour that could have been hers

Of the days past where opportunity was there

But thinking she knew everything

Settled for the immediate pleasure

And babies later she finds herself

Penniless, a piece of poor white trash.

But she has ambitions for her kids

But they possess the aimless genes

Of their respective fathers.

She knows she has an uphill battle.

From inside she hears that

Beat pounding from the speakers

Ones she bought at the op shop.

Like so much of the music they play

Her days are the same old same old.

Them things she thinks,

Who’d believe her?

Who’d be interested?

Them things she thinks

Who’d see her pain?

Who’d be bothered with her?

Then things she thinks

If only they knew

If only they cared.

Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2015/09/18/music-prompt-9-the-beigeness-performed-by-kate-tempest/

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Tale Weaver #31 – The Stopped Clock

Posted on September 17, 2015 by Michael

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Where was I when the news came through that it was all over?

At that precise moment I was out walking and about to walk by the courthouse clock, which was forever stopped on 9.30.

There had been attempts over the years to fix it but it always stopped at 9.30.

On this particular day I was on my early morning walk when the phone rang.

The hysterical voice announced in no uncertain terms that what we had was over. Amongst the choice words I caught the words liar, lowlife and bastard. She was good at swearing and often prided herself on being able to swear like a wharfie.

Her blast did unsettle me and I stood there a moment taking in the tirade of abuse uncertain as to what had prompted this outrage.

I knew I had been faithful and had not transgressed in any way. So the reason this severe criticism was beyond me.

I stood there below the clock, frozen to the spot. Only the day before we had been out planning our engagement party, selecting a venue, discussing guests, who to and who not to.

How could all this happen? How can you go from euphoria to devastated in such a short space of time?

Later on social media it became clear that I had been seen at a nightclub with a woman and that had generated much discussion and criticism amongst the people in my town who sadly had little else to do.

I laughed at what I read…. Ronnie seen at Beau’s Nightclub with busty blonde…who is the new flame on Ronnie’s arm? How could you? You are such a lowlife Ronnie…

And so it went on. The blonde on my arm was my cousin Fran who was in town overnight and had asked me to show her around.

But when I went to my fiancé to explain I was met with a closed door. All attempts failed to explain my situation.

The bizarre position I found myself in was reflected in the image I had of me standing beneath the stopped clock, for like the clock my existence had stopped and there seemed no way forward.

She returned the ring, the gifts; her father threatened me with violence if I dared step through his front gate.

I went back to the scene where all this began. I wondered if the clock had put me into another dimension one where logic didn’t exist where opinions and gossip were gospel truth.

I sat under the clock a week after the phone call. I recalled everything, every last word, every nuance and tone in her voice as she screamed at me for betraying her and making her such a laughing stock.

A voice within me told me that I had to move on.

There was no point in labouring the argument with her when she was so hurt to not hear the truth.

I gathered myself and stepped out from under the clock as I distinctly heard it tick. I looked up and it said 9.31.

Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2015/09/17/tale-weaver-31-the-stopped-clock/

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Photo Challenge# 78, September 15, 2015 – The Dishonest Mirror

Posted on September 16, 2015 by Michael

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            Image: – Rebeca Cygnus

I had a mirror once

That lied and was dishonest.

I asked it for the truth

It said the truth was all it knew.

I would claw at its surface

My endeavours to climb inside

Thwarted at every attempt

And still it lied.

I threatened it with hammer and destruction

But it smiled back

That toothless malevolent grin

Saying once again the truth was all it knew.

I have sought a great explanation

Have plied it with inquisitive words

Searched for meaning

Understanding and most of all authenticity.

I quizzed the mirror maker

Looked around and upside down

Yet it stubbornly stuck to its word

The truth was all it knew.

I will sell it tomorrow

Buy a more truthful

Honest and benevolent mirror

One I know will tell me my truth

Not some perceived notion

That the truth is all I know.

https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2015/09/15/photo-challenge-78-september-15-2015/

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FFfAW – Week of 09-15-2015 – Tex

Posted on September 16, 2015 by Michael

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My name is Tex and this is my story.

My full name is Texas Alabama Washington Smythe.

I hate my name because until I was ten I didn’t know my names were American states.

It was my parents; they had a thing about the States. They’d never been there but they saw the arrival of my two sisters and myself as a way of adopting things American.

My sisters are named Virginia and Montana.

They hate their names as well.

And it’s justified because we live in Australia.

We’ve had many discussions with our parents about what they were thinking when we were born. I was going to be Carolina if I’d been born a girl.

But as mum and dad said at the time it seemed a good idea and how many Texas’ have I come across in life?

