Sunday Writing Prompt – a touch of Frost – Waking.

Posted on December 9, 2018 by Michael

befunky-collage

She woke with the uncomfortable feeling of knowing everything was wrong.

Her head rested on the ground, there were corn shoots poking her in the face. She realised her pants were around her knees and she sensed an unsightly mess between her legs.

More immediately disturbing was the pain her body was making her aware of. Every inch of her was waking to the terrible knowledge of the violation.

Looking up she saw a myriad of stars and around her a silence she knew all too well.

The silence of desolation, the pervading sense of being alone within the expanse of the universe, leaving her vulnerable and flooded with personal humiliation. It was as if nature in respect of her situation stood back to give her the space she needed but enough to allow her to take in the magnitude of what had happened to her.

She remembered the boy and at that very moment found it impossible to say his name. She had fancied him, flirted with him, and now there was a price to pay.

She wondered what happened to her friend, the two girls had gone out together, always went places together but now she was alone, and the pain was throbbing all over.

She moved onto her side, her body objecting to her moving.

She lay there taking stock of her situation. Not only were her pants down on her knees, her top was torn, her breasts exposed and her hair, which she prided herself on, was a dishevelled mess.

Around her the silenced pulsed, the voices of her parents echoed in her mind, ….’the boy was trouble, he and his lot could never be trusted, don’t be alone with him’… and so they droned on.

She determined she was not going to be rescued and so rearranged herself sufficiently, she hoped, to get herself home.

They had been driving, drinking, having a great time and he had been all affectionate, and she’d loved the attention but when he started to grope and intrude she’d tried to object but it was then he hit her.

She’d been powerless against him. Through the now present pain, she could still felt his weight, his stale alcoholic breath against her ear as he grunted his way into her taking what she’d never recover.

Wrapping her arms around herself she took a tentative step forward, her body ached, her head pounded, and right now she needed to get home.

As she stumbled along, tears flowing and feeling the worst she’d ever felt, inside her, a series of interactions were happening that would challenge her in the years to come.

 

Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2018/12/09/sunday-writing-prompt-a-touch-of-frost/

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FOWC with Fandango — Pencil

Posted on December 8, 2018 by Michael

fowc

It was one of those sad occurrences in life Charles had to be man enough to face up to.

There was no lead left in his pencil.

It wasn’t such a big deal when he thought about it, as he didn’t have a lot of life left in him either.

The years were slowly ebbing away, and each year the number beside his name rose, but there was little he could do about it.

As for his pencil, he discovered after attending a meeting at the local community hall, that there was something he could do about that. If he so desired.

There was a speaker in attendance that day, a smart looking young man called Hilton.

Hilton was all enthusiasm and excitement and went on at his captured audience about the latest pharmaceutical designed to help men like him.

Around him men sat glumly, there was no joy for them in their age for a problem they’d rather not talk about that suggested they were not the men they might once have been. They didn’t need to be told that, it was obvious to them and their partners and they tried hard on a daily basis to stay in denial of nature’s cruel development.

Most of them remembered their youth, prowling around the town eyeing off the girls and hoping to get lucky. Nowadays it was a case of being lucky to be still breathing.

But Hilton, full of expectation that he was offering every man present an opportunity too good to be missed, ploughed on extorting the virtues of the small blue pills he had for each and every man.

Charles thought Hilton was a mad man. Charles had been single a long time. He was set in his ways. He had no prospects when it came to romance, those days he knew were long gone. His pencil’s surviving function worked ok, most days and a lot at night.

At the end of the meeting, he went home, his sample in his pocket. He thought about it as he wandered along and thought he’d give it a try just to see if it worked and how much lead it might produce. After all, if it did work, his pencil and he would be surprised as neither had celebrated much in recent years.

 

Written for: https://fivedotoh.com/2018/12/08/fowc-with-fandango-pencil/

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Thursday photo prompt: Onward #writephoto – Breakdown

Posted on December 7, 2018 by Michael

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Breaking down on a country road is never any fun, and in fact, it borders on a nightmare.

