No Coincidence

We met in that careless synchronicity wizards know.  Car seat between us, his handsome young face alit.  Trading secrets that silver-haired grannies like me hold, but in 30,000 rides, he’d seen the way of Tao. 

I told him I lived on a lake. 

His dream was to leave the windy city of his birth and open his heart to the waves, the birds, the peace.  

He said, “I could live with someone older, do the chores, relax.”  

I thought what he was flirting with was the incantation, as wizards do.  

“I meditate,” he confided, so we both know there are moments caught between heartbeats where we meet.  Strangers no longer, we waved our wands to solve the planet’s woes, just so.  

By Departures, we tarried a spell until airport security prevailed.  Another wave, he drove away.  I glanced, curious, into the mirrored door.

Flash fiction in 144 words written for the dverse poets prompt:  prosery between heartbeats using the line “there are moments caught between heart-beats.”

Featured image using Lunapic‘s Van Gogh filter on a recent photo.

Tuning Into The Song

Toby, my new love, lies besides me.  Both on guerneys in a white, light-filled room.

His eyes are closed.  A nurse wheels in Ben, my first love, and I greet him with delight and concern.  He’s also injured.  I send a circle of love to surround him, become aware simultaneously of Toby, awake, scowling darkly, simmering in unreasonable jealousy.  And he is aiming it all at unconscious Ben. 

I gently remove the finger of smoke, seal Ben’s protection, follow the trail back to Toby.  His heart is loud with hate and fear.  I am unmoved, yet moving with calm deliberation into the blackened heart. 

He is overtaken and still I unwind the hate like music out of tune, and I the tuning fork.  Deep inside, he longs to hear the note to return, return to the song he was meant to sing. 

Dissipating. 

The electricity of his will thrumming now into a new vibration.  I lean back and close my eyes, smiling, at ease.  Something new has burst from me, my song amplified, my powers restored.

***

Written for the Saturday Stream of Consciousness prompt: Loud and this impulse to write flash fiction this morning.  SoCS rule number 1: Your post must be stream of consciousness writing, meaning no editing (typos can be fixed), and minimal planning on what you’re going to write. (Otherwise, I would go back and fix some things!)

Or Worse

At his urging, we had a festive
wedding, even though the child
quickened in me long before
we ascended the stairs to the
rose-strewn chapel, stood before
the solemn oath-taker, and
turned to face the cheering crowd
with my pasted-on smile, draped
in liar’s white and his arm, bruising
with his gloating.

Inspired to use these prompts: Stairs, FestiveUrge and Wedding in a 55-word flash fiction in one sentence.  (Why? I never ask inspiration.  Do, Not Ask Why.)

Sharin’ The Wealth

So I’m lookin’ through the dawn, tryna see who’s out there. Rubbin’ my eyes, realize, a cow is.  Screaming across the arroyo, I try’n wake Joe.  He’s flat out splankered from Old Gobble, the cheapskate goodfurnuttin, leastwise til sunset or so.  So it’s jus’ me anna cow and she’s a friendly sort.  Fuggetabout Joe, the sot, Imma make a new friend.  Ain’t got a lot of ’em.  Never had the chance til now, tellya true.  But luck just comes in waves.  First the gold, now a browneyed fourlegged critter.  Dunno if you’ve ever befriended a cow.  It’s a del’cate thing.  First, gotta stop screamin’. Cows don’t much like that.  They can read your heart, so you gotta find inner kindness, mirror theirs.  This’n mebbe knew there was water here once, in this dried-up bed. Knew I had some to share.  Came close.

(Written for a dverse poetry prompt to write flash fiction of 144 words or less including “A cow is screaming across the arroyo”–a line from Jim Harrison’s poem Cow.  Which I’ve not read.)

Just Open Your Window

It quickens, it thickens, you can’t put it down now. It takes you, it shakes you,
it makes you lose your thought. ~ Cake

I yield to the limits of what
my basket can hold, strange musings

fierce regret, unaccountable joy.
Moved into prose with a calendar

flip. My desk clears, notebooks brim,
I realign my mornings to accomodate

a different muse. No brevity here,
I enter the sea, moved by the greater

currents. We say we have no power
yet we call the world into being

with every waking breath. Asleep
and sighing, we shake from certainty

into the deep magnetic i-don’t-know.
Carelessly or with intent, we use

our now to create. I follow my fingers
into a new world blinking, astonished.

Inspired by: Basket, Regret, Strange and Yield.

November is here, and I must yield to my #NaNoWriMo urgings once again. I’ll see y’all December 1st. Happy writing to all!

Enjoy some Cake! (You think she’s an open book but you don’t know which way to turn to, do you?)

Without A Compass

He traveled into uncharted mountains.  There was no signal, but he carried his phone when far away. An interrupted cry her special ringtone, he’d answer whenever she called.  (She’d laughed until tears ran down her face the first time she heard it.  He’d recorded her picking up the baby, her nipple resolving the outburst.  From scream to silence in less than a second.) 

The bastard.  She understood that he was gripped by pain and fear of the present.  He’d been abandoned too many times in his young life.  He didn’t join; he aimed his camera, watching later to see what he’d missed, never catching up, never present.  

Her unmet expectations of him forced the fight.  On the outside, a handsome strong man, but that was just a shell.  Empty.  A pushover; he’d left when she’d pointed to the door.  “Take a hike,” echoing still.

 

My first attempt at flash fiction prosery, the dverse prompt to use this line “when far away an interrupted cry” (from Robert Frost’s poem Acquainted With The Night) in a 144-word piece.

Memories of Ribs

When my children were younger, I took them to the annual rib fest, a gathering of different chefs in a downtown park, complete with musical acts.  Dancing with Morris Day and The Time (calling “Now, Jerome” for a big golden mirror to check his look while the band sings, “oh we oh we oh.”)  My son remembers a young John Legend crooning and the girls just falling all about the place.  Three young sons with appetites that were unmatched, buying a hundred dollars worth of tickets and having to go back for more.  The sun shining, the crowd laughing and sticky, barbecue sauce on every article of clothing, the bone pile in the center of our table.  Eating like barbarians and “I, I’m a little dangerous, I think I’d like to show you, show you….my jungle love.” Summertime raising boys and though I have many regrets, this is a memory I’ll treasure, well-fed, shaking our stuff in pure glee as that funky music digs its way into our souls and frees our happy feet.

Written for the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt: rib (stream of consciousness writing, meaning no editing (typos can be fixed), and minimal planning on what you’re going to write.)

And inspired to look up this old music video.