As dad once said had they been as passionate about Australia I could have been named Jiggalong, Wantawaba or Murray.

Written for: https://flashfictionforaspiringwriters.wordpress.com/2015/09/15/fffaw-week-of-09-15-2015/

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Scribe’s Cave Picture Prompt #83 – Washout

Posted on September 15, 2015 by Michael

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When I was a kid the town of Washout was a thriving commercial place. The forestry used the railway as a means of transporting the logs to the mills on the coast.

But with the forests decimated over the years the town had died along with the industry that sustained it for so long.

Years later I came back on a cycling tour with mixed feelings as to what I might find.

Apart its dilapidated appearance it was exactly as I remembered it. The shops behind the warehouses were still there, the facades still visible despite the ravages of time.

The little cottage seen in the photo housed the stationmaster and was also a boarding house for the drivers and guards who drove the trains up the mountain to Washout, the end of the line.

I wandered around the old town, memories flooding back of the characters, the mates I had, the games we played all now consigned to history.

Written for: http://caveofscribes.starvingactivist.com/2015/09/14/scribes-cave-picture-prompt-83/

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Mondays Finish the Story – September 14th, 2015 – The Modern Witch

Posted on September 14, 2015 by Michael

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Finish the story begins with:  “From her small balcony, the witch watched the world go by.”

All she saw most days was a lot of bad and ugly and occasionally some good.

The world had gone crazy she thought. Then again a lot had changed she had to admit. Even the house she now lived in was a modern construction and nothing like the ginger bread one she first lived in.

Where once she plied her trade of spells and potions with ease around the district now days there had been a great change in the way goods were made and distributed.

She had to learn to use computers; set up an online ordering business and worst of all learn the ins and outs of money. A spell or potion for a chicken was no longer the way to go.

Her once lofty reputation was now days a name and a memory she thought as she logged on to see if there were any new orders.

Written for: https://mondaysfinishthestory.wordpress.com/2015/09/14/mondays-finish-the-story-september-14th-2015/

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Kreative Kue 42 – Sister Juanita Maria

Posted on September 14, 2015 by Michael

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Sister Juanita Maria had taken on the job of establishing her own religious order, which incorporated all the best aspects of Catholicism and Buddhism.

Her habit was modelled on both religions the colourful orange of the Buddhists and the austere brown of the very religious sisters of the Holy Mary Mother of the Christ.

What set her order of nuns apart from other orders of nuns was her adoption of Saint Keith Kreates as her spiritual mentor.

Saint Keith Kreates was one of the least known of the churches saints having recently been canonised after several within the blogging community had contributed their miraculous recovery from writers block to Saint Keith’s intervention.

The fact that Keith was still alive and performing miracles made his elevation to the ranks of the churches saints all the more fascinating.

Sister Juanita Maria was setting up her order of nuns to assist the poor writers of this world and from her own observation there were enough to keep her in business for the rest of eternity.

Every morning she would rise from her bed of shredded Complete Shakespearean works and after dressing and uttering her morning mantra of “ I will write today, just one word then two” she would make her way to the chapel, which in the early stages was a small sun room at the back of her even smaller house.

There she would prayer for sinners and writers, sometimes unable to distinguish between the two before making herself a hearty breakfast nourished with some vigorous reading of Jane Austen whose writing always inspired to try harder and write succinctly.

But today Sister Juanita Maria was out in the community showing off her new habit, her Saint Keith Kreates hat, she’d written his name on the side herself, and was on her way to the towns Internet café where she knew the down and out of the writing community could be found.

So with the wind blowing her habit this way and that, she was determined that today would be a good day and that maybe Lennie the wino would see the wisdom of editing his work to remove the expletives he used, quite cleverly she had to admit, from every second word he wrote.

Written for: http://channing.info/wp/2015/09/14/kreative-kue-42/

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Wordle #78 “September 14, 2015” – Gladys

Posted on September 14, 2015 by Michael

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This week’s words: Technicolor Rare Grate Silence Geminate (to make or become doubled or paired) Razorwine (Any extremely potent alcoholic beverage, no less than 100 proof) Puppet Stygian (of or relating to the river Styx or to Hades. Dark or gloomy. Infernal; hellish.) Inept Moon Torsion (The act of twisting. The twisting of a body by two equal and opposite torques.) Sour

Gladys Stygian was a gloomy woman. If you stood to close to her and for too long you had this sense that the gates of hell were about to open and swallow you up into its infernalness.

Needless to say Gladys didn’t attract many friends, as her gloominess was without a doubt infectious. At the age of twenty Gladys did manage the attention of Freddy Parsnips the green grocer. Somehow or other Freddy became enamoured of Gladys. Some have speculated it was the razorwine Gladys consumed in vast quantities and when shared with Freddy left him a hopeless wreak of a man incapable of any rational thought.