It happened to me once when we’d been out for a day with friends and living in the country we had to travel distances to get to our destination through country that was sparsely populated and a long way from anywhere.

On the way home my car stopped running. I had my wife and kids in the back, stopped on the side of the road, my friends oblivious to my predicament as they were travelling ahead of us.

Knowing not much more than where to put the petrol and oil the cars stopping had me worried. This I might add was in the days before mobile phones.

I did as one does in those circumstances and lifted the bonnet to make it appear as though I had a car issue and that maybe I knew what I was doing.

Out of nowhere, a car stopped, and two guys approached and asked me what the problem was. A silly question when you think of it, as I had no idea.

But these two guys listened to me and quickly saw the problem. They knew something about how to get me going again. Within a few short moments they the car going, they had performed some form of magic by shifting one thing to another place and telling me to go to a garage the next day and have the temporary measure they put in place fixed permanently.

Much to my relief, our onward journey continued, and we arrived home to our visitors wondering where we had gotten to.

I’ve often wondered who those men were as they were guardian angels that day.

 

Written for: https://scvincent.com/2018/12/06/thursday-photo-prompt-onward-writephoto/

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Reena’s Exploration Challenge #66 – The Night

Posted on December 7, 2018 by Michael

This week’s prompt:

falling

Poem

after the sun departs and we are greeted by constellations
or what we could see past the rising light of the city
The elitists of the day go home
A time of opportunities has gone down with the day
But what would the night bring us?
The start of a new journey and to be one with the city
Never in the eyes of a 9-5 type

Source: https://hellopoetry.com/words/buildings/

Like his mum’s teeth, it was at night when he came out.

He liked being out in the dark. He could hide in the shadows, pretend he was someone he wasn’t, avoid confrontation by slipping into the alleys and gulfs of society and no one would notice or care.

The daylight worried him, he was far too vulnerable, visibility was not all people thought it was as exposure brought scrutiny and he never wanted any of that.

So as the night spread itself over the landscape, he’d venture out, walk the streets, watch the nightlife, marvel at the audacity of some, the dress of others, the foolhardiness of the young who thought the dark gave them licence to do whatever they felt they could.

Instead, he watched them all and then moved on, there was a place where he felt at peace, where the space afforded him an anonymous identity, where surrounded by kindred spirits he could sit and talk, share a meal, communicate and feel no threat.

The shelter was busy, it was always busy, the detritus of life all gathered in one place, safe and at ease with itself. He came in the side door and found a seat along the far wall, sat and looked about.

Crazy Annie was across the room accusing her neighbour of wanting to steal her stuff, the usual evening ritual, a form of entertainment at Annie’s expense he knew but enough to give him something to inwardly smile at.

One never smiled in the shelter. You kept emotion to yourself, it exposed you to attention, and no one here wanted attention.

What they wanted was warmth, food and relief from the relentless expectation of living.

So he sat and waited for the food cart to come round. Maned by young men and women the cart was the symbol of acceptance. It stopped by you, and a bowl of soup would be offered and usually some sort of dish involving pasta. Tonight it was a lasagne, and he greedily ate the potion he was given.

Around him were the welcome sounds of mouths devouring their meals, soup being slurped and the satisfaction of polite burps as meals were washed down with gulps of water from the bottles delivered with each meal.

Conversation wasn’t something that was encouraged as that meant you were getting too settled and the shelter didn’t want that, they wanted you to move on, vacant your spot so someone else could be fed.

Once completed it was time to leave, to walk once again amongst the living and see it he could make it home without attracting the attention of the lunatics imbued with enough alcohol to make them feel braver than they might normally be and him as a subject of their bravery. It did happen, and he feared it.

Once home he curled up into his bed, watched the light of a new day begin to poke through his drawn blinds and think to himself he’d made it through another night.