When he awoke from his inebriated state he realised the ring on his finger was a sentence to horrible too contemplate but he was a loyal and honest man and decided living with Gladys couldn’t be all-bad.

Within months Freddy and Gladys found themselves to be expecting a child. It was about this time that Gladys began to change, the daughter of Hades with the hellish demeanour began to infect all and everything around her.

This of course grated on Freddy who as the days passed began to detest his wife’s behaviours. Any friends they had disappeared and no matter how hard Freddy tried with his best torsion techniques there was no way his friends were going to come within a bull’s roar of Gladys whose behaviour became even more exaggerated when the pregnancy scan showed they were having twins.

Freddy took this news with great alarm and the thought that he and his wife would be responsible for such a dreadful possibility of geminating two offspring, both of whom were sure to be infested with Gladys’ genes reduced him to an rare silence as he contemplated what to do.

Such was Freddy’s stress over this issue that he had become a puppet in Gladys’ hands as she filled his head with all sorts of ideas that he soon became nothing more than a torsion to her as he strove to complete and comply with her every wish: running here and there, making this and that, going up and down and spending most of his time nodding in agreement with her.

But deep down he knew Gladys was insane. She would make a hellish mother and the trouble was they both knew this to be true.

If there was one thing that reduced Gladys to an example of an inept human being it was a full moon. On these occasions she would confine herself to her bed, pull the covers over her head and howl with terrifying ferocity. Freddy had discovered over the years that the spare room was the place to be on such nights.

But being pregnant only increased Gladys’ anger and torment. The only thing Freddy had discovered that quietened her down was to wrap her in his technicolour dream coat, which his mum had given him on his sixteenth birthday.

Around Gladys the coat shone, the colours glowed and Gladys quietened. The movement in her stomach, which as her confinement approached also quietened and Freddy began to feel a sense of control over the terrible monster, his wife became on the full moon.

That and a sip or two or three of razorwine and soon she was sleeping peacefully. It was at this time that Freddy would watch her stomach, the ripples of movement would slow, the babies at last more content would cease their own version of hell’s fiery depths and Freddy would feel his own life which was once so sweet had turned a decided sour.

Their birth was torsion at its best as Gladys twisted this way and that in labour that frightened the nursing staff. Outside the moon shone at its fullest and the babies fought to get out ahead of the other.

The birth was greeted with celebration and much relief. Freddy sat in the corner of room and silently wished his life away as his wife once conscious of her surroundings began to pull at his strings to get this, get that and most of all insist that the baby boy and girl be called Percy and Petronella.

Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2015/09/14/wordle-78-september-14-2015/

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Writing Prompt #124 “Collage 6″ – Imposed Silence

Posted on September 13, 2015 by Michael

collage-6

I turned the imposed silence

Into a positive

An indirect reaching out

When at times the void was impossible.

Visually said I was here

To remind you that resilience

Wins out in times of disconsolation.

Moments came and went

I sat staring out my window

Alone again I thought

But there was a purpose.

I worry, its what I do.

Your final words

Gave a hint of despair,

So despondency plays its part

Buts it’s the unbearable I can’t stand.

I kept busy with family and friends

Dreamed of times when calm and serenity

Will be a great joy.

I await tomorrow

The agony of separation

Weights in heavily,

I suspect you feel it too.

But life is about one day at a time

Seeing what good exists

Where is there an avenue to explore?

I’m not the downcast angel

For hope springs eternal

In moments when stillness

Slows the whirling world.

Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2015/09/13/writing-prompt-124-collage-6%E2%80%B3/

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Tale Weaver 30: once upon a time . . . Fairy Godmother

Posted on September 11, 2015 by Michael

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Image: Fairy Tales by Hans Christian Andersen Artist: Harry Clark (1916) Source: Wikiart.org

I remember the extreme sadness that pervaded our household when my mother died during the birth of my baby sister Louise.

As a baby Louise thrived under the doting care of my father and myself. But I know my father languished from the loss of his wife, his love.

In time, as we know, a healing did take place and we were able to rejoice in the sight of Louise growing into the child who so reminded us of my mother.

Father also grew to relax in his widowerhood and one day he found a new ladylove. Petronella. Or Putrid as Louise and I called her.

What father saw in her was beyond us as we saw her for what she was a modern day gold digger who pandered to his every want and who found a way with her shallow words to lull him into a false sense of security.

Her lure of comfort and pleasure was enough for father and the two eventually married.

Once ensconced in our home she lived up to the name Putrid.