 

Written for: https://reinventionsreena.wordpress.com/2018/12/06/reenas-exploration-challenge-66/

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December 6: Flash Fiction Challenge – Graffiti

Posted on December 7, 2018 by Michael

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December 6, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about graffiti. It can be an artist, art or the medium itself. Get out your can of spray paint and go where the prompt leads you.

My son is an artist and is commissioned to produce murals on walls and buildings all around Australia and other places, there’s one is Miami, Florida on the side of a building.

Below is an example, one I was lucky enough to work on with him some years ago.

grogan_sfw_HERO

Recently he did some in people’s houses, on their exterior walls and one is in a garden where he has used green instead of blue.

Though you may not see it as graffiti in the true sense, it is a form of graffiti, one he is paid well to do.

 

Written for: https://carrotranch.com/2018/12/06/december-6-flash-fiction-challenge/

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TELL ME A TALE IN (EXACTLY) 120 WORDS

Posted on December 6, 2018 by Michael

tmat120

Today’s prompt is:  The time someone or something ruined your holiday season. 

When I was married Christmas was a day of hectic movement, timelines and too much food. It wasn’t that it was ever ruined there wasn’t time to consider that as there was a sense of having to be somewhere on time or questions would be asked.

Since those days my Christmas has slowed down. Once my dad died, and I have been on my own Christmas has been even slower though one year my sister invited me to Christmas lunch. I discovered she had invited every friend she’s ever had and I felt very out of it. So I’ve declined her invites since.

Of course, I have tried to maintain my dad’s preference for a ham sandwich for Christmas lunch.

 

Written for: https://rantingalong.blog/2018/12/06/joelles-tales-first-thursday-of-the-month-tmat120-writing-prompt-for-december-2018/

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Tale Weaver #200 – Sharing – December 6th – The Park Seat

Posted on December 6, 2018 by Michael

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There’s a man in the park who sits in the middle of a seat and places his stuff either side of him thereby leaving no space for anyone else.

It’s not that he doesn’t want anyone to sit beside him, in fact, he craves company, but he fears anyone who comes along and wants to sit on the seat with him will eventually take the seat from him.

It’s a long suffered trauma of having things taken from him. He learned expressing any delight in something would initiate it being taken from him, or he would be made to feel unworthy and therefore not entitled.

He is a man with much to offer, willing to share but needing to protect himself should you turn out to be like so many others.

Tomorrow he will come to the park and seek out his seat. I say his seat because he feels the seat is in such a part of the park as to be not desired by others.

On the seat, he will find a young woman who like him has scattered her life over the surface of the seat. He will be taken aback because no one has ever taken his seat and he will be lost momentarily until she notices and moves some of her stuff allowing him a space to sit down.

Feeling aggrieved by her, he accepts her offer and sits down. She recognises him and apologies for taking his seat saying she didn’t think he came to the park on Tuesdays.

She speaks to him from a place of recognition, and this unsettles him, as he didn’t think anyone knew him, noticed him or for that matter cared about him.

A conversation ensues, hesitant at first and then she reveals who she is and how she knows him. She says she has watched him this past year, observed how he walks through the park head down focused on getting to this one place. She says she has wondered what it is that motivates him to go to the same spot each time.

He feels affronted because inside there are triggers going off, another woman wanting him to justify himself, explain his behaviours, and he is not sure why but there is something non-intrusive about her, and so he quells his desire to pack up and go and instead sits there thinking of an answer.

As he thinks she goes on about her life. Like him she is alone, she has suffered, she is feeling desperate, and this is why she has approached him knowing full well there is the very real possibility he would take advantage of her, steal from her, abuse her, beat her, maybe even kill her.

He remembers sharing how he felt before and the trouble it got him into. Now he is the one listening to her sharing her story, and he knows none of the things she is fearful of will come true from him.