With a face like a dried up prune and a manner that rubbed you the wrong way from your first sight of her each morning it wasn’t long before Louise and I found the going tough having to spend our days during each school holiday alone with her. She would dismiss us from the kitchen each morning and announce she didn’t want to see us until dinnertime. That worked fine for us, as we loved to play outside and make up our own games and stories of fairies in the garden.

Louise grew into a beautiful girl the spitting image of our mother. She was smart and thoughtful but lived in fear of Putrid’s scorn.

She was top of her class at school and on her sixteenth birthday she announced a desire to go to the end of year social function at the school.

Putrid saw this as an opportunity to thwart Louise’s dreams and went about doing everything to take the glow off her plans.

Shopping trips to buy a new dress, appointments to have her hair done and the online orders of a new set of fashion accessories were either cancelled or never arrived.

Putrid was always apologetic about each setback saying that they still had a few days before the function and she would make sure that Louise was outfitted as she desired.

But by the day of the social nothing had been organised and Louise in her usual polite way announced that as she didn’t have anything to wear she’d cancel her plans and resigned herself to stay the night at home.

Putrid who had spent the previous days in her bed complaining of migraines and an upset stomach did upon this announcement suddenly experience a miraculous recovery and went about things in her underhand way offering Louise sympathy, saying there would be other occasions and that she was sorry she couldn’t get out of bed to take Louise shopping.

Father who was away working at the time knew nothing of this only that Putrid had been ill and she had each night rung him to tell him of her alleged woes.

I found Louise that night after our dinner and after we, as always, had cleaned the kitchen, in her room crying.

It had become clear to us over dinner when we couldn’t help but notice the pleased look upon Putrid’s face that she had manipulated the situation to her own ends.

I sat beside Louise as she sobbed uncontrollably unable to understand the vile behaviour of our stepmother.

In my mind I heard the voice.

‘Should I?’ it asked.

‘I think she is old enough to know,’ I replied.

‘I hate to see her upset.’

‘I think she’ll handle you well.’

‘Well hang around she’ll need you here. It was a nightmare when I made myself known to you.’

‘Well you did sort of come out of no where.’

‘We do that you know. Here one minute gone the next.’

‘You’d better get on with it the dance will begin very soon.’

Meanwhile Louise was lying there using tissues ten to the dozen…. I touched her on the shoulder and called for her to sit up that we needed to talk.

Louise and I did I lot of talking and we confided in each a lot as we grew older.

‘There’s someone I want you to meet Louise.’

‘What?’ She said looking at me.

‘I want you to meet our Fairy Godmother.’

Louise looked at me as if I was mad.

‘What?’

What Louise saw at the end of the bed was a bright light inside of which stood the most beautiful woman. I know because its what I saw the first time as well. Since then the Fairy Godmother had lived happily in my head, which at times made me think I was going mad. But she was real and now more real than ever in making herself known to my sister.

‘There’s a function you have to attend,’ said the Fairy Godmother.

‘I have nothing to wear,’ moaned Louise and began crying again. ‘I was so looking forward to it as it’s to be my last chance to be with my school friends.’

‘Then you shall go.’

‘I shall.’

‘Yes.’

‘How?’

‘Good question. Now tell me about the dress you wanted to wear.’

In the next five minutes Louise, I am sure feeling she had nothing to lose, explained and described to the Fairy Godmother the outfit she wanted for this evenings function.

As she went along the Fairy Godmother uttered a series of grunts and nods and watching Louise as if sizing her up.

‘Like this?’ Announced the Fairy Godmother.

In a flash of light Louise was transformed into the image she described complete with her hair as she had dreamed.

‘Not bad, you’ve good taste,’ said the Fairy Godmother.

Louise looked across the room at the mirror on the opposite wall and saw herself in the beauty that was hers.

‘You look so beautiful Louise,’ I said to her standing behind her.

‘But how?’ was all she could say.

‘We Fairy Godmothers work in mysterious ways,’ she said finally. ‘Go enjoy yourself. You sister will drive you. Wont you?’

‘Of course,’ I said taking Louise’s hand.

‘But,’ said Louise. ‘What about Putrid?

‘Taken care of.’ said Fairy Godmother.

As we walked through the house on our way out we saw Putrid asleep on the lounge.

‘She’ll sleep through the night. You go have a fun time Louise.’

She turned to the Fairy Godmother, then looked at me.

‘Is this real at all?’ she asked.

‘Get a move on,’ said Fairy Godmother. ‘You don’t want to keep your friends waiting.’

I took Louise’s hand and squeezed it.

The Fairy Godmother at that juncture moved a part of herself into Louise’s mind.

Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2015/09/10/tale-weaver-30-once-upon-a-time/

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