“It’s so long,” he says when she stops, “since anyone spoke to me apart from telling me to get going away from them. You make me feel as though I am ok and you are the one in more trouble than me. I like the sound of your voice, I won’t do you any harm, but if you’d like to listen, I’ll share my story with you.”

She settles back and gives him the space to tell his tale.

He starts, and as the words flow from him, he feels inside a warmth he hasn’t felt in such a long time.

All this, of course, will happen tomorrow.

 

Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2018/12/06/tale-weaver-200-sharing-december-6th/

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100 Word Wednesday: Week 99 – Leaving Home.

Posted on December 6, 2018 by Michael

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Image by Andre Hunter

Running away from home was no easy feat when you realised your bus fare wasn’t in your pocket like you thought it was.

He was sure it was there, he remembered putting it there, the coins he’d saved, the hours spent secreting them away so his father wouldn’t come snooping and steal them to buy the rotten drink with.

What could he do he wondered? It would take a good two hours to walk to town and he didn’t like the look of the weather or the darkness.

Taking a big breath, he decided to give home one more try.

 

Written for: https://bikurgurl.com/2018/12/05/100-word-wednesday-week-99/

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Crimson’s Creative Challenge #4 – Rundown Abbey

Posted on December 6, 2018 by Michael

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Rundown Abbey could be found at the end of the street the opposite end to Runup Abbey.

Rundown Abbey was old school, full of history, misery and poise. Runup Abbey was just that, something created in a hurry and full of pretension. It thrived in its materialism, while the Abbey down the street displayed its historical contempt.

Over the years Rundown Abbey suffered from neglect. The gardens were overgrown, nature was having fun reclaiming parts of it, and the old clock was stuck at 3.45 or 9.15 depending on how you saw it.

There were ghosts within the building, souls stuck in the past, from moments in time when life was sucked from them in often the most distasteful of ways. The life taken from them their souls were left in bewilderment as to what was to happen next they wandered the corridors of the Abbey never sure as to which way to turn.

It had served as an orphanage in my younger days. I remember some of the occupants attended the same school as me. Tired and withered children, little to no spark in their eyes as if being an orphan had removed from them any hope in life.

We had little to do with them as each afternoon they trudged back down the street to be locked behind the gates of the Abbey seen over by Miss Ethel Mary, the meanest looking woman I ever laid eyes on. They were never allowed to attend our parties, never took parts in the class plays and ate the same stale looking vegemite sandwiches each day, all sitting in a row, shackled more to each other than in some defined physical way.

By the time I went to High school Rundown Abbey was closed and the children moved away, we never heard where.

The building was closed and left to rot, which in some ways was a just ending for the misery I’m sure it dealt to all who lived there.

 

Written for: https://crimsonprose.wordpress.com/2018/12/05/crimsons-creative-challenge-4/

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FOWC with Fandango — Theatre

Posted on December 5, 2018 by Michael

fowc

It was a theatre like no other. What happened there was unique.

Actors didn’t just act, scenery wasn’t just scenery and audiences were not just audiences.

It was the most interactive theatre you’d ever get to be in.

In a production of Shakespeare’s ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream,’ you found yourself standing in a fairy tale environment and around you the production happened.

One moment you would be in the forest with Puck and the next you might be standing in the work room of Bottom the Weaver.

It was a most extraordinary theatre, run by a small but intelligent man named Silus Silissom who many believed to be possessed by a magic unknown to other men.

Well, he was possessed by something, as going to his theatre was a life-changing experience.

Certainly, by the end of any production, you were a changed person and not always for the good. Sane people were known to utter the most insane comments, and insane people the sanest comments. Making ‘amends’ so often took on unexpected results.

You should try and get there as its just down the alley in Ligon Street, Theatreville, you can’t miss it, there’s a sign out front saying “Come in, you’ll never be the same again.”

 

Written for: https://fivedotoh.com/2018/12/05/fowc-with-fandango-theater/

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